#Which gives me carte blanche to just like. Go ham as it were | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

swaps55 · 4 years

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Please consider this ask carte blanche to just go ham on whatever you want :P

Ha, THANK YOU for indulging me.

I’m going to babble about Sonata for a minute.

Do you have any idea how complicated those first two chapters were to write?

They were really complicated.

The problem with Sonata is it was supposed to be a one-shot distraction from my other WIP. Which dives into all my headcanon about Kaidan and Shepard’s pre-Normandy service record.

Well, the beast that Sonata has become draws on all of that headcanon. But...none of it has been posted yet. So, I was faced with the challenge of putting a lot of chess pieces on the board all at once in ways that weren’t a really boring exposition dump. Those pieces include....

Shepard and Kaidan have a pre-Normandy service history.

The ship they served on was destroyed in the Battle of the Citadel, killing everyone they served with.

Kaidan has a very complicated relationship with his parents.

Shepard has a very complicated relationship with his mother.

Shepard once went home with Kaidan to the orchard, because it was Kaidan’s first time seeing his parents after enlisting, and he wanted backup.

On that trip, Kaidan’s parents made the assumption that they were in the relationship.

Kaidan does not know they made that assumption (which requires explaining why that wouldn’t come up).

They are being ordered Vancouver to take part in an inquest into the Battle of the Citadel.

Kaidan has a desperate crush on Shepard.

Joker knows about it.

Kaidan has wicked survivor’s guilt from Virmire.

That’s a lot of shit to establish right out of the gate, and it goes in a lot of different directions. It took forever to find the right shape for it all, to create tonal shifts that didn’t give everyone whiplash, and to ensure it felt like reader would get the info they needed in a way that felt organic, as opposed to me shoving a spoonful of plot and exposition down your throat until you choke on it.

It was worth the headache. The really cool part? The way I have had to work all the backstory into this story has taught me a lot about how I need to approach the original WIP once I get back to it.

#ferociousqueak #swaps replies #meme replies #mememe #THANK YOU for this ask!

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impersonal-diarist · 5 years

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walls of text are intimidating, but so is life. they both go on.

