#burgundy leather gloves

[devdas5z]

[buelbuelblr]

[aretis]

Sexy leather!!

[forcedfemme-me]

[janicep02316]

I don't have leather opera gloves in this color. Don't they look lovely? And since my favorite lesbian actress, Taylor Schilling, wears them, I want to wear them!

[hairmetal666]

Eddie thought inviting Steve to the Grammys would be fine, cool, no big deal. And it should be, but Steve is walking out of the suite's bedroom wearing a burgundy tuxedo that fits him like a fucking glove. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to let chest hair peak out, and Eddie thinks he might faint.

He's always been attracted to Steve, of course, but never let it go further than that. Like, sure, Steve was hot as fuck, and sure he was the best guy Eddie had ever met, and sometimes, yeah, he did have to force away thoughts of Steve when he jerked off, and in other circumstances he'd totally be head over heels. Just, Steve is straight, the straightest, a fucking arrow.

Eddie tears his eyes from Steve's body. "You look great, man." He slaps Steve's back. Keeping it cool; keeping it so cool.

"Psh," Steve says. "Have you looked in a mirror? Oh my god." His eyes are saucer wide as they travel down Eddie's body.

"Is it too much?" Eddie crosses his arms over his bare chest.

"Are you kidding? You're--fuck, man. You look good as hell."

He's wearing a silky burgundy shirt, open to show off the necklaces around his throat, his tattoos, the silver in his nipples. His pants are leather, tight, sitting low on his hips and putting the cut of his pelvic bone on full display. They have a lace-up closure that comes dangerously close to showing pube.

Heat rushes to his face at the compliment. "It's--you know. Hazard of the job."

"Yeah, hazard, sure. Guess it's a hard life having hot dudes literally throwing themselves at you."

Eddie barks out a laugh. "That's a vast exaggeration."

"Is it?"

He blushes harder. "You're my date tonight, Steve."

"My point exactly."

His manager and publicist usher them out the door before he can ask what the hell that meant.

---

The ride is giddy and playful, Steve popping champagne to celebrate Eddie's nomination for Song of the Year, even though there's no chance in hell he wins.

Steve is happy. His face is bright with joy, eyes shining, laugh loud and infectious. He's gorgeous, knows it, will be an absolute menace on the red carpet. He's been with Eddie to parties and stuff before, doesn't have any anxiety in front of the camera and isn't obsessed with musicians like Eddie is, unafraid to meet them.

Or so Eddie thought.

Because now they're standing at the edge of the red carpet, Steve very nearly trembling next to him.

"Harrington?"

"That's--That's Madonna." Steve points to her. "We're not even ten feet away from Madonna." He gulps. "Eddie. Madonna."

Steve has met famous people before with Eddie. Ozzy, briefly, Janet Jackson, Dave Grohl, James Hetfield, and he'd always been fine. Barely batted an eye. But get him within reaching distance of Madonna and he falls apart.

Eddie doesn't think about it, grabs Steve's hand, twines their fingers together. "Okay?"

The smile Steve throws him, grateful and a little embarrassed, stabs straight through his heart. He calms as they make it up the carpet, but he doesn't drop Eddie's hand, even when they pause for pictures. In fact, he leans into it, drapes his arm around Eddie's shoulders, or around his waist, seeming to thrive the closer they are. Eddie feels this dangerous pull to indulge in it, to let himself believe it means something, and he doesn't quite have it in him to turn it off.

By the time they reach their seats, Steve is relaxed back to his normal charming and handsome self, doesn't bat an eye as Eddie introduces him around.

The show passes quickly with all the performances and Steve whispering jokes in his ear. It's the best time he's ever had at an award show, like he should have been bringing Steve along this whole time. He's so distracted that he's not really ready when Paula Abdul comes out to announce Song of the Year.

His name is read off as a nominee and Steve grabs his hand, squeezes tight. Eddie's heart flips in his chest. He's not paying attention when Paula opens the envelope, too focused on Steve's strong hand holding his. He hears her say, "And the Grammy goes to--" and everything goes fuzzy.

Steve is saying, "oh my god, oh my god, Eddie. Get up, get up."

And his fucking song is playing and everyone is cheering, a couple people slap his back, and oh shit, oh shit, he fucking won. He stands, Steve with him. He thinks they're going to hug, that's what you do in these situations, but Steve is kissing him. Not on the cheek and not a quick peck, but lip-to-lip, soft and sweet.

Steve just kissed him and he has to get on stage and give a speech. He has no idea what he says because Steve just kissed him. On the lips. On purpose. His ears are ringing and words tumble out of his mouth, thinks he says, "couldn't have done it without you, Stevie," before tripping over his feet to get backstage.

Interviews, photographs, congratulations all help him settle. He's still buzzing with the win, but aware enough now to think the kiss had to be an accident. They've been friends for nearly a decade and Steve never seemed interested in men generally or Eddie specifically.

It takes a while to finish up the backstage business, but when he makes it to his seat, Steve just beams at him. He doesn't mention the kiss, which makes Eddie think he's overreacting. It wasn't a big deal. Sure, he could still feel Steve's lips, warm and soft, against his own, but it didn't mean anything. He's just too in his big gay feelings to be objective.

They don't get a chance to really talk until they're back in the limo and on their way to the after-party.

"You won," Steve says.

"I won." Eddie smiles. "Crazy."

"You deserved it."

He shrugs. "I don't know about that."

"Doesn't matter. You did." Steve fidgets with the cuff of his jacket. "About earlier, um. The kiss. I--"

Eddie feels his face heating, heart kicking up. It was nothing, he knows, and Steve shouldn't have to-- "It was an accident. It's okay. I know you don't--it was the heat of the moment and--I know you're not--you don't--"

Steve blinks a lot, emotions flashing across his face faster than Eddie can categorize.

"What if I do?" Steve asks. His voice is too soft, eyes locked on the cuff link he's fiddling with.

"You--what?"

"What if I did mean it?"

"You're straight."

Steve goes pink. "I'm really not."

"Steve?" He shrieks. "Since when?"

"Um. Since you invited me to this?"

"What the fuck?" Eddie shoves him. "What the fuck, man?"

"I know, I know!" Steve pulls his hand through his hair. "You invited me and I freaked out and I didn't know why, and Robin made the saddest little face at me. Said, 'oh, dingus, you didn't know?' How the fuck was I supposed to know!"

"I think you wanting to fuck me should've been a pretty good indication!"

"I thought that happened to everyone!"

"It doesn't!"

