an artist i follow got an ask about whether it was alright to use their art as covers for fanfic bookbinding and i'm. sorry i must have missed this discourse but since when are people outright printing out other people's work and binding them into books? do you contact and get author's permission (sure as fuck hope so)? and how do we writers feel about that, because i certainly feel very uncomfortable with that idea. i mean not to spoil the artistic expression of bookbinding because it's beautiful work that i most certainly could not do, but. you can access them stories any time you want on the websites where they were originally posted. why print them? again i mean i get the pleasure of holding & reading physical books, i much prefer that too, but like. get some books i guess? sorry i come from a place of honesty and tbh surprise and confusion about this whole thing. someone tell me how we're feeling about this. someone explain to me why it's being done. i just wanna understand
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original thief series basso & garrett :)
ngl, it's about quality over quantity for me. an npc can have a total of three minutes of screen time, but if they have a cool name, they can live rent free in my head and I'll spend several hours trying to decipher drawable features from a blurry screenshot of pixels
there is a vague hint of a story here, and that's because every time I try to play thi4f, I get incredibly frustrated with how Not Fun the game play is. like, is the story good? well. but it has a PLAGUE. that should've given it instant 'I'll replay this once a year' status in my heart, but the game play sucks so bad that I've never finished it. I can't believe Not Fun gameplay beat out my obsession with narrative plagues.
anyway, the idea is basically if the original era had a game with a plague centric narrative and some other stuff I liked out of thi4f thrown into a narrative blender, with a heavy dash of horror thrown in because some parts of the thief games were scarier to me than entire dedicated horror genre games.
⭐ places I’m at! bsky / pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app
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Team Stark, Team Targaryen, Team Black, Team Green, whatever. I'm on Team Let Shireen Have Nice things
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Sansa's horse's name was Ninny; he had one blue eye and one brown, which Northerners thought was lucky.
"More likely means he's deaf in one ear," Father remarked. Ninny's ears, which seemed to hear well enough, flattened and he nipped at Father's horse. (If it had a name, Father either hadn't asked or didn't want to tell her, since he'd ignored her question when they'd first mounted.)
"I think he feels insulted, Your Grace," Sansa remarked, pulling Ninny's head back around and settling her arms more comfortably around Shireen's waist. She'd been kind to let Shireen ride with her, since most of the Northern horses were needed to carry two or even three soldiers apiece, along with whatever equipment they could drag out of the snows. Mother and Lady Melisandre had chosen to ride two of the surviving Southern horses, but Mother had said there wasn't room on hers for both of them.
So instead of riding in the back of the train, Shireen was next to Father near the front, just behind the beautiful banners that snapped and curled in the breeze. It was still bitterly cold, but Sansa's cloak was warm wrapped round them both and she had even brought a pair of Northern boots for Shireen, with the fur thickly lined on the inside. Only the right side of her face was chilled, tears pricking at her eye. Sansa said they would make camp late tomorrow at this pace; her stormseer had promised them blue skies and clear nights. Shireen had hoped this would make Father �� not happy, since she had only rarely seen him so, and never since Uncle Robert had died — but less unhappy.
Instead, it had turned him surly, the sort he only got when he had been frightened about something. He had been like this once when she had gone sailing with Devan in his little skiff and it had capsized, sending them laughing into the calm waters of the western bay. They had managed to swim toward land, pushing the hull of the boat before them, and had found Father and Ser Davos wading out to retrieve them. Davos helped Devan drag the boat in, laughing all the while, but Father had picked her up and carried her to shore, holding her so tightly she could feel her bones creak. "Get to your rooms and change," he'd ordered, all but dropping her to the stony beach, and for the rest of the day had scowled and muttered whenever she'd spoken.
She could not think why he was acting this way now, but she had long since given up trying to coax him out of his sulks the way she could Ser Davos. Instead she asked Sansa more questions — about the Wolfswood, where she and her army had hidden themselves, and about the Goldgrass Coldblood horses that Northerners rode.
"Not just Goldgrasses," said Sansa. "The mountain clans breed and ride their Breakstone Garrons, which are even better than the Coldbloods when it comes to surviving the winters. They're more like goats than horses — they eat like goats, too," she added with a wrinkle to her nose. "The other day, a Garron managed to open Lord Flint's saddlebags and ate his linen smallclothes."
Shireen covered her mouth to hold in her giggle, but Father had dropped behind them to speak with Davos a few lengths behind. "Was Lord Flint very cross?"
"Oh, yes, but you can't throw a horse into the stocks, even if he does eat your underthings."
