#scribendi

[aboywithoutqualities]

Quando eu te conheci eu senti o impacto de finalmente ter encontrado uma pessoa que finalmente me entendesse, me aceitasse e que nunca teria a capacidade de me fazer ser quem eu não sou. Eu senti a liberdade estando com alguém. Hoje o impacto que eu sinto foi de que eu apenas me iludi e enxerguei em você apenas o que mais desejava na vida. Não teve aceitação. Não fui quem eu realmente sou. Não senti a liberdade.... estando com alguém/você.

[fatosdolennon]

Vou te mostrar como funciona esquecer alguém.

Lapsus Scribendi.

Fonte: lapsusscribendi

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[historia-vitae-magistras]

41. “Sleep.  I’ll keep you safe.”

This one hurts so good

Unedited fic is unedited. Set in 1918, at the end of the war when Matt is trying to limp his way through the absolute slog of shit that was the proto-blitzkrieg of the last months of the war. Alfred is trying to pretend he's not avoiding trench duty at the Meuse–Argonne because of the trauma of the American Civil War. I was inspired by my Canadian great-grandfather coming home with American buttons on his coat instead of British or Canadian maple leaves that I inherited and made into earrings, lol.

October, 1918

“Give me a hand, Mattie, fuck.” Alfred cursed all the way up as the tailgate of the troop truck dropped. He was stuck on the single cobblestone that managed to give any traction under the three inches of mud. But it may as well have been concrete, for all he could leverage himself out. In the silvery light of the following truck waiting for its turn to round the corner of the checkpoint, Matt was only a hunched-over figure and a pair of gloved hands that grasped him by the wrists and managed to swing him free. His pack landed with a thud ten seconds before he did, and he was pulled roughly to his feet, and his ass finally found a bench. Almost instantly, the cold wood bit through his layers. Matt had disappeared down the benches and into the dark shelter of the canvas cover.

A‌ soldier, looking beat to shit, offered him a light, and he handed out cigarettes, bribing his way into goodwill. They were all lightly dusted in snow, and sleet battered collars turned up even as it got dryer.

“You’re under Lieutenant Williams, yeah? Where’d he get too?”

Weary soldiers nodded up under the cover.

“Mattie!” Alfred handed his cigarette to another man and cupped two hands over his mouth to shout over the engines. “What’re you avoiding me for? Get your sorry ass down here before I‌ start telling embarrassing stories about you.”‌

No response, no movement. Soldiers looked confused.

“Well, kiddo, guess I’m just going to have to start telling folks about—”

“Just what the fuck is so important—”‌ Matt appeared, just like that, steadying himself on the shoulder of one of his men. They glanced up, a little protective, a little annoyed. Alfred didn’t register it. Matt was a trembling pillar, his face a bright, sharp point above his uniform like a flame over a candle dyed dark with soot.

“You look like shit.”‌ Alfred raised a hand to grab Mattie’s shoulder and he slapped the hand away with a dark expression. The message was clear. He was a leader here, an officer of the ‌British army, not Alfred’s baby brother. Another word and Alfred would be tossed off the back of the truck to enforce the silence.

"Don't use me as a distraction to get out of combat." Matt snapped and disappeared back under the canvas, and Alfred let him. At least it was warmer there. He wasn't avoiding anything.

Soldiers stared at him, and he felt sweaty despite the fall air. He wasn't avoiding anything. Just because he'd had six planes shot out from under him in as many weeks and the thought of another stint in a trench made him want to die didn't mean he didn't care. He offered up cigarettes with a smile, bribing his own Americans up with him.

“Headed up to the line anyways,” He made small talk with the soldiers around him, as popular for his cigarette supply as he was for the chocolate constantly in his coat pockets. Some of them were Americans, volunteering before the US joined the war. Boys from New York, Wisconsin, and other places had easily slid across the border without needing real paperwork. The convoy slid north on the icy roads, following the advance to leapfrog ahead of the infantry currently on the front line and pushing forward to relieve the men presently fighting their way back into Belgium. He dozed between them, one of them. He didn't much like his own under a British flag, but it felt... Solid somehow, that it was with Matt. At least it wasn't the sour old fart. He was thinking about Christmas when he was startled awake.

He awoke to coughing. Everyone had a bit of one, the rough soldier’s coughs that everyone had at some point. But this was horrible, and it was constant, drawing into someone’s lungs. And he recognized it. Alfred was instantly on his feet, weaving through the legs of sleepy men. He flung open a canvas flap and took the lantern swinging on the canvas, support in hand.

