#cadence dorian

[annalrk-art]

a family that's cursed by music together, jams together

[natteryaktoad]

Notes, Day 86, Part 3

Reed spent his Saturday teaching Coda to talk.

Reed: Who's a clever girl?

Coda: Meeeeeee!

Also, the pond is unfrozen, so he's happy.

I did let Reed babysit for a few hours after Maddy got home from work, whilst she and Cliff went out on a date.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

'Sur une gamme chromatique,

Le sein de perles ruisselant,

La Vénus de l'Adriatique

Sort de l'eau son corps rose et blanc.

Les dômes, sur l'azur des ondes

Suivant la phrase au pur contour,

S'enflent comme des gorges rondes

Que soulève un soupir d'amour.

L'esquif aborde et me dépose,

Jetant son amarre au pilier,

Devant une façade rose,

Sur le marbre d'un escalier.'

"The Picture of Dorian Gray" - Oscar Wilde

[recent-sonicfaan]

Some art of my small time antagonist group.

Dulcet Tones, is comprised of the Glamour Twins, Dorian and Aria as well as their friend, Cadence.

They use these special gems called 'Resonant Crystals' that have the ability to amplify their voices when singing that meld with the natural frequencies the gems possess.

They use their singing to either command people to do their bidding or to knock them unconscious so they're free to do what they wish. They rob mainly stores that contain materialistic goods such as jewellery, designer clothes or pretty accessories. They're pretty vain collectively and tend to not think of anything or anyone beyond their own materialistic tendencies.

Dorian is the Leader and has the better singing voice that allows him to command people to do what he wishes.

Aria's singing has the ability to alter one's perceptions to make them see things that aren't there but feel real.

Cadence's voice is velvetly and sweet that makes any who hear it fall into a deep slumber that takes hours to wake.

[ephemeralinstance]

The reciprocity of Solas and Lavellan

It's easy to read the Solavellan ending as Lavellan stepping in to save Solas and deliver him a happy ending. But the thing I really love about it is that to me, they save each other. Neither one could have a happy ending without the other. 

Lavellan had an incredibly lonely journey in which she was elevated against her will into a religious figure of a religion she probably doesn't even believe in. Even when she tried to move past that, it kept calling her back. She may have disbanded the Inquisition, but eight years later when Thedas was in crisis everyone still looked to the Herald of Andraste to save them, and what choice did she have? 

Even eight years on, everyone refers to her as 'The Inquisitor,' instead of her name.

Lavellan needs Solas because he's the only person who can really know what that feels like. He too was unwillingly deified, his myth swallowing the truth of who he really was. Ironically, only two years after their relationship ended, when she learns the truth about his past, does Lavellan come to know why he was able to see her and empathize with her very specific situation in a way that no one else did. 

Lavellan is clearly a strong and dynamic person. She hasn't been moping all this time; she's moved on, made a life, no doubt achieved more amazing things in the intervening time. And yet - for eight years she's carried this piercing, bone-deep loneliness. Though she has close friends who love her, like maybe Dorian and Cassandra, they still can't really understand. The secret, painful longing in her to be witnessed; to be known.

The relief she must feel, after everything, when Solas finally lays down his plans. She doesn't have to be alone any longer. He's the one person who can still see her for what she really is, and he's finally ready to come back to her. It doesn't matter to her what he's done, because she knows his heart in a way that no one else does, just as he knows her in a way that no one else does. They speak elvhen to each other, echoing one another's cadence, because they are bound in a very deep way that no one else can really understand. 

When she says 'We'll make this journey together, forever,' she's not simply offering herself to him. She's acknowledging that they need each other. 'There is no fate but the love we share' - because it is fate, in a way. They're incredibly lucky that they were brought together in this way, because no one else could have known them in the way they know each other. And I think that's one of the things that really draws people to their story - it's this beautiful dream about finding a person who truly understands and sees everything that you truly are.

[velvetdolor]

♰𖣐♰ 𝔇𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩’𝔰 ℭ𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥. | iv

chapter iv. in paradisum.

pairings: exorcist!hongjoong x psychic!reader (ATEEZ ot8 x reader but hongjoong focused.)

genres: 18+!! paranormal, religious horror, fantasy, smut, stupid-yet-gifted exorcists lol

chapter specific warnings: death, violence, gore, child death/possession, and arson. [currently unedited as of 05/16/25] smut warnings: asphyxiation, unprotected sex, marking, coping mechanisms.

summary: “the order” is a secret organization of exorcists blessed with special abilities dedicated to expelling higher class demons—located in an ancient crypt hidden beneath the vatican. when an exceptionally gifted child is followed by prophetic omens and falls into possession of an unclassified s-class demon—kim hongjoong, considered one of the greatest exorcists of the 21st century, is dispatched under the mysterious order of convincing an enigmatic psychic hiding away in a metropolis to accompany he and his team in what might be their most daunting exorcism yet. WC: 6.3K

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[chapter iv: in paradisum.]

Seonghwa holds a black umbrella over Dorian as they stand before the large procession. Fit for the occasion, the overcast afternoon is dreary to each lost soul that trudge towards the freshly dug graves. Young priests and friends of those who’d passed in the wake of Dorian’s possession carry heavy caskets–morose and avoiding the young boys' eyes in fear that their own rage would seep from their orifices. Dorian’s face held a gait of acceptance far too old for his young body, as he clung to the very reprimand Hongjoong sent him on that fateful night. As someone of immense power, his responsibility lied within his ability to control himself and confront the frightening truths of his powers—of his curse. Since then, he hasn’t cried or expressed any emotion beyond false joy—and at times it felt like Dorian had to play the part of a child rather than actually being one. 

The rest of you stood with your heads bowed in respect, hands tied together at the forefront of your bodies, dressed in sleek black suits that slowly weigh heavier at the onslaught of rain. An old Latin liturgy reverbs through the air as the prayer is sung, carrying the ‘bodies’ into rest, and bids their permanent goodbyes with a song. You felt it in the air– the end was coming. The tides of war that unknowingly floated above everyone’s heads with the exception of the lot of you, throbbed through the air like the thrumming of a drum. War that frighteningly felt like an inevitable loss, and the one surviving chance was barely a sliver of hope. Hongjoong’s eyes drift towards you, inperceptibly to others, and slowly inches a palm towards yours to ease into a slow cradle. Releasing a deep sigh, you squeeze the weight of him before staring ahead at the crowd of grief.

Not everyone at The Order is an orphan. Many were– but there were also devout priests who carried gifts that eventually recruited them into the more common sides of the clergy, in regards to exorcisms. They weren’t fit to be Infernal Hosts, but they were gifted. Unquestionably so. 

Sobbing Mothers who grieved their children fell weakly onto hallowed ground as Fathers cried for their boys– one in particular bellowed for his youngest son while gripping onto a familiar necklace that forced Dorian to swallow and turn away. His son was the youngest of the common clergy. The caskets were empty, only carrying small amounts of ash and minor trinkets, memorabilia.

The Order had a saying that implemented the practice of cremating their Exorcists–” From the fire we came and to the fire we return to–may it blaze and welcome all of those who herald its holy light. In its warmth, may our bodies alas release the weight of our Earthly burdens and pains. Gone is the body, ash to the soul.” In unison, this was uttered boldly into the air, deep in its cadence. The promise of a casket was purely symbolic to provide families with some semblance of comfort. 

It was customary for a portion of the ashes to be returned to the deceased's surviving family, and the ashes of those who were orphaned upon their arrival to The Order were solemnly placed into a separate and Holy Crypt at the headquarters. Complete silence carried itself into the wind as you watched the final shovel of dirt flutter over their children's final resting place. For a moment, you wonder where the souls actually go after all of this– did heaven at least keep its gates open for you all, despite its gambles? You cynically release a huff, bewildered by the fact that even though you were once the guardian of the gates– you had no clue. The existence of hell felt like the only real thing that’d welcome you.

The walk back to the Dormitory was heavy. Nothing was said– even Mingi had nothing to say to lighten the crew. Your gaits were dimmed beyond repair for the rest of the night, and you fleetingly worried for Jongho, who had immediately retreated into his quarters with a bang after asking Seonghwa if he could be alone for the night. 

Everyone else dispersed around the dormitory– some of the men went to hang out with other clergy members on the lower floors. The deaths of the men they’d known as boys shook them with the reminder that time is never promised. Neither is love eternal. 

Hongjoong follows you into your room as you shrug off the damp suit jacket and tug at your tie, loosening it before lighting a cigarette shakily. The one thing about being raised alone is that you never had to interact with grief directly– you didn’t have to relearn loss. He stays silent as he follows your actions, watching you as you leaned against your desk. 

