#my shitty star wars au

[shapelytimber]

Drew these a couple weeks ago while having pretty bad period pain fjfkk and since they're not as terrible as I remember, you can see them :)

Just needed to draw my girl during these trying times- and while I was at it why not dress her up in outfits from diffrent times of her life <3

PS : this is part of my now long ongoing Star Wars sapphic au, tho it's usually way more polished illustrations nfkl also here's a link to a post where I explain how maul ended up living on tatooine with Obi Wan between the prequels and og trilogy <3

[milkcioccolato]

"A Night Out" Page 25

WE DID IT! WERE FINALLY DONE WITH THIS COMIC!!!! I’m so happy with how I worked on this, and I am going to retouch it at some point, down along the line and maybe make it a more serious thing, but until then, thank you again so so much for having joined me!

[stealthetrees]

What sets Commander Fox apart from everyone else is his ability to keep going even when he would literally rather jump into a wood chipper than do one more goddamn thing. He’s gonna do it but holy shit.

[varpusvaras]

"It's settled, then", Bail announced. He had already pushed his chair back and stood up, when he noticed that Mon had not moved an inch. She was still sitting there, just looking at him, with a light frown on her face.

"What?" He asked. "Is something the matter?"

Mon hummed, thoughtfully.

"I think I should be the one asking that", she said. "Is everything alright?"

Bail frowned now, too.

"I'm not sure I follow", he told her.

Now Mon sighed loudly.

"Please don't try that with me", she said. "I have known you for a long time, Bail. I know you. I can see when something is bothering you."

Bail leveled her a look.

"I have my days", he said. "I am not always the paragon of kindness and softness. You should know that."

"I do know that", Mon said. "I know very well that when you are at work, you are very driven by that work. But here's the thing. I have both worked with you for years, and been your friend outside of work just as long. I know how you behave and how you operate, even during the most stressful situations. If you haven't forgotten, we were just in a Galaxy-wide war. The way you are behaving now, this abrasiveness, this tension you are bringing everywhere with you now? I saw you like that in the moments where the whole Galaxy was at the stake. For you to be like this, is just now 'one of those days'. It's not even one of those weeks. Yes, I have noticed. This has been going on for a while now."

Bail didn't turn his eyes away from her, and neither did she turn hers away from him.

It felt like a stand-off, all of a sudden, and the stupidity of it crept into Bail's mind. Mon was not his enemy. This was not the Senate floor, nor was this a negotiation for a freedom of an entire world.

No, this was his own office, with one of his closest friends sitting in front of him, expressing worry for him. Mon was not trying to extort him, she was only trying to help him.

He just didn't know what to tell her. He wasn't the one who was being wronged in any way, and instead was only taking his selfish guilt out on the people around him.

That didn't make him feel any better, either.

Mon's expression softened slightly, as the silence between them dragged on.

"You don't have to talk to me, if you do not want to", she said. "I am just letting you know that I am willing to listen. But, please, if it is something truly serious, do not keep it for yourself. If you won't talk to me, talk to Breha or Fox, at the very least. I know they wouldn't want you to go through something by yourself."

Bail noticed that he had grabbed the edge of his desk tightly, only when he started to feel said edge digging hard into his palm.

Breha and Fox were the last people he could talk to right now, as they were the ones who were being wronged, by Bail himself no less. He could not, would not burden them with himself any further than he already had.

Mon's face grew more concerned again.

"Is it about them?" She asked. "Are they alright?"

"Fox is pregnant", Bail said, before he could think about it too long to stop himself.

Mon paused, her mouth left slightly open.

"Oh", she said finally, blinking rapidly a few times. "Oh. I mean. Is this a place for congratulations?"

"It is", Bail admitted. It really was. Still, despite everything, it was one of the happiest things that had ever happened in his life. "It is very much a wanted thing."

Not in a way any of them would've perhaps expected or wished for it to happen, but a wanted thing nevertheless.

Mon smiled slightly.

"Congratulations, then", she said. "Is everything going well?"

"Yes", Bail nodded. "Both him and the baby are healthy. Breha is having the time of her life spoiling Fox."

"Of course she is", Mon smiled a bit more as she said that. "It's a good thing that one of you can be at home with Fox."

Bail smiled tightly at that. A bit too tightly, perhaps, as Mon seemed to immediately zero in on his expression.

"Is that what this is about?" She asked. "You being here?"

"Of course it is", Bail said. "What else? Breha and I agreed on not even trying to have our own biological children, both for her health, and for my inability to leave my work. That was the agreement with Fox as well. Now, we have one baby at home already, and a second one coming along soon, and I am still just as incapable of being at home, breaking every agreement and changing nothing."

Mon looked at him gently.

"You haven't broken any agreements", she said.

Bail let out a dry laugh.

"Fox didn't make that baby by himself", he pointed out.

"But it was a thing you all wanted", Mon said. "You said so yourself. Are they happy?"

Bail thought about it. The messages both Breha and Fox sent him every day, the pictures, the recordings, the holos of Even pushing himself up on his feet as he learned how to stand, of all the updates from every visit to the doctor. Of the recording of the baby's heartbeat, hearty and strong. Of the happy words and expressions in every single one of them, despite how tired they both were sometimes.

It was worth it, Breha and Fox had both said. Multiple times.

He nodded.

"Yes", he said.

Mon nodded as well, slowly, her eyes assessing him for a moment.

"Are you happy?" She asked then.

Bail paused.

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say yes, immediately. Of course he was happy. Why wouldn't he be happy? Breha and Fox were both happy, of course he was-

Bail tried to say it. He wanted to say it.

He couldn't.

Mon waited, patiently, for him to say something. Bail wanted to say yes.

He just...he just couldn't. Not without it feeling like he was lying.

His eyes dropped down, to stare at his desk. He just couldn't look at Mon anymore, shame rolling thunderously inside of him.

He was happy. Of course he was.

He was happy.

He heard Mon stand up. Bail listened to her steps slowly coming towards him, and finally stopping right next to him.

Then her hand reached for his, at the one still gripping the edge of the desk, and she laid hers on top of it.

"Bail", Mon said. "You need to talk to someone."

Bail wanted to argue with her.

He couldn't.

He sighed, and nodded.

"Yes", he said. "I...I think I do."

[thewallofclaire]

THEN: Clark Kent/Superman saves Cassian Andor and Jyn Erso when they were both children.

NOW: Cassian Andor and Jyn Erso as adults in Scarif...

please superman save these two together once again 😭😭😭💔 - i promise there won't be any green kryptonite found on that planet 🥺

in the lyrics of remy zero's 'save me': ♪ somebody saaaaaaaaavvvvveeeee meeee i don't care how you do it ♪

[darthdidi]

Across the stars [REYLO]

pairing : rey x ben solo plot : AU where Rey is a NASA astrophysician that manages their social media and Ben is a physicist who sends her the photos to post and whose lengthy scientific captions she ignores in favour of writing her own. It drives him crazy. warning : none (except my poor english) words count : 1159 words

GIF by @ msuolo on tumblr

Summary : After completing her master's degree in astrophysics and space engineering, Rey is denied a top job at NASA because she is one of the only women to apply. Considered too "incompetent", she is then relegated to an uninteresting position. Ben, meanwhile, has been working as a physicist for a few years. He follows in the footsteps of his uncle, Luke Skywalker, for whom he has great respect. They don't know each other yet, but a shocking element could bring them closer... or push them even further apart.

Rey had the habit of arriving right on time for work, but that morning things didn't go as planned. Her car, which was more of a wreck, broke down before reaching Pasadena, and she had to wait for hours for the tow truck. Already running late, her friend Rose had asked two of her coworkers to pick her up along the way.

The first four notes of "Come As You Are" echoed in the car. Rey couldn't resist mimicking the guitar, but she stopped immediately when she noticed Hux giving her a strange look. She pretended to look away, taking the opportunity to admire the landscape.

"The valley is very dry these days," she said, feeling awkward in the heavy silence.

"I hadn't noticed until you mentioned it," replied Hux, glancing briefly at the landscape before focusing on his computer again.

"If you paid more attention to your surroundings, you would have noticed."

Hux sighed and closed his laptop abruptly. He removed his glasses and delicately cleaned them.

"I'm an astrophysicist. My head is in the stars. I certainly don't have time to worry about what's happening down here."

At the wheel, Ben cleared his throat, somewhat uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. Rey, however, was not ready to let it go so easily. Hux had been condescending, and she intended to put him in his place.

"You must first understand the world we live in before understanding the world we seek to explore."

"If it's so easy for you to say, why don't you do it?"

"I..." Rey was about to say.

Ben slammed the brakes, stopping in the middle of the road. The 4x4 behind him, almost colliding, started honking persistently.

"She's right, Hux. Now can we get to work without further interruptions?"

The two young people remained silent, pretending they hadn't done anything. The thirty minutes that followed this discussion were again very quiet, with only the sound of Hux's keyboard.

Once they finally arrived at their workplace, Rey thanked Ben politely and gave a polite look to Hux before walking away. In the distance, she saw her friend Rose waving her arms in all directions, waiting for her for a good quarter of an hour.

"So, they didn't mistreat you too much ?" Rose asked as they headed to their offices.

Rey sighed.

"Ben was somehow very polite and decent with me, but I can't say the same for Hux..."

"Armitage is always a bit peculiar with people when he meets them for the first time... He may seem condescending, but he has a good heart."

"He hides it very well, then!"

Rose burst into laughter and shook her head. She settled into her seat, organising the papers on her desk. Rey put her things aside and tossed all the papers on her desk. She saw various photos and documents that other NASA colleagues had given her.

There was a picture of a galaxy that Ben had placed on her desk the day before, two long texts to send to journals written by Hux, and a welcome note from someone named Finn.

"Who's Finn?" Rey asked curiously.

A door opened, and Rose nodded toward someone.

"What timing! I'm Finn. Rose has talked a lot about you! You've been transferred here recently, correct ?"

Rose rolled her eyes.

"Calm down, Finn. She just arrived, and you're already harassing her."

"It's my welcome committee. To make her feel at ease, it's not with your mood swings that she's going to feel o-..."

Someone else knocked on the door. All heads turned, and they were stunned to see Ben Solo in their office.

"I'm here to drop off a new file. You should get ahead with your work, miss Rey."

He looked at her for a moment and then left without saying anything. Finn and Rose exchanged shocked looks.

"He had never been here before, am I right ? He used to look down on us and ask his assistants to drop off the documents!" Rose reminded Finn.

"I remember very well, and it's the same guy who showed up in our office today, but what has changed?..."

They both turned to Rey, who was reading the documents. She furrowed her brow and sighed.

"Don't even think about it. I find him just as unpleasant as Hux, in the end," she said, reading the end of the note he had written.

Rose took the paper from her hands, with Finn peering over her shoulder.

"Taken from the Hubble Space Telescope by NASA/ESA, this galaxy is called NGC 4535," there's nothing alarming in this note, what bothers you about it, Rey?" Finn asked.

"Read the last sentence," she replied.

Rose continued and stopped before reading the last words out loud.

"Don't you dare change the words of the description of galaxy NGC 4535 that I just gave you. I've heard that you're frivolous, so you should take your job seriously if you don't want to lose it on your first day."

