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
Yes, he did have other plans entirely dashed by his angel, but Aziraphale was always used to getting his way, especially when Crowley was involved in the decision-making process. That made for a rather spoiled angel, but neither of them were complaining. Particularly since Aziraphale still plans on enacting the latter part of Crowley's plan, letting himself be tempted by him all day until at last they get home and he nearly throws Crowley up against a wall and tears his clothes off. He can never get enough of him, not when he's started.
Which is why he murmurs a disagreement at Crowley's apology, though it gets muffled by the fact that Crowley's cock is down his throat. His chest puffs up with pride when Crowley calls his name, when Crowley curses anything but Aziraphale in their bed, as if he were the last being on Earth and everything else could fall to the wayside.
His mouth makes the most obscene slick and wet noises as Crowley slides in and out of it, as he moans around Crowley's length. He has half a mind to turn this around and let Crowley hold his head down and fuck into his throat as he'd let Aziraphale do earlier, just take his pleasure. He lets Crowley go and hisses in a breath, his mouth shiny and pink, his eyes dark and half-lidded in pleasure, the two of them still connected by a particularly viscous line of spittle that finally decides to snap.
Aziraphale pats Crowley's thighs to get him to stand up, and then moves to lay down on the bed, head hanging off the edge of it, beckoning Crowley forth.
Such a delicious, obscene pleasure to slide deep into Aziraphale's clenching throat, to hear and feel him moan around his length, to watch wide-eyed as his wet shaft slips nearly all the way out from the angel's swollen pink lips and then plunges back in again. To hear the wet sounds of sucking, watch Aziraphale bob his head again and again and at last pull all the way off him, Crowley's fascinated gaze caught on that glistening strand stretched between the head of his cock and Aziraphale's mouth until at last it breaks. Dazed and panting, his cock standing up wet and hard and begging for more, he obeys without thought when Aziraphale motions him to get up, standing on legs that tremble coltishly while Aziraphale lies down in his place, on his back, and...
Oh, oh, Crowley hesitating for a moment at the sight of him, afraid to push too far--but he forgets all about that a moment later, stumbling forward and thumbing at Aziraphale's mouth as he lines up his cock and slides in again, into the perfect sheath of the angel's throat... Groaning loudly, Crowley braces a hand on the bed as his hips thrust, slow at first but then picking up the pace, Aziraphale's mouth so hot and wet and welcoming that he can't help himself. It must be a sin to use an angel this way, but then Crowley has never shied from sin--his legs are braced wide, knees against the bed for leverage as he fucks into Aziraphale's mouth and throat, losing himself in it, pleasure spiraling within him until he's moaning aloud.
His fingers stroke frantically at Aziraphale's jaw as he gasps out, "Angel, I'm--" in an attempt to warn him, but he can't get the words out before he's coming, buried in him, spilling the load down his throat. It's so hot and obscene, feeling Aziraphale's throat clench around him when he swallows, and afraid of choking him Crowley pulls back out of him and works himself in his hand above him, the last couple of spurts spilling over Aziraphale's neck, his collar, even his chest.
Aziraphale lying prone on the mattress can think of nothing more sinful but nothing more rewarding than this, his lips curved into a smile until Crowley once again splits them and fucks into his throat; all the planes of his front are spread out in front, leading up to a plush lip where he appears to end entirely, swallowing Crowley down as best he can like this.
He whines when Crowley withdraws but quickly busies his mouth with Crowley's balls instead, feeling them heavy between his lips and on tip of his tongue until he comes hot all over Aziraphale's body, marking him in sticky white. He kisses Crowley's thighs briefly before bringing himself off the bed, propped at first on his arm to survey Crowley's face, own eyes lustful and looking very satisfied, he draws a finger through the still-hot fluid and pops it into his mouth to take a taste, savors it, considers it a moment, and stands up to pull Crowley into a searing kiss, arms lazily hooked around him.