You didn’t want to think about it. About anything, really. Nowadays, everything you did in life was always tinged with the reminder of impending death, and at times with grotesque envy at those who died before they knew what was to come. You weren’t blessed with the choice of ignorance. A heavy energy permeated the room as Hongjoong moved towards you to stand between your legs, as your eyes met in understanding.

You fall back at the weight of his sudden kiss before pushing back into it with equal intensity. Threading your fingers through his wine washed hair, as you tug him closer into you, panting heavily against his mouth and shoving your tongue to lick at its roof. A groan leaves him as he bruisingly grips your hips, rolling into you with an empty mind. You snuff out the cigarette against the dampest part of your shirt. 

Since that night, neither of you have touched each other intimately. Stray gazes from across the room or light touches disguised innocently enough kept your meetings secret from the rest of your order, but the need to focus on the matters at hand didn’t need to be addressed– you both already knew that. 

Today, the grief was too heavy to sleep alone. You craved for a half empty mind and a warm hand pressed against your stomach. The dampness of your button ups rubbed roughly against one another and you both hastily unbuttoned your dress shirts, sliding them off of your bodies roughly to have cold skin meet cold skin. 

His silken skin rubbed against the thin cloth of your bralette as he pulled your ass to meet your core with his hardness. A breathy sigh leaves you as you cradle his head that bent itself into the crater of your neck and at the parting of his mouth to lick at your jugular with the flat of his tongue. The sound of his heavy breathing eased into your ears, and you find yourself tightening around nothing. “Hongjoong, please. I don’t want to think right now.” 

You found your eyes watering for the first time in company, as Hongjoong rises to rest his chin on your temple after planting an empty kiss onto it. “I got you baby, everything’s okay.” He ghosts his mouth over your pulse before sucking at your collarbone to leave a mark. Shushing you softly when your body begins to shake in both desire and need for emotional reprieve. For a moment, he holds his arms around you before shrugging his pants off with you following suit. There was something melancholic about this moment– like the weight of everything that’s inevitable stood in the same room with you. Hongjoong too, was inevitable. Even as you try to find reprieve from destiny, she still found her way in– your medicine is simultaneously your ailment. You craved him and you knew it was meant to happen, and you’d fight it more if you didn’t find him as lovely as you did. 

The cold autumn air drifted into your room from a cracked window and you could feel it drape itself around your contrastingly warm core. 

There’s an intentional pause, as if Hongjoong had been counting down to this very moment.

The sound of your underwear finally dropping from the ankle it desperately clung to broke the fragility of the moment as he’d rubbed himself against your opening. A shaky sigh leaves him before he pushes himself into you.

“Fuck.” He drops his head against your shoulder to still himself, wanting to stay seated inside of you to bask in the feeling of your warmth embracing him. You tilt your head back with a light moan, a thought drifting itself in the back of your head that wished you were in the space to take him in his entirety– to commit his details to memory: his colors and visage. 

But there was no room for that right now.

Hongjoong’s hips move forward with a sturdy bang, and you choke a gasp in your throat at its rhythmic onslaught. The sound echoed throughout the room as his pace built and slid against you. Your wetness is slick, sliding and dampening your thighs before dripping asynchronously off of the table. His hands grip and tug your ass to him as close as possible, and your loud moans are muffled by the coolness of his shoulder. The rain on your skin is erased by the sweat of your bodies, as you rock against to meet his thrusts. Hongjoong bends to lick your breasts into his mouth and pays no mind to the rocking desk and the torrid sound it makes against the wall. 

“Hongjoong, more.” A groan leaves his lips as he unlatches them from your tit to lock back onto yours. Heavy, breathy whines leave his mouth to drip onto your tongue, his saliva pooling around the edges of your smile. Your legs wrap themselves around his waist when he heaves you momentarily to drop you back onto your cold sheets, goosebumps raising on your skin. Hongjoong soothes himself back in with a choked moan before grinding into you with teasingly slow but harsh thrusts. A hand combs through your hair and your throat is bared at his rough tug. He bites it with a force that nearly draws blood. “Do you still want more?” His eyebrows raise in that coquettish, jester-like way of his– all cool and fatal smoothness as you suffocate under the weight of his unintended charms. 

“I want you to break me.” is all that leaves you. The pleasure is almost dizzying and you refuse to let any other thought in. 

“You’re a greedy woman.” is all he says, chuckling against your mouth to leave a kitten lick before turning you around and raising your ass to meet his hips before you could process it. 

Your eyes go white at the stinging stretch that accompanied this particular thrust, stifling a scream as your body is thrown a bit forward onto the sheets. Your cheek presses against the flat of your pillow as it swallows your moans. Unconsciously, you shift forward and tug yourself away from him in surprise. 

The sound of your wetness sticking to his thighs as Hongjong guided you onto his cock by your waist makes you flush and feel the pressing of his palm against your spine to hold you down. “Take what you begged for, Strega.” You could hear his grin, a small but maniacal laugh leaves him when he sees you shake around him, screaming yourself dumb into the bed at the sudden brutality of his touch. You feel his hand smooth over to your stomach, pressing it as he hunches over your body to guide it towards your clit, rubbing lightly with his middle finger before slapping his hand against it harshly. Your arms fall completely to your sides as a high-pitched whine leaves your lips, you try to tug yourself away to stop yourself from orgasming–not wanting to give in just yet, but Hongjoong only laughs progressively harder when he tightens his grip around you, pounding his hips even harder into you when your body falls flat against the mattress. “Come on Strega, I thought you could take it? Isn’t this what you wanted, huh?” He cooes at you, slithering an arm around your throat in a semi-hard chokehold. You should’ve known he had a sadistic streak. 

Your back automatically arches as his pelvis pummels upward towards the fat of your ass, vulgar smacks accompany your choked mewls as he keeps his arm locked around your neck. Hongjoong moans against the back of your neck as your bodies grow sleek with each other's sweat, and you quickly learn that he’s a vocal lover. “Are you on the pill?” he pushes a strained pant and the veins on his neck protrude a little at the blood rushing throughout his body. 

You can only give a weak shake before turning your head to meet his gaze for a bit, pushing your hips upwards to take him in entirely leaving little to no space between your bodies as they ricochet against one another. He simply raises a brow “Don’t tempt me to knock you up–lord knows what kind of child would come from the two of us.” but the shakiness of his words betrays him and his eyes drift to where you bounce against him– creamy in the sweetest way and he almost feels himself lose his vision temporarily as he rolls his eyes back in bliss. 

You’re whimpering at his unrelenting pace, clenching and unclenching in pulses and the throbbing is delicious enough to have you clutching at the arms wrapped around your neck. 

You’re begging at this point–dancing between edges of light and darkness, delicious delirium and disguised softness.

“I want it inside, Hongjoong.” The thought alone brings you to the edge of your own orgasm before his own reactive throbbing threw you overboard, as a breathy moan pulses out of his body when you milk him of everything he has. 

You could feel his thudding heartbeat against your back before he smooths off of you, laying back with an arm over his eyes. His other hand pats around in search for your own and pulls you onto his chest, opting to hold you there. 

The dark indigo light from the fading evening outside is the only thing illuminating your figures. For a moment, you’re allowed to drift your eyes around mindlessly, the only thing tethering you to the present was Hongjoong’s arms– but in the distance a yellow light peered into your window.

A crucifix, lit up in the night. 

It served as enough of a reminder, throwing you back into the arms of the helplessness that drowned you. 

“Hongjoong.” you call out to him and he only hums lowly, not moving his arm that covered his eyes still. 

“What happens now?” Hongjoong stays silent for a moment, and you almost brush off your own question–ashamed that you expected him to know more than the rest of you; to carry on even more weight than what you all were originally supposed to share.

“We wait for our moment to strike and take Dorian. Until then, we train and do as The Order bids.” He states it objectively, hanging the hard truth in the air. Hovering it casually for you to see. 

“Okay” you reply with softly. 

Hongjoong brushes your hair flat against your head before taking a strand and twirling it around his fingers. Humming with a small laugh of amusement before he speaks

“You know, I think our little San has a crush on you.” 

You jolt a little from the whiplash you got from the turn in conversation, not knowing how to respond to that. While you and Hongjoong weren’t together and may never be, considering that you all are marching to your probable deaths, it was also far from casual. Hongjoong was an eccentric man, so maybe this isn’t too out of reach.

He chuckles a bit at your confusion but opts to continue

“He has a thing for energies, you see. I can tell because he brightens when you’re around and often catch him lingering around cooridors looking for you–hoping to run into you by ‘coincidence’”

“I didn’t know you had a thing for sharing Hongjoong– just a week ago you’d confessed your love for me, no?” You take this in full stride, still carrying the air of casualness at the face of your strange dynamic with Hongjoong. You’re starting to realize that this seems to be the common tone in dialogue– unperturbed at his strangeness. 

