Intense themes with a nightmarish edge or grim outlook.
Mustang fell into a kind of trance whenever he killed with his flames -- snapping his fingers continually, sometimes so fast that both his hands blurred.
The cheap ink has blurred and run, but Ed's memorized the gist: Riesenbul needs help; come sort things out.
It isn't often that our darkest fantasies get fulfilled.
We were the naive kings of all we surveyed, lingering on the hilltop as we stared at our kingdom of ash, of ruins, of dust.
Of all the castle's "guests," Roy was the only one not allowed to leave. Ever.
Roy had been among the rebels for weeks now, and he'd learned very early on that these men were dangerous, very dangerous.
"I'm sorry Al," he said at last. "For what it's worth, I never meant for this to happen to you."
If she cries, he may have to kill her. He can't stand that sound any longer.
He had lost everything in a heartbeat, on a chance, and deserted his brother, although against his will.
What kind of stupid creature would walk willingly and calmly to its own violent, brutal death?
He was only human though, and he had given into his rage at having to deal with Edward's dysfunction--and now Edward was gone, and it looked more and more like he might not be coming back.
On the first night, he comes to her as her teacher.
"If I do not, I might begin to love you, whom I should hate."
Before this war, he'd never wiped human blood off his automail.
But Mustang would hold onto his control easily, manipulating the boy to lose more and more of his.
"...If I...really went insane...I mean, completely lost my mind..." Ed said, carefully, "do you think you'd be able to stop me?"
If Al hadn't known how often the older boy feigned unconsciousness in order to stave off these visits, he might have been fooled.
This is the smell of ozone from a lightning strike. This is fear.
Ed did not want to die without seeing Alphonse again.
Edward would speak to him, eventually. Any good dog would, and despite his obstinacy, the child could be trained.
This was always my favorite part of the day, when I could observe the wicked gleams of a glare I wasn't meant to see.
...when he presses his hand against the scraped array and wills it to activate, he can't help but send a whispered prayer to it. Please work. Please, please...
All it took was a push of his hand and the twist of a small brass key to put it out of sight.
Edward doesn't come back the next night, or the next.
"Have you ever thought about becoming a daddy?" Wrath said.
He’s killing his brother slowly, but he has already promised to do it quickly; what does it matter?
Death could come to Roy on his time. Appointment first. Lunch, maybe.
Sometimes, he prays that the hand will come down and Ed will tell him gently they are done, they are going to quit, end the nightmare before it worsens.
Al thought of Martel, of Nina. He didn't want to be a chimera.
"Listen, bastard... Do you always have to do things the hard way? You never, ever make it easy for me."
From saint to sinner, from mother to whoreâ€¦ She was far more beautiful in death than she'd ever been in life.
A small smile crept along her face--this visage made for mischief--and her tell-tale purple eyes narrowed.
When the lines didn't matter, when the lungs weren't working in labor of sweet industry worlds, then it was so easy to see where they might be all born of the same blood.
Faith didn't hold much of a place in my life; science was my passion, something I could see, something I could feel, could make sense of.
Neither brother seems willing to speak, but their thoughts dip down into similar wells, dredging up the questions that most haunt them.
"Mother?" And his voice broke, shattered as he raced to her, arms wrapping around her thin body, embracing the image, the idea. "Mommy!"
A sin, to mar that innocence of sex, to put physical feelings with intellectual knowledge.
He didn't know why they would do this to him, why they would stare with sad eyes and sad lips, with mouths turned down for the frowns that came.
"It's getting worse," his brother said as he came in the door.
rated:G | GEN | dark
His brother seemed to like it when the leather left marks, a residual token of ownership, even when the collar (by job-dictated necessity) had to be removed.
Envy forced down the nasty smirk that threatened to overwhelm him.
The color red was a distraction. The color red was him. Him--Mustang's own constant distraction, the waving red banner amidst the dull color that painted his everyday life.
Envy was no poet -- one could say that he lacked a poet's soul -- but he did recognize beauty when he saw it.
I've never regretted keeping you, Envy.
Screaming or crying would have been appropriate. Edward Elric didn't care about propriety. He was laughing.
Ed meets his eyes, holds them, and then -- slowly, painfully, but deliberately, traces his free hand in a line across his throat.
It was just as his body heat was beginning to bring the sheets up to a reasonable temperature that the noise caught his ears- an ugly scraping sound, unnatural and harsh in the silence of early morning hours.