"Don't worry about a thing," Crowley murmurs in his ear, aching for him even as Aziraphale bucks up into his hand. "I know just what to do with you."
There are a hundred things, a thousand things Crowley would like to do with him, but right now what he wants is for Aziraphale to lie back and let him do all the work: it's time Crowley were the one to get his hands all over him, to tease and torment him until he moans with pleasure. He grasps him tightly around the waist, not letting him move far as he shifts and seeks more contact, his mouth doing ardent, wicked things along his throat before he lets Aziraphale's head tip back to his shoulder, and his hand beneath the water working over Aziraphale's cock--thumb rubbing tenderly along the vein on the underside, palm rolling gently against his balls for a breath or two before he wraps his hand around him again and strokes.
Crowley noses at Aziraphale's hair, his brow as the angel turns toward him. "You don't know what it does to me, angel," he says a little breathlessly, "when you're rolling my stockings up my legs for me." Aziraphale always seem to love to hear him talk, to hear him murmur his fantasies and thoughts, so Crowley freely obliges. "And when you take my chin in your hand to apply my lipstick...mm, I love to get my mouth on you, see you marked up all red." His thumb rubs beneath the head of Aziraphale's cock, and he says raspily, "I could do that for you. I could suck you, my mouth all beautifully scarlet."
Not that Aziraphale had ever doubted Crowley's ability to take care of him, as it were, but the announcement flickers a little excitement in his core, lets himself be taken over completely. Despite his usually demure attitude, practically puritanical by anyone else who knows him, Aziraphale finds himself more often than not with such a hunger for Crowley's embrace. It humbles him to be so ensnared by lust that he can hardly think of anything else sometimes, and yet, when Crowley turns to him and responds with such equal and open thirst, he can't help but to feel relieved.
He supposes it's why Crowley likes to be assured that Aziraphale is pleased; Aziraphale likes to be reassured that Crowley wants him, desires him more than anything and definitely more than is convenient. "Oh, darling," he starts, momentarily speechless. "We'd never leave for work. They'd grow suspicious. We'd get sacked." He tries to list off all the reasons why he hadn't indulged Crowley before, rolling up his stockings and then lifting them over his waist and letting the fabric drag across his back as he thrust into him. If Crowley should start to say anything, he could shut him up by snapping the garter. He would, if he were so wickedly inclined.
"I love rubbing away at my skin and finding the red still there," he says. "All of me, yours as you want it." He makes a very unintelligible noise as Crowley describes what it might be like to paint Aziraphale's cock with his lipstick, and he feels as if he might shatter. "You are unholy," he responds, hips still arcing into his touch anyway.
It nearly makes him groan aloud, to realize how Aziraphale must have thought of it too, all those mornings when he dressed Crowley up in Nanny Ashtoreth's severe skirts. How easily he could bend him over and flip up that long hem and give him a good seeing-to. Lose the rest of the day with him, all thought of their employers and even their mission forgotten. He rubs his mouth at Aziraphale's temple, leaving wild, tender kisses, fingers working eagerly over his hot, thick shaft. "Promise we will, one of these mornings," he says in a voice wracked with lust. "They won't sack us." Oh, Crowley would spend a miracle for that, even knowing he shouldn't. It would be such a small thing to make the Dowlings forget about them for a day; the hard part would be to restrain themselves to only one.
Touching Aziraphale in this openly lustful way, hands and mouth greedy on him, letting himself murmur these secret and much-visited fantasies and desires into his ear is so perfect, feeling Aziraphale tremble and gasp and arch to his hand. Crowley closes his eyes, fighting for control. "That's right," he whispers, his throat feeling tight and the rest of him scorching with lust. "Unholy, incorrigible, depraved demon I am. And you are--so lovely--" He groans then, fingers tightening just a little, stroking thoroughly Aziraphale's cock from base to head. "So divine, delectable..." Crowley catches his mouth, brief but ravishing, tasting all that he can.
"After you've dressed me," he tells him, "and you've put up my hair and painted my lips, I'm going to go to my knees for you and suck your cock. And I won't let you return the favor until we come back from our afternoon out. So you can think about that, angel, while we're strolling through the meadow green."
"Only you could come up with a plan so diabolical," he responds in kind, wondering whether or not he should just swat Crowley away now. Seems rather unfair for Crowley to give him two orgasms and not even be able to return one until the evening. And evenings were already reserved for Aziraphale to map out all the parts of Crowley and explore all the ways there were to bring him pleasure. "Completely incorrigible to deny me this," he whispers, grinding back into Crowley's lap.
No, it wasn't as if Aziraphale had kept count over the years, but if he had, he would be sure that he walked away with more net orgasms than Crowley had, and that was just unacceptable. He isn't a selfish lover, no. He will save those moments for when he needed rescuing, because that was another thing that, although no count existed, he was sure his corporation had been saved many more times than the favor had been repaid.
"You just want me to be driven mad by the time we get home, enough to throw you on the bed and love you until you beg me for mercy," he accuses. "Would you allow me to reciprocate for you if I told you I'd do that anyway?" he asks, gently prying. He hopes that he has not left Crowley starved for attention that he should have to feel the need to do this. But then again, sometimes Aziraphale just called Crowley nice for the express purpose of being thrown up against a wall, goading him into a bit of rougher, possessive play.
It's times like these he wonders if they're at all any different, deep down.
"That's right," Crowley whispers, teeth catching at Aziraphale's ear. Utterly diabolical is what he is, and Aziraphale had better not forget it: though he's certainly fond of reminding him when the need arises. And he so loves to be on his knees for Aziraphale, to feel him clutch in his hair and hear his groans as his cock slides down his throat, to taste him, to lavish on him every bit of attention that Aziraphale pays him threefold in the deliciously long hours of the evening. It's more than a fair trade, if you ask him. Aziraphale loves him so deeply and so well, there are times Crowley can hardly bear it, that it leaves him throbbing with a desperate eagerness to please; to touch and taste Aziraphale all he wants is already such a gift. He bucks up against Aziraphale's arse when he grinds into his lap.
"Greedy angel," he returns, words whispered at his temple with nothing but love and aching desire in his voice. The thought of being thrown on the bed and being made to beg for mercy leaves him a little dazed, his own breath going to tatters now as his cock presses into the delectable round of Aziraphale's arse. "Let me, please..." Crowley moves against him as he strokes him relentlessly, and his cock catches between the angel's sweet thighs, nudging behind his balls, and he moans in abandon. Let him take this, if Aziraphale wants to reciprocate, indulging in every inch of him. Stroking his cock, his hips urging up, pressed between thighs so lovely they should be considered sinful if they didn't belong to an angel, Crowley so ardent for him, utterly devoted.