Matt was sitting, barely supported between two soldiers, his helmet off, the pale of before replaced with a violent flush, mouth open to breathe, trying to suck in air. His chin was tucked into his chest, and the coughing had not stopped.

“You don’t look so good, sir.” One of the sergeants said. Matt looked up.

“Just cold.” He said, trying to smile. “Everyone’s just cold. We’ll get moving and warm up, eh?”

The laugh he forced just turned into more coughing. Alfred stood there, lantern in hand. The soldiers around Matt looked protective, staring at him like he was an enemy they needed to hide their vulnerable commander from. Then, one sidled up to him. A boy from Wisconsin with a crop of ruddy curls. He pat Alfred on the arm and knew instantly he was a mechanic’s son from Green Bay, nestled right against Canada’s belly on the Great Lakes.

“We took the edge of a gas shell last week, and he’s been coughing like that since. Won’t listen to anyone and get a rest because there’s a shortage of officers.”

“Christ’s sake,” Alfred muttered. He sidled between bodies and inserted himself between his brother and one sergeant. He popped Matt’s helmet on and got close. The professional kind of close, resisting the urge to cradle Matt like he had their entire lives.

“There’s a casualty clearing half a mile up the road. Get fed, get dry, get some sober sack time, and I’ll make sure I get you in a goddamn staff car and back up the line before they’re assaulting anything, all right?‌ Hand to God, I‌ will get you back up here if you get some fucking rest.”

Matt was still, sweating now and fading to pale. He was shaking. And then he nodded.

“Hallelujah, you stupid bastard.” Alfred muttered.

He got Matt down the end of the truck as it jolted along, hands under his brother’s arms. His coat flapped open, and Alfred batted it away from him, annoyed.

“Button your fucking coat before you get pneumonia.”‌

A deep, curdled-chest cough was his response.

“Can’t.” Matt gasped. “Got caught on a bit of wire while we were digging funk holes, tugged right off.”

Alfred sighed.

“Okay, you poor dumb fuck. Give it here.”

Matt looked confused, and Alfred resisted the urge to feel his forehead. Instead, he shrugged his great coat off.

“Swap me.” He said. Matt just stared. Alfred huffed.

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m used to it.” He said and crossed his arms over his unfastened coat. “I‌ was fucking born cold, I’ll die cold, and there’s not fuck all anyone can do about it in between.”

“Except give you a decent fucking coat you melodramatic shit.” Alfred was this close to smacking upside the head. He felt guilty for even having the thought as Matt exploded into coughing again. He dipped forward, collapsing into the bench at the far end of the truck bed, and Alfred gripped him by the waist, suddenly frightened he’d vomit or tumble over the tailgate and into the mud-churned roads. He pulled him back and took the opportunity to pull his coat off and wrap him in the better American one. Matt glared the entire time, but words were constricted by the endless wheezing when he went to speak. Alfred shoved his arms into the coat sleeves and buttoned it up, the American eagles shining in the lantern light. Matt glared daggers for a split second before he dragged in an inhale so violent he gagged. Every other soldier in the truck looked away. Alfred's chest hurt just listening.

At the next crossroads, American Red Cross nurses half-staffed the Casualty Clearing Station, and Alfred gave their commander his best, crooked, beaming smile and a wink. They gave him one of the visitor’s huts with a stove, a corrugated roof and two cots with clean sheets. Matt could barely stay on his feet. The mud sucked at his boots, and Alfred hauled him along. He considered picking Matt up entirely but wasn’t fully convinced the brass knuckles he’d mailed Matt years back had been lost somewhere along the way and wouldn’t end up embedded in his kidneys. At least not the way Matt was glaring.

He deposited Matt on a bed, dumped water from the pitcher and wash basin into a tin pot resting on the stove and cranked the stove as high as he could. It’d been almost 200 years since he’d needed someone to boil water and strange herbal plants and shove him and all the steam it could produce under a blanket.

Matt immediately listed to the side like a poorly loaded plane.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Alfred hadn’t even sat down yet. “Don’t be stubborn. Just breathe some fucking steam until you don’t sound like you’re about to die.”

“Sorry,” Came a very faint croak.

He frowned and peeked under the wool blanket. Matt had collapsed onto his side, and his eyes were squeezed shut, breathing too shallow to make him cough, but it still didn’t sound like he was getting enough of it.

