I like to take JFO screenshots! look at them.
screenshot tag is: my computer is a beast and my father was a photographer
feel free to use any for wallpapers or whatever all else, all I ask is if you would be so kind as to tag me if you do any editing! I'm useless with photoshop and can't be bothered myself, but I'd love to see what other folks can do.
I also like to write! My AO3 for JFO fics is here:
four-armed-bandit
I like to commission artists! Here is some JFO art I've commissioned:
(@redemsi for to fall before we fly)
“This doesn’t fit me.”
It does fit him, because it’s been specifically tailored to fit him, because part of the reason BD-1 had been brought along on the supply run had been to provide the crew’s measurements to an auto-tailor, because Cere knows the importance of a ship’s crew looking the part, and had placed an order for a fairly standard spacer’s uniform, neat and trim and functional.
“It does fit, and you look very smart,” Cere tells him, tugging at the hem of her own jacket to straighten it, though it sits at a stylishly asymmetrical angle, following the line of her own blaster belt over her hips.
Cal makes a face, and tries to put his upper body through its usual range of motion, twisting from the hips and trying to lift his arms, arrested about the process by the pull of the jacket across his chest. “If it fit, I’m pretty sure I would be able to move my shoulders. I feel like I should be able to move my shoulders.”
Cere sighs, and reaches up to make the small concession of unfastening his collar for him. “You don’t need to move your shoulders. You need to look like you’re a member of a competent starship crew.”
“I liked moving my shoulders.”
(@barbsart for student of many masters)
On the fourth day he takes Jaro Tapal’s lightsaber in both hands and stumbles towards the pyre. He’d only managed to move the body a pathetic few meters away from the pod, but he’d probably pulled a few hundred pounds of scrap over to cover it, and the exertion hasn’t been without cost. He feels weaker than he ever has, his legs giving out when he tries to stand for the first time after waking, and then trembling beneath him with exhaustion and illness from four days spent in a cracked open escape pod, in the cold and the rain. The burn on his face is well and truly infected now, hot to the touch and weeping clear, sticky fluid where the skin has split. It’s given him a fever, but he still shivers in the rising wind as he stands before the makeshift bier.
Jedi need pyres. He doesn’t know why, but he knows its important, that when a Jedi dies, their body needs to burn. It might be the only way they can return to the Force, and he is absolutely horrified by the idea that—after every other way he’s failed—he could fail in this, too. So even though his hands shake badly enough that it takes a few tries, in the end he manages to power on the broken lightsaber. It feels wrong in his hands, and it takes him a long time to do what needs to be done with it—but eventually he steps forward, and presses the blade slowly into the heap of wreckage. He closes his eyes and begs it to catch, not worthy to call upon the Force to help him, but praying to it all the same—not for aid, but for mercy. Not for him, but for his master.
The pyre lights, the lightsaber dies in his hands, and the fire slowly rises. Even if he hadn’t really known what he was doing, he’s managed to do it well. The capacity to feel anything good has left him, and doesn’t seem like it’ll ever be back—but he manages to feel something like fulfillment that he’s completed the task; the last thing he’ll ever do for his master. He kneels in the mud because he doesn’t have the strength to stand, and watches the hypnotic movement of the fire, trying not to think about what it consumes.