It's getting ridiculous.
Aziraphale isn't a novice under any circumstance. He's been a professional photographer for decades, photographed hundreds, thousands of models, and his career is as successful as it is absolutely unrivaled. He's never paid attention to any of them beyond pure aesthetic admiration, all of them elements of a composition. Until five months ago, none of them had made him feel as if his collar was too tight around his neck, his hands sweat-damp, all of him ablaze. Just with a stray glance.
It's terribly affecting.
He snaps the last shots of the session hoping some of them will do, because half of his attention is set on trying not to make a fool of himself.
It's difficult with Antonia Crowley standing in front of him.
Antonia with the long, naked spread of her legs, soft-looking skin and fire-like curls. The curve of her waist almost begging for a hand to press and curl around it, to hold the promises of the warmth of her skin. Antonia, with that stunning face Aziraphale knows so well through the lens. In zooms and angles. The delicate bow of her lips, the soft curve of flushed cheeks, the way her long lashes flutter when she faces the camera. When she faces him.
Aziraphale thanks the boisterous applause of the team as he closes the session, nods to Anathema, the designer.
"Great job, Aziraphale, Antonia," Anathema says, nodding at them respectively, already half-turned away to talk to Newt. For the life of him, Aziraphale can't understand how they manage to work in such close proximity without spilling the feelings they obviously are hiding from each other. Truly unfortunate.
Antonia cranes the smooth sweep of her long neck and waves to the crowd.
Aziraphale glances up to where she's standing in the middle of the room, dressed in a black, silky negligee that continues to make Aziraphale's blood run fever-hot, his skin prickling with sweat. Just the graze of a thumb at the front, he thinks, and the frilly thing would fall open, revealing the exquisite sight that she is. The suggested shape of her round breasts, the taut plane of her stomach. Heat swats at him, dripping down his neck, tinting his cheeks pink. He's grateful, at least, that the collection is relatively tame. For all her avant-garde reputation, Anathema's designs favour the robes, camisoles and body suits that usually cover Antonia with silk and satin.
He doesn't think he would've been able to survive the daily sight of Antonia's beautiful body displayed in lace that would leave long expanses of skin bare, that would reveal the now-hidden lines of tender places.
It would be madness. Aziraphale can barely focus as it is.
He smiles at her, a shy, small thing, only to be met with a saucy smirk and a wink as she turns around in the direction of the changing area.
And, well, Antonia is always playful like that.
It's a huge effort not to let his eyes wander down the soft arch of that back he knows so well from a distance, glide past it and down, reaching the round curve of those hips that sway and sashay, making Aziraphale swallow down a bone-dry throat. He twirls the chord of the camera to settle it, not to let his eyes roam and find the delightful swell of her arse as she walks away.
It'd be incredibly impolite.
Aziraphale has standards, after all. And Antonia, so beautiful, so vibrant, isn't a thing to be leered at. To be devoured.
He turns to pack his equipment, putting everything neatly away, already thinking about where to go for lunch, trying to pick one from a myriad of places. Newt comes to tell him something about the next session, about the colors and compositions of the set. Aziraphale only nods until he walks away.
He's already set to leave when he's almost startled out of his shoes.
"Hey, Aziraphale, 'twas a nice session," Antonia says softly, the rasp of her voice scraping along Aziraphale's spine. "Was glad they decided to hire you. Been awfully long since I worked with you."
It's unfair how exquisite she is. Up close, her hazel eyes look almost golden, her lips damp and inviting. She's standing next to him, wearing a pair of painted-on jeans that cling to her skin for dear life, and a blouse with such a neck plunge it's a whole ordeal for Aziraphale to not let his gaze wander, to not revel in the blessed sight of the swaths of pale skin. Good Lord.
Aziraphale smiles. It seems the only thing he's able to do while around her. "I'm only glad you were pleased. I know I can be a bit demanding," he says, feeling his own breath gust hot.
"Nah. It's fine. I like that, actually." She smirks, glides the pink tip of a tongue over her bottom lip, which is, frankly, quite distracting. It takes Aziraphale the bite of his own nails on his palm to refrain himself, to fix his gaze on her mouth. "You can demand as much as you want from me. Not complaining."
He feels his own jaw hang slack, before he snaps it shut, clears his throat. She's always been a bit of a jester.
"Yes, well." He turns, focuses on his half-closed bag, to hide the way his face burns hot. "Glad to know it wasn't too much, dear girl."
He grabs the strap of his satchel and looks at the windows, the floors, the people milling about. Everything and everyone who isn't the stunning redhead determined to cause him a stroke.
"Have a nice day, Antonia," he says more to the air than her.
He isn't expecting the soft grasp of cool, slender fingers around his wrist. A gentle, almost tentative squeeze. Just enough of a touch to make Aziraphale's skin go all goosebumped.
Aziraphale whirls on his feet, watching the place where Antonia still has him grasped, just before she quickly snatches her hand away. There's a faint color on her face. Soft, just where her long lashes brush the curve of her cheek.
Dior blush, probably.