Rey snatched the paper from her hands, crumpled it, and threw it in the trash.

"He wants the job done ? No problem! It'll be done, but in my way."

She sat down forcefully in her chair and took out her laptop.

Rose and Finn exchanged a worried look.

"Rey, are you sure that it's a good idea-..."

"Best idea I've ever had !"

She typed a few words on her keyboard at a frantic pace, and at that moment, they understood that it was better not to piss her off.

"We need to make people want to read our article. Does he really think that if I write NGC 4535, people will flock to buy that damn newspaper? Of course not. We need to make them want to read, a catchy title... hm, for example..."

Rey thought for a moment. Rose watched her in amazement, and Finn moved away slowly.

"EUREKA !"

The young woman continued to type on her keyboard and showed them the final result. Rose's stunned expression had turned into pride, and Finn's apprehension turned into confidence in his new colleague's work. They admired the poster that Rey had just created for a moment before finally deciding to print it and eventually feature it in scientific articles and magazines.

"Ben will surely be furious."

"I'm actually waiting for him. I wrote what he wanted me to write, and I added a bit of my 'frivolity,' that's all."

She sent an e-mail to her publishers, attaching her freshly new article and turned back to face her coworkers.

Her friends glanced at her and smiled.

The next morning, on his way to work, Ben received a message from his friend and colleague Armitage. He was surprised since he only received texts during his working hours.

He sighed and pulled his phone reluctantly from his pocket, slowly reading the text he had sent him.

This new girl completely messed up the article, OUR WORK ! he wrote.

Ben frowned and immediately went to the nearest paper shop. He rushed to the space section and immediately grabbed the brand new edition of the Cosmic Chronicles. Hux was right : It was his research with her words. He skimmed the whole article and shifted his attention to its title :

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

[that-sith-bitch]

So me and my buddy got left alone for 5 minutes and devolved into making Star Wars into a mini-golf AU.

[murdercatsandlaserswords]

I really like these tags by @samspenandsword (sorry for the tag but I didn’t reblog from you initially and I wasn’t willing to re-type my tags 😅)

obi-wan, preparing for a solo mission: and anakin, one last thing. temporary command over the 212th does not mean you can treat them like the 501st. please leave the planning to cody.

anakin: don't worry master, i'm sure the commander and i can work something out

[three days later in the resolute's medbay]

cody: *stares at anakin*

anakin: *stares at cody*

cody: i won't tell him you head-butted the separatist leader while in handcuffs and a blindfold without a lightsaber if you won't tell him i jumped right into that tank of acid to block the drain and disable the cannon attached to it

anakin: you got yourself a deal, commander

[cosmicgendershifter]

More Completed Gentlebeard Fanfic I Recommend

This continues from my previous fic rec post, but since it was getting super long, I am starting a new one, haha. 🌈🏴‍☠️

Without 🔞 Content

"I'm Used to Death" (T, ~119,400 words) by @dimplyowl (same writer as "The Curse of Blackbeard's Sword" and "Invisible String") and @thatmothra (same writer as "Salt, Sweet") is a beautiful and heartwrenching Hunger Games AU that does a more brilliant job at combining that dystopian novel with OFMD than I had thought possible! There's some notable Mary/Evelyn too as a bonus. Don't forget the sequel, too: "But Not Your Death" (T, ~108,700 words).

"#OldManCrush" by @petrichorca and @veeagainsttheday (T, ~13,000 words) is a short but vibrant modern AU full of delicious mutual pining where Stede writes an op-ed about his later-in-life crush that goes viral and sends his best friend Ed, the co-owner at their new shared newspaper, into a spiral.

"there's always an escape" (T, ~4,400 words) by @ghostalservice (the same writer as "mighty real" and more) and @mahnaah is a delightfully silly modern AU meet-cute where Stede solves a hidden bonus puzzle in the pirate-themed escape room that Ed created.

"Smile for the Camera" by @piratecaptainscaptainpirates (T, ~3,900 words) is a fun modern AU meet-cute, centered around a clothes-swapping scene and featuring some emotional hurt-comfort, that has Ed as a struggling trans autistic rockstar who appears on Stede's local news show after firing Izzy as his manager. I also recommend "Ed's Feel-Good Recipe Blog" by this writer (T, ~3,400, words), a fun and sweet little multimedia modern AU about Ed as a burnt-out trans celebrity chef meeting Stede through the comments on his side project recipe blog.

"blue canary in the outlet" by @ladohstry (T, ~3,400 words) is a very soft, sweet modern AU oneshot where Ed and Stede share a bed--and then a first kiss--after a night on the club with their friends.

With 🔞 Content

"My Soul Remains With You" by @bonnetpetit (same writer as "Fox Fires", E, ~130,400 words) is a gorgeous, smutty modern fantasy AU with big season two vibes, in which Ed is the lonely cursed forest creature haunting Bonnet Industries' latest development project, and Stede decides to leave his old life to stay with him.

"Rinse and Repeat" by @theyellowestmustard (same writer as "Swedish Cult Bullshit" and "Magpie", E, ~106,300 words) is a lovely, sensual modern AU in which touch-starved Ed seeks out Stede the hairdresser to do a fancy funeral braid for him and then gets a little bit addicted. "Somnophobia (and Other Eleven-Letter Words" is another great one by this writer (E, ~10,500 words), a heartfelt season two missing scenes fic featuring Ed not wanting to risk falling asleep, Stede comforting him, and hand-holding during sex. 💜

"The Broken Lines" by @clairegregoryau (cowriter of "'Til We See the Sunlight," M, 82,200 words) is a poignant, fantastical WWI AU where comm officer Stede struggles to regain his memories and find his lost love after the trauma of the war, even as he communicates across time with canon Ed.

"Star Waka" by @piratecaptainscaptainpirates again (M, ~55,800 words) brought me to tears with its sci-fi AU depiction of severe depression, with trans Jewish-Maori Ed being assigned to train Stede as a starship captain for a very shitty company, just after Ed survives a suicide attempt.

"But the Dream is Strong" by @babykittenteach (E, ~31,400 words) is a fascinating omegaverse AU, with big genderqueer and kink energy, where Ed realizes he wants Stede to ~ravish~ him so Ed can turn from an alpha to an omega.

"soft like silk chiffon" by @impossiblebird (same writer as "Andante, Andante, E, ~12,400 words) is a post-canon fic that thoughtfully explores Ed's enjoyment of being submissive to Stede's soft domming, with some lovely bondage and lingerie included.

"Men on Fire" by @petrichorca and @mahnaah again (M, ~9,900 words) is a fun and sweet short modern AU where Ed is a pornstar whom Stede interviews for his video series about the queer community, with instant chemistry happening between the two of them.

"twenty years and twelve hours" (same writer as "blue like cut sapphires" and more, E, ~9,500 words) is a delightful modern AU in which Ed and Stede are each other's very awkward (but still good) first time at college, and then they get to reconnect twenty years later! Another throwback fave from this writer is "Unparalleled" (E, ~20,300 words), a post-season one reunion fic full of intense emotion and sexy angst, with the soft dom Stede/sub Ed intimate dynamic that I love most for them.

[shapelytimber]

Updated my au's recap to add Tarkin and Krennic :)

And of course I updated The Science

[COMMISSIONS]

(also fixed Sabé's sexuality ! Thank you to the Sabé connoisseurs for letting me know she has a canonical boyfriend at one point ! xoxo)

Yapping below vvv

Welcome to me and my struggle with imperial military uniforms fjdkdkk they just so boring and often khaki-

For Tarkin I took inspiration from a Star Trek concept that I'm so mad isn't a thing in Star Wars... The dress uniform ! The classy, just for show, uncomfortable version of classic uniforms ! (Couldn't believe that wasn't already a thing in sw, but when I searched for it I stumbled upon a sub reddit called "the empire did nothing wrong" and sometimes self care is to not clic on the clearly far right corner of your fandom to look upon a shitty fan made alterations of imperial uniforms 🌸)

Also, I had to make a choice here... Do I make the empire more strict when it comes to gender norms and expectations i.e do I put Tarkin in a skirt gkkgkffn like, I already kinda did that with both Tarkin and Krennic keeping their hair long. But in canon imperial uniforms are unisex and the same for everyone, which is great to like know the imperial military (in universe at least) doesn't do sexism a lot.... But once again, the canon uniforms are a bit boring to draw, they don't have the more classy ones you would wear for special occasions and frankly if you want a side to show more gender inequality would you pick the mismatched rebels fighting for their rights and to overthrow the government, or the established force in power that is also incidentally an empire that took inspirations from a real far right party hmmmmm

Let's look at what I made different about the empire in my au, a) Palpatine is a woman, they have an empress but b) said empress force masced her apprentice and made *him* the figure head of her empire. When you think of the empire you don't picture an old woman in a bathrobe, you picture Vader, a tall muscular cyborg with no face a glowy sword and evil telekinesis.... That is gendered in the masculine (still a dyke tho, but random civilians wouldn't know that- they don't even know if he's human). Having a woman lead a fascist empire doesn't make it better- (in my country, France, the far right party has been lead by a woman for the last 20 years and that doesn't make it fucking better)

All this to say I put her in pants fjkdkd tested with a skirt but it felt too uncanny.

And I also made her stand in the worst position to draw (for me at least) : perfectly facing the camera with a stick up her ass and at parade rest so with her hands behind her back fjkddk I struggled so hard to make it look somewhat good, and I'm still not really satisfied- also Peter Cushing's face with a hat that covers his forehead looks very wrong to me fjfkk

But enough about Tarkin ! For Krennic I also modified the uniform :D (for a second time jfofk link to the first post with another version of her uniform), but hers isn't the fancy version, it's very much her work clothes ! Still trying to distinguish her from the classic military, since she is more of an engineer/architect, so she get heels, slutty white gloves and a dramatic cape coat. Also I loved putting her in a very strict outfit but making it a bit messy in small ways kgfkgj one side of it isn't zipped all the way down, and her hair is coming down from her hasty made bun :)))

PS : one must always picture the death star as the third member of this relationship <3

[gooondocks]

2024 fic roundup!

tagged by @happyhauntt (aka myself shhhh)

tagged myself in this from my other account because i wanted to keep my x reader fics separate from my ao3 fics! 2024 was a shitty year generally, and not great in terms of fic writing, but at the same time i found some really cool people and a community i love watching!! here's hoping the burnout gets better in 2025 💛

fics written: 12.

word count: 22500 approx.

february.

young gods -> the marauders, G, 1.2k. the gryffindors have a little tradition on the first night back at hogwarts. tooth-achingly fluffy.

march.

