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.
Only with Aziraphale, of course, is Ashtoreth anything less than perfectly polished and put-together, giving into licentiousness as she's doing now on her knees. Oh, of course the household has seen her exchange a word or two with Francis, maybe even a secretive smile, but no one would ever see her without her usual impeccable conduct, tending to her young charge gently but with befitting sternness, sweeping him off to bed with (rather violent, if one listens closely) lullabies.
With Aziraphale, though, as she bends eagerly to his lap and takes him slowly into her mouth--savoring the thick glide over her tongue, Aziraphale's fingers sliding into her hair, her scarlet lips stretching to accommodate him--she's much more the demon than the governess. A demon who loves his dearest friend's pleasure, anxious to please and so talented at it that he managed to tempt an angel into his bed.
Crowley reaches up to the hand in his hair, encouraging it to grip him harder, take as tight a grasp in those heavy red waves as Aziraphale wants. He makes a sound that is obscenely savoring, sliding all the way down on Aziraphale's cock--red lips rounded and wet, taking it into his throat in the way he has a particularly aptitude for, nuzzling into the blond curls between Aziraphale's thighs. His eyes lift up to Aziraphale's face, darkened and impassioned and so hungry for his pleasure.
She's much more a snake than a human with a mouth like that, and oh does Aziraphale love to be the only one who gets to experience this, not particularly the flexible jaw and that delicious tongue, but the intimacy of it all: Aziraphale wouldn't feel so comfortable with his other lovers, and he doubts that Crowley would have specifically selected Nanny Ashtoreth for anyone else who might have found themselves in his bed.
There's always something just so obscene about looking into Crowley's eyes as he swallows him down, his mouth all the way at his thighs and his stomach and, fully encased in him, Aziraphale gives way to the shudders and groans that wave through his body in currents. Those big yellow eyes are so expressive, and though Crowley never hungers for food he does hunger for flesh; Aziraphale lives to indulge him in this base desire, this inexorable want.
He could make an angel sin, and has, and is presently; if anyone should look in upon them at the moment they might see a man with almost white hair, fingers deeply buried into a sea of red, legs shaking and hips stubborn though he urges them to stay still. His partner, fully dressed in all black, head invisible behind thick trunks for thighs. And on top of all of that, light that sets on the tips of those white-blond curls, like a halo, toppled over in his current state.
Holding Aziraphale's cock in his throat, Crowley doesn't breathe, doesn't move for several long moments, eyes still raised to Aziraphale's face to take in every minute shift in expression as his angel gives way to pleasure. Savoring the subtle twitch of his cock in his throat, the heavy taste on his tongue, salt and something so angelicly delicious; the trembling jerks of his hips as he struggles not to fuck up into his mouth and throat, and Crowley runs a hand soothingly along his shivering thigh and does wicked, obscene things with his tongue, curling it around the base of Aziraphale's cock. His eyes express a hazy welcome and enjoyment, they seem to say use me, and oh he'd love to feel those strong, kind fingers take a firm hold in his hair to guide him or hold him still, those hips push up and up to fuck his cock through the perfect split of Crowley's lips and deep into his throat.
He'll show him, drawing long and slick back off of Aziraphale's cock, leaving it smeared with scarlet lipstick and wet with his saliva, until only the head is still in his mouth, and then delving back eagerly to Aziraphale's lap, taking his cock hungrily again, sucking at it with obscenely wet sounds. Crowley moans softly, more sensation around Aziraphale's cock than sound, his eyes falling closed as he moves over him devoutly, head bobbing in a smooth rhythm, taking him deep into his throat again and again. This, this is his favorite sin, his most gluttonous indulgence, to suck Aziraphale's cock until his angel is awash in pleasure; he could do it for hours, down here on his knees, swallow Aziraphale's seed and keep him in his mouth, so warm and gentle until he was hard again and ready for more.
