#is this fandom dead? yes. do i care? YES. PLAY DANCE CENTRAL NOW!!!!!

[y4k4mi]

BREAK IT DOWN, GLITCH!!!

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Crimson Ties (Bela Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 4

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language Warnings: None for this chap Genre: Hurt + comfort Summary: Sure, your soulmate may be a vampire (of sorts), but there's nothing that love can't conquer, right?... Maybe it's time you learn a little more about the odd circumstances of your soulmate's existence- and the fear that lies beneath the surface. Notes: If the last chapter was "hurt" followed by comfort, this is "comfort" followed by hurt, also known as the part where the story's central conflict comes into play. Features an appearance from Daniela, who reminds us that Cassandra's not the only one with a sharp tongue around here. Previous Chapters: 1: Stem the Flow, 2: Tangled Strands, 3: Rumbling Thunder

4: That Which Burns

“Of all the stars, the fairest,” Bela murmurs in your ear, keeping her arms wrapped loosely around your waist, before giving you a gentle kiss on the cheek. If you hadn’t already been blushing, you certainly would have now done so. You’re leaning into her touch, face flushed as can be, loving every moment of this. For a while now you’ve been curled up with her, while she reads excerpts from her favorite works. Although both of you would have preferred to do this outside, enjoying the view of the stars, you figured it would be best not to push your health too much. After all, you had lost a huge percentage of your blood. Well, temporarily, but it was still better to be safe than sorry.

“That’s probably my favorite line from Sappho,” you chimed, fondly remembering some of your schooling. “Though the one about being remembered always stands out to me. I’m not sure I remember it correctly, and I’m sure it’s been translated a few different ways over the years… but I think it’s ‘someone, I tell you, will remember us in another time’. Might have gotten that backwards, actually.” Giving an awkward little smile, you sheepishly rub the back of your head with one hand. “Either way it feels so romantic. To think of a love so strong that it echoes throughout time, fondly remembered for generations… it warms the heart.”

“Mhmm, most definitely, my dear. Many aren’t as lucky, however,” Bela laments, an odd expression crawling onto her face. There’s the slightest waver to her lower lip as she speaks. Concerned, you turn in place to get a better look, gently reaching out to caress her cheek. Is there something I’m missing? You think, wondering what you should say. “I’m alright, I promise. Merely distracted by a fleeting thought. Let’s read another, yes?” Before you can protest, she’s already turned to another page, starting to read as if she already knew which one was next (which would not, at all, surprise you).

Love shook my heart, Like the wind on the mountain, Troubling the oak-trees

“Oh, if only I could speak Aeolic Greek, so that I could serenade you with tender prose, all the days of your life… just as it was originally written. Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Bela offers, once again smiling wide, as if nothing in the world was wrong, at least not when you were by her side. Though you are not keen to ignore her earlier stroke of misery, you are equally reluctant to put a damper on her current upswing. Now what were you to do? Little comes to mind, other than the simplicity of human warmth, and so you lean once more into her embrace, head held aloft on the strength of her shoulder.

“Here, as I am now, is more than lovely enough. Your voice is soothing in any language, sweet as sugar, relaxing as can be,” you reassure her in your softest tone. Heart fluttering, she finds herself easing back into the comfort of the moment, forgetting all about her earlier woes. “Shall we read another?” Nodding, Bela again turns the page and begins to read:

He’s equal with the gods, that man Who sits across from you, Face to face, close enough to sip Your voice’s sweetness

And what excites my mind, Your laughter, glittering. So, When I see you, for a moment, My voice goes,

My tongue freezes. Fire, Delicate fire, in the flesh. Blind, stunned, the sound Of thunder, in my ears.

Shivering with sweat, cold Tremors over the skin, I turn the colour of dead grass, And I’m an inch from dying.

“Does that make me equal to the gods, then?” You ask, as soon as the last line is given its moment to shine. A small hum comes from your soulmate, who seems equal parts intrigued and confused. “I look in your eyes and my lungs light on fire, my heart ricochets around my chest, and I hear the chorus of angels singing your holy praises. The fact that I can manage to speak at all is confounding. Maybe the muses have seen fit to lend me their artistry, so that I might make conversation worthy of your existence, my dear.” With that said, you find yourself being squeezed gently, Bela placing another kiss against the top of your head. Now, it seems she is the one without the ability to speak. “The divine witnessing the divine, yes?... Let me read the next one, and we’ll see if my voice could ever compare to your own.”