I smelled the scent of wet wood on the driest of days, the smell of fresh April rains on a scorching July night, and I thought how long it had been since I had smelled them before. It had been well over a handful of years, back in the days when adults consciously coddled me, when I could be admired, seen as mature, for the way I neatly curved my letters or my use of a three-sentence paragraph. The smells whisked me back to wherever I had been lost from, yet the feeling was gone just a few footsteps past the scene. How much had I missed in that distance from the hill of sweetness to the bottom of reality? Was I absent in the smell, or had I been absent in the years leading up to the catharsis? Were the smells worth missing, would I trade in the past year of growth for such comforting nostalgia and innocence? I was most obviously alone in the moment, as the experiences in the prologue were exquisitely my own, but would I have even known if I wasn't alone? When does the prologue end and chapter one begin? As you flip from the Roman numerals to the digits of familiarity, you don't begin with number one, you resume where archaea left off. The only true separation from the beginning of the beginning and the beginning is a single blank page. The page representing catharsis, emptiness, solitude, and agony of carte blanche. The turning of that page is so abrupt that page zero hardly gets recognition for its symbolism, its meaning. We are so eager to keep moving that we hardly take time to reflect or comprehend. How many moments are passed on the page without writing? How many moments does it deserve? I am the blank page myself, but, unmarked with explicit text, I do not know my place in the story. Am I between the prologue and page fourteen? The epilogue and acknowledgments? More likely, I belong with all those misfitted souls, the awkward place holders between the cover and the title. Or perhaps, I am the title page, the only thing concrete about myself being my name and my date. Ramble as I might about the contents of my life story, we all know the hasty yet lasting judgments are made based on the cover, that which I have no power to control. The wisened and patient have taken the time to read my scant blurb and proceed to peruse my beginning, liking, sometimes loving, what they read. So why do I care, why am I spiraling because of mulch and stinky blossoms, why am I hiding behind long sentences in a self-destructive attempt to dissuade them from reading? I care because first impressions, though crushing, mean nothing. Books can turn so sour so fast, and how would I know if mine were any different? I care because no matter how hard I squint, no matter how many thinking maps I draw, no matter how many different lights I use to scour the fibers of the margins, I can't make out the writing in between the lines, can't begin to fathom what happens in chapter two. I am a beta reader to my own life story, I am an author forever trapped within an ARC. I care because the writer knows a different book than the first reader, the second reader, and so on. I care because the second opinion seems to be the only opinion that matters to me, though the hardest to obtain. Will they tire of reading my story if I continue to watch them read? Have we been given different editions? Why are their pages embossed in gold and mine a smudgy yellow? Why am I forbidden to read the reviews on the back? I've arrived at a book signing to see the ones giving autographs didn't write the book at all, and the book itself is just a crude manuscript. I am an agent chiding about deadlines, I am an editor going ham with the red pen, only to run out of ink. A writer is nothing without their reader, and I am a debutante fawning over the first sprinkles in a violent storm. Give a child required reading and they may trudge through it, obstinately detesting the ordeal, but let the very same book fall into their hands through their own volition and they may love it. Do they love me, the book, for my content, or do they just love how they "found me" on their own? Life is a twisting game of Candy Land, each space being its own complicated game, and I've only moved twice. It's a game of overthinking and unintentional manipulation, and I feel like the pinata and the end of the road, forever being hit, faithfully smiling, eager to reward nonetheless. The last card I picked up was lime green like sod pretending to be eternal, and the directions were just clear enough to make me question myself. I smile whenever I see it, but I wonder if he means it. If I was smart, I could have used that card as the final stroke, the one to win the game in the third round. Yet instead, I stared at the bridge doubtfully until it weathered away. I could take that path, sure to success, bring him along as the card recommended I should, but I did not. Why? My life story is my own required reading, and I am equally the stubborn child and the absent-minded adult. I'm not sure if they see it, but I truly am young at heart, and no matter how anxiously I await the age when I can truly allow myself to feel the freedom they've so long tried to give me, no matter how much Locke or Hume I read to speed up the process, I can't age the pain away. How frustrating it is to both act and be treated like an adult, yet not to let yourself believe you deserve it. Somehow, for some reason, I believe they've stacked the deck in my favor, they've skipped ahead to the last page which I have yet to print. That is why I feverishly check for publishing emails, why I keep watching their hands closer than I watch my turns, why I lose the game for keeping the lime green card close to my sentimentality instead of using it for its intended purpose.

#nostalgia #anxiety #self doubt #random thoughts #overthinking #i have no idea #what am i doing with my life #i swear i'm not depressed #relatable #writing

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ivemetyouathousandways · 5 years

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Scrambled eggs, like scrambled feelings

Oksøy Lighthouse - Oksøy Fyr - Norway - Saturday 7:30 am

“The boat is in the opposite direction.” He protested as I dragged him to the side of the lighthouse.

"I know. But that side is ...I mean look at it!”

I expected a snazzy remark along the lines of “Yes, I know, I happen to live here. In fact, I was born here. I even grew up here! Imagine that! Some forty-five odd years around the neighborhood!.” But Sven was above those petty levels and simply followed me.

The wind had calmed down, even on this coastal island edge, the swashing and lapping of the waves against the rocky shores was the most soothing sensation and for a moment I completely spaced out, vaguely being conscious of Sven’s warm hand holding mine, maybe imagining the slow shift of his body behind mine, the pulling back hug, his hands still on mine. The sky was of a magnificent alleviating blue, the ocean, a marvelous rich, nurturing, perfect deep blue. I wanted to drown in the healing blue, caressed and rocked and carried away by the wind.

“Why are you really in Norway?”

His voice, a warm whisper in my ear, was like a therapist’ voice, reassuring, inviting to truly open up.

“I’m trying to mend a stupid ass broken heart.” I whispered in one go, suddenly out of breath, wondering if I had answered his question or if I was confessing to the roaring ocean.

“Heart aches and heartbreaks are never stupid.” His hug tightened and I felt a kiss on the back of my head. “They are hard, the wounds sting bad, but they also teach us. Did you know that the Japanese value broken vases and bowls which they repair with gold? Wounds and scars paint a beautiful unique portrait of the soul.”

