eclec-tech

[eclec-tech]

That's no writing competition, and with that attitude, they are the last ones who should be hosting one.

a writing competition i was going to participate in again this year has announced that they now allow AI generated content to be submitted

their reasoning being that "we couldn't ban it even if we wanted to, every writer already uses it anyway"

"Every writer"?

come on

[eclec-tech]

This is interesting! That clone idea at the end was a wild theory. 😶

(That Kenari part makes me crazy. They must know that many of their viewers are fact-checking super fans who will see inconsistencies like that.)

"I was raised in an Imperial Kinderblock."

If my math is correct, Dedra Meero's proud assertion that she was raised by the Empire is either a lie or a plot oversight.

The Empire is about 15 years old when she makes this statement. If we assume she is the same age as Denise Gough, the actress who plays her, then Dedra is 45. If we go with the more probable thought that she is supposed to be around the same age as Syril Karn (born 40 BBY in canon), she's about 35. Either way, if what she said about her parents was true, she wasn't raised in an Imperial Kinderblock.

She was raised by the Republic.

[eclec-tech]

Fucking unreal that Disney puts R2-KT into Women of the Galaxy but not Reva, Phee, OR Emerie.

Anyways. You will not catch me buying a book that apparently thinks a pink droid with 'feminine programming' is worth space in a book when WoC are not. Fuck that!

[eclec-tech]

It's true. I've been on both sides of this little mood miracle.

treat yourself to a short fic. in 2k or less, your whole day could turn around.

[eclec-tech]

Wolffe is just as gruff in this as you'd expect, but he's also exactly the right level of good guy to counteract it. I love it so far! 🎬🐺✨

Cross Your Thoughtless Heart: Chapter 1

Pairing: Commander Wolffe/original female character

General summary: Isla Tilney is just trying to make enough money to work as an actor full-time, without constantly falling back on a variety of odd jobs just to make it happen. So, if that means playing the lead in a cheesy made for TV Christmas film to move her career along, well, she’s decided that a job is a job at this point. But when she finds out she’s been cast opposite the notoriously indifferent, yet somehow still up-and-coming Wolffe Fett, she discovers that reputations, as defining as they can be, don’t always precede the person that’s hidden beneath, nor can they predict the love, the connection that a person is capable of forming, if one is only brave enough to reach out. The question is, though, is she?

Fic rating: explicit: (18+, minors DNI)

General warnings: modern AU, actors AU, disability, blindness, themes of ableism, familial issues, explicit sexual content. For a more comprehensive list of warnings, check the Masterlist

Chapter specific warnings: Alcohol consumption, parties, anxiety

Chapter word count: 6 K

Thank you to @estrelinha-s for all dividers on this fic.

Read on ao3

“So...”

Isla’s voice carries a slight echo within the underground parking lot, accompanied by the quiet slam of the front passenger door as she rises and gets out of her friend's vehicle.

“How long do you reckon we’ll have to hang around before it’s socially acceptable for us to ditch?”

“I thought you were feeling optimistic about this,” Deli remarks, turning to face her with her arms folded across her chest. “Weren’t you saying this could be an, and I quote, ‘opportunity to network with people’?”

“I am feeling optimistic,” Isla shrugs, stepping out from behind the car to meet her friend's piercing gaze. “About when we get to go home,” she adds, her lips pulling into a smirk.

“You’re infuriating,” Deli sighs, but there’s a note of fondness in her voice, the tiniest hint of a laugh that she can’t quite conceal no matter how hard she tries.

“Oh, please,” Isla scoffs as with a fluid flick of her wrist, she unfolds her cane, listening for the satisfying snap as its pieces click together, feeling the gentle thump as its marshmallow tip comes in contact with the ground. “You love me.”

She pauses, taking an extra moment to adjust, reacquainting herself with the feeling of the grip of her hand on the cane's handle. She’s out of practice with these things, she knows, and would much prefer to have Oli guiding her tonight. But he’s getting older, and though he’s not even close to needing to actually retire from working yet, large gatherings, functions, and parties like these stress him out, and they aren’t as easy for him to get through as they used to be. 

What can she say, really? Oliver is ditching the parties in favour of becoming a proper senior citizen which, in the grand scheme of things, feels only natural. Plus, she can count the total number of parties she’s attended in the last three years on one hand, so, all in all, this isn’t a huge inconvenience to her. At least, that’s what she tells herself despite her unease, because for the most part, it is true. Just because she’s out of practice doesn’t mean she doesn’t know how to wield a cane, and with some assistance in these kinds of crowds, she should physically be able to manage fine.

Still, it feels off-putting to not have Oliver walking along beside her. Everything, from the way his harness gently pulls against her hand to the steady, assured way his gait feels as he guides her, all confidence and eagerness to please, contributes to making her feel safe.

The long, white cane she holds in her hand at this moment, despite her many jokes about threatening to use it as a weapon, doesn’t even come close to giving her that.

The result, at this present moment, leaves her unsettled and off-balance. But, at least for Deli’s sake, she does her best to shrug and shake it off. 

You’re fine, she feudally attempts to reassure herself. It’s just a party. You’ve done this all before, and you’ve survived every single one.

Granted, considering that one of her most prominent childhood memories is of bawling her eyes out in the bathroom of a school dance because everything was loud and overstimulating to her, and she didn’t then have the words to express any of it to her parents, only begging and whimpering on the phone line for them to please, please come pick her up, the thought doesn’t reassure her nearly as much as it should.

“Ready?” Deli asks, turning to offer Isla an arm.

She blinks, startled away from that discomforting line of thinking and mentally berating herself for it. 

The parking lot is dark, and Isla really doesn’t have the patience to pull her cane out from where it will inevitably get caught on the side of a car wheel, so with a nod, she gratefully accepts, slipping her hand through the crook of Deli’s proffered elbow.

“I’m ready,” she says, summoning her brightest smile despite the uneasy twinge that flutters in her stomach just as it does every time she’s willingly about to enter a large, loud, and chaotic party such as this one. “Let’s go...network.”

———

The word networking, in this case, is always said with an unmistakable ounce of dry sarcasm, because when it comes down to it, everybody knows that networking during these events is just a cover-up used to coax the introverted and the anxious, such as Isla, into attending a glorified afterparty for a film’s premiere.

This isn’t even a premier for a movie that Isla herself is in, which actually takes a lot of the pressure off of her shoulders. She’s attending as Deli’s plus one, so really all she has to do is show up and be supportive, which despite her nerves surrounding the environment, she’s happy to do for the most part.

Deli, or Delilah, as she’s known to all who aren’t a part of her inner circle, has been Isla’s best friend since middle school, where constant laughter and remarks of “Hey, look! It’s Isla and Delilah!” forced a necessary change to a nickname that has stuck for almost 14 years. Now the name Delilah is only reserved for strangers and strictly professional acquaintances.

Deli is, for the most part, a screenwriter. But she also has a knack for script supervising, so for smaller, independent productions like this one, she sometimes takes on that role as well to make some extra cash.

Isla, conversely, has no other secret talent like that, which is a shame, because working in the entertainment industry is already not the most solid of career paths. But being blind, or being disabled in any way really, adds a whole other layer of complication to it. Being able to do something like write, direct, or produce is often viewed as an asset, because the more versatile your skill set, the more chances you have at finding work in an ever-elusive, ever-changing industry.