It’s innocent enough, your choice. A turn of the page, just another poem, selected for nothing more than respect for chronology. Yet something drains from the space around you as you begin to read, so subtly slow that you hardly notice.

Girls, you be ardent for the fragrant-blossomed Muses’ lovely gifts, for the clear melodious lyre: But now old age has seized my tender body, Now my hair is white, and no longer dark

How were you to realize that the great shadow of fear loomed over your soulmate, when she had refused to name it mere minutes ago? How were you to know to halt your reciting, when the aching of her heart rendered her throat dry, and she could not bring herself to call out to you? Words poured like poisoned wine from your lips… your soulmate having no choice but to drink up every last drop.

My heart’s heavy, my legs won’t support me, That once were fleet as fawns, in the dance I grieve often for my state; what can I do? Being human, there’s no way not to grow old

A shaky breath from age-old lungs, exhaled into tense air, forced out past a trembling jaw. Say something, Bela tells herself, any poem but this. For a split second you pause, and she wonders if her thoughts have found new light in your own mind. But you break the momentary silence without much care, simply having been unsure of your pending pronunciation of an old name, perfectly unaware of your partner’s panic.

Rosy-armed Dawn, they say, love-smitten Once carried Tithonus off to the world’s end: Handsome and young he was then, yet at last Grey age caught that spouse of an immortal wife

At last her ordeal was over. The final words hang heavy in the air, weighing down her shoulders, but they are done. Her fears had been dragged out from the pit in her stomach, now waving about like dirty laundry. There was only one way for her to avoid this happening another time: Tell you the truth. By now her silence had earned your attention, with you turning in her lap again, concerned gaze meeting her hollow one. Gently, she gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“I… am not one to balk at the nature of things, however painful the truth. Yet I hesitate now, with the very person I am bound to with crimson ties… How cowardly of me,” Bela all but snarls, anger clearly not directed at you. It’s clear in the way that she holds herself that she has more to say. There’s not much you can do other than wait, though you do tuck an arm around her waist, beginning to rub soft circles against her back. “Allow me to drop the pretenses. You are not immortal, but I am. We’ve only been together for a day and a half, and already I’m worrying about your lifespan. It’s safe to say that this particular poem was an unfriendly reminder of our situation.”

Oh. How exactly were you supposed to respond to that?... Your girlfriend- your soulmate- was immortal. Hmph, as if her essentially being a vampire hadn’t already been enough to freak you out. Now this? Well, maybe it wasn’t too much farther of a stretch from the last revelation, even if you were still recovering from that one. Even then, something told you that this was equally hard for Bela- both to say, and to simply feel. As if she needed more stress surrounding her partnership with you…

“Of all the ways for us to mimic legends… I don’t even know what to say, my dear. I… I suppose that I can only reassure you that we will make the most of every moment we have. However much time we are destined to get, we’ll make sure it is filled with bliss,” you reply, slowly, making it up as you go. An ache builds in the center of your chest as you talk, an internal yearning for greater confidence. Although words were your “weapon” of choice, you were not always a master in your use of them, too human to be infallible. “Maybe we should set aside the poetry for now, shift our focus to something, ah, less meaningful?”

“That would be for the best,” Bela agrees, already shifting like she was going to stand up, before you even had a chance to get off of her lap. Something strange had fallen over her expression, an invisible veil, putting an uncomfortable distance between the two of you. Inside your chest, a thundering heart threatens to go still. Had you done something wrong? Did you commit some unspoken sin? Together the two of you rise, in sync yet more separate than before, a thousand questions and anxieties rendering both of you silent...

—————————

Across the room from you, a pair of bright eyes watch your every movement, peering out from over an open book. If you didn’t know better, you might have thought that the “ruse” was intentionally poor. But for all the five hours you had known her, Daniela Dimitrescu had done nothing other than prove herself odd, clumsy, and quite possibly… overconfident. Admittedly, that still made her undeniably more pleasant than Cassandra. If you had to be stuck alongside someone other than your soulmate, well, ‘twas best that it was this strange redheaded gremlin. Even if she had expressed an unfortunate interest in eating you.