famous last words -> marauders era, james potter x reader, T, 2.1k. you and james are sworn enemies. you quite like it that way. fluff, banter, enemies that aren't really enemies. a writer & his muse -> marauders era, sirius black x reader, T, 1k. renowned mystery writer sirius black has a new muse, and it just so happens to be the homicide detective who hates him. (castle!au.) fluffy banter, mild threats of violence, just a fun time. haunted -> grishaverse, alina starkov x reader, G, 1.1k. alina starkov is dead, except she isn't, and the memory of her haunts you constantly. angst, hurt/no comfort. a grey day -> criminal minds, spencer reid x reader, G, 1.3k. spencer meets the newest member of the department. fluff, reader is autistic & a mom, spencer's iq gets slashed to sixty when he talks to pretty girls and it's my favourite thing. a lack of caffeine -> criminal minds, spencer reid x reader, G, 1.8k. caffeine makes the world go 'round. that's something you and spencer can agree on. fluff, reader is autistic & a mom, spencer's iq gets slashed to sixty when he talks to pretty girls and it's my favourite thing. bury these bones -> criminal minds, spencer reid x reader, T, 1.9k. spencer's day isn't anything more than average, but a surprise phone call and impromptu hospital visit have him rethinking his expectations. fluff, a little angst, reader is autistic & a mom, mild description of injuries (not serious).

april.

la vie en rose -> harry potter, sirius black x reader. G, 1.8k. it's just a regular tuesday in july until an escaped convict appears in your kitchen. oh, and he happens to be your ex. mentions of death (canon characters.) swearing. a touch of colour -> 9-1-1, eddie diaz x reader. G, 2.7k. eddie and chris' home is freakishly empty. you decide to redecorate a little. nothing but fluffy fluff. fight or flight -> star wars, poe dameron x reader. G, 1.6k. you and poe have never seen eye-to-eye. most days, you wonder if you ever will. lots of snarky banter. this was supposed to be flirty fluff but it turned into an angstfest. finn eavesdrops and chewie is sassy bastard.

july.

no one's ever had me (not like you) -> 9-1-1, evan buckley x reader. T, 2.1k. when buck meets his high school sweetheart at the ten-year reunion, he learns that their lives may be very different now, but the spark is still there. fluffy fluff.

december.

and if your heart wears thin -> 9-1-1, evan buckley x reader. T, 3.9k. after taking an unfortunate spill on the job, buck's fiancé decides that life is too short to wait any longer. angsty angst and then fluffy fluff. near death experience, descriptions of drowning and rescuscitation.

2025, may you be a better year for everything and everyone. thank you so much to everyone who took the time to comment, kudos, reblog etc. my fics this year!! i love and appreciate you very very much. sincerely, ollie.

tagging: whoever wants to do this <3

[zhakyria]

Wanted to share the edits I made to this scene cause I liked how they turned out. Read below the cut. I'd love to hear yall's thoughts!

Cody stopped next to Mr. Hux, who also sheltered under the shade of the depot overhang. He was the owner of First Order Repair, and had a pale complexion that burned easily. He was a tense man of few words, but he kept many of the more complex systems around town running for which Cody was thankful. His normally green eyes were grey and a scowl twisted his mouth. 

“Something wrong Mr. Hux?” Cody leaned over the depot railing, watching the train speed along the tracks towards them. It arrived once a week right at noon, and brought supplies, mail, and the occasional passengers. 

Hux’s scowl deepened. “Three more solar panels failed yesterday.”

“Isn’t that eight this month?” Cody made it a habit to keep tabs of what happened around town. Perhaps he pried into people’s affairs a little too much, but he took an oath to keep the town safe. That meant knowing all the problems that cropped up, even if they didn’t seem important. 

“Annoyingly, yes.” Hux tightened his grip on the railing. “These were relatively new panels as well. Less than a month old.”

“Do you have any idea of what could be causing the failures?”

Hux’s voice grew strained. “No.”

Cody leaned in and lowered his voice. “Could it be sabotage?”

Hux looked at him sharply for a brief moment before closing his eyes and huffing out a sigh. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, taking a slow drag. “That has crossed my mind, though I cannot fathom what they are attempting to achieve.” The subtle Imperial accent Hux tried to hide grew more pronounced, it always did when he was frustrated. 

When Hux’s Imperials - since they all seemed to defer to him in some manner, especially in those early days - started drifting into Cimarron, Cody had been suspicious. Though resources were hard to come by, the Lysatran frontier wouldn’t be a bad place for an Imperial Remnant to take hold. Yet, the ones following Hux appeared genuine in their desire to start new lives.

“Send Eli the failure data.”

“Are you serious about roping him in on this?” 

“Kid’s good with numbers, maybe he’ll spot a pattern you’re missing.” Eight failed solar panels over the course of a month didn’t feel like coincidence anymore. His instincts were screaming at him that this was deliberate. They would need all hands on deck if this proved to be worse than it appeared.

“Sheriff!” Hux hissed.

“We can’t afford to lose any more panels, Mr. Hux. Eli will be discrete.”

Hux snorted but acquiesced. As the train pulled into the depot he let go of the railing and walked away to meet with the Conductor.

What's this? Something amiss in the sleepy frontier town of Cimarron?

“Something wrong Mr. Hux?” Cody leaned over the depot railing, watching the train approach. 

Hux’s scowl deepened. “Three more solar panels failed yesterday.”

“Isn’t that eight this month?” Cody had made it a habit to keep tabs of what happened around town. Perhaps he pried into people’s affairs a little too much, but he took an oath to keep the town safe. That meant knowing all the problems that cropped up, even if they didn’t seem important. 

“Annoyingly, yes.” Hux tightened his grip on the railing. “These were relatively new panels as well. Less than a month old.”

“Do you have any idea of what could be causing the failures?”

Hux’s voice grew strained. “No.”

Cody leaned in and lowered his voice. “Could it be sabotage?”

Hux looked at him sharply. “That has crossed my mind, but I have no proof.”

“Send Eli the failure data.”

“Are you serious about roping him in on this?” Hux hissed. 

“Kid’s good with numbers, maybe he’ll spot a pattern you’re missing.”

“Sheriff!”

“We can’t afford to lose anymore panels, Mr. Hux. Eli will be discrete.”

Hux snorted but acquiesced and let go of the railing to meet with the Conductor as the train pulled into the station.

[slowd1ving]

II. RIDING HIGH IN APRIL ･ﾟ FRANCIS MOSSES

"Your usual, Mr Francis Mosses?” you repeat with the same inflection. It has to stay the same. A name to a star will not make it any more personal – it’ll remain the same cold distance away, stay the same burning core of amorphous light, in a fixed set of constellations. It has to. But you’ve overlooked the most salient point. Humans are not stars. There's a reason you stuck with this shitty diner job: routine. So, why the hell does that keep changing for you? warnings + general: amab!reader, nsfw, depression, smoking + unhealthy habits, diner au, trauma, military background (made up unit for doppelgangers) so canon divergence, obsession lowkey BTW this is also posted on ao3 so if there are any doubts about me being the author just comment on any of my fics and I assure you I'll reply on there! (but thank you to those who expressed concern it means a lot)

MISC. MASTERLIST

THAT'S LIFE MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ゜・NEXT PART

‘That’s life (that’s life) I tell you, I can’t deny it.’

It’s a different type of blue hour when it’s thirty minutes before dawn – cleaner than your smoke-filled evenings: filled with hope and a promise of sunlight, rather than a vow of everlasting sin. 

Your lungs burn with the cold air. It seems like you’re drowning, but it’s not the same sensation as three years back. This time, all your cells are clamouring for oxygen; scrambling and twisting, unlike the freezing resignation beneath the rain and viscera. 

You’re dressed casually: sweats and a shirt that’s tighter than your clinical kitchen jacket. Like a never ending hug, it tightly clasps the muscle forced upon you by the Execution programme. You should feel cold. You are cold, but the surge and flush in adrenaline is something that melts your stone heart and body. In your haste to leave at your colleague’s proclamation of an emergency, it seems you forgot your jacket. 

Fatigue eludes you – your breathing is controlled as ever. 

Let’s face it – if it weren’t for your shifting galaxy, you would’ve stayed in bed this morning. 

This is all his fault. 

You’re not sure what you’re doing here, having jogged to the diner getting heckled via landline by your coworker. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t have deigned to answer. After all, the day management of the place is left to your colleague, not you. 

“He’s asked for you specifically.”

You can hear the satisfied grin through the landline. When you press her for more details, she hangs up on you, and you’re left seething with an almost broken cord clenched tight in your fist. 

Who the hell is she talking about?

As far as you knew, the boss had gone and fucked off to somewhere in Scandinavia two years ago. Unless he’s hauled his geriatric ass back here, you sincerely doubt he’s the one requesting your presence. 

But if you’re being honest, you don’t mind this sudden disruption to your schedule. 

Like molasses, sleep would’ve pulled you under – sticky and sweet – for the rest of the day to escape your thoughts. That’s your daily routine: an endless struggle with your mind. 

With this, at least the war in your brain has stilled. It’s a dangerous calm, one that threatens to flow out of control at the slightest ripple. The waters are growing agitated – it’s only a matter of time before you’re pulled under. 

Make no mistake, you will be dragged to the depths eventually. That’s not something you, nor anyone, can prevent. Sleep cannot hope to fight it. You cannot hope to ever escape it. 

Your head aches. 

It’s freezing. You’re slowly becoming more frigid, and your hands are beginning to shake. It was a mistake, coming out here. You don’t know what’s caused the change. 

No, you do know. You just can’t bear to keep acknowledging the catalyst behind it. 

It’s not the run that’s winded you – your breath stops ragged as you fumble in your pockets for the Old Gold that should be there. That small, plastic-wrapped carton should be there, but your pockets are sorely empty. 

Shit, shit.  

Your ears are ringing. Just like the death knell ringing for your friends and subordinates, it keeps ringing and ringing and tolling and tolling. Those reverberations permeated through sinew, through flesh and vessel – only contributing to the staggering tremors attacking your palms. 

That alizarin blue is fading from your vision, and there’s nothing you can do. 

Numbness spreads awful quick through your extremities after all; it hurtles whip-fast through your spine, pressing you against icy, rough brick. 

“Ha,” your breath comes in the form of hoarse, faint heaving. 

You’re not sure what comes next. Once the star begins exploding, it’s eventually reduced to nothingness. It’s theorised that even its very atoms disintegrate eventually.

 What’s going on?

Why aren’t you disappearing like those husks of particles?

You– you’re an empty shell. 

What’s that infernal fire spreading through your arms?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper with the finality of resignation. You’re not falling anymore. You give up. 

“Hey, there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

He was nowhere mere moments ago – there was nothing but empty void on all sides. Not a star, not even a singular atom to initiate collision and the chain of energy. He’d been nowhere, but now he’s everywhere. 

That hushed cadence. Those warm palms. That tired look in his eyes, softening as you met his gaze. 

“You okay there?”

Mr Francis Mosses is closer to you than he’d ever been. Each callous on his hands you can feel pressed through your thin shirt, they burn against the permafrost of your skin. 

You’re too close. Those soot-black eyelashes – you can count them individually at this proximity. This distance is infinitesimal; faint traces of his cologne invade your senses, lingering beneath that milky, powdery smell. You shouldn’t notice this. You shouldn’t be like this. You shouldn’t be feeling that feeling in your stomach. 

This is dangerous. 

“Yeah,” you manage to form a coherent syllable. A nuclear fission chain begins in your throat. “I’m alright.”

“Mm,” he acknowledges. His hands are still supporting you, and he’s not letting go. You can distinctly hear each pulse as it sounds out in his ribcage, while simultaneously hearing each breath as it hitches and tumbles in his lungs. At your sides, curled into tight spirals are your fists. 

