Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been over two months since he last saw Aziraphale. In the eternity he had lived, that was barely a ridiculous fraction of time. He had endured entire centuries without him, decades in which they had barely exchanged a word, years in which they had barely exchanged notes with a few words. But now that they were more than mere hereditary enemies, that the angel had become the center around which his entire existence orbited, two months was an unbearable sentence.

Molting season had caught him again, that time when his wings demanded attention, when the shedding of feathers left his skin burning with itch. An ancient instinct, inherited from before the Fall, compelled him to groom alone. Angels and demons alike had spent centuries tending their own wings without anyone’s help. The habit of doing it in solitude had become part of his nature and had intensified jealously after he and his brothers were exiled to the Abyss.

And yet, now he had Aziraphale. The very thought of having him near during this process, of feeling his hands touch where no one had ever touched, had made him stagger more than once. But pride outweighed the need for company, and Crowley had spent the past days holed up, scratching, polishing, plucking loose feathers until he felt ready to show himself to the world again—or rather, to someone in particular.

Finally, after a week of anxious itching and patience, he felt presentable. He left his lair with a mix of relief and anticipation, ready to return to the place where he always found peace: Aziraphale’s bookshop.

But when he opened the door, he was met with a chilling silence. The scent of old paper still permeated every corner, the shelves overflowed with piled-up volumes, but Aziraphale was not there. No note, no cup of tea on the windowsill or desk, no familiar sound of footsteps. Just the empty shop, as if the angel had vanished into thin air.

Crowley stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room behind his glasses, something in his chest beginning to ache, and the itch he had felt during molting transforming into a different pang. One that had nothing to do with feathers, but with the absence of someone indispensable.

Crowley searched the shop from top to bottom, calling his name in a tone that tried to sound casual, though the lump in his throat betrayed him. No response.

Then he felt the soft warmth, like the spark of a dying fire, barely emanating from the gallery, and noticed the door to the back room closed. He took a deep breath and could feel, hidden behind a miracle, the angelic presence of Aziraphale there. Accustomed to moving freely in any room of the shop, he turned the doorknob, but it was locked from the inside. He snapped his fingers, but to his annoyance, nothing happened. Not even one of his miracles could open it.

And yet, there it was—the unmistakable vibration of divine grace, a faint warmth in the air that made his skin tingle. Aziraphale was inside, silent, as if trying to be invisible. Crowley rested his knuckles against the wood and inhaled deeply before speaking.

“Angel…” His voice came out softer than expected. “May I come in?”

There was a dense silence, broken only by what could have been a sigh on the other side. Seconds passed that felt eternal until, with a faint click, the lock yielded.

Crowley opened the door cautiously. Darkness enveloped him immediately, thick and scented with a strange aroma: it wasn’t incense, it wasn’t tea, but something more intimate, belonging to the ether.

Feathers.

Feathers were scattered across the floor, white and opalescent, strewn like an impossible trail to ignore. Some small ones still floated in the air, shimmering in the little light that filtered through the crack.

His snake-like eyes adjusted quickly, and then he saw Aziraphale. He was sitting in the center of the room with bare shoulders, his coat, vest, bow tie, and shirt folded on a piece of furniture in the corner. His wings rose behind him, open and disheveled, each feather bristling as if it had been struggling against his own body. His fingers were stained with tiny loose feathers and traces of ichor—his own blood, remnants of the way he had tended that part of his body.

Aziraphale was breathing in short gasps, his face flushed. He refused to look at him directly. He looked pained, small, and embarrassed.

Crowley swallowed. Something tightened in his chest: tenderness, desire, and that pang of vulnerability that only Aziraphale could provoke in him.

“’Ziraphale…” he said, this time almost in a whisper. “Are you… molting?”

Aziraphale didn’t raise his gaze immediately. He just closed his eyes, blushing, his wings trembling as if trying to fold themselves away to hide.

Crowley stepped forward, the crunch of feathers under his boots filling the silence.

“Let me help you.”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably on the floor, his wings trembling open behind him. He glanced up for a moment, and Crowley caught the expression in his eyes—it was pure shame.

“No… don’t look at me like that,” murmured the angel, trying to cover himself with the rumpled coat at his side. “I’m… in such an indecent state… I must be a pitiful sight to behold… like this…”

Crowley shook his head slowly, stepping closer among the scattered feathers.

“Like this?” His voice was soft, low, as if afraid his tone might scare Aziraphale. “As if you were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in all my damned centuries?”

Aziraphale tried to stand to dress himself, but Crowley stopped him with a firm hand on his wrist. There was no force, only calming warmth.

“Shh, angel. Don’t. Don’t hide this from me.”

The blush on his cheeks deepened, but he didn’t turn away. Crowley leaned in and, with a patience he rarely allowed himself, brushed his lips against his temple, then his cheek, until he reached the corner of his mouth. Soft, brief kisses, like promises of something more.

“Let me take care of you. Just this once,” he whispered against his skin.
“That won’t be necessary, I—”
“Please,” Crowley said, caressing his face. “I’ll be gentle.”