He shakes his head lightly. “Strega, there is so much of the world that’s been ripped from you. I have seen it from inside of you. If we had more time, I would’ve been able to crave you in ownership without guilt–but we don’t. How dare I bar you from love you’d never been allowed to know before? I have loved you my entire life, Strega, but the truth of the matter is that you don’t know the weight of a heart yet. So, love as you please, the world is ending as we know it.” You both lay in silence after that, as Hongjoong continued to comb through your hair with his hands. 

“Is that really okay with you?” A part of you wonders if this is simply an act of selflessness.

In all of his usual mysteries Hongjoong only replies with “It’s already in the cards, Strega.” 

Ah, you see now. Another inevitable.

♰𖣐♰

Friday, The hour of Venus.

Your body thrashes in your sleep as a storm passes through Vatican City. Hongjoong sleeps on the other side of the bed after both of your cumulative body heat pushed you both on opposite sides.

A barrage of flashing images again, that same golden light–Dorian.

He’s kneeling in that lonely chapel, fighting against himself and calling out to you.

“Mama, I don’t know what to do. Please don’t leave me alone here.”

Dorian gasps in sudden pain before falling forward, blood seeping through his shirt just above his shoulder blades. The vision flickers as he moves his eyes to gaze at you, and you simultaneously see an older version of Dorian before it flickers back to the present. The dark current in his eyes alerted you– you had to go to him.  He was losing– of course he was. Dorian’s a child with little to no training and you reprimand yourself for leaving him there without thinking properly. 

You feel Raziel peering into your dream curiously before he sees what you’re seeing– shocking you, so you’d wake up.

You bolt from the bed with a harsh gasp, before turning to look at Hongjoong’s figure, as he lies still with sleep. 

‘Y/N, I can hold the ground once we arrive at The Order, but we’d need to merge as we’d done in the past. The…being inside of him will take advantage of any loose ends, and we can’t afford to have a barrier in case we’d lose our link to communicate.’

You nod before throwing a knitted jumper on and hiking a pair of pants past your ass with an ‘oof!’ running out the door without much precaution or goodbye. Your thundering steps alert a slightly inebriated Seonghwa as he made his way up from the sixth floor. Somewhat sobered by your obvious haste, he stops you quickly

“What’s wrong?” His eyes are tight with apprehension as you shake your head after saying you needed to get to Dorian. Seonghwa immediately tugs you by the wrist and down the steps without another question.

When you arrive at the Crypt, you lead Seonghwa down into a section he had never seen before. The air was more wet there– humid and somehow even darker than the rest of what he’d known despite being illuminated by an array of Edison bulbs and torches. 

He suddenly recalls this particular tunnel–one he had been led to by sheer accident as a mischievous boy, despite being told not to wander off by the clergy. Naturally, he was curious by the hollow, untouched section of The Order’s headquarters, but an unknown air had him instinctually staying away. You push at a specific rigged area of the stone formation before it opens up and reveals a winding, descending staircase, spanning a seemingly endless number of levels. He raises his head to see that the only light provided there was an open ceiling, where residual moonlight and city light pollution guided you both downwards without as much trouble. It took a while before you both had reached the bottom and Seonghwa is greeted by the sight of an ornate chapel– a golden crucifix lighting its entry way. 

When you enter, Dorian is once again standing before a multitude of prayer candles. He grips a blood-stained rosary in his palms tightly and you tell Raziel to control his presence when you merge with him–wanting to avoid killing Seonghwa because now really isn’t the time.

Dorian speaks, but his voice isn’t his own.

“I’m honored that you’d come here yourself, Strega. With my brother too–long time no see Raz.”  The voice carried sweet and calm cadence, resting like water above the soul.

You say nothing but feel a strange emotion from within you that wasn’t yours. 

Raziel. 

“Perfect timing actually, and conveniently you brought the infernal sword with you.” He finally rests his eyes on Seonghwa, an unsettling maze of darkness in his eyes before continuing

“What interesting gifts this new generation of Exorcists have. I must say, I really wish you guys were able to see what a ruckus you cause down there.” He whistles as an act of being impressed.

“–Giving them a run for their fucking money.” He laughs lightly, unavoidably angelic. Somethings never change and old habits die hard, you think to yourself. 

“Which is why I hope you understand why exactly I had to bring you down here today for a bit, but I wouldn’t want you to miss the show. It’s a gift I thought up for you all, as my makeshift welcome party.” Something forms in the pit of your stomach, and Seonghwa raises his hand to grip above his spine before the Lightbringer interrupted

“Ah-ah.” He waved Dorian’s small finger in a no-no formation. “You should save your energy for more important things, Infernal weapon. By now, there’s should be an avalanche of calls trying to reach you but sadly– there’s no… reception down here. Super outdated of The Order I might say. You see, I have to admit I’m sort of a big shot around here and having a few fanatical supporters is unavoidable. That’s all I can say, but I’ve held you back long enough– time to go and see my surprise. Let me know what you think someday, Strega? I part ways with you by ending with this last reminder: remember, it was human’s that did this.” His presence in Dorian’s eyes covered his irises completely, only holding the light of one flickering and solitary flame. A serene smile stretched across his face, and you realize that Dorian’s features seem to alter a bit when he takes his place. “Off you go now.” is all he says before shooing you off with a hand and turning to face the candles, watching calmly as they flicker.

Your pale as you push your bodies up the numerous steps, heart thrumming in fear for your Order or what awaits you the moment you have cell service. Seonghwa pushes ahead of you once you leave the crypt and reach the entry of the regular church entrance– his cellphone immediately buzzing before he answers in a panic. You both hear the staticky panic shrieking into his ears and grow cold at what you hear. It’s Yeosang.

“Seonghwa, where the fuck are you? Something weird is going on at a children's orphanage and parish on the outskirts of the city, there’s too many of them–” The sounds of blood-curdling shrieks fill the air as the line goes dead and the three beeps that follow hauntingly echo as you turn to each other before calling the other members, and to no avail– no one answers. 

“Raziel, can you track one of them? Or can you sense any strange omens, Infernals in the air?” before he responds, the young nun’s spirit appears before you in a flurry 

‘Strega! The Parish of Polycarp– something really bad is happening. Go now! There’s no time to explain."

You turn to Seonghwa with blown out eyes “The Parish of Polycarp!” 

He’s shaking, overwhelmed by a dizzying number of emotions but finds it in himself to nod, catching sight of a taxi making its way to your side of the road. He quickly hails it before hastily uttering the address to the driver, begging him to get there as fast as possible with promise of higher pay. 

You’re holding onto the car handle as the driver speeds down towards the outskirts of Rome and upon arriving an intense wave of nausea hits you. Seonghwa hands a wad of cash over to the taxi driver before dashing out, pulling you with him.

What greets you is a cacophony of sounds–some inhumane and others of anguish. The body of a priest is flung out the open entrance of the parish and he groans at the impact before passing out. The moment you step in you see blood dripping from the crucifix straight ahead. A green flash thunders in the upper right side of the room, and you see Yeosang deliver a force field that ricocheted a small body across the room. Horror dawns on you quickly when you realize that what he hit was a child. Quickly, you have Raziel hide both of your presences. 

The child, however, only rose again with distorted laughter as she charged towards him again. Horror and anguish painted over Yeosang’s face clearly, as he held back in hopes there was a way to end this with her life still intact. There had to be.

It was then that you realized that something was horribly, horribly wrong. The children’s bodies held a strange discoloration to their skin, baring puncture wounds in their hands– stigmata. 

You couldn’t feel any energy within their bodies other than the demons that ran rampant within. They were already dead. 

Those were intentional marks, and you felt sick after realizing that this was the result of a mass failed ritual. They weren’t stigmatas that were bestowed naturally– they were forced. 

Chaos ensued from all sides–Seonghwa already marched into action, snapping Mingi out of it with a bark. “Mingi, wake up! Don’t stay still.” You see Mingi’s shaky gait, still struggling to push through his moral struggle. Of all people, you knew Mingi was the most affected by the child possessions.

You overhear Jongho and San from the other end of the room, screaming warnings to each other unintelligibly. Yunho and Hongjoong stood before the body of an older priest, who’d been a part of the parish–Yunho holds a blade before striking his heart. There was a palpable darkness in their gazes as they did this, and you see Yunho’s hand crackle with energy as he pushes the flat of his palm against the priest's temple. A ghastly and shrill shriek that carried the distortion of a multitude of voices hung and echoed through the air, and you stare as Yunho attempts to exorcise the being within him. 