Later, in the depths of the evening and late at night but with nowhere to be in the morning (truly, honestly this time, as Aziraphale won't have to get up and tend to the plants), he'll wring Crowley dry of orgasms until he tells the angel no more, that his body can't take it, that he is exhausted. And Aziraphale will have him sprawled bonelessly over his lap, cock in his fist and stomach held gently under a broad fan of fingers, telling him one more, one more.
Aziraphale squeezes his thighs together over Crowley's cock, rocking lightly up and down, soapy waves splashing around and gone uncared for while they attend to more pressing matters. He feels the pressure against his balls, and with his back bridged, holds onto the slippery tub for purchase. He speeds up, down onto Crowley's lap and up into his grip, eyes prickling and rolling back into his head as he continues.
It takes very little else but a little time for Aziraphale to come, streaking the soap-clouded water a milky white. His body shudders as wings do before they take flight, and he feels the freefall all around him, exhilarating and free.
He redoubles his efforts then, though his shins and knees are killing him on the porcelain. He thinks if anything, he'll want to turn around, face Crowley as he glides his cock in and out from between his thighs. He finds that if he bows his back far enough, he could possibly tip Crowley's chin enough for a messy half-kiss, so he does, greedily takes a gnash of lips and teeth.
Only Aziraphale has ever had such power over Crowley, to make him beg, to have him wrung out and throbbing in spent exhaustion and be able to persuade him to submit just once more to his tender attentions, to give him everything, his body and his love and all his aching, yearning soul. And Crowley has never in all their long acquaintance resisted him, in this or any other matter, even in their disagreements or the worst of their arguments he's always come back to him again. Aziraphale is everything to him, love and acceptance and a glimpse of paradise.
Oh, how good it is now, how perfect to thrust up between his thighs and feel the heat of his cock in his hand, to feel Aziraphale's thighs tense and tight around him as he works himself up and down, water spilling out over the edge of the tub but Crowley doesn't care, doesn't pay it a moment's attention. His mouth against Aziraphale's hair, pressing tender kisses, and his arm around him holding him as tight and close as possible when Aziraphale comes, trembling in his embrace. It makes Crowley gasp harshly against his hair, feeling his cock jerk in his grasp and watching him spend into the water, and Aziraphale--always so generous, always the very definition of kindness--does not neglect him, doesn't stop rocking over his cock. If he looks down he can see the flushed, taut head emerge between cream-pale thighs as he thrusts up, as Aziraphale moves up and down, and the sight makes him groan into the angel's hair, a desperate, guttural sound.
"You--angel, you--" Words almost fail, but Crowley heaves a tattered breath and tells him, "you're so lovely I can't stand it, so good, so perfect for me--" wanting him to know, to feel how Crowley loves him and lusts for him in equal measure. Shuddering, so close to release, he turns into the kiss Aziraphale twists back to give him, messy and wet and open-mouthed, and a few moments later he comes like this, moaning into Aziraphale's mouth, spilling greedily into the water. What a shame he can't see the mess of it on Aziraphale's thighs, watch it drip down his comely legs. But as always there are a thousand things Crowley wants from him, and how much shorter their time seems to get with each passing year.
Still clutching Aziraphale close, dropping his head when the kiss breaks and breathing heavily, he spends a little miracle to instantly dry all the water from the floor and purify the water in the bath, so that it's as clean and warm as it was when they first got into it. Hell won't notice anything so small and inconsequential.
The bath and bathroom might both be clean, but Aziraphale can still feel the rampant beat of his heart as it begins to slow, and the little chafe of where Crowley's cock had been bouncing between his legs. He still imagines it there when he runs his hand along the sensitive skin, and he turns in Crowley's arms to face him, to kiss him and impart with him his thanks, his gratitude for this moment and all the ones they share together, each one like a little photo that Aziraphale develops and places into a sleeve in a book.
So many years they'd spent together, and how many of those memories have been lost over time? He recalls them piecemeal as if he were paying for them slowly, having sold them once for some selfish thing he'd wanted at the time. But when he does sleep at night beside Crowley, he falls asleep hoping another one will show up, a forgotten memory to unearth in his deep subconscious, four thousand years ago or five. Those are old, old things and yet, not as old as Eden which he remembers clear as day. Eve, bright and brilliant Eve with her fierce eyes and her gently sloped shoulders. Adam following with broad, protective hands.
Over the scent of Rome, he can almost feel it - a honeyed scent of fruit always at peak ripeness, lush green and sparkling clean waters. He might, accidentally, miracle the scent memory to life, spilling its perfume into the bath with such a heavy hand that he swears he could hear the call of a long-extinct bird.
"Oh," is what he says, when he realizes what he's done. Embarrassed, he buries his face into Crowley's neck and hopes he doesn't conjure up the rain.
Aziraphale turns to him, and Crowley winds both arms around him and brings him close in the kiss, eyes closing but all his body given over to a relaxation and release so perfect that he can almost imagine he will never feel vulnerable again. What could there ever be to fear, when Aziraphale is in his arms and the angel’s mouth is so soft and generous and giving, when his body is replete from the satisfaction of a good fuck, when there is nothing more than this he needs but the mutual willingness in them both to take the time to satisfy every desire? He won’t think of the end of the world today. Today, as far as Crowley is concerned, can be outside of time.
Drifting in the kiss and the embrace, it takes him some time to notice what is so familiar about the scent in the bathroom, the feeling of heavy, humid air, the ripe and lovely feeling of it as he drags it into his lungs. Crowley lifts his head at the same moment Aziraphale hides his face against his neck. For a moment he sees green all around them, lush trees, a sprinkle of rain. “Aziraphale,” Crowley says with tender amusement. The vision lasts only for an instant, and then they’re in the bathroom again, but he knows who summoned it to them. “You sentimental old angel.” He urges Aziraphale to lift his head so Crowley can kiss him again as though to devour his mouth, sweet and ardent and hot.
Seven days they'd spent, out there, less than a drop of time in six thousand years. But Aziraphale remembers it so well, remembers the wall where he stood and was greeted by the serpent of Eden, called him a name he hadn't said in thousands of years. He feels brand new, as he had in those days, having been created close to the conception of Earth - not that time really had any bearing then. But he had been so fresh, halo barely spun when God had given him a flaming sword and told him to stand at the Gate.
All he'd known then was love and light, and he knew of nothing else. He didn't know of kissing, or how much he would enjoy it, but as he shares one with Crowley, he can think of no other gesture so perfect to express everything he is feeling at the moment.