I let my head rest against his shoulder and fully savored the moment; his arms around me, his body keeping mine warm, the refreshing wind keeping a reality check on me. I wanted to burst into tears and sob a little, the magnificence of this moment would, sooner or later, end, and I didn’t want to face that eventuality, not even the thought of. I rolled the memory of his kiss on my tongue, the warmth, the passion, the hunger. My answer wasn’t any lesser than his demands. It had been sweet and scary at the same time. I didn’t want to catch feelings, I didn’t want to hurt him, but I was already comfortably snug cocooning in this infatuation.

Thank you, Sven, for this magnificent moment.

I gladly let him operate the small motored boat on the way back to mainland, my ego had been satisfied on the way here, more or less successfully proving him that I could, in fact, maneuver the damned thing on my own. And I had enjoyed every single of peek I had at his face, both dubious and relieved that I didn’t cause a double drown in freezing cold waters.

“We just passed a coffee shop.” I mentioned as we did in fact elongated the distance between us and a gorgeous cozy little shop I was excited to try out.

“I know.” He smiled smug back at me.

“I guess you have a favorite spot?”

I should have thought of that.

“You can say it like that - yes.” He smiled again.

I wanted to play a game, but I felt childish and silly and very stupid. Back in my college years, whenever I went out with a friend, and mind you, this was downtown Montreal, with cars and traffic lights and a myriad of by-passers in the heat of the noon hour when everyone around downtown was out and about for lunch and leisure, I randomly closed my eyes, as he was holding my hand, and I let him guide me around the streets to wherever he was taking me for lunch at.

I tripped on something and felt Sven’s arm suddenly slide around my shoulders to catch me.

“What are you doing?” He snapped, worried.

“Playing a game.” I made an effort not to open my eyes. “I close my eyes and see how far I can trust you.”

“You often play this game?”

“Only with whom I deem worthy of a shot.”

He tightened his grip a notch. My heart accelerated. How to kill a flame; be a stupid rogue on not even official date.

“Watch your step.”

I poked my toe against a small concrete elevation. I couldn’t tell just how long we had walked. I had selfishly enjoyed it. Sounds of the village. Sounds of our steps on the dirt paths or concrete streets. Random chitter-chatter from people passing us by. The chirping or birds. The wind. The distant roar of the ocean fading but ever present, a distant echo reminding us that were on an island still. Cars rolling past us. His silence, beautiful, comforting.

He put both hands on my shoulders and I could feel his warm breath against my ear once more.

“You can open your eyes now.”

I had a bit of a shock when I recognized his kitchen counter and coffee machine neatly aligned in front of me.

“You impressed with that boat earlier this morning. Safe to assume I can trust you with this piece of machinery.”

Real funny, Sven.

“When we were at the lighthouse, I wanted to say “let’s go home and you can make me coffee” but I think it would have been too soon.”

My heart squeezed delightfully in my chest. Let’s go home - not: let’s go back to my place and i’ll let you maneuver the coffee machine.Oh! Miniature Illy avatar was swooning all over the place.

“So - euhm - you tell me where you store the ingredients or do I roam free in your cabinets?”

“You managed to go around by yourself in a country with a non Latin based writing system, I think you can handle roaming around my cabinets and cupboards.”

Miniature Illy was about floating in sparkly glittery popping hearts. I tried not to smile stupidly like a lost enamored high school girl.

Sven then casually sat down at the kitchen table and opened the newspaper laying there. Was it last night’s evening paper or even older or this morning’s paper? Did an actual paper boy deliver it before the crack of dawn?

“Can I ...” I started and suddenly felt intimated by my bold inspiration.

“Can you...” He repeated, giving me his full attention.

“Can I make you breakfast?” I spurted out with half a grimace.

He then froze in a a near perfect still shot, morphed into incredulous bewilderment, and exploded in a fit of laughter.

“Yes!” He said between two fits of laughter “Yes, you may make me breakfast.” He picked up the newspaper “Matter of fact, I’ll even give you carte blanche.”

I cracked my fingers and took a deep breath. Time to have a goddamned plan! And hopefully not break his coffee machine...

The sound of a quiet morning in a random kitchen in Norway. Someone turning the pages of a printed newspaper. Someone’s soft peaceful breathing. The dripping drop by drop of a coffee machine brewing coffee, cracking eggs, beating them in a bowl. A car passing by in the distance. The roaring ocean nearer - just outside the window - a few steps in the backyard. A tourist lost and found in a small village at the other end of the world. I loved villages at the end of the world. I came from one, I felt home in them. My secret hide out, safe places. Harasztkerék, Targu Mures, Romania. Doolin, County Clare, Ireland. Skålevik, Vest-Agder county, Norway. Someone turning a few pages of a printed newspaper. A loud thump against the front door.