Unfortunately for her though, she doesn’t consider herself to have those kinds of smarts, and so she’s just a lowly actor with large gaps in between gigs who is currently riding on the waning success of a film that she did almost a year ago, in which she only had a small part. But it received enough accolades and attention from a well-known film festival that here, at an industry function with a small red carpet at the entrance, she’s been asked to step up, pose, and get her picture taken in front of the backdrop. 

This part, she doesn’t particularly mind. 

Wearing this blue, knee-length dress makes her feel like some whimsical fairytale princess with the way it gently swishes around her legs, flaring out in a satisfying rustle of fabric if she were ever to twirl around. Her heels aren’t high, but grant her the smallest bit of elevation that makes her feel a little less short than she really is. Her hair—light brown but in a way that if she were to catch a glimpse of it in different lighting, she might incorrectly assume that it’s a darker shade of blonde or red thanks to her vision’s inability to distinguish certain colours that aren’t deeply contrasting—falls down her shoulders in waves. Deli had helped her do her makeup, which she only knows the very basics of at best.

Isla, despite her lack of knowledge when it comes to makeup, is still a girly girl at heart. She enjoys getting dolled up and feeling pretty like this, because outside of these kinds of events, she doesn’t often feel like she is particularly pretty at all. 

So, she takes what she can get. 

She smiles for the cameras and lets Deli lead her around the party and introduce her to various cast and crew members, offering up her most enthusiastic greetings even though, privately, she’s struggling. The music is pounding loudly in her ears, and it’s taking all of her energy to stay calm and focused, let alone bother to hear what anyone is actually saying to her.

Why so many people enjoy this kind of scene, she really doesn’t know. It’s loud and unruly, and she feels like she can barely communicate anything past a quick hello.

Still, they make their rounds, and once that is done, Deli scopes out a more out-of-the-way corner, where they hurry to claim the small couch and sit down together. 

“Do you want a drink?” Deli asks, leaning close so that she can be heard over the crowd and music.

“No, I’m good,” Isla says, giving her head a shake.

Blindness and alcohol already make for a combination that some would find amusing, but she just finds it unnerving. The loss of control, the inhibition of her already questionable orientation skills when she’s surrounded by this rowdy of an environment makes her unsettled, and Deli knows this. But she always asks anyway, just in case her friend is feeling reckless or bold.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” Deli chirps, raising up the flute of champagne she had grabbed on the way inside.

Isla nods her head, noncommittal as she fidgets distractedly. 

“Oh.” Deli’s voice exhales in a soft sigh, quickly pulling her out of her thoughts. “Wolffe is here.”

Isla straightens, searching the crowd with curiosity even though she knows that with the dim lighting combined with her already limited vision, she doesn’t stand a chance of catching even a glimpse of him through the thickening mass of people.

“The same Wolffe I’ve heard you call standoffish and always grumpy?” she asks, tilting her head in recognition.

“The very same,” she agrees, setting her champagne down on the small table in front of her. “I shouldn’t say that, really. Our interactions have been very limited but I just...he just seems...”

Isla nods her head, her sharp memory latching onto the various things she’s heard. Deli had worked on a low-budget, independent horror production with only seven measly days to shoot the whole thing. Wolffe, or Wolffe Fett, as he’s known professionally, was cast to play one of the leads, and as such, Isla, holding the status of having best-friend privileges whenever Deli would call her to rant about the project, has heard many, many things about everyone on that set—who’s lovely to work with, who pisses her off the most, and for some reason, it’s Wolffe and all of the passing things she’s heard about him that stick out most prominently in her mind. 

Just from memory, she recalls Deli telling her that he doesn’t really show an interest in any of the people he’s working with on set. That he’s a good actor, a great one, actually, but he lacks the endearing, charming charisma that is desired in favourable male performers. All in all, he sounds like the type of person Isla would feel awkward around at the very least, if not outright uncomfortable. Still, Deli is brushing off her dress, taking one last sip of her drink before glancing back down at where she’s still sitting.

“I should probably say hi before all the girls start crowding around him,” she says, as if she’s trying to talk herself into it and rolling her eyes. “Wanna come?”

Ah yes. One of the other things Isla has discerned is that despite his seeming disinterest in it all, his presence is quite in demand with everyone but especially the ladies. One of those people, she thinks, unable to resist her own eye roll. Probably a player, probably leading a string of girls on by their perfectly manicured fingers without even having to try.

She decides right now that she’s not interested in any of it. 

“And risk us losing our spots on this couch?” Isla smirks, shaking her head, languidly stretching out and letting her heels rest on the low table in front of her, an arm behind her head. “I’m good.”

“Well, I shouldn’t take too long,” she says, cradling her drink once more. “Remember what I look like?”

To anyone else, this question would sound ridiculous or absurd. But to Isla, it’s a system that the two of them have worked out when going out to parties, because if they get separated, especially in a place where they might not be able to hear their phones, it’s sometimes easier to ask a kind stranger to help Isla find Deli again...which isn’t easy for them to do if she can’t provide an adequate physical description of her. With her having only the most short term of visual memories, verbally memorizing a brief physical description is oftentimes much more reliable.

“Uh...red dress with a thigh slit, about five feet three with short brown hair and green eyes?” she asks, biting on her lip.

“You got it,” Deli says, giving her a quick thumbs up. “I’m sure I’ll be right back.”

And indeed, within minutes, she is, dropping down onto the couch beside her with an audible sigh and turning her eyes up towards the ceiling. 

“Was it worth it?” Isla asks, turning to face her with a knowing grin.

“Ah yes,” Deli says sarcastically, throwing her head back and downing the rest of her champagne in one before setting the empty glass back down on the table. “The conversation was positively enthralling.”

She’s interrupted from saying more when someone approaches, ambling over to the quiet corner and looking at the two of them like they’re on a mission. 

“I’m a photographer with The Living Film magazine doing coverage for this event,” he says by way of an introduction, a camera tucked securely beneath his arm. “You’re Isla Tilney, right?” At her small nod, he continues. “We’ve set up a small scene where we are taking pictures of guests, and I was wondering if you’d like to pose for one real quick.”

“Sure,” she says slowly, sending an uncertain glance towards Deli.

“I’ll come with you,” Deli says quickly, easily reading her discomfort. 

Well…that’s settled then.

He leads the two of them through the crowd all the way to the other side of the room. There’s a small setup there with an ornate, fancy-looking arm chair surrounded by candles, and Deli guides her through the tangled mess of wires and lighting equipment to get to it. Once she is situated, directed to pose prettily whilst sitting on the chair, her hands folded in her lap and a tiny smile on her lips, Deli backs off, quietly saying to her that she’ll wait until she’s done, and then she’ll come and get her.

But once the picture has been taken, once she’s back on her feet and her eyes are nervously scanning her surroundings, Deli doesn’t materialize.

Swallowing nervously, she spares one last glance around her before raising her voice above the din to speak to her photographer.

“Would you be able to help me get around the equipment?” she asks, and he readily agrees.

Annoyingly, he takes her by the wrist, awkwardly leading her through the maze of box lights and cords. Right now though, she’s too on edge to say anything or correct him on the techniques of proper guiding, because without Deli, the music rings louder and more oppressively in her ears with every step, her anxiety sparking, making her heartbeat pick up speed and jump within her chest. 

Once she’s clear, she expects to find her waiting, but again, Deli isn’t there, and by the time she turns to her photographer, he’s already gone. 

Oh...well that’s not ideal.

