#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]

Choices

The Dreadnoughts song "Brisbane Harbor" opens with "Prick your finger it is done, turn your face into the sun." i.e. the subject of the song has signed onto this journey for ill or good and regardless has to make the best of it and return with his humanity intact. This is one of those moments where that choice is made. This is one of the most experimental, darkest and nastiest things I've ever written. TW for several flavors of violence and trauma and several flavors of assault while I'm at it. This is also a take on a reversal of the myth of the crucified Canadian. I did my best to be as fleeting and undescriptive about things as I could but It's still fairly nasty. Please keep that in mind if you choose to read. Your own eyes are responsible for your own emotions from here on out as you have been warned.

March, 1916.

Zee?” Jack opened the length of tent canvas that served as a door and shoved his way inside. “Zee what happened?”

She sat on a cot, or maybe an officer’s folding chair. He doesn’t know. Just that the blanket around her shoulders is open and her shirt is torn and he’s never been so angry and afraid in his life in that moment, his grip going white on the beam holding up all this canvas. But she looks at him and he shoves it down, shoves it where it can come up for air later when he can scream to the heavens because he can’t right now. She’s looking at him the way she’s looked at him when she died of scarlet fever, terrified of nothing but the way she went quiet when she was in pain and how the world around her and the people in it could drown her out in a way they never could when she was well.

There were people around her. Father, their uncles, Matt, nurses and officers, buzzing around like fucking carrion birds. She was shaking and looked at him, and he could tell she’d been crying and she looked at the people around her, touching her and getting in her space and the strain was unbearable. She was an island, she liked the waters clear around her.

“Get out!” He bellowed. He shoved the nearest red tab and stuffed him out the tent flap and kicked another one on the arse to follow besides. “Get out! Get away from her!” Dad looked up, bewildered but didn’t need any explaination to start ordering the same, the old lion roaring that he’d kill them all if they didn’t move, didn’t get out, didn’t leave them be. He gives Jack a look as if to ask permission for something.

He’s not sure he loves his father, since Gallipoli but they love her. Jack practically throws people out of his way and Zee is arms out, sobbing, crushing the distance of the Tasman before he can even open his arms to hold her. Dad gives one last look and Jack knows he'll be outside with Matt, prowling and protecting them but the last glance he gives is sad and Jack is glad. Maybe he'll see what he's done, letting high spirits, including Jack's own, throw them into a war without a way out. Zee turns, trying to get more contact and he can see a bruise on her shoulder.

“What happened?” He demanded. “What did they do?”

“Ludwig— He—” She made a wretched sound and his heart hurt so much for her.

“Did he hurt you?” He rested his cheek on her head and held her tighter trying so much just to not melt down just hearing the fear in her. "If he touched you—"

“No!" Zee said. "No, not like that. It's Ludwig he's never even looked at a girl. He jumped me behind the lines to make sure I knew he could. I fought—"

"Course you did!" Jack agreed. "I'm sure you put the fear of God into him!"

"I took a chunk out of him." She said and he could still see a smudge of blood on her cheek to prove it. "And I could have thrown them all out just now too!"

She cried. And he almost laughs, because of course she could. She could howl down the roof of the world with those geysers of hers and the windpipe to match.

“I know.” He said. “But its not like Dads good for much these days. Good to let him feel useful. Proper kind of you.”

She barked out a laugh but a sob came so quickly on its heels he started up with her, blinking down tears.

"What do you need?" He said.

The crying started again and his shirt was getting damp.

"I won't be Aunt Brighid!" She blurted. "I won't spend my fucking life one step ahead of armies waiting for the sack."

"Not as long as I'm breathing!" He said. Because that's the easy part. It's the quiet part, the reassuring and God awful stillness of it that's harder.

He doesn’t have time to say before she's pulling away from him, not far enough she has to let go of his hand but far enough to look at him and look at him hard.