"Yeah. Right." She smiles again but it's an unsure, slanted thing. "So, uh, I'm thinking about branching out, y'know? And I wanna redo my portfolio so, er, I've been meaning to ask if you're available? Some shots? Nothing fancy, just at my flat. Have all the ideas in my mind already." She stops, before adding in a rushed stream, "O-or if you can't, would you know anyone who can help me with that?"
It's impossible for Aziraphale not to imagine someone else having the privilege he's had. Taking in the sight of Antonia in the privacy of her space. A stranger. Someone watching her in detail, discovering all the things Aziraphale is already so taken by. The way the light glints off her skin, how she laughs with the long slope of her throat thrown back, that playful tug she gives to her jackets, leaving the smooth curve of a freckled shoulder exposed.
Someone else touching her, brushing the blood-hot skin at the small of her back to correct the way she always seems to slouch at the beginning of a session.
It's an unbearable thought, one that makes something unshaped fork across him. Treacly and bitter.
"I'll do it," he blurts out, swallowing around the sour taste in his mouth. "I- I can do it, if you want me, that is. But I absolutely understand if you would like someone else-"
"No!" It's just short of a yelp. "Nah," Antonia says, more calmly, shrugging almost. "We already got it going, don't we? 'Sides, I love your style."
Aziraphale hasn/t the foggiest about 'got it going,' but nods nonetheless, something tamed inside him. "That's very good to hear, my dear."
"Meet me at my flat today." She rummages for a card in the small Valentino purse she carries everywhere. She scribbles something on the back with a pen he promptly gives her. "This is my address. Say, eight?"
"Yes, of course." Aziraphale takes the card in hand, reading the address. Somewhere in Mayfair. "I'll be there."
The smiles she gives him could've outshone the sun.
"I'll be waiting."
Aziraphale tries not to think much about this evening. About the setting. About the fact he's probably going to see Antonia up close in the warmth of her home. In the intimate space that's just hers.
He definitely tries not to give space to the flickering images, dreams, of the things she's going to wear. No, better not dwell there.
He's worrying in vain, he knows. She must have something in mind, for the upcoming season, perhaps. Cashmeres, wools. Yes, that's probably it.
And even if that wasn't the case, he's a professional. Old enough to know better.
Daydreaming won't change the fact that Antonia Crowley doesn't see him like that.
He rocks up to Antonia's building and is promptly admitted by the security guard at the front desk. When he reaches the door of her flat, he tramples on the rabbit-quick pattering of his heart, the messy fluttering of his stomach.
This is another job.
He buzzes the doorbell.
"It's open!" comes the voice from inside.
Aziraphale enters, counting his steps until he's standing in the middle of a minimalistic flat, all grey walls and modern furniture.
"So punctual," says a voice from behind him. Slightly teasing.
Aziraphale turns around, and a long, stuttered breath shoves out of him in relief.
Antonia is there, wearing a red tartan miniskirt, a leather jacket, and stilettos. She's smiling a playful, impish smile, her hair falling in luscious waves around her face.
She's gorgeous, as always.
But this isn't so bad. Aziraphale has seen her far less covered, and even though she's still distracting as anything, he has hopes to leave the night with his five senses still in place.
Aziraphale mirrors her smile, "Hello, dear girl."
"So, ready to start?"
"Of course. May I?" He signals to a nearby table to settle his equipment.
"Yeah. Suit yourself. Everything here is yours to use," she says, rolling a shoulder, her lips curving into something wicked.
Aziraphale knows she's joking, but it isn't any less affecting. As if his thoughts needed more fuel.
"Right." He's particularly proud of how steady his voice is. "What do you have in mind?"
"Ah, yeah." She walks to her window, sitting on the broad ledge, while Aziraphale plucks out his camera, sets it right. "So, I've had this idea. I want it to be natural, intimate. Like the kind of photos a lover would take," she rushes out, staring at her feet.
Aziraphale almost drops the camera. "I beg your pardon?"
"Just that," Crowley fixes those magnetic, beautiful eyes of hers on his face, lifts her chin up, "treat me like a lover would."
"I'm not sure I follow," Aziraphale says, feeling the way blood pools in his cheeks, a clog in his throat. His bowtie straining against his neck.
Lord, what he wouldn't give for that to be real.
"Be candid," she says. "Show the real me. Take the shots, even if I don't look perfect."
"I don't believe that's possible," Aziraphale says without thinking, before catching the words, cursing himself for a fool. There's no need to spill at her feet how much she manages to rattle him, how intoxicating he finds her. How much space she takes up in his mind. He's sure she doesn't want that. "I mean, you have plenty of experience. I'm sure it will be lovely."
Antonia gives him an odd look before worrying a lip between her teeth, a roguish smile on her flushed face. "Yeah, so you in?"
"I'll do my best, wouldn’t care to disappoint," Aziraphale answers, almost thready, trying to swat at the idea, at the desire that gnaws at his bones.
What a lover would do, he thinks, watching the way she stretches her long legs on the ledge. Wanting nothing more than to kiss the hot spot under her ear, where her neck looks oh, so inviting, drag a broad palm along the curve of her bare thighs, feeling how soft the skin, ease them apart and–
Aziraphale bites his cheek to steel himself.
