Aziraphale is caught, trapped between his own wide-eyed stare and Crowley’s rangy body pressing against him from behind. He shuts his eyes against the sight of his pleasure-struck face in the glass. His senses are overwhelmed; he can feel Crowley’s flesh, heated and lust-dampened, draped sinuously along the curve of his spine, a knee nudging assertively between his shaking thighs, pinning him against the low dresser.
The air is overly warm and sticky, heavy with midsummer humidity and the strange buzzing energy that comes with anticipation of a storm. The top of the dresser is cool under his hands, sturdy and unyielding as he braces himself and leans forwards heavily towards the wall-mounted mirror.
Crowley’s hands are spread across his naked chest and belly, holding Aziraphale securely against his own body. He feels Crowley nuzzle into his neck, his hair a silky cool slide against flushed skin, hears the demon breathe in deeply, then a flicker of a tongue tickles at the spot just below Aziraphale’s left ear.
“Mmm, you’re disappearing on me already, angel,” Crowley drawls in a low voice, the vibrations rumbling soothingly through the places where their bodies met. One of the hands moves up to pet at the back of Aziraphale’s neck, fluffing at his hair where sweat had left the curls darkened and wilting. A kiss is pressed to his nape, gently, then, “This alright?”
Aziraphale takes a deep breath, forces his muscles to relax, and opens himself to the pulses of love Crowley is putting off like shimmers of heat over hot pavement. He drops his head, wiggles happily in Crowley’s arms as he soaks up the flow of affection hungrily.
“Yes, darling, let’s continue. Please.” He feels Crowley pause, then a hand snakes across his front, reaching up to cradle his jaw. Firm pressure raises his head level, and he opens his eyes. He looks at Crowley this time, studies the way he grips Aziraphale protectively, pressed flush against him.
He can see only one of Crowley’s eyes as he sucks purpling kisses into the side of Aziraphale’s throat, the diffused starlight that fills the room making the iris glow like burnished copper, a harvest moon bouncing off the still surface of a fathomless black lake.
“It’s just us here. Stay with me, yeah?” Crowley’s voice is gentle now, his usually dynamic tenor even and almost hypnotic. Aziraphale inhales sharply, watches as Crowley lays soft kisses across his shoulder, in the crook of his neck, behind his ear. Crowley is observing his reactions in the mirror, serpentine eyes unblinking and utterly fixated. He nips at a patch of vulnerable flesh and Aziraphale moans, deep and tremulous, for a second unable to focus on anything but the physical sensations. Crowley’s hand rests at the base of his throat, the weight of it a grounding force.
His other hand brushes lightly across Aziraphale’s nipples, shooting bolts of heat towards his groin, before tracing a line down to his rounded belly. Aziraphale feels Crowley’s hand grasp the soft flesh over his pelvis, glances down to see long fingers dig into the padding there, forming hills and deep divots in the skin. Crowley makes a noise then, a husky groan of what Aziraphale knows by now is appreciation, and Aziraphale sees him grind forwards into the back of his thigh.
“Oh, angel, you feel so good. Can’t count how often I’ve gotten off just thinking about rubbing myself on these thighs,” he gives the flesh a firm squeeze, and Aziraphale whimpers.
“Just kneeling down and getting my face against your skin. Burying it in these plush, strong, thighs and breathing you in.” The words shoot a hot spark through Aziraphale’s belly, his knees going weak. Crowley is grinding against him steadily now, but keeping the pressure light and teasing.
He drops his hand from Aziraphale’s throat, fanning long fingers across the angel’s broad chest, still supporting his weight so they can maintain eye contact through the mirror. His other hand releases Aziraphale’s hip, skates softly across his stomach, moves lower. Aziraphale’s breath comes heavier now, his pulse skittering in apprehension as dull nails scritch through the wiry hair there.