Your stomach dropped when you stared at the sigil that seemed to be burned into the priests' skin, before whipping your head around the room to see similar markings on the bodies of the children. They were dead long before they’d been possessed, and they were branded. There was no exorcising them– the demons were tethered to their bodies until they decomposed back into the Earth. Their bodies were now homes for the selected Infernals. 

There’s no other way– you couldn’t allow them to leave this church. This much you knew from your time as the portal. Your eyes drag across the room finally resting on the figure you were looking for. 

Wooyoung. 

You’d need his help, but you weren’t sure if he’d be able to pull through with it, else you’d have to seal this off all on your own. At this point, the tether connecting the demons to their branded bodies could only be solved by physical means– even Seonghwa’s spiritual weapons couldn’t do much unless he’d manifested them physically but would only incur needless butchering and a long night of fighting. Wooyoung clutched his head in his hands as he hid in a corner of the church and blood stained his rolled-up sleeves–cassock discarded. You don’t know what happened but now’s not the time to hesitate.

You hastily make your way to him, shaking him when he finally perceives your hidden presence with a gasp, positively frightened. Gripping onto his shoulders with resolve, you stare at him wide eyed and urgent.

“Wooyoung, it’s too late. There’s no saving them– they were gone long before we got here. All of them are corpses being puppeted by demons making home in them. No matter how much we try to psychically exorcise them– it won’t work. The demons are bound to their bodies until the bodies decompose or disappear entirely.  They can’t leave this Church. All hell will break loose. I need your help, because I need a leeway. These things could fight for hours on end, especially if they know we won’t harm the bodies they’re in. Your fire Woo– it could keep them from being able to run out of the church if we barricade them in… and it would also burn everything that they could attach to. If you do this, I’ll get the chance to act as a portal to send them back without risk of any of them escaping.” 

Wooyoung's bottom lip trembles, terrified as he reached out to tug at the sleeves of your coat, lowering his head as he grasped onto you– fat tears fall as he sobs in frustration.

“Fuck– Oh god, why? Strega, they’re just kids–” He thumps his head against your sternum, still grabbing onto your upper arms as he thrashed and sobbed.

You hold his head against your chest when you say

“Woo, we can’t let these infernals run free in the bodies of innocent children. There’s no telling what they might do, and I can’t imagine that their souls would be able to finally rest if we don’t stop this now, while we can.” You whisper this into the thick of his hair, stopping mid comb through the locks. “Please Woo, I need your help. This is something only the two of us can do effectively without risking the others as the night thickens. Set them free– your gift is the only one that could truly help doing that alongside me. You and I will carry this sin together.” You’re pleading to him as he slows his tears into silence and moves to stare bloodshot and helpless into your own eyes. He didn’t have to say anything for you to know that he agreed to do it.

You needed to reduce the church and everything inside of it to ashes with Wooyoung’s gift before you were able to act as a portal the moment the brands were removed.  He needed to give you that segway, his burning’s the perfect barricade; this was the plan. You had to remind yourself and make a tiny makeshift checklist in your head to steel yourself for what was to come. 

You pull a blade out of your trenchcoat after tugging its sleeves up, preparing ahead of time by piercing various scarred sigils, smearing the blood with your thumbs across the entire expanse of your arm– grimacing as you made contact with your own stigmata. The universe was cruel, and you bit back a sob as you stared at the children rabidly fighting the others as they blocked the entry ways. 

“Stop! It’s too late–get out of the church. We can’t exorcise them like this.” Most of them stared with apprehension, not wanting to leave the situation as is but also not knowing how to move forward.

You choked back a sob but couldn’t stop your tears from falling “We have to burn everything. Everything.”

Horror dawns on their faces but parts of them already noticed that everything they tried had failed. 

“Go– get out now. Wooyoung and I will deal with this.” You see them rise to protest, but you immediately shut them down. “Now’s not the time, go.”

As they rush out, Wooyoung marches to the center of the church, unbuttoning his dress shirt before rolling the sleeves up once more. With a quick roll of his neck, he holds his hands out to drag his hands almost languidly across the sides of the pews, slowly walking towards the center. 

The demons stop their laughter to tilt their head curiously before one hissed at a drifting ember, eyes widening in realization. ‘Hellfire!’

By this point, Wooyoung had burnt the surrounding pillars, barricading them in as the beams of the church fell before them. Their screams of panic sounded frighteningly similar to a child's as they started to beg– to manipulate their way out of this. 

“You’re going to burn the children, Exorcist?”

You could see the affect these words had on Wooyoung and yell out “No! Wooyoung, don’t let it fuck with you.” 

The demons finally take note of your presence when you finally unveiled it, and their eyes widened in horror as they took in the renowned sigils and stigmata on your arms.

“Strega!”

The shrieks only heightened as you turned to Wooyoung “Woo, finish it and get out of the church– it’s starting to cave in, and I need to do my end of things.”

At this, you run back towards the entrance–coughing as the smoke thickened the air. 

Pressing you forearms together, you call upon Raziel– dragging your thumb to reopen the already sealing wound on your skin. A white light pierces through the air momentarily as thin as a shooting star slicing across the open space, waiting–opening.

The air shifts as the Exorcists watch you inhale deeply. The parish is officially up in flames and Wooyoung stumbles out of the church to stand next to you, covered in soot. His skin is reddened but not blistered– a common factor of using his ability to more extreme extents. 

A faint light radiates from you and your scars as you mumble incoherently in a language they can’t recognize. Tongues.

The group moves forward to stand behind you both as you watch the remainder of the church fall, and your body lurches forward at the familiar weight of pressure passing through your spirit.

You haven’t forgotten this part, and you dreaded it. It always felt like stretching an internalized bruise– pushing at your organs like saran wrap, before disappearing passed you into the frightening place that looms like a death sentence behind you; the infernal, waiting with only a thin layer between your soul and its gate. You don’t count how many passes through you– but your gifts feel like a weakened muscle after so long without its use. 

You don’t know how long it went for, but you fall forward once it ends. Catching Wooyoung’s gaze as you both are suddenly aware of the new nightmares that will now greet your restless sleep. Wooyoung alas falls to his knees before crumbling backwards into your form, his loud sobs carrying into the soot-stained wind.  You cradle him from behind, wrapping your arms around his larynx, and stare blankly at your irreversible sin.

Before you realize it, a song leaves you. The liturgy that was sung at the funeral not many hours before this fast-landing terror–

You suddenly remember its name now. 

In paradisum. 

Without your knowledge, you finally break to join Wooyoung in his cries– singing into his shape. You push through to shakily utter a final hope– one you were unable to say was a prayer because you didn’t know to who it’d go.

”From the fire we came and to the fire we return to–may it blaze and welcome all of those who herald its holy light. In its warmth, may our bodies alas release the weight of our Earthly burdens and pains. Gone is the body, ash to the soul.”

You rock Wooyoung’s body before meeting Hongjoong’s strangely empty eyes.

♰𖣐♰

© velvetdolor 2025. All rights reserved.

Siren’s corner: i have no clue how i suddenly wrote this today but here i am– somehow devil’s catch is always the easiest to breeze through of all my stories. as some of you may know, i’ve bravely released a FUCK ton of incoming works– but finishing fatal attraction and for the thrill of the hunt is on the top of my priority list. thrill of the hunt may take a bit longer to finish since there’s about three to four chapters left (this includes san’s special chapter, but only two chapters for the main storyline)

i’ve released two special series events/ masterlists for my ateez cinema series (pt.ii) and my ateez mythology series, gods of the old and forgotten world. i recently completed a mini drabble series, i give my first love to you. feel free to check out my masterlist if you’d want to read any of my other ongoing/posted works! 

[Siren’s witchy corner/Dark historical facts]

The song mentioned, in paradisum is an actual liturgy, often heard at a Requiem Mass, which is a special type of Mass for the dead. 

The liturgy translates the meaning of a souls arrival into the ‘Holy City’, aka Jerusalem  with hopes that a choir of Angels would welcome them and they’d finally achieve eternal rest. 

My choosing of the name Polycarp was intentional for the church/parish. As in history, Saint Polycarp was Martyred by being burnt at the stake and stabbed with a dagger when the fire failed to kill him. It’s actually quite sad. Very sad. 

[sparring-spirals]

Oh, but wait, I'm fucking obsessed with how Dorian delivers the information about his brother and the crownkeepers- the tone, the cadence, the wording, the forced-casualness of it all.

And the way the Bells all respond to it too! The shock, the 'you're really downplaying it', Fearne immediately asking about Opal..... fucking tasty.

[princessanonymous]

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

Previous Part | Next Part

First Chapter

Trigger Warning: A bit of gore and death

13. 𝓒𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓟𝓾𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽

A soft knock echoed through the room, yet it was met with a disheartening silence. Undeterred, he entered, his presence a commanding force in the quiet space. "You cannot confine yourself in your room all night," the vampire declared with stern authority, a hint of frustration lingering in his tone. 