Crowley stays still and Aziraphale can barely hold eye contact with him; no way he could exert the same amount of control in the moment that Crowley has, but then there's a welcoming invitation and his cheeks immediately rouge at the thought. The smears, the sounds, all of it: Aziraphale thinks he might've already come if he hadn't already, twice in a very short amount of time. His cock heavy on Crowley's clever tongue, he could swear he has never felt a pleasure quite as good as Crowley so eager to get him into bed and take his body to orgasm over and over again as if they were something to be collected.
Well, alright, he thinks that maybe something more pleasing would be something a little more mutual, but he'll be damned if Crowley isn't doing his best to persuade Aziraphale otherwise in this moment.
He does, then, take his hand and place it on top of Crowley's crown, tenderly with it, as his hips start to move. At first, they're still restrained, as much as Aziraphale can muster, because the last thing he ever wants to do is to hurt Crowley; they'd done this so many times in the past but Aziraphale was always careful not to rush. But soon as pleasure builds, so do Aziraphale's thrusts, fucking into that wonderful heat made so wet for him. His hands ball up into fists at either side of Crowley's head making waterfalls of hair; his gasps and grunts turn to Crowley's name, calling him desperately.
An encouraging moan greets the hand in his hair, taking a gentle grasp at the crown of his head to hold him. Crowley opens his eyes and gazes up wantonly from his place on his knees, offering all of himself for Aziraphale to take. This is a mutual pleasure, the luscious feeling of Aziraphale's cock sliding down his throat, his tender hands, so kind and gentle with him as though Crowley is too delicate to take too much cock too fast. He's always enjoyed Aziraphale's particular conscientiousness with him when they do this, because it's who Aziraphale is, after all, always doing his best to be considerate and take good care of him. But he loves moments like this, too, when pleasure takes hold and his angel gives into it, fucking into the wet welcoming heat of his mouth and throat, taking all that Crowley would give him, using him so delectably.
His eyes close again, his head tilted just so in Azirphale's grasp, at an angle that makes it easy for him to fuck deep into his throat. Heavy waves of red hair are clenched in the angel's fists, falling over his face in disarray, his red lips wet and swollen around Aziraphale's cock, and as Aziraphale begins to gasp his name and call out to him in his pleasure he moans encouragement, eager to feel him spill down his throat, to have the taste of his seed on his tongue.
Having been the only being to grace Crowley's bed for over half a century now, one might think that Aziraphale would have gotten used to all the glorious things that Crowley can do with his mouth and his hands and that flexible body of his. But it always takes him by surprise just how pleasurable it is to fuck into Crowley's mouth when he makes it so that he can swallow Aziraphale down all the way. How ardent his lips, how wondrous and inviting his moans and the curve of his throat and the sight of it: Aziraphale's cock going in and out of those lips as if his throat has no end.
He feels it, his pleasure budding and blooming all at once, his whole body coming alive as the sweat sluices down his back, barely managing any thoughts that aren't totally centered around the basest of needs, the most carnal of loves, leaving Crowley's perfectly made-up face and hair a tornado of a wreck. Crowley, who loves him so much, is so perfect; this is the thought that comes to him when at last he comes in streams with a shout, breathless and pink.
When he catches his breath, he drags Crowley up for a kiss, long and eager and nothing resembling innocence. He takes Crowley into an embrace, and tries to drag him back on the bed on top of his lap, and let himself be cradled a moment.
His senses are all filled with Aziraphale, touch and scent and taste, even the lovely sound of his moans: only Crowley's eyes are closed as he welcomes Aziraphale's cock fucking deep into his throat, again and again, savoring the sensation of it, the hands in his hair, the glorious mess they're making of him, all semblance of the always-composed, always-impeccable Nanny gone. How perfect it all is, with Aziraphale's love and desire surrounding him and the sense of being wanted above all else; for a moment Crowley imagines there is nothing else he could need.