With a flick, he slipped out of his jacket, letting it fall over a chair, and rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt to his elbows. Then, with a miraculous snap, he shut the blinds of the room, plunging them into a conspiratorial twilight. Candles bloomed into existence, their warm glow cutting through the shadows, and from one of the most decadent parlors of Sloth’s circle, a plush divan materialized in the middle of the room.

Crowley guided him toward it with delicate insistence, ignoring Aziraphale’s nervous protest as he tried to cover himself again with his crumpled shirt.
“No, angel. Leave it. Trust me.”

And Aziraphale, blushing furiously, allowed himself to be led. He lay back on the divan, wings unfurled to either side, breath quick and shallow.

Crowley knelt beside him, and his hands—so accustomed to mischief—moved with a tenderness that surprised both himself and his angel. He began working along the base of the wings, setting each feather in order with reverent precision. Between his fingers, every plume smoothed, every strand of softness yielded to his touch.

The angel let out a faint gasp, a mix of discomfort and a pleasure that startled him. His wings trembled, sensitive to every brush.
“Crowley…” His voice was fragile, pleading, but he didn’t stop him. “I’m not used to this…”

Crowley smiled, leaning closer, his voice low as a secret.
“That’s it. Let me make you feel good.”

His hands kept caressing, tending, smoothing each quill with adoration. Then Crowley’s lips lowered to the curve of his shoulder, pressing a kiss where skin met feather, and the angel arched instinctively. The demon smiled against his flesh, satisfied.

There was no rush. Only slow, intimate touch. Crowley never tired of looking at those wings. Now, open and trembling before him, they seemed more vulnerable than ever. Silver-white plumes covered his fingers, floated in the air like snowflakes caught in candlelight.

Aziraphale tried to hide in shadow, but he couldn’t. His body betrayed him: the tension in his shoulders, the grip of his hands on the pillow, the burning flush of his cheeks.
“My dear boy… please…” he begged softly, shame in his voice when he turned and met Crowley’s dilated gaze fixed on his pale skin.

Crowley smiled slowly, with that warm malice reserved only for him.
“You are the most fucking beautiful thing that’s ever existed.”

The angel squeezed his eyes shut, as if to deny the obvious. He reached for the wrinkled shirt draped over the chair, but Crowley stopped him, gently catching his wrist.
“Shh… don’t hide from me, angel.” He kissed his temple, his cheek, then the corner of his lips. “Let me do this for you.”

His fingers began at the base of the left wing, removing every broken quill with precision, caressing the shaft, combing through the down with patient devotion. His other hand slid slowly down the angel’s back, to his waist, that soft curve that always made him smile with hungry delight.

“Your plumage is a mess, angel…” he whispered hoarsely, dragging his tongue across the junction of wing and shoulder. “But what a delicious mess it is.”

Aziraphale gasped, clutching the pillow desperately under his face. He hadn’t expected Crowley to lick him while preening his wings.

Moans slipped out without permission, muffled, shameless, each one louder than the last.
“Crowley…” His voice broke into pleading. “It’s… embarrassing… please…”

The demon chuckled softly, his breath hot along his neck.
“Embarrassing? And yet you can’t stop moaning. Listen to yourself, angel.”

His lips descended along his neck, then his back, tasting the sweat-slick skin while his fingers massaged the bony base of each wing, where muscle fused with sensitive down. Aziraphale arched violently, a broken sound escaping into the pillow.

Crowley gripped his waist tighter, leaning over him, his voice a sweet venom in his ear.
“You shiver at every touch… do you know what that does to me? Makes me want to spend the whole night between your wings, until you’re undone.”

The angel panted, trembled, clutching the pillow so hard his knuckles turned white.
“Crowley… no… please, stop… if you keep going… I’ll…”

“You’re going to come just from me touching your wings?” Crowley drawled with a wicked smile in his voice. “I want to see you do it, I want to hold your wings while I fuck you deep, just like this…”

But Crowley didn’t stop. He kept whispering filthy, adoring words, feather by feather, smoothing every inch with devotion, while his other hand claimed Aziraphale’s waist and the plush curve of his arse through his khaki trousers. The angel’s voice cracked with sounds of pleasure.

And then, with a strangled cry, Aziraphale lost control. His whole body shuddered beneath him, and the damp heat gave him away. The angel came in his trousers, soaking the fabric as he moaned shamelessly into the pillow.

Shame hit him immediately. He buried his face, breathless, panting as if he’d run a marathon.
“Oh, heavens…” he murmured, voice raw with humiliation.

Crowley, on the other hand, never stopped smiling. He kissed his flushed cheek with venomous tenderness.
“Shhh, it’s all right, angel. Just a little ‘accident.’” His voice dropped, deep and sensual. “And believe me, it was beautiful.”

With an elegant snap, the mess on the fabric vanished. No trace, no stain, no scent. Only the angel’s still-sensitive skin under his hands, and the ragged breathing that filled the room.
“Your wings are ready… as soft and flawless as the day they were created.”

Aziraphale rose carefully, inspecting his wings in detail. Crowley’s meticulous work was simply perfect.
“Darling, they look perfect…” With a sigh, he banished his angelic appendages back into the ether, restored from his release and free of the torment of molting. He pressed a languid, grateful kiss to Crowley’s lips. “How could I ever thank you?”

