knitting mouse

rubyredboots  asked:

i just read through every single one of your voltron headcanons and i'm in love jsyk

did… did my shitposting just get me a date

  • so who do you think sits the alteans down and informs them that shiro is six years old
    • they don’t understand the concept of leap years so they’re legitimately horrified
    • “he’s… he’s barely old enough to pick his own boogies”
  • one time hunk cracked lance’s rib by hugging him
  • shiro: “we’re going to steal a ship?” allura: “commandeer. we’re going to commandeer a ship. nautical term, very different”
  • greatly overestimating the amount of fanny packs on someone’s person
    • “okay you may have taken our bayards but keith here has three hundred whole fanny packs full of knives with him so you better watch tf out buddy”
  • coran constantly calls himself weird nicknames and they always sound fake but every once in a while the team’ll run into some old alien who’ll be like “well if it isn’t coran the crusher!” and the paladins all gotta stop and reevaluate their worldview for a second
  • pidge: “i’m gonna appreciate nature more” [sits down near window with laptop]
  • allura is team voltron’s- no. lance is the mom friend
    • talks about knitting tiny mouse sweaters
    • wakes up from comas to protect friends
    • within two minutes of meeting someone new he’s already pulling pictures of his team out of his wallet and bragging about how cool they all are I mean really
  • “shit who’s going to lead voltron now that shiro’s gone? who could ever replace such a steady, level-headed leader??” keith: “haha yeah about that”


The reader who e-mailed me, wanting free books, because “if you don’t ask, you don’t get.”.

The reader who turned up at my home with a manuscript for me to critique.

The reader who wanted me to pay for her daughter’s private school fees.

The reader who phoned me up at home at 11 o’ clock on Christmas Eve, to ask me to talk to her reader’s group.

The reader who sent me abusive e-mails for three months because I wouldn’t come to her house.

The reader who complained when it took me 6 hours to respond to their e-mail, sent at midnight.

The reader who complained that my response to their e-mail was too short.

The reader who told me I ought to do something about my weight.

The reader I caught on CCTV, sneaking around my garden at night, taking photographs.

The reader who expected me to change something she didn’t like in a book I’d written ten years before.

The reader who harangued me online for linking to a review of my book.

The reader who stalked me for three years because he thought my books contained secret messages to him.

The reader who thought I’d sleep with him, because that’s what my main character might have done.

The readers who think they know who I am because of the characters I create.

The readers who pirated my books.

The reader who told me I needed psychiatric help.

The reader who got angry when I wouldn’t sign a manuscript he’d printed off from the internet.

The readers who expect me to tailor my writing to suit their personal requirements.

The reader who told me that he didn’t usually bother reading books by women.

The reader who thought I was selfish in not accepting to work for free.

The reader who tried to pass off one of my books as their own work.

The reader who wanted to use me to get in touch with a fellow-writer.

The readers who routinely forget that authors, too, have feelings.

The reader who scornfully maintains that “reader entitlement” is a fallacy.


The reader who tearfully asked me to dedicate her copy of my book to her dead child.

The reader who wept on my shoulder.

The reader who told me that my book had given her the courage to leave her abusive husband.

The readers who opened chocolate shops.

The readers who recognized themselves.

The readers who posted kind reviews.

The readers who laughed.

The readers who cried.

The readers who came in cosplay.

The readers who got book tattoos.

The readers who wanted to talk about how my books had made them feel.

The reader who brought me a knitted mouse, because I might need company.

The reader who told me I’d saved her from committing suicide because she needed to find out what happened at the end of the book.

The reader who told me they were trans, and that my books had taught them not to be afraid.

The readers who said thank you.

The readers who talk to me every day.

The readers who told me to carry on when I felt like giving up.

Sometimes, I do feel that way. But then I remember what you said, and I carry on, because you do…