Gods, what is wrong with this family? You think, frowning a tad, unable to stop yourself from making eye contact with Daniela. Instantly she’s looking away, pretending to be engrossed within her book. The very same book that had remained open to the same page for half an hour now. I do hope Bela is having more fun right now, with whatever “business” called her away so unexpectedly. She hadn’t seemed happy to have to leave your side, earlier tension notwithstanding. Coming here to the library had been her suggestion, though you doubted she knew that Daniela was there, or at least hadn’t anticipated her sister’s unnerving behavior. Already the redhead was looking back at you, even less subtly than before.

Sighing, you decided that you could only put up with so much of this tomfoolery.

“Are you in need of something? Or is there something on my face?” You ask, setting your own book aside as you do. There’s a few moments of silence, as Daniela glances around the room, as if you might actually be speaking to someone else. When no scapegoats teleport to her rescue, she very awkwardly clears her throat, then moves to sit at your table. Though you are loath to admit it, your heart starts beating faster as she approaches. Not out of attraction, hell no, rather fear. Perhaps getting her attention hadn’t been the wisest choice after all…

“I just think it’s funny,” Daniela chimes, trailing off just long enough to run a finger down the length of your arm, “that Bela abandoned you so quickly. You’re so… fragile. Cassandra told me about the fun little introduction you had to our family- the blood loss, being chained up, the fear you felt when you got caught in our territory.” Suddenly she’s devolving into a fit of giggles, hand resting not-so-gently on your wrist. When you try to pull away, her nails dig in, and her gaze snaps back to your own. “But you don’t remember that part, do you? If you did… oh, we’d have to lock you up, like the little pet you are, to keep you from running away. I’m sure Bela wouldn’t mind seeing you in chains.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You snap, uncharacteristically furious. While it was true that you couldn’t recall exactly how you made it into the castle’s dungeons, you refuse to accept Daniela’s implications about your soulmate, or her assessment of your dedication. A brief second passes where you think she’s about to lunge towards you. Instead, she withdraws her hand, moving it to prop up her chin instead. Then, her lips slowly drag upwards into a wicked grin, wide eyes filled with dangerous amusement.

“So you’re more than a wannabe Shakespeare, after all? A bit more teeth, a touch more vulgarity, maybe a twinge of bloodlust, and you might actually fit in around here. Not enough to get our family’s ‘gift’- our secret to a long, happy life- but enough that Bela won’t grow bored of your sappy poems,” she teases with another string of laughter. Before you can question her about this ‘gift’, she’s all but jumping to her feet, stretching out her arms as she does. “I can’t wait to update Cassandra about you. We’ll be betting on how entertaining you’ll end up being. Try to keep from bailing on my dear sister too soon, alright?”

Just like that she’s disappearing into a swarm of flies, leaving you more confused (and angry) than ever. Taking a deep breath, you try to focus on what you need to do next: Find Bela. Talk to her. Get some goddamn answers.

[flourchildwrites]

While I still have to read Bound By(sooon) how about a fictober prompt? If you dont have anything planned yet, either "fight" or "trapped" for royai? Thanks! Im loving what Ive read so far!

Witch, Please!  Fictober 2019  (13/31)

A multi-fandom Fictober prompt compilation.  Your wish is my command, but be careful what you ask for.  You just might get it.

For @dvltgr

Prompt:   “Fight” from Writetober 2019 Prompt List

Fandom:  Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types

Relationship/Pairing:  Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang

Genre:  Pre-Canon, Young!Royai

Rating:  Teen And Up Audiences

Word Count:  1,726 words

Read on AO3

Dinner at Hawkeye Manor was a pleasant affair for those who were accustomed to long stretches of loaded silence. After three years of dining in a conversation vacuum, Roy Mustang had gotten used to it.