She beams, "Excellent."
Oh, this is pure Hell.
"Last one then, my dear?" Aziraphale asks, knowing he's pressing the buttons of the camera far too roughly.
Antonia pulls her legs up, the fabric of the skirt rucking up, showing the round curve of her arse, the firm play of muscles of her tantalizingly long legs, and it's impossible not to notice the way her skin gleams almost golden under the soft lights.
She tilts her head, giving him a wink, the fire-like strands of her hair spilling everywhere.
Aziraphale's hands twitch with the desire to reach and touch, slide his fingers and press them deep into the wild red curls, angle her face for a kiss. So he pulls at the strap around his neck to ban the ludicrous sensation, feeling a sheen of sweat under his powder blue shirt.
She smiles at the shot, blows a kiss at him, nonchalant and insouciant as she always is, and Aziraphale's heart beats just to ache something fierce, in the hollow of his chest.
He's being ridiculous. Wanting a mirage to be real.
This is a set-up and he will do well to remember that. She isn't thinking about the situation as more than what it is.
A work arrangement.
"Well, I believe these are suitably done," Aziraphale says, focusing on the pictures taken, on the saturation and contrast. "That will be all, then?"
Antonia climbs down from her spot, and he's vaguely aware of how she saunters to the living room, trying as he can to check everything is in order.
He listens to the click-click-click of her heels until it stops.
"Ah, no, I have something else in mind," she finally says, and Aziraphale's eyes swivel up, just to see the moment she pulls down the zip of her jacket, the sound ripping against the silence.
She's wearing only a white lacy bra underneath.
He's lucky the camera is tied around his neck, because he drops it in a heartbeat when she unbuttons her skirt, letting it glide to the floor.
Aziraphale swallows a gulp that sears the line of his throat, staring at the sheer, lacy thong she's wearing, and he can't stop the way a shudder wrecks his spine when she turns around, kneeling on her couch, shucking off her jacket until it hangs at the bend of her elbows, one strap of her bra falling around the soft curve of her shoulder.
Aziraphale can't convince himself this is real. That this isn't a wet dream, something out of a fantasy someone plucked from his brain.
"Aren't you coming?" she throws at him over her shoulder, with a playful smirk.
And isn't that exactly the problem.
"No, no, I, uh," he isn't quite sure words will come out, even if he tries. "I'm adjusting, it shouldn't take more than a moment, dear girl."
Aziraphale isn't a stranger to nudity, but never before has it felt quite like this. Quite so shocking, so raw and stunning. It isn't the flash of skin of a nameless body in the middle of a crowded room. No, this time it's just for him.
Every inch of it, of the bare spread of Antonia's skin, so smooth, so tempting, calling to him. All of her, unconcerned and free, enjoying the silent, empty space that's just hers.
Aziraphale's stomach feels liquid, molten lead in his veins, his breath tangled through his throat.
His steps feel heavy, loud, all of him too tight in his skin until he's standing behind her.
"I’m thinking I want this more up close," she says, “private, almost secretive.”
Because of course she does.
Aziraphale clears his throat, as quiet as he can. "Of course."
He kneels, only a few feet away, and admires her, trying to resist the urge to look everywhere. But it's pointless. His eyes are traitorous, and it's his job to look. To revel in the details. And it's impossible for Aziraphale not to trace the bare curve of her round, firm arse, almost fully on display, spilling from the knickers. The way the skimpy thing, an insufficient line of lace, digs deep inside the crease of her buttocks, splitting her arsecheeks.
He's never seen quite so much of her, quite so close. The dimples at the small of her back, and the way the freckles smatter the curved line of her shoulders. She's looking at him, long-lashed eyes fluttering, heat-heavy, and he bites hard on his lip to remind himself it isn't personal.
Treat me like a lover would.
Aziraphale's blood simmers with those words, because if he was… if he was…
"Gonna start yet?" she asks. But it's a quiet, soft thing, mellow almost.
"Y-yes, sorry. Just doing a bit of fine tuning beforehand, only so it won’t become an issue later, you understand," he lies.
He raises the camera, but when he looks through the lens, his eyes fix over one side of the knickers, twisted where it rests over the curve of her hip.
"I, uh, your underwear dear," Aziraphale grates out, "it's twisted."
Antonia looks down. "Where?"
"On the ah, the side." Aziraphale makes a loop-like gesture that doesn't clarify things in the slightest. He knows.
"Can't see anything from here." She turns to look down, arching her back in a way that raises the delightful view of her arse even more. "Can you fix it? I don’t want to mess up my pose, ‘s all."
And there isn't a single reason why he should say no. But he knows, he knows saying no is the only sane option. He doesn't think he would survive to place even the pad of a finger on her.
Yet, "Of course," he says, regardless.
He leaves the camera at his side, safely on the coffee table and closes the space between them that pulses with heat, making Aziraphale feel as if he's in a daze.
He watches the way the fabric presses into the give of her skin, the swell of her thighs spread apart, deliciously exposed. From here he can smell the sweet scent of her perfume, cinnamon and cherries, inebriating as red wine, wafting in the air and shredding his senses to pieces. Aziraphale raises a shaking hand that, thankfully, she doesn't see, and grabs the side of her knickers between thumb and forefinger.