And then Aziraphale comes, and Crowley takes it with an unconscious eagerness, sucks him deep and swallows every precious drop, intent on prolonging the angel's pleasure as long as he can. At last he draws back off of him, Aziraphale's cock sliding heavy and wet from between his lips, which he licks as though to capture the last essence of his taste. Smiling, eyes hazy with bliss, Crowley lets himself be dragged upwards and kissed thoroughly, laughs without breath when Aziraphale tugs him determinedly into his lap; he manages it in a sprawl of limbs, hands cupping around Aziraphale's cheeks, his red hair spilling down, still kissing and kissing his angel as though his existence depends on it.
"You," he answers fervently between kisses, "you're the incredible one." He wraps Aziraphale up in as tight an embrace as he can manage, sitting sideways, bridal-style in his lap, as the skirt doesn't manage to let him part his legs much. "Poor angel," Crowley murmurs at his cheek, "all your work undone," meaning his hair and cosmetics. "Don't worry, I'll miracle it to rights."
Aziraphale still feels like his whole body is buzzing all over, and he doesn't think it's likely to stop feeling so raw and so well-fucked well into their day out in the markets or wherever they might end up. Which, though Crowley has already spoken of his plans, he intends to miracle himself all cleaned up and Aziraphale responds to that by taking his slender white wrist.
Lying back, he pulls Crowley on top of him and tries to tempt him into staying a little longer, perhaps forgoing his miracles until he's had a turn. He runs his hands down Crowley's spine and the curve of his arse, unable to resist him. "You are perfect," he replies, soft and low and reverent, hand reaching up to brush Crowley's hair behind one ear. "Fully and totally perfect."
It would be, at this point, quite a miracle they left the little granny flat before sundown, the two of them so enamored with each other. But it had been a long time coming, and quite honestly six thousand years was a long time to go to wait for a love like this. That it is all-consuming, heady, obsessive and total: who could be surprised? The rain has stopped outside while they were otherwise preoccupied, and birds call, the grass looks exceptionally green, the sky a pure blue. The perfect day outside can wait.
Crowley lets himself be toppled over without resistance, slinky and pliant against him, too enamored of Aziraphale and euphoric after giving him so much pleasure to be anything other than sweet. The loose, mussed waves of his red hair fall curtain-like around them both as he leans down to rest his forehead against his angel's, keeping still with his eyes closed and a faint barely-there smile on his swollen lips, basking in his praise the way he only does when he's been thoroughly warmed up to it. Aziraphale touches him so tenderly, a shiver chasing the hand that runs down his spine; Crowley wants to stay curled against him in this bed for a good long time, even his vivid imagination failing to think of anything that would be better.
He knows now what it's like to feel paradise again, like the warmth of the sun bathing your scales and the scent of things growing lush and ripe hanging heavy in the air, all the world tender and new. And to have a place in it this time, not to have to spoil it because you were told to make trouble but rather be able to stay, to give yourself to it without fear that you don't belong.
"Love you, angel," he says thickly, head dropping to nuzzle at Aziraphale's throat. He feels consumed, so beloved that it's almost possible to forget he is a demon. Aziraphale gives him that, and so Crowley wants to give him everything, all pleasure and enjoyment and love, always.
If Aziraphale's forgiveness could work in the same vein as God's, then Crowley wouldn't be a demon anymore. Aziraphale would let Crowley bask in his light until it became a part of him, if he so wished it; he would let it wash over his bones, warm up his soul, and not make him whole again, because as far as Aziraphale is concerned, he already is: but he would make him feel whole again, and wanted, and beloved. If Aziraphale could offer Crowley these things, he would totally and without reservation.
"I love you," he responds, voice with the breath of a light, pleased laugh. With a hand snaking up Crowley's thigh, wondering if Crowley might stop him or not. After all, clothes can be cleaned, appearances can be miracled. Hardly a thing that Beezlebub might find odd about Crowley is his preference for a magical prestidigitation, after all, and why stop now when Crowley was already on top of him?
