#dumb little out-of-place snippets with zero context

[mynonclicheblog]

whenever I pick up my Undisclosed Derry Girls Future Fic(tm) again

[lorata]

Misha & Selene, Star Wars AU

i have a migraine and i found this ancient zero context snippet, enjoy

It takes a special talent to stick out in a spaceport full of travellers from all over the galaxy, but the girl wandering through the crowds with a backpack slung over her shoulder manages to do it. She’s not dumb enough to gawk at everything like a grounder, which means she’s been to space before, but she walks like she belongs, confident strides and her head held high, when nobody dressed in clothes that casually expensive with hair that’s obviously not been washed in tinny recycled water from some cheap ship’s refresher could ever actually fit in here. She’s used to belonging, wherever she’s from, and to no one questioning her place there, but this isn’t the playground and this isn’t her daddy’s private estate. This is cutpurses and cutthroats and over-eager Port Authority that look for people who stick out because they have tight-ended quotas to fill and it’s getting near the cutoff.

Misha wouldn’t be here at all, this city is too do-good overall, lots of rich folks fighting the good fight and keeping the people safe and not enough of those looking for the next big scam to believe in, but she needs the repairs. The pirates who tried to ambush her with a gravity well generator might be out their cargo for the trouble after Misha finished with them, but their ship didn’t have the right parts for her to fix the damage on her own. She did gut their ship anyway, leaving them with just enough to drift and reach somewhere habitable before running out of supplies, and used the stolen parts to finance her own ship’s maintenance, though, because she’s not an idiot.

The girl in the spaceport looks a couple years younger than Misha, maybe sixteen years old, though it’s hard to tell with the kids who’ve lived in luxury because nothing seems to touch them. It’s true of this girl, that’s for sure, young and fresh-faced and gorgeous without a hint of spacer’s grime on her, and Misha rolls her eyes. She settles back against the hull and props her boots square on the support struts, watching as the girl wanders through the crowds, looking at everything but not looking for anything just yet. How the girl got this deep into the port without being robbed or kidnapped or who knows what is a testament to something, or it could just be dumb luck. Misha wouldn’t discount the second, unlikely as it might be; the universe has a nasty sense of humour.

She shouldn’t watch, really, it’s not her business, and if a girl looking that much like a catalogue model wants to waltz around a crime-ridden spaceport without so much as a vibroknife for protection then that’s her own problem, but — sigh. Misha wouldn’t stop her from getting everything she owns lifted out from under her, but that’s not the worst thing that can happen to a pretty girl in a seedy part of town. Misha might not be a Jedi Knight and follower of the light and all that bullshit, but she hates men and their entitled hands a lot more. It won’t hurt to keep an eye out for a minute.

Sure enough, Misha isn’t the only one who notices the girl’s potential as a pickpocket goldmine. Misha can tell from the line of her clothing that she’s at least smart enough to divide her money up between different pockets rather than leaving it in one fat wallet, a good start but not enough in a place like this, and the local lowlifes are circling.

One of them alters his stride a hitch to bring himself into contact with her, allowing him to brush just close enough and lift the contents of her pocket — except that at the last second the girl moves to the side, only a little but enough to keep herself out of reach. It’s masterfully done, completely accidental in appearance, except she hadn’t done that at all beforehand. Misha sits up, lowering her boots and crossing her legs to catch a better view. It could be a fluke; maybe she had something in her boot, maybe she swerved to avoid stepping in a pile of something, or maybe the pickpocket wasn’t as subtle as he thought.

Misha continues watching as the girl weaves through the press of the crowd, thicker and closer as she moves further inside the port, and no, no it’s not an accident. Because she never looks down, never acknowledges the people who try to rob her, but she also glides out of the way at the last possible moment every single time. It’s like a dance, except the dancer refuses to acknowledge that it’s anything but an ordinary stroll, and okay, fine, Misha can’t help be intrigued.

(She also might be sleep-deprived, Misha can’t ever relax when someone else is working on her baby, but you know, whatever.)

She’s made it through the worst of the crush when a man behind her reaches out a hand for a quick grope. He’s absolutely nowhere near her eye line, not even peripheral vision, but before he can so much as brush the back of her jacket, the girl whirls and grips his wrist in her hand, fingers digging in hard. Misha sits up straight, eyebrows skyrocketing, and she can’t hear the exchange but she knows what has to happen to a wrist to make the hand dangle like that. The man’s expression bears it out, agonized and wide-eyed but ashen pale under the dockyard grit, and he clutches his arm to his chest and scurries away, yowling.

