second coming: nc-17, short

“The time is out of joint: O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!” — Hamlet, I.v.188-189

“Après moi le deluge” — Louis XV 

They call him the Flame Alchemist because he consumes fire. He can put his finger to a burning wick and absorb the dancing flame so that it dies down to a spark, down to the faint scent of wax which he consumes, also. He doesn’t feel the heat, or the pain. The candle is very much whole, and it is only evening.

untitled: r, wip (1/?)

Chapter 1 (draft text)

Roy Mustang had messy black hair that contrasted shockingly with his pale skin. He had a vaguely quiet, academic air about him, but his hands bore calluses that scholars weren’t used to having. His white shirt was neatly pressed and ironed, but his tan duster was rumpled and carelessly thrown over the back of the couch. The ancient fan overhead managed to whip up the papers at his desk, but failed to do anything about the sweltering heat.

fma christmas: pg-13, short

This was the ‘famous Armstrong family Christmas carolling and dinner party, passed down through generations’. Or at least, that was what Major Armstrong would tell you at the door to his palatial family home. And in addition, pump your hand vigorously until it lost all feeling. 

What a load of rot, thought Roy moodily, picking at his turkey, which the menu claimed to having been marinated in ‘special Armstrong family sauce’, and wincing at the incredibly off-key (probably traditionally so) rendition of ‘Silent Night’. A particularly high pitched warble saw him dropping his fork and cringing when it met the ground with a loud chime of protest. Bending down to pick it up gave him a good view up Hawkeye’s skirt, but the treat was prematurely cut short by her aiming a kick at his nose. It connected (painfully) and he ducked out in a hurry, bumping his head on the table and earning an annoyed snort from Fullmetal, who was seated on his right. Roy had never felt so embarrassed in his life.