He is hard, has been since Crowley stripped him naked, limbs fluid and seductive as he coaxed Aziraphale to lean against the dresser. Crowley’s hand is deliberately passing by the area straining for his touch, instead tracing a gentle hand down the angel’s inner thighs, the pads of his fingers lighting the nerves under the sensitive flesh there. His hands on the dresser flex in impatience, and a bitten-off groan escapes from his throat.
“Is this what you want, angel?” he whispers, the hot puff of breath against Aziraphale’s ear sending shivers all through him.
“Crowley…” Aziraphale huffs, patience waning, and he can see in the mirror how his eyebrows have knitted upwards in a silent plea.
“Hmm, not really an answer… would you like me to give you some options?” Crowley teases, but Aziraphale can hear the sincere offer behind the irreverence, and his face softens as he watches Crowley nuzzle into his neck.
“No, that… that won’t be necessary, my dear. I want…” he starts, but suddenly the world narrows a bit too quickly and the feeling of too much, of being carefully and lovingly flayed open washes back over him and he drops his eyes.
He notices something set on the otherwise bare dresser next to him, a flash of light glinting off mirrored lenses. Crowley’s sunglasses. He must have set them there while he was undressing Aziraphale. He was trying to leave them off more often these days; at least when it was just the two of them. Aziraphale nudges them a bit further away- he’s sure he nearly swiped them off the surface when he had first been encouraged against the dresser- and catches a familiar glimpse of his own face, slightly distorted due to the curvature of the lens.
Crowley’s hands are both on his chest now, supportive but not confining. The demon is clearly waiting for him to continue before attempting to advance. When the silence only lengthens, Crowley murmurs, “Let me take care of you.”
Aziraphale nods slowly, meeting Crowley’s intent gaze.
Then, the hands around his middle are gone, sweat abruptly evaporating and cooling his skin where exposed, and Crowley is sinking to the floor. Aziraphale can hear him adjust himself on his knees with a soft sigh, feels his strong hands as Crowley grasps the meat of his thighs and bites carefully at the crease where leg meets buttock. Aziraphale gasps and settles onto his forearms, widening his stance slightly to allow Crowley room. Crowley’s hands slide upwards, cupping Aziraphale’s ass with a gentle squeeze.
Aziraphale knows what’s coming; they’ve done this many times in the years since the averted apocalypse, though granted, he usually isn’t staring into his own reflected face, eyes foggy and pleading helplessly. He closes his eyes and asks for what he wants.
“Please, Crowley, your mouth on me…”
He can feel Crowley’s lips brush his cheeks, can feel the smile there. Crowley parts him and makes a hungry, needy sound. Then there is a tongue, broad and wet, laving thick stripes across him. Aziraphale scrabbles at the dresser, finding purchase by crooking his fingers behind the back. The wood there is rough and unfinished and it bites into the soft skin of his fingertips but he holds onto it tightly as hips rock back into Crowley’s face instinctively.
“Yes, oh yes, Crowley, please…” he babbles mindlessly. Crowley’s tongue is working at loosening the muscle there, tracing the edge and dipping in slightly until it relaxes, hands holding Aziraphale’s hips to keep him flush against his mouth.
He is dripping now, thinks he can hear his wetness hitting the floor in small splashes, a vulgar metronome counting the beats of Crowley’s voracious licking and consuming and groans on his every exhale. His own breaths are tinged with a high-pitched whine now, the dresser creaks where his fingers are clenching around it. His eyes open and are reflected back at him, and he is shocked to see the irises reduced to a thin ring of green limning lust-blown pupils. His cheeks are flushed pink, the rosiness traveling down his neck past his line of sight. His eyebrows are draws together, mouth slack around quickening pants.
He looks completely wrecked, nearly pornographic. It’s obscene. He moans brokenly.
Crowley is still on his knees, devouring him. Aziraphale knows Crowley will perform this act for hours if allowed; indeed, has done so on a number of occasions previously.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, clears his throat and returns to a more vertical alignment. “If you would, I’d like you inside me now.”
