Write In Shining Armour

Henlo, 'tis your neighbourhood useless scribbler, doodler and awkward dweeb. Ari, they/them (/ vae/vaer / xe/xem), UK. Writing tag is "my scribbles". (Icon by @camkablam, header by @snickerdoodles19 - go follow them!)

[scribblesofanaricat]

Heyy do you have a ko-fi?

ngl i forgot this blog existed for a while oops-

I do not; currently no plans to get one either 😔 appreciate the question though!

[angelicguy]

at my fathers funeral hitting the bong of grief

[angelicguy]

the bong of grief

[scribblesofanaricat]

do you play stardew valley or animal crossing?

Yes and yes

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Six Word Sentences

"Do what you have to do."

"Not what I came here for."

"What do you want from me?"

"Don't talk to me ever again."

"I will see you later, ok?"

"What a silly question to ask."

"I can't stop thinking of you."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Feel free to never come back."

"You are always on my mind."

"That was such a dumb idea."

"Do you have a better plan?"

"I don't feel like doing that."

"What more is there to lose?"

"Don't you see that I'm hurting?"

"I love you, but not enough."

"A little help would be great."

"You can't handle a little pressure."

"I know what I am doing."

"My life is empty without you."

"How am I supposed to know?"

"I don't want to hear it."

"This was a spectacularly bad plan."

"It's good to know you're safe."

"Don't come near me ever again!"

"What a silly thing to say."

"I couldn't care less about you."

"This is not what I expected."

"Where are my manners, my dear."

"I can't risk losing you again."

[taohun]

did you guys see the poem from a couple of days ago in poetry dot org’s daily poem it was so good and a treat to read 

[taohun]

been thinking about it since i read it 

[cuttingstone]

deadbeat transmasc guy lounging around in a binder and smoking

[arcenergy]

why would your oc be considered bad lgbt rep

kills people

unbelievably manipulative

just fucking sucks to be around

doesnt fit into societal expectations of lgbt people

not lgbt (🤨)

pathetic loser

has commitment issues

pulls 0 bitches

alternatively, is fucking everyone

other (say it in the tags)

Voting ended onMar 2, 2023

[389]

from an issue of Playboy from 1972

[hispanicdisorder]

imagine flipping through 20 pages of topless women, then you turn the page and see this

[rainysauruswreck]

dr t j eckleburg

[wonderstruck]

If you see this you’re legally obligated to reblog and tag with the book you’re currently reading

[yeahwrite]

Social experiment! What is harder to write: dialogue, description or exposition?

[scribblesofanaricat]

“not all men” you’re right, Mr Quincey P. Morris would never

[vault-heck]

We all love the "becoming the very thing you sought to destroy," trope. but I have a growing fondness for "destroying the very thing you sought to become"

[scribblesofanaricat]

The gloves are pulled on slowly, with incongruous care, joining T-shirt, belt, jeans, boots on that. That small, pallid, unimpressive figure in the mirror. Bandaged with the razor-edge of honesty hidden in the folds of their clothes.

Bits of fabric where lie any worth they could conceivably have.

I’ve never considered myself important. As for striking...how could I? Eyes too darkly shadowed. Skin not nearly clear enough. Hair too uncooperative. Teeth not nearly straight enough. Demeanour too awkward. Silhouette not nearly elegant enough. And far too many mornings locking gazes with that figure getting ready for the day, wondering desperately how it’s possible to be ridiculously too much and hopelessly not enough at the same time.

I’m a product of the twenty first century. I see people like me so much more often than I ever would in decades past - yet they’re not like me at all. They’re like the ghosts of who I wish I was. They smile just as I would, if I could. At times, the fact of it grazes my heart with how close it comes to breaking it.

A battle, a storm spanning years. It might seethe on my whole life. That’s what the gloves are for, or my shoes. Or a shirt alive with colour and pattern, buttoned below where my necklaces rest. Or a handful of badges pinned like medals to anywhere they can be. Fragments of iron and steel and sword and shield. On the strength of them, on the scraps of relief that feel like a banquet, I can open my door and try behind to look the world in the eye behind blackish-blue spectacles, even during those times when I’d rather see it all through a blur.

This is my battle. The figure beyond the glass is my army to equip and to command and to sustain.

My army to take care of...take pride in.

So I keep climbing out of bed in the morning to wield it and I keep choosing armour for it to wear. Colours for it to honour.

[creekfiend]

Ok so the thing about reading like books which are “predictable” is that I, a story enjoyer, go completely bonkers about it bc its like Enrichment in my Enclosure. A scene parallels another earlier scene between different characters thus serving to highlight the differences in their views and priorities???? A line makes me think “hmmm I bet that’s gonna be relevant later” ends up being relevant later????? I am a tiger chewing ice cubes out of a pumpkin. I’m so so happy. Please foreshadow more things. Throw the completely anticipateable plot beats at me like catnip mousies!!!!!

[creekfiend]

YEAH!!!!!!

[gayahithwen]

When I see a rifle on the wall, I want to see that rifle being fired! I’m literally on the sidelines shouting “Chekov! The gun! Get the gun, Chekov!”

[daffodilsandbumblebees]

IT'S QUINCEY MORRIS WITH A STEEL CHAIR

[camkablam]

a very self-indulgent cuphead/stray inspired thing to get me into actually doing things again. it's me with a graphics tablet for a head :)

[writing-prompt-s]

Death sighed. He always hated seeing the end of a species, and today he would collect the soul of the last human.

[scribblesofanaricat]

Death watched the little one - yes, little one; the imprints left by weather within and without, the lines forking into lines inked into their crushed-paper skin, were proof enough. That humans were fragile things hadn’t been an especially slow lesson. Not when it shone fervent and tenacious in that unassailable belief that they were the drops of lifeblood in the void, that they alone were the universe.

Fool’s gold.

The universe had lived long. It would live still.

They watched him right back as a parent would their sick child, as a god would what their hand had wrought. So many of them - so, so many - had looked at him that way when he came to secure his dues. This time, he understood.

Something he had never fathomed out, though, was whether their souls could hear. He never would.

It’s time.

They knew, he sensed instantly. Had been waiting, perhaps for what they would call a long time. That, too, had nothing extraordinary intrinsic to it. It struck him as different somehow, though, that this particular wasted face, these certain dents for eyes, was awaiting him from what was (to them) a corpse of a world. This was one for whom he would not be a gruelling bastard.

And he collected. He caught them, swiftly, silently. Feather light, they always felt next to him. Little ones.

He spoke further, harbouring no real hope of being heard.

Humans... How they resembled one another, much more than any of them had likely ever known. You played magnificently.

You were creators, builders, pioneering, pitiless, inexorable. You owned everything and nothing.

You were good.

He looked back at their impression of reality, trailing behind him as a length of some beautiful, abominable ribbon. Now...now they were, at long last, after a quadrillion blinks of an eye, quits.

And nothing and nobody will remember it.