Misha laughs outright, and with all the bustle and commotion there’s no way the girl heard her, except that her head snaps up and she stares Misha right in the eye. A prickle starts at the back of Misha’s neck but she only grins, raises one hand in a salute before winking and letting her gaze wander away. She catches a flash of a grin from the girl and then she’s off again.

Except that the man whose wrist she snapped won’t stop making a fuss, and it’s loud enough and insistent enough that people actually start paying attention — people like the Port Authority, who ignore major problems that would require work but love things like this, hauling in civilians over petty matters because it boosts their arrest numbers.

“Son of a —“ Misha mutters, as one of the uniformed goons follows the man’s inarticulate flailing and catches sight of the girl. He calls up something on his datapad and gestures to his partner, frowning, and who knows what they’re looking at but it can’t be good. Maybe there’s a missing persons report with a girl who looks like her; maybe there’s an arrest warrant for a tall girl with dark hair and a bad attitude; maybe she’s really actually wanted somewhere and has managed to trick Misha completely.

Either way this is a spaceport bristling with nosy authorities, and despite her ability to evade pickpockets and perverts, the girl walks right past one of them without so much as flinching. If she has some sort of supernatural danger-sense it doesn’t flicker at people in uniform, and that more than anything tells Misha the sort of background she’s come from. Nobody can walk past a port guard without tensing, unless they’re the kind of folks who grow up being fed lies about trading liberty for protection and the imaginary safety of having nothing to hide.

There actually is a warrant for Misha’s arrest — on what, 11 systems now? it looks braggy to keep track — and she really can’t risk blowing her cover for, what, some little rich girl off on her first joyride without her parents tagging along getting herself in trouble before ever taking off? Worse happens every day. Yet curiosity keeps her watching, and she reaches for her vibroknife and curls her fingers around the handle to give herself the comfort of its familiar weight.

An officer stops the girl, who turns with a politely neutral smile like someone who’s never been convicted of a crime or shaken down for one regardless, but the expression falters as soon as he starts in on the questioning. And there — right there, her shoulders come up and her eyes go wide, and that’s the face of someone who might not have had anything to hide as a child but she does now, with very little idea of how to manage with it.

It’s not Misha’s business. People get arrested all the time, and chances are this is a misunderstanding anyway. They’ll call Daddy, he’ll come pick her up, and she’ll lose the keys to the speeder for a week and have to go to bed without dessert or whatever it is that parents do when they don’t break their kids’ jaws, but either way it doesn’t involve Misha. Not at all.

Until the girl glances around wildly, looking for anyone to help her — and of course they don’t, this is the spaceport, where everyone can go deaf and blind at a moment’s notice — and she lands on Misha. Just for a second before the officer grabs her arm and draws her focus back, but her eyes punch right through Misha and that stupid shiver runs through her again and oh Sithspawn, why.

Misha grits her teeth and jumps down from her lookout spot, shoving her blade back in her pocket and striding through the crowd. She doesn’t have time for this, it’s another hour before the repairs are scheduled to finish and she can’t take off in the middle of a job and can’t go to ground without risking her ship in the meantime, but it’s too late now. Regrets are for people who have the time to lie around and wallow.

She weaves her way through the crowd, and as she walks Misha winds her power around herself, letting it wrap around her like a blanket of deception and misdirection. As a little girl she’d thought herself charming, so good at lying that no one could catch her out, until the day her old man showed her it wasn’t skill but a stupid, mysterious all-powerful energy that she’d managed to twist and harness without realizing. At the time she’d been shocked, humiliated, almost furious, but now what does it matter? Power is power and skill is skill, and she might be able to nudge people’s minds but she’s still a damn good liar without it.

“Officers,” Misha says, bright and friendly, as she sends out a wave of suggestion: Trust me, believe me, listen to me. The girl’s eyes widen but Misha doesn’t dare warn her to be quiet, and hopes she’s smart enough to figure it out herself. “Is there a problem?”

The officer blinks, slowly, like a man waking from a nap, but then he shakes himself and the officious expression returns. “None of your business,” he says. “Move along.”

Misha stays firm, planting her feet on the ground and folding her arms. “You can tell me. What seems to be the issue?”

“The issue is I have a girl here with a wallet full of high-denomination credits and no identification, who is refusing to tell me her name or her business,” he says immediately, then blinks again and frowns.