You’re tense. Anyone can see it – the spring making up your flesh and bones is about to reach its plastic limit. You won’t be able to come back from this. 

The centripetal force making up your galaxy – your routine – is dissipating. 

He’s the cause of it. 

His arms wobble when you go limp, and suddenly you’re in his space – face pressed right into his trapezius, breathing in the temperature of his skin and the woody scent of aftershave. 

That’s new. 

He wraps around you, and you clutch the back of his shirt with enough force to crush a skull. He’s alive, pulse wildly careening through his flesh and sinew like a hummingbird. Furiously, he’s alive. His touch is searing as you press impossibly closer and closer. 

That gravitational pull can’t be from a mere supermassive black hole. 

He’s the origin – the very centre of the universe. All matter wants to be part of it; your cells tear into his, your heart sings out its mournful song, just to be a part of him. 

“Hey,” his breath is scorching across your ear. “You’re here, you’re alright.”

The murmurs are clumsy, tripping themselves up in a rush to escape his torrid lips. 

I’m here.

I’m alright. 

It may just be true. Where your hands connect to his latissimus dorsi through his crisp white shirt, they’ve stopped shaking. 

And you don’t know it, perhaps you never will, but that small, plastic-wrapped carton of gaseous aurum has been stored neatly away in the back of your mind for the past few minutes now. 

A throat clears. 

Your colleague’s face sports an amused expression, while your eyes convey a well-timed fuck you, as the rest of your face is buried in his shirt. 

When you pull back slightly, with her hand now on your back as well, you swear you feel Mr Francis Mosses clamp around your biceps like a vice. Resisting. An unstoppable force. His expression is worried, but when his exquisite brown eyes slide from you to your coworker, you think you can see the hint of a glare in them. You can’t be too sure. 

In the ultramarine light, there might be a hint of red on his face. You can’t be too sure of that either. 

“Sorry, I wouldn’t have called you in if he said he didn’t know you,” she explains sheepishly, but your ears are too full of a roaring heartbeat and your focus is entirely elsewhere. “We’ve been having issues with our milk provider, so we’ve switched to his company. It wouldn’t have been such an issue if our menu wasn’t half milkshakes.”

Her eyes are full of apology, despite her grumbling. She’s known you since your Execution Squad days, operating the calls and speaking to victims. She knows exactly how it feels – the panic, the suffocation, the lingering taste of tobacco that you can never really escape. 

But you can’t focus on that either. 

His thumbs are rubbing tiny, fiery circles onto your flesh – unconsciously, you think, as your eyes observe the slight anger in his face. 

No, wait. You blink in surprise. Since when are you able to discern that face?  

“I’ll wait inside so you can help me with the contract,” she scratches the back of her head, nonplussed when you don’t reply. “Take your time.”

She leaves, and you feel the origin of the universe relax. The molten, rigid singularity sighs – the heavens shift in response. 

“Sorry for taking up so much of your time.” He’s working, yet you’ve taken that away by giving in to your weakness. Shame bubbles in your throat, and you wish you could repeat this morning all over again and do it right just so you could avoid inconveniencing him. 

“Don’t apologise for that,” his voice is low, strung through with a hoarse fatigue. There’s something else clouding it, though, a sort of tightness that reminds you of anger. But he’s not angry, not anymore, you don’t think.

What is it?

He pulls you back into him, clutching at you as though you’re the lifeline instead of him being yours.

What is it?

“Mr Francis Mosses,” you breathe, but your arms wrap around him tightly once more. 

What is it?

“I’d give up all my days to help you like this.” 

The words are hushed, too hushed. They’re not meant to be for your ears, but your senses have been honed to a razor-sharp edge and your hearing is the sharpest blade of them all. 

You’ve identified that strain of his voice, so parallel to anger. 

Worry. 

He’s worried. 

That realisation burns you more fiercely than anything you’ve ever felt before. 

You give in to the torturous exhilaration. 

You lose yourself in the warmth. 

Just for a bit. 

‘I thought of quitting, baby, but my heart just ain’t gonna buy it.’

When he comes in those blue evenings, he brings the stardust that you can never spot in the sky. There’s no sun. There’s no moon, either. There are only the thick clouds that only let the most precocious blue through, and the power lines that cut straight through them. 

Over these three years, the only stars that you’ve seen are the twinkling remnants left in high-rise office buildings in the far city. You’ve seen the glimmers in diamond-encrusted watches, seen the shine on the record-player knobs you polish, seen the glitter in the dirty cents handed over the counter. These are not real stars, however. 

He brings the excruciating stardust, all bottled up in flesh and woven through in his capillaries. 

Today is no different. 

You don’t need the stars that are light-years away. Proxima Centauri, I don’t care about you. Tens of thousands of Kelvin – but they might as well be as freezing as the vacuum they orbit in. They’re cold points to you, dots of light that you can only see in encyclopaedias and the thick books customers bring in on occasion. These celestial bodies aren’t meant to be in a greasy diner – even mere phantoms of them are rare to spot.  

He’s warmer than any star. He’s closer than any star. He’s comprised of the universe itself. 

“What would you like today, Mr Francis Mosses?” 

Your very own galaxy. It appears nightly, much better than those lousy light shows that never appear in the thick fog of this polluted city. 

The panic of this morning has been long-forgotten. All gone, when you look in his mellow eyes. All gone. 

“Your recommendation,” he requests. He’s derailed your routine once more. “And double that.”

For the first time, you’re late in lighting a smoke. That’s not your fault, of course. It’s not. It really isn’t, not when he pulls your arm to sit you opposite him, nor when you let him, nor when you miss the warmth of his hand as he retracts it. 

The steaming food lies as the Rubicon between you. Who will cross it first?

You wait, tongue poised between your teeth. 

His hair is as messy as ever. Briefly, you wonder how it would feel beneath your calloused fingertips. 

There’s no response yet. You watch a little longer: a slight tremor as his throat bobs, lips pulled in nervousness, and eyes that dart to you, to the food, to the wall and everywhere in between. 

You lied about that last bit, by the way. Those tired, glassy eyes are focused solely on you at the moment. His darting eyes are actually your own: focused on him, his tapping fingers on the black reflective table, the steam particles between the two of you. 

“Are you feeling better?” It’s a simple question, devoid of any exhausted hum. It takes everything out of him, as though he’s practised a million ways of saying it and he’s still messed it up. His next breath is deep. 

“Yes?” You don’t mean it as a question, but the rising of the syllable from your larynx belies your confusion. Of course you’re all right – and you don’t mean this in a patronising manner. Of course you’re alright, when the building suffocation was replaced with a suffocation of another kind. 

A balmy, soothing sort. The previous drowning was a struggle; you gave into it fighting, with a snarl on your lips and a shattering spirit. But who wouldn’t ease into the other asphyxiation? In that honey-sweet warmth, you’d readily renounce your soul. 

“Yes,” you quickly repeat. This is a first: considering a customer’s feelings as you attempt to avoid a misunderstanding. “Much better, Mr Mosses.”

You don’t know why you avoid his first name. 

It seems he doesn’t know either; those tranquil brows furrow momentarily, before he gestures to the second portion of food. 

“Will you eat with me?” 

You give in too easily to the deception, especially when he adds your name onto the end of his question. It’s like a challenge, almost. 

“I thought about asking you directly,” he bites into the sandwich. Chews. Swallows. You’re slightly entranced by the movement of his throat. Human windpipes are so fragile, after all, in comparison to the imitation. “Mm, then I got nervous.”

If he was nervous, what were you?

“Don’t worry,” you say blithely, but that’s not your intention at all. You don’t want to be callous, and that surprises you once more. 

He always seems to coax a novel reaction from you. 

“Don’t worry – I wouldn’t refuse you,” you repeat. It’s a little quieter, a little more honest about how your heart sways. You don’t think you’ve ever sounded so heartfelt. 

“You mean that?” 

His tone shifts; a note lower, a pitch you wouldn’t have detected if you hadn’t specifically trained for this. You didn’t think of your response as particularly special, but it seemed he’d taken it as an invitation. 

You don’t mind that. Then again, you don’t mind his actions that should annoy you, had they been done by anybody else. 

“Yes. I’ll eat with you anytime.”

When you take a bite of the sandwich, you finally cross the Rubicon. 

You don’t know anything anymore. The routine, the precious universes you shaped – they’ve all been scattered by the two warm palms of a single man. The object of your rage is sitting in front of you, yet there’s no actual fury filling in the preconceived compartment. 

There’s amiability in one neat box. In the next, curiosity overflows and spills everywhere. Weaving through them all, however, is a strange substance you can’t identify. It’s warm. 

It’s warm, where there had previously only been ice. 

The strawberry taste lingering on your tongue is exquisite. 

It’s odd. Only after the dishes are soaking in the sink do you remember the pack in your apron pocket. Only when you turn around do you realise he’s still in the booth. Only when you spot his face do you notice you’re no longer feeling the same surge of adrenaline right before you smoke. 

You light the stick on the stovetop dispassionately. 

When the crisp blue air greets you, he’s in your shadow. How bizarre. 

It’s even more strange when he doesn’t leave to go to his small, compact van. He… remains. 

No, he does go back to his van. You watch him, sweet plumes hazing from your lips and fingertips. You can see the contraction of his tendons, each muscle moving seamlessly. No, not seamlessly. There’s a bit of a wobble – from fatigue, perhaps. No, that’s not right either. 

Have you always made so many mistakes when reading someone?

There’s a lack of drag that you’d expect. He’s always tired, so the slight pause in his gait is something natural to him. Instead, his feet are hesitant, as though he’s jittery.

This time, he comes back. 

Your mouth opens slightly. 

He’s never done this before. 

That coat from before, he wraps it snugly around you. You didn’t even know you were shivering. He’s meeting your gaze, but his brows are furrowed and he wears a weak smile with it. 

“Ah,” he mumbles slightly as your cigarette falls to the gravel between the two of you. It’s fine – it’s almost been burnt to a stub regardless. You step on it – thus bridging the chasm between you two. At this distance, he’s shorter than you are. You’ve been aware of it, but this is the first time you’ve truly felt it. 

He’s fastening his coat around you, but you can feel the trembling of his hands. 

“You looked cold.”

He’s so considerate, you realise. Even this morning, he went out of his way to help you. Even now, when he’s uncomfortable, he’s thinking of you. 

“What about you?” you breathe out. Your breath condenses in white plumes, and you think it’s a prettier sight than smoke. “Aren’t you cold, Mr Francis Mosses?”

Those warm eyes soften into liquid. There’s a slight crimson in his ears, a tiny hitch in his breath, and a shake in his shoulders. 

“No,” he answers honestly. It must be honest, for though his voice is clear, he looks away bashfully. He’s bared his heart, while yours is still locked away in its box. “I don’t get cold when I’m with you.”

What a coincidence, you want to say. 

Neither do I.

But you’re not him. You don’t get to run words parallel to that beating organ’s desires. 

You look away. 

You shouldn’t be allowed to say that either, you also want to add. 

Inexplicably, your heart is beating far too fast for it to be considered healthy. In fact, it might even be arrhythmia. That’s serious. 