She responded only by rolling in her bed, seeking refuge under the covers. He tried to ignore how this reaction crushed a small part within him. 

"Tell me," he pressed on, "what did you expect to get out of this? Did you wish to die in the cold?"

His mind revisited the events of three nights ago. She had almost died. That was the cold harsh truth. It was sickening, horrifying even. It had terrified him in a way he hadn’t expected. Scenarios of what could have happened made dread gawk at his inside. The fact was that he had been lucky to find her, Dorian could have tried searching for her in the opposite direction. She would have been attacked and there would have been no one to protect her from that vermin. After bringing her back, he had remained by her side all day as she slept, the events of the night having left her completely drained of any energy. He had listened as she let out soft expirations, as her mortal heart beated and watched as her chest slowly rose and fell. 

So weak…

Her existence was so ephemeral.

That night, as these thoughts had crossed his mind, Dorian had inched closer to her neck. He could fix this. He could make her better and everlasting; eternal. His daughter – his sweet doll – could forever remain safe and unaltered by time. But he didn’t. He couldn’t turn her at this instant, no matter how much he wished to. It was forbidden to do so to a child her age. He had to wait.

Tonight, as he stepped into her room, he wanted to tell her that, had he not been there to save her, she might have met an untimely demise. That this was the reason why she hadn't been allowed to go out. Yet, the words remained trapped in his mouth, sealed between his lips.

Resigned to the persistent silence, he seated himself on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on her form cocooned beneath the covers. "It didn't hurt you. It is gone now," he spoke with a gentler cadence, seeking to comfort. 

Dorian liked when the child was calm and well behaved, but this depressing silence was not what he had wished for. Her response was an unyielding silence, prompting him to rise with a sense of resignation.

"What," she started with a scratchy voice, breaking the silence, "was that ?"

He halted, turning back to her with a glimmer of hope at the sound of her voice. "What do you mean, starshine?" he inquired, his tone inviting conversation and relieved that she was willing to engage.

"The monster," she whispered, a tremor of fear evident in her voice.

He sighed, grappling with the decision of whether to disclose the truth. Eventually, he settled back down, choosing to take advantage of her sudden willingness to speak. Refusing to answer would only make her retreat into her shell once again.

"To complete the process of turning a person into a vampire, that person must drink the blood of the vampire that bit them. A Sanguini, the thing you saw, is what results if that last step isn't taken. Slowly, these creatures turn into ravenous beasts, going mad with bloodlust. They aren't vampires, but rather something far more disgraceful and pathetic. The shame of our world."

Silence persisted as she absorbed this revelation. The vampire lifted the covers, unveiling her tear-streaked face. His fingers traced the contours of her cheek as he admitted, "I feared for your safety," his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability, emotions surfacing against his intentions.

She turned her back to him. "I want my mum," she mumbled.

His hands clenched involuntarily, resentment tinged with regret at how even in death, the woman retained significance for the girl. "I am here," he declared, the unspoken words ‘And she isn't’ hanging in the air.

Her response was silence. "You have me," he asserted more firmly, his fingers gently threading through her hair. "And you need me," he added, a subtle plea beneath his words. She needed him. Just as much as he needed her.

⊱ ────── {⋆☾⋆} ────── ⊰

The atmosphere hung heavy with a somber hush, disrupted occasionally by the clatter of utensils against porcelain as she quietly partook in her meal. Her eyes would intermittently dart toward the vampire sharing the table, yet they swiftly retreated back to the contents of her plate. It marked their first shared dinner since the harrowing incident a week ago. As she cautiously chewed her food, the unspoken tension in the air lingered. Did the vampire across from her anticipate a gesture of thanks? Did he expect acknowledgement for his actions, or was he simply indifferent to her feelings? Gratitude, however, was a complex sentiment to navigate when mixed with the knowledge that he was also the perpetrator of her parents' death.

Leaving during the cold winter night had been reckless, even perilous. The storm's cruel embrace had slowed her journey, and she found herself fortunate to have escaped the clutches of the biting cold. The storm had slowed her down and she was lucky she hadn't died from the cold… or that awful beast. She finished her meal in silence, rising without uttering a word. As she moved to leave, he halted her with an unexpected announcement.

"I have something for you."

With a subtle yet firm touch, the vampire guided her towards the door of the basement, a realm she had yet to explore. There was an air of mystery about the descent into the lower levels, an uncharted territory that piqued her curiosity. Descending the stairs, she couldn't help but notice a serene smile gracing the duke's face, adding an enigmatic layer to the unfolding scenario. 

The pathway, illuminated by the flickering light of torches lining the walls, exuded an eerie chill that seemed to cling to the air. As (Y/n) and the vampire continued their exploration, a distant door loomed at the far end of the corridor shrouded in shadows. However, they never reached it. The journey paused at a second door.

The first thing that came to her was the putrid smell. Next, was the figure slumped against the wall opposite to her. The duke widened the door, ushering light into the room.

She recoiled, a futile hand pressed against her mouth, but the horrified scream still erupted. Mary, the servant who had unwittingly aided her escape, lay there. (Y/n)'s eyes collided with vacant sockets. The girl slumped in the corner, bathed in blood. (Y/n)'s gaze trailed down her face, fixing on the throat. A crimson grin seemed to mock her. The slash across her throat emanated more life than her lifeless, gaping mouth.

One arm and one leg were bent at awkward angles as though she was a marionette that had been carelessly dropped. The remaining limbs lay a few meters away, severed from the rest. Entrails spilled unceremoniously on the floor.

(Y/n) crumpled to her knees, legs weakened. The world around her blurred as waves of anguish crashed over her, threatening to engulf every ounce of composure she possessed. In the midst of her torment, she unleashed a guttural scream of pain and despair that echoed through the emptiness around her. Tears streamed down her face as uncontrollable sobs wracked her body.

Two hands steadied her shoulders. "Take this as a warning," he declared, the words carrying a weight that extended beyond their immediate meaning. His grip on her shoulders tightened, the pressure a physical manifestation of the gravity of his words. "Actions have consequences, my dear."

The vampire leaned closer until his lips almost touched the girl's ear. His voice, low and intense, carried a chilling warning. "Don't you dare try to leave again," he hissed, the words spoken with a sense of finality. The proximity of his threat sent shivers down her spine. “I will find you. I will always find you. And everyone involved will have to pay for your foolishness," he affirmed, the weight of those words emphasizing an unwavering determination

He rose, leaving her sobbing in the wake of his departure, the door closing behind him.

(Y/n) clutched her chest, sobbing harder. This was her fault. She had brought this upon a poor girl who had done nothing wrong. And here she was now; forced to confront the consequences of her actions. She wept until no more tears flowed, until her voice became too hoarse to continue.

[rhythmmortis]

Another suzu thought. In love with how her personality and always rushing ahead into things comes from her gameplay in crypt where when you kill an enemy she rushes forward until she physically cannot. Fantastic. I love all the characters getting characterization based on gameplay, that's so wonderful.

and on that Note Eli would be a soccer coach, based on him kicking bombs in crypt.

Also neither cadence nor dove knew what yoga was prior to the rift implied yoga does not exist in their world, and that's funny to me

YOU'RE SO RIGHT OH MY GOD. she's very headstrong in the sense that she literally murders enemies in crypt by dashing into them. with her head. the characterisation for the characters in rift taking elements from crypt makes me LOSE IT i seriously think they did so well in that regard

eli being a soccer/football (< apologies i am british) coach is so CUTE i really love that!! he is amazing at scoring goals consistently provided they are always 3 tiles away. incredible work. i think he should also be a life coach on the side given that anyone he (rightfully) gave advice to ignored it immediately (dorian going to find the lute and eli telling him 'hey maybe don't leave your mourning infant daughter alone', cadence going to find dorian) went and got themselves killed, thus losing their life. he is so smart but surrounded by idiots (lovingly)<3

i still like the concept of aria also being a scientific researcher, considering she sought out the lute to heal the plague that ran through the village!! melody being a bard as she was in crypt was also an idea, but i thought that was too similar to cadence's whole thing, so maybe like a manager of sorts? honestly the main thing about thinking what melody and dorian would be like in rift is that dorian is a trophy husband. very important.

also god dove literally appearing in the rift world in the MIDDLE of a yoga session is so funnyyyy like it's her natural habitat. it's like rehabilitating domesticated animals in the wild. she is finally allowed to destress after the whole crypt she was practically made for yoga even if she has no fucking clue what's going on

[sheepwavehdg]

HDG xenospecies reference doc: the Maelodions

This is a first draft of a little world building reference doc I put together for one of the xeno species I made up. They primarily appear in Good Sensory and Surrogate Bloom.