Crowley rested his forehead against his, murmuring almost like a purr.
“Next time, let’s molt together,” he said with a dangerous smile. “I’d love to watch you come apart in my hands again.”

Chapter Text

Crowley was exhausted. Not from work or from the endless year-end meetings, but from the desperate and ridiculous dilemma he had gotten himself into: he had no date for his sister Sharon’s wedding—Shax, as she insisted on being called—to the dull bureaucrat Furian Furwell, if one was masochistic enough to pronounce his full name. Crowley would never stoop that low, not even for civility or social survival. To him, it was simply Furfur, someone deranged enough to commit to spending an entire lifetime with Shax.

After his scandalous breakup with Lucian—who had dumped him with the cutting remark that Crowley was “an emotionally dependent man who moved too fast”—all his options had evaporated. Friends, coworkers, even the occasional casual fling: everyone had excuses, prior commitments, or, at worst, scolded him for the short notice. And the wedding was only two weeks away, right in the middle of Christmas holidays.

There he was, sunk into the luxurious armchair of his private fitting room at Heavenly Threads, the most exclusive groom’s boutique in the city, a glass of overpriced champagne in hand, savoring the fizz as if it could drown his despair. Three months earlier, he had ordered a tailor-made suit—entirely black with crimson details—and now he only hoped it would be ready in time.

The sound of footsteps made him lift his gaze just as the sparkling liquid began to go to his head. A mellifluous voice, too clear and melodious to belong to his usual tailor, broke the silence:

“Apologies for the delay, Mr… Crowley.” The voice said his name as if reading it off a clipboard.

Crowley choked slightly on the champagne, bubbles frothing at his lips. He turned, half incredulous, and found himself staring at a vision that sent his heart racing for no apparent reason.

Standing before him was a divine apparition—immaculate yet at ease—in a set of tan trousers and vest that contrasted perfectly with a sky-blue shirt, bringing out eyes of such piercing blue that Crowley felt a tingle shoot straight to his stomach. His skin was pale as parchment, his lips full, his cheeks round and softly flushed. And crowning it all, a head of pale blond curls that, under the chandelier’s light, looked like a floating halo above him.

Crowley could barely form words.

“I… uh… who are you?”

The man smiled—a gesture that seemed to light up the entire room.

“Mr. Young is at his son’s birthday,” he said with a calmness that sounded deliberately rehearsed just to unsettle Crowley. “I’ll be your tailor for today’s appointment. I’m Mr. Fell. But don’t worry—you can trust my skills.”

Crowley swallowed hard and leaned back into the armchair, taking in every detail. The way he moved, the way the light caught in the curls of his hair, the utter softness of his gestures, the apparent double meaning in his words… everything was a challenge to Crowley’s composure.

“Perfect,” he said at last, his voice thinner and less confident than he wished. “Then… let’s see if you can save me from the humiliation of showing up to that wedding looking a disaster.”

The blond stepped closer, resting his hands on his tan vest, his pale, plump fingers brushing the fabric lightly, as if testing its texture before handling it.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Crowley. Just be sure to relax and enjoy the experience. Trust me.”

Crowley arched a brow, feeling heat rise in his cheeks, though he wasn’t sure if it came from the warmth of the room or from the unsettling effect this angel—or blond man—was having on him.

“Enjoy?” he repeated, tilting his head in feigned disdain. “Sounds dangerous.”

Fell chuckled softly, a light, musical sound that filled the room.

“There won’t be any accidents with pins or sharp objects… unless you allow it.”

Crowley drew in a deep breath and leaned back further, letting himself, for the first time in a long while, be tempted by the prospect of being cared for while basking in the not-so-subtle flirtation of the beautiful tailor.

From inside what looked like a pocket watch dangling from his vest, the blond pulled out a measuring tape—silver and gleaming—with a delicate little click. Crowley hardly breathed as he stepped into his personal space, gesturing for him to stand. His body obeyed before his mind caught up. The tape moved in expert hands, beginning at his shoulders, brushing skin beneath the shirt. A decadent shiver ran down Crowley’s spine, and he couldn’t help but hunch slightly, feeling both irritated and—surprisingly—excited.

The blond seemed to notice, for he arched an eyebrow ever so slightly and smiled with a mix of calm and playful charm.

“Please, Mr. Crowley,” he murmured, his voice a thread of velvet. “Stay perfectly still…”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Crowley retorted, trying to sound annoyed, though his tone betrayed just how undone he really was inside.

“I don’t think so, my dear sir…” the blond replied, sliding the tape down Crowley’s spine, his fingers brushing every vertebra, every curve of his back with pressure that felt excessive, stealing the air from his lungs—but in a way he welcomed completely.

When Fell’s fingers reached the small of his back, Crowley barely stifled a gasp. The hand settled fully there, on that exact spot that made him pant like a wanton bitch. And it was a hand truly warm and firm, radiating something he couldn’t quite define: authority, intimacy, the promise of something more. Every touch felt like a slow fire consuming him, and for a moment he feared he would lose control entirely.