The music changes to something full of drums and heavy bass. She must be close to a speaker, because she swears she can feel it rattling all of the bones in her chest. She immediately doesn’t like it, suddenly finding the room too warm, her lungs finding it harder to draw in a calming breath of air. Fumbling and uncoordinated, she retrieves her folded cane from where she’s stored it in her bag, trying to release the string that holds it together with shaky hands.

She can’t hear anything. 

“Your ears are your eyes,” or so she had been told from very early childhood onward, because when you’re blind, your hearing is the more trustworthy source of information by comparison. So what do you do when they, too, aren’t able to work properly?

It’s too dark here. She can’t...she can’t see… 

Anything.

It happens so fast. First she’s standing alone, her eyes frantic and confused as she finally feels her cane unfold in front of her. Then, she blinks, and a crowd is surrounding her—all loud, boisterous voices with drunk undertones, yelling, pushing, shoving, until all she can do is shove back because she feels trapped. She feels suffocated and terrified, and really do none of them see her? 

A hand catches hers, pulling her forward, tugging her from the worst of the fray, and she realizes with a sense of relief that’s so blissfully all-consuming that indeed, someone has seen her, and maybe, just maybe, she might be safe with them.

“Everybody, back up.”

His voice is loud, intent, cutting through the heavy bass of the music and the overwhelming bustle of the crowd. At first, she stupidly wonders if she should be skittering out of the way too. The mass of bodies quickly begins to thin out into something much less stampede-like, the timbre of the ringing voice carrying, prompting the group to separate, scattering away like fearful ants from a large, threatening shoe that is poised to descend.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” he calls, his tone still loud and gruff, but losing its prior warning edge. “That alright?”

Swallowing and finding that her words, for the moment, have been lost to adrenaline, she can only nod her head. Pausing, he hesitates, his hands uselessly fluttering around her shoulders, almost as if he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to proceed. Trying not to show her irritation as she reluctantly forces herself to pull in a slow, re-centering breath of air through her tightly clenched teeth, she prepares to tell him—though she’s really not sure how she’ll manage with her mind as rattled and scattered as it is—that attempting to guide a blind person whilst also pushing them by the shoulders and making them walk in front of you like that isn’t safe, nor is it convenient for either party.

To her surprise, she finds that she doesn’t have to. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, much quieter as he leans close to her and offers out his elbow. “Just been a while since I’ve done this.”

She blinks, both confused and intrigued as she switches to hold her cane in her right hand. 

What does that mean? She wonders. He couldn’t be referring to his own, past, personally lived experiences with blindness, surely. Perhaps a close family member, a parent, a sibling, or a partner? That, she decides, seems a lot more likely. 

But hell, she internally shrugs as she takes hold of his elbow and he begins to guide her forward, barking not-so-polite orders at people to get out of the way. She can feel how much taller he is than she, how his gait is quick, confident, and assured. Regardless of what he has, or hasn’t lived through at this point, he definitely has more vision and spatial awareness than she does, and at present, she decides that those things are enough for her.

———

She knows logically that letting a stranger take her somewhere, especially when said stranger is a man and especially when she’s by herself like this is, in hindsight, not the smartest idea. 

However, the street that they exit onto once the doors of the party venue are pushed open is busy, alive with nightlife and traffic, so really, on a case-by-case basis, this is about as safe as she can get. Besides, her heart is still pounding, its erratic beat only now beginning to slow now that the overwhelmingly loud volume of the music has faded to a muffled, almost imperceptible beat from afar once the doors are closed, creating a solid barrier, holding the noise at bay. 

She lets out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall as her body’s adrenaline now gives way to shaking and shivering as she pulls her arms tightly around herself. It’s mid-June, and the weather is, for the most part, warm and pleasant, at least through the day. But once the sun sets, the cold can still be surprisingly biting, even on one of the more mild nights like this one. 

However, she begins to think that her shuddering and her skin breaking out into goosebumps may not really have anything to do with the weather at all. She’s safe, she tries to reason, her shaking hands clenching into tight fists, blunt nails biting into the skin of her palms. She’s out of there. She hopes futilely that the pain might bring her back, sharpen her sense of reality so that she can at least control her shaking limbs.

It doesn’t actually do anything to help, except now her hands hurt...great.

“You uh...have someone you can call?” the man, she still hasn’t caught his name, cautiously asks as he loiters in the doorway. When she glances up at him, suddenly pulled from her tangled mess of thoughts, he steps forward and she swallows, nodding her head mutely. 

Now that she’s outside, now that she can finally breathe again, her thoughts are becoming less muddled, the most predominant one of them being that she’s just made a complete fool of herself and that she doesn’t want to be any more of an inconvenience to this helpful stranger than she already has been.

“Yeah,” she says, reaching up to distractedly run her fingers through her hair as she nods. “Yeah I’ll just…”

She fumbles, attempting to unzip her bag one-handed. Sighing exasperatedly, she quickly begins to fold up her cane, preparing to set it down on the ground so that she can retrieve her phone from her purse.

“Here,” the stranger calls, using his hand to tap on something that’s several steps ahead of her to her left. “There’s a bench.”

She follows the sound, reaching out a hand to search for it in the darkness. Blindness is tricky in general, but her night blindness has been a particularly stressful challenge that she’s been dealing with ever since she was a child, and she still doesn’t feel entirely confident navigating around even places that are familiar to her once the sun has gone down. 

Finding that her fingers only come into contact with the brush of the cool air, she bites down on her lip and is about to tell him that it doesn’t matter and give up completely when his hand, large and calloused, is gently pressing against the back of hers, guiding it until, with a gentle thump, it comes to rest on the bench’s hard metal surface, in retrospect not that far off from where she had already been searching.

“Really? That close?” she mutters, dropping down to sit on the bench with a dissatisfied and embarrassed groan, her cheeks beginning to heat. “God, I'm so stupid sometimes.”

She’s self-aware enough to know that this is an unfair, and for the most part untrue, blanket statement. She’s blind, so naturally she has a harder time finding things like this, especially when it’s dark outside. But still, the impulse to self-deprecate, especially in front of someone who’s being even a little nice to her so that they don’t get the idea that she’s too abnormal and/or helpless, is habitual, and she doesn’t really have the energy to fight the pull of it now.

“You’re not.”

The tone of his voice is suddenly hardened, losing any trace of the prior awkwardness it held  mere seconds ago. She blinks, pulling up short, her eyes flicking up to meet his as she finds him now close and leaning over her with his arms crossed.

She still finds it too dark to distinguish much of his prominent features, but somehow she can just feelthe way that his eyes hold onto hers, and is it her imagination, or does one of them actually gleam slightly in the darkness?

Attempting to suppress a shiver, she turns away, setting her bag in her lap and beginning to undo the zipper with still-cold and trembling hands. 

She’s so preoccupied with looking for her phone, she doesn’t register the soft rustle of a suit jacket being removed until, slowly, it’s settling around her shoulders, the stranger’s warmth enveloping her as he wraps it around her like a blanket. 

She glances up, startled and questioning, but hearing no protest as she moves to pull the rest of it on, she offers him a small, grateful smile and her eyes flutter closed, momentarily savouring the heat and the surprising softness of the inner layers of the material against her bare skin as she tremulously pulls her arms through the sleeves. 

Sure, the thing weighs her down, practically swamping her small, 4-foot-10-and-a-half-inch frame, but right now, she finds the weight settled against her shoulders grounding, its warmth slowly draining away the last of her adrenaline and bringing her back down to earth. She inhales, holds, then releases slowly, her eyes slowly opening as she turns once more to look up at the man to thank him.