He eventually breaks it, letting go of Crowley's velvet tongue, and his face melts into a smile so bright it could dim the sun. "I love you darling, but let's get out of this bath, hm?" It's still warm and it could be made to soak for hours and hours, but his fingers have wrinkled and they have so much on the docket. Number one is, of course, selecting which fine things to decorate Crowley's corporation with, and Aziraphale has very many ideas indeed.
He distinctly remembers a black ribbed sweater with a roll neck and short sleeves, tight about the waist and the chest. Yes, he enjoys putting that one on and he'll enjoy it much more with his hands encircled around Crowley's waist later, pushing up under it to lay skin on skin.
Aziraphale's smile is truly the brightest, the most beautiful Crowley has ever seen; he's lost for a moment simply looking at him, delighting in every one of his perfect features, but then he comes to himself and nods in agreement because there is so much more to do and want. "Eager, are we?" he murmurs teasingly, but of course he is too, and so he disentangles himself from Aziraphale so that he can stand up and step a long dripping leg out onto the thick bathroom rug, following it with the other and then offering a hand to Aziraphale to balance him as he steps out as well. They could miracle themselves dry, but there are thick fluffy towels which do the job just as well, especially when they are being conservative with their miracles. Crowley wraps one around Aziraphale, squeezing him briefly, before taking one for himself.
(He is not the sentimental one of the two of them. It's just expedient to help an angel out.)
Crowley wraps a towel around his hair so that it too will dry, and with the other folded around him very low on his torso, barely clinging to his lean hips, he looks at Aziraphale expectantly. "Well, angel, where do you want me?"
The bath was lovely but lovelier still is a warm fluffy towel that Crowley wraps him in, one that he ties up exactly around his waist. He's noticed it filling out a little bit more despite his best efforts (OK, despite a tiny bit of effort soon forgotten when presented with a surprise omakase) and busies himself tying the towel on very tightly, getting one for his curls and -- oh.
Oh, he looks over and stammers and his mouth is suddenly too dry to say much of anything. He knows that Crowley is a demon but does he always have to be the picture perfect definition of lust? Slung so low, Aziraphale could easily trace the lines that frame his lower sides and taper inward. There's nearly enough skin to make it all the way to the end.
"Ah, bedroom, of course. If we are to get you dressed, dear," he responds, running the towel roughly through his hair and wondering if perhaps Crowley had just said those things in the heat of the moment and not meant them, but it really wouldn't matter anyway as the end result would be the same, and Aziraphale would celebrate tonight as one of the only ones they'd ever had where this was exactly where they were supposed to be waking up together. They had the whole run of the place really, they could play house for the next week and it would be sanctioned by both Heaven and Hell. He'll miss this terribly, and so he wouldn't be able to help himself if he tried.
When he's done with his hair, still damp at the ends with the thickness of his curl, he moves to towel off Crowley's hair, and he's much more gentle with it than he is with his own, because he grows his back every few weeks but he would very much like to encourage Crowley to keep growing his. He loops his fingers through a wave to help it along, and smiles as if he'd just remembered something; with his fingers clumsy but eager, he attempts to make a plait in Crowley's hair.
It's flattering is what it is, when Aziraphale looks over at him and suddenly seems to lose track of what he was about to say. Crowley is just demonic enough to be a bit vain, and Aziraphale's attention always makes him want to preen, always he could bask in it as in the warm light of the sun. He leans his hip against the side of the sink with just a little bit of swagger. "Bedroom, right," he answers, as his yellow eyes take advantage of the opportunity to look Aziraphale over in one sweeping glance. A secret excitement, a hidden delight curls into him at the thought of Aziraphale dressing him up in Nanny's clothes. Maybe not so secret anymore, given all that he's asked for and promised--he certainly did mean it, intending to do just as he said he would, but not for some time yet. He'll let Aziraphale do the work of grooming and dressing him first: they'll both enjoy it almost as much as what follows.
A little smile curves his lips as Aziraphale approaches with the towel, and he obligingly tilts his head to be in easy reach as the angel begins to dry off his hair. "We could get a fire going, you could comb it out before the fireplace," Crowley suggests in a murmur, but he doesn't move yet, looking at Aziraphale in quizzical amusement as he begins to weave a plait into his hair.
It gives him the oddest feeling, really, a sensation of wanting to nudge into Aziraphale's hands like a cat demanding to be stroked. "Can't remember the last time you did that," he says after a few moments.
No, certainly it was not a secret delight but also certainly Aziraphale was sure it was plaintive that it was one of his own delights as well, seeing Crowley all dolled up, watching him slither around in the form of a very domineering woman. Not that Crowley wasn't intimidating (he really wasn't), but there was something just so very inspired when he became Nanny.
He starts up a fire immediately - that one, he uses a miracle for, there's no way that Gabriel will fault him for that one on a day where it's slightly cold due to the rain. And nudge as he may, Aziraphale has nothing else to do but indulge him in his whims, and just so happened to enjoy this possibly as much as Crowley did. He takes a look at it and lets it hang for a moment. "I don't remember, either. Too long, then," he answers, as he tousles it out of his hair and with his hand in a claw, teases at Crowley's crown.
Finally, he pulls himself away and moves into the bedroom, where he starts carefully pulling pieces from the closet and the dresser (of course, there wasn't really room for both their clothes in here, but Aziraphale had very few to speak of and half of Crowley's were still up in the manor proper. It just so happened that the few that ended up in the big house ended up making the whole thing look staged as it always was when Crowley lived someplace. Everything was just too perfect, like a showroom.
He lays them on the bed and then, when Crowley returns, shows him. "What do you think?" he asks, earnestly. He's picked out a matching set of undergarments that are very practical, with the bra being one of those old bullet-shaped ones that fit nicely under sweaters. The sweater, of course, being just warm enough for the weather, and wore so nicely with Nanny's hair done more casually, not set in rollers like it usually was. Then, a sensible skirt in a subtle print, that gave a little sheen of iridescent scales in the right light. He thought a little drama might be appropriate for his killer queen.
His hair tousled out once more, Crowley follows Aziraphale into the bedroom where a lovely crackling fire is already going in the grate, as cozy as can be with the rain pattering on the windows and the sky gray. Towel still barely clinging, he sprawls into an armchair set at an angle to the fireplace while Aziraphale busies himself picking out garments, watching him with his head tilted slightly and his eyes half-lidded with contentment and pleasure. The warmth of the fire feels wonderful on bare skin, its dancing orange light limning the contour of his bare shoulder and arm, the sweep of neck joined to shoulder, his jaw and the arch of his cheekbone.