It takes him a second to smooth the fabric, but he's almost sure there's the barest tint of a moan, just a faint, rustling thing, coming from her throat when he brushes the warmth of her skin, the pad of his thumb grazing her hip-bone.
"Everything alright?" he asks, but his voice is foreign, even to him. Dry and low, as if he was wrenching it out from deep in his chest.
Aziraphale doesn't realize his fingers are still pressed to her side, frozen, with the hand he hasn't quite managed to pull back, still accusingly on her. His knee presses on the couch, slightly so, and his leg is now between her warm thighs, his khakis brushing the skin.
"Ngh, yeah," Antonia hums, and to his complete, utter misery, she bends forward, resting her arms on the back of the couch, arching her spine in a deep curve that makes her arse stop two inches away from the front of his trousers. "Just peachy."
His mouth falls open, and he can't quite convince himself this is real, that this is actually happening. That there's a reality now where he's touched her, after suffering for months.
And it would be so easy, too easy, to give in to the hot tide inside him, to stop wrestling with that thing screaming at him to press forward, feeling his cock twitch, half-hard against his thigh. To thumb aside the almost non-existent knickers and spread her tight arse cheeks with the rough slide of his fingers, glide down, dip lower, and reach the soaked,—wishful thinking —hot clench of her cunt.
He wants, Lord, he wants so much, the images of stamped-down dreams swirl in his brain, images of him finally, finally, reaching out to touch, to claim a space for himself between her legs, to lick and lave at the tender skin of her neck, kissing her, committing her taste to memory.
Looking at her is suddenly agony.
"Take them from an off-angle first, more from the side," she says, almost dreamy. "Then, from the back. Like the ones we did for Dagon's collection, 'member?"
Right. This is work.
Aziraphale recoils as if she was scalding.
"O-of course," he stumbles on words. "Of course I remember."
"Oh, and Aziraphale?"
She smirks, amber eyes twinkling with mischief, "I want them as close as you can bear."
"Think I’m gonna call it quits, for this bunch, at least," she finally announces, a bit dryly, the barely-there touch of a pout on her lips.
Somehow Aziraphale has managed to keep his composure throughout this whole, torturous ordeal, feeling his gut twist, knot, and set heavy with arousal. Even if his bottom lip is worry-bitten red, his breath unsteady and dense, piercing the silence — he's finally made it to the other side. He looks at the damp gleam of sweat over the sides of the sleek, black camera where his hands have death-gripped it for the last twenty minutes, an outlet for the pent-up need that thrashes inside him, wild and so indescribably loud, after many long, unbearable minutes of watching Antonia sink her teeth into her plush lips, arching her back, her thumbs finding the strips of her knickers, twisting them and pulling them. As if to lower them down.
A playful little smirk on her inviting lips.
It had taken every shred of resolve in him to not let his imagination run amok, conjuring up a scene where he could close the gaping space between them and settle his hands on her hips, under the lace, rolling the ridiculous thing down, leaving it stretched at her mid-thighs. Pulling her finally against him so she could feel his desire burning hot, hard and aching against her lovely arse, while his hand would splay on her stomach, reaching down, down, to where she was hot and wet, until he would press a thick thumb against her swollen clit.
To feel her quiver in his arms. Pleasure-drunk and wanting.
"Do you like this?" She had asked, smiling wickedly over her shoulder. "I live for the feedback, Aziraphale, you know, and I could use some right about now."
"It's… an interesting pose," he had said, feeling his cock jerking in his trousers. Fighting the urge to toss his camera aside and run away. Taming his will, lest it break and he end up mounting her like an animal. “Dynamic, if one were to describe it.”
But somehow, somehow, he had managed to restrain himself, even if, by now, he's a smoldering wreck of unmet needs. Even if his hands are shaking.
Even if his voice is bared, down in his dry, parched throat.
"So, that would be all?"
And he can't hide the strain, the tight edge of the words that are probably too transparent, conveying the looming finality of them.
"Gotta be somewhere soon?" Antonia asks, standing already, her back turned to him. It's a steely thing, the tip of disappointment, almost. "I had one last piece in mind, but if you need to go…"
"No, no, not at all!" And for all he knows it isn't wise, Aziraphale can't bear to hear her voice lilt in such a way. "You do know I love to work with you. It barely feels like work at all."
It is too earnest. Too honest. And he's already fretting that he's let too much slip out.
But then she turns, smiling, clear and wide. "Me too, y'know? C'mon, last shot's in the bedroom."
He bites back the 'beg your pardon?' because he doesn't want to sound like an scandalized Victorian, when what she's asking isn't anything outrageous.
He follows Antonia, fixing his eyes on the gray walls, trying with all his might not to fuel that want that sizzles in his blood, looking at the enticing sight she makes walking in front of him.
"Here we are," she finally says, signaling a room with a large bed in the middle. Satin black sheets on the mattress.
"Oh, this is lovely."
Aziraphale focuses on the pure aesthetics instead of thinking about where, exactly, he's standing. Because this is Antonia's sanctum, where the walls have seen every bit of her, those sheets clinging and twisting around the softness of her skin every single night.