“Hey.” Alfred pushed what was left of Matt’s damp curls off his forehead. He looked so strange with hair this short. It’d been shorn when Francis gave him up, and the look on him still made him look just as abandoned, even fully grown and in British green. The thought was as gone as quickly as it came.

“You are burning.” Alfred pressed a hand to his forehead. Matt’s eyes hadn’t opened. He made a gentle sound of acknowledgment but didn’t speak, like it didn’t surprise him.

“Have you had the flu yet?”‌

“No.”

“Is this—?”‌

“No.” He said. “This just… happens sometimes. I‌ didn’t take the pills because I just— wanted some sleep.”

Still wearing Matt’s coat, Alfred stuck his hand in the pocket. Unmarked bottles of pills. He only recognized the contents of one of the bottles as aspirin.

“Do I‌ want to know what’s in these?”

“No.”

“Can I ask where you got them?”

“Zee, Uncle Alasdair, Dad.”

“Let me guess, none of them knew who else was giving you what. God I am going to ban everything when we get home. Temperance is just the begin—”

Alfred was feeling uncharacteristically like a responsible older brother, ready to give Matt a whole hellfire and brimstone Baptist lecture for a moment before Matt spoke.

“I’m just glad you’re here.” He found his brother looking up at him, gratitude as evident on his face as misery.

The heavy eyes and distinctly sick flush belied an expression Alfred didn't see often. It came fast on the heels of father's anger or Matt's fear dissolving. Grateful, instantly secure and safe usually snuggled up in Alfred's side, burrowed there against his own madness or the household's hostility. He blinked and Alfred felt horrible as he teared up and then exhaled, pushing away the emotion.

But there was still something small to him. “I miss you more when I’m this pathetic. I feel better.”

"I know." Alfred pushed sweaty hair off his feverish face and gave him a tap on the chin. "Get some sleep kiddo, you know I'll keep you safe."

[veneritia]

Maddie's 2024 Writing Progress week one

↳AKA where I try to build good writing habits by challenging myself to write a minimum of 30 minutes a day

this week's progress: 4663 words written / overall draft word count is 14,971

↳ excerpt from when comes the dawn

“If there’s anything you must know about me, vi Aetier, other than that I wish for the eternal damnation of your line into the Abyss, it’s that I absolutely detest small talk. Tell me what it is you came here for before I lose my patience.” “You’re in no position to make demands of me,” Fenice sneered. She pushed her cup away and clasped her hands in her lap. “But I suppose I share your dislike of these trite socializations. I’ll be frank: your conduct was poor, your attitude abysmal, and now you are a source of embarrassment that I must live with for the foreseeable future.” “Just as planned then.”

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Relatively new to fandom (I think), and I have only recently started following them, I'd like to give flowers to @scribendis.

The layout of Laurel's blog is super neat and I love the way they write Tom Bennett.

Favourite fic of theirs: If I Didn't Care

[princesa-estrelinha]

Todos temos nosso inferno particular, mas existem pessoas que conseguem elevar nossas partículas até tocar o céu, existem pessoas capazes de nos tirar de lá e nos mostrar o céu.

•(Lapsus Scribendi)

[brincandodeserfeliz]

Minha vida era uma caixa de lápis colorido, roubaram as cores...

Lapsus Scribendi✍️

[vxnuslogy]

──────── ⵌ cacoethes scribendi ; welcome to vee's masterlist .ᐟ

the stars index ─ 𐙚 various/headcanons , ★ favorite works , 𐀔 reader's favorite , ♡ oneshots

୨ৎ GENSHIN IMPACT

୨ৎ HONKAI: STAR RAIL

୨ৎ ZENLESS ZONE ZERO

୨ৎ KAIJU NO. 8

୨ৎ BLUE LOCK

୨ৎ SERIES MASTERLIST

the author's notes ─ art credits to @.renjianshilian0 on twt for the sunday banner, other images used for the other banners are from official mangas/art of genshin, blue lock, kaiju no. 8, tbhk, and my hero academia. as always credits to @.cafekitsune for the banners used. i currently do not take requests but please don't let that deter you from sharing your own ideas with me!! please make sure you have read my rules/byf. that's all, have a great day/night my loves!

[hotd-bigbang]

Thank you so much to everyone who took part in the Winter Word Prompts event! Our next prompt event will be hosted in March, so please keep an eye out for that!