"That's what Robin said!"

They're both yelling.

"Jesus christ. Jesus christ," Eddie keeps repeating.

"Look, I get it if you don't want me too, dude. I know that's not how it works, but I've been pretty crazy about you without realizing it for a while now, so--"

He doesn't mean to, he really doesn't, but he laughs. Like, super loud. Like a donkey bray.

"Okay, can the driver let me out? Like, can I go? I can't--"

"Wait, wait, sweetheart." Steve's gotten up, like he's about to knock on the partition, but Eddie grabs his wrist. "Of course I want you back, you idiot, oh my god."

"Oh." Steve's ears are pink. "Oh. Well. That's good."

Eddie huffs. "Just good? I won a Grammy and the guy I've been pining over for years wants me back. I'm having the night of my life."

"Shut-up." Steve's smile is so big, his eyes so bright.

He raises an eyebrow. "Make me," he says in his lowest register, but he's truly not prepared for it when Steve clambers over to him and lowers himself to straddle Eddie's hips.

"Holy shit," Eddie whispers. "Holy shit, Steve."

He give a wry little smile, eyes locked on Eddie's mouth. "Baby, can I kiss you?"

"Yes." Eddie clears his throat. "Yes, please, do that. Yeah."

Only, he doesn't. He's straddling Eddie, they're so close their breath mingles, and Steve's eyes flicker between Eddie's mouth and his eyes, lips so close to touching but not.

"C'mon, asshole," Eddie says.

"I knew you'd be a brat." He whispers. He wraps his hands into Eddie's hair. "Been dying to do this."

And then they're kissing. They're kissing and it steals all of Eddie's breath and his thoughts, and it's new but it's also like they've been kissing forever, like their lips and tongue know each other, like coming home.

He whines, high-pitched and breathy, and Steve laughs, kisses him deeper, moves closer, and Eddie feels how hard Steve is, the persistent pulse of him. And shit Eddie's close, on the brink just from this, from nothing, oh my god.

Steve's hands drift down Eddie's torso, mapping his chest and his stomach, coming to rest at the laces of his pants. "These have been driving me insane," Steve breaks the kiss to say. "Been thinking about undoing them all night."

"Fuck, sweetheart, you can't say shit like that," Eddie groans.

"Why not?"

"Because--because," Eddie sputters but then Steve's lips are on his neck and he's rolling his hips for friction.

Steve's fingers find the laces again, trace against them. Eddie's legs fall open, arching into the touch. "We're going to be so late," he murmurs as Steve's fingers get to work.

[crystalskiesandcherrywine]

The way you say my name

Feyd Rautha Harkonnen x female!Reader

Its pure smut and since its about Feyd, there are some warnings: he is not so gentle. There is desire on both sides and it ends up getting in the praise kink/forced orgasm territory.

Summary: Your planet has brought magic into the galaxy - a source of new spice- and upended the political status quo. You are the sole heiress of your house and the emperor decided that the best way to protect your family's survival is to betroth you to the most enigmatic but violent fighter in the known universe: Na Baron Feyd Rautha Harkonnen, dangerously seductive and very intrigued by you …

2.203 words

one shot ( for now)

_________

Your whole body was tense, filled with anticipation and nervousness. You noticed your fingers were unconsciously playing with your belt again, and with effort you made yourself refrain from doing so. It was not your first time in the Emperor's court, nor was it your first state reception. Still, it was the first time you had set foot on Kaitain since the new spice was discovered on your planet. Something that had been considered impossible for millennia and that would shake the existing power structures in the Landsraat and the entire known universe. From an insignificant house on a planet beyond Orion, blessed with centuries of stability because of it, your family has been catapulted into a position of a central political player. Your fate, albeit a small piece of a power play against the backdrop the these developments. "Our task is greater than ourselves. Our fears, smaller." The mantra that helped you hold a steady course. You relax your shoulders and notice how your back straightens. 

At that moment, a festively dressed servant entered the room to announce Baron Vladimir Harkonnen and his nephews arrival. Even though you had been prepared for this encounter, the sight was a shock to her. At the first glance he is less imposing then Rabban, who moved into the room like a mountain of muscle and leather uniform. But there is a slow and steady menace in the way he carries himself. His demeanor, both elegant and commanding, reminded you of a marble statue brought to life; his skin almost seemed to illuminate the room, a contrast stark against the dim flicker of torches.

If he had eyebrows, he would certainly have raised one a little crookedly by now. But as it was, his ice-blue eyes suddenly started at you, and you sensed a hardness in his entire demeanor that you weren't used to at home and whose traces you might have felt in her upbringing with Bene Gesserit, but which had always been wrapped in a velvet glove. But power, violence and strength were clear to see in this man. The reason why the Emperor wants to make him your husband - the only one who can apparently guarantee the safety of your planet. He was not used to having to hide his true character. And that is exactly what you would make his downfall.

The formalities dragged on endlessly, time seems to slow down under his gaze. He cannot comprehend you, the strangeness of your features, the luxuriant curls of your hair falling over your shoulders in an elegant half updo, the waves of burgundy silk of your cloak adorning your shoulders, your dress of the same silk and lace - how can anyone appear so vulnerable and exposed? Especially one who holds the key to the most coveted of secrets - a new spice, as powerful as the one exported from Arrakis, but with fewer dangers, Fremen rebellions and more sustainable methods of harvesting. Only this thin fabric separates you from him, something his knife could shred in seconds. He notices that your eyes have left his and are now focused on his hand, gripping the blade at his waist so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He unclenches his hand and offers it to you, bowing slightly. 

"My lady, would you allow me to escort you?"

You place your hand on his and he almost jerks back, surprised by its warmth.

"A mere twist of nature, I tend to forget how shocking it must be to someone not from my home. Our temperature has evolved to be slightly higher than the average, so that when the temperature drops at night, we never fall below a certain threshold".

He listens to you as you walk down the hall towards the banquet room, taking in your voice, the slight swish of your gown on the floor, the click of the delicate gold chains around your neck disappearing into the modest cut of your dress. 

His thoughts oscillate between genuine intrigue with you and your planet, both of which he will soon call his, and a burning desire to test your seemingly obvious fragility, to see how many times he can take you before you beg for mercy, how many bites into your skin will make you whimper, how many slaps on your ass will bring you to your knees regretting whatever misdeed you may have done. You can see his hunger, thinly veiled by manners, and you are sure that he is not accusing you in front of everyone for being in the Emperor's house and not on Giedi Prime. He seems so lost in thought that you have to repeat your question.