Stretched fabric covering the bare expanse of her body, every curve and smooth line.
Aziraphale doesn't quite manage to choke his thoughts back.
"Thanks," she says.
She walks to the center of the room and to his horror... no, delight, - he isn't sure which - she shucks off her jacket, standing in front of him only in her undergarments.
Aziraphale feels his knees give in.
He hadn't noticed until now, probably because of the jacket, how sheer the fabric, how the lace pulls tight over her full and shapely breasts, her nipples pebbled and pink.
Aziraphale can see everything.
The material is practically see-through, an mere excuse for clothes, and his eyes can't but roam over her. That stunning face with wide eyes and a tempting unkissed mouth. The trim lines of her waist, the soft curve of her hips, and down to the apex of her thighs where there's a barely-there strip of lace covering the thatch of hair he hadn't expected to see so clearly.
He isn't ready for this, the air he can't quite manage to squeeze out, stale in his lungs.
But Antonia is already sitting on the edge of her bed, comfortable in the beautiful display of her body, looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
"You can step closer," she says, "’S alright."
Aziraphale nods, doing as she asks, only to see her falling back on the mattress in a lazy sprawl, her breasts threatening to spill out from the straining lace.
He can't lie to himself, can't deny how badly he wants to kiss her red mouth, wet and panting, how much he wants to close his hands around her slender waist, see the way he's sure his thumbs would brush together.
But then she slithers her hands beneath the cups of her bra, replacing them with her small palms. The material bunches at the sides, leaving her hands as sole cover.
The sight strucks Aziraphale with a need so visceral he's sure there's a whine grating at the back of his throat, watching the way her slender fingers are spread apart, the pink bud of a nipple peeking between them. He desperately wants to circle his tongue around them, take them into his mouth with messy sucks.
Aziraphale feels his nails digging into the meat of his palms, his thoughts impossible to marshal.
"What are you doing?" Aziraphale asks, a desperate urge running along the words, blood welling to the surface of his cheeks, hot and pink. He's fully hard in his trousers, his cock aching, already leaking, probably ruining his boxers. "Forgive me, I, ah, it was rather unexpected. No matter, is this the composition you want?"
"Yeah," she breathes. Softly, intimate almost. "Just shoot."
It's impossible for her not to see the thick bulge in his trousers, the obscene evidence of his arousal, of how desperately he wants to pin her against her bed and sink into the wet tightness of her body. Spread her thighs apart and savour her exquisite, clutching heat.
Fuck her hard, slow, however she wants, leaving her dripping, sopping with his spend, his come a reminder on her black sheets.
Aziraphale's blood rings in his ears.
But she only smiles, sweeping her tongue along the seam of her mouth, flicking her gaze from the front of his trousers, up to his face. Eyes glinting as if pleased with herself.
Not bothered at all. And perhaps if he doesn't bring it up, if he ignores it, he could still leave unscathed.
This is, by far, the most erotic, shockingly arousing session he's had in his life, and a thought, bitter and jarring seeps into his mind then.
Thinking about who else is going to see these.
"Are you sending these to your agency?" And his gut burns with jealousy at the idea of Luke Morningstar's greedy eyes feasting on her bare skin. It's an intolerable thought.
She worries a lip between her teeth and smiles. "I haven’t been entirely honest." He sees the way her long neck rolls on a swallow. "These aren't for my portfolio, necessarily. They're personal," and then she adds, quietly, "for someone very important to me."
Aziraphale can't bear the thought, his heart aching, his breathing erratic.
Treat me like a lover would, she'd said. It should've been transparent.
Aziraphale should pull away. Should flee from this room. From her life. But she's a vision.
Miles of pale skin, in stark contrast against the sheets, silky-soft hair falling in artful disarray, the strands making his fingers itch with the desire to grab fistfuls.
He can't tear his eyes away.
He shields himself with the camera, detaching himself from the moment. She's spread in clear sexual invitation, thinking perhaps of the person for whom the pictures are designed, her hands now kneading her breasts, teasing herself in front of him.
Not for him, though.
He sinks the sharp point of a canine on his lip and forges through.
"Angle your legs," he says. A bit stiffly.
She does as she's told, only not quite. Antonia pulls her knees up, her thighs still joined together. It blocks the view of her face.
She should know that.
"Your thighs, dear—"
"What about 'em?'
"Angle your thighs," he manages to say without choking.
But Antonia only shifts her legs in such a manner that her thighs are still pressed together.
Aziraphale doesn't know how he finds the strength to continue, he doesn't understand how he can manage to pretend this isn't burning away his reason, but he rallies.
"Perhaps it would be better if you position me yourself," she blurts out. She hasn't stopped pressing her fingers against the swell of her breasts, and her voice is a breathy thing. "Would save us a lot of time."
Aziraphale knows he shouldn't. But every minute in front of her, unable to fully have her, is torture.
He can do it, quick, barely touching her, just the nudge of his fingers against the angles she needs to fix.
The air in the room is suddenly stifling, too hot, too heavy on his skin, insufficient in the lungful he takes. He reaches the bed and is forced to sit on the edge.