Berthold Hawkeye took his meals with his nose pressed between the pages of the newspaper while his daughter balanced the checkbook. Clinking silverware and chiming glass accompanied the pungent smell of printer’s ink as the tip of Riza’s pencil scratched against the household’s ledger. The set of the fourteen-year old’s blonde brow spoke volumes about the solvency of the Hawkeye estate, and judging from recent observations, Roy braced himself for another hard winter. He wrote home to his Aunt Chris, asking for sweet treats, a thick pair of gloves and extra blankets to see him through, intending to put the letter to post the next morning before his lessons.

“What are you doing?”

Riza’s voice was not entirely jarring, but the sudden urgency of the question caught Roy off guard. He flinched, nearly jumped out of his skin and pivoted in his chair, staring back at the knock-kneed tomboy as if he had seen a ghost. Admittedly, she had been looking paler lately; the threadbare quality of her clothes emphasized that fact.

“Writing a letter to my Aunt. Why?”

“The one who lives in Central?”

“Yes.” Roy supposed he hadn’t quite explained that he only had one aunt, that he knew of at least, but wasn’t about to start now. “Why?” Roy’s voice carried an edge that he hadn’t quite anticipated.

“Sorry,” he added, apologetically, “I’ve got a lot to do here, and you startled me. Is there something you need, Riza?”

Reluctance was not an emotion that Riza wore all that often or all that well. She fiddled with the frayed end of her baby blue sweater, refusing to meet his eyes as she spoke. “You should go into town to mail that letter this evening so it’ll go out on the morning train,” she said. “I’ll set aside some dinner for you. I’ll even give you an extra slice of dessert. It’s peach cobbler.”

“That will take almost an hour, and I don’t want an extra slice of dessert,” Roy retorted. “I can just give the letter to the postman tomorrow morning. One day won’t make a difference.”

Still stroking the hem of her clothing, Riza’s tone became impassioned. She looked up to meet the gaze of her father’s apprentice. “It might freeze tomorrow night, and the mail to Central could be delayed for weeks. Could you please, Roy? I- I need to talk to my father, and I think it’d be best if you were out.”

Roy opened his mouth to argue but stopped as the puzzle pieces fit together, forming a more precise picture in his mind. Riza needed to speak with her father, which she never did. She’d made Professor Hawkeye’s favorite food, peach cobbler, which they rarely could afford. Riza was offering Roy an extra slice of dessert - possible her own - because it was the only bargaining chip she had to offer.

He’d be an ass to refuse her request at this point. Aunt Chris had taught him better than that.

“Fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth. Roy glanced out the window as the wind gusted through the trees, knocking burnish yellow, brown and orange leaves from the branches. He shivered at the thought of a long, lonely walk down the dusty country road.

…

Roy returned later than intended with frozen toes and cheeks red and raw from the cold. As he stepped into the entryway and stamped his boots against the mat, Roy heard raised voices coming from their small kitchen, the place he usually ate dinner.

“I give you food. I give you shelter. I provide for a first-rate education, and what has that school imposed on us! The clothes on your back are fine as they are, and I should write that school an impassioned letter to protest non-academic endeavors. End of discussion.” Berthold’s raised voice loomed through the wooden walls of the dilapidated country home.

“All the other girls enjoy the cotillion,” Riza stressed. Her tone was high and shrill. “I don’t want to ruin it for everyone, but the nice dress I have doesn’t fit. I asked my teacher if I could help prepare and serve the food again with the lower grades, but she said no. I’m to be judged on table etiquette this year and dancing next year. The cotillion is one-sixth of my overall grade, Father!”

“Table etiquette and dancing!” Berthold scoffed. “I’m not going to allow you to spend a quarter of our monthly budget on frivolities such as shoes and dresses that you’ll wear once. What you have is sufficient.”

“Please, Father. I already tried letting out the seams. See? The hem is too far above my knees, and my chest-”

Roy crept close to the doorframe. He walked softly to muffle the sound of his footsteps against the hardwood and pressed his back against the wall. The apprentice stilled his breath to hear his master’s low, cruel utterance.

“Maybe you should eat less. It fit your mother fine when she was your age.”

There was a beat of silence as the weight of his words settled and wreaked their havoc. Roy’s fists tightened. His teeth clenched, and he heard the soft shuffling of fabric and shoes against the kitchen’s checkerboard floor as Riza darted into the hall.