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Growing up in an extremely ultra religious, cult-like family was a mindfuck for multiple reasons but that doesn't stop unfortunately, even when you escape. For example, see: The overwhelming feeling of boiling hatred and shame for who you used to be.
The angry hatred for the past person I used to be, the version of myself that mindlessly parroted my family's beliefs and listened to their every command, constantly simmered under my skin and invaded my every thought. I was embarrassed of what I used to be- even as I made friends of different ethnicities and faiths, as I listened and explored new ideas and worlds that I never knew existed, as I started the first LGBTQ+ club at my school and volunteered with kids who deserved so much more- there was always a little voice in the back of my head.
"They would hate you if they knew what you were. They would hate the horrendous teachings that were seared into your mind, the things that you used to say and believe. You are nothing but a pretender."
And it is true that my beliefs were bigoted in all the worst ways. It is true that I believed truly heart-wrenching things without a second thought and judged others in such harsh and unfair ways. I told myself that there was no coming back from that, not really. There was nothing I could do to ever make up for it.
Then I remembered that the person who said those things wore velcro light up sneakers and collected finger puppets that the librarians handed out as awards for reading picture books. The person that held signs at pro-life rallies and anti-LGBTQ+ protests had a cherished sticker book and hunted minnows in the creek after school and adored their puffle on club penguin and was really into greek mythology and had skinned knees from climbing trees at recess and knew every Disney song by heart and was absolutely terrified of the dark.
That person was a child.
I was a child.
It took a really long time. Years and years of reflection and distance, but I've decided that I can't hate the past version of myself anymore. I feel pity and remorse, I feel anger- I feel so much fury and violent rage- at what my childhood was and I grieve what could- no, should- have been, but I no longer resent who I was.
I'm not ashamed.
I am so, so, so unbelievably proud of that little kid. For being brave enough to leave the comfort and safety of what I was told was right. For not being afraid to be wrong. For seeking out information and knowledge in a culture that praised ignorance. For questioning everything, relentlessly.
I am by no means a perfect person, I never have been and I never will, but I am proud of myself in every iteration that has ever existed because I know that I have never stopped trying to understand and learn and grow, and I never will.
If you have ever been in a similar situation and feel similar things, first of all: My condolences on your lost childhood. Second of all: Please be nice to that past version of yourself and recognize all the hard work they did to make you who you are today. That person was a survivor and an inspiration. They deserve nothing but love.
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i’m really not into the fandom’s characterization for asa emory (the collector). so here are a few of my hcs about the bug guy.
HE’S LATINO. idc the dude who portrays him in the sequel isn’t. i’m ignoring it.
he’s weird. like he’s obviously a freak when he’s uh...collecting. but he’s a weirdo (affectionate).
he’s an entomologist, probably followed in his father’s footsteps and works in a museum.
has major daddy issues.
he’s a loner. doesn’t really speak much unless he has to. except when he’s talking about bugs, he gets really passionate and could talk for days on the subject.
doesn’t socialize with his coworkers either. (they’re creeped out by him. thinks he’s weird but harmless since he’s so gentle with the bugs. convinced he wouldn’t harm a fly. and they’re right he WOULDN’T harm flies. human beings on the other hand...
he’s bisexual but struggles with internalized homophobia.
the chemical exposure from the childhood incident with his father is why his eyes Look Like That. probably wears contacts to make his eyes look normal when he’s at his daytime job.
i cannot picture this man being charming and suave. he makes people uncomfortable (possibly on purpose, maybe he doesn’t even realize it). although will put on an act to slip under the radar.
you’re THE exception when it comes to his violence. this man is not the most affectionate. he’s cold and often stares at you like he’s examining a bug. but he loves you. obsessed with you. you’re his most prized part of his collection.
you’re not a former victim. in fact, he meets you somewhere outside of his collecting “hobby”.
he doesn’t understand why you’re different from everyone else. you make him feel like he does whenever he’s torturing his victims but without any actual torturing involved. just spending time with you is enough.
his house is unique. you fall in love with it the first time you accept his offer to come over. you admire all the strange knickknacks around. the pretty butterflies and moths pinned in shadow boxes. the vintage wallpaper. its charming and you immediately want to move in.
he doesn’t torture you. he doesn’t need to. he likes to tease tho, make you slightly uncomfortable just to watch you squirm but its harmless. and usually just has you yelling at him and rolling your eyes while he laughs.
he knows you’re frighten of bugs and he smiles whenever you call for him to come get a bug and take it outside.
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