One more sloppy kiss and the tongue is gone, and Crowley asks, “Yeah?” His voice sounds raw and strained, and Aziraphale’s hips and thighs are being stroked again. Crowley’s palms are rough, calloused from hours of coaxing green life from rich soil, and the skin catches in the fine hairs that cover the tender flesh there.
Aziraphale glances behind him to catch Crowley’s eyes. The demon looks as rough as he sounded, crimson hair standing up in all directions like a wildfire. His eyes are glassy and unfocused.
Crowley’s lips quirk up at the corners and he stands, crowding up behind Aziraphale and resting his chin on his shoulder. They look at each other through the mirror, taking in their chaotic appearances.
“I love that we can do this to each other,” Crowley says, and his expression is oddly shy, a lovely spray of pink blossoming across his face. “That I can make you look like this.”
A delicious shiver wracks his body suddenly, and Aziraphale drops his gaze, peers at Crowley next to him through lowered eyelashes as warmth blooms in his chest. Craning his neck, he manages to brush a kiss onto Crowley’s warm cheekbone. This seems to break Crowley out of his reverie, and he growls, and pushes Aziraphale to bend over the dresser, one hand holding him just above the surface while the other spans his shoulder blades.
“Now,” he purrs, “I believe you wanted something from me? You want me inside you, angel?” He is standing between Aziraphale’s open legs, his own hardness settled between Aziraphale’s cheeks. His hips twitch, and the blunt head of Crowley’s erection slides over his opening, friction eased by pre-ejaculate and saliva and demonic lubricant.
Aziraphale nods frantically, eyes locked with Crowley’s through the glass. Crowley glances down, and Aziraphale watches as he positions himself and begins to push in.
In a practiced motion, Crowley is fully inside him, the sharp crests of his hips pressing into the softness of Aziraphale’s backside. Aziraphale gasps and reflexively shoots one hand to cover Crowley’s at his chest. Crowley breathes out shakily and long, cool fingers thread through his own.
They hold this position for a long moment, hold eye contact while their breath slows. The wind outside is picking up, sending a cool current in through the open window, caressing Aziraphale’s skin and carrying with it the delicately sweet scent of wisteria, still in bloom over their garden trellis despite the late month. His skin prickles in gooseflesh as Crowley strokes a few fingers along the length of his spine affectionately.
The pads of his fingers are rough, calloused over from laboring in the garden and greenhouse this past year, coaxing green life from rich soil. His yellow eyes are open and expressive in the mirror, and Aziraphale smiles softly.
“Hello, love,” he whispers, and Crowley grins, blows his reflection an air kiss. He knows Crowley is hesitating, waiting to see if Aziraphale will panic and bring the session to a halt. “Go on, dearest. I’m ready.”
Crowley inhales, begins to move slowly. Aziraphale sees his mouth drops open, features slack with pleasure as he finds a rhythm. Aziraphale’s nerves are lighting up; the pressure from where Crowley entered him is intense but manageable, the hand on his back tracing soothing lines across where his wings would emerge on another plane. He wraps his fingers around the unfinished edge of the dresser, feels the rough grain. The smell of wisteria is being overtaken by the scent of exertion: heady and addicting and so human. Crowley’s eyes gleam in the low light, hooded with desire but watchful.
“Oh, angel…” he moans. “You’re so…” But he doesn’t seem capable of finishing a thought, holding Aziraphale’s gaze with unblinking intensity.
Aziraphale shifts one foot, changing the angle of penetration by a degree. This time, when Crowley thrusts into him, he nudges against the bundle of nerves that sends sparks of pleasure radiating through his entire body, and he chokes out a groan, eyelids fluttering from the sensation. He sees Crowley shudder in the mirror, feels blunt fingernails drag across his chest, leaving hot welts on his pale skin. A clap of thunder sounds, sends vibrations rumbling through his bones.