Soft footsteps in the hallway alerted them. Fell stepped back gracefully and walked calmly toward the sound, composure unbroken. Crowley, however, pulled away as if he’d been burned, secretly wishing the blond’s hand hadn’t left his back.

By the time Fell reached for the door handle, Crowley was already back in the armchair, striking his best disinterested pose and pretending to sip from his empty glass.

The door opened, and a young woman appeared, dressed in a suit matching Fell’s. She smiled kindly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and held a plastic garment bag in her hands.

“Hello, hello, hello!” she greeted, trying to sound cheerful. “The custom-made suit for Mr. Anthony Jacob Crowley, pressed and ready as requested, Mr. Fell.”

“Thank you very much, dear Muriel,” Fell said with such warmth that Crowley forgot to breathe for a second. “And lock the door behind you, won’t you? I’d hate to prick our client with a pin due to an unexpected interruption, as happened to poor Uriel last week, hmm?”

“Of course not. I do hope everything is to your liking, Mr. Crowley,” the girl replied, shutting the door and securing the latch, leaving them alone once more.

“It will be, darling,” Fell murmured, his gaze returning to Crowley with an intensity that made his chest tighten. “I’ll make sure of it…”

Crowley leaned back in the armchair, trying to compose himself, but couldn’t stop his mind and body from interpreting every word and look as a dangerous yet delicious invitation. His pulse quickened, and a heat both uncomfortable and thrilling gathered where his legs met. No matter how much he tried to deny it, even his own body betrayed him, dampening his expensive underwear. There was something about that blond tailor—his voice, his gaze—that left him completely disarmed.

“Please stand up, Mr. Crowley,” Fell requested, his tone so polite it seemed innocent, though his eyes gleamed with something that said otherwise.

Crowley obeyed, clumsily straightening before the blond. Fell raised the measuring tape and stepped so close their faces were only inches apart. Crowley could feel the tailor’s breath—fresh and sweet—brushing against his skin. He tensed, suppressing a shiver.

Fell smirked faintly, mischievous, as if savoring every second of his discomfort. He slipped the tape around Crowley’s chest, tightening it firmly, forcing him to draw in a deeper breath than usual. His hands lingered longer than necessary, sliding over the fabric of his shirt.

“Perfect,” he murmured, though he didn’t seem to be talking about the numbers.

Crowley bit his tongue, heat flooding his face. He had no time to recover before, to his horrified arousal, Fell knelt in front of him.

“Now spread your legs,” he announced with casual ease, though a playful edge colored his voice.

Crowley clenched his fists at his sides, watching the tape slide down—past his thigh, the crease of his knee, his calf… Fell worked with precision, but with an unsettling calm, as if he knew each touch sent sparks racing under Crowley’s skin.

And then, without giving him a moment’s breath, the tape slid toward his crotch. Fell never looked away from Crowley’s eyes as he did it. He held his gaze even through the redhead’s dark glasses, a sinful smile curving his lips.

Crowley felt the blood rush straight to the wrong place. His growing erection strained shamelessly against the seams of his trousers, impossible to hide with the blond so close.

“Very well,” Fell said softly, gathering the tape with provoking slowness.

He rose with elegance and took the garment bag Muriel had left hanging, offering it to Crowley with both hands.

“Please, try on the suit so we can make the final adjustments.”

Crowley only managed a nod. He snatched the bag and strode quickly into the private fitting room, shutting the door behind him. He collapsed against it, back pressed to the wood, tugging at his collar as if suffocating. His heart hammered violently in his chest, the warmth of Fell’s hand still imprinted on his body like a brand.

“Fuck…” he whispered under his breath, knowing he was lost.

It took Crowley longer than it should have to slip into the suit. The fabric draped flawlessly, fitting as though it had been created just for him—which, technically, it had. But as he looked in the mirror, something in his expression twisted. The jacket’s lining wasn’t the deep burgundy he had requested, but a navy and crimson tartan, a discreet pattern yet clearly visible when he parted the tails. The same detail appeared on the trouser’s front pocket, a subtle, elegant accent… and completely alien to his style.

He cursed under his breath, raking his fingers through his hair and leaving rebellious strands out of place. He shrugged on the jacket reluctantly, buttoned badly, and stepped out of the fitting room without glasses or shoes, the offensive lining flashing like a taunt. A complete mess.

“This isn’t what I ordered,” he demanded, his voice rougher than usual. “There’s no tartan in my suit. There never was. There won’t be. I didn’t pay for this.”

Unruffled, Fell took the clipboard and reviewed it with a serious expression. Then he looked up with a smile that managed to be both angelic and utterly bastardly.

“Well… the specifications of your suit are clearly described here, and our seamstresses followed them to the letter. According to the bride—Miss, or rather soon-to-be Mrs. Sharon Crowley…” He lingered on the word as if relishing its effect. “She requested the family tartan to be included in the groom’s, groomsmen’s, and bridesmaids’ details… And besides… this is your signature, isn’t it?”

Crowley glared at the scrawl on the paper and recognized, with impotent fury, that it was indeed his. He growled through clenched teeth, while the blond watched him with far too much satisfaction. And, to his misfortune, every curve of that smile only made his trousers tighten further.

