#last installment

[pybun]

dont be obvious

[author-chan06]

The Copy Club! The Plot

Chapter 4—

The Final Chapter

— Is Now Out!

Here: The Copy Club! The Plot

The final chapter of this story! Man I worked on this for weeks, trying to make sure I didn’t mess any of this last installment up ahah

If you’re wondering why I didn’t post about the others when you they were posted, it’d because, well, I hadn’t made this account yet. And I’m not even going to try and go back and do so, I have so many stories that it would end up just being spam, and it probably would take a long time anyway. So while I’ll be posting about my stories here now when I post them on ao3, if you want to see any of the older stuff then just go ahead and look at my ao3 account.

Also News!

I’m just gonna post what my ao3 authors note says as it explains things pretty well I think:

“As a matter of fact, I already have quite a few ideas, and one series that is already on here. So that will be the next thing I’ll be focusing on. That series being: Writings That (Probably) Should Have Stayed Private (But Didn't). Which is— go figure— also going to be revolving around Roman. But it’s from the perspective of the other sides! Mainly Patton, but I might add others. Not sure yet as I’m still prewriting some of it and debating some of the the ideas I want to add. I’ve gotten some of the next part written, though, that I need to edit. So it shouldn’t take a long time to have the next part done. Or the part after that one either. Which means it shouldn’t be long before I can start posting them.

If you’re interested you can go on over and see what the series looks like so far and look at the series notes for what it will be become (and there will be quite a bit of poetry in it, if that’s something that you like) But, anywho, I have an announcement to make!

The end of the school year is here! Which means, of course, projects and finals for me! Yay ^^; And I will unfortunately have less time to write and edit and do all the things that allow me to post on here [ao3] regularly. (Like I have a really big project for one of my classes that, even though though I have a B in that class, could tank my grade if I do bad!) So for that, and so that I will have some time to work on writing more of the series and my backlog, I will not be posting for a while.

I’m going to be having a short, about two month long, hiatus.

This hiatus will last until July 5th, when I will be posting the first chapter of the next part of the series I was talking about, and also posting another shorter story that I’ve been thinking about for a while now.

(Also! I have a new tumblr!

https://www.tumblr.com/author-chan06

I take requests. So if you want some type of story don’t hesitate to send them to my inbox! They will be looked at and or published, depending on when I want to write them, after the hiatus is over with

And during the hiatus I will definitely still be posting to tumblr— these posts will include how prewriting and writing for things are going, with my next series and my more long term fics and some oneshots I have in the works. And some headcanons and some writing requests I get, if I get some, over there. I might even post some snippets of the upcoming fics I was talking about! So if you’re curious about any of that, then go check it out!)”

But yeah. So a hiatus from ao3. Like it said, I’ll still be posting here. I just won’t have the time for the consistency I want for ao3. But in the meantime! If you have any headcanon requests or just requests in general for any of the ships or fandoms I like, please send them! Talk about my stories/ideas with me, talk about your stories/ideas with me, talk about my ships, talk about your ships! I’m really obsessing over Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss right now, so if you want something from those, or if you want to talk about that, I will probably be *extra* ecstatic and willing to do those!

Anywho! If I don’t end this now, I’ll just ramble forever ahah, so see you soon, darling readers~! <3 <3

[mybro-oncesaid]

“I’m taking a screenshot of this, you can’t deny you think I’m amazing”

[serickswrites]

Roadtrip XII

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

Warnings: referenced torture, referenced kidnapping, hospital, hurt/comfort, hurt/recovery, hurt/aftermath

Whumpee woke in a soft bed. The regular beeping told them that they were in the hospital. The warm hand holding their could only belong to one person. “Caretaker.” Whumpee’s voice was raspy. How long had they been out?

“There you are,” Caretaker’s voice sounded relieved. “About time you woke up.”

Whumpee slowly opened their eyes and turned towards Caretaker’s voice. Caretaker looked tired. And worried. And relieved. “How?”

“It’s been six days since we found you. And you were gone for four days before that. When we,” Caretaker swallowed, “when we found you…I…I thought I was too late.” Caretaker’s voice cracked at the last.