Below the cut is a list of everything everyone contributed - thank you again for all of your wonderful contributions. We have tried to be diligent in keeping a note of all contributions, however, Tumblr tags aren't always the most reliable. If you don't see your work on the list below, please let us know ASAP so we can include it.

December 4th - Fire | Furs | Forest

Drabble by @queen--kenobi

Alicent Hightower Moodboard by @barbiedragon

Little Dragon by @a-world-of-whimsy-5

Running for the Hills by @zae5

Lyonel Strong Moodboard by @apothe-roses

Kingswood by @scribendis

December 11th - Blizzard | Blankets | Berries

Rhaenicent Moodboard by @/barbiedragon

Rhea Royce Moodboard by @/apothe-roses

The Night is Dark Yet Full of Warmth by @/zae5

The Longest Night by @/a-world-of-whimsy-5

December 18th - Hoarfrost | Hibernate | Holly

Aemond x OC Moodboard by @acrossthesestars

Cherries and Wine by @/zae5

Daemyra Moodboard by @/barbiedragon

Rhaenys Targaryen Moodboard by @/apothe-roses

December 25th - Wine | Winter Sun | Wishes

Say Yes to Me by @/zae5

Another Heir by @/a-world-of-whimsy-5

Rhaegon Moodboard by @/barbiedragon

Rhaenyra Targaryen Moodboard by @/apothe-roses

[ivandurak]

Oliver Wendell Holmes’s satirical poem “Cacoethes Scribendi” (1890) takes up the insatiable disease of writing: If all the trees in all the woods were men; And each and every blade of grass a pen; If every leaf on every shrub and tree Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea Were changed to ink, and all earth’s living tribes Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, And for ten thousand ages, day and night, The human race should write, and write, and write, Till all the pens and paper were used up, And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.

Edward Hirsch. A Poet's Glossary.

[aboywithoutqualities]

E aqui estou eu mais uma vez escrevendo e pra quem sempre se encontra se afogando em sentimentos, sabe muito bem minhas motivações e minha necessidade. Tornando minhas lágrimas em palavras, talvez com o objetivo de fazer cada ferida cicatrizar, de me curar.

[quidam-vir]

part of me wants to just write all posts in Latin, really corner the nonexistent market, to gain writing practice. Maybe I'll just translate my English posts. however that sounds like a lot of work. I also don't have macrons on my computer keyboard. also the more I write in English the more I have to translate below, oh god.

pars mei vult modo scribere omnes publicationes Latine, vere capens secutores absentes, ut artem scribendi exerceam. Fortasse traducam publicationes Anglicas meas. Tamen, videtur sicut multum molimen. Et non habeo apices in clavicordia computatri mea. et plus, quod scribo, plus erit quod me oportet traducere subtus, di boni.

[o-inimitavel7]

Sabe quando você sente que poderia ser mais... mas não tem força suficiente pra isso.

Lapsus Scribendi.

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Hello :) I was wondering if you had written a baby fic about baby Mattie getting temporarily taken from Francois by Arthur and Alasdair (I think c. early 1600s). The two brothers then talked about how Mattie looked so much like Francois, but Alasdair saying that the baby was also somewhat Arthur's. sorry if this isn't yours, or if it is, if there's a possibility you could share with us again?

I do and it's mine! Or at least I do have one in the stash that more or less fits the bill. It's below the cut and also on ao3 here.

England, 1629

"He's not terribly sturdy." Arthur said, picking up the child from the drawer Alasdair had tucked him in, not yet having had a chance to carve a cradle, much less one of the extravagance Alfred's had boasted. The drawer was on the table and even in broad daylight, Matthew had been napping more than usual, unused to England. Newly woken and unused to Arthur, Matthew made a very small mewling sound, eyes flicking anxiously from Arthur to Alasdair.

"Good lord, is he frightened?" Arthur chuckled, shushing Matthew. He felt the tremble Alasdair saw and raised a brow. "Poor tiresome thing,"

"Most babies are easily frightened."

"Alfred wasn't."

"Alfred isn't a good example of normal and you know it."

"There's nothing wrong with my son!" Arthur snapped and handed Alasdair the baby back. With his temper, Alasdair half expected him to throw something but the only thing at hand was Matthew and Arthur was always gentle with children.

"I didn't say wrong! Just unusually blessed, even for our kind."

Arthur snorted, but his temper has been satiated.

"Alfred has a chance," Arthur said and nodded to the little one as he bounced him just a bit, eliciting a happy little sound from him. It was at odds with the dour look on Arthur's face. "His chances are slim. How many children lived and died in months or never appeared at all, hmm?"