"Lovely," he says at last, smoothing down Crowley's skirt as if that might help anything. Then he takes a look at what they've done, what work they've unraveled, and can't help but to grin. "My dear, you look every bit the mess." Then he peppers kisses, sweetly and lovingly, all along Crowley's cheek. He offers this one, a quick miracle to clean the both of them up, hardly could even register on his reports.
He almost can't stand by the time he's done, his legs so unsteady it's as though he's forgotten the knack of it and it nearly knocks him off his feet all over again when Aziraphale looks at him with lusting eyes and a deeply satisfied expression, trailing a finger through Crowley's come and licking it away. He shuts his eyes against a surge of pleasure almost like pain, groans and all but collapses into Aziraphale's arms when he pulls him in for a breathless hot kiss. "Angel, you'll kill me," Crowley mutters weakly when they part, tucking his face against Aziraphale's cheek as he dots kisses all over his skin. A miracle on Azirphale's part cleans away the mess of come and sweat, the scents of sex and their own scents mingled with one another, and Crowley winds his fingers in between Aziraphale's and pushes the miracle a bit further to restore himself--Ashtoreth, really--to her perfect neatness when Aziraphale finished dressing her a little while before. Stockings rolled up, skirt around her ankles, hair and cosmetics just so, styled by a master hand.
"Well." Nanny leaves a kiss to Aziraphale's ear and a wicked little tug of teeth at his earlobe before drawing back, smoothing her hands down her front and surveying Aziraphale briefly before settling her pair of dark round spectacles into place. "I think it's time you were dressed, isn't it, Francis?"
Aziraphale presses another kiss to Ashtoreth's cheek, careful not to smudge any of her cosmetics, and then miracles himself into Francis. He looks like he's been sitting in the sun, he has ridiculous overgrown teeth and funny sideburns, and a cute little ascot and hat. He reaches for Ashtoreth's hand, clasping it in his own, smiling at her with his whole face. Such a shame that Francis is in love with Ashtoreth as well, when she loves another. But it's hard to compete with an angel, isn't it? And harder yet to compete with yourself.
Later, when they're walking around the market and he's lost himself in a stall of flowers, he'll pick out a bouquet of roses for her, deep red, and purchase them while the cashier takes a glance at the both of them and calls him a lucky man. And he'll feel a little wriggle in his heart and reply that yes, yes he is, dropping his Francis accent entirely in the exchange, and tipping the man a twenty quid that he'll unsuccessfully try to return to the lovesick Francis.
And then he'll trot off to where Ashtoreth is and present them to her and offer his arm and a buss to her cheek. And when they next pass the flower vendor, all his flowers will miraculously, despite the stark improbability, be in full bloom.
As they walk through the market, the sight of Nanny and the gardener arm and arm may catch eyes, but most of the villagers will think of it as only a harmless romance between two eccentrics employed by the American diplomat. What could be sweeter or more wholesome than the pair of them strolling along, making quite the contrast: the gardener in his pale overcoat and dusty boots, his lopsided hat and big toothy smile, and the nanny so tall and straight and severe in her black sweater and skirt, scarlet lips curling in a faint smile whenever Francis points out something pretty among the wares or feeds her a bite of pastry purchased from one of the stalls. Their eyes will be turned elsewhere, their attention caught by something else, during the moments when Ashtoreth leans in to mouth hot and wickedly at Francis’s ear or throat, fingertips and a casual miracle delicately rubbing away any smear of lipstick that might be left behind, or when she leans her chest into his shoulder or back and snakes her black-gloved hand around to the front of his trousers. They may notice when Francis presents her with a bouquet of deep red roses, but they will certainly be looking somewhere else when she tugs the gardener behind a stall and kisses him thoroughly, with sinfully red lips and a clever tongue.
In short, Nanny enjoys herself extremely during their outing, making no effort to hurry them back towards home as the hours of the sun-drenched afternoon pass. Teasing and flirting as much as she’d threatened to, but also thoroughly appreciating being romanced, a smile lingering on her lips as she carries the bouquet of roses in the crook of her arm, the other tucked in Francis’s. She may be in love with an angel, but her sweet gardener makes quite a go for her affections.