He gets up when Aziraphale asks him what he thinks of the clothing he's picked out, approaching from behind him and leaning his chin on the angel's shoulder to look over the garments laid out on the bed. "Mm," Crowley says approvingly, "these'll do." He appreciates the sweater, how it will cling to every narrow curve, and the iridescent sheen to the skirt. Nanny's clothes are always black and practical, often what one might call severe, but there is an undeniable sexual element to them as well, appreciated especially by men who love an imperious woman.
"Stockings, angel," Crowley murmurs, nuzzling at the side of Aziraphale's neck. It simply won't do to forget them. That's Crowley's favorite part, his angel's hands on his bare legs, rolling them up inch by inch.
"Stockings, yes," he says, going to fetch them from the other drawer. He selects a pair of sheer ones, that somehow flatter all of his angles and soften them into curves. And with all of the clothes laid out, he goes again to Crowley and places his hands along his hips, with their eyes met, loosens the towel and lets it drop to the floor.
"And you're sure we couldn't do this in reverse?" He asks, eyes trained on where the fabric had just been, licking his lips without even meaning to. He had long since grown out of his embarrassment at reacting in such ways that were natural to him yet had seemed nonetheless foreign at the time, particularly since Crowley found them flattering. With his fingers on naked hip, he traces the tips down towards the center, finally following that line to its end point, ghosts his touch over Crowley's cock before pulling away.
"Right. Forgive me," he says, as he goes to fetch Crowley's pants. He doesn't think he'll manage to get through this if they don't cover him up, and even then there's a good chance he'll try to do the tempting afterward, promise Crowley a whole host of things to cajole his way back into bed with him. He feels the static build as he pulls the fabric over Crowley's skin, like right before a storm. And his kisses follow his hands, up Crowley's shin and his knee and ending partway up his thigh. How he ever manages the discipline to do this normally, he thinks at the moment, is well beyond him.
His gaze trains hungrily on the stockings, his skin remembering the feel of them so silky and sensual, the sensation of Aziraphale's hands on his legs as he slides them up ever-so-delicately. His yellow eyes have already gone dark with wanting, the slit pupils widened as Aziraphale turns to him and loosens the towel from his hips, letting it fall. Oh--the angel's fingers at his hip, drifting inward along the vee of his hip and thigh, so close to his cock--Crowley's eyes close, head tilting back a little, an eager sigh escaping his lips. So tempting to let Aziraphale do what he wants, and he knows he would take such good care of him... "Patience, angel," he manages in a voice that catches slightly.
Right away, as soon as Aziraphale guides the soft fabric of a pair of drawers up his legs, he knows his knees won't last long for him: not with the kisses Aziraphale leaves as he goes, and Crowley's fingers winding fitfully into his hair. Not when Aziraphale puts his stockings on for him. "Wait," he pleads at last, "I need to--" Moving to the bed, he sits back on the edge of the mattress next to the clothes. Regards Aziraphale with eyes gone heavy-lidded and dark, and spreads his legs apart a little, offering himself.
"You can touch," he says in a voice low and a little bit purring. "I'm still going to taste you after this."
Aziraphale finds that tempting a demon is a lot more fun when that demon has a sense of humor about the whole thing, so much so that he's sure he does the bulk of their temptations now, at least when it came to each other, whole bit about the Apocalypse notwithstanding. He had almost said no, again, though he knows when Crowley makes his mark he usually gets the job done. It just would've been rather a disaster had Aziraphale caught onto the plot with the speed that he'd come to accept that they love each other, but he had become slightly more attuned to the whole demon thing since they'd started sharing an Arrangement together and then again since they'd started sharing a life.
Which is why, despite wanting nothing more than to slide to his knees and with the heel of his palm firmly pressed against the seat of Crowley's pants, ask him again if they couldn't come to a different understanding, he instead slips onto the bed behind him. Knees bracket Crowley's sides and the warm fluff of a towel press up on his back as Aziraphale holds him on his hip, much too close to his cock than strictly necessary, as he leans over to pluvk up his bra from the bed. "Arms, darling," he practically sings into Crowley's ear. And after threading them through, he busies himself with hooking the back and adjusting the straps (though they need none), checking the band and then cupping his hands over Crowley's chest. Clearly he's just checking if it's secure.
"How's that?" He asks while they sit together like puzzle pieces, Aziraphale flush against his back.
Angels are so good at temptation, as it turns out, or at least Aziraphale is. Crowley wouldn't care to find out about any of the others--he's never much enjoyed the company of his angelic brethren, but Aziraphale of course is always the exception. Enticing bastard that he is, he gets himself pressed up right behind him, soft and warm and tempting Crowley just to lean right back against him, knees bracketing his hips and his hand so close to his cock that it's indecent, though of course Crowley sees no reason to ask that that hand move.
A pleasurable shiver goes through him as Aziraphale lifts the brassiere from beside them on the bed. Crowley obediently lifts his arms so Aziraphale can thread them through the straps, biting back a grin as the angel fusses with the fit. He means to say something teasing, really he does, but then Aziraphale's hands cover his chest over the cups and his breath catches, a little sigh escapes him as his head lolls back to the angel's shoulder.
"Perfect," Crowley says breathlessly, sounding more like Nanny Ashtoreth now in a low and feminine brogue.
He's always wanted to know where Crowley had come up with Nanny's voice, though it wasn't as if he minded. On the contrary, really, he felt almost indecent having both a very loving and sweet demon boyfriend and a very domineering and mysterious governess girlfriend, even if they happened to be the same person; they were just far enough away from each other that Aziraphale should feel the tiniest bit of irrational guilt whenever Ashtoreth came out to seduce him from his happy home.
Still, he skirts his greedy touch up Crowley's sides and lifts his arms, though his fingers take his time on every change in the landscape of his skin by means of bone or muscle or fabric. He takes the rollneck then, and slips it gently over his head, pulling and tugging it neatly into place.
One hand goes to lift Crowley's hair out of the thin sweater and by the nape of his neck suck a kiss there, right next to where his hair started growing. It was such a lovely red, one that hardly any humans had naturally, like the stain of summer-ripe cherries, like a particularly rich sunset. But everything about Crowley was this way, rare and beautiful. Fingers ghost up the valley of his chest and up his neck, tipping his chin back so Aziraphale could place another kiss on his jaw.
"My dear," he starts, voice thick and enamored. "You are so lovely," he says, again with the flat of his hands pulling Crowley against his front, breath hot in his ear. "Irresistible," he adds, his fingers on the tight waistband and creeping upward.
