#better late than never

What’s your favorite song from The New Abnormal??

Tired Office Sephiroth

Now get back to work!!

Six Fanarts individual panels:

Kadaj - Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children

Shramir

Six Fanarts individual panels:

Zack Fair - Final Fantasy VII / FFVII Crisis Core

Shramir

Six Fanarts individual panels:

Lan Wangji - the Untamed

Shramir

Six Fanarts individual panels:

Ravus Nox Fleuret - Final Fantasy XV

Shramir

Six Fanarts individual panels:

Terra Bradford - Final Fantasy VI

Shramir

Six Fanarts individual panels:

Shiny Chariot - Litte Witch Academia

Shramir

So months later I finished the Six Fanarts thing…

Thanks to everyone that gave suggestions

ololygas:

Sharon Olds

@annibalecter, @wendigobunny & @mrs-graham-lecter

fatefulfindings:

katherinearandez:

iwillincendiotheheartoutofyou:

katherinearandez:

touch-all-the-butts:

pizz4s:

i swear to god if one more stupid fandom ruins a beautiful text post i am calling the police

I am obligated to reblog this again, because it is now Superwholock, and therefore perfection.

people need to remember that every tumblr post in 2012 was like this

two kisses | kal/zeb | 1600

>>HI, sorry i’m essentially dead, here’s some kal/zeb i wrote for @sempaiko‘s two kisses challenge back in FEBRUARY and then i mostly just? forgot? it’s not like. Real Fic. let’s not get excited.

coruscant / going out:

When the Empire falls—when it truly falls—Coruscant merely reels, briefly, then smoothly recovers, like a model missing her step. Though he isn’t there to see it Kallus can imagine without any trouble the scenes his operatives describe, even without the ten-second holo clips of Mas Amedda gesticulating from some balcony: a week’s panic-buying in the mid-levels; a few hours’ looting above and below; ten minutes’ weird silence, shouting, rifles fired into the air: and then, with barely any pause at all, the party swinging back into life. Orange becomes suddenly fashionable, and then in response Imperial gray; there are grainy images of statues falling—the same ones, he suspects, that had fallen after Endor—and clips of officers in half-undone tunics tearing off their rank plaques and throwing them out into the void, laughing. An heiress with a starbird set in crystals on her cheek kissing a shocked Alliance trooper.

It all looks much the same as it ever did, Kallus thinks, glancing down through the viewport of the well-appointed speeder they have hired; Coruscant is always celebrating something. Constant motion; light through smoke like a dream.

“How do you breathe,” Zeb says, from the plush seat beside him, his eyes unfocused, shifting with the traffic: Kallus blinks.

“The filtration systems are very efficient,” he says. The speeder rises a little, banks into a turn; he still recognizes the patten of ascent, somewhere in his joints. They are nearly at their destination. He flips the screen off on his pad, tucks it back into his satchel. Considers the odd tension in the muscles of his core: dismisses it. Only ghosts, waiting now.

“I’m not thinking about air quality,” says Zeb. His eyes lift from the window to Kallus’s face, and that look of concern slips away: a little hook of a smile touches his face. Kallus smiles back, a little. His heart beats like love.

“With effort,” he says, after a moment. Taps the toe of his boot, lightly, against Zeb’s calf.

They look at one another, for a little space of time.

And then the speeder is slowing, moving smoothly sideways into the building’s private platform: some old instinct kicks in, and Kallus rises before he needs to, straightening his jacket, tugging at his shirt. Keeps his feet neatly as the speeder sways to a halt. Zeb watches him, cautiously: looks like he might say something: then his ears flick back and away. He hefts their single duffel—shared, now, always–onto his shoulder and follows Kallus out into the light.

“We don’t have to do this,” Zeb says, as they cross the platform, still briskly clean in the afterglow of war. “We can find a hotel.”

“Nonsense,” Kallus says, with rather more bite than he intends. Softens it, a little: “I ought to see what’s become of the place, anyway,” he says. “It’s an asset.”

“An asset,” says Zeb, flatly, in that way that means he finds Kallus—incomprehensible. Why, Kallus can’t say, not at the moment. On either side of the walkway the holographic water-features tumble light into empty air, half-convincing: dated, now, but not without charm. No one here to update them, now. The quiet hum of the generators goes on uninterrupted.

Behind him Zeb pauses, noticing something or other—the view or the architecture, both of which are exquisite, or were 20 years ago—but Kallus doesn’t stop. Momentum, he knows, is always the key.

When he puts his palm to his mother’s front door there is a moment where he is sure it won’t work, as though some spectral force might have reached out of the afterlife to revoke his access—but of course it the chime sounds, just exactly as he knew it would, and the door slides open and the hallway extends, dark, before him.