Startled, she finds that he is no longer there. She thinks he might be gone, but no. He’s not gone, because even if her still thrown-off and overwhelmed senses hadn’t caught the retreat of his footsteps, she would have heard the heavy thud of the door as it had closed behind him and he had gone back in. 

There, standing beneath the awning of the venue, she thinks she can see his silhouette. But it’s clear that he’s intent on giving her some space, and really, it’s probably a cue for her to get her ass in gear so that he doesn’t have to tell her in the politest terms he can muster to hurry up and make her call so he can finally get her out of his hair.

Giving her head a small shake in an attempt to clear it, she pulls out her phone, deciding to follow the unspoken request that he’s given her.

———

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”

Deli is speaking, her words tumbling out of her in a rush, even before she’s halfway out the door. She lets it slam behind her, uncaring as she moves quickly towards Isla, dropping down beside her on the bench and putting an arm around her shoulders as she sighs.

“There was this guy, and he was super drunk and acting real creepy towards this one girl. You know, not taking no for an answer and the usual bullshit that men do? Anyways, she looked like she could use some help, and by the time I not so politely told him to fuck off, I turned around and you weren’t there.”

She drops her head to Isla’s shoulder, exhaling.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, her voice quieter.

“It’s all good,” Isla reassures, summoning a small, tired smile. “These things happen, and hey, we just got some pretty good practice for what we’re supposed to do when they do.”

“Well, that’s one way to look at it,” she says with a soft chuckle, trying to restrain her smile.

If it were almost anyone else, she might have been worried that Deli might have gotten bored of her quiet, somewhat socially anxious company. That she might have decided to ditch her for a more fun, less weighed-down-by-baggage group of friends, but no. This is Deli, and Deli, without question, is not like that, despite long-buried high school insecurities and bad experiences with much less dependable groups of friends who would try to tell her otherwise.

She’s safe, because she’s with Deli and Deli, without a doubt, is a person who is safe.

“Well, my social battery is pretty much toast, and I’m assuming yours isn’t far behind,” she says, offering Isla a grin as she straightens and gets to her feet. 

“You sure?” Isla asks, trying but ultimately failing to keep the note of relieved eagerness from creeping into her voice.

“Yeah,” she says, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “I think we’ve stayed long enough to fulfil our social obligation. Let’s go find some food that isn’t this overpriced fancy shit. Then we can go home and crash.”

“Sounds good,” says Isla, not bothering to hide her smile now as she follows Deli and rises from the bench. “As long as you’re driving.”

Deli lets out a small snort, and she smirks, playfully nudging her shoulder. Isla abruptly turns, realizing that she never thanked the kind man who had helped her get outside. But she can’t pick out his figure, and by the time she does, he’s already turning, watching over his shoulder as he slowly makes his way back inside, the soft click as the door hisses shut behind him seeming to punctuate the finality of his exit.

“Something wrong, Isla?” Deli asks, turning around from where she’s started walking and stopping in her tracks.

“No,” she says, swallowing and attempting to shake off the tiny, stupid pang of insecurity telling her that, of course, he must have been that eager to be rid of her. She turns back to Deli, summoning a bright smile as she quickly unfolds her cane.

“Let’s get out of here”

———

“Ten pack of chicken nuggets,” Deli announces, setting the takeout box on the centre console and smoothly beginning to maneuver out of the drive-thru. “Let’s be honest, they probably won’t last the car ride home.”

“Not tonight, they won’t,” Isla agrees, reaching over to snatch one. She takes a small bite, even though the temperature is still slightly too hot on the tongue, but nonetheless, she closes her eyes, savouring the familiar, warm crunch of the comfort food, scrolling on her phone as she eats.

First, she checks the app that she has paired with the pet cam she has set up at her house. An investment that at first had seemed laughable, but now that Oli is needing to stay home more often than usual, it really does, if nothing else, soothe many of her frayed nerves.

Separation anxiety is no joke, she ponders, holding her phone up close to her face so that she can actually see into her living room. Anyone who shares a close relationship with their pet would understand, sure. But with a guide dog who goes with her everywhere and who she has seldom spent more than an hour apart from since they had been paired together when she was 15...well, you can imagine that it runs a lot deeper.

And there he is, lounging on her couch and contentedly snoring away. Technically, he isn’t supposed to be there, but it’s another concession she’s made now that he’s approaching his ninth year of duty. He’ll have to retire in another year or two, she knows, both because he’s earned it and because the school she got him from doesn’t like working their dogs past 10 years most of the time, for fairly obvious reasons. So until then, the simple things like letting him nap on the couch feel like a reasonable promotion until that time comes.

“Oli,” she calls, cheery and in a singsong voice as she activates the microphone so that he can hear her voice. “How’s my favourite boy?”

The golden retriever wakes with a start, looking around and getting to his feet. He waggles his tail, looking in the direction of the camera with what seems to be more confusion than actual happiness, which, she surmises, is an understandable reaction to hearing her strangely disembodied voice.

Still, it has the desired effect of pulling her lips upward into an unrestrained smile, and she watches, her eyes bright as he settles himself back down, stretching out on his side. 

“Anything exciting happening? Deli pipes up, gesturing to Isla’s phone with a french fry.

“Not overly,” she says, exiting the pet monitor app. She tilts her head, scrolling through her applications, pausing as she listens to her screen reader offer quick feedback. “But I do have an unread email.”

“Ooh,” Deli enthuses. “Maybe it’s another one of those car emergency kit scams that you seem to get every single week.”

“Maybe…” she says, distracted as she lifts her phone closer to her ear, scrolling through and listening as it reads. 

She blinks, feeling something that is most certainly not one of the straps of her dress sliding down her arm, the material dwarfing her hand as she shifts forward. 

Oh…the jacket. She forgot to give the stranger back his jacket. 

This, she knows, is something she should be more concerned about. However, listening as her phone begins to read her the email, she finds herself quickly distracted from that matter.

From: Athena Collins. 

“Oh shit,” she says, leaning forward as she is now suddenly very much intrigued to hear the email’s contents. “It’s from my agent.”

Official role offer below. :-) Please confirm that you are available for the shoot dates outlined in the forwarded email. Heard from the CD that they are casting you alongside Wolffe Fett, which is quite impressive. He’s a very promising, exciting up-and-coming talent from what I've seen, and I have no doubt that you’ll work fabulously alongside him.

Excellent job, Isla. Once you confirm, I’ll have your contract ready for you by Monday.

Her mind backtracks, her eyes widening as she frantically tries to piece together what in the kriff she’s just read. 

She had sent in that audition weeks ago, and could barely remember the film’s storyline. A movie of the week, her mind echoes distantly. Or no, not exactly, it had been a two-part miniseries, one specifically made for The Hallmark Channel as part of their Christmas programming. It had been fun, if also cheesy and predictable. 

But, these productions tend to work fast, and when several weeks had passed without her hearing a peep from her agent…well, as actors were expected to get used to doing, she had easily let the idea of that particular opportunity go, almost forgetting about it entirely.

She sifts through her thoughts, trying to recall the details. 

Typical plotline...she had auditioned to play the role of a singer. Yes, that was it—a singer whose Christmas tour had been derailed by a blizzard and had subsequently found herself stuck in a small town over the holidays, boarding with...

A single dad and his young children.

A very attractive single dad and his young children.

A very attractive single dad, who she is going to have to fall in love with on screen…

And he…

And...Wolffe?

“Oh...oh shit.”