“I–” You begin your sentence, but you hadn’t planned to actually open your mouth. This is new, too.  

“You should take better care of yourself.” The words stumble clumsily from your lips. Not everyone can have that buttery smoothness like he has. This is the universal truth – you’ve always avoided prolonged conversations for that reason precisely. So, why? Why now? Why does your pulse push these syllables from your careless vocal strings?

“I will.”

The weakness in his smile is gone. It’s fond, and you can’t bear it. 

“You’ll catch a cold,” you warn. 

And you won’t be at the diner if that happens. 

That’s strange. Why are you thinking that way?

Right. It’s him. He’s the catalyst. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His teeth are so bright. When he smiles, he’s got the jewels of the sea in his mouth. Bright pearls – and here you thought he’d only have mastery over the stars. 

“I’m serious.” You let yourself indulge in the smell of him on the coat. Your eyes are closed. You don’t think you could bear seeing his face more. “Don’t get sick.”

“Don’t worry so much,” he exhales – the trip and jump in the sound turns it into suppressed laughter. 

You can’t get sick. You want to say that. You’d shout it for the world to hear, but that would be too troublesome – and like you mentioned previously, you’re not like him. Your heart is small and cold and closed off in a tight box. 

Please, you can’t get sick. 

But for him, you’d do it. 

‘And if I didn’t think it was worth one single try, I’d jump right on a big bird and then I’d fly.’

He’s tricked you. 

Each time you think you’ve fit Mr Francis Mosses into a neat routine with clear expectations and a place in the galaxy, he evades that and tricks you. Then, he tricks you for a second and a third time, for good measure. 

Otherwise, why would you be counting down the hours until he gets here?

When you’re ringing up Miss Mia Stone’s order at half-past twelve, you’re thinking of him and his soft hair. When you’re taking Mr Henryk Jamesons’ money at quarter to five, you’re picturing those molten brown eyes. And when you’re separating the food into two compact takeout boxes for Mr Stephen Rudboys, you’re imagining those soft lips, poised to say the most unexpected things.

That’s also new. Since when did you focus on his lips?

“Thanks, have a great day,” Mr Rudboys waves at you mechanically, and you almost unconsciously reply with ‘don’t get sick’. You feel like an idiot. 

You feel swindled. 

You feel tricked, and it’s all his fault. He evidently has no respect for the labours of a diner worker, if he’s entering your mind while you’re serving other clients. 

Why does everything have to boil down to him?  

It always comes back to Mr Francis Mosses. You think it was a wise decision to be wary of his gravitational pull. If you’re not careful, he might just cause a wormhole and shoot right through you. 

With others, you’re thinking of him. 

Even when you’re alone, you swear you can smell that powdery, milky smell lingering. 

It’s not fair. 

Does he think of you too? When he’s under blue, fog-filled skies like these, does he think of the smoke you exhale? When he’s with others, can he recall your awkward attempts at conversation? When he’s alone, does he imagine you there with him?

Do I occupy your thoughts like you occupy mine?

It’s ridiculous. Really, it’s laughable. You’re a speck on this planet, while he’s the centre of everything. 

That would be your usual train of thought. 

Humans are not stars. 

But you don’t get to think even that, because you can hear the familiar hum of an engine and you know it could only be him that’s here.

And you’re laughing – laughing at yourself, laughing at your foolishness, laughing at just how ludicrous you’re being. To think, he’d made himself so at home in the ordered compartments of your mind that your very capillaries are magnetised to him. 

You’re attuned to him – compass pointing straight. Not north – you couldn’t care less about the ridiculous iron centre of Earth. The arrow points at him.  

For the first time, you’re inside the diner when he comes through – still beaming, hand pressed to your miserable face and wretched laughter ringing flush against the mellow tones of Frank Sinatra. 

He pauses in the doorway. Though you hear him – how could you not – the sounds that bubble up from your diaphragm refuse to cease. 

It’s only when you notice that gaze in his eyes that you stop – warmer, more liquid than anything you’ve ever seen. Those irises are darker, too – impossibly dilated. 

“Mr Francis Mosses,” you greet him. There’s a smile on your lips. You don’t think he’s ever seen you smile like that. “What will it be today?”

Dazed. You can read his face clear as day – and somehow, somehow, that makes you incredibly conscious of yourself, of him and of every minute action between the two of you. 

“I’ll take anything you give me,” he murmurs. His voice is hoarse, and not in the fatigued way, but in the ‘I’m losing my composure’ way. Carmine bleeds into his skin – you can feel the same carmine thrumming ceaselessly through your veins. 

Fuck.

This man, is he your Achilles’ heel? Your hamartia, your flaw above anything.

No, it can’t be. You’re full of flaws – he’s the only good thing about you. If anything, you’re the person who’s sure to drag him down. 

“Right.”

He sits at the counter today, perched on the cerise-red stools and propped up on an exhausted elbow. Yet, his eyes are clearer – sharper – than your usual expectation. They’re honed on you: your movements, your actions, you. He’s watching you, and nobody else. 

“Did someone make you laugh?”

His tone is different from his usual one; it lacks its usual enervation, and there’s a rougher burr to it that you can’t quite place. When you look up from where you’re assembling his wrap, there’s a shadow in his eyes. 

“Yes.” You did. For the first time in years, you laughed. All thanks to your azure singularity – him . 

There’s more he wants to say. Those lips of his part minutely, but you’ll never know what he wanted to say. 

“Hm?” And for the first time, you really want to know the potential: his thoughts before they leave his lips. 

“Forget it,” he exhales, looking anywhere but you. You slide his food over the counter; there’s a tinge of disappointment in your action. Disappointment, huh… 

You wonder if you’ll have enough boxes to sort out these different feelings. 

He doesn’t speak as he eats. It’s only when you slide onto a neighbouring stool with a milkshake for yourself that he looks up in surprise. 

“You…” he murmurs – there’s an eternal question concealed in that singular word. 

“You feeling alright?” you ask in mild concern. 

“What would you do if I said I wasn’t?” he breathes, and you look at him. You study his expression: his wide, sleepless eyes, his tousled hair, his lips pressed together. There’s a faint trembling in his hands. That won’t do.  

“I’d ask about it further, Mr Francis Mosses,” you reply seriously. “If it’s an emotional issue, I’ve been told I’m a very good sandbag. I can listen and take beatings simultaneously.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” his raised eyebrows suggest he’s mildly taken aback, but he presses on. “But there’s one thing you could do for me.”

“Which is?” you prompt. 

He takes a deep breath.

“Call me Francis.”

Oh. 

He always exceeds my expectations. 

“Please,” he almost begs. Who are you to say no to the one who decimated your universe?

“I think I’ll go crazy if you don’t.”

You don’t think you’re meant to hear that last bit – it’s muttered so softly that you think he’s unaware that these are his words.

There’s a maddening rhythm to your heartbeat. You don’t want it to ever end. 

“Francis.” Those two syllables creep out carefully. This is a first – you don’t remember the last time a name wasn’t carefully framed by honorifics and made impersonal. Francis. 

“Yes?” he replies breathlessly. It’s so fucking intimate: his pupils are blown out, bottom lip wobbling with a slight sheen on them, hands shaking around a cheap napkin. All because of you. It’s his name you’re saying, but it’s your lips it’s falling from. Yours. 

You want to turn his thoughts on their head – just like he’s flipped your world upside down. 

“Francis.” It’s almost a whisper – not quite. There’s laughter seeping into the name; rich amusement drips from it. You’re delighted. 

How can one man make you feel so much?

At the sound of your joy, his scarlet flush bleeds into his neck. Before, he’d met your gaze so boldly each time – irises honed right on you. But this – his face is exquisite right now. Those glazed-over eyes evade your stare. He’s looking anywhere but you: breathing spiralling out of control, teeth clamping desperately over those soft lips. 

And you’re grinning, teeth flashing neon and that blue taste on your tongue. 

Have you ever felt so light?

There’s laughter spilling over, and his eyes snap back to yours. 

“Francis,” you rasp. “Don’t ever change.”

Keep surprising me. 

Stay right here. 

When he takes your hand and holds it in both of his, it feels like a promise. It lasts only a moment – but you swear you experience several lives within that singular gesture. 

There’s that blazing flush on his face. 

You hope he’s feeling as warm as you are. 

“I won’t,” he says, and the heavens align themselves once more. 

‘I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king.’

Anticipation makes way to expectation.

Francis.

Each muscle, every organ, all of the cells in your body – they’re all waiting. Sure, you’ve waited before. You’ve waited for the next mission, you’ve waited for your paycheck, you’ve waited for your new gun to be issued. 

You’ve waited to tear down doppelgängers.

You’ve waited a long time for revenge. 

But that burning feeling doesn’t feel like the balmy heat that traipses carefreely within your vessels. It’s a dancing, delicate thing. 

You’ve seen the ballet, once. There was a doppelgänger amongst the dancers – movements bolder than any of the others, freer and more unrestrained. Wilder. You almost felt bad about putting a bullet through its eye, but duty called and you weren’t about to abandon the fury within your heart for something as mundane as admiration. 

You don’t know why you’re thinking about it. 

You don’t know why your heartbeat is behaving so intrepidly, but you suppose you’ve lost enough humanity for your body to develop such characteristics. 

It’s strange. Really, it’s so strange you might end up laughing again.

Francis.

He’s got you so easily in his palm. If he asked you for it, you think you’d take the fist-sized organ from its receptacle nestled between your lungs and present it to him on a silver platter. You’d wipe away the congealed blood on his hands with a rough thumb and kiss them better with your poisonous mouth. 

You aren’t a poet. 

You’ve been a soldier and a pawn, so all you know and all you may ever know is the metallic, coppery stench of carmine – it follows in your shadow and stains your footsteps. Your hands are covered in it, and will be forever.  It doesn’t matter – you’d give your body over and over and over and over. Parallel universes will have the same outcome for you. There’s no changing that. 

You’re a soldier, so you’re not allowed to wax poetic about him – any letters you write, any flowery prose will be obscured by the heavy darkness you drag within you. 

But for once, you’d like to try your hand at words. And if your hand is still too stained with that bleeding arterial red, you’ll write it with your body. 

Just once, you’d like your limbs in this universe to be used for something more pretty than killing. Even though it’s an imitation, red is still red and blood is still blood. 

You aren’t a poet, so the most you’ll get is this expectation. You’re a simple creature. Words elude you, but your emotions are too fleeting to be caged in by prose and logic. 

It’s so ordinary. 

It’s all you ever wanted. 

But he doesn’t come tonight. 

Tonight, you’re left with that awful blue fog as your paramour and Sinatra as your entertainment. 

It was foolish, holding on to this expectation. Did you forget already? 

He is one to go beyond them. 

This is one of the few times you’ve ached so sharply. It’s a clean slice through your heart – not like the blunt bang of a pistol, but a masterful cut that draws out the pain better than a bullet ever could. 

It hurts. It really does, and it’s all your fault for feeling hopeful. 

You changed your mindset, and it only came back to pay you in tears. 

But you don’t cry.

It hurts, but the plumes of smoke you exhale taste better than the salt. 

If anything, you’re cherishing the white-hot pain. Maybe you haven't completely lost your humanity. 