"Take Matt and hunt him down and make sure he knows there are consequences! You tell him if he touches any of us, he and the Prussian bastard will pay for it! I am not some fucking piece on the board to be terrified and played this way or that. Do you hear me? I won't! I won't be tossed around like that ever again. And then you come back in one piece because I'm going to need another hug."

"He won't dare." Jack said, and kissed her hair, meaning it more than anything. "If he's not already terrified of you he will be. And I'll be quick."

"Don't kill him." Zee said. "He doesn't deserve it."

_______

"Give me your bayonet and back off," Matt commands in that low tone of voice that reverberates through the trees, through the fog and the smoke and the night, driving deep into Jack's belly where fear should be. But there is little there since Gallipoli, and even less since Zee stumbled off the line with her collar torn and her eyes wild. He hands over the bayonet.

Matt has shucked his helmet. His hair is shorn, and his face is dark like a thunderstorm above the outback, the kind that threatens to shatter Jack's entire continent asunder. Ludwig is pinned to the fake tree that Matt himself had occupied only moments before, lying in wait like a wolf spider until the right German, Germany himself, had stumbled across the mud. Matt had sprung the trap, and Ludwig had fallen. He stands now, pinned to the tree with bayonets spiked through his wrists, Christlike.

"You don't deserve to be martyred," Matt snarls as he hammers the third bayonet into the thin slice of muscle and clothing just next to the groin. Jack clenches as he sees how near the crux of Ludwig's thighs it lands. Matt draws in close.

"If you ever touch them again, I will find you. And I won't miss. Are we understood?"

There's a sluggish nod as piss and blood mix and trail down the grey trousers. Jack can't really look at Ludwig's face. Their enemy—wire-thin, half-starved—stands there. Matt has no guilt, but Jack—wracking guilt is worse than the medieval torture rack, the way it floods, hot and bile-like through Jack's veins, replacing his blood and his brain and his sense and his sincerity. Matt's knife comes out, the long wicked thing he had carved Jack a tiny lopsided koala with when he'd been tiny and miserable in London that first Christmas more than a century before. Jack wants to vomit. The knife comes up, swinging horribly accurate in Matt's hands, blurring in the dark with a glint that shines like a sparking telegraph wire strung between his brother's hand and Germany's sternum. Jack's hand lifts and stays Matt's hand.

"Enough!" he says before he can stop himself. "That's enough! He gets the picture!"

"He hurt her. This was her idea."

"He scared her. It's war. And you've scared him and more. Fucking hell Matt, look at him. We're supposed to be the good side, and this—this isn't good!"

"I don't care," Matt snarls, turning the same tone on Jack that he had just used on Ludwig. "Crawl back and hide behind Zee's skirts if you want! I'm finishing this."

"Finishing what? The war? Does your entire country collapse when they kill you? No! Stop it! Walk away before you lose yourself, Matt!"

Matt's eyes flicker up. Even the rich blue of them has dissolved into the mud with the last of his decency, or maybe the gas since he healed from the chlorine, leaving pale irises to blend into the whites. Jack thinks it might be too late. Matt's humanity might be gone, dissolved into France the way it had come into being.

"This isn't what Zee wants," he says instead. "She doesn't want it to happen like this. She doesn't want this. And it's her who's hurt that matters here. Not yours. This is not about the gas, Matt. Do you hear me? You will be walking over her wants her as much as he did if you continue. This is not what she wants!"

Her shaking, Aunt Brighid's screams. He puts more pressure on Matt's knife hand and stares him down.

Matt's face doesn't change. Ludwig, who has been silent this long, looks at Jack like Jack gives a shit about what happens to him, and not the dozen times Zee has made the choice to be a human being. The dozens more he has for her sake and his own. Not this piece of shits. The knife draws up and Jack thinks for one horrendous moment Matt will slit another throat in front of him but he doesn't lose his grip on Matt's wrist, and after a long moment, Matt looks at him, really looks at him.

His face gives nothing, but he plucks up the bayonets, stepping back with a look of mild disgust when Ludwig's blood stains his sleeves. Not guilt, not even regret. Jack feels something horrendously like fear then.