"Are you all right, Na Baron? Is something wrong? My conversational skills must be truly dull to bore you so".

He seems to come back to the present, his eyes resting on yours again, the colour of pure blue, like a deep frozen mountain lake. You look down, and just as he finds his voice, the Emperor rises to end the banquet.

"Then I shall bid you good night. If you wish, join me in the botanical garden tomorrow before noon. Perhaps my conversation skills will have improved by then".

He nods and stands to pull out your chair, taking the opportunity to let his fingers slide down your spine through your dress as he moves the chair to the side. He will join you tomorrow alright.

_____

The sun flickers through the canopy of trees above you, leaving a mosaic of shadows on the small, flat cobblestones of the path. You have your hair in a braid that sits like a halo around your head, your arms bare in the sun, dressed in a light linen top and form-fitting trousers that allow for more movement as you tend to the plants. The small patch in front of you is half empty, with small plants dug up. Their purple roots are gnarled and wobbly, while the vines are the darkest shade of green. A tiny bead of sweat clings to your eyebrow, and you pull off your glove to remove it. 

"Is this how my intended likes to spend her time?" His voice behind you, rough and deep. You are startled and drop the glove. He picks it up and holds it out to you, looking straight into your eyes again.

"Thank you. Sometimes I do," you give him an open smile and take the glove back from him, he holds it for a second longer than necessary, seemingly puzzled by your open expression once again. "These plants are from my home, the Emperor tries his best to cultivate them here, but we cannot figure out why they do not develop as they should," you look up at him, his gaze still unmoved from your face.

"Am I boring you again, Na Baron?"

"Not at all," his tongue moves over his lush lips, brushing his cupid's bow.

"Well then, these tiny plants are one of the main factors in the production of the new spice. Their sap is..." You take a small knife from the box beside you and just as you cut into one of the roots, your hand slips and a red streak of blood appears on your left hand. In an instant, a small trail of red drips down your palm and onto the light stones at your feet.

His eye darkens as he grabs your post, ignoring the plant in the flower bed, and brings the injured hand to his lips. A shower passes through you, his tongue brushing your skin, electrifying.

"You should be more careful, my lady." 

His voice almost a growl, his soft and plush lips sucking lightly at your skin, leaving a red mark around them. 

"Yes, I should, Feyd," you are not sure if calling him by his name was a familiarity you allowed yourself too soon, but his reaction proves you wrong. His arms are wrapped around your waist, his face inches from yours. You feel your breath mix, his scent sweet and musky around you.

"Say my name again" There is no politeness to hide his hunger now.

"Feyd..." An almost unbearable exhalation is all you can manage. And with that, he closes the gap between you and descends on your lips, devouring you. His kiss tastes slightly metallic as you taste your blood on his lips, his tongue touching your teeth, demanding entry. You give in, melting into his ministrations, your hands unable to stay still, reaching for his neck, nails digging into the porcelain skin, he almost Monas into the kiss, his hands clawing at your bottom, gripping the flesh in an iron grip. You make a small sound that seems to be all he has been waiting for. Leaving your swollen lips, his attack continues in your jaw and neck, leaving small marks. You feel his arrousal pressing against you and your right hand lets go of his throat and slides over the leather in a rhythmic motion. Before you can think how you can take so much, his size is obvious even fully clothed, he grabs the knife from before and cuts open your top, not bothering with the buttons, leaving your chest exposed to him. His mouth travels to your nipples, his tongue dancing around them before his mouth closes on them and his other hands pinch the other hard. You moan, the pain delicious and unexpected, making you arch even more towards him. He unties the rest of your clothes, leaving you bare to him. A drop of your wetness makes its way from your core along your inner thigh as you melt in his arms. His hand wanders deeper along your hipbones and thighs and as he catches the drop his predatory smile becomes a grin. 

„My lady seems to be enjoying herself... Kneel down".

You obey, the hard floor hurting your knees almost immediately. He pulls his swollen cock out of his trousers and strokes the head along your lips. You open your mouth and begin to lick his shaft with broad strokes, sucking the tip in and letting it fall from your mouth with a wet plop. He watches your every move and pushes a lock of hair that has come loose from your braid out of your face.

"Yes, that's a good girl, keep going."

Spurred on by the praise, you redouble your efforts, disregarding the discomfort of kneeling on the pavement and look up at him to find him completely mesmerised. He cannot believe how willingly you give yourself to him, without reservation. He feels as if he has found something sacred, something so precious and wild that he cannot imagine ever getting enough of it. He steadies your neck and finds his own rhythm, fucking your throat hard, the gurgling sound coming from you like music to his ears, you are struggling for air but he is relentless, filling you with his cum until you swallow every last drop. Your eyes almost in tears, you try to catch your breath, but Feyd has other plans as he helps you to your feet and lays you down on the patch of fresh earth. He spreads your legs and caresses your core. The pain seems to dissolve into a sea of pleasure, leaving you disoriented and greedy, your hands pressing the back of his head into your cunt. He moans in approval, sending more delicious vibrations through your cleat and as his tongue fins you entrance, you lose yourself in the orgasm, chanting his name with more earnestness than any prayer that was ever to leave your lips. 

He looks up at you and just when you think you are going to get a break from his ministrations, he pauses only to strip, his leather overalls falling to the floor and revealing his muscles. He grasps your hips and you spread your legs even wider, giving him an unobstructed view of you and your pulsating cunt.

"So ready to take me, my lady, so ready for my cock to fill you," he smiles, aligning himself with your entrance and thrusting in at once. His cock, thick and throbbing, disappears inside you as you continue to chant his name. He rams into you with abandon, his head touching your wall as his hands wander from your hips to your breasts, kneading them, whipping you into the frenzy of the second high, spasming even harder around his cock. 

"I think you can come again for me, my Na Baroness," he whispers in your ear as he lowers himself over you, one hand loving your breasts to study himself on the floor, the fingers of the other circling your clit. You moan, overstimulated and hot, writhing under his touch.

"I know you can do it," he continues, not slowing down, and he is right as you cum again, this time sending him over the edge, his movements becoming ragged as his seed fills you. As your both breathing calms, you look into his eyes again and you know he is a goner, lost to the magic of your touch and how your desires dance together.

[svearehnn]

sunlight in burgundy | azriel x reader

Summary: Velaris is a place of healing, so no wonder you ended up at the House of Wind. However, you didn't expect to be welcomed by a gentle male and a leather-bound book.

a/n: i don't know what this is!!! just wanted to write and this came out. enjoy!!