It’s long laid dormant, but this agony is sweeter than honey. 

Still, you wish for everything to just disappear. If only for a moment. 

It hurts. Go away, please. Go away. 

You’re an idiot, and when you bury your face in your hands, you barely feel the burn from the cigarette. 

‘I’ve been up and down and over and out and I know one thing.’

You’re unusually sullen the next day. There’s the biting pressure you feel from yesterday, but that’s ridiculous. Francis has no obligation to visit you daily, and your disappointment is your own fault. 

It’s alright. 

You can’t bring yourself to blame him. 

You feel so stupid, though. 

Never have you felt so small. With revenge, the burning consumes you and you don’t feel hopeless. There’s a goal to strive for, after all. But with this, there’s nothing you can do.  

“What will it be, Francis?” 

Your words come out tired. They match the fatigue in his eyes; something you’d normally be noting with wonderment. Today, the excitement doesn’t come. 

No, to be more precise, you tamp down on it harshly before it can come up to the surface. 

“Mm.” He acknowledges your question, but he’s staring you down dazedly and you can’t help but feel slightly wobbly inside. “Something light. I haven’t been feeling well lately.”

Right. You tap the pager unconsciously – it seems him staying away yesterday wasn’t out of his own volition. You don’t know what you would’ve done if it had been otherwise; but then again, you’ve forced those feelings back into a little box, locked tight thrice. Inescapable. Impenetrable. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” You give him a weak smile, and the awkward fumbling of well wishes seems to have done the trick – his soft smile back washes the insecurity away without a trace. 

It’s when you’re cooking that it happens. While your hands drip red from strawberries, you hear footsteps. His footsteps – the ones you memorised. There’s that same gait, that same tired drag of his sole. 

And you force down your smile. 

He’s never done this either.

You’d think he was just walking around the diner to pass the time, but his footsteps get closer and closer, until–

His arms wrap around you from the back. 

You freeze. 

Out of all the things you thought he’d do, this isn’t one of them. His face presses into the juncture of your neck, and he’s breathing you in. He’s warm, so warm, and your heart finally begins its fervent race once more. 

If he squeezed you any tighter, you would’ve thought he was going for a suplex.

His fingers trace from your hips, up your abdominal muscles, before settling on your solar plexus – each digit splayed out as though his palms were the sun and his fingers the rays. How fitting. 

You should push him off. You should, but there’s something about him you can’t resist. 

“Francis,” you whisper, and it’s like that final barrier in the dam finally breaks. You give in to the raging tide of emotions. Let yourself be swept up in this turbulent river. Don’t worry about a thing. 

“Mm,” he hums, lips just brushing against the stiff fabric of your clinical jacket. And you can feel their reverberations echoing to your very bone marrow – you don’t think you’ve ever heard your pulse so cleanly, so clearly. “I missed you.”

The admission takes all the strength out of you. 

I missed you too. 

I missed you, so much I couldn’t bear it. 

Perhaps that’s the reason. Perhaps that’s why you could never push him away. 

Fuck.  

You really are a fool. 

So, why doesn’t that upset me?

‘Each time I find myself flat on my face, I pick myself up and get back in the race.’

It’s a sleepless night. Just when you think those sweet molasses are going to drag you under, they slip from your fingers and leave you tossing and turning. 

“I missed you.”

You can still feel his fingers on your body. 

When you close your eyes, you can feel him, pressing his lips against your neck and holding you close to him. 

Back then as a Captain, there were people who needed you. Of course there were – you were a pawn, a soldier, someone who had a duty and kept to it. You were a resource: easily replaceable. In fact, it was a miracle you’d lasted the year. 

But him.  

You bury your face in your pillow. There’s a furious beat to your pulse. You can feel it everywhere: your head, your legs and even your stomach.

There’s no doubt about it. 

You like Francis. 

You like him, so much so that you’re running out of boxes to put your emotions in. 

It doesn’t come as a surprise when you’re haggard at work, even more so than yesterday. The day is both sluggish and hare-like, racing away from you yet constantly disturbing you with its slow crawl. It’s the adrenaline and dopamine; they’re clashing and twisting and dancing against themselves. You honestly don’t know how your hypothalamus manages to outshine itself every time. 

The familiar hum of the engine comes when the fog up in the sky is still white. It’s earlier than usual, but Francis has never been one to stick within the lines you’ve put him in. 

“Francis.” 

The shadows under his eyes are darker than before.

“I’m not here for food today,” he exhales. “Just let me spend time with you here.”

That’s a first. 

You’re a little lost. When the boss trained you on how to deal with customers, he never mentioned the tricky ones like these. 

“Ah,” you mumble. “Sure.”

“I also brought you something.” He’s smiling with his eyelids lowering – it’s not an expression you’ve ever seen him make. Fuck. You can’t resist him. 

He’s already taken up too much space in your universe. 

There’s a small plastic bag he takes out of his coat pocket. It crackles lightly against the glass of a milk bottle. “Strawberry cookies. Made them myself.”

You don’t think you’ve ever received such a heartfelt gift. 

When he places them in your outstretched palm, all you can think about is the roaring heat of his hand. 

There’s a few flecks of sanguine on his crisp white shirt. When he notices you looking, he laughs awkwardly. 

“I cut myself at work,” he explains, adjusting the hazy buttons. That’s a new habit; of course he’s filled with mysteries. Since he’s Francis. 

Gently, you take his wrist and press your lips to the fabric concealing it. 

“What–” he chokes. “–what are you doing?”

“I’m kissing it better,” you reply. There’s something different about you tonight as well. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but it seems you’ve become more bold in the time you’ve met with him. “Do you want me to stop?”

It seems you’ve been intoxicated by him. 

“No,” he stammers. “Please don’t.”

Perhaps he’s been intoxicated by you too. 

It’s only when you’ve placed your lips on the tips of his fingers that you finally pull back and study his face. He’s completely flushed now, with his hair messed up and eyes wide. 

You take a bite out of the biscuit. There’s strawberries on your tongue: sweet, tangy, perfectly suited to the buttery crumble. It’s warm, as if it’s been held close to his heart. The thought makes you smile. 

It’s perfect. 

This man…

When you stand from the stool to brush the crumbs from your fingers, he stands with you. 

When you head into the kitchen area, he follows you. 

When you attempt to move past him after washing your hands at the sink, he stops you by holding onto your wrist. You could break free if you tried, but you won’t. Because it’s him.  

“Francis…” you trail off. There’s a certain look in his eyes – it’s impossibly tender.  

“Tell me you’re feeling the same as me,” he pleads, pressing your palm flat against his heart. His pulse is wild, spinning out of control like that dancer you saw all those years ago. 

Your own heartbeat roars its own feral beat; it’s a careful syncopation with his. 

You didn’t know his human heart could feel that way. 

It’s not supposed to, not like yours does. 

That heaviness – you don’t hear it with humanity. 

Your thumb brushes over those soft lips; that look in his eyes speaks of immeasurable hunger. 

“Please,” he whines, and you surge. 

Your mouth is on his, and he tastes like the strawberries you’ve just eaten. Heady. Sweet. He may have cornered you between him and the sink, but you’re in control – the two of you know it. 

Perhaps that’s why his lips part so easily. 

He’s warm – so warm. You eagerly devour him, pressing a hand to his nape and another to his waist while you take his small hisses in stride. He’s forced to tilt his head up; hands scramble for purchase in the dips of your back, seeking refuge as you roughly press into him. 

He’s intoxicating. Even when the metallic taste enters your mouth, he’s intoxicating.  

Even when you can no longer smell that milky, powdery smell on him. There’s no woody aftershave either. 

Even when you hear the sound of a familiar hum. 

He stands, frozen in the doorway. 

Your lips are on someone who looks like him. 

And you’re looking directly at him. 

Why does he look like that?

His hands are shaking, and he just looks so lost. He’s panting, as though he’s just run here – and his face is covered with small scrapes that can’t just have been from work. 

And why are you feeling this bitter pain?

You knew you could never have Francis – his world was far too removed from yours, and staying with you is dangerous. You’re cursed, doomed to stay in this intransient state. 

“No–” he chokes out. “Get away from that thing!”

Why does it hurt so much?

You thought you’d be alright giving up on him. 

He can’t enter your blood-soaked world. 

He can’t.  

It hurts. It hurts so much. 

Your heart’s breaking into pieces, but you’re still holding onto his doppelgänger and that creature’s lips are still on yours. 

Francis… 

It was nice. This little dream was nice. 

It was nice, but there are tears in your eyes and a wry smile on your lips. 

It’s ending. That fake, brief happiness is crumbling away. 

“Get away!”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” The doppelgänger’s voice finally drops to its natural pitch – low, a harsh hum reverberating through your sternum. “You caught on now?”

No. You hadn’t caught on just now. 

You had a feeling from the very beginning. 

‘That’s life (that’s life) that’s life and I can’t deny it.’

All the celestial bodies will go cold one day. It is simply a matter of waiting for the universe to turn into a graveyard of giants, undisturbed for the rest of eternity. 

There’s a gun in the cabinet behind you. If one examines it closely, you can see distinct initials that match someone working at the diner. But, surely not, right? None of your customers have suspected a thing. 

Faintly, you hear your name being called from somewhere along the periphery. 

“You need to get back, he’s dangerous!”

You pull out your gun, unlocking the mechanism with a swift click. It’s a standard-issue, given to the lieutenant-class and above – a heavy thing, unauthorised to be carried by any civilian. The bullets inside are deadlier than any ammunition used in human warfare. 

You didn’t think you’d ever use it again. 

But today, Francis will be joining the graveyard of celestial bodies. There, he’ll eventually disintegrate – not an atom will remain. 

“Francis, stay right there.” Your words are cold. Don’t you see? This is my world, Francis. 

This is my danger. 

This is what follows in my shadow. 

Don’t come near me. 

“Oh? I didn’t think you were ex-military,” the doppelgänger’s voice rumbles in its chest. “Give up. You’re no match for me. We’ve evolved past puny human capabilities.”

You didn’t think you’d ever do this again. 

Not again. 

Tears blur your vision, but you don’t need to rely on your eyes to kill. 

You need to shoot him. You need to shoot him because you love him, because he’s still alive and this thing is trying to replace him. You need to pull the trigger. 

Francis.

I love you. 

This pain – it’s too much to bear. 

When you squeeze the trigger, you repeat it like a mantra. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

And there’s a smile on the doppelgänger’s lips as you shoot him, like he’s won. 

There’s blood everywhere. Splashed on the pans, coating the griddle, sliding and congealing on the bright neon signs that light up the diner in fluorescent red. Brain matter is cleaved in thousands of pieces, and you resist the urge to throw up.

Red is still red, and blood is still blood. 

When the doppelgänger’s body begins to bubble, you move without a trace of hesitation – sliding across the counter with the agility of an athlete. You’re crying – crying as you take Francis out into the pouring rain.  You’re crying, as you’re covering his body with yours – behind you, the doppelgänger’s body finally blows up and shards of the diner stick to you and maul your back. But it’s fine – he’s still alive. Your universe is living – breathing beneath you. He's warm – a human warmth, with a human pulse and a human smell. 

“You–” he murmurs, drenched in rainwater and the blood covering you. His eyes are widened, but he doesn’t look scared. He’s not scared of you. 

