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?
"Mm, we better be careful darling," he warns, though his smile is slightly wicked. "I think I might hear my boyfriend, and he is rather the jealous type." He doesn't really know if it's true, because he's never given Crowley a reason to be jealous of anyone, particularly dressed as Francis, but he does like to lean into all their fantasies a little too much. He continues kissing up Crowley's thigh even though the stocking ends, and ghosts his breath over the black fabric sitting between them, lingering, lips so close to Crowley's cock, and then. Then he moves to slide the other stocking onto the other foot.
He repeats the process just about the same as before, taking his time nipping kisses, finding Crowley nothing if not entirely delectable, every inch of him tasting rich and heady and somehow Aziraphale can't get enough of the cream of his thighs and the salt of his skin.
But then, when he spreads Ashtoreth's legs and sucks a kiss to where her thigh is softest, all he tastes is her, sharp and sweet and oh-so-naughty under several patinas of perfection. On the other side, his hand rests, though just very gently nudging with his thumb, and following the curve of her thigh, pressing forward until it finds a little dip where her pelvic bone starts. There is, of course, the business with the skirt, but he does think he's allowed a bit of a detour.
"Oh," Nanny says breathlessly, looking utterly taken with the wickedness in Aziraphale's voice, charmed and flushed by it, "I'll try to be more quiet, then." It's true that Crowley's never been prone to fits of jealousy, though most likely if he'd ever come to know anyone Aziraphale's dallied with in the past in more than an abstract sense, he might be envious indeed. But it would be like envying a stray leaf blown in the wind to brush the angel's cheek: mortal lives are so short, and will seem shorter still with each passing millennia. Nothing could compare to the six thousand years he's had of Aziraphale, six thousand years in which the angel has been his to tease and tempt and persuade, to love with all his soul and, more recently, with all his wickedness and wiles, too. Oh, he loves their fantasies too, legs inching apart as Aziraphale comes so close to his cock, head tilting back as he moans indecently.
It should be a sin, the way Aziraphale rolls the second stocking up his other leg, tasting and nipping all the while. Sloth and lust and gluttony all combined into one, some new and unnamed, thoroughly amoral form of indulgence.
"Oh," she sighs and moans as Aziraphale's mouth lingers at the inside of her thigh, where her skin is so soft and sensitive, and he urges her thighs further apart, with his thumb sliding along the contour where her leg joins her pelvis on the opposite side, aching and so utterly eager. "Oh, you wicked thing."
No, no one could possibly compare to the love that Aziraphale has for Crowley, six thousand years' worth of it, most of it in praying for that love to subside and return from whence it came. God, he thought, why test me so? Why had she indeed, presented fruit in front of him that he could not pluck, whose juices would never dribble decadently down his chin?
But then, giving in at last had been some sort of revelation, to love and be loved in all the ways that he'd always wanted and always dreamed. It wasn't like he hadn't loved before - to insinuate as such was an insult to them and the time they had chosen to impart with Aziraphale, time that he held very preciously in his heart. But being with Crowley was like seeing new colors for the first time, or witnessing the unpolluted canvas of the night sky on a crisp night surrounded by rare flowers in bloom. It was just something unparalleled, not to be easily obtained.
He takes the skirt from the bed and lifts Crowley's feet into it, sliding it up her stockinged legs and shimmying it up her thighs. They need to be drawn together for this since the silhouette is so tight; a shame, he thinks, having to put her away behind more fabric. But then she is dressed, and the only thing left to do is makeup.
The first thing he does is check her hand, lifting it for inspection, carefully checking her nails for any touch-ups needed to her manicure, cuticle growth, bits of nail on the side or anything like that. He's satisfied, and kisses her knuckle before letting it go. Then he rises and goes to her vanity to withdraw a few items. There was something sweet and delicate about the scent of women's cosmetics that he found quite nice when applied on Crowley's skin.
He knows just how fortunate he is to at last be given that love openly and completely, nothing held in reserve. And it doesn't really matter to Crowley that it was a long wait, however many centuries of keeping his own feelings buried deep in his soul, because he still had Aziraphale, all their meetings and arrangements, all the times he could watch him, scheme or argue with him, come to his rescue and then act like it was nothing. Aziraphale was always in some way his. But now he is very much Aziraphale's, too, and it's a paradise Crowley never hoped for, love and desire and need fulfilled and acknowledged.
It's a shame Aziraphale must draw back and clothe him in the skirt when Crowley wants so very much to pull him down over him and kiss him until they never think of leaving this bed again. But Ashtoreth lounges back and lets him, stealing a lingering kiss when Aziraphale is near enough to let her do it, now almost fully dressed but with her hair uncustomarily loose, watching Aziraphale after he inspects her hands and then moves away to fetch her cosmetics with hungry eyes, a look that promises that soon she will get her mouth on a good deal more of him.
