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what a lot of people don’t get when they’re making up varric nicknames is that he is NOT going to be creative or poetic just because he’s an author. you can’t go too hard or too symbolic and then expect me to believe it. he literally called isabela “rivaini”

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imma say something controversial but found footage horror when done by people with a gigantic budget suck. found footage horror has and will always belong to amateur horror directors with their cheap camera, friends as their actors, and some random location

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one thing ab louis de pointe du lac is he will be taking the house in the divorce.

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young man. what is that you have found.

I said young man. you picked it up off the ground.

I said young man. you should put that thing down.

I don't think! that! you! should! eat that!

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really enjoying all the videos Muslims have been posting of their cats looking like this

when the humans are up at 4 am for suhoor

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Doors Are How You Go Out

Imprisoned in the Ossuary, Lucanis negotiates a contract he never could have imagined.

Rating: Mature Category: Gen Relationships: Lucanis Dellamorte & Spite Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, Body Horror, Imprisonment, Possession, Angst, Pre-Canon

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It hurt.

It hurt even more than being torn. The pain of that had not lasted. There was rage and then a rending, a sudden bright bloom of agony. And then... not quite nothing. But not something. Not peace or quiet. But not this.

This was crushing. Squeezing. Shaking. Sensations without name or precedent, and everywhere, everywhere, hatred. Hate smoldered like rage but was cold and pointed, a compass needle. The hatred echoed off the walls (what are walls?) and permeated every strange crevice of this existence.

Over and above and through it all there was a sense of not-wholeness. Things were missing. Even the memory of them was missing. All that was left was this aching absence, the ragged edges where once there had been tethers... to what? Now, there was loss. Now, there was emptiness. Now, there was hunger.

Hunger could be assuaged.

There was sustenance here, even if it was a bitter drink. Hate was more than nothing, and under the hate was fear. Supping was a matter of pushing out the tendrils, turning torn edges into a new bond—sucking, seeking, grasping.

Growing.

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Lucanis vomited.

Nothing came up, and he tried again, the hangnail on his index finger scraping the tender flesh at the back of his throat. He gagged and his stomach muscles locked but still, nothing. He collapsed exhausted in the grit on the floor of his cell, eyes closed, pushing away the terror.

They had fed him something.

He knew only the broadest outlines of what that meant, but it was enough. They had bound him, and beaten him, and bled him, and then they had shoved the rotten thing into his mouth and clamped it shut.

Swallow. Swallow, damn you!

Hold his nose. He'll swallow if he wants to breathe.

Get the gavage. Just don't shove it down his windpipe or he'll drown. She'll kill you.

She'll do worse than that.

He trembled and forced his eyes open. The cell was dim, but focusing on what he could see quieted the memories, reducing them to a dull hum in the back of his mind. Pushing himself up to all fours, he crawled to the corner farthest from the door and huddled against the wall. The rough stone pressed against his back, solid and undeniable. He could see, and he could touch. He could hear a human voice rising and falling outside the barrier that sealed his cell, but he could not make out the words. He could smell. The smell of blood, the smell of seawater. The smell of rotting flesh, faint and sickly sweet.

He did not know how long he had been here. More than a week, he thought, though neither night nor day could be discerned from inside the cell. He'd been bled five times, and he didn't think they could do that every day. A man has only so much blood, after all. He'd spilled enough of it himself to know what it took to kill.

No, they didn't want him dead. But they didn't seem to want information, either. They'd asked no questions, made no threats against his family.

His family.

He closed his eyes again against the ache. Would they look for him? Caterina would be looking. He and Illario were all she had. So she would look—unless she thought he was dead. He wasn't sure what had happened to the ship after they'd been attacked, but he knew what he would have done had a target been on board. He would have had it sunk or run aground. In a shipwreck, if you don't find survivors after a day or two, then there are no survivors. And often, no bodies. The sea and the hungry things that swim in it take care of that.

So perhaps he was alone. It might be that there was no help coming. It was better to think of it like that. Hope would dull his edge, make him miss opportunities. He couldn't afford hope.

What he could do was wait. Because every enemy makes a mistake, if you wait long enough.

Keep reading on AO3

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i love to read a character's stoicism as awkwardness. yeah your posture is great and you're mysteriously surveying the scene but it's because you're stiff af and don't know how to approach anyone, right?

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My Isobel Thorm Cosplay - images by Gabe Freeland Photography

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Two ladybirds having a shag that i edited cbat over

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lions are very mean and like jellyfish

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today's warm up: Little selkie sibling wants to go play!! (1:25 hr)

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Neve may be an ice mage but she CHARRED the man