“Ooh, yes, Crowley, like that, please,” Aziraphale breathes, and Crowley thrusts into him again, controlled and precise. “Darling, you’re so good to me.” Crowley whines sharply behind him but maintains his pace, rubbing over Aziraphale’s prostate on each measured withdrawal.
There is so much to feel now, and Aziraphale is tipping back into overstimulation. His panting has taken on a hysterical note as he tries to focus on Crowley’s lovely face, his expression a surprising blend of restrained ardor and attentive concern.
Crowley leans forward, winds both arms around Aziraphale’s ribcage, and pulls him flush against his lean chest. Aziraphale keens at the increased contact and tries to turn his head, wants to catch Crowley’s lips in a kiss but a hand is suddenly behind his head, threading through the dampened hair at the back of his skull and pulling tight. Aziraphale gasps in surprise as his toes curl reflexively, shuts his eyes tight against the pressure.
But the demon seems determined now, and drives deeper into Aziraphale with a growl. The hand firmly holds his head upright before the mirror, and Crowley hisses into his ear, “Open your eyes, angel, ssssee what you let me do to you.”
Aziraphale whimpers, but complies, transfixed by Crowley’s blown-out pupils. His heart is racing, his fingers are beginning to ache where they are now digging deep indents into the solid wood. There doesn’t seem to be enough oxygen reaching his brain, and the air he is swallowing desperately is thick and intimately heavy with Crowley’s scent, ozone at the back of his throat.
Crowley’s tongue darts out, tasting the air and tickling at his throat. “Look at the mirror, angel. Stay with me.” And his voice is gentler now, entreating. The angel knows he could stop this right now with one word.
Crowley would back away immediately and wrap him in a fluffy blanket, stuff him full of cocoa and sweets while they reminisce on the sofa, surrounded by pillars of leather-bound books and sweeping philodendron vines trained to grow along the ceiling, tendrils swirling along the exposed beams and weaving among shelves decorated with errata collected during shared travels. He could stop this right now and Crowley would quietly offer devoted patience and understanding, expecting nothing in return, same as he always has.
Aziraphale pulls his eyes to his own reflection, takes in the vivid red flush across his cheeks, his mouth a small “o” around panting breaths. His irises have all but vanished, swallowed by pupils so large and black he can almost make out a rough simulacrum of his face reflected in them. He blushes even further, eyelashes fluttering in embarrassment at his obvious arousal. His mouth is parched, and his tongue feels thick and sticky when he darts it across his lips in an attempt to ease their discomfort.
Crowley makes a pleased sound, coos into his ear, “Yesssss, angel, I want you to see. See how good we look together, how well we fit. Like you were made for me.” The hand is still at his skull, preventing him from tearing his eyes away from the sight in front of him.
He sobs wretchedly as Crowley drags against his prostate over and over, slow and methodical and deliberate. His own cock is dripping profusely, curved up against his belly and aching with neglect. But Crowley isn’t finished, continues pouring filth into Aziraphale’s ear, sending liquid heat spiking through his belly.
“Hmm,” he hums, “Do you see how fucking gorgeous you are, angel? You’re glowing. You’re always beautiful, but like this… positively ethereal, don’t you think?”
It’s too much, the onslaught of feeling untenable. Aziraphale’s brain is starting to fuzz at the edges, all the sensations coalescing within him and lighting up each nerve with intense stimulation. He’s going to have to tap out, close his eyes against the image in front of him before he shatters into a thousand pieces. He can see his resolve breaking in the mirror image and draws one hand up towards his face, wanting to shield his eyes from his lust-contorted features, wanting to hide the desperate yearning of his open mouth, hold back his broken sobs with a palm, but instead braces it flat against cool glass.
Crowley is watching him intently, his features tight with concentration and amber eyes burning hot as the sun. Suddenly, the hand in his hair releases, winds quickly around his shoulder to attach firmly under his jaw, fingers digging into the tender area of the hinge and shocking him back to awareness. His dazed face snaps into focus, tearstained and blotchy with exertion.
