Intense themes with a nightmarish edge or grim outlook.
Death could come to Roy on his time. Appointment first. Lunch, maybe.
"If I do not, I might begin to love you, whom I should hate."
Roy had been among the rebels for weeks now, and he'd learned very early on that these men were dangerous, very dangerous.
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.
This is the smell of ozone from a lightning strike. This is fear.
Al thought of Martel, of Nina. He didn't want to be a chimera.
Of course, when she was their age she could hardly recite her multiplication tables, much less draw complex alchemical glyphs.
"...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 you are going to keep pets, you are going to have to take care of them."
It isn't often that our darkest fantasies get fulfilled.
"Have you ever thought about becoming a daddy?" Wrath said.
The cheap ink has blurred and run, but Ed's memorized the gist: Riesenbul needs help; come sort things out.
"I'm sorry Al," he said at last. "For what it's worth, I never meant for this to happen to you."
Of all the castle's "guests," Roy was the only one not allowed to leave. Ever.
"It's getting worse," his brother said as he came in the door.
rated:G | GEN | dark
What kind of stupid creature would walk willingly and calmly to its own violent, brutal death?
"Listen, bastard... Do you always have to do things the hard way? You never, ever make it easy for me."
He was afraid, so afraid, that something would go wrong, but he couldn't let this go.
A sin, to mar that innocence of sex, to put physical feelings with intellectual knowledge.
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.
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.
Envy was no poet -- one could say that he lacked a poet's soul -- but he did recognize beauty when he saw it.
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.
Ed began to understand why some people talked to themselves.
It's almost as though Al is the blind one, seeking to memorize his brother's features by touch.
Envy forced down the nasty smirk that threatened to overwhelm him.
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.
"Mother?" And his voice broke, shattered as he raced to her, arms wrapping around her thin body, embracing the image, the idea. "Mommy!"
On the first night, he comes to her as her teacher.
Neither brother seems willing to speak, but their thoughts dip down into similar wells, dredging up the questions that most haunt them.
He had lost everything in a heartbeat, on a chance, and deserted his brother, although against his will.
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.
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.
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.
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.
...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...
But Mustang would hold onto his control easily, manipulating the boy to lose more and more of his.
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.
Screaming or crying would have been appropriate. Edward Elric didn't care about propriety. He was laughing.
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.
He just carries himself with a certain atmosphere, one that feels like splinters of buildings falling off walls and landing broken or the smell of roasted flesh.
Ed did not want to die without seeing Alphonse again.
If she cries, he may have to kill her. He can't stand that sound any longer.
There were three ways to identify the Fullmetal Alchemist, wherever he went.
A small smile crept along her face--this visage made for mischief--and her tell-tale purple eyes narrowed.