“Sorry,” Whumpee whispered. They never meant to make Caretaker feel bad.

“Don’t apologize. Never apologize for this. None of this was your fault.” Caretaker squeezed Whumpee’s hand. “I just thought I lost you. Permanently. After I had finally found you again. I can’t lose you, Whumpee.”

Whumpee didn’t know what to say. So they just focused on breathing. In. And out. They thought Whumper was going to kill them. And now here they were. Alive and free. “Whumper?”

“Can’t ever touch you again. Won’t stop talking though.” Caretaker muttered the last to themselves. But Whumpee still heard.

Whumpee flushed. Did Caretaker know everything that happened? The driving, the bit, the water trough, the ‘riding’? Whumpee closed their eyes as hot tears leaked from the corners.

“Oh, Whumpee. I’m sorry. Please, don’t cry. Or cry. If that’s what you need to do. I’m right here. You’re safe now.”

Whumpee sobbed harder as Caretaker leaned over, gathering as much of Whumpee as they could into their arms, taking care to be extra gentle with the wound that was healing on their shoulder. Caretaker rubbed soothing circles on Whumpee’s back as Whumpee cried. And cried. And cried.

After what seemed like days, years even, of crying, Whumpee stopped. They let Caretaker continue to hold them. “Thank you.”

“Always, Whumpee, always.”

Tags: @forthetaintedsorrow-whump @whump-and-other-things @puffball-lover554 @jadeocean46910 @okwhump @mutantrecord109 @glittermixedwithtears @whumpy-daydreams @freefallingup13 @batfacedliar-yetagain @thelazywitchphotographer @writing-i-like-dump @blosoms-writing-blog @livingforthewhump @mutantrecord109 @crilex29 @whumpitywhumpwhump

@imagination1reality0

@but-what-if-its-whumpy

[andsmile]

unchained

time goes by so slowly, and time can do so much.

she's tired of running in circles. last installment of the series. companion piece to already gone, for you, i was a flame and a shortcut home.

(read on ao3)

[ishipanarmada]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver Characters: John Silver, Captain Flint | James McGraw, Max (Black Sails) Additional Tags: Flint has hair, Sex, That's it, that's the fic, with a little schmoop, and some feelings, but mostly sex, Oral Sex Series: Part 8 of Inevitable Summary:

Silver always has a surprise up his sleeve, and today is no exception.

[syxjaewon]

expiration date, part 2 ‘shed no tears for the dead’

wakes in valluria are never black and never covered in tears. water must never be given for dead things

jaewon steps off his ship dressed in ritualistic garb, long white wrap-around garments, pants that require ten strings to hold fast, a cloth sitting heavily over his shoulders, draped around his tattoos and branding, covering the scars on his body except for his forearms, the ends of it flowing off him and trailing behind him as though he himself were made of wind, formed from winter, a son of the sun, bright and blinding. his hair and mouth are covered in more fabric, the tails of which tuck down into the rest of his ensemble, parts of it tight, others loose, the designs modeled after what the ancients must have assumed death looked like. he strides slowly down the cargo bay landing door, looking like someone from thousands of years ago, eyes dulled but steady, a low smoldering gaze hooded beneath heavy, long eyelashes.

three days have gone by at a break-neck pace, jaewon’s ship breaking all sorts of interplanetary space-travel laws to get to the desert planet on time, all throughout which, her captain barely speaks, barely eats, sleeps even less. three days have gone by and he is devoid of thunder, no color to speak of, the kaleidoscope of his temper landing flat like a base note, a monotone, broken only by the extensively higher rate of cigarettes he’s taken to inhaling, seemingly always lighting one up or snuffing it dead, going through more than three pack in a single day. he answers nothing about the funeral, nothing about vera, nothing about valluria, except to say they’ll only be there for a day and a night and they leave again at first light. and if anyone wants to attend, he won’t stop them.

he is not himself and he doesn’t try to be, doesn’t try to extend out, arms reaching, voice calling, burning like the head of a lighthouse, the way his crew is used to seeing him do, doesn’t try to hear them, see them, understand them; much like the ghosts who latch themselves to his wrists, his shoulders, his back, he wanders through the ship in the middle of the night, reminiscently disembodied, disengaging with anyone who attempts to get too close, to ask too many questions, want for too many details.