"Francis said he's come this far."

"Why isn't he like Alfred, when?" Arthur shook his head. "It's not worth our effort. But if it means spiting Francis, by all means, keep wasting your time on the runt."

"Being a little less obviously favoured by god than yours doesn't make him a runt." Alasdair said and as if to agree, Matthew gave a vigorous little kick and a giggle as Alasdair smiled at him. Arthur did too, despite himself.

"Isn't that the very definition of less favoured?"

"What, being smaller?"

"Mm." Arthur said. Matthew had reached up for him and perhaps dredging up the last of his humanity, Arthur twisted off a ring so the baby wouldn't hurt himself and offered a finger. "He's hardly got a grip. Alfred would bruise me doing that and lucky children are strong."

"You weren't." Alasdair snapped. "And mother loved you."

"And look at where that got her!" Arthur shouted. "Four ungrateful children who won't even say her name at mass anymore,"

"She didn't believe in Christianity anyway," Alasdair said. "Brighid and I honour her at Samhain. In case the barrier is thinner."

"Don't discuss the dead in front of an infant, are you mad?"

"That's your superstition, Arthur. Not mine. She would be pleased you have sons."

"She would be pleased I have _a_ son." Arthur shot back. "One, Alasdair. Mother should have stopped at Brighid,"

"It's not— You know bloody well ken she didn't have a shag to make us!"

"Don't talk about mother having— Good lord. All I mean is that..."

"She'd be alive if you hadn't come around?" Alasdair finished for him, hissing so as to not startled the baby. "She would have still died, you foolish twat. The Romans came and the Saxons were still coming regardless of if you appeared in the nest like a fat little cuckoo bird instead of as her son,"

"I was not fat!" Arthur looked fit to pop, all pink and veiny. Robin-red-breast in the cheeks. Alasdair cradled the wee thing against his chest. "

"No, you weren't! the Cuckoo birds are the fat ones, ya dafte bastard. And lower your voice, you'll scare the poor bairne. Who's not responsible for your feelings, by the way."

"Alasdair," Arthur threw himself down on the parlour chair and gripped the fine carvings of its arms. "It's not that simple,"

"Och, of course its not," Alasdair rolled his eyes. "You fancy yourself a very mysterious bampot but you're very simple, Arthur, and you always have been."

"Alasdair,"

"Out with it, brother," Alasdair said. "I've not got all bloody day."

"Can I hold him again?"

"Aye, take the poor bairn but if you shout I'm tossing you down the shyte-hole. He's just fallen back asleep."

Now sitting, Arthur held the baby much more confidently, Matthew giving a little wiggle and turning his head into Arthur's doublet.

"How long was he ill?"

"He wasn't." Alasdair said. "But it was a change and the midwife and the nursemaid said he's a fine boy. Well shaped, perfectly normal, handsome little thing."

"Normal means weak," Arthur said shaking his head. "It means fevers and illness and death and humanity, Alasdair. What per cent of their children do humans lose? Half, do you think? More? I don't want another one. Alfred is hard enough to think about. And he's—"

"Built like a bloody draft horse?"

Arthur smiled, snorting. "Yes."

"This ones perfectly fine. Not as strong as Alfred doesn't mean weak."

"Yes," Arthur said, looking up at him. "It does. It means delicate."

"I think he'll live," Alasdair said. "Mother kept us alive. Kept you alive."

"You were hardly ever sick as a child. Brighid always said so." Arthur said.

"You were sick every time some godforsaken Roman rowed up with bad news!" Alasdair said. "And now look at you. Bloody well lived long enough to make me regret keeping you alive more than once."

Arthur grinned, always proud of that fact, the little ambitious cunt, but raised one eyebrow. "I was not sick that often."

"The fuck you weren't," Alasdair said. "Wretched little Britunculi mewling at mothers skirts at least twice a year because you'd rushed off without your cloak and caught a chill."

"Twice a year isn't so often!"

"Isn't it? The way you're going on about how pathetic this one is," He nodded at Matthew and Arthur scowled. He so did loath being disproven.

"You're scared to death you'll get attached to the wean and he'll break your heart."

"Be quiet,"

"Arthur," Alasdair insisted. "Don't blame a baby for your own cowardice,"

Arthur's eyes snapped up, bottle green and furious. "You think its the chance of death that scares me? Fuck you,"

"Then what?" Alasdair shot back. "What the fuck is the matter with you then?"