His eyes smile before his red-stained mouth does, as he presses the heel of his palm over those black satin panties that he'd just placed Crowley into. It would be such a minor thing to brush the fabric aside, to withdraw the treasure from beneath. "Let me," he breathes, arm around Crowley's back and hand cradling his hair, fingers carding through it releasing the scent of the shampoo it had just been washed in.
Crowley knows now, has known for several decades, how much Aziraphale loves him, but the words always make him feel tender somewhere beneath his ribs, a sensation that is both pleasurable and aching. His hair sweeps forward as he leans down to kiss Aziraphale breathlessly, feeling his hand at his thigh and his arm around his back, keeping him close, on top of him as though there is nowhere else in the world they need to be. This old creaky bedroom with its big creaky bed, charming as only such a small cottage in a remote village could be, is the place where they've shared so much love and pleasure over the last few years that it's probably bathed in a bright loving aura to anyone who can sense such things. Crowley will never be a holy entity again, but Aziraphale's touch reminds him sometimes of blessedness. Not painful, but ecstatic and divine.
"Mmm." He pretends to consider it, mouth against Aziraphale's, when his angel asks him to let him touch him. Somehow the weather has turned outside and sunlight is streaming through the windows, the day beckoning with a suddenly blue sky, a lovely warmth drying the dew from the grass and flowers, drawing out their scents. A perfect time to take a stroll; Crowley isn't tempted by it in the slightest. "Oh, all right," he whispers, dragging kisses along Aziraphale's jaw to his ear, his talented tongue flickering out to tease along the shell of it.
Oh, all right he says, as if it's some chore to give into Aziraphale like this. But they both know better than that, with his warm and soft fingers, deft now that they've done this for so long, wrapping around Crowley's length and giving him a few short tugs to start. He does love Crowley's lips and his tongue on other parts of his face, but he draws Crowley back to match lips with him, to run his tongue along the seam of Crowley's mouth and ask for entrance.
Crowley had, of course, never denied him, but he always thought it was polite to ask. That was how he was as a lover, cautious, yielding, and sweet. But he was also always curious, ready to reenact any of Crowley's fantasies and show him that the real thing would always be better than the imagined. And he'd had a few to contribute of his own, to which Crowley never disappointed, either.
In retrospect, he should've picked a skirt with more flare, because he would've liked very much to crawl underneath it and take him into his mouth, bring him off on his tongue. His touch is slow and teasing, his fingers soft but sure, this thumb drawing a swipe across the tip of his cock. He starts to push up the skirt, his other hand tugging down at the waistband of his panties.
Crowley gives in with a moan, low and pressed eagerly against Aziraphale's mouth, lips parting to welcome in the angel's tongue. Aziraphale has such beautiful hands, he's always thought, and they become more and more talented every day as they explore and learn one another, make love again and again every chance they have to steal away to their cottage. His fingers feel so warm and lovely wrapped around the length of his cock, beneath the skirt, that he cants his hips forward, greedy for more. The deep kiss could almost be dizzying if he weren't a six thousand year old being with no real need to breathe. As it is the pleasure of it shoots down to the core of him, Crowley gasping against Aziraphale's mouth as he leans down over him and clutches at his shoulders with tight fingers, a touch that pleads for more than the light, teasing strokes the angel is giving him.
"Angel, angel," he whispers between kisses, wriggling impatiently to help Aziraphale push up the tight skirt. Yes, one with some flare would have been better, much as he likes how slinky and sinuous he looks in this one. He moans again as he feels Aziraphale tugging down the panties, almost pleadingly, so hungry for him, for more of his touch. "You...Aziraphale, you don't know what you do to me--" He buries his face in Aziraphale's neck, marking the pale skin of his throat with ravenous, red kisses.
