Implied Squall and Irvine. Don't like it, don't read. I got hit with a couple really good prompts today, and here's the result.
Don't own them, just playing with them
He just couldn't not stop and watch.
Stretch and slash, step back but never stop, turn and jump and slice ... each step seemingly choreographed, pushing for the end result. Irvine wondered if Squall even knew the picture he made. Not that it would matter - he suspected the routine wouldn't change, just his choice of backup. Ruthless, deadly grace, covered in leather, fronted by steel and ice.
He wanted to tell Squall how beautiful and impressive and yes, downright scary, he was, but this - canned monsters in a pseudo-jungle - this wasn't the backdrop for comments like that. Besides, beautiful was a word saved for women, and no matter how much it applied, the brunette was no woman.
Unsure how to, or if he even could, fit himself into the circle of death Squall created, Irvine hung back, knowing he should be watching for trouble and unable to look anywhere but at the gunblader. Lethal, bloody, every movement so smooth that if it hadn't been for the weapon, they could've easily made the transition to ballroom, with some minor changes.
When Squall turned to look at him, only the smallest twitch of an eyebrow, the faintest press of lips told Irvine trouble was right behind him. Then Squall was there, close enough to smell sweat and leather, the blade almost a fluid extension of his arm, the unspoken question of "What?" on the cowboy's lips as he turned, first noting the glint off a scant handful of auburn hairs drifting to the floor, then the monster, cleanly split in two as the ground took it back.
"You're slipping, Kinneas." The first words spoken in an hour, sharp and critical, and Irvine brushed them aside with a lazy smile.
"You really should come out with us, babe. Make them all jealous at the club, with moves like that"
Squall shook his head, sweat-damp hair freeing itself from his forehead to hide his eyes. "I told you before, I don't dance."