Aziraphale is starting to regret the dentures by the second time that Ashtoreth steals a kiss, because it severely impacts his ability to kiss her. In the narrative, of course, Francis loves her, but he is a lovesick fool, struck by her beauty, slave to her every want and whim. Every smile she casts his way, every glance of perfectly-lined eyes and bat of her lush lashes, he feels his heart float towards the heady clouds. But when she whispers in his ear or pulls him into a kiss, he's no longer a gardener but an angel, one who's duties happen to fall in line with stealing demonic kisses whenever the opportunity presents itself, and he would never let it pass him by.
He peppers kisses on her neck by the time she pulls away and acts like nothing had happened, reaches for her leg when she rubs the seat of his trousers but finds that she, like a wisp of perfume, wafts away as soon as he gets a taste. Oh, she is a clever one.
And yet, when she returns to browsing stalls, he becomes Francis once more: poor, dopey Francis who would worship the ground Ashtoreth walks on, who steals bashful glances but turns away blushing if she ever should acknowledge him, who is wrapped around her little finger and longs to be the glove that touches her hand, the hat sitting atop her perfect curls. The poor gardener would think nothing untoward of his Ashtoreth, his gentle melodic lilt like rolling hills alongside her rough-and-tumble brogue.
This, quite possibly, is the first date that he's ever been on, as she is the first woman to make him look up from his blooms. The most perfect flower herself, he couldn't possibly find another as beautiful or smelling as sweet, but still he tries, picking a daisy and offering to tuck it into her hat. With his love flowing over, encircling her like a gentleman who rounds the carriage to guide his lady out, like a mantle draped over her shoulders to guard her from rain, it's hard to tell at the moment which of the roles he plays.
Of course, it's only to be expected that the gardener's crush on Nanny has never developed into anything more than that, at least until now. They are both solitary people dedicated to their work: Ashtoreth with precious young Warlock in her charge, needing the tender attentions of his nanny, and Francis with the gardens and grounds to care for, quite the occupation for any one man to take on by himself (though somehow all the flowerbeds seem miraculously to flourish, even the under-watered ones). But if they should happen to spend an afternoon together in the village, what's the harm? No one else needs to know there is a third party to this romance, an angel who loves Ashtoreth with all his heart, who Nanny is so thoroughly, impossibly enamored of that she is like a woman possessed, every glance of lips or brush of her fingers weaving a spell to make her angel fall ever more in love with her.
Meanwhile, the village market, its proprietors and patrons, have the best afternoon they can remember. Flowers bloom extravagantly, pastries and bakery goods taste sweeter, people smile at one another more readily and marvel at the genial goodness of the world under a love that extends like wings over the whole village.
Even Ashtoreth smiles sweetly when Francis tucks a daisy in her hat, vivid yellow and white against her wine-red curls and dark garments. She offers Francis a soft kiss pressed to his cheek, his bristly sideburns tickling her lips, and when they turn a corner down a little side street and no one is looking, a much more wicked imprint of her lips and teeth and tongue left throbbing on his tender throat, beneath the collar of his shirt that she tugs down. Love surrounds her, its source unmistakable, and leaves her heart fluttering.
Francis, of course, turns pink and looks to Ashtoreth with the most open of love in his eyes, which he never is so bold as to show her in public, or let anyone see when they are behind closed doors at the Dowlings. No one need know that this is how the angel looks at her, when the two of them are alone, like the dawn rises to greet her instead of the other way round. He reaches for her hand, and places it in his, fingers finding their place within the crevices of each of hers, feeling the warmth of her touch only through the fabric between them. He's a silly man indeed.