He does, in fact, know exactly what he does to Crowley and it never ceases to amaze him, how lovely he is like this, how eager to fall apart under his touch. "Crowley," he answers, distracted by the kisses at his throat and letting soft waves of moans come forth. Careful with the skirt on sensitive skin, he moves it aside and exposes Crowley's cock to the air, licking his lips as if it might have been the first time he'd ever seen it like this, hard and aching for him.
Only then does he take a firmer grasp and speed up, standing between Crowley's legs, jaw slack and eyes glazed as if he was the one with his cock in a hand. The sight of him is exhilarating, always beautiful but never more so than when he feels pleasure. Not even just in this sense, but any pleasure: his wiry smile and his honk of a laugh are just two of those things that Aziraphale could have again and again.
When he can't contain himself any longer, he drops to his knees in front of Crowley, eyebrows knit as he bites kisses at the soft part of his thigh. He wants in equal part to mark him as his own and to swear him fealty, pledge him his life. What else would he do with the rest of it anyway, but to make Crowley happy?
Such a relief, such pleasure to at last be exposed, his cock flushed and hard, jutting up in Aziraphale's grasp from the red curls at the juncture of his thighs. Crowley's mouth drops open, head tilted back as the angel strokes him in earnest now, gasps and moans and other, even more lewd sounds coming from his throat. In Aziraphale's hand Crowley feels entirely, completely his, lost to him and the pleasure he offers. On his knees a few minutes ago with his slick red mouth around Aziraphale's cock, he'd felt the power of bringing his beloved to ecstasy, possessing not just his heart and soul but his body as well, with all its basest desires. Now he is paid back in kind, melting to Aziraphale's touch, losing himself to urgent desire.
"Angel," Crowley says with his fingers woven into the soft pale locks of Aziraphale's hair as he sinks to his knees before him, his voice a frantic whisper, "angel, Aziraphale, please..." That tender bite to the inside of his thigh seems like something designed to make him wild with need. He feels his legs trembling as he spreads them wide, skirt hiked up and panties discarded. His fingers stroke encouragement in Aziraphale's hair, at his cheek, trailing down to cup his jaw, his voice too murmuring on wantonly, "Ah, fuck, you're so lovely, so sweet to me, no one could ever be as sweet as you, no one could ever touch me like you do..."
There is very little in this life more enjoyable than listening to and watching Crowley being pleasured. To tease him, to love him, to feel his body and breath stutter in anticipation. In all the great, hedonistic things in which Aziraphale partakes, few of them speak to all his senses the way this does. Had they all the time in the world, Aziraphale would spend at least a thousand years with Crowley in a bed somewhere doing nothing but bringing his body and soul to pleasure, a million times and a million ways.
He licks a stripe across his tip, before pressing to it his lips, soft and warm. With his hand at the base, he guides Crowley into his hot, wet mouth and doesn't stop Crowley is entirely buried within it; he groans with the feeling of Crowley filling him up like this, brushing up at the back of his throat, and is momentarily stopped. He casts a glance up over the rucked-up skirt and the buttoned-up blouse and ruined lipstick all the way to Crowley's eyes.
Whatever it is he finds there, it satisfies him, and he starts to move up and down, finding an angle that's comfortable enough for him, his lips eager and his tongue unrelenting.
Hazily, Crowley remembers that he'd had plans other than this, that he meant to torment his sweet angel with boundless pleasure and then leave him waiting to return it, drawing out the delicious anticipation--he'd meant not to give in, to be the tempter and not the tempted--but as Aziraphale draws his cock into the sweet hot depths of his mouth, wet and slick around him, he sees how very foolish he was to think that he could resist this. There's no resistance, nothing but the most eager pleasure, hips canting forward before he can stop himself-- "Sorry," Crowley gasps out, fingers petting through Aziraphale's hair in urgent apology, then forgetting himself again and gripping the soft strands, tugging at him pleadingly. Aziraphale gazes up at him, eyes so lovely and penetrating, eyes that always see Crowley exactly as he is--right now a wanton wreck of a demon--and then seeming to have found what he was looking for, he starts to bob his head, his lips so sweet and warm around Crowley's cock that he can hardly bear it.