“I see.” Misha still doesn’t take her eyes off him, though at the edges of her vision the girl’s ears are going pink. She waves one hand lazily, an affectation she hates but it works, damn it all. “She’s no one. Let her go.”

The man straightens up as though jabbed in the spine, and as always an uneasy shiver passes over Misha, like walking through a spiderweb or standing in a field when the clouds cover the sun. “She’s no one,” he agrees, and turns to the girl. “You can go.”

The girl doesn’t argue or ask questions, that’s a mercy, and Misha takes her by the arm and leads her away, ducking behind a pile of crates to cut off the view. Once they’re marginally more safe, the girl lets out a breath. “Thanks,” she says. “How did you do that?”

“Trade secret,” Misha says shortly. “Look, go home, all right? Your parents will forgive you, your fiancé will take you back, whatever. It’s better where you are than out here.”

The girl scowls reflexively, but rather than storming off she shoves it aside, insistent. “You — that thing you did, with the guard. That was a mind trick.” She leans in close, lowers her voice. “Are you a Jedi?”

Misha hisses and stops herself from making a warding sign, stupid homeworld superstitions, but the fear itself isn’t stupid. The galaxy isn’t safe for Force-sensitives, hasn’t been since before she was born. “No,” she says, not wasting time with a rhetorical ‘do I look like one’ because she’s not sure she wants to hear the answer. “That takes a lifetime of training, meditation, and a huge death wish. I’m just somebody who’s good at talking.”

The girl swallows, a strange shadow passing over her face, and with a sinking feeling Misha knows exactly what’s coming next. “So am I,” the girl says, and yes, there we go, this is why helping people is a terrible idea. “And you’re wrong, I can’t go back. But you are right about one thing, I don’t know what I’m doing, but if you showed me how to do what you did —“

Say no, Misha tells herself. Say no, walk away, don’t get involved in people’s lives. She’s been on her own since she was old enough not to attract attention as a kid without supervision, and it’s been fine that way. If Misha had run into a grifter and asked for help and advice, she would’ve been laughed right off the street and had her possessions stolen for the trouble. Misha should return the favour, teach this girl a lesson about how to survive on her own.

But the girl gives Misha a half-hopeful, half-sheepish grin, and Misha drags a hand down her face. “Yeah, okay, fine, but not here,” she says. “I could use a hand on my next job, if you’re not picky about where you’re going. Do good work and that’ll pay your passage. Do great work and you’ll maybe get some extra. Deal?”

She beams. “Deal,” she says, and holds out her hand. “I’m Selene.”

“Artemisia,” Misha says. “My ship’s the Stormhawk.”

Selene’s eyes widen. “Captain Artemisia?” she says, and now it’s Misha’s turn to blink. “Captain Artemisia the pirate? Like on the holovids?”

“I’m on the holovids?” Misha asks, too startled and pleased to be cagey about it. “Huh. Which job?”

“All of them. I have a news alert set up for whenever you come up.” Selene’s face brightens. “I’ve been watching stories about you for years. You don’t look anything like the concept art the police put out.”

Misha grins at that, teeth sharp. “No, I wouldn’t, would I. Nobody wants to admit that the IGBC was hit by a thirteen-year-old.”

Selene grabs her arm. “Okay, now I’m definitely coming with you,” she says. “I can’t believe this! My dad says they’ve been trying to catch you for —“ But then she stops, cuts herself off as her cheeks splotch pink, and aha. Daddy’s little girl indeed, or was. “Anyway. I want to come with you.”

“Hurry up, then, we need to get you something else to wear,” Misha says. This is mad, this girl is mad, and very likely so is she. “My ship will be ready in an hour, so stick close and don’t ask questions until it’s safe to talk.”

Selene salutes, military-sharp and precise even with the rakish grin, and Misha can’t help tossing her a wink.

[shonbellenoire]

Online Dating - Quarantine Edition 2020

Not a fan of online dating,  People are always way more interesting and bold online rather in person.  Online makes it too easy.  I prefer the boldness of the approach.  Even still, I found myself 3 years ago falling in love with a man I met online.  I’m not against it but I am saying I prefer the old fashion way.

People always portray themselves differently online.  Using pictures from 10 years ago, not much thought in what is written in the bio and most just want you to follow them on other social media accounts.  Needless to say.....during quarantine I was poppin online. My profile was 3 sentences but it was witty and highlighted my personality.  The niggas ate it the fuck up!! In box on triple full.  Though not optpmistic about the process and not even expecting to do it for a long time, I put up only 2 pics.  One with minimal makeup, the other full on glam.

