Series: Final Fantasy VIII
Warnings: It's a fic for kink bingo. It's kinky, and X-rated.
Zell always did have a thing for gloves.
He never took his gloves off, no matter how far they went. Zell was never sure if it was supposed to be a slap in the face, like 'you're not good enough for me to want to touch you', or if it was just Squall's way of continuing to keep his distance even when there was no distance between them at all.
Zell never told him the truth, because if he did he was afraid Squall would stop wearing them - he found the touch of the gloves gliding over his skin unbearably hot. The leather was just a little rough, and the seams would catch ever so slightly on Zell's scars, tugging in a way that set all his nerves on fire. The contrast between the intimate contact of Squall's tongue tracing his tattoos and the impersonal touch of his covered fingers on Zell's cock drove him wild.
Squall always made Zell work himself open so the gloves wouldn't be ruined, and he would sit there and watch while Zell fucked himself with his own fingers. He always had that same damned blank expression, but in the depths of his eyes burned a fire hotter than Ifrit's flame. That made Zell slow down, take his time and turn it into a show. Usually Squall stayed just out of reach while he did it, and Zell was grateful because sometimes he thought just one touch from Squall in those moments would surely send him right over the edge.
Funny thing, though, he never hesitated to get his gloves dirty any other way. He'd wrap his hand around Zell's cock and pump in time with the thrusts of his hips, and oh, fuck did it feel amazing as the slickness of lube and precome eased the drag of the leather against his cock. Zell always gave warning before he came, though sometimes it was no more than a strangled cry, but Squall never pulled his hand away. He let Zell come all over his glove, kept stroking and stroking until Zell thought his very soul might be pulled right out of him.
Then, after they'd both collapsed into the bedding, Squall would even drag his fingers through the mess, painting echoes of Zell's tattoos lower on his body. Sometimes he would bring his fingers to Zell's mouth and make him suck off the semen; sometimes he did it himself, letting Zell watch as his eyes fluttered closed and his tongue flicked out to wash the gloves clean. That was usually enough to get Zell going again, and round two was even more intense.
It wasn't until the three of them were taking a quick bath in a river out in the middle of nowhere one day that Zell finally discovered the truth. The girls were standing watch on the other side of the bushes, and Zell, Squall and Irvine were giving their clothes a quick scrub as well as their bodies. For once Squall had taken the gloves off, leaving them draped over a branch while he cleaned everything else.
"Fuck, Squall, don't you ever clean those gloves?" Irvine drawled. "Don't think I've ever seen you wash 'em."
"If they get too bloody," Squall muttered. "I try not to."
"What, afraid you'll ruin the leather?" Irvine asked.
To Zell's surprise, Squall flicked a quick glance at him, then focused his gaze firmly on the water. "I like the way they smell."
Stunned, Zell stood there in the middle of the river, staring at him. He felt like he'd been hit by a bolt spell. Was that why Squall always wore the gloves? To soak up Zell's scent?
That night when Squall came to him, long after the others were asleep, Zell was waiting with a spare pair of his own gloves on and nothing else. Squall raised an eyebrow at him and Zell flushed, but met his gaze defiantly. "You mind?" he asked, flicking his fingers for emphasis.
To his intense delight, his answer was the tiny quirk of Squall's lips that passed for a smile. Zell hardly ever got to see it, and at that, he thought he might be the only one who ever did. "Not at all."