“If you’ll allow me…” Fell stepped forward, his voice low, velvety. “The suit looks better this way. The tartan is elegant and, if you’ll permit me… it suits you very well.”

Without waiting any longer, he began to adjust the suit on Crowley’s body. With sure hands, he tugged gently at the lapel, smoothed the jacket over his shoulders, lifted the collar of the shirt to settle it neatly around his throat, and then slid his fingers with precision to center the tie. Each touch was firm, yet far too intimate, as though he was indulging in the contact.

Crowley was breathing unevenly, heat climbing up his neck to his cheeks, and he couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or the intoxicating nearness of the tailor.

And suddenly the blond was on his knees, carefully smoothing the hem of his trousers. The feel of his hands gliding over the fabric, so close to his skin, was the hottest thing he’d experienced in a very, very long time. His cock certainly agreed, judging by how hard it was.

“Ngk…” was all Crowley managed to articulate, eloquent as ever.

Fell lifted his gaze from the hem, pale lashes framing his blue eyes, and looked directly at him with brazen boldness.

“Is something bothering you?” he asked with calculated calm, still on his knees before him.

Crowley tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. Fell’s gaze had dropped, shamelessly fixed on the erection straining against his trousers.
“I—I think…” Crowley croaked, tugging at his collar for air, “the trousers are a little too tight… even for my personal taste.”

The blond smiled.

Fell didn’t smooth the fabric as Crowley expected. Instead, with deliberate ease, he unbuttoned the trousers and pulled them down efficiently to his ankles, underwear and all, as though it were just another part of the inspection.

The redhead’s breath caught instantly; the world seemed to collapse into that single moment—the rush of air across his exposed skin, the jolt of his cock freed, the fleeting brush of expert fingers at his calves, touching him with forbidden familiarity.

The blond said nothing, but his silence spoke louder than any word. The air between them grew heavy, charged with anticipation. A shiver raced down Crowley’s spine like lightning, a reverent heat that made him tremble from head to toe the instant Fell’s plush lips kissed his cock.

The first sensation was devastating: as if his whole body had ignited from the center outward. The pressure, the heat, the wetness, all of it wrapped him in a trance of disbelief and pleasure. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to pull away or surrender completely. The contrast between shame and delight made him arch his back, letting out a broken gasp, as if all resistance crumbled under the tailor’s hands and mouth.

Time lost shape. There was nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing and the overwhelming sensation dragging him into a chasm of euphoria. Fell devoured him like a feast of prime ribs, taking him entirely into the heat of his mouth, all the way down to the hilt, burying his adorable nose in Crowley’s pubic curls.

His heart pounded wildly, every second stretching into eternity.
The tailor made the most pornographic sounds Crowley had ever heard. Such was his skill that he could give him a flawless deep throat without gagging, never breaking eye contact.

“M-Mr. Fell… for God—Satan—whoever… if you don’t stop I’m going to fill that elegant little m-mouth…”

Then the tailor blinked sweetly, holding his hips firmly with soft hands, and gave a flutter of his tongue that made Crowley curl his toes and roll his eyes back. When climax finally overtook him, the orgasm wracked him with such intensity it left him panting, undone, trembling helplessly from head to toe.

Fell, with the same composure with which he had begun, pulled the trousers back into place, hiding every trace beneath the fabric, as though what had just happened was a sacred secret. With Crowley’s cock spent and softened after release, he was able to button the trousers with a fit now utterly perfect.

“Are you satisfied with my work, Mr. Crowley?” he asked, barely a low murmur, heavy with complicity. Rising with his usual elegance, he gave him his best angelic smile.

Crowley, chest still heaving, managed a nod, though he could hardly trust his voice. The blond leaned in to brush away an imaginary speck from Crowley’s tie, as though nothing had occurred, and then looked him in the eye once more.

“And the trousers… do you feel comfortable now?”

“Yes,” Crowley replied in a thin voice, his gaze still clouded with desire. “Yes… I’m satisfied.”

A silence pulsed with uncertainty. Then, with the faintest hint of a nervous smile, Crowley added:

“But… I have a question.”

Fell arched a brow, curious.

“And what would that be?”

Crowley wet his lips, swallowed, and fixed him with a wolfish grin.

“Do you have any plans for the Christmas holidays?”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale remembered with absolute clarity the moment he realized Crowley was different from anyone else. It wasn’t in class or in the hallways of the university, but in their room, when he had succumbed to panic so deeply that he was crying, drowning in the worst kind of anguish. And then Crowley had dried his tears with the back of his hand and taken his laptop for a couple of hours. When he came back with the device, he told him with a satisfied smile that he knew someone in the IT department who owed him a favor—and when Aziraphale searched for the documents he’d thought were lost forever, there they were, completely safe. Crowley had saved his semester report from an internet virus bearing a swastika logo. The poor English literature student had nearly lost weeks of work for downloading a pirated version of Pride and Prejudice.
Crowley not only rescued every word, but also the hope in his roommate’s eyes.
Something had kindled in Aziraphale’s chest that day.