My heart skipped a beat, then decided to race furiously in my chest. I was happily surveying the delicate mix of cheese with scrambled eggs over a hot gas stove. They were near perfect ready. Bread was patiently laying on a plate, ready to welcome a luxurious coat of thick rich scrambled eggs with bits of ham and a heavy load of gooey melted cheese.

Sven calmly put the paper down and smiled reassuringly, but I noted concern on his face.

“Stay here. It’s okay. Nothing to worry about.”

The weariness of his tone informed me he was no stranger to whatever situation was unfolding outside. But I worried. Human nature - you can’t escape that shit. I tried to muster as much self control as I could to garnish the bread slices with the thick rich mix of scrambled eggs and melted cheese, sprinkled a few more bits of ham on top, instagram dropped a few tomato slices and, at fault of having proper baby pickles - I would have to touch a word about this to him - dropped in a small string of grapes.

The proper thing would have been to patiently wait for his return, enthuse about the breakfast and play as if nothing had disrupted the otherwise perfect little morning, but I never qualified as a proper lady following the proper course of actions. I was the lovable rogue who did what pleased her; take it or leave it. After having neatly laid the plates on the table and poured coffee in two mugs, I decided that I was dead curious to see what had caused the incidental ruckus outside and found Sven taking photos of a bloody crime scene.

“Can you fetch me a few Q-tips?” His tone was monotone, matter of fact, instructor giving directives to an apprentice. “Bathroom is on the second floor, first door on your left. Medicine cabinet mirror.” He continued. “And a Ziploc bag from the kitchen on your way out. Takk!*” He smiled briefly, but I could see the lassitude on his face.

I rushed in the house like horror movie victim running for her sweet life, sped up the stairs two steps by two, busted in the bathroom out of breath and opened the mirrored medical cabinet to find a cute little glass square box of said Q-tips of which i snatched few, cussing myself out midway down that I should have fetched them using a piece of toilet paper - but it was too late now, my finger prints were on them, or partial finger prints at least. I found the box of plastic sandwich bags in the pantry and allowed zero concerns this time, a trip at the local police precinct would be an adventure on it’s own!

Sven was on the phone when I carefully stepped out, trying not to touch the outside of the door. Big bloody red letters spelled out HORE and something in the forefront of my mind told me that the Norwegian spelling was about just a letter missing from it’s English equivalent, but I failed to understand the context and how or why the word was painted on this man’s front door.

‘Takk, takk. Jeg venter” He hung up the call.

“The precinct will send an officer over shortly.” He informed me.

“Is that... real blood?”

“Pig's blood. Yes.”

The odd realization of the fact froze me in place.

“Why...”

“My daughter’s ex boyfriend didn’t take it too well that she moved away; went to live in England with her mother and her new husband.”

Just how much can one morning hold and not break the fragile thread being weave between two people ?

Takk = Thanks!

jeg venter = i’ll be waiting

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sinkingcanoe · 7 years

Text

A Scene From The Past (where we look back and laugh)

Summary: Pidge wasn’t allowed to go shopping by herself for two reasons: number one, she’d live off sandwiches and microwave corn dogs if left to her own devices, and number two, she couldn’t reach the bottom of the cart to unload without climbing into it. She had no problem with this, but for some reason the store employees did.

As such, it was mostly Shiro shopping while Pidge ‘supervised’, at least at the beginning. The problems started in the cereal aisle.

Warnings: None

Pairings: Gen, Shiro & Pidge/Katie Holt

Characters: All paladins (briefly), Shiro, Pidge

Complete, chapter 1/1, wordcount: 1464

Series: The Frat House AU no one wanted

On AO3

“I need someone to go shopping with me,” Pidge said blandly.

Predictably, no one answered. Shiro probably would have normally, out of a sense of duty; at the moment, though, Shiro was making blam blam noises at the first person shooter game every time he killed an alien.