The Trucker bka Bubba

The first guy to inbox me that I matched with. A northerner, 29 new to the area looking for a thrill.  So damn cute with a full time job.  Ambitious rapper in the making with a lil dental dysfunction but he cute.  We met at a restaurant practicing social distancing,went to the airport and watched plans take off while smoking blunts and listening to his mixtape. Lets just say we met and he friend zoned me. lol 

The 29 yr old too old to know better to young to still be a dumb nigga.

Flashy ass navy vet...well he was a cook on a submarine.  It was all good when we met until he got upset when we talked music. He started playing music from a British rapper whose lyrics were worst than a mumble rapper on a mediocre beat.  I wasn’t impressed and honestly when exposed to dummy shit for too long my head hurts and I get the urge to want to pick up a book.  I was like “Enough is enough please change to an artist who reads books.”, that set him off.  We went from falling in love to instant hate in the matter of minutes.  He screamed and yelled and got into a verbal shouting match about rappers.  I exited immediately.  “I’m out! I’m gonna go read, I’ll leave you with the writer who raps about seasoning a girl like shes chicken.”  The nigga must of thought that line was so cold cuz he said it twice.

The Porn Star

An army vet and personal trainer at the local L.A Fitness.  Recently divorced with 2 daughters old enough to jump me and film it and edit it to upload on Instagram.  I remained on my best behavior to keep from becoming the next Katt Williams even though I was ready to devour him like the chocolate drop he is. 

This barbie plays with G.I Joe

We sent pictures back and forth via text.  He cute and could dress.  Then pictures morphed to videos and to my surprise...they were explicit....or was I surprised.  Snippets of him half naked morphed to butt ass naked. Well ok than fat dick daddy, show me all the goods!  So i asked questions and got a link to a few videos and really got to see what Fat Dick G.I Joe was working with.  Thank you.  So he asked me out but when we met I noticed his body was better in person.  Total body babe.  But....he looked better from a distance or with a hat on.  We went to the drive in, it was his first time.  We attempted to make out, which lead to attempting to ride his face but the damn console was in the damn way of his BMW coupe.  

The Help Desk Customer Service Rep...who thinks hes the smartest in the room and loves to play devils advocate.

My issue is how every conversation got sexual, but he never sent no dick pic or print. Don’t talk about it be about it.  On our first date we went to the park. We discovered a park neither of us have been too.  New to the city from Miami, the chocolate dread head with a rapper name was comfortable around me. Not afraid to reach for my hand nor place his hand around my waist.  However, the good comes with the bad and at times he got too comfortable.  Standing behind me with his dick pressed up on my ass like we posing for a mall photo graph with matching air brush tees.  We don’t go together, fuck is you doin?  Back the fuck up.  Talking to him at times would be just too much.  Asking him about his job got so technical. He gave me the run around but using my context clues, I’ve come to the conclusion that he works remotely as a tech help desk rep.  Needless to say, every convo was either about sex or just overly complicated.  

The Virgo

Successful entrepreneur feeling the pressure of the Chinese virus, the flashy Nigerian  was handsome and well dressed.  Pulled up in a smooth white Mercedes SUV.  Literally called me up and said “Hey! Wyd?  Lets link up.”  Excited, he went on to encourage me to get out the house. “Come on, lets be spontaneous.”  No usually I don’t do this, I require a minimum of 24 hr advance notice,but I wasn’t do a damn thing.  Wine and good convo.  I won’t say we hit off in love but we defiantly had a good time.

My Girl Gotta Girlfriend

......and y the fuck not cuz these niggas ain’t shit.  She cute and got a fat ass.  I’m so inexperienced I wouldn’t know what to do with it but curiosity scissor with 2 fat wet cats.  A married flight attendant and drama nerd.  No kids and 2 incomes....y'all lookin for a third?  “Sure!” she texted back, “If you don’t mind a nerd with a beard.”  Suga moma is that you? Spoil me, please.  “Are you interested in being the third?” Possibly.  

The Poet

Mid 40′s with 3 kids.  Sends poems filled with emojis and giphys like an millennial.  He gets mad if I don’t text him daily.  He wants me to chase him and call him.  Wants me to be all in my feelings over him and i have zero reason to.  He has put the least amount of effort into pursuing m.  He acts like he wants a boyfriend.  He is sensitive, a little 2 sensitive to be the father of 3.