But if they turn heads as a pair, Ashtoreth decidedly turns more of them on her own and the gardener couldn't blame anyone. She was a lovely figure of black and oxblood, striking in appearance. On their bout around town, with Aziraphale holding their basket filled with fruits and vegetables and baked goods, they happen across a jeweler. Aziraphale practically presses his nose up to the glass and his heart flips when he sees a display of rings. But no - too much, too soon, too fast. Still, another gift might suffice. "Would you like to take a look, dear?" He asks, not sounding very much like the gardener.
Truth be told, he isn't sure they'll find anything suiting either of their tastes, Crowley's skewing alternative and Aziraphale's traditional, both things not entirely available at any old shop in the middle of high street, but he does like to dote. So rarely does he get to dote.
Francis tucks her hand into his, and smiles at her with such open adoration, such bashful sweetness that it could melt even Nanny's rigid spine and unbending demeanor. So perhaps she leans into him more than she ordinarily would as they amble along together, one of her long spindly arms threaded through his. Sweetly, almost girlishly, flirting and murmuring secrets in the gardener's ear designed to deepen his blush, ignoring the gazes that turn to her as unimportant: certainly no one else captures her attention as the man on whose arm she strolls.
When they stop at the jeweler, she watches with some amusement as her companion's attention is thoroughly captivated by the display, arching an eyebrow inquisitively when he turns back to her with far more of Aziraphale's demeanor and voice. "Why not?" she answers in her lilting brogue. The display really is magnificent; her eyes, too, glance briefly to the rings behind the dark spectacles, but it's probably foolish to hope--or not foolish, maybe, too soon. Regardless, she leads the way inside, a bell ringing above the door to announce them.
Aziraphale does take a lingering look at the rings, trying not to glance over in Crowley's direction; but oh, how wonderful it might be someday to recognize their love, if only for a select few people to do so. But no, he would not want to be married if he could not tell the world, and tell God. The only other person so important as that already knew his feelings, because he was the object of them. What else did he even need?
He makes his way over to the bracelets and the necklaces, leaving the ring case for now. A shame, because they are very beautiful, but they carry such heavy meaning and it's not something he can currently offer.
Instead, he selects a necklace, with a little ruby red heart surrounded by a pair of angel wings. It's on a thin chain, a white gold, and small and delicate. He gestures towards it. "Do you like that one? I think you should try it on," he says, giving her an encouraging look. She's beautiful, without adornment. Without dark glasses, without perfectly curled hair, lying naked in his bed without as much as a single care in the world weighing on her.
Ashtoreth looks over the glittering finery with a discerning eye, while the staff watch her discreetly: here, surely, is a woman of quality and taste, though her current occupation as a governess would lead most to believe she couldn't afford jewels such as these. Or that the gardener could afford to purchase them for her--yet somehow they will manage. "Isn't that lovely," she purrs of the necklace Aziraphale has found, making the jewelers beam. "Yes, let's try that."
Once it's out of the display case she lifts the delicate chain in her features, a faint tender smile on her face for the shape of the ruby and the glittering wings, and then beckons to Aziraphale. "You'll help me with the clasp, won't you, angel?" Ashtoreth turns her back, sweeping her red hair aside and offering her long slender neck for the gold chain to rest around, the pendant falling just below the wings of her collarbones when the necklace is in place. Turning to a mirror, she admires the stark red of the ruby against the black knit of her sweater. It's a dramatic look, but perhaps it would look even better if, indeed, she was naked in Aziraphale's bed, with no adornment other than this.
"What do you think?" She turns to Aziraphale inquisitively, seeking his approval.
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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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Which is why he murmurs a disagreement at Crowley's apology, though it gets muffled by the fact that Crowley's cock is down his throat. His chest puffs up with pride when Crowley calls his name, when Crowley curses anything but Aziraphale in their bed, as if he were the last being on Earth and everything else could fall to the wayside.
His mouth makes the most obscene slick and wet noises as Crowley slides in and out of it, as he moans around Crowley's length. He has half a mind to turn this around and let Crowley hold his head down and fuck into his throat as he'd let Aziraphale do earlier, just take his pleasure. He lets Crowley go and hisses in a breath, his mouth shiny and pink, his eyes dark and half-lidded in pleasure, the two of them still connected by a particularly viscous line of spittle that finally decides to snap.