The Maelodions are 3 foot tall musically inclined fruit xenos with six bifurcated limbs from the galaxy Andromeda. They use their affinity for signals and frequencies for many creative and scientific pursuits, as well as no small amount of utilizing their highly polyphonic songs to hypnotize other xenosophonts for fun.

Home Planet: No agreed upon Terran translation, most common is "Harmony"

Native Gravity: .4g

Year Length: about 8 Terran years

Lifespan: The original lifespan of a Maelodion was only a single season, under the efforts of the compact this has been extended by hundreds of times, going through many repeated regrowth cycles, similar to reblooming, but they do eventually degrade and die. No Maelodion has ever lived a full millennium without becoming digitized.

Domesticated: first encountered the affini roughly 19,000 years before Terran Domestication, took an unusually long time to fully Domesticate.

Names: Maelodion names are snippets of melody, with too high a level of frequency precision to be decipherable to most other xenos. They adopt new names when interfacing with other cultures, almost always based on historically famous musicians, instruments, or musical theory terms. Motzart, Cadence, Beyonce, Dorian, Viola, and Harmony might all be names a Maelodion in Terran space would adopt.

Physiology

The Maelodions are about 3 feet tall, with a slightly gourdlike central body, two sets of photoreceptive eyespots, a cluster of leaf like fibers at their base and top, and six flexible limbs. Their central body varies in texture between individuals, from feeling smooth and waxy like a watermelon to fuzzy like a peach. They can be any color

They are sentient motile fruiting bodies that originate from non-sophont trees, and before the intervention of the Affini, they only lived a single season (about six earth years) but now may live many hundreds of years. Their honeworld had seasons that would bathe entire regions of the planet in snow and scorching heat that required even autotrophic organisms with chlorophyll to be capable of migration.

They have six vine-like limbs that extend from their base, and bifurcate three times to end in 24 small manipulators, each time one third a long the new segments’s length. the final pairs are about the length of human fingers, but can become thinner and stretch out to be about 6 inches long.

The species has no sexes but does use sexual reproduction, being hermaphroditic. Their sexual mechanisms involve their bifurcated feelers, so putting them inside of other sophonts is pleasurable to them. This mechanism is also a form of intimate communication, and Terrans not taking broad spectrum blockers are particularly easily hypnotized by the songs of a Maelodion if it is possible to conduct sound through their skull directly somehow. Major Source: Surrogate Bloom

This is accomplished using the application of what grants the Maelodions their sentience, what is inside the body of every Maelodion, their Song.

The Song is a recursive self modifying harmony that exists inside the hollow resonant body of a Maelodion. It is highly polyphonic and complex, and to the Terran ear would sound like warbling white static.

Each member of the species carries a significant fraction of the Song, but how each interprets it varies between individuals. When in physical contact with each other's limbs, Maelodion can exchange verses of their Song, which allows for incredibly rapid transfer of information and knowledge.

Culture as of Terran Domestication 

Maelodions in Terran space will lean towards societal roles that involve interacting with sequences of information in some way. The obvious role is musician, such as Mx. O’Lydian and the Accidentals in Irregular Orbits, but coding, mathematics, physics, writing, chemistry, and many other things fit within this definition. They do not see these pursuits as being fundamentally different from music, or more broadly as an expression of Song. 

They tend to be strong language prosessors and usually have a good sense of humor, especially about being mistaken for affini. They are quick to debate, and tend to be very opinionated on seemingly inconsequential subjective matters.

Maelodions can communicate via sound in any language they care to learn, having specialized organs that operate like computer speakers and can produce entirely arbitrary sound waves.

Maelodion languages are polyphonic songs that sound like a mix of chimes, synths and whistles. Terrans can mimic simple phrases by whistling, but would need specialized mods to perceive the level of complexity of unsimplified communication. For reference, while the most fommon Terran musical octave contains 12 tones, the most common Maelodion octave is broken into 2520 distinct frequencies. Major Source: Surrogate Bloom

Some independent Terrans choose to set their hab AIs to the Maelodion language because they can simply memorize the melodic chirping tunes and not have to be condescended to in a language they actually recognize, feeling more computer-like. The affini do not entirely approve of this. Minor Source: Wild and Domestic

Pre-Contact

Before making initial contact with the compact, the Maelodion Chorus was anything but harmonious. Individual lifespans of the species are extremely short, and their seasonal life cycle was such that the entire race would die during winter, leaving only the record of their Song in their nonsentient tree form for the spring. Even after they escaped this limitation, the notion that art and legacy was more important than individual lives was deeply ingrained in their way of thinking.

As the Maelodions spread, various groups within it drifted, creating the first Choirs- a subgroup whose Song has diverged far enough they considered those outside it heretical and dissonant. Massively destructive wars over differences of opinion over classic artistic works broke out during this period. While the Maelodions never developed capitalism or private property, conflicts over subjective disagreement and ‘disharmony’ between Choirs frequently escalated to the level of using weapons of mass destruction on each other.

This was a self perpetuating cycle, and much of their cultural works eventually became about th process of debating the meaning of art between Choirs. This took less destructive forms, as well, with many ritual dances where two Maelodion would dance to a previous classic and debate ideas through motion.

Due to their extremely native understanding of signals, functions, and frequencies, the Maelodions are extremely gifted in the fields of mathematics and physics, and they had already gained an understanding of the fifth fundamental force before leaving their own star system, and devastating hypermetric weapon use was commonplace both against each other and against the affini once the Compact discovered them. Minor Reference: Dog of War.

Domestication

The Maelodion Chorus was a particularly tricky civilization to domesticate. The initial war period was longer than most, taking over 40 years to pacify a region comparable in size to the Terran Accord. The Maelodions were highly technologically advanced, extremely conflict-happy, and generally did not value individual lives due to how short their life cycle is, making them an extremely tricky puzzle to pacify without massive casualties. Major Source: Good Sensory

This was further complicated by incomplete assumptions made during the Maelodion cotyledon program. An individual member of the species was relatively easily tamed, but the song/chorus of their collective was far more resistant. 

While mass conflict ended in less than fifty years, the Song that each Maelodion carries within them was a far trickier beast. Since the Song itself was as their sentience, it could not just be replaced from scratch. A single feralist sequence could rapidly transmit through large groups.

This required a Domestication approach that involved heavy information control to prevent old feralist ‘melodies’ from rejoining the population, and outbursts of small feralist Choirs continued for centuries.

Some Affini do not think that the level of cultural rewrite that occured was beneficial for the Maelodions, and mourn the old Song, but they are rare. However, many parts of the Maelodion culture of critique and debate were allowed to remain intact, such as their debate-dances. Major Source: Good Sensory

[adhd-riddled-crow]

WIP Wednesday

I keep dreaming about a scenario featuring both Dorian and my Inquisitor, Mahanon Lavellan. So I'm possibly gonna write something about them because I just adore them sm istg!

So here is a preview of literally all that I have so far, we shall see where this goes together.

The Inquisitor was sat on his bed, staring down at the luminous mark on his hand. Repeatedly clenching and un-clenching his fist at the small spikes of pain it produces as it sparks. A thousand thoughts running through his mind. So many thoughts in fact, that he almost missed the set of familiar rhythmical knocks at his door, before the creaking of the hinges announced the arrival of his guest. "Amatus? You wished to speak with me?" The musical cadence of Dorian's voice travelled around the room as he walked up the stairs to Mahanon's quarters. Mahanon put a pause on staring at his hand helplessly and his usual mask of calm and collected took place of his previously dour expression as Dorain finally came into view. "Hi." He offered with a little wave in greeting, a small furrow in his brows his mask starting to slip already. Its a difficult task hiding what is really happening to your loved ones. That is especially so with Dorain, he can see through damn near anything if he really wanted to. He's one hell of a stubborn mage when he wants to be, he'll give him that.

I'm tagging my dear dragon age bestie @dragonagegayz because I saw his posts today and wanted to gush about what will happen in this (possible) fic with him <3

[natteryaktoad]

Notes, Day 86, Part 1

Melody: Part of me wishes I wasn't going to uni quite yet - I don't want to miss Coco being little!

Luisa: I'll trade, if you like. I'm going to miss Shawn so much!

Cliff: Why are we doing homework in the middle of Jazz and Melody's party?

Dorian: Because I've got the wanting to do it now feeling and if I don't do it now that will go away and then I won't want to do it another time!

Cadee: Come on, Love, shake my paw... I mean hand!

Dorian: When I grow up, can I be a cooker?

Jazz: Missed!

Neo: Did not! I can see snow on your coat!

Jazz managed to get his car fixed up and sold tonight, which is a nice boost for his college fund.