He caught sight of her as she passed and was surprised to find Riza wearing a lacey white dress gone yellow with age. The delicate layers sat too high on her hips, and the button-up back was taut.  The effect strained the natural curves of her figure in places where the garment should have comfortably fallen. In the split-second their eyes met, she turned away and darted up the stairs toward her room.

As Roy followed in Riza’s footsteps, he stopped off at the small apprentice dormitory to discard his jacket, boots and scarf but caught sight of the dinner on his desk before he could peel the layers from his skin. As promised, there sat an extra serving a peach cobbler and a note thanking him for his discretion. The sight hurt Roy’s heart just as much as the soft sobs coming from the other side of the hallway.

He sat down to write another letter to his Aunt Chris and told himself that he didn’t mind two brisk walks through the bitter cold on the same evening.

…

If the crates stacked in the entryway of Hawkeye Manor bothered Berthold, he paid them little mind. The postman begrudgingly lugged them in from his wagon with sideways remarks about the size and weight that Roy pretended not to hear. It took the young man four trips to carry the wooden boxes to his second-story dormitory and twenty minutes more to recover from his exertions. But the content of crates far surpassed any expectations he might have had when he asked his Aunt if his sisters had a nice dress to spare.

Chris Mustang’s note was, as she, straightforward and to the point.

Roy-boy,

A dress is useless without shoes, coats and accessories. Your sisters have no need of these as they are from last year. See that they find a good home.

Aunt Chris

All that was left was to wait for Riza to return home from school.

…

“Oh, Riza,” Roy called out, pleased as a preening peacock, “could you come here a moment. I have a favor to ask.”

Roy waited with growing impatience for her to turn the corner and smiled like the Cheshire cat when her indignant scowl fell, quickly replaced by a look of wonder. At least a dozen dresses and coats of all colors and styles were laid over the two vacant beds in the dormitory. An entire jewelry box of ornate rings, bejeweled earnings and long strands of pearls sat casually on Roy’s nightstand. And in the corner of the room, a large crate of purses and high-heeled shoes sat, still waiting to be unpacked.

“My silly sisters thought you might be interested in some of their old dresses,” he started. “And I told them that, of course, you wouldn’t want last year’s styles, but they insisted, and here we are. Might you consider taking these off my hands? I’d hate to send them back.”

Riza approached the dresses with equal parts hesitation and fascination, running the back of her hand along the frilly sleeve of a shimmering, soft pink dress and burying her fingers in a fur-lined coat that, Roy realized, once belonged to his own Aunt. Then, suddenly, her awe turned sour as she shook her head to rid her eyes of the marvels before them.

“I can’t accept these, Roy,” she said sadly. “We can’t afford-”

“Oh, please,” Roy interrupted. He’d prepared himself for this particular argument. “No one would be caught dead in these clothes in Central City. And I realize it will be a hassle to take them in, but I’d hate to have to haul these to the post office. It’s so far away, and the weather is absolutely terrible this time of year.”

Roy hoped against hope that, just this once, she wouldn’t be so stubborn, and he was rewarded by a teary-eyes gaze that caught the reflection of the many metallic bobbles glinting in her new jewelry box. Riza gathered the clothing in her arms and looked at Roy with a heartbreaking grin that stretched the corners of her heart-shaped face.

“Thank you,” was all she said in reply.

Through the lump in his throat, Roy grumbled his own response. “Don’t mention it.”

He couldn’t go to the dance with her and probably would not spend another winter under Berthold’s tutelage. Neither could Roy change his master’s mind once it had been made up nor lessen the burden of her lonely life. But if he could play some small part in a brief moment of happiness, the young man decided he would take that chance, if not for altruistic reasons then selfish ones. If only so that when Riza would smile, all decked out in her finery as she departed for the cotillion, Roy would know he was responsible for it.

He would fight for her well-being, even after she herself had surrendered.

A/N:  Thank you so much for the prompt. I hope you like it even though I took royai and made it young!royai.  Today, I woke up thinking about my grandmother and a particular conversation she had with my father about a prom dress.  So, I guess this one it a little for her as well.  Feel free to send me pairing requests for particular prompts (Fictober or original) via my tumblr, and if you read something you like, don’t hesitate to let me know. Your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, comments, likes and reblogs make my day!