And you’re high, high on adrenaline and the sight of him. 

He’s alive. 

He’s not dead. 

You protected him. 

‘Many times I thought of cutting out, but my heart just won’t buy it.’

The D.D.D will get here eventually. That’s something you’ve come to accept as truth, which is why you don’t care about phoning them when the smoke rising from the place will alert them regardless. 

You pull him into an alleyway near your apartment. There’s a howling storm and a torrential downpour, but you don’t care about any of that. 

He’s warm. He’s warm, and he’s alive. 

“You’re real, right?” you murmur. Your drenched palms press into his face. He’s staring at you, tears gathering on his lash line and a shake in his bottom lip. “Francis.”

“I’m real,” he breathes, and it’s like nothing else exists in the universe. Nothing but him and you in suspended animation, within all the space-time. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere. 

Has anyone said something like that to you before?

There’s no fear in his eyes.

What a foolish promise. 

But maybe you’re the fool for feeling the way you do about that vow. 

You’re covered in blood, but he’s looking right past that. 

“Did you know–” he chokes out, looking away. “–that he was a doppelgänger?”

Yes. I knew, and I kissed him despite knowing that. 

Francis, I can’t be with you. 

Those words race through your head, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything. You can’t bring yourself to lie, either. Instead, you nod – and you can’t meet his eyes when you do so. 

“Why were you with him like that, then?” His thumb traces your jaw, mirroring the actions of your hands just moments prior. He sounds heartbroken, and you can feel tears blurring your vision once more. “Don’t tell me he’s better than me.”

“Francis,” you plead against the storm, against the deafening wind that presses against your words. “I can’t be with you.”

There’s a pause. Water soaks the two of you, but neither moves. 

“Who decided that?” He steps closer, and you swallow. His arms wrap tightly around you, and his head’s buried against your chest. He’s angry, you realise. He’s angry, because he knows exactly why you decided on that dream. 

He’s pressed skin-to-skin against you – fabric drenched through and ice-cold – and there’s a searing heat that threatens to envelope you whole. Let it, you think. I’ll give in for you. 

“Who decided that?” he repeats, mouth moving against your collarbone. If you weren’t against a wall, you think you might’ve collapsed by now. 

“Francis,” you falter. More. “Don’t you see how dangerous it is with me?” Say no. Be with me despite that. 

You’ve become selfish. 

“I don’t care,” he whispers against your flesh. “You like me, don’t you?”

I adore you. 

Don’t leave me.

You don’t say anything, but he can hear your answer in the wild drum of your pulse. 

“You’ll protect me.”

I’d give my life to serve that purpose. 

“Francis,” you rasp. There’s something coiling within you, burning up hotter and brighter than anything you’ve felt before. It sets your veins and capillaries alight, altering everything within. 

There’s a frigid downpour that freezes flesh and sinew, but you’re sweltering with him pressed against you.

Stardust coats your fingertips when you slide them beneath his chin. Beneath the rain, everything sluices away – the pain, the blood, the worry, and the hesitation.

“Use me to forget,” he breathes. “I’ll be yours.”

Fuck.

Gently, you slot your lips against his, and his eyes flutter closed. He’s hesitant – you can tell from how his hands curl open and closed against your chest. He’s hesitant, yet he presses himself against you like you’re going to disappear any minute. 

It’s funny. 

You’re thinking the exact same thing about him. 

Your fingers dig into his hips – you don’t think you’ll ever let him go.

His lips are warm – humanly warm – and he tastes explosive, like neutron stars merging. He’s divine.  

“More,” he whines into your mouth. “Please.”

With such soft lips parting just for you, who are you to refuse?

“Mm,” he gasps as you deepen the kiss, pressing your tongue into his spit-slicked mouth. Each pretty noise that escapes him snaps one more string of self-restraint of yours, until it’s all gone. You flip him, so his back’s pressed against the cold, drenched wall and your body moves against his front. 

And his hands – they’re clawing at your back and dragging against its valleys. You can feel each nail as you go rougher – eliciting more pain for you, but you couldn’t care less about that . Not when you’ve got him melting like putty as he clumsily moves his lips against yours, not when he’s desperately trying to come closer and closer and closer.  

There’s salt on your lips and copper on your tongue. Tears and blood. You can’t tell who cries. 

“More,” he pulls back from your mouth panting, choking for breath. “Please, I need more.”

Fuck.  It’s getting addicting. 

“You sure?” 

Give in.  You can’t help wanting to lose yourself in that heady sensation. 

“Please,” he begs. 

You crumble so easily. 

‘But if there’s nothing shaking, come this here July, I’m gonna roll myself up in a big ball and die.’

[inkyclone99]

• Bloodied Heartstrings / Michaelis Bros AU •

Completely sane not even slightly odd AU

I don’t. Even know where to begin with this one.

I guess. Maybe like. Ok. I have this DioJona fic called Bloodied Heartstrings on ao3. It’s about Jonathan being revived as a woman by Dio, giving JoJo the body of a woman during SDC (JoJo in that is a trans lady but is still figuring it out)

This fic is kinda like how I like my taste of DJ. It’s fun with all the lil alts it has. Trans lady Jona supremacy. Dio is the ally

Anyway there is a lot here including the crossovers. Kuro makes some sense but I’m aware Star Wars is one hell of a stretch. So under the like Imma explain. It’s a LOT.

Ok. Let’s start from the very beginning.

Yes. The Joestars and Phantomhive are related. But it’s pretty distant enough they know each other but not that close. Claudia and George are cousins.

Mary Joestar is alive and well, because she is a vampire. Yes. She was turned by her own purchase, the mask. And when the carriage crashed, she got in a primal instinct of hunger due to all the blood, and to protect her son, she ran away. (And I hc she was the one that brought the star birthmark to the family, which is very convenient for the Joestars)

Now here is where crossover starts to kick. Dio is not Dario’s son.

He is Sebastian Michaelis’ son.

Eleanor (maiden name Michaelis) Brando married Dario, but she later on was sold by him to work at a meeting…said meeting of a cult. One that summoned Sebastian.

Out of everyone, he chose Eleanor cuz she was the purest (which in his vision, would make her more fun to corrupt and taste). She had very standards wishes, but the third one…she wanted a child.

She was over the age of a young maiden, and she was never able to bear Dario’s child. But she always wanted one.

So, for that, Sebastian gave her his child, later named Dio (because Sebas thinks he is so funny)

Sadly when Dio was 9, Eleanor got deadly sick, and by that point, Sebastian had no idea he had fallen in love with her, he didn’t understand those feelings. All those years with this odd family, he was never able to corrupt the nice soul of Eleanor Michaelis. So, when he devoured her soul, it tasted like splendidly sweet chocolate, which he hates to this day.

And sadly, he abandoned Dio after that. (Shame on you Sebastian) Dio was raised by Dario after that and we know how that goes.

JoJo canon goes JoJo canon, same old same old, Jonathan doesn’t know his gender yet all and all, marries Erina, gets killed by Dio

George II and Lisa Lisa get together, have Joseph, he dies and she disappears

Battle Tendency happens but with a twist: Caesar lives! And he and Joseph marry (don’t worry about homophobia world). Later they ask Suzi to be their surrogate and they have Holly!

Also to clean Joseph of being a cunt, Josuke is not actually a cheating baby…he is a accidental threesome baby. (CaeJose are bi4bi what can you do, lucky Tomoko)

Then my fanfic happens. BHS. Which, I KNOW, it’s not done yet I’m so sorry I’m so slow with it. But believe me, I have the end perfect in mind and I’m gonna spoil it. Sorry

Anyway, after being awaken (he never actually slept in the coffin) in “modern” times in Egypt, Dio revives Jonathan with a body that he always deserved, of a woman (who yes it’s Giorno’s shitty mom).

Fanfic happens fanfic happens they get together they fuck Jona gets pregnant.

Then, spoiler warning.

SDC happens. Dio was almost killed by Jotaro, but Jonathan got in the way and stopped everything (it will be cooler when written down trust)

No one dies too all Crusaders are fine. And it’s an awkward travel back to Japan

Because Dio does have a cure that doesn’t involve killing him and possibly Jona. The stand arrow

The stand arrow awakens Holly’s stand fully. Then Joseph is informed of a lil boy in Japan suffering the same thing as Holly. Realization hits the poor bastard and he sends the arrow to cure the boy

Also…yeah. JotaJona happens. Hear me out. They are so distant and at this point just not really related it’s FINE AJSBSKSNSKSJSKSJKSKSKS

I just really love this ship ok and I don’t have anyone else that I like to ship Jotaro with that much.

But first Giorno is born. He is actually a trans boy here just doesn’t reveal until later. Which is funny, cuz Jona was the last one to discover and understand too. And now she goes by she/her fully.

After some convincing and lil dates JotaJona also get together. Technically DioJotaJona Ofc but Dio and Jotaro still don’t really like each other. But they love Johanna (her new name), so they accept each other like a sitcom. A love triangle without the bottom one would say.

Then Jolyne is born, the most perfect descendant of Jonathan Joestar there could be in canon, is now her daughter. It’s poetic to me <33

And some time later the gen Z Jocelyn is born form DioJona. She is my lovely oc <33 more about her soon promise.

Now going to the Phantomhive fun. Grandpa Undertaker / Claudiataker canon. He hit that.

Anyway canon goes canon goes until the end cuz we have no clue how Kuro will end (though I’m certain it will end with Ciel dying as a child).

Here Undie is defeated and R!Ciel dies Fr this time. O!Ciel covers up saying he was an imposter. Then, he marries Ran-Mao (I have a fic about it, the only fic on ao3 without creepy Lau in the mix)

It’s my rarepair don’t judge me

Sebastian becomes merciful, letting Ciel have a full life before taking his life (he became a softie).

So, Ciel and Ran-Mao have twin girls: Claudia and Rachel. My girly Claudia becomes the Queen’s guarddog when Ciel is incapable of action, and Rachel goes on to have a family.

Years pass and nowadays we have Shiori Genpō. Yes. From the weird Kuro live action movie. She is CANON. And the current head of the Funtom company. (Also dating her maid who is descendant of Mey-Rin and Bard)

Oh and who is that plague doctor mask shinigami with oddily familiar eyes and hair color? Mmm I already spoiled enough here.

Ok. Now.

How the fuck Star Wars fits in this SHIT

Because like. JoJo and Black Butler. Odd. Sure. But somewhat fits in the same universe without contradictions. Mainly with Phantom Blood. (Jack the ripper being multiple killers would be canon here. JoJo Jack is the copycat)

But STAR WARS?

Isn’t that just the tism hyperfixation bullshit at it again?

…yes. But I also have an explanation to it…kinda.

Ok so. Earth is in the SW verse, but it’s SUPER distant from the Known Regions. Barely anyone knows about it and traveling there is almost impossible.

It is possible though, for supernatural beings.

Sebastian can travel around with portals he can create himself. It’s simple and fast.

After Ciel dies at 90s around of age, Sebastian has a lot of feelings to deal with. His love for Eleanor, his care for Ciel that allowed him to live longer…he needs to rediscover himself being more than a soul eating demon.

