A/N: For shanaqui, with the prompt "adrenaline."
short.of.now
-irishais-
He cannot breathe.
Not like this, not with his arms pinned above his head, knuckles hard against the wall. Not with Squall straddling his waist and running his lips down Seifer's jaw--Hyne, it's like the kiss of Shiva, blistering, bitterly cold.
"Get off of me," he growls, and Squall's grip on his wrists merely tightens.
Hyne, he can't breathe, not with Squall's shoulder so near to Seifer's mouth that he could lash out and bite, mar the pretty pale flesh.
"Get the fuck off of me."
There is a flash of brown in his vision as Squall shifts his hands to grab one of his belts and loops it around Seifer's wrists, pulling tight. The leather is worn and soft against his skin. Seifer loathes the sensation.
"Get. The fuck. Off of me."
Squall's hands slide down Seifer's arms, drawing goosebumps with the electric touch. He becomes all too aware of every single hair on his arms standing on end. Squall's fingers slide to his chest, the path they follow turning into lightning currents that make his whole body ache.
He doesn't know for what.
"That..." Squall's lips are right next to his ear, his voice as steady as it has ever been. "That was my kill."
His body aches for air; it is the gentle pressure of Leonhart's palms flat against Seifer's chest that is collapsing his lungs, making him forget what it means to breathe.
"My kill," Squall says again, levelly, grazing his mouth along Seifer's cheek and down his nose. The kiss is hard and hot, and Seifer can taste the acrid phantom tang of blood on Squall's lips.