Author's Note: Bleh, first person and present tense. xx I'm not too good at writing either of those and I'm not sure just what possessed me to try it for this. This, by the way, was the result of a roundabout challenge. ^^' I dared my sister to give me a fic summary to write from and she did; ain't she cool? ^^

Cure for the Itch

By Cypriss

"Maybe we should stop."

It was a good thing Squall looked good frowning because he did it all the damn time. I licked my lips, tasting the perspiration of a serious two-hour sparring session with a serious workout partner. Squall. Now there was a good reason I had a name for being full of energy, and I was in the best shape of my life. And that says a lot. My muscles practically danced with joy in the heat of a fight and my instincts kicked in with an animal fervor. Two hours with anyone could never tire me. Not hand to hand.

Brow raised, I shot my opponent a coy look of what I hoped was melting, crystalline blue.

And with Squall, I could go on forever. Adrenaline bounced directionless about my body, snapping excitedly and suddenly from joint to joint. Much like how I was moving as I faced Squall. Unpredictable, immediate, and completely against logic. It was a game I loved to play. I'd jump this way and that, move in and out, circle that impossibly sexy, stubborn, lost boy of a man. My sharp vision would cut into stormy gray. Sweat would mix and skin would meet skin.

I didn't need to go easy on Squall. He too was composed of primed muscles and ready instincts. I however, became unbeatable when responding to Squall's body. I felt as if my body had been made for him, I could read him so well. But Squall didn't like to be played with. He was a born fighter, all movement defined by grace and definite control. So I let myself make stupid mistakes. Get myself an "accidental" fistful of firm buttock or taste of succulent sweat while Squall got a jarring punch in. Or two.

Maybe I was making too many mistakes.

Unease and concern were evident in the normally shadowed depths of his eyes. I guess I was bleeding a lot. That, or I had gotten a bit too obvious when I'd grabbed his inner thigh. For the third time. Either way, I could taste the copper bite of blood coating my tongue and felt its thick fingers spilling over my cheeks.

I laughed. "Why? Getting tired, baby?" The delivery would've been a flawless blend of evocative and casual if I hadn't ended by choking lamely on a fat mouthful of liquid proof of my detriment. Spatterings of dark red marked my top, turning a dull brown as they soaked into the textured material.

He stared at me, skepticism tangled in his aloof, ideal features. God, I wanted to run my tongue over the slightly protruding scar slicing his perfection in two.

"What?" I was defiant. I was grinning like a stupid dog.

He shook his head, his lips quirking in disbelief. He turned and headed towards the locker rooms.

"I guess I'll let you off easy this time," I told the sensual arc of his back. I was actually kind of relieved. I wasn't hurt too badly despite the blood. But I had worked up a raging hard-on that was getting increasingly aggravated as it pushed against the folds of my pants with every movement. It was worse than usual. Probably caused by that look in Squall's eyes, or the flex of his thigh under my palm.

In all honesty, I was eager to sate the exquisite want concentrated at my crotch. Right. Now.

I rushed into the locker rooms. They were distinctly empty, and I shrugged distractedly. Squall wasn't exactly the type to stick around and chat. So I was all alone. The showers.

I pulled off my clothes, thoughts already fixed on the direct alleviation to come. I left a trail of sweaty attire in my hurry towards the showers. It was a rather public place, something I wouldn't have toyed with had I an ounce of self control left within me. But I didn't. In fact, I didn't think of very much after I had established that no one was around.

I turned the first knob I reached. Hot. I was soon immersed in a dense cloud of steam.

Squall. God. How many times had I touched myself submerged in thoughts of him? He was so goddamned sexy. Those lean limbs, those bitch lips, those endless, troubled eyes. His unyielding, unapproachable demeanor. He was so fucking manly and yet so delicate at the same time.

I could never decide who would fuck who. My fantasies were sure to a certain point. I knew neither of us would give in easily. We'd play at it, struggling for the advantage and loving the spirit of competition. He wouldn't be gentle, but I had a sense that his violence would be curbed unconsciously even through lust. If he ever got to my ass, the sex wouldn't be far from what they called "lovemaking". It would be feverish and intense, but flush in its openness, not jagged.

If he ever got to my ass. I didn't know if I was ready for that. I knew I wouldn't mind blowing that stunning cock I'd peeked at more than once in the showers. I'd get down on my knees and give head like I was born with that soul purpose. For Squall.

But it was hard for me to follow a believable plot line of fantasy that would get me to that point. Maybe we'd sixty-nine. I allowed myself to imagine that Squall would suck dick as professionally as he fought. His pretty lips certainly didn't suggest otherwise.

