Presents (Requests)
For foxbaby:
Foxy/pimp!cat OTP.
Or
From pictures by this guy; may your Google-Fu serve you well.
For finer_verities:
Olivia and Mustang have post-Christmas generic winter holiday party words. I'm not the best at manga continuity, so beware.
“Pigs,” she snarls, pushing past him through the door, not even noticing as he holds it open for her. No more office parties, ever, and the idiots who wrote that reg about woman
officers wearing proper feminine attire can warm their toes in hell. Damn them all.
"I'm a gentleman," Roy says, the words softened on his lips. His tongue's gone a trifle heavy--there was more than champagne in that punch--but his arm is strong and steady,
warm against her bare back. "Allow me to walk you home."
Olivia smiles. Her lips are rich and red and full, perfect as a velvet bow. Her teeth practically glitter.
"Are you terribly fond of that hand?"
The knife flashes in her grip, liquid bright, as she slits Roy's glove from wrist to fingertips.
“Not especially,” he says, still grinning as she stomps off--marching away as best she can in heels, peacock blue skirts flouncing almost knee-high in the cold.
He lets her go. She’d never respect him if he bled on her, and he’ll probably never get a view like this again.
Also: attack of the angst! I actually wrote GEN. Le gasp.
Snow pelts her hair, ice water raking down her spine. Gun oil burns her nose, powder and recoil searing her uniform. Her own blood is thick and hot on her tongue.
Olivia blinks. The walls go grey, shutting her in, the ground bare and dry under her boots, the room stifling and close.
They crank the heat in Central. Pussies.
The snow is still there, outside, waiting. Her brother won't look at her, won't do her even that courtesy, but he knows. Of course he does.
It runs in families, that's what they say, that's what they murmur at her back, smiling, always smiling, to her face.
He hasn't smiled at her in years.
If only she had gone instead.
Foxy/pimp!cat OTP.
Or
From pictures by this guy; may your Google-Fu serve you well.
For finer_verities:
Olivia and Mustang have post-Christmas generic winter holiday party words. I'm not the best at manga continuity, so beware.
“Pigs,” she snarls, pushing past him through the door, not even noticing as he holds it open for her. No more office parties, ever, and the idiots who wrote that reg about woman
officers wearing proper feminine attire can warm their toes in hell. Damn them all.
"I'm a gentleman," Roy says, the words softened on his lips. His tongue's gone a trifle heavy--there was more than champagne in that punch--but his arm is strong and steady,
warm against her bare back. "Allow me to walk you home."
Olivia smiles. Her lips are rich and red and full, perfect as a velvet bow. Her teeth practically glitter.
"Are you terribly fond of that hand?"
The knife flashes in her grip, liquid bright, as she slits Roy's glove from wrist to fingertips.
“Not especially,” he says, still grinning as she stomps off--marching away as best she can in heels, peacock blue skirts flouncing almost knee-high in the cold.
He lets her go. She’d never respect him if he bled on her, and he’ll probably never get a view like this again.
Also: attack of the angst! I actually wrote GEN. Le gasp.
Snow pelts her hair, ice water raking down her spine. Gun oil burns her nose, powder and recoil searing her uniform. Her own blood is thick and hot on her tongue.
Olivia blinks. The walls go grey, shutting her in, the ground bare and dry under her boots, the room stifling and close.
They crank the heat in Central. Pussies.
The snow is still there, outside, waiting. Her brother won't look at her, won't do her even that courtesy, but he knows. Of course he does.
It runs in families, that's what they say, that's what they murmur at her back, smiling, always smiling, to her face.
He hasn't smiled at her in years.
If only she had gone instead.