he tries to keep himself busy, but his mind always returns back to that same white-noise place, where a thousand memories squeeze and crush themselves inside his head, a thousand images flashing at once.

when the ship lands, kyoji meets him, gives him the proper attire necessary for his position in the wake, neither of them speaking much to each other. they gather with the others a short walk away, previous crew members who are happy to see jaewon, albeit not under these circumstances, the group of them heading towards the fringes of the lowkey city, where the dusts and sands swirl together in miniature tornadoes, the sun howling down on them all. he’s missed these people, these half-hidden faces, all older than him, congratulating him on surviving as long as he has, using the name “rat” synonymous with “friend.” they all know a piece of him, of who he was as a child, of who he can’t indulge any longer with the crew he’s with now, asking him just what you’d expect of old friends catching up on each other in hushed voices as they make their journey; has he married yet? still a grenade of a boy? how’s the ship, is she still flying true? still as beautiful as ever, despite the loss of her first love?

somewhere in the distance behind him, he can almost hear serenity crying for vera— figures one of them ought to be.

the arrangement is simple: kyoji and jaewon, named as family, sit at the forefront, dressed the same, kneeling in the sand, facing east while the sun looms along the western hemisphere, while behind them, everyone else kneels the same way, all in the same color, all with the same sentiments, and for the duration of the funeral, turning to the west is taboo. before the gathering is a single flat, square stone, noticeably grey a few centimeters above the sand; beyond it an altar, stone and incense, burning vallurian brews and spices, creating the inescapable scent of cinnamon, three shamans, and a large pyre with a corpse-sized box atop it.

they burn her body, the fire raging higher than anything jaewon’s ever seen before, but can still somehow relate to it, eyes caught in the flames, the cackling of the heat sending him into a daze for most of it. he listens to the shamans’ song, the holy rite passed for her spirit, the ghoul of her life collapsing down into dust inside the coffin held high away from them, and something inside him wants to be able to see it. to see vera, to come closer to her, to comfort her— as though she might be scared trapped inside that enclosure, as though he could hold her arm the same way she had held his every time he’d come to her, broken from nightmares and memories and demons.

illaia….. illaia…..

the word repeats itself over and over inside his head and he has to fight against the lump that keep rearing up in his throat, fight against his own heart breaking itself against his ribs, fight against the urge to stay here, rooted to the dunes of his homeworld. the wind kicks up the sands against his clothes but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, doesn’t sway. we are born of the desert, kyoji once told him, we are as much earth and stone and sky and light as we are flesh and bone; we do not let anything overtake us.

finally, the fire simmers out, the collection of her ashes and remains compiled, and they call him forward, initiating the next phase of the wake: the jan’hazal. jaewon swallows and inhales, bringing himself up, steeling himself against the tremble in his legs, the wavering of his soul, reminds himself he must be mountain, he must be lightning. he’s not ready for this, he doesn’t want to say goodbye, doesn’t want to give her up, doesn’t want to be here at all right now, inhaling the dusk, but he stands anyway and approaches the grey stone, shoulders back, the line of him tall and straight and shining. the way vera taught him to be.

he turns towards the west, the setting sun casting long, orange lines across his clothes, coloring him in the shades of his surroundings, of his history, of his people, and kneels down again on the stone, his arms outstretched for the shamans to unwrap his headdress and shirt off him, revealing his face, head, torso, and arms. blonde hair whips against his forehead and ears, sand scratching against his skin, but he doesn’t move, gaze locked on the setting sun as the mourners before him watch. two of the shamans begin painting his face in red dust, his neck, his shoulders, regardless of the scars or tattoos embroidered on him, a testament to the fact that no matter what else he does to his body, above and below the flesh, these sands will always remain on him.

the third shaman stands before him a few feet away, eyes black, features somber and serious, the urn in his grasp, and jaewon already knows this rite. “you have been named as the vigilant. you understand this.”