Being the average horny male with a one-track mind, I usually ended up masturbating to thoughts of Squall doing me the bulk of the service.

Wrapped in the humidity of the baths, my chest swathed in warm condensation and my back streaked with a steady flow of near-scalding water, I imagined. Perhaps Squall had followed me into the shower room. His eyes would rest on the unmistakable twist of the fingers of my left hand on my turgid dick, my right hand cupping my balls. Arrested by his nakedness, and spurred by his natural sensuality, I would begin to stroke unapologetically.

He would hesitate, a bit shocked.

My eyes, unfocused with arousal, would assure him, however, that there could be no other possibility. And with some uncertainty, he would come carefully to me. I would release myself, using the same hand that had been wrapped around my erection to hold his chin, the same thumb that had been pressed against the head of my penis to trace the pliant line of his bottom lip.

The thought of my taste on his mouth, my essence filling his nostrils was too much for me. I immediately envisioned his hand gripping my cock tentatively but completely as he bent in to meet my welcoming mouth. Calmed by the warm wetness surrounding us, we would kiss languidly, tongues sliding passionately against each other. The rough palm that loosely enclosed my erection would be moist from the thick mist and he'd stroke, once, twice, and then suddenly tighten his hold. I would suck his tongue helplessly then, teeth scraping it's length as he pulled away. His eyes would stare into mine, his desire for me a substance I could recognize without doubt.And then he would crouch, freeing neither my dick or my gaze.

In the midst of my fantasy I could practically feel his breath against my groin. I panted harshly. Vaguely I heard myself demanding quietly, "Now. Squall, please." My fingers hovered in synchrony with my imagination.

The he would open his mouth, tentatively licking between the walls of his fingers. He would glide his tongue through the maze he'd constructed, tormenting me.

And just before I would lose my mind, he'd give me one those captivating, intense stares of his, drop his hands, and swallow me whole.

"Squall!" I screamed hoarsely. And then, God, I was immersed in the smothering so-hot wet of my fantasy's mouth. My eyes were twisted shut in reality, but I envisioned his skin glittering in the steamy atmosphere. Everything; so unbelievably hot, hot, sticky-slick, and my hand playing over my cock, so sure of the persistent suction of Squall's brilliant tongue and the sweet grove of the roof of his mouth.

I was nearing the apex of my pleasure, and forced myself to concentrate on what would perfect it. Yes. Squall. The subtle ridges and shadows of his well-conditioned body shifting with each bob of his head. The way his gaze clamped tight about my own, holding it with an air that left me no doubt of his intentions. What we were sharing was closer than we could ever physically get, deeper than my essence coating his throat. And how that penetrating stare would glaze as he took himself in hand, as if he were trying to memorize as much of me as he could at once and it was too much. It was too much.

I came, my mouth filled with the soundless shape of his name.

My mind dulled as orgasm's numbing aftermath flowed gradually through my veins. A euphoric fullness invested itself, and although temporary, I swam in pure contentment. "We're meant for each other," I breathed.

Gradually, I recovered my bearings. I swiftly soaped and rinsed myself off. There was nothing I could really do about the smell. Sex sticks like gum to the underside of a desk for at least a couple hours. It was actually a nice, musky odor, but unmistakable. I would hole up in my room for awhile. Maybe take a nap, while I was at it.

I toweled my hair carelessly, golden strands both sticking up and falling into my face. I tied the cloth laxly about my hips, and treaded into the locker room. My thoughts were sluggish and centered mostly upon my recent application.

So there was really no turning back when I found myself staring straight at the object of my infatuation. Oops. I was suddenly awkward. Very exposed and overwhelmed by my guilty scent.

He quickly pulled on his shirt, covering himself. A faint red marred the pale peach of his cheeks and he refused to meet my gaze.

I vividly remembered calling out his name and considering how self-absorbed he could be, he must have heard me loud and clear to be acting in this manner. Luckily my relaxed nature conquered my reflexive horror right then, and I managed to grin cheekily at him. "Where'd you come from?" I quipped brazenly.

He didn't answer, just gathered up his stuff assiduously. He wasn't rude, and I couldn't sense any anger. I decided he probably wasn't sure what he was feeling right then. Hell, I guess if I were a straight version of myself, I'd be pretty weirded out by some guy masturbating and screaming my name. Right in front of me. Heh. I supposed all those "inadvertent" brushes, touches, and gropes were finally spelling themselves out to him. That could be a lot to handle.