The words escape her lips in a quiet, half-disbelieving utterance. Not Wolffe, who she has heard on good authority is standoffish, awkward, and who—without directly saying it because she’s too nice—Deli has painted as being indifferent, cold...almost certainly unfriendly and unkind. Surely, surely it’s not him.

She reads again, thinking that she’s misheard, thinking that she’s made some sort of mistake but no, there he is, his name unmistakable as she turns her screen reader up and listens to the message harder, her knuckles going white as she clutches her phone tightly in her hand.

“Wolffe Fett!” Deli exclaims, now clearly able to hear what the screen reader has verified for herself. “You’re working with Wolffe Fett?”

She can only nod numbly, and Deli, having the good sense to pull over, scrutinizes her.

Once she’s parked, she turns fully to face her, looking at her intently for a long, long moment until Isla herself looks away, feeling her cheeks go pink as she confusedly begins to fidget.

“Deli...wha...”

She trails off, watching as Deli glances away, then back up at her, then away again.

“Deli, I'm serious, what is it?”

Deli looks at her strangely, seeming to zero in on a specific detail that she herself remains unaware of, and suddenly, without warning, a wide grin breaks across her features. She doesn’t even try to conceal it as her eyes sparkle.

Abruptly, without explanation or warning, her shoulders silently begin to shake, and to Isla’s growing confusion and befuddlement, Deli inexplicably throws her head back and begins to laugh.

Authors note: I wanted to make it clear that despite how I have set this up and how things might appear at first glance, this story is not, nor am I ever planning on writing, a fic that is enemies to lovers, because only with a few exceptions I hate that trope and do not enjoy reading it. 

I wanted to explore, amongst other things, how reputations, and the deceitful nature of them, might complicate relationships at their beginnings. Working hand-in-hand with this, I also wanted to explore love, more specifically finding it and maintaining it when you are disabled, when the world constantly tries to make you feel like you are a burden to others, how do you overcome that and accept that you are not only wanted, but worthy.

As you might have noticed, this is also an exploration of the anxious/preoccupied attachment style, and how disability, specifically my own experiences with blindness, has coloured my relationship to it. This story is also heavily character/relationship driven. So please do not expect an action packed plot coming from me For this one. 

If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment and/or reblog.💞 They are both very appreciated

[eclec-tech]

I wish I could impress you by telling you that my OCs' names have mind-blowing backstories, but the boring truth is that my OCs' names don't usually have an ounce of lore to them. They're a combination of naming patterns I notice when l research their species/planet and my gut telling me, "Ooooh! THAT one!"

Miran (MEER-ehn)Threst is from Alderaan and is connected to the royal family, where Bail Prestor's name told me that names of nobles on that planet sometimes have first name long-vowel sounds, short vowels for the rest, and were framed by consonants.

Luvari (loo-VAH-ree) Tulren comes from Pantora, where names like Riyo Chuchi, Kevmo Zink, and the Papanoidas (Notluwiski, Ion, Che Amanwe, and Chi Eekway) showed me that vowels are the way to go when making up Pantoran names, and that ending a first name with a long-vowel sound is a common naming convention there.

The Indral Family: Vranox, Goshar, Xadra, Kisan, and Jabo are my family of Zabraks on Iridonia, and since Zabraks tend to use hard g sounds, strong syllabic emphasis, and consonants that aren't used as commonly in this galaxy, I went with powerful-sounding combinations of those things to create their names.

I have more, but I'll stop there. You guys already know I'm a gigantic nerd, and I'm sure this just made it worse. 🤓

No pressure: @ladysongmaster @dragonrider9905 @imabeautifulbutterfly @ireadwithmyears @wolveria @apocalyp-tech-a and anyone else who wants to put the see in OC. 🧡

OC Tag Game: Name Lore!!

Rules:

1.) Gush about your OC(s)’ name(s). How did you choose it? Why did you choose it? Does it have a special meaning? Did you have other names for the OC during the brainstorming stage, before you settled on the chosen one? Tell us anything else you want about your OC’s name!

2.) Tag your friends!!

[eclec-tech]

Good. We need more Tech.

More Tech.

[eclec-tech]

Reblogging to take care of that tiny bit of doubt...

Yes, it is 100% free!

It's so unusual that it makes you look twice. It's non-profit, has no ads, is run by volunteers, and gets the money it needs to operate from donations. Weird, right? 🤩

a quick FYI in case anyone else like me is an absolute AO3 amateur (on the reader side):

with the wave of authors who are locking fanfics for registered AO3 users only (due to AI scraping), if you want to sign up for AO3, you have to request an invite by email first, and once your invitation gets accepted, then you can set up an account! (99.9% sure it's free to do!)

when i submitted my invitation request the other day, it was a wait time of approximately 12 days. that could end up being shorter, but you might want to get that invitation done asap if you're eager to get back to reading on AO3!

[eclec-tech]

You and me both.

Still thinking about Shep fearlessly telling off CX-2 like he’s lecturing a toddler, because fully justified righteous indignation on an otherwise gentle man is still a good look.

[eclec-tech]

CX-2 was incredibly calm in that scene, which was surprising because Shep was GOING OFF. I fully expected him to be shot and was thrilled when he wasn't. He was very lucky.

Still thinking about Shep fearlessly telling off CX-2 like he’s lecturing a toddler, because fully justified righteous indignation on an otherwise gentle man is still a good look.

[eclec-tech]

One of my possible head canons for Shep is that he's Phee's brother-in-law. His "About time you showed your face around here" and her "Miss me, Shep?" were very playful greetings and sounded like the kind of teasing that siblings or siblings-in-law would do.

Then there's Lyana calling Phee "Auntie Phee," which could be a term of endearment or it could be literal. Those two seem to have a close bond over the artifacts Phee brings back. Maybe Phee's sister was an adventurer too until whatever happened to her, and Phee keeps her spirit alive by teaching the history and art appreciation she loved to her daughter.

Plus, Lyana's hair looks like it's already well on its way to being as fluffy and awesome as Phee's. Maybe it's a family trait on her mother's side!

Shep-Centric Thoughts...

I'm plotting out a Shep-centric fic and I have come to the conclusion that this man is amazing, awesome, and doesn't get enough attention in the fandom.

Bullet points on why below...

One: His relationship with Phee.

Are they actually, biologically related? Was she instrumental in helping him and Lyana find Pabu, this safe place away from the Empire? Has she saved his and his daughter's life and now he feels like she's the greatest person ever? Was she a stray he found with a bullet wound in her side and a machete sword in her hand, snarling and snapping until he and Lyana "tamed" her? We don't know...but we're durn sure they're close and that for all anyone knows, they're family through and through.

Two: His willingness to accept Phee's friends.

Now, Phee might have called ahead to tell our friendly mayor that she was bringing friends, but even if she did Shep is so freaking welcoming. He doesn't ask how or why she came into sudden possession of three muscley ex-commandos and a smol danger child but you know what? He doesn't really care either. They're Phee's friends and so they're his friends, full stop.

Three: His eagerness to make the Batch feel accepted.

Throughout his scenes, Shep is going out of his way to make the Batchers feel safe and at home on Pabu. I ADORE that he seems to give extra attention to Hunter, who has the hardest time adjusting to a non-combat life and who is constantly on edge regarding the safety of those around him. Shep is also a leader in a way, so I feel like he understands a little of where Hunter is coming from, but because he's a normal human, he recognizes that Hunter's obsession with keeping what is left of his broken family together is breaking the sergeant. Because his accelerated life has been spent as an experimental soldier who may or may not see tomorrow and who must constantly be on guard, Hunter doesn't know how to be safe. He can't accept it because it goes against his very DNA. I think Shep clocks that and is trying to reassure the tracker that he can relax on Pabu - -that they're not threats, but also that Hunter and his brothers and sister are not a threat to the Pabuans, either.