Melody spent ages doing her homework, and then I realised she's not going to school again, so her grades won't go up. It's not even like I could send her to school and then send her to college at the end of the day because it's Saturday.

Reed: Can't you two go to your room?

Time for Jazz and Melody's off-to-college party!

[rosetinted-escape]

THIS IS MY OWN ORIGINAL WORK. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION, AND CREDIT ME IF YOU DO.

The song I wrote from the perspective of Dorian Pavus falling in love with the Inquisitor, which I mentioned on my twitter (Rrromulus7).

Currently unnamed, but that will likely change soon (working title is Tempus, amatus. Placeo. Which is Latin for 'time, beloved. Please' in the sense that Dorian struggles to admit/talk about his feelings, and needs time, but nothing fixed).

I hope you guys like it! I did mention on twitter I was hoping to do more, so if anyone has any in particular they want to hear, do let me know! I've only been playing DA since September, so I probably won't have a good enough grasp of every character/romance to do everyone.

Extra stuff below the cut (vibe I was looking at, music theory bits)

I wrote this in the bottom sixth of my vocal range (G2-E3) to give of the feeling of a song written and sung in secret, the dead of night with the voice kept quiet so no one could overhear.

I use a lot of minor plagal cadences in this one! I love a minor plagal cadence, and it really gives of this kind of bittersweet feeling-he's in love, but that's really complicated for him, and it makes him anxious.

Also, there are a lot of maj7 chords. Again, I just like these, but they're generally considered a bit softer and calmer than a dom7. Some of the maj7 chords also have an add9 in the vocals. I've also used Cm/maj7 for the minor plagal cadences.

[thepictureofm00ny]

Sirius would probably look like some sort of Dorian Gray if he put it on. Pretty prick.

The Cadence of Part-time Poets - motswolo

[adainesjacket]

Happy Friday! Could I suggest Seong/Dorian (and maybe baby!Camille) - "a childish joy bursting through"?

happy friday! here's some absolutely tooth-rotting fluff!

dorian/inquisitor trevelyan, post-trespasser/pre-veilguard, kid!fic, gen, 1092 words.

@lottiesnotebook @dadrunkwriting

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Messere Crystal, sir?"

Camille tapped the crystal on the desk twice like Dorian had shown her and then sat back on her knees, fidgeting with her braids. Dorian had said she could use it whenever she liked if she got scared or bored while he was out that evening, and while it was getting easier to accept these kindnesses as truth, she still felt nervous and a little guilty doing so.

The crystal glowed a warm, comforting indigo, and an even warmer voice yawned out of it.

“Dorian?” The voice sounded sleepy, and she immediately worried that she’d disturbed him. “I thought you were out with the – with Mae.”

“It’s me,” Camille whispered.

“Oh,” the voice replied, instantly sounding more awake. “Camille! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Did I wake you?” She asked.

“No, no,” the crystal said quickly. “I was just dozing. It’s later here than it is in Tevinter.” His voice took on a soft, low, storyteller’s cadence that she loved so much. “All the stars are out, and the streetlamps are lit, and there are foxes arguing in my garden. Who could sleep through all that?”

“I can’t sleep either,” Camille confessed. It was silly, really. To feel alone, to feel scared. There were servants in the house, and she had her new soft white kitten to keep her company, and Dorian would be home when she woke up. But he had never gone out and left her behind before, and she couldn’t calm down enough to sleep.

“Would you like a story?” the crystal asked, and Camille was so, so grateful that she didn’t have to say it out loud.

“Yes, please,” she whispered, nodding fervently even though she knew the crystal couldn’t see her. She tucked her blanket up to her chin, put the crystal on a silken pillow next to her head, and settled down to listen.

“Once upon a time there was a prince named Ivan, and he had a beautiful garden with an apple-tree in it that bore golden apples...”

---

Dorian had never left Camille alone in the house before. Not alone, he chided himself mentally, there were plenty of people in the house, any of which could run and get him if there was something wrong. But he hadn’t gone out for the evening since he’d found her in that horrifying basement, and while Mae had done a good job of trying to distract him, he still found his grip was white-knuckled on his wine glass, and his tone too acerbic and irritable for the diplomatic mission they were trying to carry out at this party.

“All right,” Mae sighed, the sixth time his eyes flicked to the gold clockwork on the wall. “Go home. I’ll take it from here.”

Dorian shook his head. “There are still so many people to talk to. Magisterium sessions start next week-”

“And having you talk to any of them in this mood is only going to hurt our cause,” Mae said, rolling her eyes. “Go home and hug your daughter.”

“She’s not my-”

Dorian shut up as Mae raised a singular, perfectly arched eyebrow at him.

“Go home,” she repeated. “Hug your daughter. Come round and do paperwork with me tomorrow.”

Dorian couldn’t get out fast enough. As he rushed home he intended to simply glance in the doorway of Camille’s bedroom, just to satisfy to himself that she was safe and sleeping soundly, but when he approached the door he heard a familiar low voice and a completely new, high-pitched… giggle?

Camille was sitting up with the sending crystal in her lap, and she was laughing.

“And he complained about bog water in his boots for weeks,” Seong was saying. “So I thought a pair of hand-knit socks would be a lovely surprise!”

“They were hideous,” Dorian said aloud, unable to help himself.

Camille squeaked in alarm and his heart sank to see the panic on her face, but was soothed a little by how quickly she overcame it, compared to a month ago.

“Is that Dorian?” Seong asked, and Dorian’s heart ached a little to hear his voice but not see him there, as it did every time, but he put a smile on his face and perched on the edge of Camille’s bed.

“It’s me, amatus,” he replied. “You’re both up late.”

“We couldn’t sleep,” Seong replied blithely. “Camille was keeping me company.”

“That was kind of her,” he praised, and watched as she favoured him with a rare, tiny smile. “Do you think you can sleep now, Camille? It’s awfully late.”

She nodded, mute, and slipped back down beneath the silk coverlet. Dorian tucked her in, trying to emulate the very hazy memories of his mother doing the same for him, many years ago. When she closed her big brown eyes he resisted the urge to do something dreadfully sentimental like kiss her forehead for fear of scaring her, and contented himself with petting the silly kitten Mae had brought over for her a week ago. It yawned and flopped over by Camille’s side, a perfectly lovely if useless guard.

“Are you back early?” Seong asked through a yawn once he Dorian was in his own bedroom. “Were you worried?”

“No,” Dorian lied. “It was just a very boring party. Not even a whiff of an assassination attempt. Minrathous has gotten so dull.”

“Bah. Now who’s telling stories?”

“Hmm.” Dorian put the crystal down on the pillow by his head and stretched out on the bed, not bothering to take his clothes or boots off just yet. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard her laugh.”

Seong whistled through his teeth. “Poor kid.”

“You should come home soon,” Dorian continued, abrupt and far too heartfelt for his own liking. “I want her to meet you. I want… I want her to keep laughing.”

“I’ll tie things up here and be with you as soon as I can,” Seong promised. “But you know you’re doing a great job with her, right? She adores you. I had a whole book of fairytales lined up, but she just wanted to hear stories about you.”

Dorian felt a smile creep onto his lips. “Well, I am rather fascinating. Wet feet and all.” He ran a finger over the crystal that was a poor substitute for Seong’s lovely blue eyes. “You should go to sleep too, amatus. It must be approaching dawn where you are.”

“Mm, in a moment.” Seong yawned again. “Let me hear your voice for a while, mon coeur.”

[ofgarnett]

who: @fengforhire

when: right before the hurricane

what: the other side of the coin here

For the first time in the ten years of possessing Caitlin—and the unfinished years he’d lounged inside Jameson—Dorian possesses someone else.

It is unplanned. It is unexpected. He slips from Caitlin in the space between heartbeats, an eel of shadow skimming through the coastal dark. Something—someone—is trespassing in his dream-soil, leaving psychic footprints deep enough to bruise, and he must know the name.

Bodies become stepping-stones. A motel clerk dozing over invoices: slip in, taste penny-sweet panic, discard. A dock-worker snoring atop rope coils: slip in, taste homesick salt, discard. A rideshare driver stalled at a red light: slip in, taste numb resignation, discard. Each mind hums at ordinary frequencies; none match the illicit chord rumbling beneath the sky like subterranean bass.

Then the signal spikes—pure, aching will—dragging him inland through lamplit streets. He leaps through a paperboy, then a night jogger, and finally cinches himself into the frame of a mailman finishing the graveyard sort. The uniform smells of rain-damp wool and DMV coffee; the skin underneath hums with dog-bite scars and deferred dreams. Adequate. He pilots the mailman’s aching knees down a quiet cul-de-sac where a three-story, five-bedroom house broods behind wind-worried hedges—big enough for six kids, modest enough to dodge envy. No wards glitter, yet the trespasser’s dream pulses inside, rattling Dorian’s borrowed teeth.