Yes, Nanny likes to be pleased just so, and when they are done with this she will tell Aziraphale where she wants him so that she can attend to his pleasures. She is haughty and instructive, but underneath it all is Crowley's eagerness to please, and the combination of the two seems to charm Aziraphale thoroughly; it's easy to sense the greed in his fingers as they chart over the contours of his body and urge his arms to lift so he can slip the soft sweater over his head and down to his shoulders, rolling it bit by bit into place. "Mmmm," Crowley purrs a soft sound of enjoyment as Aziraphale kisses his neck so tenderly, sweetly sucking a mark into place that will be hidden by his hair.
"Ah--careful, angel." Golden eyes slip closed, Ashtoreth's voice gentle and mannered as befits such a proper English governess but imperious. "Mustn't leave anything where the Dowlings can see." Yet her head tilts and offers more of her narrow throat. Tugged back against Aziraphale's front, his hands delightfully explorative over her waist, her chest, she hums another low sound of satisfaction with his voice in her ear, arching to his touch. "You're so kind," she purrs. "Shame, isn't it, for a governess to be so easily seduced? But I hardly know how to refuse you when you say such lovely things."
His hand creeps back, even as he speaks so coolly, and cups over Aziraphale's cock, over the fabric of the towel still doggedly covering him, and rubs gently.
Aziraphale thinks he might be driven mad somewhere between Crowley's words and Ashtoreth's voice. He undoes the towel just a tad so that if he wanted, Crowley could easily push it aside. Or if she wanted, Ashtoreth could. Aziraphale found that he was just madly in love with all the forms that Crowley took, whether she might wield a whip or he might a tire iron. The thing was that with Brother Francis, he put on a role; he got home and he wasn't Francis for any longer than he had to be.
But Crowley, oh. Crowley never did anything in half measures.
Somehow, in the span of six thousand years, they'd only recently decided that this would be a good idea. But even in spite of it, Aziraphale thinks, even if they'd been together like this the entire six thousand years behind God and Satan's backs turned, he thinks it still won't have been enough. He wants another six, another twelve to spend discovering every single brilliant facet of him.
He slips a finger underneath the waistband on her panties, but doesn't stray too far down. "No," he says. "Suppose I should leave love bites somewhere else. Doubt anyone will go looking here, will they? This seems like a good spot." He strays slower, ever just slightly lower down. "Here, perhaps? If you're so worried. Surely no one is looking here."
Deciding to be Ashtoreth is easy enough, just a little shift of the mind and a twist of reality to fully inhabit the role; Crowley's always enjoyed her too much to stop at playacting. Aziraphale's hands on her body suit this form just as well as they do the other, and if his body is any indication he's as eager to enjoy her as Crowley is. Ashtoreth's hand slips beneath the towel and smooths over his cock, feeling him hot against her palm, fingers curling gently around him. "What have we here?" She strokes him lightly, feeling him swell further in her hand; her thumb strokes over the head of his cock, swiping through a thick bead of precome. "So eager," she purrs. "You flatter me, angel. There isn't a luckier woman in England, to have you."
Taking her hand away, she sucks the taste of him from the pad of her thumb with a low obscene moan. So delicious, she wants so badly to get her mouth around him, but she's willing to be patient. Just until she's garmented and made up and her hair dressed, as promised, though as Aziraphale seems to be in no great hurry to get to the rest of her clothes it seems she will have to wait.
Her breath catches as Aziraphale's fingers ease beneath her pair of silky black panties. "Mmm, no," she agrees breathlessly, a shiver chasing down her spine, "no one will look there." Her palm presses over Aziraphale's cock again, teasing him with light kneads, and Nanny's tongue runs across her lower lip. "Best to be discreet. Can't imagine what our...our employers would say if they knew the gardener was tupping the nanny."
Aziraphale's hips shift of their own accord underneath Crowley's ministrations, his hands trembling as he reaches for a brush. Her hair is going to be awfully undone at this rate, more of a mess than it started. But he tries, through the little gasps as she-- oh God-- as she licks her thumb to taste him.
Try as he might, seduction is still Crowley's game to win.
He thinks he might just let Nanny leave her hair down today, such lovely hair it is, would be a shame to pull it up into something too severe. No, he'll brush all the curls one way but the Dowlings are out and she has nowhere to be, no hat to pin, no roll tuck against her nape. Still, Aziraphale takes his time to comb out a straight part, to brush from the root, to tease a little at her crown so her hair might get a little more volume.
For all the distractions presented before him, he does quite diligently.
He has to move from this position to get the rest of her clothes on, and he reluctantly slips out of her grasp, hands steady on her waist and pecking her shoulder so she knows he isn't going far. Now entirely undressed and rock hard, he kneels and rolls up one stocking, before taking one foot in his hand. Before he encases it in the sheer fabric, he peppers a little trail of kisses up her foot and ankle and calf, such an intimacy only allowed to him.
The brush gliding through her hair is bliss, even if the hand wielding it trembles somewhat. Nanny takes that as a signal that she's doing well, as finely as she performs every other task: nothing less than excellence. She's not as lazy as Crowley or prone to sleeping on the job, demanding really, though she tosses her head back to Aziraphale's shoulder and murmurs her enjoyment as the brush strokes and teases her hair to soft waves, quite unlike the usual severe, pinned-up look. Her hand stealing under the towel again, encouraging or distracting, it's difficult to say.
How sad it is that Aziraphale must eventually move away, but there are other things to look forward to.
Her red hair curls on her shoulders, eyes heavy-lidded and teeth briefly skimming over her lower lip as Aziraphale kneels at the edge of the bed. One leg extends and her toes rest against Aziraphale's thigh as he takes the other foot in his hands, kisses trailing up the arch of her foot, her ankle and the top of her leg, and then the sheer silky fabric rolled up inch by inch, so delightful, so intimately close...
Oh, he loves this part best, Crowley's conception of Ashtoreth slipping as he groans aloud in pure pleasure. "Angel, yess, that's..." The stockings, the lacy black garters hidden out of view when his skirts are in place, isn't it so wicked and tantalizing?
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There are a hundred things, a thousand things Crowley would like to do with him, but right now what he wants is for Aziraphale to lie back and let him do all the work: it's time Crowley were the one to get his hands all over him, to tease and torment him until he moans with pleasure. He grasps him tightly around the waist, not letting him move far as he shifts and seeks more contact, his mouth doing ardent, wicked things along his throat before he lets Aziraphale's head tip back to his shoulder, and his hand beneath the water working over Aziraphale's cock--thumb rubbing tenderly along the vein on the underside, palm rolling gently against his balls for a breath or two before he wraps his hand around him again and strokes.