Four: His insistence that they stay.

Shep isn't blind and I'm sure that little things reveal to him that the Batchers have all had very rough lives. Instead of pushing them away and being unwilling to take on their issues, Shep is completely sincere in wanting them to stay on Pabu, to build a new life for themselves despite what they've already been through.

When Wrecker says he's never full, what does that trigger in Shep's mind? I think he would instantly realize that these are survivors, but because he's around them, watching them, he also notices that just because they know how to survive doesn't know they know how to actually live. The Batchers are still adjusting to not being soldiers and now they're fugitives, castaways. Even before the war ended, they were experiments and viewed as canon fodder, created for a war that they didn't get to choose to fight. But more than pitying them, I think Shep would just be that much more eager to set their minds at ease and help them adapt to civilian life. That's certainly what he seems to be doing in the buildup to Season Three.

And now we just have some more pics because I love Shep so much.

[eclec-tech]

Me

A/N: Needed to write about how I felt the last few months. Although, I didn't have someone break down my door, I had a few friends who broke through the darkness in my mind.

To all those who struggle with anxiety, depression, negative thinking, and just everyone who needs a hug, you're not alone.

Love oo

Warnings: Dealing with Depression; breaking down a door.

AO3 Link   |   OS & MS Master List |   Main Master List  

Dark.

That’s all I see. Darkness.

The black out curtains I had bought a year ago, which at the time felt like a good idea, now seemed to be the very thing that kept me trapped. Kept me from venturing out of my room. In a way it kept me trapped in my own misery. As long as those curtains remained closed, there was nothing out there. 

No job. 

No friends.

No one to call me, theirs. 

No problems.

No hobbies.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized I really didn’t have those things. Sure, I had a job, but it was just routine now, it didn’t provide stimulation or change. 

Alright I had friends, but … did they even need me? Did they even care about me? 

“OPEN THE DOOR!” 

Wrecker’s voice bellowed through the door I had locked. My comm had been buzzing constantly for the past day, but I managed to ignore it. It all felt too much and not enough. 

“I’M NOT GOING AWAY!”

I rolled to the other side, pulling my blankets up to cover my ears and face. I didn’t want anyone to see me, I didn’t want anyone to know how much I failed. How far I had fallen. I didn’t want to admit to myself I needed help. 

I’m not even sure what happened or what exactly triggered me. Was it the fact that my best friend had another guy fall for her, and I didn’t have anyone? Or the fact that the guy that fell for her was someone I was fond of, somewhat? Maybe it’s just realizing that there’s something wrong with me. Something that everyone else sees that I don’t. 

Am I really so horrible? 

Maybe I really am boring, like some have said.

People forget that I exist often enough.  Hell when I go to a restaurant there are times when the server forgets I’m even there. 

No one ever contacts me unless they need something. 

Maybe it would be better if I just disappeared. 

The door breaks open, as strong, heavy footsteps come to my bedside. 

“Talk to me, cyare.”

I turn to see Wrecker, his eyes wide, his one good eye full of worry and emotion. 

“Wrecker?”

“Talk to me, sweetie, what’s going on? Who hurt you?”

“No one.”

He gently sits on the floor beside my bed and holds my hand, “Talk to me.”

It takes several silent minutes before I try to open my mouth, I subtly wipe a tear and finally the words come out, “I’m not needed.”

“What do you mean?”

“In life, I’m not needed.”

“Bullshit.” I flinch at his cuss. “Of course, you’re needed. What makes you think you’re not?”

I shrug.

“Don’t do that.” Wrecker squeezes my hand, “Don’t just shrug, explain to me your rationale, tell me why you think you’re not needed, why you don’t matter? Because you do.”

“No one remembers me.” I swallow, “Everyone thinks about me, but no one ever speaks to me.”

“What about me? Don’t I count? I’ve been calling and stopping by to check on you.” His warm large hand brushes away the strand of hair dangling over my face. 

“Of course, you matter.”

“Well I need you.” His hand gently cups my cheek. “Who else will go on culinary adventures with me? Who else will make sure I’m getting the right amount of sleep? Or eating right?”

I smirked, “You have Hunter, Crosshair and Omega for that.”

“Fine, then who will make my heart quicken with just a smile? Who will make my breath hitch just with a look of your eyes?” Tears well up in my eyes as he gently presses a kiss to my forehead. “Cyar’ika, you matter. You matter more than you know. You’re everything to me. So please, don’t hide away, don’t disappear on me. Don’t …” he swallows back the lump in his throat, as tears begin to prickle his eyes, “Don’t leave me alone.”

“Wrecker … are… what … what are you…” The words keep failing me.

“I’m trying to say that I can’t stand the idea that you’re not okay. I can’t stand you thinking you don’t matter, when you do.” Wrecker takes a moment to simply stroke my forehead with his thumb, “Sweetheart, have you … have you thought that maybe you need help?”

I looked down at our hands, it had been something I thought about for a long time. Something that constantly played around in my head, but I always came back to the fact, there are others who needed it more. Others who deserved that allotment. I wasn’t worthy to take that space, wasn’t worthy to have someone try and fix me. Which I know wasn’t true, I know I deserved help just like everyone else, regardless of what my brain tried to tell me. Truth was I was scared. Scared of what asking for help really meant. 

“It’s scary.”

“What is?”

“Asking for help.”

“Why?”

I take a deep breath, letting out a shaky sigh, “Being vulnerable. Opening myself up … what if I can’t be fixed? What if it makes it worse? What if everyone realizes how pathetic I am?”

“First, you’re not pathetic. You are never pathetic. You’re ill, love. And when you’re ill, you go see a doctor. Second, it’s not about fixing, it’s about managing. Managing whatever symptoms you have. Maybe trying to figure out what triggered you, or if you need medication. And finally, sometimes it gets darkest just before the dawn.” His hand is gentle as he slowly and smoothly strokes my head, “It might get worse before it gets better, but that doesn’t mean you’re alone. I will look after you. Help you. You won’t be alone.” He presses the gentlest kiss to my forehead. “But none of it will work until you’re ready to get help. So in the meantime, can I simply hold you, remind you you’re not alone. You are important. You matter. And you’re loved. Not just by me, but by everyone.”

I can’t talk as I try to fight the tears that are welling up, I shift on the bed, Wrecker, lying down beside me as he pulls me close, holding me, and hiding me from the world in his arms.

“Also, I’m sorry, love. I broke your door. I’ll fix it later.”

“ ‘tis okay.” I sob out, crying into his chest, and holding him close as I finally start to see the streaks of light shining through the darkness. 