"The things I'll do if they live, you bellend!" Arthur adjusted his grip on Matthew's small body and looked down, incredibly sad. "The things mother did for me. The things she did for you and Brighid and Rhys too. We cease to be our own people with children. And what would have happened to her if she'd lived longer than she did? If she'd had to take sides? Two sons together? You think I want do watch them do what we've done to each other?"

"They're brothers, Arthur. You can't keep them apart."

"You don't know that. If Francis keeps this one, then its his child. Not Alfred's brother, not my son."

"They'll be far more likely to kill each other if he stays with Francis. These wars always spill out across the ocean."

"And what if that's true and this one isn't weak?" Arthur said, nodding down. "What he isn't weak the way I wasn't weak."

"You mean what if he does to Alfred what you've gone and done to all of us?" Alasdair snorted. "Well that'd certainly be ironic."

Arthur gave a groan of despair. "Alasdair, not now."

"Sorry, sorry." He grinned. "It'd be quite funny, if horrifying."

"You're mad, you do know that right?"

"And ye aren't?" Alasdair laughed. "Aye, sure, I'm the mad one alone. Not having a whole bloody clan gathering with the rest of our daft family. Arthur, Christ alive, are you going to toss him on a ship for Paris or not?"

"What? No. Regardless of what we do with him later, he should join Alfred in the nursery for now."

"He should stay there."

"We'll see."

"You know you're a fine better father than you've been a brother, Arthur."

"Somewhere I just heard a Welsh accent say that doesn't say much at all."

"Aye, you do inflict yourself like the pox." Alasdair snorted. "But I have a good feeling about this one."

His brother snorted. "That's called paternal instinct. It has nothing to do with the child's prospects."

"Francis doesn't think he's worth much at all." Alasdair pointed out. "Called me a fool since Canada is so cold."

"Not much colder than New England," Arthur said. "And Francis is a bloody fool."

The baby gave a fitful cry and balled up a little fist, fussy. Arthur shushed him and it worked almost instantly. Mathew made a contented little sound and Alasdair grinned.

"Not yours, hmm?"

"Belt up, you."

[veneritia]

Maddie’s 2024 Writing Progress week fifteen

↳AKA where I try to build good writing habits by challenging myself to write a minimum of 30 minutes a day

this week’s progress: 2,270 words written this week/ 31,188 words written this year / overall draft word count is 41,446

Camp Nano Progress: 3,217/15,000 words written

This week’s excerpt of When Comes the Dawn

The tea finished steeping just as Leda walks through the doors, a plate of finger foods in hand and Fenice’s recent acquisition following close behind. Leda bobs in a short curtsy before entering her presence, the man does not, instead pulling up a seat across from Fenice, one arm slung behind the back of the chair. “It’s done. As of this morning, ‘Orin Reiden’ will have committed suicide in his own cell for fear of further retribution after selling out his masters. The guards should be finding his body now.” Leda sets the plate onto the table, then deliberately slides it towards Fenice and away from the now-deceased Orin Reiden. Fenice rests her fingers around the base of her teacup, tracing its smoothly carved facets. “Have you chosen a new name for yourself, then?” With a flourish of his hand, he gives an exaggerated bow. “Sola Eidos at your service, your highness.” “...What a unique name that is.” “I sure hope so, I did just make it up.”

Notes:

So it turns out the thing that I was feeling the past two weeks that made it difficult to open the word doc was burnout lol. Burnout + writing myself in a corner + not having the clearest idea of what my next steps should be + finals coming up. Will still try to reach that 15k goal but I'm mostly gonna do it at a very leisurely pace.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Do you have any lesser known authors to recommend? I'd love to read fics of people with little interaction, maybe make them smile a bit

@valyrianglass @acrossthesestars @undertheorangetree @in-a-mountain-pool @helaelaemond @assortedseaglass @scribendis @troublesomesnitch @toms-cherry-trees @solisarium @zae5 @darlingofvalyria @wyldeout @ripdragonbeans @lya-dustin @asa-do-your-thing

This is a mix of authors who all write for an assortment of Ewanverse characters - some of these are purely Aemond, some are Ewanverse only, some are a mix of both (I'm assuming you're after Ewan character fics?)

I hope no one is offended by the inclusion/exclusion here - this a mixed bag of people I've recently followed, those who don't post fics quite as frequently, and those whose fics don't get the love they deserve.