“i understand this,” jaewon answers.

“you are to take the remains of this woman into the desert. you are to ride an hour to the west, chase kalidasa until you can follow no more, until all light leaves the sky. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“you will stop. you will bring body and dust together, allowing her to rejoin the sands from whence she came, so that she may unite with her lineage, so that her essence will once again flow with the darkened waters of the world below, where all time stops. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“you will wait there throughout the night, you will keep vigil for her passage. vanashim the great witch, the howler, will come to you to tempt you with exhaustion and with hunger. you must not surrender. take nothing, believe nothing. keep your watch. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“when kalidasa returns to the sky, travel to the east and return. remember, young vallurian… shed no tears for the dead. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

finger-painting finished, jaewon stands and receives the urn, small, hot, white, pretty unassuming considering the storm of a woman it used to be, and is re-wrapped in his headdress, torso still bare, red skin still on display. they lead him to a hovercycle and he gets on it, securing the urn, securing his footing, securing his lungs, his heart, his hands. don’t break. gold eyes flicker back to the rest of the still-seated mourners for only a moment, a strike of weakness, uncertainty, fear, dread, pain.

and then it’s gone again, shoved down into the corners of him as he clenches teeth tightly, eyes sharpening to knives, pinned on the horizon. white-knuckles grip the handlebars, the engine revving as sand spews outwards, the machine launching him into the dimming orange sunlight.

*****

the night is long and dotted with bright stars, smoke gathers around chimney tops in this sleepy desert town, some of the older crew rally to reminisce in taverns and bars, between beers and laughter, stupid stories about vera in her youth, about jaewon as a pre-teen, about the days when the skies were clear and much less charted, much less ruled, the edges of space still mysterious, still full of dragons and whirlpools, the days of real pirates, real deep-space hauntings. they sing old glory days songs, forgetting some of the words, making up others, they remember their last conversations with vera, their last goodbyes to the ship, their last voyages out into the black.

it is a night for endings, a night for expiration dates, everything letting down, the dust settling, the sands breezing, the air still scented with spices. there are glows that follow footsteps in the streets, lighted beacons to warm serenity as she sits and keeps watch, facing the desert still, facing the long edge of the world still, rigid and calm. everyone else tucks away their tabs of life, tucks away this chapter, says goodbye in their own small or large way, to a woman who’d always somehow managed to be stronger than anything that challenged her.

and only serenity sits and listens to vera’s son, the scarred boy, screaming into the dark, miles and miles away, the broken boy, tearing at the sands for all he’s lost.

*****

when the captain returns to his ship at first light, as promised, he is dusty, sandy, messy, and golden, the dunes of valluria having painted the bare skin of his chest bronze, the red paint on his face chipped, smudged, already half worn off. no shirt still, but the cloth for his headdress is slung over his shoulder as he strides through the metal gate, lips chapped and solidified downwards into a permanent frown, his brows heavy and dark, gold eyes blazing and resentful, the sun in him scorching and exhausted. he wants a damn shower and a cigarette, he wants to get back to his job, he wants to get off this world— this world that has seeped into his bones, dried him free of blood, fused itself to his life unwanted, each mountain his birthmark, each city an open, gaping wound.

he cannot cry, so instead he burns. he burns the same way everyone on valluria burns.

with a fist, he hits the intercom that connects to the bridge. “captain on deck. get us the hell off this planet.”

[movies-derekwinnert]

BrOTHERHOOD *** (206, Noel Clarke, Olivia Chenery, Nick Nevern, Arnold Oceng, Jason Maza) - Movie Review

BrOTHERHOOD *** (206, Noel Clarke, Olivia Chenery, Nick Nevern, Arnold Oceng, Jason Maza) – Movie Review

Writer-director-star Noel Clarke completes his ‘Hood trilogy with BrOTHERHOOD, which has his hero Sam Peel (Clarke) facing up to the problems of his new grown-up world in which he has settled down with a girlfriend (Olivia Chenery) and kids. But when his brother is shot, Sam has to look to old friends to help him survive new dangers.

BrOTHERHOOD has a few wobbles but it is generally very…

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