Never one for patience, Pidge crept silently up behind the couch, easily hidden under the sound of the explosions. She paused for a moment, observing the scores and player positions. Then, she mercilessly reached out and tugged the white chunk of Shiro’s hair.

Shiro jerked, prosthetic hand clenching on his remote with a worrying crunch. Keith looked over, startled, and lost track of the game.

And, just as Pidge predicted, Lance took both of them out immediately.

As soon as their attention was drawn back to the tv, Keith and Shiro realized her trick.

Hunk screeched, ducking his player under a building overhang before he could be killed as well. “Lance, we said no sniping! Sniper no sniping, sniper no sniping!”

“This isn’t Dora, dumbass, that won’t save you!”

“Pidge!” Keith hissed, to all appearances mortally offended, “how could you? I was going to win this time!”

“Shut up, Mullet, you were not!” Lance retorted, raiding Keith and Shiro’s characters for dropped items.

Shiro simply looked down at his mangled controller in frustration, half-heartedly trying fit the broken casing back together.

“Dude,” Hunk said, peering briefly across Keith at Shiro, “you really did a number on that thing, geeze.” At Shiro’s apologetic eyebrow scrunch he shook his head, backpeddling, “Not that Pidge and I can’t fix it, no biggie!”

That brought the focus back around to Pidge, standing there watching the chaos like a smug cat knocking knick-knacks off the shelves. “ So, who wants to go shopping with me?”

“Ooh,” Lance said, pausing the game and perking up. “Me, definitely me! Can we hit Sephora?”

“Grocery shopping, Lance. For food.”

“Oh. Yeeeeeah, I’m out then.”

Hunk squinted at Pidge, confused. “I went grocery shopping, like, two days ago?”

“Yeah, but some people ate all the sandwich supplies. And we’re out of soda again.”

“Who ate all the ham already?” Keith demanded.

Lance raised a hand, shameless. “Me. It was delicious.”

“Of course,” Keith muttered, crossing his arms.

“Focus, guys,” Shiro cut in. “Regardless of who ate it, clearly we need more.”

“Agreed,” Hunk said easily. “But I already did my duty this week, so I’m out.”

“Fair enough,” Pidge said. “So. Are you three drawing straws or playing rock paper scissors?”

As usual, it was rock paper scissors. As usual, Shiro lost.

The man had a killer poker face, but whether he used his left hand or his right, his reaction time on hand-shapes was too shoddy--which meant he always used paper, which everyone knew .

Keith and Lance both threw down scissors and high-fived.

“Have fun, space dad,” Hunk called out, grinning.

Shiro rolled his eyes, grabbing his vest from the overflowing coat rack--the closet would flood feather boas if he opened it for his jacket--and searching for his wallet. “Lance?”

Blindly, Lance tossed over Shiro’s wallet, back to playing against Hunk. Pidge grabbed it mid-air before Shiro could, unfolding his string of cat pictures.

“Uh, Pidge? I need that to drive.”

Pidge waved a hand, studying one she hadn’t seen before. “You’re fine as long as it’s in the car with you, man.”

“I…” Shiro shrugged, helpless. “C’mon, then.”

***

Pidge wasn’t allowed to go shopping by herself for two reasons: number one, she’d live off sandwiches and microwave corn dogs if left to her own devices, and number two, she couldn’t reach the bottom of the cart to unload without climbing into it. She had no problem with this, but for some reason the store employees did.

As such, it was mostly Shiro shopping while Pidge ‘supervised’, at least at the beginning. The problems started in the cereal aisle.

“Okay, Mini Wheats or Fruit Loops?”

Pidge looked at Shiro, appalled. “Um, neither? Reese’s Puffs, man.”

“Wait, you seriously eat those?”

“Yes. They’re great,” she insisted. As Shiro stared in concerned disgust Pidge grabbed a gigantic family-size box.

“No, no way. If we’re getting something weird, we’re at least getting Cookie Crisp,” Shiro argued.

Pidge hovered hers over the cart, unswayed.

He pulled the cart out from under the cereal, backing away. “Nuh uh.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not paying for that stuff!” Shiro denied, dodging her again. “We’re getting Cookie Crisp, case closed.”

Pidge feinted to the left and managed to slam-dunk her choice into the basket with a needlessly dramatic jump.

Shiro had no clue why he didn’t just remove the cereal, or even add his own to get both.

