Fuck. Fuck. I can’t stop thinking about Roy straight up fire bending from his throat bc of that thing i just reblogged I’m sweating so bad FML FML FML FML!!!!
In Roy Mustang’s defense, he’d had his gloves shredded twice already. And for a man who relied on those gloves to keep his own head attached to his body, twice was twice too many.
In Roy Mustang’s defense, he understood a tattoo was an unsightly thing for a political figure to have. He’d mulled over it in silence, usually late at night staring at the ceiling of his empty apartment. It could be well-received, if he played it up as part of his Flame Alchemist persona. More likely it could tank his political career. The only popular tattooed alchemists were Solf Kimblee and Scar, and tossing himself in with their lot was probably political suicide.
In Roy Mustang’s defense, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to consult Riza Hawkeye on this decision. And she was the source of at least half the level-headed logic that drove him most days. He’d personally been the one to burn the Flame Alchemist tattoo off her back. He didn’t want to hurt her by letting her know he intended to get his own tattooed on.
This brought Roy to a series of conclusions: He could not continue relying solely on his gloves if he wanted to stay alive. He could not tattoo the flame transmutation circle anywhere the public (or Riza) would notice easily. And of course, it needed to be somewhere functional even if he were captured and immobilized.
The tattoo artist grimaced at the request. “Your neck?”
The dentist only quirked an eyebrow. “You want flintfillings in your teeth? What, are you trying to chew sparks?”
Most importantly though, Roy Mustang had the money for it, and he had the unflinching, moronic resolve to follow through.
He was satisfied, after many hours of gritting his teeth and digging his finger nails into a tattoo parlor chair, with how suavely his uniform concealed the red transmutation circle just above his collar bone. It took some practice, cutting his teeth against each other at just the right angle to make the volatile fillings spark. It took even more practice to catch that spark and transmute it into a roiling flame. It took the most practice of all to do this without singeing the inside of his mouth to hell and back.
But stupidly enough, it worked.
And so Roy Mustang had a secret weapon.
And the real pity about secret weapons, when it comes down to it, is that they have to remain secret. Mustang went about his days with his tattoo concealed, and his teeth fillings hidden, and his lackluster gloves securely on his hands. He was eager, almost, for some eighth homunculus to hop out of the shadows and challenge him, if only so that he could know his genius had not gone to waste. Maybe Selim Bradley would grow a few more teeth and eyes and try to get the jump on Mustang. Maybe King Bradley himself would hop on out of his grave for a rematch, as Bradley had already proven himself once or twice to be perfectly capable of bouncing back from certain death.
No such thing happened. Three weeks passed entirely without incident. This annoyed Roy Mustang.
In the fourth week, something sort of happened.
It wasn’t an immortal monster, nor a creature aiming to become God, nor a human turned homunculus that jumped him on his walk home. No, it was a knobbly-kneed teen, face just a bit too shiny and oily in the lamplight, holding a quivering gun.
“Hands up,” the boy barked. Roy complied, almost giddily. Oops, oh no, no hands… Whatever could he do. “Money. I want your money. Your wallet. Where is it?”
“I can’t reach it with my hands up,” Roy answered.
“Don’t be smart! Where is it!?”
“My coat pocket.” Roy motioned with his head. “Come closer, and you can take it from my pocket. My hands are up.”
“Alright… Alright, no funny business!” the teen barked. He edged closer, his eyes flickering between Mustang’s hands, eyes, and coat pocket. Mustang felt like Christmas had come.
“Oh, one thing first,” Mustang said, and the teen stopped, paralyzed, hand tight to the gun. Mustang clicked his teeth, flashed a friendly grin, and exhaled. The entire night lit up in flame. “I’m a bit flammable this close up.”
The teen yelped. Or shrieked perhaps. Or attempted to vocalize some noise of utter horror and instead choked on his spit, yowling and sputtering like some stepped-on cat. He threw himself backward, landing butt-first on the pavement and scrambling, scooting away, turning over and launching himself to his feet in the opposite direction.
Roy watched the boy sprint away, until he was nothing but a pinprick in the distance. Then he bent down and picked up the gun. He smiled, and coughed, and coughed again, and didn’t stop coughing for a good 30 seconds, because unfortunately there was no way to breathe literal fire without feeling like he’d swallowed at least some of it.
It was still the best idea he’d had in his entire 29 years of living.
And god dammit it to hell that he couldn’t tell anyone…
Roy stared at the gun, emptying the chamber and stashing it in his coat pocket along with his wallet. He chewed his tongue and thought about it.
…Maybe he’d tell Edward.
He and Edward differed on a lot of opinions, and Edward was loathe to admit that Mustang had ever done anything right in his life.
But Edward, more than anyone, would understand this was absolutely cool as hell.
