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dragonlady7via http://ift.tt/1rDfkFh:rudesby replied to your post “So like. OK. Home out in the Wind is up to chapter 6 of 9 and (if this…”
I NEED THIS STORY. :D
I wasn’t going to write it but I think because I have so much work to do on chapter 7 I did. Because procrastination. It’s literally the only way I get things done. (Also though, I can’t do final polishing edits at work, really, so. It’s best to do original composition.)
And I totally am writing this.
She’d seen him earlier, loading cargo– a wrench in his back pocket to hammer on the loading droids with, grease on his hands, his shirt clinging with sweat across a nice broad back, a capable grease-stained hand wrapped around a datapad with the loading manifest. She’d only really noticed him because he’d called out in Iberican, and she’d thought at first he was talking to her, but he’d been yelling at his coworker. “Can’t you fucking read?” he’d asked, and his accent had been so thick, so crisp and Homeworldy, she’d smiled despite herself. His friend had answered him, indistinct and defensive, and he’d rolled his eyes, shaken his head, and had caught her looking at him. “What kind of loser is hung-over at noon?” he’d said, still in the mother tongue, and it was so long since she’d heard a pure accent like that, she couldn’t help but smile at him even though she never smiled at boys.
“I don’t know,” she’d answered him in Iberican, “maybe he was just trying to live his best life.” And she’d let her gaze linger just long enough to see the delight cross his face– there weren’t many Ibericans in this spaceport– before she’d turned away as she kept walking.
And here he was in this little club, and his shirt was clean but still tight enough that she could see how nice his back was, and she recognized him in profile, that same gorgeous jaw that had caught her eye out on the street. He had his head tilted to listen to his friend. His friend had tattoos on his face, and Shara set her mouth; they were definitely gang tattoos, but that was about the only reason there were ever any Ibericans around here. The Fronteras had formed a union of sorts when it came to cargo-loading; they were master logisticians, and across the galaxy if you had a complicated cargo that you needed well-handled, you dealt with whichever dock space the Fronteras controlled at that spaceport– but it all intertwined with protection rackets, just like everything the gangs did, and it was only worth it some of the time, and of those times, a lot were drugs or smuggled goods.
It wasn’t that the Fronteras hadn’t helped Shara and her mother out a time or two. They weren’t strictly a race-first group, but if you were Iberican they were generally friendlier to you than not. An Iberican lady and her baby could at least count on hitching a ride somewhere, or being spared the protection fees. But they’d both been careful never to involve themselves too closely to the gang or any of its subsidiaries.
But her boy, the one who’d caught her eye, he didn’t have any visible ink. His shirt only had sleeves to the elbows; there were no markings on his forearms or hands, or on his face or neck. So she decided to chance it; he might be like her, relying on the gang’s protection to get work, but not a member himself.
“Is this you living your best life?” she asked him.
His face lit up before he even saw her, and he turned and grinned at her like she was a long-lost old friend. He was really unfairly beautiful, and Shara already resented him a little for making her feel things. “Well,” he said, not even the slightest bit coy, “I am now!”
I NEED THIS STORY. :D
I wasn’t going to write it but I think because I have so much work to do on chapter 7 I did. Because procrastination. It’s literally the only way I get things done. (Also though, I can’t do final polishing edits at work, really, so. It’s best to do original composition.)
And I totally am writing this.
She’d seen him earlier, loading cargo– a wrench in his back pocket to hammer on the loading droids with, grease on his hands, his shirt clinging with sweat across a nice broad back, a capable grease-stained hand wrapped around a datapad with the loading manifest. She’d only really noticed him because he’d called out in Iberican, and she’d thought at first he was talking to her, but he’d been yelling at his coworker. “Can’t you fucking read?” he’d asked, and his accent had been so thick, so crisp and Homeworldy, she’d smiled despite herself. His friend had answered him, indistinct and defensive, and he’d rolled his eyes, shaken his head, and had caught her looking at him. “What kind of loser is hung-over at noon?” he’d said, still in the mother tongue, and it was so long since she’d heard a pure accent like that, she couldn’t help but smile at him even though she never smiled at boys.
“I don’t know,” she’d answered him in Iberican, “maybe he was just trying to live his best life.” And she’d let her gaze linger just long enough to see the delight cross his face– there weren’t many Ibericans in this spaceport– before she’d turned away as she kept walking.
And here he was in this little club, and his shirt was clean but still tight enough that she could see how nice his back was, and she recognized him in profile, that same gorgeous jaw that had caught her eye out on the street. He had his head tilted to listen to his friend. His friend had tattoos on his face, and Shara set her mouth; they were definitely gang tattoos, but that was about the only reason there were ever any Ibericans around here. The Fronteras had formed a union of sorts when it came to cargo-loading; they were master logisticians, and across the galaxy if you had a complicated cargo that you needed well-handled, you dealt with whichever dock space the Fronteras controlled at that spaceport– but it all intertwined with protection rackets, just like everything the gangs did, and it was only worth it some of the time, and of those times, a lot were drugs or smuggled goods.
It wasn’t that the Fronteras hadn’t helped Shara and her mother out a time or two. They weren’t strictly a race-first group, but if you were Iberican they were generally friendlier to you than not. An Iberican lady and her baby could at least count on hitching a ride somewhere, or being spared the protection fees. But they’d both been careful never to involve themselves too closely to the gang or any of its subsidiaries.
But her boy, the one who’d caught her eye, he didn’t have any visible ink. His shirt only had sleeves to the elbows; there were no markings on his forearms or hands, or on his face or neck. So she decided to chance it; he might be like her, relying on the gang’s protection to get work, but not a member himself.
“Is this you living your best life?” she asked him.
His face lit up before he even saw her, and he turned and grinned at her like she was a long-lost old friend. He was really unfairly beautiful, and Shara already resented him a little for making her feel things. “Well,” he said, not even the slightest bit coy, “I am now!”