It would’ve saved them a lot of trouble down the line.

***

By unspoken agreement, the rules were thus: whoever got their version (flavor or brand) of something in the cart first won.

Shiro would argue that items shouldn’t be removed once they were put in; Shiro would only argue this because, unable to compete with Shiro’s height for certain items, Pidge resorted to sneaking his stuff out behind his back.

Pidge would argue that this tactic--”Cheating, Pidge, it’s called cheating!”--was a perfectly reasonable attempt to level the playing field because certain giants had unfair genetic advantages.

The store employees would argue that cart racing through the aisles and climbing the shelves were both against store policy.

***

After all the racing and the back-tracking and the sabotage, Pidge and Shiro ended up at check out two hours later with an overflowing cart of stuff they really didn’t need.

Pidge stared at the rising price as items were scanned, wincing. “Keith is gonna kill us.”

“Forget Keith, Allura is gonna kill us.”

“Nah,” Pidge dismissed, “Allura likes most of this crap. Keith is the one with the carefully balanced budget we just screwed over.”

“Oh. True. Fuck.” Shiro scrubbed his hands over his face, carefully avoiding his eyeliner but messing up his left eyebrow.

“Did space dad just curse?” Pidge gasped, using every ounce of drama in her body.

Shiro gave her a look. “Pidge. I’ve known you since I was thirteen. I’ve cursed in front of you before.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” she sniffed, pushing her glasses up. “You have to set a good example for the children.”

“You’re nineteen,” Shiro deadpanned.

“Exactly, Shiro, exactly.”

“I give up.”

"Uh,” the poor overwhelmed cashier broke in, actually raising their hand, “is someone gonna pay for all of this?”

“Yeah, sure,” Pidge said, handing over Shiro’s credit card.

“Where did you--! Shit. You never gave it back.”

“Nope.” Pidge popped the P, hopping up on the cart as she gave it a push toward the exit.

“Pidge! Pidge? Come back!” Shiro collected his card and the receipt, deliberately avoiding the total.

“Excuse me, who knocked over the shelves in aisle seventeen?” crackled through the speakers, and Shiro blanched.

“Pidge, wait up!”

***

“Y’know, this is a really good get-away car.”

Shiro hung on to the oh-shit bar for dear life as Pidge cut another corner.

“It’s an SUV, Pidge, and we’re not on the run from the law so please slow down!”

“Oh come on, you drive like this all the time.”

“I’ve been driving longer than you have! I can drive like seven different things, including fighter planes! You can hardly reach the ped-- PIDGE!”

Pidge groaned in exasperation, cutting off another car and avoiding an accident by inches. “Okay, most of the time you drive the world’s smallest moped, shhhh. This car deserves better than to be driven like a grandma’s behind the wheel.”

“I do not drive like a grandma,” Shiro protested. “You just said I drive too fast!”

“Not the point,” Pidge sputtered.

“You mean you had a point?”

“Rude.”

“It’s not rude if it’s true, isn’t that your motto?”

“I only like it when it’s not turned against me. And to think I trusted you, space dad.”

“I, for one, will never trust you again. Don’t think I didn’t see you putting my stuff back on the shelves, Katie.”

“All’s fair in love and war, Shiro,” she said cheerfully.

“I’ve seen both and this is neither.”

“True. Y’know what it was? Fun.”

Pidge pulled up in front of the Castle, parking the SUV flawlessly in complete opposite of the whole drive back.

Shiro blinked over from the passenger seat, still holding on. “Fun?”

“Fun,” she confirmed, grinning.

After a moment Shiro cracked, laughing breathlessly. “I guess it was, yeah.”

They climbed out of the car and stared at the large trunk, full to the brim of unnecessary stuff. “Wanna make the guys take this stuff in?”

“Sure,” Shiro agreed easily, “but you get to give Keith the receipt.”

“Fuck,” Pidge breathed.

“Language, Pidgeon.”

“Oh shove it, space dad.”

#Katie Holt #Pidge Gunderson #Shiro voltron #Takashi Shirogane #pidge and shiro #voltron fanfiction #college AU #my writing #Frat House AU #oneshot #crossposted to ao3 #gen #no warnings apply #Cute and fluffy #ensemble cast #voltron legendary defender #VLD #voltron

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