The air is fresh: there is no dust. The little cleaning droids have been hard at work, he supposes, all these long years. When he says “wake” the lights come on, elegantly dim, and the heating system kicks itself into gear—the holoscreens on the walls brighten and shift to reflect his taste: neutral abstracts, faintly industrial.

Zeb notices none of this, because he is staring at the central column of the atrium, choked now with wild greenery, tangled with ten years’ neglect: yet still alive, somehow; still thriving. A little world all its own. Mother would have been devastated, Alex thinks, at the mess of it.

He finds he is still standing far too straight. Relaxes, pointedly: lets out the breath he’s holding.

Zeb shoots him a look.

“Nice place,” he says, after a minute, in the cool clean silent air.

“Yes,” Alex says, because it is. Tasteful. Subtle.

“You want to get out of here?”

“Yes,” says Alex, because if he stands where he’s standing too long some part of him, buried but not quite dead, still thinks his father is going to walk in through the door, in his dashing Republic navy uniform, and sweep them all into an embrace, him and mother and the girls.

This is Zeb, he thinks, at the empty apartment. You’d have liked him.

They wind up sixteen levels down at a party which has been going since long before the empire fell and will be going long after they have left: bright lights in the dark, a bassline that moves the floor, a smell like sweat and fireworks. Kallus has changed: the old sleeveless shirt he’d pulled out of a drawer a bit tighter than might have liked, now, and though he can’t decide whether to take his jacket off or not he’s still vaguely aware he’s turning heads; not as many as Zeb is turning, shirtless, a head and a half taller than most of the bodies on the floor.

Zeb’s hand on his shoulder, turning him:

“So,” Zeb says, grinning, “You come here a lot?”

Kallus pulls him down into a sloppy dancefloor kiss, and then spins into the press.

+++

lira san / coming home

By the time Zeb makes it home from the hunt, across the bridge and up the ladders and across the swaying breezeways to this city in the treetops above the sea, it is mid-morning, and people are beginning to wake. A feast day: just a small one, the children excused classes, the more pious among the people saying an extra prayer or two at their shrines: for most merely an excuse to sleep a little late, in the pleasant warmth of the late spring day.

A good chance Kal will still be sleeping, in fact: and what a good thought that is, sliding back into the tangle of blankets against him for another hour or so. Maybe something more, if the mood takes them: he can picture Kal’s slow sleepy blink; the warm softness of him under Zeb’s hands. His flush, his bitten lip.

Alas, not to be: when Zeb comes up the ladder to their front hall the door is already propped open for the day, the lanterns lit in the darker corners, and somewhere a cheap tinny speaker playing music he doesn’t know. He follows it through to the kitchen, and–pauses.

The light is coming in through the small high windows and falling like honey on the scoured wood floor, and everything smells wonderful, like spice and salt and hot oil: outside birds are calling, and the broad green leaves of Lira San are steaming in the morning sun. Alex is barefoot, leaning one lovely hip against the counter, prodding at something in a pot with a long, slender wooden spoon: he does this with the same exquisite precision he applies to everything, and Zeb has to stop and watch him for a moment, his intent look and his perfect poise: the way he tilts his head, just a little, as he focuses; the way his sharp eyes narrow. His loose trousers low on his hips; his honey-gold hair gathered loosely at the back of his neck. His stillness.

And then whatever is in the pot makes a sound, a little simmering rush, and he dives like a sea-hawk to scoop a fat dumpling out and nestle it amongst several others on the bed of steamed leaves beside the stove. He carefully selects the next, still raw, from the stoneware bowl at his opposite hand: lowers it neatly into the pot and watches, silent.

“Good hunting,” he says, after a moment, without looking up from the stove.

“Yeah,” says Zeb, who forgets after all sometimes that the light of his heart is such a spy. Pads over: the whole set-up smells wonderful and strange, full of spices he doesn’t recognize–a few he does, from Alex’s various experiments. “what’s this?”

“Something for the feast,” Alex says.

It’s not that he’s an especially talented cook, though he isn’t bad: it’s more that he does this as cleverly as he does everything, with such absolute determination, that he simply forces his way past any stumbling blocks. Tries again, again. He is absolutely terrifying with a long knife: utterly fearless, beyond any sense. Zeb is certain he’s eventually going to lose a finger.

He settles his hands on Alex’s hips: presses a kiss to the back of his neck. Another: just behind his ear, this time, where he’s tucked that little piece of hair that always falls into his eyes. Alex leans back against Zeb’s chest, making a small sound: turns, after a moment, in the circle of Zeb’s hands, to smile up at him, crooked. He’s lovely: no other word for it except maybe beloved. That too.

Zeb leans to kiss him on the mouth: deep, slow. The way he likes best. He tastes of salt and something sharply acid.

On the tinny speaker a woman sings in a language Zeb doesn’t know, coy, beseeching, and another answers her, playful. Their voices turn around each other like ribbons.

The light comes in through the windows, and the steam rises.