Aziraphale pats Crowley's thighs to get him to stand up, and then moves to lay down on the bed, head hanging off the edge of it, beckoning Crowley forth.
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Oh, oh, Crowley hesitating for a moment at the sight of him, afraid to push too far--but he forgets all about that a moment later, stumbling forward and thumbing at Aziraphale's mouth as he lines up his cock and slides in again, into the perfect sheath of the angel's throat... Groaning loudly, Crowley braces a hand on the bed as his hips thrust, slow at first but then picking up the pace, Aziraphale's mouth so hot and wet and welcoming that he can't help himself. It must be a sin to use an angel this way, but then Crowley has never shied from sin--his legs are braced wide, knees against the bed for leverage as he fucks into Aziraphale's mouth and throat, losing himself in it, pleasure spiraling within him until he's moaning aloud.
His fingers stroke frantically at Aziraphale's jaw as he gasps out, "Angel, I'm--" in an attempt to warn him, but he can't get the words out before he's coming, buried in him, spilling the load down his throat. It's so hot and obscene, feeling Aziraphale's throat clench around him when he swallows, and afraid of choking him Crowley pulls back out of him and works himself in his hand above him, the last couple of spurts spilling over Aziraphale's neck, his collar, even his chest.
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He whines when Crowley withdraws but quickly busies his mouth with Crowley's balls instead, feeling them heavy between his lips and on tip of his tongue until he comes hot all over Aziraphale's body, marking him in sticky white. He kisses Crowley's thighs briefly before bringing himself off the bed, propped at first on his arm to survey Crowley's face, own eyes lustful and looking very satisfied, he draws a finger through the still-hot fluid and pops it into his mouth to take a taste, savors it, considers it a moment, and stands up to pull Crowley into a searing kiss, arms lazily hooked around him.
"Lovely," he says at last, smoothing down Crowley's skirt as if that might help anything. Then he takes a look at what they've done, what work they've unraveled, and can't help but to grin. "My dear, you look every bit the mess." Then he peppers kisses, sweetly and lovingly, all along Crowley's cheek. He offers this one, a quick miracle to clean the both of them up, hardly could even register on his reports.
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"Well." Nanny leaves a kiss to Aziraphale's ear and a wicked little tug of teeth at his earlobe before drawing back, smoothing her hands down her front and surveying Aziraphale briefly before settling her pair of dark round spectacles into place. "I think it's time you were dressed, isn't it, Francis?"
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Later, when they're walking around the market and he's lost himself in a stall of flowers, he'll pick out a bouquet of roses for her, deep red, and purchase them while the cashier takes a glance at the both of them and calls him a lucky man. And he'll feel a little wriggle in his heart and reply that yes, yes he is, dropping his Francis accent entirely in the exchange, and tipping the man a twenty quid that he'll unsuccessfully try to return to the lovesick Francis.
And then he'll trot off to where Ashtoreth is and present them to her and offer his arm and a buss to her cheek. And when they next pass the flower vendor, all his flowers will miraculously, despite the stark improbability, be in full bloom.
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In short, Nanny enjoys herself extremely during their outing, making no effort to hurry them back towards home as the hours of the sun-drenched afternoon pass. Teasing and flirting as much as she’d threatened to, but also thoroughly appreciating being romanced, a smile lingering on her lips as she carries the bouquet of roses in the crook of her arm, the other tucked in Francis’s. She may be in love with an angel, but her sweet gardener makes quite a go for her affections.
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He peppers kisses on her neck by the time she pulls away and acts like nothing had happened, reaches for her leg when she rubs the seat of his trousers but finds that she, like a wisp of perfume, wafts away as soon as he gets a taste. Oh, she is a clever one.