Mahogany doors greeted your view, colossal and menacing, hiding anything and everything from your sight. With a deep breath and shaking hands you pushed the doors open. Sunlight greeted you, seeping in from rounded windows that seemed to take up the whole wall. They were open, their burgundy curtains fluttering in the wind. You took in the room with wide eyes, noting the shelves of books, the greenery hanging from the ceiling and winding around the furniture, the matching chairs that held a figure. A sharp breath entered your lungs as you noticed him, his hazel eyes already tracking you. 

“Hello,” he murmured, voice crackling like wood on a fire, his thin, leathery wings shifting ever so slightly as the word left him. You stood still like a deer in the eye of a hunter, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Of course, the first time you dared to leave your room since you were saved and you had to come across another soul.

“Um,” you stuttered, voice stuck within your throat. “Hi.” His lips curved up in a slight smile, thumb marking his page as he shut the book he was reading.

“How are you?” You took a miniscule step backward, your gaze never leaving his form, hackles on high alert. He wasn’t a threat, you knew that, yet your body reacted otherwise.

“Um,” fell from your lips once again. You blinked slowly, eyes darting down to the book in his hand before landing back upon his face. He followed your line of sight with a quirked brow and a gentle expression as he shifted in his seat, bringing his book up from his lap.

“Were you looking for one of these?” You nodded and swallowed the lump that had settled in your throat before taking a tentative step forward, despite your body screaming at you to run away. He became molasses as he stood, his movements smooth and still in an attempt not to spook you.

“What kind of book are you looking for?” One glance over your shoulder at the doors led you to the knowledge that they had shut behind you and that it would not be a quick escape, but for some reason, your frosted heart was starting to warm. You did want a book, after all. Maybe taking his advice wouldn’t be so bad.

“I just want a, uh, a book.” Your voice came out weaker than expected, a wince taking over your body at the softness you were displaying in front of this winged stranger. He didn’t comment on it, though. Rather, he nodded, and the shadows that seemed to surround him moved. A gasp fell from your lips without consequence, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you watched them disappear down the aisles of books. When you glanced back at him, he was still watching; observing you, looking for something, but you didn’t know what. 

“I control them.” He spoke, jolting you out of your bewilderment. “I am a Shadowsinger.” You hummed, no words slithered up your throat, just awe. You had never met a Shadowsinger before. To be fair, you had actually never met a winged fae before. There were a lot of firsts happening for you in this moment.

“W-what do they do?” You whispered after a beat, catching the shadows in the corner of your eye as they came back to their master with something in hand. He smiled softly, just a tilt of his lips as you’ve seen before, and he took the item from his shadows’ cool grasp.

“They tell me things. Intel, mostly. They also help with moments like this. Here.” He held out the item, and now with the sun shining down on his glove-clad hand, you could tell that he was holding a leather-bound book. “It’s one of my favorites.” You nodded, eyes flitting between him and his outstretched hand. 

There was still a decent amount of distance between the two of you–distance that you were afraid to make disappear. However, if you wanted that book and the safety of your room back, you would have to move forward. You took a step toward him, and then one more, heart rabbiting in your chest as you extended unfounded trust to this unknown male. He waited patiently, head bowed, but his eyes never left your face, as if he was physically unable to look away. With a quivering hand you reached out and swiftly snatched the book from his outstretched hand and cradled it to your chest. His eyes twinkled as he let his arm fall limply down by his side.

“Thank you.” You murmured, gaze downcast, picking apart the threads in the ornate carpet that adorned the rustic wooden flooring.

“You’re welcome.” He responded, his voice warm and comforting, drawing you back in. With your line of sight connected once again, his mouth opened and he uttered his name. “I’m Azriel. And you are?” 

As you took a step back, your name fell from your lips on an exhale, fingers tightening on the spine of the book almost painfully. With a nod of your head you turned and beelined it for the doors, opening one just a crack so you could slip through. The sunlight and the breeze of Velaris faded away as you hurried back to your room to begin reading your new find, however, the mysterious male seemed to occupy your mind more than the book that he had handed to you. Maybe that chance encounter was not chance at all, but rather fate that bubbled deep within the Cauldron alongside a whisper of your names.

[xzerosparrowx]

For the June @steddiemicrofic

Prompt: Stuff | wc: 483 | Rating: M | cw: mild language | tags: attempted car theft, Eddie steals cars, mention of Al Munson, meet cute, Steve has a messy car.

an attempt to steal a car

✨️🚘✨️🚗✨️

Allen Munson was right, this is a fancy car. A beautiful burgundy BMW that gleams under the fluorescent lights of the city and cream leather seats that look like they would feel buttery soft. Eddie almost regrets breaking into it as he shoves the slightly bent Slim Jim into the door and unlocks it in one smooth motion. This is a Robin Hood kind of deal. Steal from the rich to give to the poor.

The poor being Eddie and Al Munson.

He quickly gets into the car and is immediately accosted with the sight of random shit strewn across this luxury German vehicle. It's all just… stuff. Cassettes ranging from ABBA, to David Bowie and fucking Tears for Fears are piled in the glove box. Sweaters, shirts and even a bra have been haphazardly thrown to the back seat. Candy wrappers and bottles of soda litter the floor and dashboard. There's even a few dice that Eddie recognises from playing DnD that have been stashed in the little corners of the car.

Too fascinated by the sheer amount of stuff, Eddie doesn't register someone walking to the car until the passenger door is already open and a guy around his age is getting in, shutting the door behind them.

Eddie is a little stupid when it comes to pretty people, probably getting it from Al, along with his prodigious ability to jack cars. So he doesn't make an attempt to escape, just sits there kind of dumb staring at the very pretty guy in front of him.

“Are you trying to steal my car?” the guy asks, his large brown eyes narrowed at Eddie, the spiced scent of expensive cologne surrounding him. It takes Eddie a moment to comprehend that the guy asked him a question.

“Yeah,” Eddie admits like a total idiot, “but then I got a little sidetracked by all the stuff in your car.”

The man laughs, bright and a little embarrassed. “Yeah sorry,” he apologizes, scratching the back of his neck, highlighting the toned muscle of his bicep, “I've been meaning to clean it for ages.”

“Fuck, you don't need to apologize to me, I'm the one who broke into your car!” Eddie exclaims, he feels a little hysterical with this guy next to him apologizing for the mess, knowing that Eddie was trying to steal his BMW.