"Oh angel," he gasps aloud after several moments of only being able to take silent, frantic breaths, hearing only the wet obscene sounds of sucking, feeling Aziraphale's tongue lash his cock and his eager mouth take him deep-- "Aziraphale," he pleads his name, groans curses and utterances to Heaven and Hell, lewd praises and wordless sounds. His hips arch up from the bed, helpless, pushing himself deeper into the angel's wanton mouth. How can he be so perfect, so very angelic, that it feels like sacrilege to fuck his mouth, to split those pink lips with his cock and feel him swallow him as though he was made to bring Crowley this pleasure.Â
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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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With Aziraphale, though, as she bends eagerly to his lap and takes him slowly into her mouth--savoring the thick glide over her tongue, Aziraphale's fingers sliding into her hair, her scarlet lips stretching to accommodate him--she's much more the demon than the governess. A demon who loves his dearest friend's pleasure, anxious to please and so talented at it that he managed to tempt an angel into his bed.
Crowley reaches up to the hand in his hair, encouraging it to grip him harder, take as tight a grasp in those heavy red waves as Aziraphale wants. He makes a sound that is obscenely savoring, sliding all the way down on Aziraphale's cock--red lips rounded and wet, taking it into his throat in the way he has a particularly aptitude for, nuzzling into the blond curls between Aziraphale's thighs. His eyes lift up to Aziraphale's face, darkened and impassioned and so hungry for his pleasure.
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There's always something just so obscene about looking into Crowley's eyes as he swallows him down, his mouth all the way at his thighs and his stomach and, fully encased in him, Aziraphale gives way to the shudders and groans that wave through his body in currents. Those big yellow eyes are so expressive, and though Crowley never hungers for food he does hunger for flesh; Aziraphale lives to indulge him in this base desire, this inexorable want.
He could make an angel sin, and has, and is presently; if anyone should look in upon them at the moment they might see a man with almost white hair, fingers deeply buried into a sea of red, legs shaking and hips stubborn though he urges them to stay still. His partner, fully dressed in all black, head invisible behind thick trunks for thighs. And on top of all of that, light that sets on the tips of those white-blond curls, like a halo, toppled over in his current state.
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He'll show him, drawing long and slick back off of Aziraphale's cock, leaving it smeared with scarlet lipstick and wet with his saliva, until only the head is still in his mouth, and then delving back eagerly to Aziraphale's lap, taking his cock hungrily again, sucking at it with obscenely wet sounds. Crowley moans softly, more sensation around Aziraphale's cock than sound, his eyes falling closed as he moves over him devoutly, head bobbing in a smooth rhythm, taking him deep into his throat again and again. This, this is his favorite sin, his most gluttonous indulgence, to suck Aziraphale's cock until his angel is awash in pleasure; he could do it for hours, down here on his knees, swallow Aziraphale's seed and keep him in his mouth, so warm and gentle until he was hard again and ready for more.
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Well, alright, he thinks that maybe something more pleasing would be something a little more mutual, but he'll be damned if Crowley isn't doing his best to persuade Aziraphale otherwise in this moment.
He does, then, take his hand and place it on top of Crowley's crown, tenderly with it, as his hips start to move. At first, they're still restrained, as much as Aziraphale can muster, because the last thing he ever wants to do is to hurt Crowley; they'd done this so many times in the past but Aziraphale was always careful not to rush. But soon as pleasure builds, so do Aziraphale's thrusts, fucking into that wonderful heat made so wet for him. His hands ball up into fists at either side of Crowley's head making waterfalls of hair; his gasps and grunts turn to Crowley's name, calling him desperately.
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His eyes close again, his head tilted just so in Azirphale's grasp, at an angle that makes it easy for him to fuck deep into his throat. Heavy waves of red hair are clenched in the angel's fists, falling over his face in disarray, his red lips wet and swollen around Aziraphale's cock, and as Aziraphale begins to gasp his name and call out to him in his pleasure he moans encouragement, eager to feel him spill down his throat, to have the taste of his seed on his tongue.