Crowley swore he had fallen for him much earlier—just a few days after they’d met—when he found Aziraphale standing at a bus stop under a gloomy gray rain, and watched him hand over his umbrella to a pregnant girl he didn’t even know, soaking himself completely.

“What are you doing here, you fool?” Aziraphale grumbled when he saw Crowley under the rain, staring at him as if he’d just saved someone from a car crash.

“Where’s your umbrella? You left with one—it was white and it covered you like no other.” Of course Crowley knew exactly what Aziraphale had done; he just wanted to hear it from him.

“I gave it away…” Aziraphale muttered before walking off, drenched from head to toe, looking faintly embarrassed.

“You what?”

“I gave it away,” Aziraphale said louder, stricken, and to Crowley’s dismay, he removed his trench coat. “It’s cold, it’s pouring rain, and she’s pregnant… she and the baby could get sick…”

Aziraphale covered them both with his coat. Right there, under the fabric that had once protected him, Crowley realized he had never been so in love with anyone as he was with Aziraphale in that very moment.

They had met as simple college roommates. Sharing a cramped dorm had seemed like a sentence at first, but over time—between late-night coffees and hot chocolates, muffled laughter under the blanket, and debates over trivialities—friendship had blossomed. The shift to lovers had been natural, almost imperceptible: a brush of hands, a stolen kiss, the certainty that there was no turning back.

But that didn’t mean everything was easy, or happy.

From the start, Crowley had always slept too much. At first, Aziraphale thought it was just laziness, that carefully cultivated air of indifference the other wore like a second skin. But the day Crowley collapsed on his desk in the middle of an exam, and later nearly fell asleep in a lab with the burners still on, the worry became serious.

As with everything important to him, Crowley dismissed it with a flick of the hand and went about his day.

The car accident was the final straw. Just a few seconds with his eyes closed at a stoplight and everything went black. It didn’t end badly, but after the medical tests came the diagnosis: narcolepsy with cataplexy. A name that sounded like a sentence to Crowley, and that to Aziraphale was simply another reason to stay closer to him.

He learned to recognize the signs: Crowley’s voice dragging more than usual, the tense muscles before an attack, the bright laughter that sometimes vanished out of nowhere and then sent him crumpling into his arms.

Aziraphale also learned to handle the tears—the afternoons when Crowley fell apart because he couldn’t stay awake in class, because he missed his bus stop, because some professor accused him of laziness or incompetence.

“The stars are not for those who fall asleep in my class, Mr. Crowley. Come back when you’re a contribution, or don’t come back at all.”

Aziraphale never considered him a burden. He held him firmly, reminded him every day that he was not lesser for dozing off in the library, nor less valuable for missing a date because of his own body. And every time he found him napping in improbable places—on crumpled notes, on a campus bench, over his lunch in the cafeteria, or even mid-conversation—he was overcome with a tenderness that almost hurt.

One night, Crowley apologized in a broken voice for “forcing him to carry him.” He hinted that they should break up, that it was best for “his angel.”

Aziraphale hugged him so tightly they could barely breathe and answered with the only truth he knew.
“I’m not carrying you, my love. I’m walking by your side.”

“One day you’ll get tired of dealing with me. I’m a burden… you need a partner who supports you, who adds to your life… not someone like me…”

And in that messy room on a faraway college campus, far from both their families, surrounded by mugs of cold coffee and half-open books, Aziraphale understood that caring for him wasn’t a duty. It was a privilege. He held Crowley—the redhead’s body sprawled across his lap—as tears streamed down his face and his arms stayed limp because his brain didn’t work like everyone else’s.

There was a song at the back of Aziraphale’s throat, and though he was no singer, he tried.

“All I ever wanted… All I ever needed… is here in my arms…”

That night, the kisses were soft at first, as if neither of them wanted to rush anything. Aziraphale had him on top of him, the warm, delicious weight of Crowley sinking into his chest. The thin redhead’s tongue traced a wet path down his throat while his hands—always big and trembling—wandered over his hips.

Crowley felt that his anchor to the earth was Aziraphale’s soft skin, pressing into that tender, delicious flesh that somehow hid so much strength and heat. He kissed every stretch of pale skin he could reach, slicked his fingers eagerly with the lube they kept beside the lamp that had once belonged to Aziraphale’s grandmother. And as if he wanted to prove he, too, could be painstakingly careful, Crowley opened Aziraphale up for long, endless minutes, stealing gasps of pleasure from him, making him writhe against the sheets until he was absolutely certain he was ready to receive him.

Aziraphale let out a low moan when Crowley pushed inside, with that mix of clumsiness and reverence that always undid him. Every thrust was slow, deep, as if he wanted to memorize the exact way they fit together. Aziraphale arched his back, hooking his legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing no space at all between them.

Sweat pearled on Crowley’s brow, dripping in warm drops that Aziraphale caught with clumsy kisses. Red hair clung to his face in messy strands, the rest falling across his eyes and keeping him from fully seeing the panting figure of his Aziraphale. The lamp’s warm but faint light didn’t help much, and still, he was so beautiful it hurt.