They're certainly delicate, the highest quality cosmetics anyone could find, because Nanny has exacting taste; even Mrs Dowling has asked her where did she get that perfect shade of red lipstick? She sits still as Aziraphale applies it with a delicate hand, the lipstick gliding over her lips as soft and light as a kiss. "There." She beckons him closer, languidly. "Come here and test it for me."
On review of his life, Aziraphale will in fact, concede that he has only ever belonged to God and Crowley, though in assumption that they were in contest, he had tried as hard as possible to keep Crowley at bay, to deny him his rightful claim on Aziraphale's heart. It had been useless, yes, and completely futile to do so, because it was something that had been decided so long ago, written in stone and the stars and in the skin of two celestial beings who could outlive both of those things.
He applies her makeup carefully because Ashtoreth doesn't like to have a single hair out of place. Honestly the secret to a good red lip is adding foundation around it to keep the lines sharp, a little lighter in color in the middle to bring out the fullness. When he's done, he holds up a mirror and shows her a sultry yet bright look that would make Christian Dior himself jealous.
But then the mirror comes down, and Aziraphale places his hand on her cheek, draws her into a kiss as promised.
The thing about this lipstick was that it was an older kind, none of that new non-transfer technology, none of that matte revival. No, this was the sort of thing one would have to be careful about all day not to touch their face, to drink all liquids through a straw, to cut all food up in little bites. A dainty lipstick. Quite a bit of it ends up on Aziraphale's lips, though with a much less accurate application. "How do I look?"
If Nanny could be said to have impeccable taste, then surely Aziraphale has the expert hand, applying a perfect layer of foundation around her lips before sweeping the lipstick across them to bring out the most vivid possible red. She doesn't mind that it's fussy to keep from transferring, particularly when much of it ends up on Aziraphale's mouth after their kiss. Ashtoreth leans back again, regarding him with fond amusement in her keen yellow gaze. "Beautiful," she murmurs, "though not stained enough."
Crowley and Ashtoreth are of the same mind about this: Aziraphale is beautiful, delectable and tempting. He could look perfectly innocent to anyone who didn't know better, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but in fact is full of all kinds of sordid ideas and delights. Her eyes drop to his cock, standing thick and erect from a patch of soft blond curls, and her mouth waters. "You sit," she instructs, gaze lifting to his face again as Ashtoreth stands, skirts falling demurely into place. She steps aside, motioning to the bed. "Relax and let me attend you."
She's been waiting for this, and as soon as Aziraphale is where she wants him, Nanny steps forward and lowers down to her knees between her thighs. The skirt and sweater are tight, molding to her body, hair falling forward as she leans down to Aziraphale's lap to taste his cock with a swirl of her tongue around the head.
Aziraphale looks at his ruined work and can't help but smile, lifts his thumb to his lips and rubs off a little of the lipstick. Since it's such a vibrant red, all that does is stain his chin with more of the smear. And Nanny, always so put-together, only ever looks like this for him, only ever allows anything short of that finely polished sheen to show in Aziraphale's company. He loves it.
He'd tried so hard not to steal glances at her whenever they were in the same room, which was blessedly not often. She would spend her time with Warlock, and then he would spend some time with Warlock. The Dowlings hardly paid them any attention, except to admire their handiwork. If Aziraphale ever got sloppy, it would be why. He thinks, perhaps, he'll send a bouquet of flowers to be delivered next week, no card, Nanny's secret admirer.
It would all be quite scandalous, but the Dowlings don't have to know it's not even the tip of the iceberg.
His legs opening wide to accommodate her, and then some, he lets a hand card in her hair as he anticipates what will happen next; this part is always exquisite, the first taste. And Nanny's tongue is just as talented and as wicked as Crowley's, how lucky Aziraphale should be in this regard; his cock begging for attention and finally getting it is over-sensitive, and he feels a tingle all over from just that and she's barely started.
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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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He repeats the process just about the same as before, taking his time nipping kisses, finding Crowley nothing if not entirely delectable, every inch of him tasting rich and heady and somehow Aziraphale can't get enough of the cream of his thighs and the salt of his skin.
But then, when he spreads Ashtoreth's legs and sucks a kiss to where her thigh is softest, all he tastes is her, sharp and sweet and oh-so-naughty under several patinas of perfection. On the other side, his hand rests, though just very gently nudging with his thumb, and following the curve of her thigh, pressing forward until it finds a little dip where her pelvic bone starts. There is, of course, the business with the skirt, but he does think he's allowed a bit of a detour.