AO3 Link   |   OS & MS Master List |   Main Master List  

@justanothersadperson93

​ @liadamerondjarin​ 

 @spicymcnuggies​

 @lady-ren​

 @firstofficerwiggles​ 

@darkangel4121​ 

@discofern​ 

@kavecika​ 

@monako-jinn-stories​ 

@ladykatakuri​ 

@avathebestx​

 @theroguesully​ 

@furyhellfire66

​ @carodealmeida​ 

@ciramaris

​ @sprout-fics​ 

 @dindjarin-mandalorian​ 

@clonethirstingisreal

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@totallyunidentified

@griffedeloup

@leotawrites

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@badbatch-simp24​

@dragonrider9905reads

[eclec-tech]

Hands down my FAVORITE character from that show! 🤩

[eclec-tech]

The Mindset of a Set Mind Chapter 11: The Loft

The Lawquanes' two guests settle in for the night in the loft of the barn.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62554303/chapters/166836064

“They’re lucky you’re so loyal. In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never mentioned deserters, farms, or even that you were part of the group that landed on Saleucami. And not in your articles either. I’ve read everything you’ve written. There wasn’t a word, like you never set foot here.” Jheyla’s smile turned smug. “Why Dogma, I never knew you were out there fanboying my work all this time!” Dogma was sure his face was hot enough to fry a nuna egg. “They’re well-written stories! And I wasn’t fanboying anything. You make it sound like I had Jheyla Krim decals on my kit or a poster of you up in the barracks or something.” Jheyla laughed heartily at the thought. “We’ll never know, will we?” Dogma shook his head with a look of fake annoyance. In truth, the thought was making him want to laugh too.

Dogma divider by @lornaka and @freesia-writes Owl reblog divider by @dystopicjumpsuit

HEAVY-HEARTED REMINDER: I've locked my AO3 fics, so if you've been reading this fic as a guest, PLEASE make an AO3 account and come visit me! I want to continue to share this little tale with you!

[eclec-tech]

Still Life

Rating: This is still an 18+ Blog

Pairing: Nax x fem!reader

Wordcount: 3k

Warning: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, self-hatred, Obi-Wan the matchmaker, altruism

A/N: OP 2023/07/03 He might be named Nax in this story... for me it always be Tai from the amazing @imarvelatthestars This was also a submission for the @clonexreaderbingo Square: Obi-Wan

Summary: Upon his arrival on Daiyu Obi-Wan first meets someone from his past and then you in a rundown cantina. Call it Force or fate, but maybe your paths should cross for a reason.

“Spare any credits?”

Obi-Wan stops dead in his tracks as a low and distant voice fills his perception. An echo of a voice he heard a million times by now. The blinding neon lights on Daiyu, the clutter and buzz… almost everything all of a sudden seems to get muted and fade into the background of existence and only that one being remains in time and place. In slow motion he turns around to the source of sound.

A ghost from the past. But this isn’t a Force ghost like the one of his master Qui-Gon Jinn who graces him with his presence from time to time at his leisure. No, this one is much more substantial… and therefore much more frightening. Their eyes meet.

“Help a veteran get a warm meal.”

A face of millions of identical ones he saw a billion times and yet as unique as it can be. Just as the remains of white armor with the blue markings, battle damaged and dirty. The helmet, the distinctive, shiny crown of protective clone armor long ago, now reduced to a grime-stained receptacle for credits. The once brave defender of the Republic, now defenseless and homeless, sitting still and calm in the otherwise rush of the degenerated city. He looks like a still life of war in the midst of the crowded, colorful chaos.

Obi-Wan slowly comes walking closer. He searches the clone’s face, his dark brown eyes, still kind and observant. It hurts to see how they look like the ones of his loyal commander when he saw them for the last time before the black visor aimed a blaster at him, but he tries to put that kind of feeling aside. For a while both men are gazing into each other's innermost being, and Obi-Wan is much too debilitated and out of practice to do anything about it. Long ago he would have been able to. He knows him. The clone is exactly aware of who is standing in front of him. Just like it is the other way round. Nax. That’s his name. For a moment the jedi hesitates in his motion, the memory of this fateful day, the downfall of the order flashes up in his mind. The shockwave of pain and grief that washed over them all and shook the galaxy to the very foundations is once again taking his breath away. And yet… somewhere inside his chest, Obi-Wan feels the unnamable warmth that comes with the light side of the Force. This man sitting in the dirt in front of him may have been carrying out an order, but one he's questioned many times since. There’s no hostility or rejection in his aura, only curiosity and restraint… maybe regret. He knows he should talk to him, should tell him that he forgives and trusts him. But something holds him back.

Instead he reaches inside the pocket of his robe to grab some credits. The clattering as he throws them into the helmet sounds almost accusingly. This and a slight tilt of his head is all he can give right now. That’ll have to do. But why does it feel so wrong then as he turns away to follow the crowd on the busy street on his way to find the girl?

“Can I get you a drink, sir?”

For the second time that day, Obi-Wan is jolted out of his thoughts. This time it is a woman who is standing across the table he’s sitting at. While he was gazing through the clouded window of the rundown cantina he’s right in, you were watching him. It would be embarrassing if he could care about it.

“No, thank you. I got everything I need.” He gives a polite but weary expression.

“Are you sure?” you ask, refusing to leave the table, and somehow that really impresses him. It’s a rare habit nowadays to worry about other people and even more so if they are complete strangers. Checking in on somebody can easily get you into trouble - and still you do. That makes you either really brave or really stupid. His insight into human nature tells him you don't belong in the second category of people. But neither in the first one. Hm.

“The cup of tea that you are clinging to is cold for a long time. And no offense… but you look like you could use something stronger.”

Oh, Force knows he might need something stronger, but as long as he will not have brought back Leia to her parents safe and sound, he won’t allow himself anything like that. In his chosen solitude on Tatooine, he will have plenty of time for that later. But you look at him so amiably and with genuine concern that for the first time in a long time Obi-Wan allows himself to truly smile. So you are the third category of people… the kind one.

“I am afraid I can’t accept your offer as I still have a mission to accomplish that requires my full attentiveness.”

"I see" you reply quietly, and he’s observing you as you walk on your way to the counter.

Obi-Wan settles back in his chair once again, not quite being able to relax as he fixates his gaze on the cold, busy street, his reflection staring back at him from the window. The discord in his inner peace… the urgency to go and rescue the girl and therefore the inescapability of leaving a companion behind and abandoning him to his precarious fate… it torments him like so many other things. Maybe if he’d been a better jedi and wouldn’t have let his feelings conduct his actions against better judgment, he wouldn’t find himself in a situation like that right now. Or at least it wouldn’t disturb him. Well, hindsight is always 20/20, Master Yoda would have told him so.

“Here you are,” you say softly when you are suddenly back, placing another cup of steaming hot cassius tea in front of him. And this time you sit down on the opposite chair with a cup of your own. After the first sip you tell him your name and that tea in your opinion is always helpful… no matter the matter. That makes him smile again.

“My name is Ben,” he answers and hesitates only for a split second before he adds, “at least it is now.”

So he’s another refugee from the Empire like most people who are stranded here on Daiyu. Names can be just names - or a disguise. You look up at him, nodding in acceptance and as he sips contentedly on his tea, and you come to the conclusion that he doesn’t fit in here just like you. He’s much too noble and decent, his cloak too clean and neat despite the beard and the signs of physical labor on his fingers. Whatever the reason was that left him stranded on Daiyu, you dearly hope for him that it won’t be permanent.

For a while the both of you just talk about trivial topics. You chuckle and play with the rock candy on the table and while he lets himself be distracted by you the frown on his forehead slowly disappears and only the dark shadows beneath his eyes remain. You still think it’s a success. Whatever he’s planning to do, you gave him enough time to rearrange his thoughts and maybe that will help him evolve his plans. And that was what you hoped would happen when you came over to cheer him up in the first place.