The rhythm grew more intense, every thrust tearing broken gasps and moans from Aziraphale’s throat, filling the cramped room and driving Crowley mad like nothing else in the world.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley whispered against his ear, his voice ragged, laden with desire and devotion.

His angel trembled beneath him, fingers digging into his back, feeling each muscle contract, each shiver shoot down his spine. There was something reverent in the way Crowley loved him, as if the physical act itself were a prayer made flesh, and he was the idol being worshiped on the altar of the bed they shared.

Crowley murmured his name with devotion between moans, growled possessively about how he would never let him go, how he would dedicate his days to making him the happiest soul that had ever lived—and each thrust seemed to etch his feelings into stone. Aziraphale arched his back, letting himself be lost in that whirlwind, right there on the brink of climax, certain that he had never loved anyone as much as he loved Crowley in that moment and the moments to come.

But then, in an almost imperceptible instant, the rhythm faltered. The thrusts slowed, then stopped entirely. Crowley let out a rough sigh and collapsed on top of him, still buried deep inside, face pressed against Aziraphale’s neck.

It took Aziraphale a second to understand.
“Crowley…” he murmured, shifting a little under his weight.

No answer. The other’s breathing was heavy, deep, unmistakable—until a small, adorable snore filled the silence. Crowley had fallen asleep halfway through, right on top of him.

Anyone else might have been frustrated, but Aziraphale only felt tenderness. He wrapped his arms around him, stroking his damp back, tracing the curve of his shoulder blades and the line of his spine with gentle fingers. The warmth of his body was a reminder that he was alive, trusting him even in this state of absolute vulnerability.

He kissed his temple, breathing in the scent of sweat and desire still clinging to his skin, shifted him carefully, easing them apart where they still remained slick and joined. Then he closed his eyes as well, cradling him close.

Because he understood: Crowley would never stop having those stolen dreams, those moments ripped suddenly from wakefulness. They would follow him to the end of his days. But Aziraphale would never stop holding him, whether it was in the middle of the street, on a bus, or here, tangled and naked, caught halfway to climax.

And as he held him, still joined in body, Aziraphale knew he wouldn’t change a thing. Not the frustrations, not the sudden collapses, not even this unfinished instant.

Because loving Crowley freely—awake or asleep—was the sweetest dream of all.

Chapter Text

I have been sent beyond the lands that the men of the Old World call “known”. After weeks of travel, my feet have finally touched what the natives call Anáhuac, the vast highlands where it is said that peoples flourish among sacred lakes and mountains. The air here is different: lighter on the summits, nearly suffocating in the humid valleys, and filled with the scent of corn, smoke, and unknown flowers. Everything seems alive, alert, as if the land itself were guarding secrets it is not yet ready to share with me.

The heavenly report was clear: a pagan deity rises in these regions, a being the warriors call the “Feathered Serpent.” They claim it teaches men the arts of cultivation, of weaving, even the reading of the stars. Yet along with these marvels come troubling rumors—human sacrifices offered atop temples, nocturnal chants that exalt its name, still-beating hearts raised to the sky as offerings. The scribes of the Court recorded this growth with alarm, and so I was assigned the task of verifying the truth.

I confess my spirit wavers. What kind of demon would disguise itself as a benefactor, wrapped in feathers and wisdom, only to drag so many souls into deception? And yet, I cannot help a pang of doubt: the myth is too refined, too filled with symbols of creation and order, to be mere diabolic deceit. I fear that when I reach the heart of this jungle, I may not find simple idolatry… but a power far older than I can imagine.

Tomorrow I will journey to the temples that rise in white stone above the jungle. Tonight, I write by the light of a campfire in a village that claims to have been blessed by the creature. I have promised the villagers that I shall return soon with answers, but in my heart I know it may be long before I come back. And as the sound of a reed flute drifts through the distance, accompanied by drums that seem to echo the heartbeat of the earth itself, I feel my hands trembling more than my duty should allow.

The sun beat down mercilessly over Anáhuac, and yet the humidity weighed on Aziraphale’s shoulders like a wet blanket. The angel walked with careful steps, guided by an indigenous boy no older than fifteen or sixteen, who moved through the jungle paths as one might through the halls of his own home. A simple blessing ensured the boy would never lose his way again for the rest of his life.

Aziraphale had introduced himself to the locals as a blessed messenger (a fitting excuse for what he truly was), and claimed his duty was to establish contact with the god of these lands to deliver a message from the heavens (and once again, there was no lie in that). A few miracles and the natural glow of his angelic aura were enough for the villagers to trust him completely.

The boy spoke in his own tongue, and though Aziraphale understood all languages spoken on Earth, the meanings here were murky, heavy with symbols. Through gestures and repeated words, the boy explained that offerings to the Feathered Serpent were permitted only on nights of the full moon, and must consist of maguey liquor and food.

“It used to ask for blood,” the boy said, speaking with both reverence and fear of his deity. “But now it demands something else… living sacrifices.” His voice fell to a whisper, as though the very foliage could betray him, and with wide dark eyes, he added that the offering had to be young—and human.