Aziraphale clenches his jaw, watching the lovely gold of her eyes, her plush, damp lips, parting on a sigh. She's so beautiful it's almost painful. Having her so close feels like madness, the only thing between them, his clothes and the patch of sheer lace between her legs. Her delicate hands can barely contain her full breasts, and the up-close sight of the crown of red hair of her sex is enough to shred his reason to ribbons.
He drifts a shaking hand to the line of her waist, hovers there for a second.
"Aziraphale, you can touch me, 's alright."
There's fire burning in his veins, and he's starving, the hunger of a life without a morsel wearing him thin.
He places his hands on her stomach, suggesting the slight shift of her pose, and it's impossible to miss the way she arches into his touch, the soft gasp given to the air. He tries not to read too much into it, not read anything at all, while he brushes the bunched-up lace at the sides of her hands, further aside, to leave the tableau better composed. His finger grazes the curve of a breast and she bites her lip, her hips rolling, grinding against the messy folds of the sheets.
Aziraphale might go mad.
He needs to finish soon before he comes completely apart in a sticky, wet mess inside his trousers. His cock is so hard the tip aches where it brushes against the cotton of his pants.
Aziraphale looks past her hips, to her thighs, and swallows before placing his broad palms around them, easing them apart. Antonia is so pliant under his touch, spreading her legs open, far wider than he intended.
He sucks in a breath, the room tilting, the moment shuddering to a stop.
Because Aziraphale sees clearly the wet, drenched fabric of her knickers between her legs, where she's so slick he can see the glistening patches on her inner thighs to where it's dripped from her cunt.
He can't do this anymore, he can't, he can't—
"Antonia, I can't…" and he's begging, not knowing for what, why. His heart thuds in his chest, his stomach an angry knot of jealousy and ache, knowing whoever she's thinking of manages to wreck her, with the bare idea of them.
But then, "Aziraphale," she moans. Something high-pitched, just short of a sob. "Please, Aziraphale, I can't bear it anymore. You're making me lose my bloody mind."
"You, you, it's for you, always you, Aziraphale," she says. "I want you. But if this isn't something you want—fuck." There's a little whine high in her throat, a stuttering breath. "Don't wanna force you. I'm sorry. You can leave. We won't talk about this again."
Aziraphale's resolve is rapidly scattering, watching her, a picture of debauched delight, and her words go through him too fast. He catches just the edges.
"Me? You—You want me?"
She laughs then, a bit strained. "Since the first time I saw you. Couldn't take my eyes off you. Christ, I was so transparent. Look at you. Have you seen yourself?"
Aziraphale blinks, feeling quite suddenly and wholly unsteady on his feet. Something writhes in his chest, in his spine, something he doesn't fully understand, making him find the line of her jaw, cup her face. Give in to the naked desire to touch, to reach, finally. At last.
"I… I want you too," he finds himself saying, madly, rushed, all of him tight and ringing with greedy need. "You've been driving me out of my mind for months, now. Lord, Antonia… I wanted to ravish you, to—to have you, to make you mine—"
"I'm yours, always have been," Antonia rasps, and let's her hands fall at her sides, leaving the naked swell of her breasts exposed. Pink, pebbled nipples, and the beautiful, flushed curve of her chest heaving with each breath, the lacy cups of her brassiere now completely crooked and bunched out of the way. "Take me, fuck me, ruin me for anyone else. I want no one else but you."
A groan tears free from Aziraphale's throat, and it's as if whatever thing that had steered him until now fizzles out. He moves, finds her lips with his own, smearing her red lipstick, his fingers carding through the soft strands of her hair, cool and silky to the touch where it’s spilt on the sheets. She moans into his mouth, stifled, ragged sounds of pleasure, opening sweetly for the wet, urgent press of his tongue, clinging to the hard line of his shoulders, her body arching as if looking for more contact, more of him.
His own need, trapped and hard in his trousers, throbs and leaks when she guides his hands to her chest, to the flare of her ribs and up, to that vulnerable, tender place where her pale pink nipples are now tight buds.
"Please," she begs so softly, gasping noises of need pressed to Aziraphale's lips.
And he would never deny her when his desire for her is the only thing that makes sense in this moment. Sharp, deep, and strangely all-encompassing, tugging at his stomach, at his own heated skin. He drags his mouth down the angle of her jaw, bruising kisses along her neck, willing his body to behave, to prevent him from ruining this moment.
It's difficult with her squirming beneath him, scratching the thick flare of his arms over the cotton of his shirt, eager and loud in her pleasure, crying out when he sucks her nipples, tongue gliding along the skin.
"You've no idea how much I've wanted to do this," he groans, around a mouthful of her flesh, "the many times I've wanted to push aside those skimpy little things you wore and lick your nipples, feel them harden on my tongue."
She's breathing hard through her nose, her hips making lax, wide rolls and arching off the bed. He's not sure how much more he can take of this, of denying himself, seeing her flushed throat, her chest, all of her so tempting and inviting. The hard, hot shape of his trouser-clad cock rubs against her lush thigh, an insistent, pressing thing that urges him to madness.