"I will hunt you down and put you down like a rabid dog if you touch my family again. I don't care what agreement exists between your brother and my father. I will hang the pieces of your body where every German will see, where your brother will find you, part by part. Speak you understand or I'll do it right now. As long as I'm breathing they are as untouchable as Alfred. Do you understand?"

Jack looks away.

[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

[pequena-afrodite]

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)

[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!

[brincandodeserfeliz]

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

Lapsus Scribendi✍️

[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]

My brain is back on its ukrcan bullshit. Katya has been fighting for her life her entire life. The greatest and often worst warrior cultures Europe ever produced populated her rivers from the west, the greatest horsemen her plains from the east. Great is not good, not here. Her blood is her soil. She rests on the bones of millions. She is where empire's die, she waters her growth with their blood. Russians, Vikings, Pechenegs, Germans, Ottomans, Magyars and Mongols. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and she rises like the stalk of a sunflower from it all.

And here is a boy before her, with a soul made of the same black earth as her own. Different, but still built upon the bones of those before and below. He has the capacity for the great acts of evil. His siblings and even his parents recoil in horror at what blood he can draw when he must. Katya does not. She recognizes it, the need for the skill, and the need to water one's own life with blood. She does not recoil.

But at the end of the first great war she plucks the blade from his hand. She commands his sister and his uncle, if they love him, to drum him and his gas seared lungs out of the army and send him home. Do not let him join the Polar Bear Expedition. She knows the whites have lost before another civil war has erupted from the violence of this first great war. Perhaps she writes to his brother, who did not come of age in the Great Game against her brother. Perhaps she harnesses his idealism in her favor, appeals to the zealot in him and tells him to save his brother's soul. Take him home. Keep his soul safe. Perhaps she is in the West, to command her case for independence as short lived as it is. Or perhaps she only writes after he has blooded her brother in the far north, dropping his rail guns and feeding her again on the blood of bolsheviks he turns to mist and gore. Perhaps he gets south, perhaps within reach of her. Perhaps he's strapped to the chair of a prisoner of war in a Kyiv prison like his countrymen when she says hello, I love you, good bye, survive.

In her hand on paper, his face in her hands, in his dreams, or maybe only in her prayers she wills him to let the soft in him survive. That she does not care what he does, the softness in him must live.

The boy who asked her to live with him with a loaf of bread in his hands, the ones her people use for weddings. The one who could braid her hair while she slept next to him in the light of dawn just because he thought it beautiful. She pinned those braids into the marriage style peeking out from under the scarf that will change his people's sense of themselves forever. The boy who put her first wherever he could and asked for nothing but her affection, if he had earned it.

She has blood enough of her own, steel enough of her own. She does not need his.

She needs his hands without the blood on them. He must go home, hammer his sword into the scythe. Reap not souls but the wheat from the black earth soil he learned to love as he loves her, as she learned to love him. He must hang lace curtains in his windows and pull bread from the earthen oven and love her. Be as the queen of Ithaca, as the Greeks who once rested on her Black Sea ports spoke of. He does not weave and unweave a shroud, because she cannot be killed anymore than the Gods who meddle in the affairs of man could. Perhaps instead of a Greek's shroud it is the embroidery is burned into him as obvious as the veins in his winter pale wrists. But he sings her songs, un-sings them, re-sings them in a thousand riffs in her languages, in his, in all of them. And perhaps, where the Queen of Ithaca took her signs from Poseidon, they take theirs from each other. Maybe her language has soaked into him like the blood or the hard driving rains of the steppe and the prairies into that black soil soul and when he prays it isn't to a God he doesn't believe in but to her. Maybe those words flow across oceans and ideology and he can hold her hand for a moment in their dreams while they wait, wait, and wait for better days. A reminder of a softer dawn that may yet bring forth a brilliant blue day to paint her hair and her wheat as gold and endless as the horizon.

[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.