A wave of regret washed over me as I realized I'd probably have to lighten up on the molestation. I pondered over whether I'd even be allowed to flirt with him anymore. People could be pretty uptight about these things, and sometimes there was no telling how Squall would react until he did. I suspected even he didn't know. But if Squall wasn't going to accept me any longer, it wouldn't be because I didn't try.

The door was swinging behind him. "Same tomorrow then?" I called. I hoped.

Surprise and unprecedented relief unfurled like vines beneath my flesh at Squall's arrival. He didn't say much, but then, he never really did. It was enough that he was there. I could put the worries I now realized I'd harbored to a peaceful rest.

Still, who knew what was going on in that man's head? Was he expecting me to act like it never happened? Maybe he thought I'd leash myself and play conservative, becoming something I'd never been to him, or anyone. Yeah, right.

Squall knew all he needed to know. His way of dealing with it seemed to be to refuse to react to it all. I sensed some confusion, some discomfort on his part, but it didn't bother me too much. I had no apologies, no excuses to make. Let him get used to it.

After all, it's not like he was my friend. He never was and never would be. That's not how I wanted things to be between us.

I stepped in with him as he headed towards the training room. He walked, I loped. He didn't look at me. I decided then that the I would have to control myself. At least a bit. I could still have fun with him, dancing in the intricate back and forth of battle. I could have a lot of fun. It would just be innocent, free of the naughty buzz that normally tainted our encounters. Oh

well.Nothing could change the fact that my body was made for his.

I could tell I'd gained some respect from him this time. I'd kept things relatively professional, at least to my standards. I'd steered clear of any unnecessary physical contact, and so I hadn't made any of my usual sloppy mistakes. He was unprepared for my real skill against him, and it was only my concern for his dignity and physical welfare that kept me from beating him soundly. It was unfair to up the anti so much, so shortly. I mean, if we'd been doing the gunblade thing, I be on my back and dead in 30 seconds flat, my head rolling merrily down some hill.

But he could tell I'd been holding back, if only slightly.

I followed him into the locker room, pleased that I had myself under control enough so that there was only a mild irritation somewhere in my shorts. I didn't know exactly, because I was obstinately ignoring it. Trying to. Okay, so perhaps mild wasn't the right word.

We changed in silence, purposely facing away from each other. I figured a shower would be inappropriate at this point, and threw on some clean sweats. It was best to finish as quickly as possible and shower at home. I wasn't going to stop flirting with him outright, but now was not the time or the place. A part of me thought I should be thankful for his forgiveness. I stood to depart.

"Where are you going now?" he asked stiffly.

I smiled wryly at him, but his back was blatantly turned towards me. "Oh you know," I drawled, "to my place." I kept my tone relaxed, but didn't try to hide anything.

My erection strained pleasantly within the loose confines of my baggy pants. The beating ache of it punctuated my every thought and I knew my voice was coarse and deep. The thick musk of my arousal mingled with the scent of my exertion. I wondered if he could smell it, too. The thought tightened my groin with sudden pain. "I got some... things I need to take care of," I explained. Fuck subtlety. He'd asked.

"Oh" was his disappointing but expected response. I turned to do what so desperately needed to be done.

"See ya."

"Zell." His voice was tight. In my mind, I saw his tongue curl around my name, his lips part to release it. I swiveled smoothly, eager to catch his gaze, perhaps hold it, caress it.

The deep gray was resolute however, and unreadable. He met my eyes readily, and it was he that had me locked so that I couldn't look away. His hands, beautiful in their strength, were clutching the fabric of his damp shirt. With sinewy arms crossed over his long torso in an echo of the set of those kinky belts, he slowly pulled.

He observed closely, without expression, as I was exposed to the sight of his flesh. My head spun at the curves of his tight six pack, the smooth meeting of ribs and muscle, and the supple pout of his perfect tan nipples. I followed the almost lethargic pace of the cloth over his upper body. I was more than obvious in my awed appreciation, but the pounding demand of my now-burning erection deafened me to all other thought.

He broke eye contact only to pull his shirt over his head. Squall was bliss to behold as he stood with locks of heavy brown trailing over his face, standing shirtless and self conscious and fine as Hell. He glowed as one does only after much physical activity. Like after a good sparring session with yours truly. Or after sex. I would never believe he was blushing. "Have a... good night." He sounded tense. "Same time tomorrow?"

Oh YEAH. A slow grin spread over my face; I couldn't help it. I let my eyes tell him far more than my words ever could. "You got it, baby."

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