His hand traces the angles of her stomach, and down, past the cliff of her hip bones, testing fingers rubbing along the damp, ruined lace between her legs hearing her soft whines. And suddenly he has to taste her, to feel her arousal, hot and wet on his tongue, smell the musk of her. Aziraphale settles himself between her legs, pushing her thighs farther apart, pressing his lips to the slick mess of her cunt over the lace, fingers digging into her skin.
"You're soaked," he breathes, words strained with eagerness, while he mouths and tongues at her folds over the cloth. "Were you thinking of me? Of what I could do to you?"
And he needs to hear her say it. It's nearly a demand.
"Ah! Yes," she says, a thready crack in her words, her hands grabbing folds of the wrinkled sheets, her long neck arched, "I thought about what I could do, ah, what I could say to make you come to me, to make you rip my knickers off and find how wet and dripping I was for you. For the idea of your fingers, of your cock breaching me, stretching me open– ah! You, pushing inside me, and how good would it feel, to be split open on you."
Aziraphale hums low, pulling the lace down and out of the way, watching, finally, the swollen, warm wetness of her smooth folds, glistening with her arousal, hearing her breathy sounds of surprised pleasure. Antonia's legs quiver when he pushes two fingers inside her, swiveling them, pulling in and out of her, where she's so very tight and hot, her cunt almost sucking them in. She's so wet, the squelch is loud in the room, the slick drenching his palm, his wrist, the edge of his shirt sleeve.
"So beautiful," he rasps out, breathless, watching the way the muscles of her stomach pull tight with every breath, her hips twitching, "I could eat you out for hours, make you come on my tongue for my enjoyment, writhe on my fingers… on my mouth. Would you like that?"
"Fuck. Fuck, yes, Aziraphale, please."
He noses at her folds, tongue parting her in a sweep, sucks hard on her swollen clit, rolling the slick of her arousal in his mouth. His fingers dig into the pale skin of Antonia's hip bones where he's holding her down, feeling her shift, quiver, even with Aziraphale's broad hands pinning her in place. She's whining, quiet little noises, his name muffled through bitten lips, clamping down on him, tight and desperate. That's all the encouragement he needs to keep eating her out until he can feel the spastic clench of her walls, her legs juddering, the way she comes gushing out over his chin, down his collar, and he knows his bow tie will be ruined but he couldn't care less.
"Aziraphale," she heaves, throat wrecked, "please, I need you."
He can't contain his need, his cock so hard the ache is unbearable, but a question rushes to his mind.
"I don't have a condom, I'm sorry, I don't–"
"It's alright," she whispers. "You can… like this. I haven't been with anyone in a long time."
"Me neither," he answers, because it seems like the time to be honest.
He moves swiftly, pulls his zipper down, pushing his trousers low with trembling, impatient movements sighing with relief when he draws out the hot and heavy weight of his cock, coating it with the slick of the orgasm he just wrung out of her. He squeezes it hard at the base to keep himself from coming in his pants.
Aziraphale's hands curl around her hips, thumbs fitting into their valleys, cockhead brushing along the slick mess of her. "Do you really want me? For me to stuff you full? To have you? To sate myself with your body?"
Antonia only nods, hips rocking, eager and brazen, as if trying to take him in. Aziraphale positions her thighs, pulling her down until the fat, blunt head of his cock is pressing hard against her wet, clenching cunt, the tip catching a little at the tight entrance.
And then he's pushing in.
They're perfect like this, Aziraphale's restraint hanging by a thread.
He breathes out a relieved, low moan when he breaches her, his thick cock parting her plump, reddened folds, stretching her on every inch he manages to work inside her, fucking his way in slowly. It's so tight, it gives him pause, makes him bite his lip, feeling her heat and the exquisite clench of her. He knows he isn't going to last long, and he'd be embarrassed if she wasn't already whining high, her body tensing, hips rolling, greedy to take him.
Antonia pulls him in deeper with her legs, breathing his name in a strangled moan, until he's fully seated inside her, his heavy balls nestled against the soft skin of her arse.
"Fuck, oh god, fuck, you're huge," she sobs, loud, scratching at his arms, wherever she can reach. "Use me, please, use me, fuck me. Please."
"Is that what you imagined?" he asks, his breath shaking out of him in broken bursts, dizzy from the scent of her sweat and her arousal. "Me, fucking you? Using your perfect, little cunt? Burying myself deep, stretching you open? Ruining you for any other? Lord, you're tight as a vise." And he can't stop himself from marking each question with a pointed rock of his hips. His trousers scrape and rub against Antonia's skin, and the collar of his shirt feels too tight, still. There's something filthy about having Antonia lying bare beneath him while he's still dressed up to his bow tie.
"Ah, fuck, yes!" Antonia whines. "Dreamt of it every night. You in me. Fucking my cunt, my arse, my face, anywhere you wanted. Leaving me a mess, marking me with your come. Ah, God."
Aziraphale shouldn't have asked. Her words send him tumbling too close to the edge.