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He feels it, his pleasure budding and blooming all at once, his whole body coming alive as the sweat sluices down his back, barely managing any thoughts that aren't totally centered around the basest of needs, the most carnal of loves, leaving Crowley's perfectly made-up face and hair a tornado of a wreck. Crowley, who loves him so much, is so perfect; this is the thought that comes to him when at last he comes in streams with a shout, breathless and pink.
When he catches his breath, he drags Crowley up for a kiss, long and eager and nothing resembling innocence. He takes Crowley into an embrace, and tries to drag him back on the bed on top of his lap, and let himself be cradled a moment.
"You're amazing," he whispers. "Just incredible."
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And then Aziraphale comes, and Crowley takes it with an unconscious eagerness, sucks him deep and swallows every precious drop, intent on prolonging the angel's pleasure as long as he can. At last he draws back off of him, Aziraphale's cock sliding heavy and wet from between his lips, which he licks as though to capture the last essence of his taste. Smiling, eyes hazy with bliss, Crowley lets himself be dragged upwards and kissed thoroughly, laughs without breath when Aziraphale tugs him determinedly into his lap; he manages it in a sprawl of limbs, hands cupping around Aziraphale's cheeks, his red hair spilling down, still kissing and kissing his angel as though his existence depends on it.
"You," he answers fervently between kisses, "you're the incredible one." He wraps Aziraphale up in as tight an embrace as he can manage, sitting sideways, bridal-style in his lap, as the skirt doesn't manage to let him part his legs much. "Poor angel," Crowley murmurs at his cheek, "all your work undone," meaning his hair and cosmetics. "Don't worry, I'll miracle it to rights."
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Lying back, he pulls Crowley on top of him and tries to tempt him into staying a little longer, perhaps forgoing his miracles until he's had a turn. He runs his hands down Crowley's spine and the curve of his arse, unable to resist him. "You are perfect," he replies, soft and low and reverent, hand reaching up to brush Crowley's hair behind one ear. "Fully and totally perfect."
It would be, at this point, quite a miracle they left the little granny flat before sundown, the two of them so enamored with each other. But it had been a long time coming, and quite honestly six thousand years was a long time to go to wait for a love like this. That it is all-consuming, heady, obsessive and total: who could be surprised? The rain has stopped outside while they were otherwise preoccupied, and birds call, the grass looks exceptionally green, the sky a pure blue. The perfect day outside can wait.
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He knows now what it's like to feel paradise again, like the warmth of the sun bathing your scales and the scent of things growing lush and ripe hanging heavy in the air, all the world tender and new. And to have a place in it this time, not to have to spoil it because you were told to make trouble but rather be able to stay, to give yourself to it without fear that you don't belong.
"Love you, angel," he says thickly, head dropping to nuzzle at Aziraphale's throat. He feels consumed, so beloved that it's almost possible to forget he is a demon. Aziraphale gives him that, and so Crowley wants to give him everything, all pleasure and enjoyment and love, always.
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"I love you," he responds, voice with the breath of a light, pleased laugh. With a hand snaking up Crowley's thigh, wondering if Crowley might stop him or not. After all, clothes can be cleaned, appearances can be miracled. Hardly a thing that Beezlebub might find odd about Crowley is his preference for a magical prestidigitation, after all, and why stop now when Crowley was already on top of him?
His eyes smile before his red-stained mouth does, as he presses the heel of his palm over those black satin panties that he'd just placed Crowley into. It would be such a minor thing to brush the fabric aside, to withdraw the treasure from beneath. "Let me," he breathes, arm around Crowley's back and hand cradling his hair, fingers carding through it releasing the scent of the shampoo it had just been washed in.