“Yeah but it's a little embarrassing, right? For a thief to not be stealing your shit because they're judging how you live.” The guy flushes pink as his eyes roam the contents of his car before settling back on Eddie.

Fuck, Eddie feels like a huge dickbag.

“Nah, no judgment from me man,” Eddie shakes his head reassuringly, pulling out the David Bowie tape, “you got some good music here,” and grins at the small smile on the man's face.

“Thanks,” the man chuckles, “I'm Steve, by the way.”

“Eddie.”

[devdas5z]

Tetiana Ivaniv

[tmwcs]

When heethan looks at his y/n, bro be staring at you like….

HIS PERSPECTIVE

I took her on a walk through the park. The autumn palette of auburn leaves, tangerine pumpkins, and cinnamon branches harmonized together perfectly. Still, no matter how beautiful the earth may be, nothing holds a candle to her. The perfect tone of her hair, the peach blush that compliments her complexion, and the burgundy stain of her lips. Her colors are perfection; not even Heavens angels could compete.

I dressed her in a black, velvet coat, much like mine. I always like seeing us match as a pair, we belong, therefore it’s only fitting that our attire unites in wedlock. I covered her delicate hands with a pair of leather gloves, to keep her skin warm and safe from the debris and roughness of cooler weather. She is so much like a doll, not because I dress her, brush her hair, or swipe my thumb against her lips as I admire her face, that’s only a fraction of it. She’s such a doll for taking it, obeying me, and becoming better every day. It’s a shame that I have to break something so beautiful, but it is necessary to prune the rose bush and make it grow back the way you want it. Now look at my darling. So amendable and dutiful, yet still has enough spice to keep it challenging for me. I love her so much.

She twirls around, running her fingers through her hair as the wind dances to its own tune. The gust becomes stronger, causing all the strands to stray and surround that precious face…the face I call home. To me, she is always ethereal, yet moments like this, when she is carefree and focus on me—just me, I see a side of her that no one else witnesses, and it is the most desiring and beautiful thing I ever did see…that WE…ever did see.

When I watch her smile and hear her laugh, the beast inside me roars. She’s rattling the cage, but the poor girl has no idea. She’s tempting me with raw meat, and tapping those beautiful fingers against the steel door. For now, I’ll allow her to continue and enjoy the autumn calling, she deserves it…because once we get home, I’ll have my darling stripped and under me, and knowing her…she’ll take everything I give. She’ll take it through tears and pleasure, and in return, I’ll feel connected and whole all over again….my y/n. How did I ever live without you? You are the purpose of my life—the meaning of my happiness. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, little darling.

“Heeseung! Can we walk through the pumpkin patch?”

I feel the devil’s smile creeping along my lips.

“Sure darling, whatever you like.”

We’ll go and walk among the pumpkins and hay barrels…later, we’ll take another walk…through Heaven and Hell.

“Let’s go….pretty baby.”

[aretis]

[dawn-moths]

Wriothesley x Female Reader

word count: 3000+

(Even after serving your time in the Fortress of Meropide and deciding to return to your life in Fontaine, you still have good reason to drop in and give the Duke a visit from time to time.)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors dni! smut, reader is handcuffed with a belt, sub/dom dynamics, fingering, doggy-style (vaginal sex), aftercare.

*ao3 mirror*

***

As Wriothesley tugged his belt free from the loops in his trousers, slow and methodical, he cracked a smirk and huffed out a short breath of a laugh, his voice echoing faintly throughout the room when he said, “Hey, you like magic tricks, don’t you?”

He knows you do. You wouldn’t stop talking about Lyney and Lynette’s latest performance— the deadly precision, the dazzling display of showmanship, the subversion of expectation that left you wonderstruck each and every time. So, when you gave a cute little smile and an eager nod, perking up at the prospect of potential entertainment, well…

The Duke just couldn’t help himself.

He was standing at the bottom of the staircase, biding his time, having enjoyed the view of you immersed deep into some fantasy world between a bundle of dog-eared pages, not a care or concern in the world other than what would become of the fictional characters you’d quickly grown attached to. About an hour or so ago, he’d told you to entertain yourself while he went off to attend to some urgent business, “Shouldn’t take long,” he’d said, and had slipped back into his office without you even noticing. Now, as you stared at him with awaiting, curious eyes, he flexed the belt in his hands, gently testing its strength and give. 

With a playful, beckoning wave of a gloved hand, he said, “Come ‘ere. I wanna show you something…” and you obediently obliged, rising from your seat behind his big desk, leaving your latest literary adventure lying open-faced on the tabletop, to follow after him down the winding spiral staircase and into the bedroom that was hidden below. Wriothesley gripped the strap of burgundy leather tightly in his hands, his fists flexing over it as if trying to contain his eagerness once you were standing before him by the bed, hands lightly clasped behind your back, staring up at him with those big, innocent doe-eyes that made him go a little insane inside.

“Now, watch very closely…” the Duke instructed, though with an air of light mockery as he pretended to sound like the magicians you were so taken by as of late. You hummed out a little giggle at his imitation and watched as he slipped the end of the belt back through the buckle, tugging it through and threading it back around to repeat the first motion, creating a sort of figure 8 design before wrapping the remainder of the leather all the way around and securing it through the middle of the buckle one final time. “Now, hold out your hands.” 

You gave him an inquisitive yet distrusting look, but even before your brain could finish coming up with possible outcomes of where this trick might lead, you were obeying his command and presenting him with both of your wrists side by side out in front of you.

The moment he slipped the widened gaps of the contraption he’d created around your delicate wrists, quickly pulling the loose end he’d looped through the buckle last to cinch the leather flush against your skin, you realized you’d walked right into his trap.

You let out a startled gasp and made small sounds of struggle as you tried to tug your wrists free, but to no avail. Wriothesley let out another one of those silky, sonorous chuckles that sent the flock of butterflies in your tummy aflutter, despite the fact you felt a little betrayed by him weaponizing your naivety against you.

“Really walked into that one, didn’t ya?” he rhetorically asked, crossing his arms and allowing himself to watch your pitiful attempts at escape for a little longer.

“This isn’t magic, it’s just a trick!” you accused, brows pinched slightly in an irritated scowl, still helpless against the worn leather.

“Ah, but, if you’d been paying attention,” Wriothesley began, holding up a finger in accentuation as he strode a few smooth paces closer, “you’d recall I never said I was showing you a magic trick. I simply asked if you liked magic tricks, then said I wanted to show you something.” He looped his extended pointer finger into one of the gaps, lightly pulling your bound wrists and, along with them, yourself, closer toward him.