So, he travels around the galaxy.

Knowing new places, going in adventures, becoming a bounty hunter for funsies, stealing lightsabers and using them like child’s play without the need of the Force

One day, he meets Jango Fett. And Jango is SO IMPRESSED by this fuck ass Weirdo that he invites him to be a trainer in Kamino.

Sebastian goes why not and goes. But because of his abilities, the kaminoans are interested in using his blood to create an enhanced clone soldier, along with other blood donors for the rest of the experimental clone squad.

Sebastian, who is very conflicted with his humane feelings, accepts it. And even if the clone child only has like 10% of his blood just for his enhanced senses, he sees the clone child as his son.

And that son is Hunter.

Sadly, the kaminoans forbid him of interacting with Hunter, because of attachments and bs. While the other boys’ blood donors don’t give a shit, Sebastian does, and sneaks in to have some time with baby Hunter all thanks to Omega, who Hunter later adopts.

During the battle of Kamino in TCW, Sebastian protects Hunter and his brothers from the droids, and then…he disappears. He goes back to Earth.

Because he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave Hunter if he returned to him after That Day. He’d steal Hunter and raise him for the mistakes he did.

Yet. He once again abandoned a child. Because he lives in conflict.

Years later, after SDC ending, Sebastian reconnects with Dio (it’s VERY HARD as it SHOULD be), and then contacts with Hunter again (who is less hard Ofc, actually Sebas was his idol even without knowing their relation)

And there we have it. Ofc when it comes to Hunter the AU differs depending on which ship and kids I have with him lol. But the Earth part is mostly the same in all.

…so. Yeah.

There we have it. My fucking, weird ass AU. I know it’s a lot. It’s strange. Some would say bizarre. But it’s my baby AU.

I love it. I will most likely reference it a LOT. I might pin this too.

So. Yeah. Lol. Now you have context for my other post with Dio and Hunter lol

ALSO SUPER IMPORTANT FACT: Sebastian is Japanese (Yuta Furukawa) so both Dio and Hunter are hafus hehe

[backatitagainatichirakus]

Fic rec list.

(not necessarily Kakashi focused, but he WILL be there, taking some spotlight. Since I love him)

Sunfire by Anxiety_Pickle

Summary:

Kakashi sits frozen when the red of the Sharingan fixes its gaze his way, three tomoe spiraling. "I'm going to the Akatsuki." Sasuke says. "I'm going to find my brother." Kakashi, against his better judgement, follows Sasuke out of Konoha and straight into a rapidly evolving world-ending threat spearheaded by a familiar face. Just his luck.

Words: 43,175 Chapters: 5/?.

Second installment of a series. Kakashi takes guardianship over Sasuke after the massacre. Its, imho, so fucking good. Obkk but not yet lol.

2. With Movement and No Shades of Despair by the_rck

Summary:

Wait. Sai closed his eyes and considered. As long as this might be a genjutsu, he couldn't report to Danzo-sama without risking operational security and without revealing Root secrets to whatever enemy had ensnared him. That... That made sense. Sai could work with that. It gave him parameters and deniability. If it was a genjutsu, Sai could explore it to see what the enemy knew. Sai could approach compromised agents to test the boundaries. Sai could-- Now, the only question Sai really had was whether or not his brother was still alive.

Words: 5,572 Chapters: 1/1

Time travel, I looooove this one. Wish we had more Sai fics.

3. half a league (until the valley of death) by SpectersShadow117

Kakashi can think of no reason for Sasuke's inexplicable and drastic change in behavior. He doesn't like the desperate, haunted gleam in his student's eyes, and he also doesn't like the nagging feeling that he's missing something very important. Aka: Future Sasuke goes to Past Sasuke and gives him a reality check with Specific Intentions, but as with most Uchiha, his methods leave much to be desired. (Featuring: Childhood trauma FTW, Konoha's shitty care of orphans, and absolutely no one having a fun time.)

Words: 35,790 Chapters: 6/9

Future Sasuke tries to tell past Sasuke what to do. Sasuke does the exact opposite.

4. It Happened Once in a Dream by SunshineAndRainbows

(You need to be logged in to read)

Summary:

Kakashi wakes up one morning with: a kekkei genkai that was supposed to have died out shortly after the Hatake had become a ninja clan; 20 years worth of foreknowledge that makes him sick to his stomach to even consider; and team training with three people he’d last known as gravestones.

Words: 36,674 Chapters: 10/?

Refreshing take on time travel. Since there wasn't actually any time traveling.

5. Book of Starry Skies by wenwen

Summary:

“One of you will be the Hokage after me,” the Sandaime says. His pipe lies smoking in an ashtray on the desk before him. “And the other will be the pillar who supports him.” This is not friendly supposition as to the future. This is a decree. Itachi thinks of his brother and his parents and his clan, he thinks of a best friend who disappeared in the night and left corpses and his oaths behind, he thinks of a village at peace instead of haunted by the shadows of war, and says, “Hai.” But Kakashi says, “With respect, I would rather not, Hokage-sama.” To which the Sandaime says, “And if I make it an order?” Kakashi’s face is perfectly bland. “No,” he says. The Sandaime makes it an order. (Itachi-centric: In which Itachi lives his Best Life and nobody wants to be Hokage.)

Words: 69,000 Chapters: 9/9

LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT. Au in which Itachi never defected, and now he and Kakashi compete to NOT become Hokage. Starring anbu! it gets extra stars because Yuugao is there (many anbu Kakashi fic plainly just wont even mention her :(!! canon anbu character!! who was canonically with Kakashi in anbu!!!!!)

[dragonrider9905]

Celebrating You!

Hi guys! I’ve been on here for a bit now and while I never had a follower goal, I do appreciate you guys who have decided to follow me! So now I’d like to celebrate you!

In light of TBB ending, and how much we'll be missing the boys, I thought this was as good as a time as ever!

Here’s the idea! I’m opening a prompt request for the dates of April 5th through May 5th, 2024 (you may start submitting now though!) and choose from the prompts below! You can choose one from each category, or just one category. It’s ok if it is just the prompt or the prompt and a brief idea. If you have a fun idea or prompt not listed, please share!

Rules: I only write SFW. I typically write for clones; I reserve the right to refuse requests which make me uncomfortable for whatever reason. I have had a few requests in the past that really unsettled me for various reasons. Or if I don't know the character. I'd hate to try to write something then upset the person because it is so ooc that it's cringy. (But if I said I would write your request and haven't yet, I just honestly haven't gotten to it :D I like to do well on the stories you guys entrust to me so it does take me a bit :D)

This is supposed to be fun so lets keep it fun!

You may submit as many requests as you'd like! The more the merrier!

Characters: Star Wars Clone Wars or The Bad Batch (as long as I know them. I know a lot of clones but alas, not all.)

Story genre:

Classic SW! (Pick an era if they exist in more than one if you wish)

AU of choice (modern, western, pirate, mermaid, time traveling, etc if I’m unfamiliar with the genre, I may have to change it or request more details)

Dialogue Prompts:

“Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

“If we’re going to do this we’ll need—“ “A plan?” “No! Code names! Cool ones!”

“I don’t need to be anything to you. I just want my life to mean more to you than my death.”

“You are playing a dangerous game without even a glimpse of the rule book.”

“I’ve never been terrified of death, til he set his sights on you.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” “Yeah, you’re not allowed to ask that in this situation.”

“Where’s your shoe?” “The giant mud puddle in the road demanded a sacrifice.”

“Love at first sight doesn’t exist.” “Then how else do I describe the feeling I got when I first saw you?” “You…love me?” “Apparently not, according to you.”

“A fate worse than death….” “They’re burnt cupcakes.”

“White paint has more color than your face.”

“Why is there a dragon in my fridge?” “It was hot.”

“Touch **, and you’re dead.”

“I am the law.”

“Do that again and I’ll throw you out the window. Wait, what are you doing?” “Checking how high the drop is; seeing if it’s worth it.”

“I’d rather have you hate me than loose you entirely.”

“I have a mission but don’t know what it is.” “Well that sounds incredibly counterproductive.”

“I would like to join you in acknowledging the difficulties in your life.” “You are the worst at this comforting thing.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this but I’m quite petite.” “Really? I had no idea in our twelve years of friendship that you’re shorter than I am.”

“But what is power?” “Loyalty.”

“Don’t you sign to me in that tone.”

“I’m with him/her for better or worse.” “It’ll probably be worse.” “I knew that the day I met him/her.”

"I'm sorry I tried to kill you." "It's fine, but next time you should try harder."

"C'mon, like I need an excuse to spend time with you."

"You're not as bad as everyone says you are."

"The only one who gets to kill you is me."

“blood loss”? well it’s not lost. I know exactly where it went. right over there.”

“How the mighty have fallen!” “It’s a dropped chocolate bar, stop being dramatic.”

“Shit, we’re gonna die” “Now I don’t want to hear that negative attitude, look on the bright side!” “Yay! We’re gonna die! Woo!”

“How do you do it?” “How do I do what?” “Pretend you are ok.” “I’m not pretending.” “Yes, you are. Every single day and it breaks my heart.”

“Hey, so I know things are pretty f**** shitty right now but I need you to breathe for me.” “Wha-wh-wh-” “You’re having a panic attack. It’s gonna be ok. Just breathe with me.”

“Please, my arms—I can’t wipe my tears, don’t let them see!”

"Smiles are contagious!" "Don't worry, I'm vaccinated."

"I don't want to get involved, it's too risky." "Please do it for me, you're the only one I can turn to." "It's not worth it. You really want to lose everything? 'cause I don't."

"Do you ever think of anyone other than yourself?" "No"---a long pause---"actually yes, at Christmas time"

"There is a reason I go through that door first, It's to make sure everyone else walks back out"

“I can’t leave you here!” “You can and you will.”

"OH! Are you alright? Are you alright?" "Apart from being trapped under here, and maybe suffering from broken bones and embarrassment beyond what I am capable of handling. . . I'm dandy, why do you ask?"

Oh no, are you alright? You're covered in blood!" "Yes, it's yours, Now will you please let me take you to the hospital?"

"What did love ever do anything for anyone anyway?"

"What the hell were you even thinking?!" "You told me not to think!"

"With love comes loss, that's part of the deal. Sometimes it hurts, but in the end, it was all worth it. There's no greater gift than love."

“'Temporary stitches' all stitches are temporary if you have a pair of scissors and aren’t a coward" "What do you....that better not mean what I think you mean......" "Am I just talking about sewing stitches or sutures too? Maaayyybe?" "NO! Absolutely not!"

"I made the calculations, and boy am I bad at math."

"It'll be over soon, I promise."

"Working together again, just like old times." "Well, not just like old times."

"I am many things but not your enemy."

Action Prompts:

Forehead kisses

Palm/hand kisses

Dramatic rain scene

Touching foreheads

Jealousy

Dancing

Last stand

Christmas/Life Day celebration

mistletoe

Accidental hand touch

First date

First kiss

Spending time with the family

Bad day cheering up scheme

Pranks

Going to a pet shop

Going to the movies

Always go after the girl

soft spoken person has loud, unnerving scream.

Lullabies

Nightmares

injury

amnesia

pretend/mistaken to be married/in a relationship

cooking