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"Mmm." He pretends to consider it, mouth against Aziraphale's, when his angel asks him to let him touch him. Somehow the weather has turned outside and sunlight is streaming through the windows, the day beckoning with a suddenly blue sky, a lovely warmth drying the dew from the grass and flowers, drawing out their scents. A perfect time to take a stroll; Crowley isn't tempted by it in the slightest. "Oh, all right," he whispers, dragging kisses along Aziraphale's jaw to his ear, his talented tongue flickering out to tease along the shell of it.
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Crowley had, of course, never denied him, but he always thought it was polite to ask. That was how he was as a lover, cautious, yielding, and sweet. But he was also always curious, ready to reenact any of Crowley's fantasies and show him that the real thing would always be better than the imagined. And he'd had a few to contribute of his own, to which Crowley never disappointed, either.
In retrospect, he should've picked a skirt with more flare, because he would've liked very much to crawl underneath it and take him into his mouth, bring him off on his tongue. His touch is slow and teasing, his fingers soft but sure, this thumb drawing a swipe across the tip of his cock. He starts to push up the skirt, his other hand tugging down at the waistband of his panties.
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"Angel, angel," he whispers between kisses, wriggling impatiently to help Aziraphale push up the tight skirt. Yes, one with some flare would have been better, much as he likes how slinky and sinuous he looks in this one. He moans again as he feels Aziraphale tugging down the panties, almost pleadingly, so hungry for him, for more of his touch. "You...Aziraphale, you don't know what you do to me--" He buries his face in Aziraphale's neck, marking the pale skin of his throat with ravenous, red kisses.
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Only then does he take a firmer grasp and speed up, standing between Crowley's legs, jaw slack and eyes glazed as if he was the one with his cock in a hand. The sight of him is exhilarating, always beautiful but never more so than when he feels pleasure. Not even just in this sense, but any pleasure: his wiry smile and his honk of a laugh are just two of those things that Aziraphale could have again and again.
When he can't contain himself any longer, he drops to his knees in front of Crowley, eyebrows knit as he bites kisses at the soft part of his thigh. He wants in equal part to mark him as his own and to swear him fealty, pledge him his life. What else would he do with the rest of it anyway, but to make Crowley happy?
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"Angel," Crowley says with his fingers woven into the soft pale locks of Aziraphale's hair as he sinks to his knees before him, his voice a frantic whisper, "angel, Aziraphale, please..." That tender bite to the inside of his thigh seems like something designed to make him wild with need. He feels his legs trembling as he spreads them wide, skirt hiked up and panties discarded. His fingers stroke encouragement in Aziraphale's hair, at his cheek, trailing down to cup his jaw, his voice too murmuring on wantonly, "Ah, fuck, you're so lovely, so sweet to me, no one could ever be as sweet as you, no one could ever touch me like you do..."
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He licks a stripe across his tip, before pressing to it his lips, soft and warm. With his hand at the base, he guides Crowley into his hot, wet mouth and doesn't stop Crowley is entirely buried within it; he groans with the feeling of Crowley filling him up like this, brushing up at the back of his throat, and is momentarily stopped. He casts a glance up over the rucked-up skirt and the buttoned-up blouse and ruined lipstick all the way to Crowley's eyes.
Whatever it is he finds there, it satisfies him, and he starts to move up and down, finding an angle that's comfortable enough for him, his lips eager and his tongue unrelenting.
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"Oh angel," he gasps aloud after several moments of only being able to take silent, frantic breaths, hearing only the wet obscene sounds of sucking, feeling Aziraphale's tongue lash his cock and his eager mouth take him deep-- "Aziraphale," he pleads his name, groans curses and utterances to Heaven and Hell, lewd praises and wordless sounds. His hips arch up from the bed, helpless, pushing himself deeper into the angel's wanton mouth. How can he be so perfect, so very angelic, that it feels like sacrilege to fuck his mouth, to split those pink lips with his cock and feel him swallow him as though he was made to bring Crowley this pleasure.Â
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