Lowing his voice to what sounded like nearly a growl, some kind of sinister satisfaction flashing behind his silver gaze, he said, “See what happens when you make baseless assumptions?”

Honestly, Wriothesley was impossible sometimes. Whether it was his mind games or technicalities, he always seemed to find new ways of getting you right where he wanted you while making you do most of the work.

“Ok, show’s over,” you droned, giving him a blatantly unamused look now. “Let me go.”

To this, the Duke merely scoffed.

“Let you go?” he repeated, as if the notion was the most preposterous thing he’d heard all week. He clicked his tongue, shook his head, giving the cuffs another teasing tug, lips splitting into a crookedly amused grin when you let out a quiet, helpless gasp. “Now where’s the fun in that? Besides, I think you know better than most…” He leaned in, lips right beside your ear, and whispered, low and husky, “My prisoners are treated rather well here…”

“I’m not your prisoner,” you reminded him. “At least… Not anymore.”

Because, yes, while you’d once lived under his rule and his reign for the crime you’d committed, those days were now behind you. You’d served your sentence and then chosen to return to the outside world. You’d rather missed your friends and family in Fontaine and, while you’d considered yourself lucky to have gotten into good company with the Duke, you also felt you couldn’t just leave your old life completely behind you.

Hence why you only made trips down into the depths of the Fortress of Meropide for these very special, though oftentimes short visits. You’d gotten a taste of something in this place that the outside world just didn’t have to offer. But, if anyone else had ever been in your position, you doubted they could blame you for indulging the addiction.

“Ok then,” Wriothesley bartered. “Why don’t we make a deal then? You have the next five minutes to get out of these, and if you do, I’ll give you a special prize…” He narrowed his gunmetal gaze at you, something playfully cruel shimmering amidst all that mischievous silver. “But if you can’t, well—” He gave a nonchalant shrug and finished with a rather confident, “then I guess you’ll have to give me something instead.”

“Alright,” you agreed, lifting one eyebrow and now wearing a smirk yourself. “Challenge accepted.” And when you’d entered willingly into his little game, you’d really thought you’d stood a chance. How hard could it be to get out of handcuffs made of leather anyway? It’s not like he’d clapped the metal ones you knew he always kept on his person around your wrists instead. Those, as you’d experienced first hand, were absolutely inescapable.

But as the minutes passed, you struggling more and more with each one that ticked by, Wriothesley keeping an eye on his watch as he leaned back against the wall opposite the bed, eyes flicking up to watch you writhe and grunt as you tried and failed to pull your wrists free, you were beginning to regret being so cocky.

Besides, Wriothesley had never been one to let someone beat him at his own game.

“And… Three… Two… One,” Wriothelsey announced, marking the end of the challenge and your loss of the bet. “Better luck next time, hon,” he said through a mocking pout, looking only half apologetic for a second before approaching you again. “Guess it’s time you give the winner his prize.”

His tall shadow swallowed your form, eyes staring up at him in that delectably pleading, helpless way he’d grown so addicted to back when you were one of his inmates. Your face said you were awaiting punishment but your body was anticipating pleasure, that warm, rolling feeling of arousal tightening in your lower belly.

“Oh…” you rolled your eyes as Wriothesley pinned you to his bed, cuffed wrists clasped in one of his big, rough hands above your head. “And to think,” you teased, “that you’d be so predictable now.”

Wriothesley flashed you a dangerous look, one of a sharp-toothed smirk and half-lidded eyes that almost seemed to glow in the dim light, clicking his tongue as if disappointed in you, increasing his grip on the cuffs while he began to undo the button on his trousers with the other.

“So mouthy today,” he remarked, that familiar growl laced into his tone. The one that warned you you were on thin fucking ice. The one that you often ignored, kept on pushing just to see how far he’d let you go. More often than not, this earned you double the original punishment he’d had in store for you, but secretly, you liked that. Once Wriothesley had caught onto that fact, it hadn’t stopped him. He’d just learned how to twist things so he got to have a little fun too. “Guess I’ll have to remind you what happens when you talk back…”

Cock already hard and aching as he gripped it in his hand, you gasped when he roughly hiked up your skirt and grinded his erection against your dampening panties, your breath hitching in your chest every time his velvety tip brushed against your swollen, sensitive little clit, wanting more, needing more.

And Wriothesley knew he’d soon have you exactly where he wanted you. That defiant attitude of yours reduced to nothing more than a chorus of pathetic whines and pleading for him to “get inside me, please— Please, Wrio, I need it!”

And he’d give you what he wanted. No matter how much he tried to act cold and callous you knew he had a soft spot just for you. But before he did, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t use the opportunity to make you squirm just for the hell of it.

“Awww, what’s the matter, sweetheart?” the Duke cooed, words dripping with saccharine condensation. He used both hands to secure your hips as he grinded down against you harsher than before, nearly knocking the breath from his own lungs as he sighed out a strained, “Suddenly— fuck— at a loss for words?”

You were desperately trying to cant your hips upwards to gain more friction, but his firm grip on you made that impossible. You’d completely forgotten he’d let go of your wrists, though they were still securely bound, merely chasing the fleeting pleasure he was reluctantly granting you.

“Ok… Ok, Wrio, please—” you finally broke, sentence clipped off into a delicate, musical little mewl, soft as a feather floating on a breeze. “Please, I’ll be good, just— Please—”

Wriothesley couldn’t take much more of this either, so, per your unclarified request, he swiftly pushed your soaked panties aside and slipped two of his thick digits into your weeping cunt, sucking in a small hiss of a breath through clenched teeth when he curled his fingers inside and felt how tight your pussy was trying to squeeze him, craving something bigger to fill it up.

You shivered, already beginning to feel that tight coil in your core pulling taut, mouth hanging open in silent ecstasy, huffing out panting little breaths and eyes rolling beautifully as your back began to arch off the firm mattress. Wriothesley’s skilled fingers worked you over like it’s what they’d been designed to do, the calloused pad of his thumb rubbing rough circles over your pulsing little bud, gaze glued to your leaking little hole, mesmerized by how gorgeous you were like this, completely bent to his will.

“Archons, baby…” He said, soft and in awe like reciting a prayer, spreading your slick around like an artist creating his next masterpiece. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Fuck me, you wanted to answer. Fuck me until all I know is you, you, and nothing but you.