It's too much, too many sensations on his skin, pressing on his heart, and he's shaking while he pulls back and pushes in. He lifts Antonia's legs by the back of her knees and drives in deeper, desperate, watching the way her breasts jolt under each of his thrusts. He crowds her against the mattress, against the sweat-damp sheets, kissing her again, biting her lips, swallowing the ragged, cracked moans she's giving. His hands slide across her smooth, cool skin before finding her wrist and pinning them over her head.
"Harder," she begs, strained, "ah, fuck, you've no idea how long I've wanted you to fuck me like this."
Aziraphale moans, presses a hand on the back of her thigh fucking up into her, deep and hard, and it's so very easy with the amount of wetness inside her, around his cock. Drenching the sheets.
"Look at you," Aziraphale groans, lost in the sight of her face, pounding away. "You're beautiful like this. Exquisite."
And she is. Her red lips kiss-swollen, golden eyes blown wide, gasping moans frothing up her throat every time Aziraphale stuffs her full of his cock. He can feel the writhing press at the base of his spine, urgent and rushed, and he draws his free hand between their bodies to press her clit, working it in tight, little circles. She comes with a raw sob, her legs quivering around his waist, clenching down on the stiff length of his cock and it's too much, more than Aziraphale can bear.
"May—may I?" It's a question that makes his already-flushed cheeks go red. Because it's so very intimate, what he's asking. A possessive part of him thrashes at the idea.
To spend inside her, to fill her full of his come, to mark her with it. His cock throbs, feeling her squirm on it, her walls fluttering around him with the aftershocks.
Antonia frees her hands, draws him in for a hungry kiss. "Fuck, yes, yes you fucking may, fill me, come in me—I want it all."
"Antonia," Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut and pumps her full of his spend with a shudder that wracks his spine. A groan scrapes his throat raw, his fingers pressing deep into the swell of her thigh. He fucks his load deeper, feeling himself spill and spill, thrusting in harder, finding the curve of her waist to ground himself from the orgasm that feels blinding, until his hips stop, pressed tightly to her skin.
"So much," she breathes, while he lets his forehead fall against her shoulder, kisses the overheated skin of her throat. "So much come, can feel it dripping..."
They're panting for air, Antonia's eyes fluttering, her hands tugging fistfuls of his shirt as if trying to draw him closer. Aziraphale feels his cock softening inside her, a trickle of spill pooling around his base, dribbling down her inner thighs.
"You're so beautiful," he breathes against her lips, kissing her, wishing he could stay forever trapped in her orbit. Cling to her warmth. "Thank you for this."
He doesn't want to go back to his flat, to his empty room with the tartan duvet on the cold bed and book-tiered shelves. Soho isn't far, and yet it feels as if it were a galaxy away. But he can't force his presence here any longer.
He's not sure what she wants from this. From him.
He moves as if to pull away, knowing he's already spent too much time dithering. "I, ah—" he clears his throat, bracing to let the words out. "I should go."
"Aziraphale you don't—you don't have to leave," she blurts out. The words are airy, and her hands are still clutching his arms, her long legs resting intertwined with his. "I mean—would you? S-stay, that is.
He looks at her and sees there's a gleam of fear in the depth of her pupils, in the whisper-thin lines around her slightly slanted smile. As if she thought him saying no, as if him leaving was possible.
As if she was expecting it.
And the realization is intolerable.
"Darling, I will stay as long as you'll have me. I’m sorry I even suggested otherwise, it was cowardly of me," he says, truthfully, because she deserves it. She deserves everything. "I'd like- I'd like to be at your side. Not only in your bed, but in your life, if that's something you'd be amenable to."
It's all worth it to see the way she smiles. Unbridled. So bright.
"I think I’d like that," she says, quiet, small. Shy, almost. "I think I'd like that a whole buggering lot."
He kisses her again, unmoored in the haze of having what his heart desired the most, but when he tries to pull away again, she angles her head, whispers in his ear.
"Y'know? That final shoot isn’t over."
Aziraphale blinks. "Beg your pardon?"
"You never took the last shot. I think you should."
"You should take a picture of me. Like this. For you. They're all for you, after all."
She can't be suggesting… The mere idea of it, makes Aziraphale's cock stir where it lays inside her.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah." Antonia angles her legs, lets him slip out of her. "I want it. I want to see the mess you left of me."
Mercy. This woman will kill him.
Aziraphale draws back from the bed, almost dizzy, tucks himself back into his trousers. He grabs the camera where it lies forgotten on the floor and steadies himself, focusing the lens on her.
On the debauched display she is. Flushed skin on black sheets, her long legs spread wide to offer him a good view of her well-used slit, puffy and glistening, one of her hands pinching a nipple. She looks at him with half lidded eyes, and red-bitten lips.
"Bet this makes for a better ‘composition’, doesn’t it?" she teases, slithering a hand between her legs, spreading her folds with two fingers.
Aziraphale knows he's not going to survive this night, watching the way his come spills out thick from Antonia's cunt; the way she clenches around air with a moan, forcing even more of his seed out of her.
"Minx," he groans, feeling himself begin to harden again, impossibly.
"Hurry up and come back to bed. It's cold without you."
Aziraphale snaps the shot, traps the moment in amber.