And yet, when she returns to browsing stalls, he becomes Francis once more: poor, dopey Francis who would worship the ground Ashtoreth walks on, who steals bashful glances but turns away blushing if she ever should acknowledge him, who is wrapped around her little finger and longs to be the glove that touches her hand, the hat sitting atop her perfect curls. The poor gardener would think nothing untoward of his Ashtoreth, his gentle melodic lilt like rolling hills alongside her rough-and-tumble brogue.
This, quite possibly, is the first date that he's ever been on, as she is the first woman to make him look up from his blooms. The most perfect flower herself, he couldn't possibly find another as beautiful or smelling as sweet, but still he tries, picking a daisy and offering to tuck it into her hat. With his love flowing over, encircling her like a gentleman who rounds the carriage to guide his lady out, like a mantle draped over her shoulders to guard her from rain, it's hard to tell at the moment which of the roles he plays.
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Meanwhile, the village market, its proprietors and patrons, have the best afternoon they can remember. Flowers bloom extravagantly, pastries and bakery goods taste sweeter, people smile at one another more readily and marvel at the genial goodness of the world under a love that extends like wings over the whole village.
Even Ashtoreth smiles sweetly when Francis tucks a daisy in her hat, vivid yellow and white against her wine-red curls and dark garments. She offers Francis a soft kiss pressed to his cheek, his bristly sideburns tickling her lips, and when they turn a corner down a little side street and no one is looking, a much more wicked imprint of her lips and teeth and tongue left throbbing on his tender throat, beneath the collar of his shirt that she tugs down. Love surrounds her, its source unmistakable, and leaves her heart fluttering.
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But if they turn heads as a pair, Ashtoreth decidedly turns more of them on her own and the gardener couldn't blame anyone. She was a lovely figure of black and oxblood, striking in appearance. On their bout around town, with Aziraphale holding their basket filled with fruits and vegetables and baked goods, they happen across a jeweler. Aziraphale practically presses his nose up to the glass and his heart flips when he sees a display of rings. But no - too much, too soon, too fast. Still, another gift might suffice. "Would you like to take a look, dear?" He asks, not sounding very much like the gardener.
Truth be told, he isn't sure they'll find anything suiting either of their tastes, Crowley's skewing alternative and Aziraphale's traditional, both things not entirely available at any old shop in the middle of high street, but he does like to dote. So rarely does he get to dote.
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When they stop at the jeweler, she watches with some amusement as her companion's attention is thoroughly captivated by the display, arching an eyebrow inquisitively when he turns back to her with far more of Aziraphale's demeanor and voice. "Why not?" she answers in her lilting brogue. The display really is magnificent; her eyes, too, glance briefly to the rings behind the dark spectacles, but it's probably foolish to hope--or not foolish, maybe, too soon. Regardless, she leads the way inside, a bell ringing above the door to announce them.
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He makes his way over to the bracelets and the necklaces, leaving the ring case for now. A shame, because they are very beautiful, but they carry such heavy meaning and it's not something he can currently offer.
Instead, he selects a necklace, with a little ruby red heart surrounded by a pair of angel wings. It's on a thin chain, a white gold, and small and delicate. He gestures towards it. "Do you like that one? I think you should try it on," he says, giving her an encouraging look. She's beautiful, without adornment. Without dark glasses, without perfectly curled hair, lying naked in his bed without as much as a single care in the world weighing on her.
But it is a nice necklace.
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Once it's out of the display case she lifts the delicate chain in her features, a faint tender smile on her face for the shape of the ruby and the glittering wings, and then beckons to Aziraphale. "You'll help me with the clasp, won't you, angel?" Ashtoreth turns her back, sweeping her red hair aside and offering her long slender neck for the gold chain to rest around, the pendant falling just below the wings of her collarbones when the necklace is in place. Turning to a mirror, she admires the stark red of the ruby against the black knit of her sweater. It's a dramatic look, but perhaps it would look even better if, indeed, she was naked in Aziraphale's bed, with no adornment other than this.
"What do you think?" She turns to Aziraphale inquisitively, seeking his approval.
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