Wriothesley then seemed to come to some kind of conclusion, the contemplation shining in his eyes as fast and as bright as a shooting star. Then, he was gripping your hips again and flipping you over, instructing you to stay on your elbows and knees as he lined himself up with your fluttering entrance.

“Wrio…?” you asked, his name sounding fragile and broken and confused as it left your succulent little mouth.

He hushed you, gentle and reassuring, suddenly gone all sweet and soft for you like he usually tended to do, once he was done playing his games with you. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, leaning over you to press his warm, broad chest against your back. “Just trust me.”

Slowly, carefully, he began to nudge his way into your needy little hole, wrapping his arms around you and helping you to adjust until you found the position that felt the best for the both of you. Then, once he was fully inside and you were recovered from the sweet, stinging stretch of him, Wriothesley began to move, the motion of his hips smooth and intentional, nearly pulling all the way out before pushing back in, the rhythm gaining more speed every couple of thrusts.

By now, a thin sheen of sweat had broken out on both your brows, your legs beginning to tremble when he grazed over that sweet, spongy spot deep inside you, the one you could never quite reach on your own. Still holding you close, he used one hand to massage more skillful circles onto your already overstimulated little bundle of nerves, the pressure ebbing and flowing between soft and hard, trying to keep your orgasm at bay for just a little longer.

“Wrio—” you moaned, all pliable and angelic and all his, his, his.

“Almost there, baby—? God—!” The air was punched from Wriothesley’s lungs upon his next thrust, his normally sure and even voice cracked and fissured by a strangled whine, movements beginning to become erratic as he neared his own edge. He tightened his arms around your body, trying to hold you impossibly close, truly become one with you, as if your soul could melt right into his like two pieces of candy left out too long in the sun, gooey and combined and no longer distinguishable from one another, only known henceforth as their own unique, singular entity. 

“‘M gonna—!” You suddenly gasped, your silky walls clenching around his cock hard enough to lace his next breath with a beautiful whimper, both your bodies tensing under the shared release, soaking and filling each other to the brim with each other’s balmy pleasure.

You went slack in Wriothesley’s hold, which didn’t lessen an inch until he’d found his way back to reality, temporarily blinded by the all-encompassing sensation of bliss your body always gifted him. Once his vision could focus and his brain could think, he carefully pulled out of you, allowing you to lower all the way down to the mattress, completely spent and limbs like jelly.

The Duke unfastened the belt-cuffs from around your wrists, tossing the twisted mangle of leather aside and laying across from you, tenderly taking your sore, slightly chafed wrists in his grasp and placing tender kisses along the thin, delicate skin, murmuring little praises to you that you barely registered in your fucked-out state.

“So good for me… Always so good for me…” he hummed, his chaste, closed mouth kisses traveling further up your arms as if he intended to place his lips to every inch of you. “My perfect, perfect girl…”

You were pulled back to earth by the time his lips found yours, parting them for him as if on instinct, tethered by the way his tongue refamiliarized itself with the shape of your mouth.

It was languid, messy, threatening to stir up that honey-dipped lust for him that never seemed to abate inside of you again. But then Wriothesley pulled away, only far enough to gaze lovingly into your eyes, smiling— actually smiling— to himself at the sight of you, glowing with a post-sex haze.

“Wrio…?” you spoke, voice like a butterfly’s wing.

“Hmm…?” he hummed, gently brushing the back of his knuckles along your soft cheek.

“Do you…” You hesitated then, knowing the question was one you were afraid to ask. Had been afraid to ask for a while, only because you knew his answer could possibly change the path of your fate. You swallowed hard, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to bask in his gentle touches for a few strokes longer. Then you said, “Do you ever wish I would’ve stayed?”

Wriothesley’s ministrations paused, something unreadable now swimming in all that entrancing silver. He threaded his long fingers through your hair, bringing his forehead to rest against yours, taking in a long, deep breath just to share the same air as you.

“I only wish I could go with you,” he murmured, the confession barely a whisper, so quiet, as if he were afraid the very admittance would sink the Fortress to the very bottom of the sea. Then he opened his eyes, leaned back a few inches to meet yours again, and added on a solemn, “Sometimes…”

You wrapped your arms around him then, wanting to keep him close, wanting to lay here like this with him forever. But eventually, you drifted off to sleep. When you did, Wriothesley only allowed himself to stay beside you a few minutes longer before going to tend to cleaning both of you up, wiping away the mess between your legs you two had made as gently as possible so he wouldn’t wake you. He knew, when you rose, you’d have to say your goodbyes and return to the surface.

“Not goodbye,” you’d always remind him after your parting kiss, giving him one of those innocent little smiles that made him wonder how you’d ever survived this place at all, your eyes glittering with affection. “Only until next time.”

Until next time, Wriothesley thought. And then, how lucky I am to have earned a next time.

***

(Honestly, I just saw a video of someone making handcuffs with a belt and thought, “You know who would do that… Wriothesley,” lol

But anyway, I hope you enjoyed and are having as much fun with the new Fontaine characters as I am heehee :) 

Hope everyone has a wonderful day!)

[janicep02316]

This outfit, and these leather opera gloves!　Dita is awesome after all!

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

what objects, fruits, colors, or any words that you associate with the m6? 👀

The Arcana Mini-HCs: Things I associate with M6

Julian: fountain pens, leather gloves, shirts with big collars, burgundy, oranges, the set of your first highschool performance after its last showing as you're getting ready to take it down, lapping waves

Asra: candles, bookmarks, cardamom, soft colorful scarves, twenty one pilots songs, hanging lanterns, sneaking instant noodles and chocolate into your room at 2 AM for a tea party, sunsets, pools

Nadia: wine, strings of jasmine blossoms, the way printed silks rustle when they're folded, clinking bracelets, creamy lipstick, drinking a hot cup of chai at midday while rain falls on dusty, sun-warm marble

Muriel: misty sunrises, moss on a tree trunk, combat boots, scars, carved oak, heavy wool woven as soft as it is scratchy, waterfalls, visiting castle ruins on a quiet day and getting briefly lost in the walls

Portia: coffee with extra creamer, baking cinnamon rolls, homemade cheese, the perfect curl of a sleeping cat, bright blue skies, climbing cliffs, giggling about a book over hot chocolate and shortbread

Lucio: cranberries, candied fruit, bacon for breakfast at 2 PM, that moment in an excited conversation when you all get way too loud, golden hour, chasing a wet golden retriever, fancy lighters, sweat

[feralbutfluffy]

Give a Man a Mask

The man who caught Aziraphale’s eye was lounging rather indecorously on one of the many benches lining the walls of the ballroom. He (because despite every inch of them being covered, Aziraphale was sure it was a he) wore a well-tailored black velvet suit jacket that fit snuggly over a black waistcoat intricately embroidered with gunmetal filigree. Underneath the waistcoat, Aziraphale could just make out a black shirt and a flash of burgundy lace at the man’s throat. Black leather gloves laced up around his wrists, and matching knee-high boots fit snuggly over the man's fitted black trousers.