When you tell him about Haja Estree, the ostensible jedi in the scummier part of the city, about half an hour later, there’s a change in his behavior. It’s peculiar. As if hope, fear and above all disbelief fight for the upper hand in his train of thoughts. But Ben still asks you where he can find Estree and he seems to be satisfied with your answer that he maybe should not expect too much of a miracle. You have an odd feeling that Estree might not be who he pretends to be, but he still is steadily gaining popularity among refugees for a reason.

Ben remains silent for a moment… and the next time he looks up at you, there’s a glimmer in his blue eyes that makes you blush and chuckle against your will. It suits him so much better than the deep grief and sorrow that makes him look much older than he actually is.

“Do you know the harbor arcades that lead from the spaceport downtown?”

“Oh yes I do. However… I try to avoid them as much as possible.” You tilt your head slightly, wondering what his question is about.

“I can’t blame you for that,” he nods and there’s apprehension in his eyes.

Obi-Wan can’t count the amount of negotiations he attended or led in his life. Putting himself in someone else’s shoes became his second nature, convincing his opposite number is something he can achieve ever so easily. And that’s why he props up his chin and throws you a charming smile while you ponder his words. He already knows you won’t deny his request, because you are way too curious and kind to do so.

But you are not just another negotiating partner. This is no war but still a matter of delicacy. You appeal to him as someone reasonable, trustworthy to rely on. And if he reads your body language right, you are not averse to help him. Or in this case… Sometimes the Force acts in mysterious ways… all he has to do is to take the chance.

“Would you still go there if I’d ask you a favor?”

You lean in and mirror his gesture, throwing him a smile that would melt even the eternal ice on Hoth. Exactly what he needs, and what he deserves.

“That depends…,” you say conspiratorially, “on what the favor is.”

As he expected.

“I saw an old acquaintance on my way from the spaceport over here. Unfortunately, I don't have the time right now..."

Obi-Wan’s gaze drops to the empty cup of tea in his hands. If only he had met him under different circumstances, he would have tried to find a way out of Nax's misery. He could have corrected the things that went wrong. But as it is now, all he can do is appeal to someone else's kindness, and so he looks you in the eye as he says:

“He is in need of a friend.”

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Hi.”

You have a hard time hiding the tremble in your voice as you stand in front of the man Ben sent you to: one of the former Republic’s clone troopers, just as he said. Battered and beaten down, begging for some credits in the gutter, he’s only a shadow of his former self.

The desolate scene causes a lump in your throat. He doesn’t deserve to be thrown aside like that by the Empire after he has dedicated his entire life to defend the defenseless. Sure that your heartbeat must be audible even in the noisy streets, you wait for him to answer. Only he doesn’t. He remains sitting still and gives you a scrutinizing look - and as you watch the disbelief in his dark brown eyes, you realize that someone who’s willing to talk to him and not just hurry by, a friendly face and a smile, isn’t something he gets to see often.

“A friend of yours sent me,” you resume speaking when the silence between you threatens to get awkward.

A friend. Nax isn’t sure that he has any friends left these days but then again you are here because someone told you so, and he has a vague idea who you are talking about. So he assessed the Jedi right. For the first time, he dares to hope that this day will proceed differently than the countless before.

Apparently. Cause instead of just throwing a few credits into his helmet you crouch down in front of him, take off the bag which you have strapped across your chest and pull out a thermal mug and some food that you gently hand him with a sweet smile. A delicious smell of hot caf, fresh bread and tangy meat fills his nostrils and waters his mouth in an instant. Careful that he doesn’t brush his calloused, dirty fingers against yours, he takes the food from you and greedily takes a bite - and then another. He can’t recall the day he ate something like that.

"It's not much, and I am not sure if you like it, so..." you bashfully play with your ear lobe, “Tell me if you rather want something else.”

Something else… incredible. And finally, when he swallowed the food in his mouth and gulped down a sip of caf that warms him, Nax finds his voice for you, rough and husky from disuse.

"No. No. It's alright, girl. This… is perfect."

“Oh… good,” you answer and chew nervously on your lower lip, not quite meeting his eye, while Nax on the other hand just can’t look away from you.

You have this enticing smile that you give him so willingly. And what’s even more important, you still crouch across him not moving away immediately. Anyone else would have been disgusted by his appearance and would not have stayed near him for a second longer than necessary. But you…

To his absolute amazement he even hears you ask: “Would it be okay for you if I keep you company while you eat?”

Oh kriff! He doesn’t know what he did in his life to deserve this moment, but he’d do it all over again without a second thought. Even though he doubts that he deserves someone like you to come along.

“Yes. Sure. If- if you really want to.”

And without being truly aware of it, Nax slows down the tempo in his eating. It doesn’t matter any longer how hungry he is. Only the fact that you will stay for a little longer when he doesn’t rush things. You hopefully won’t blame him for that.

“I wouldn't have asked if I wasn’t sure,” you chuckle and sit down cross-legged on the ragged blanket next to him as if it is the most normal thing in the galaxy.

As you conjure up another bun from your bag to join his mealtime you feel the heat of his gaze resting on you, prickling on your neck like high voltage. It is no surprise that when you look back at him his dark eyes are trained on you. And your heart leaps as you see a tiny spark inside their depth.. at least you imagine it. A tiny spark that just needs a little breeze of care or kindness or affection to kindle a fire in its host, to show the clone and the galaxy that despite his scruffy appearance there is still life inside him. A life worth living.

You dearly hope it can be you to fan that embers and turn into flames.

For what seems like forever the two of you sit side by side, enjoy the meal and smalltalk. Honestly, Nax doesn’t know when (or if) he was as nervous as he is now. With every passing minute he becomes more attached and for kriffings sake… why does he even allow himself sentiments like that? What would you see in him anyway? He’s so scarred, beaten down and filthy. And you are everything he isn’t… so pretty and soft and kind.

Nax has been living on the streets for almost a decade, since the Empire decommissioned him when he got too old to serve in the armed forces next to the shiny new TK-troops and he wasn’t of use for them any longer. It’s been too long. And during all that time you are the only one who treats him with kindness, who looks behind the gutter and gives him a second chance. Oh, what if..? Nax imagines what could have been if he met you under different circumstances, at a different time and place.

For the first time in a long time, there is a warmth stirring in his belly, one that isn’t induced by hot caf alone. But as soon as the thought arises, self-hatred is shooting through him, and he stops himself from indulging in daydreams out of reach. After all, he is homeless and you… What if you are just here because Obi-Wan told you to? He shouldn’t fool himself and fall for you before it is too late. He swallows the late bite of his bread…

“Did you enjoy your meal and… the company?” you ask him with the lovely embarrassment flushing on your cheeks as you eye him.

“Yes I did… Very much.”

And all of a sudden his heart stops beating as you reach out your hand to take his and the pad of your thumb brushes along his knuckles. Not by mistake but deliberation. Not because someone told you to look after him but because you want to. Because…

“Will you be here at this place tomorrow, too?”

He watches the frown on your face and almost sees you scolding yourself for a question like that. He still nods softly and tells you that he will be here. And almost imperceptible he moves his fingers to let them ghost over yours, the hint of a caress.

“I will see you tomorrow then, Nax,” you say and get up, while he finds himself regretting the fact that it is time for you to leave.

“I will see you tomorrow, sweet girl,” he almost chokes on his own, breathy voice.

As your hand glides out of his and you wave him goodbye, he lets you walk away with a coil tightening in his chest, hoping to see you again tomorrow.

[eclec-tech]

Deciding what movie to watch

[eclec-tech]

pie pngs ♡