Crowley’s fervent stare finally breaks, and he turns his face into Aziraphale’s. His nose presses into Aziraphale’s cheekbone, lips grazing the shell of his ear. His voice comes out as a quiet murmur. “This is what we look like together, Aziraphale. This is what you look like when I’m fucking you.”
And there it is again, waves of affection and desire and security and love, rippling out and over him in a gentle torrent, a refuge in this unmistakeable acknowledgement of their actions.
He wavers on the cusp of shaking apart, suspended between completion or destruction. White light floods the room, a crack of thunder shaking the floor under his feet. Crowley’s eyes are closed against the light, and the dark crescent of his lashes is too delicate above lips that gasp shuddering breaths over Aziraphale’s cheeks.
The balance tips. Aziraphale comes.
A soft tinkling of water against glass draws his senses outwards. Rain is falling in the garden, the droplets pitter-pattering brightly on the roof of the greenhouse. The smell of petrichor invades his nostrils, earthy and familiar. Strong arms are holding him securely to a lithe body, crossing over his heart.
“Alright?” Crowley asks in a husky voice, eyes bright in the mirror. His face is slightly guarded, cautious, and Aziraphale’s heart trips and flutters with affection he is still adjusting to not needing to conceal.
Aziraphale tries to speak, rasps out a wordless noise. He swallows thickly, and his voice cracks slightly when he responds. “Tickety-boo, darling.”
Crowley laughs, and Aziraphale feels the tension in his arms lessen. A slight shift behind him, a feeling of loss, and then there is warmth trickling down his thighs. He turns to face Crowley, cradles the angular jaw in his hands lovingly. His expression has morphed into something painfully fond as he presses a soft kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth, forehead, eyelids. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, smoothing back the silky strands and coming to a rest over the short, velvety hair at his nape.
He pulls back and examines his face. “And you, love? How are you feeling?”
Crowley closes his eyes briefly and exhales through pursed lips. “I’ll be honest, I was starting to worry. Felt like I was losing you a couple of times. But you’ll tell me if I'm… if it's too much.”
Aziraphale nods. “You can trust me, Crowley,” he whispers, an ache in his chest. “I promise.”
He brings their faces together again, lets his sensitized lips brush Crowley’s lightly. Pleasure sparks where they meet and he lets his tongue slip out for a quick touch. Crowley’s lips part immediately on a quiet moan. Aziraphale draws his tongue carefully along the ridged roof of Crowley’s mouth, tracing the shape of his hard palate, and pulling the familiar taste of him, salt and smoke and fertile earth, back into his own mouth. With a sigh, Crowley melts into him, his body heavy and loose with satisfaction.
He moves away to lean down, searching through his discarded jacket for a handkerchief and gives a cursory wipe between his thighs. The front of the dresser receives the same treatment and he can feel his cheeks heat under Crowley’s gaze.
Aziraphale takes an afghan from the foot of the bed, knitted with rough-spun wool and purchased from a craft fair they happened upon during a recent trip into the nearby village, unfolds and wraps it around both their shoulders.
“Come, my dear. The Perseids will be at their peak tonight and I know how much you enjoy these meteor showers. I heard on the radio that it has been particularly spectacular this year, for some reason that physicists have yet to determine.” He looks at Crowley pointedly, watches his face break into a telling softness.
His cheeks are flushing pink. His eyes seem too large and exposed without the shield of tinted glass, and Aziraphale has a sudden pang of nostalgia as an image flashes suddenly in his mind. He thinks of the serpent on the wall in Eden, new and naive and trusting. Aziraphale’s core glows with the wild love flowing into him, it swirls and soothes within him before letting it echo back.
“The storm has passed. We’ll have an excellent view from the greenhouse.”
He reaches out for Crowley’s hand, intertwines their fingers, and leads them out of the cottage.