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It should be a sin, the way Aziraphale rolls the second stocking up his other leg, tasting and nipping all the while. Sloth and lust and gluttony all combined into one, some new and unnamed, thoroughly amoral form of indulgence.
"Oh," she sighs and moans as Aziraphale's mouth lingers at the inside of her thigh, where her skin is so soft and sensitive, and he urges her thighs further apart, with his thumb sliding along the contour where her leg joins her pelvis on the opposite side, aching and so utterly eager. "Oh, you wicked thing."
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But then, giving in at last had been some sort of revelation, to love and be loved in all the ways that he'd always wanted and always dreamed. It wasn't like he hadn't loved before - to insinuate as such was an insult to them and the time they had chosen to impart with Aziraphale, time that he held very preciously in his heart. But being with Crowley was like seeing new colors for the first time, or witnessing the unpolluted canvas of the night sky on a crisp night surrounded by rare flowers in bloom. It was just something unparalleled, not to be easily obtained.
He takes the skirt from the bed and lifts Crowley's feet into it, sliding it up her stockinged legs and shimmying it up her thighs. They need to be drawn together for this since the silhouette is so tight; a shame, he thinks, having to put her away behind more fabric. But then she is dressed, and the only thing left to do is makeup.
The first thing he does is check her hand, lifting it for inspection, carefully checking her nails for any touch-ups needed to her manicure, cuticle growth, bits of nail on the side or anything like that. He's satisfied, and kisses her knuckle before letting it go. Then he rises and goes to her vanity to withdraw a few items. There was something sweet and delicate about the scent of women's cosmetics that he found quite nice when applied on Crowley's skin.
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It's a shame Aziraphale must draw back and clothe him in the skirt when Crowley wants so very much to pull him down over him and kiss him until they never think of leaving this bed again. But Ashtoreth lounges back and lets him, stealing a lingering kiss when Aziraphale is near enough to let her do it, now almost fully dressed but with her hair uncustomarily loose, watching Aziraphale after he inspects her hands and then moves away to fetch her cosmetics with hungry eyes, a look that promises that soon she will get her mouth on a good deal more of him.
They're certainly delicate, the highest quality cosmetics anyone could find, because Nanny has exacting taste; even Mrs Dowling has asked her where did she get that perfect shade of red lipstick? She sits still as Aziraphale applies it with a delicate hand, the lipstick gliding over her lips as soft and light as a kiss. "There." She beckons him closer, languidly. "Come here and test it for me."
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He applies her makeup carefully because Ashtoreth doesn't like to have a single hair out of place. Honestly the secret to a good red lip is adding foundation around it to keep the lines sharp, a little lighter in color in the middle to bring out the fullness. When he's done, he holds up a mirror and shows her a sultry yet bright look that would make Christian Dior himself jealous.
But then the mirror comes down, and Aziraphale places his hand on her cheek, draws her into a kiss as promised.
The thing about this lipstick was that it was an older kind, none of that new non-transfer technology, none of that matte revival. No, this was the sort of thing one would have to be careful about all day not to touch their face, to drink all liquids through a straw, to cut all food up in little bites. A dainty lipstick. Quite a bit of it ends up on Aziraphale's lips, though with a much less accurate application. "How do I look?"
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Crowley and Ashtoreth are of the same mind about this: Aziraphale is beautiful, delectable and tempting. He could look perfectly innocent to anyone who didn't know better, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but in fact is full of all kinds of sordid ideas and delights. Her eyes drop to his cock, standing thick and erect from a patch of soft blond curls, and her mouth waters. "You sit," she instructs, gaze lifting to his face again as Ashtoreth stands, skirts falling demurely into place. She steps aside, motioning to the bed. "Relax and let me attend you."
She's been waiting for this, and as soon as Aziraphale is where she wants him, Nanny steps forward and lowers down to her knees between her thighs. The skirt and sweater are tight, molding to her body, hair falling forward as she leans down to Aziraphale's lap to taste his cock with a swirl of her tongue around the head.
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He'd tried so hard not to steal glances at her whenever they were in the same room, which was blessedly not often. She would spend her time with Warlock, and then he would spend some time with Warlock. The Dowlings hardly paid them any attention, except to admire their handiwork. If Aziraphale ever got sloppy, it would be why. He thinks, perhaps, he'll send a bouquet of flowers to be delivered next week, no card, Nanny's secret admirer.
It would all be quite scandalous, but the Dowlings don't have to know it's not even the tip of the iceberg.
His legs opening wide to accommodate her, and then some, he lets a hand card in her hair as he anticipates what will happen next; this part is always exquisite, the first taste. And Nanny's tongue is just as talented and as wicked as Crowley's, how lucky Aziraphale should be in this regard; his cock begging for attention and finally getting it is over-sensitive, and he feels a tingle all over from just that and she's barely started.
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