Aziraphale sighed with envy. He could never pull off something like that.

Of course - he told himself - it wasn’t the man necessarily that had caught his eye. It was the clothing; he had always noticed and admired fine clothing, and his outfit really was exquisitely made.

Besides, it was hard not to notice someone who had dressed in such stark contrast to the rest of the guests. It seemed everyone else was dressed to excess, resplendent in feathers and lace, gemstones and pearls. This man’s costume, by contrast, was downright modern; minimal but striking, yet still in keeping with Carnivale. The handstitched leather Plague Doctor mask beneath a black tricorn hat completed the look. It should have looked offputting, really...

It did not.

The man looked less like a man, Aziraphale thought, and more like a long black shadow curving against the wall. Aziraphale popped a fritelle into his mouth and chewed it slowly before swallowing. 

If he was honest with himself (which he would prefer not to be, all things considered) he knew what had really attracted his attention; there was something about him - the lazy confidence evident in the way he was sitting, or the dark clothing perhaps - that made him think of Crowley. He hadn’t seen the demon in a few years, and although he was absolutely loathe to admit it even within the privacy of his own mind, he did rather miss him.

Well. He missed him and worried about him in equal parts. Handing over the thermos of Holy Water a few years before had certainly ramped up his anxiety.

He was extremely glad of his full-face volto mask as he watched the figure out of the corner of his eye. He popped another fritelle into his mouth under the mask, chewed, and swallowed with a little groan of pleasure. They really were delicious.

The Plague Doctor swiveled to face him as if he had heard him, and although there was no possible way the stranger could have heard anything of the sort from across the crowded ballroom, Aziraphale blushed ferociously. The heat of it was almost unbearable behind his full-face mask.

He turned his body away from the man, staring down at the sweet delights laid out on the banquet table, and tried very hard to ignore what felt like a heated stare. He gazed down at the galani, his mouth suddenly dry.

Although he was almost expecting it, the dark presence at his elbow a moment later made him start.

“Buonasera, come sta?” said the Plague Doctor in perfect Italian, tipping his hat in a quick formal bow.

Aziraphale had been right about it being a man.

He jerked back at the greeting, startled by the man’s sudden proximity, and scrambled for a reply. 

“Oh! Buonasera!” Aziraphale could think of nothing else to say. He cringed behind his mask and wondered if he could miracle his way out of a conversation that was embarrassing before it had even begun.

The Plague Doctor was wearing a zendale beneath his tricorn, and the silk hood concealed every part of his head not covered by mask or hat. He tilted his head, looking like a curious raven, and rested both his gloved hands on top of a cane Aziraphale hadn’t noticed before. His tight grip - Aziraphale could see his knuckles straining against the leather of his gloves - obscured most of what looked like a beautifully carved gunmetal handle.

He looked up. The large eyesockets of the mask were filled with dark glass lenses, revealing absolutely nothing. Aziraphale smoothed down his more traditional costume. The cream and white concoction with gold embroidery and an abundance of lace ruffles had rather delighted him when he’d stepped out this morning, but it felt quite indulgent next to this austere creature.

“I trust you are enjoying yourself?” said the Plague Doctor in an extremely thick Italian accent, leaning forward on his cane so that the beak of his mask almost punctured his bubble of personal space.

“Oh yes, very much so!” Aziraphale nodded, wondering what had drawn this man to his side and how he could possibly reverse it. For all that he had been intrigued before, he hadn’t intended to actually engage the stranger in conversation. There was something extremely unsettling about him up close. Perhaps it was the costume, or the way he was standing; it was patient, watchful, almost… predatory.

Aziraphale shuddered, and the Plague Doctor’s head tilted the other way, making it clear he had noticed. 

“Va bene, Signore?” Are you well?

Aziraphale nodded quickly. “Oh yes… Sto bene!” I am well. There was a brief pause while he summoned up formal Italian and hurriedly added a thank you. “La ringrazio!”

The Plague Doctor nodded. “How did you come to be here?” The words came low and slow, and Aziraphale felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his skin prickling with awareness.

He had always had a bit of a weakness for the Italian accent. 

“It was suggested to me by the concierge at my hotel,” he smiled, even though the man couldn’t see it. “He thought I might enjoy it, and he was right! I am enjoying it tremendously! The food alone...!" He made an appreciative noise. "How did you…? Are you local to the area?”

A slight tilt of the head as if the Plague Doctor were considering his question. It was surprising how demonstrative he was able to be without a single facial expression.

“Not exactly,” he said, and Aziraphale thought he could hear a smile in his voice, “Although for tonight... Certo. If you like.” 

The man swept into a much deeper, more theatrical bow than before. The black feather in his hat almost grazed Aziraphale’s chest. “This is my palazzo - my festa - and I am your host for the evening. You are…” he said, and straightened, holding out his hand. When Aziraphale hesitated, the man crooked his fingers impatiently and for some reason Aziraphale obeyed, quickly placing his white silk-gloved hand in the man’s leather-clad grip. 

“... You are extremely welcome here,” the man finished, bringing Aziraphale's knuckles to his mask.

It didn’t seem to matter that there were no lips there to brush against his hand; Aziraphale felt it as if the man had kissed his knuckles open-mouthed. A dart of something hot and unutterable shot through him, flared up and burnt out, thankfully vanishing before Aziraphale had time to recognise it and panic.

“Yes. Well. Thank you. La ringrazio,” he said, feeling flustered.

“No need for such formality, Signore,” the Plague Doctor said warmly, tugging his hand without warning to bring them shoulder to shoulder. He tucked Aziraphale’s arm into the crook of his elbow and patted his hand as if to reassure him that it was alright.

Aziraphale thought that it was probably not alright.

Surely it was not alright to walk arm in arm with a total stranger? Surely there was something morally grey about taking a turn with a mortal Italian dandy who apparently owned a palazzo and, by extension, the many sweet treats Aziraphale had been helping himself to throughout the evening?

If nothing else, surely he should feel some guilt or shame about enjoying the closeness of a stranger who reminded him so much of Crowley?

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