Crowley noses at Aziraphale's hair, his brow as the angel turns toward him. "You don't know what it does to me, angel," he says a little breathlessly, "when you're rolling my stockings up my legs for me." Aziraphale always seem to love to hear him talk, to hear him murmur his fantasies and thoughts, so Crowley freely obliges. "And when you take my chin in your hand to apply my lipstick...mm, I love to get my mouth on you, see you marked up all red." His thumb rubs beneath the head of Aziraphale's cock, and he says raspily, "I could do that for you. I could suck you, my mouth all beautifully scarlet."
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He supposes it's why Crowley likes to be assured that Aziraphale is pleased; Aziraphale likes to be reassured that Crowley wants him, desires him more than anything and definitely more than is convenient. "Oh, darling," he starts, momentarily speechless. "We'd never leave for work. They'd grow suspicious. We'd get sacked." He tries to list off all the reasons why he hadn't indulged Crowley before, rolling up his stockings and then lifting them over his waist and letting the fabric drag across his back as he thrust into him. If Crowley should start to say anything, he could shut him up by snapping the garter. He would, if he were so wickedly inclined.
"I love rubbing away at my skin and finding the red still there," he says. "All of me, yours as you want it." He makes a very unintelligible noise as Crowley describes what it might be like to paint Aziraphale's cock with his lipstick, and he feels as if he might shatter. "You are unholy," he responds, hips still arcing into his touch anyway.
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Touching Aziraphale in this openly lustful way, hands and mouth greedy on him, letting himself murmur these secret and much-visited fantasies and desires into his ear is so perfect, feeling Aziraphale tremble and gasp and arch to his hand. Crowley closes his eyes, fighting for control. "That's right," he whispers, his throat feeling tight and the rest of him scorching with lust. "Unholy, incorrigible, depraved demon I am. And you are--so lovely--" He groans then, fingers tightening just a little, stroking thoroughly Aziraphale's cock from base to head. "So divine, delectable..." Crowley catches his mouth, brief but ravishing, tasting all that he can.
"After you've dressed me," he tells him, "and you've put up my hair and painted my lips, I'm going to go to my knees for you and suck your cock. And I won't let you return the favor until we come back from our afternoon out. So you can think about that, angel, while we're strolling through the meadow green."
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No, it wasn't as if Aziraphale had kept count over the years, but if he had, he would be sure that he walked away with more net orgasms than Crowley had, and that was just unacceptable. He isn't a selfish lover, no. He will save those moments for when he needed rescuing, because that was another thing that, although no count existed, he was sure his corporation had been saved many more times than the favor had been repaid.
"You just want me to be driven mad by the time we get home, enough to throw you on the bed and love you until you beg me for mercy," he accuses. "Would you allow me to reciprocate for you if I told you I'd do that anyway?" he asks, gently prying. He hopes that he has not left Crowley starved for attention that he should have to feel the need to do this. But then again, sometimes Aziraphale just called Crowley nice for the express purpose of being thrown up against a wall, goading him into a bit of rougher, possessive play.
It's times like these he wonders if they're at all any different, deep down.
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"Greedy angel," he returns, words whispered at his temple with nothing but love and aching desire in his voice. The thought of being thrown on the bed and being made to beg for mercy leaves him a little dazed, his own breath going to tatters now as his cock presses into the delectable round of Aziraphale's arse. "Let me, please..." Crowley moves against him as he strokes him relentlessly, and his cock catches between the angel's sweet thighs, nudging behind his balls, and he moans in abandon. Let him take this, if Aziraphale wants to reciprocate, indulging in every inch of him. Stroking his cock, his hips urging up, pressed between thighs so lovely they should be considered sinful if they didn't belong to an angel, Crowley so ardent for him, utterly devoted.
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Aziraphale squeezes his thighs together over Crowley's cock, rocking lightly up and down, soapy waves splashing around and gone uncared for while they attend to more pressing matters. He feels the pressure against his balls, and with his back bridged, holds onto the slippery tub for purchase. He speeds up, down onto Crowley's lap and up into his grip, eyes prickling and rolling back into his head as he continues.
It takes very little else but a little time for Aziraphale to come, streaking the soap-clouded water a milky white. His body shudders as wings do before they take flight, and he feels the freefall all around him, exhilarating and free.
He redoubles his efforts then, though his shins and knees are killing him on the porcelain. He thinks if anything, he'll want to turn around, face Crowley as he glides his cock in and out from between his thighs. He finds that if he bows his back far enough, he could possibly tip Crowley's chin enough for a messy half-kiss, so he does, greedily takes a gnash of lips and teeth.
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Oh, how good it is now, how perfect to thrust up between his thighs and feel the heat of his cock in his hand, to feel Aziraphale's thighs tense and tight around him as he works himself up and down, water spilling out over the edge of the tub but Crowley doesn't care, doesn't pay it a moment's attention. His mouth against Aziraphale's hair, pressing tender kisses, and his arm around him holding him as tight and close as possible when Aziraphale comes, trembling in his embrace. It makes Crowley gasp harshly against his hair, feeling his cock jerk in his grasp and watching him spend into the water, and Aziraphale--always so generous, always the very definition of kindness--does not neglect him, doesn't stop rocking over his cock. If he looks down he can see the flushed, taut head emerge between cream-pale thighs as he thrusts up, as Aziraphale moves up and down, and the sight makes him groan into the angel's hair, a desperate, guttural sound.
"You--angel, you--" Words almost fail, but Crowley heaves a tattered breath and tells him, "you're so lovely I can't stand it, so good, so perfect for me--" wanting him to know, to feel how Crowley loves him and lusts for him in equal measure. Shuddering, so close to release, he turns into the kiss Aziraphale twists back to give him, messy and wet and open-mouthed, and a few moments later he comes like this, moaning into Aziraphale's mouth, spilling greedily into the water. What a shame he can't see the mess of it on Aziraphale's thighs, watch it drip down his comely legs. But as always there are a thousand things Crowley wants from him, and how much shorter their time seems to get with each passing year.
Still clutching Aziraphale close, dropping his head when the kiss breaks and breathing heavily, he spends a little miracle to instantly dry all the water from the floor and purify the water in the bath, so that it's as clean and warm as it was when they first got into it. Hell won't notice anything so small and inconsequential.
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So many years they'd spent together, and how many of those memories have been lost over time? He recalls them piecemeal as if he were paying for them slowly, having sold them once for some selfish thing he'd wanted at the time. But when he does sleep at night beside Crowley, he falls asleep hoping another one will show up, a forgotten memory to unearth in his deep subconscious, four thousand years ago or five. Those are old, old things and yet, not as old as Eden which he remembers clear as day. Eve, bright and brilliant Eve with her fierce eyes and her gently sloped shoulders. Adam following with broad, protective hands.