He steers the mailman up the sidewalk, boots whispering over rain-slick concrete, and halts beneath the dark eaves. From here he can taste her—an electrical tang blooming through the brick like ozone before a strike. The front door doesn’t matter; walls are tissue to his kind. He angles the borrowed head, listening as her dream-pulse throbs against the siding, each wave a Morse code of defiance and raw, bright fear. Yes. This is the quarry.

For a moment he simply stands in the hush of the cul-de-sac, letting the restless hedge branches scrape the mailman’s sleeves while he savors the gravitational pull of her will. It drags at him from the second-floor bedroom the way tides tug at a moon, an undertow of storm-colored thoughts tunneling straight into his realm without permission. Bold girl. Reckless girl. Perfect.

With a sigh that fogs the night air, Dorian peels himself out of the postal flesh. The mailman stiffens, eyes glazing, then folds gently to his knees beside the garden gate, released to ordinary sleep. Dorian’s consciousness condenses to a razor filament and slithers across the threshold—through keyhole, through drywall, through quiet hallway—drawn unerringly to the heat-signature of that incandescent mind.

He slips between the Air Witch's fluttering lashes like smoke, finds the rhythm of her heartbeat, and floods the chambers of her dreaming skull. For a breath she convulses beneath the sheets; then her pulse steadies, syncing to the ancient cadence of the intruder now seated behind her eyes. The bedroom remains unchanged—shadows, faint detergent, distant drip of a faucet—but inside, the landscape has overturned: Dorian stands at the epicenter of her storm, tasting the voltage of a girl audacious enough to write her own passages through his night. He hangs between dimensions like a spider on a single trembling thread, all hunger and hush, his black-lantern eyes reflecting the battlefield below.

He becomes the architect of this nightmare.

The forest he conjures up for the Air Witch is not made of wood or leaf but of need—his need—and it stretches forever until he wills it to close like a fist. Every branch is a rib, every shadow a vein, all of it pulsing in rhythm with his patient, predatory breath.

He watches her stagger through the undergrowth, slick with blood that has not yet decided whose side it belongs to. She beheads a vampire— good, she remembers the rules—and he feels the ash scatter in his own mouth like bitter snow. When she smothers a werewolf he inhales the last rasp of its lungs, tastes the coppery panic as though it were communion wine. She is efficient, brutal, beautiful in her resolve, and each decision is a lit torch he can study for color and heat. Ambition is a rare vintage; one must crush it carefully to draw out the sweetest notes.

The hybrids come next, stitched nightmares pulled from her own subconscious—the long-legged thing with triple jaws, the eyeless serpent draped in children’s lullabies, the bone moth that screams through a hundred stolen mouths. She cannot predict them because she has designed them herself beneath dreaming skin. Dorian merely animates what already festered in her; he is, in his own estimation, an artist of curation rather than invention. Still, watching her blade whistle through necks that re-knit, torsos that re-splinter, he feels a swell of satisfaction ripple along the void. Two step forward, one dissolves, three reform—hydra arithmetic that she solves with sweat and lightning and stubborn grit. He hums approval, a note too low for mortal scales, and the forest hums with him.

When a creature falls behind, the creeping crimson edge of the void gulps it down. He designed that edge to move like hunger personified, a holy tide gnawing reality fiber by fiber. Each swallowed scream is another pulse of energy devoured, another confession of fear harvested. The Air Witch’s shudder reaches him a heartbeat later, sweet and sharp, and he cups the echo in his palms like a dying bird just to feel the frantic flutter.

Yet even a hunt this exquisite will lose flavor if the prey believes it meaningless. So he threads a new idea through the pack-mind, a silver hook of purpose: Herd her. The monsters pivot in unison, a single organism of claws and shrieks, and the Air Witch’s eyes widen as strategy announces itself in their footfalls. She tries to double back—the pack flows sideways. She tries to climb—the pack stacks upon itself. He can almost hear her thoughts stutter: Something is driving them.

Yes, child. Something is.

Dorian dilates the void until it brushes the roots behind her, dissolving bark into red dust. Every murder she commits delays the encroachment by a moment—so he feeds her just enough adversaries to maintain the illusion of control while the red tide inches closer. She will exhaust herself buying seconds that are already sold.

Eventually she bursts from the tree line onto the cliff he carved for this crescendo—a wound in the earth dropping into ink. She skids to the precipice and turns. Lightning crackles above her, summoned by instinct, coiling in the clouds like silver serpents awaiting command. Her hair lifts with static; her lungs hitch with anticipation of violence. Dorian savors that hesitation—the slow unclenching of her fist when she realizes the pack has halted at the treeline, eyes glowing, bodies taut but motionless.

He speaks to them without words: Show her devotion, not aggression. Hundreds of snouts flare, tasting her fear, but not one paw breaks formation. The forest goes still save for the thrum of approaching nothingness behind them. He can see the Air Witch’s shoulders loosen, confusion seeping in. Good. Doubt is the wedge he requires.

From his vantage—everywhere and nowhere—Dorian drizzles memory across her mind: snapshots of the family who has not come, the friends who cannot breach this pocket reality, the countless quiet rooms she will never inhabit again. He is gentle with the images; cruelty lands best when wrapped in tenderness. He even spares a moment to show her her own empty bed, still unmade from the morning she vanished. Loneliness descends like a cold veil, and the charge in the clouds gutters out.

She peers over the cliff’s edge. He murmurs into the abyss, shaping an echo that reaches her ears as invitation rather than threat. Leap and be free, it promises, wearing his voice yet flavorless enough that she convinces herself it came from within. Her body lists, exhausted. He can taste the microfractures webbing her resolve, the fine cracks spreading under the weight of grief and hope.

Dorian cherishes this part: the inventory of what keeps a mortal tethered. He skims her memories as she does, lingering on each face she conjures—Lara on the squashy couch, Riven flashing that rogue’s grin, Jen’s soft sanctuary, Nadia’s smile from behind a coffee counter, Dani’s sister-fire, her mother’s silent gravity. He presses gently on each recollection, not enough to crush, just enough to bruise, to remind her they are impossibly far away. Ambition is rarely about just reaching forward; more often it is about cutting away what roots you.

She whispers a thought—I’ve never been kissed—and the admission flares through him, bittersweet. He files it for later.

Now comes the final fastening. He lets the monsters behind her part like a ceremonial guard, opening a corridor of horrors that stretches back to where the void gnaws. No roar, no rush. Just waiting. Her choices distill to two vectors: backward into certain dismemberment, or forward into the unknown maw.

Her knees shake. Her breath rasps. Time hangs suspended, a bead of molten glass cooling midair.

Jump.

She does.

For the length of a heartbeat, Dorian lets gravity have her. She drops, hair streaming behind like a comet tail. Then he closes his fist and the abyss obliges, warping to cradle her descent in velvet darkness. She does not break; she simply stops, suspended, eyes wide at the betrayal of physics.

Dorian exudes himself into the black, a suggestion of a face forming inches from hers, all dark water and starless sky. No human musculature encumbers his smile; it is an aurora of knives unfolding beneath translucent flesh.

“Ambitious to the last,” he says, voice a slow tectonic grind inside her skull. “Do you know why I made you run? Do you understand what I showed you, Air Witch? Every trunk was a boundary you once accepted, every snarling hybrid a half-formed fear you refused to name. I sharpened them, let them bite, because steel is only honest after the hammer. When you lopped off a vampire’s head, you weren’t proving courage—you were proving that familiarity dulls horror. Easy victories breed complacency. So I peeled back familiarity and stitched fresh nightmares from the scraps of your imagination. Did you feel how they learned you in real time—split, merged, adapted? That was me teaching you the first lesson of power: prey that won’t evolve deserves extinction.

“And the void crawling at your heels? That was inevitability—the slow, certain erasure awaiting every witch who spends her talents on parlor tricks instead of empire. You bought seconds with blood, but seconds are cheap; ambition is expensive. I herded you to the cliff precisely because you believed you still had options. There is no option, Air Witch. There is surrender to gravity or mastery over it.

“You chose to jump. Good. A lesser creature would have turned and begged the pack for mercy. You spat on mercy. In that instant you confessed the truth I was tasting for—you want more than survival. You want the sky to answer your name the way lightning answers your nerves. That flicker in your eyes as you fell? That was hunger freed from hope’s polite leash.

“So here we are, suspended between what was and what might be. I can raise you back to the ledge, rinse and repeat the lesson until you break—or I can teach you how to command the forest, the void, the pack. Tell me, little stormcaller: will you keep leaping blind, or will you learn to fly?”