Over the scent of Rome, he can almost feel it - a honeyed scent of fruit always at peak ripeness, lush green and sparkling clean waters. He might, accidentally, miracle the scent memory to life, spilling its perfume into the bath with such a heavy hand that he swears he could hear the call of a long-extinct bird.
"Oh," is what he says, when he realizes what he's done. Embarrassed, he buries his face into Crowley's neck and hopes he doesn't conjure up the rain.
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Drifting in the kiss and the embrace, it takes him some time to notice what is so familiar about the scent in the bathroom, the feeling of heavy, humid air, the ripe and lovely feeling of it as he drags it into his lungs. Crowley lifts his head at the same moment Aziraphale hides his face against his neck. For a moment he sees green all around them, lush trees, a sprinkle of rain. “Aziraphale,” Crowley says with tender amusement. The vision lasts only for an instant, and then they’re in the bathroom again, but he knows who summoned it to them. “You sentimental old angel.” He urges Aziraphale to lift his head so Crowley can kiss him again as though to devour his mouth, sweet and ardent and hot.
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All he'd known then was love and light, and he knew of nothing else. He didn't know of kissing, or how much he would enjoy it, but as he shares one with Crowley, he can think of no other gesture so perfect to express everything he is feeling at the moment.
He eventually breaks it, letting go of Crowley's velvet tongue, and his face melts into a smile so bright it could dim the sun. "I love you darling, but let's get out of this bath, hm?" It's still warm and it could be made to soak for hours and hours, but his fingers have wrinkled and they have so much on the docket. Number one is, of course, selecting which fine things to decorate Crowley's corporation with, and Aziraphale has very many ideas indeed.
He distinctly remembers a black ribbed sweater with a roll neck and short sleeves, tight about the waist and the chest. Yes, he enjoys putting that one on and he'll enjoy it much more with his hands encircled around Crowley's waist later, pushing up under it to lay skin on skin.
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(He is not the sentimental one of the two of them. It's just expedient to help an angel out.)
Crowley wraps a towel around his hair so that it too will dry, and with the other folded around him very low on his torso, barely clinging to his lean hips, he looks at Aziraphale expectantly. "Well, angel, where do you want me?"
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Oh, he looks over and stammers and his mouth is suddenly too dry to say much of anything. He knows that Crowley is a demon but does he always have to be the picture perfect definition of lust? Slung so low, Aziraphale could easily trace the lines that frame his lower sides and taper inward. There's nearly enough skin to make it all the way to the end.
"Ah, bedroom, of course. If we are to get you dressed, dear," he responds, running the towel roughly through his hair and wondering if perhaps Crowley had just said those things in the heat of the moment and not meant them, but it really wouldn't matter anyway as the end result would be the same, and Aziraphale would celebrate tonight as one of the only ones they'd ever had where this was exactly where they were supposed to be waking up together. They had the whole run of the place really, they could play house for the next week and it would be sanctioned by both Heaven and Hell. He'll miss this terribly, and so he wouldn't be able to help himself if he tried.
When he's done with his hair, still damp at the ends with the thickness of his curl, he moves to towel off Crowley's hair, and he's much more gentle with it than he is with his own, because he grows his back every few weeks but he would very much like to encourage Crowley to keep growing his. He loops his fingers through a wave to help it along, and smiles as if he'd just remembered something; with his fingers clumsy but eager, he attempts to make a plait in Crowley's hair.
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A little smile curves his lips as Aziraphale approaches with the towel, and he obligingly tilts his head to be in easy reach as the angel begins to dry off his hair. "We could get a fire going, you could comb it out before the fireplace," Crowley suggests in a murmur, but he doesn't move yet, looking at Aziraphale in quizzical amusement as he begins to weave a plait into his hair.
It gives him the oddest feeling, really, a sensation of wanting to nudge into Aziraphale's hands like a cat demanding to be stroked. "Can't remember the last time you did that," he says after a few moments.
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He starts up a fire immediately - that one, he uses a miracle for, there's no way that Gabriel will fault him for that one on a day where it's slightly cold due to the rain. And nudge as he may, Aziraphale has nothing else to do but indulge him in his whims, and just so happened to enjoy this possibly as much as Crowley did. He takes a look at it and lets it hang for a moment. "I don't remember, either. Too long, then," he answers, as he tousles it out of his hair and with his hand in a claw, teases at Crowley's crown.
Finally, he pulls himself away and moves into the bedroom, where he starts carefully pulling pieces from the closet and the dresser (of course, there wasn't really room for both their clothes in here, but Aziraphale had very few to speak of and half of Crowley's were still up in the manor proper. It just so happened that the few that ended up in the big house ended up making the whole thing look staged as it always was when Crowley lived someplace. Everything was just too perfect, like a showroom.
He lays them on the bed and then, when Crowley returns, shows him. "What do you think?" he asks, earnestly. He's picked out a matching set of undergarments that are very practical, with the bra being one of those old bullet-shaped ones that fit nicely under sweaters. The sweater, of course, being just warm enough for the weather, and wore so nicely with Nanny's hair done more casually, not set in rollers like it usually was. Then, a sensible skirt in a subtle print, that gave a little sheen of iridescent scales in the right light. He thought a little drama might be appropriate for his killer queen.
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He gets up when Aziraphale asks him what he thinks of the clothing he's picked out, approaching from behind him and leaning his chin on the angel's shoulder to look over the garments laid out on the bed. "Mm," Crowley says approvingly, "these'll do." He appreciates the sweater, how it will cling to every narrow curve, and the iridescent sheen to the skirt. Nanny's clothes are always black and practical, often what one might call severe, but there is an undeniable sexual element to them as well, appreciated especially by men who love an imperious woman.
"Stockings, angel," Crowley murmurs, nuzzling at the side of Aziraphale's neck. It simply won't do to forget them. That's Crowley's favorite part, his angel's hands on his bare legs, rolling them up inch by inch.
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"And you're sure we couldn't do this in reverse?" He asks, eyes trained on where the fabric had just been, licking his lips without even meaning to. He had long since grown out of his embarrassment at reacting in such ways that were natural to him yet had seemed nonetheless foreign at the time, particularly since Crowley found them flattering. With his fingers on naked hip, he traces the tips down towards the center, finally following that line to its end point, ghosts his touch over Crowley's cock before pulling away.
"Right. Forgive me," he says, as he goes to fetch Crowley's pants. He doesn't think he'll manage to get through this if they don't cover him up, and even then there's a good chance he'll try to do the tempting afterward, promise Crowley a whole host of things to cajole his way back into bed with him. He feels the static build as he pulls the fabric over Crowley's skin, like right before a storm. And his kisses follow his hands, up Crowley's shin and his knee and ending partway up his thigh. How he ever manages the discipline to do this normally, he thinks at the moment, is well beyond him.
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Right away, as soon as Aziraphale guides the soft fabric of a pair of drawers up his legs, he knows his knees won't last long for him: not with the kisses Aziraphale leaves as he goes, and Crowley's fingers winding fitfully into his hair. Not when Aziraphale puts his stockings on for him. "Wait," he pleads at last, "I need to--" Moving to the bed, he sits back on the edge of the mattress next to the clothes. Regards Aziraphale with eyes gone heavy-lidded and dark, and spreads his legs apart a little, offering himself.
"You can touch," he says in a voice low and a little bit purring. "I'm still going to taste you after this."
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Which is why, despite wanting nothing more than to slide to his knees and with the heel of his palm firmly pressed against the seat of Crowley's pants, ask him again if they couldn't come to a different understanding, he instead slips onto the bed behind him. Knees bracket Crowley's sides and the warm fluff of a towel press up on his back as Aziraphale holds him on his hip, much too close to his cock than strictly necessary, as he leans over to pluvk up his bra from the bed. "Arms, darling," he practically sings into Crowley's ear. And after threading them through, he busies himself with hooking the back and adjusting the straps (though they need none), checking the band and then cupping his hands over Crowley's chest. Clearly he's just checking if it's secure.
"How's that?" He asks while they sit together like puzzle pieces, Aziraphale flush against his back.
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A pleasurable shiver goes through him as Aziraphale lifts the brassiere from beside them on the bed. Crowley obediently lifts his arms so Aziraphale can thread them through the straps, biting back a grin as the angel fusses with the fit. He means to say something teasing, really he does, but then Aziraphale's hands cover his chest over the cups and his breath catches, a little sigh escapes him as his head lolls back to the angel's shoulder.
"Perfect," Crowley says breathlessly, sounding more like Nanny Ashtoreth now in a low and feminine brogue.
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Still, he skirts his greedy touch up Crowley's sides and lifts his arms, though his fingers take his time on every change in the landscape of his skin by means of bone or muscle or fabric. He takes the rollneck then, and slips it gently over his head, pulling and tugging it neatly into place.
One hand goes to lift Crowley's hair out of the thin sweater and by the nape of his neck suck a kiss there, right next to where his hair started growing. It was such a lovely red, one that hardly any humans had naturally, like the stain of summer-ripe cherries, like a particularly rich sunset. But everything about Crowley was this way, rare and beautiful. Fingers ghost up the valley of his chest and up his neck, tipping his chin back so Aziraphale could place another kiss on his jaw.
"My dear," he starts, voice thick and enamored. "You are so lovely," he says, again with the flat of his hands pulling Crowley against his front, breath hot in his ear. "Irresistible," he adds, his fingers on the tight waistband and creeping upward.
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"Ah--careful, angel." Golden eyes slip closed, Ashtoreth's voice gentle and mannered as befits such a proper English governess but imperious. "Mustn't leave anything where the Dowlings can see." Yet her head tilts and offers more of her narrow throat. Tugged back against Aziraphale's front, his hands delightfully explorative over her waist, her chest, she hums another low sound of satisfaction with his voice in her ear, arching to his touch. "You're so kind," she purrs. "Shame, isn't it, for a governess to be so easily seduced? But I hardly know how to refuse you when you say such lovely things."
His hand creeps back, even as he speaks so coolly, and cups over Aziraphale's cock, over the fabric of the towel still doggedly covering him, and rubs gently.
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But Crowley, oh. Crowley never did anything in half measures.
Somehow, in the span of six thousand years, they'd only recently decided that this would be a good idea. But even in spite of it, Aziraphale thinks, even if they'd been together like this the entire six thousand years behind God and Satan's backs turned, he thinks it still won't have been enough. He wants another six, another twelve to spend discovering every single brilliant facet of him.
He slips a finger underneath the waistband on her panties, but doesn't stray too far down. "No," he says. "Suppose I should leave love bites somewhere else. Doubt anyone will go looking here, will they? This seems like a good spot." He strays slower, ever just slightly lower down. "Here, perhaps? If you're so worried. Surely no one is looking here."
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Taking her hand away, she sucks the taste of him from the pad of her thumb with a low obscene moan. So delicious, she wants so badly to get her mouth around him, but she's willing to be patient. Just until she's garmented and made up and her hair dressed, as promised, though as Aziraphale seems to be in no great hurry to get to the rest of her clothes it seems she will have to wait.
Her breath catches as Aziraphale's fingers ease beneath her pair of silky black panties. "Mmm, no," she agrees breathlessly, a shiver chasing down her spine, "no one will look there." Her palm presses over Aziraphale's cock again, teasing him with light kneads, and Nanny's tongue runs across her lower lip. "Best to be discreet. Can't imagine what our...our employers would say if they knew the gardener was tupping the nanny."
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Try as he might, seduction is still Crowley's game to win.
He thinks he might just let Nanny leave her hair down today, such lovely hair it is, would be a shame to pull it up into something too severe. No, he'll brush all the curls one way but the Dowlings are out and she has nowhere to be, no hat to pin, no roll tuck against her nape. Still, Aziraphale takes his time to comb out a straight part, to brush from the root, to tease a little at her crown so her hair might get a little more volume.
For all the distractions presented before him, he does quite diligently.
He has to move from this position to get the rest of her clothes on, and he reluctantly slips out of her grasp, hands steady on her waist and pecking her shoulder so she knows he isn't going far. Now entirely undressed and rock hard, he kneels and rolls up one stocking, before taking one foot in his hand. Before he encases it in the sheer fabric, he peppers a little trail of kisses up her foot and ankle and calf, such an intimacy only allowed to him.
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How sad it is that Aziraphale must eventually move away, but there are other things to look forward to.
Her red hair curls on her shoulders, eyes heavy-lidded and teeth briefly skimming over her lower lip as Aziraphale kneels at the edge of the bed. One leg extends and her toes rest against Aziraphale's thigh as he takes the other foot in his hands, kisses trailing up the arch of her foot, her ankle and the top of her leg, and then the sheer silky fabric rolled up inch by inch, so delightful, so intimately close...
Oh, he loves this part best, Crowley's conception of Ashtoreth slipping as he groans aloud in pure pleasure. "Angel, yess, that's..." The stockings, the lacy black garters hidden out of view when his skirts are in place, isn't it so wicked and tantalizing?
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