Aziraphale felt his heart leap painfully in his chest. That confirmed what he had read in the heavenly reports, but hearing it from such innocent lips made it all too real.
The boy turned to him with one final warning. He pointed toward the dense jungle and said slowly:

“The jungle… danger. I cannot go further. Forbidden. You… go alone.” Then, with a timid gesture, he gave him a look of compassion, as if he pitied sending him into the unknown.

Aziraphale nodded solemnly. He carried only the bare essentials, and yet his attire made him stand out as a foreigner among the trees. His white linen tunic—adapted with rolled-up sleeves and a leather belt—clung uncomfortably to his sweat-damp skin. Across his chest hung a simple medallion that marked his celestial origin and granted him special permission to use miracles. The supreme archangel himself had decreed that the creature must be eradicated at all costs.

And he, for all his piety, was still a fallen cherub, the principality once charged with guarding the eastern gate of Eden with a sword wreathed in the grace of holy wrath.One of the foremost warriors of the heavenly hosts.

Mud had begun to stain his legs, and his tall boots—designed for European roads—sank deep into the thick mire with every step.

Once the boy had left him behind, Aziraphale continued on in silence. The air grew heavier with each meter, thick with the hum of insects and the tangle of roots rising like natural snares. The angel brushed aside wet branches and enormous leaves that slapped against him when released, doing his best to move with dignity despite how absurd he must have looked in such attire amidst that wild, living green.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, the jungle began to thin. And there, amid the trees, the vision of the temple emerged before his eyes: a stepped pyramid of pale stone, its stairs bathed in moss and lichen, crowned by what seemed to be a shrine covered in reliefs and figures carved into the stone. The sun caught on the edges in golden sparks, as if the whole structure were still alive, breathing beneath the weight of centuries.

Aziraphale ascended the steps with care, each one broader and more worn than the last, until he reached the summit. He expected to find the altar blackened with smoke and dried blood, the remains of human offerings, the echo of some profane worship. But what he saw bewildered him.

The shrine was empty. No trace of ash, no bones, no stains on the stone. The chamber gleamed with impossible cleanliness, and stranger still, along the walls, carefully aligned, stood clay pots bursting with life: ferns, orchids, lilies of deep green and crimson blossoms, lush and perfect. They were even more vibrant than those of the jungle itself.

Aziraphale moved slowly, both fascinated and uneasy. Everything seemed abandoned by humankind, and yet it pulsed with unnatural vitality, as though someone—or something—still tended this place with great care.

Then he heard it.

A low, drawn-out sound, not born of wind or trees. A heavy slithering, wet and deliberate, the sound of scales brushing against stone. The angel froze, his fingers tense on the medallion hidden beneath his tunic.

Out of the shrine’s shadows emerged a colossal shape. First, the sinuous outline of a serpentine body, then feathers of obsidian that caught the sunlight and flared red and gold. A long head, crowned with radiant crests, rose with the majesty of a god born from the earth and master of the skies. Amber eyes, sharp and bright, fixed on him with a look both curious and amused.

Aziraphale felt his throat go dry.

The boy’s account had been true—this was no mere myth nor the imagination of the faithful. Before him stood the Feathered Serpent itself.

The creature arched its neck, tilting its head as if assessing the intruder. Its scales shimmered, every movement holding a dangerous stillness, as though it toyed with the exact moment to strike. And then, against all logic, a hiss slipped through the shadows and the great beast’s form began to shift.

“Well, well… what have we here?”

The air left Aziraphale’s lungs in a stunned gasp, for behind the mask of a serpent god he recognized that voice—with both alarm and something close to relief.

It wasn’t a stranger.

It was him.

It was Crowley.

For an instant, at the sound of that familiar, ironic tone, Aziraphale felt a childish rush of relief. It was Crowley. Not some other demon, not a stranger committing horrors under the guise of a pagan god—but his Crowley. The same one who forever flirted with humanity—and with Aziraphale himself—who strutted with irreverent pride and argued like no one else could.

“Oh, thank the Heavens,” he breathed, a relieved smile faltering the instant suspicion bit into his chest. “I’m glad to find you here… rather than any beast… we haven’t met since Wessex.”

Crowley looked particularly feral—and apparently, quite naked. His red curls fell to his waist, his bare torso gleaming under the fading light pouring through the shrine’s openings, but most striking of all were his eyes—fully golden, the pupils thin and sharp like a predator’s.

“My dear… how long have you kept this form?” asked Aziraphale, noticing that Crowley’s movements, his gestures, were far more animal than the friend he once knew.

“A few decades… I need to keep this temptation alive long enough… but that’s not important. What’s a Principality doing on this continent?”

“Word reached Heaven of a pagan cult worshipping a beast…” and suddenly the pieces fit together. “Wait—was it you?”

Aziraphale’s gaze hardened, his relief clouded by horror. The mere thought that Crowley might have accepted human sacrifices made his chest twist painfully.

“Tell me you’re not responsible,” he said, voice taut, trembling between plea and reproach. “Have you been accepting offerings in your name… as if you were Her?”

“Would you really think me capable of that, angel?” Crowley growled, stripping his voice of all sarcasm and easy charm.

“Heaven’s reports are clear—they don’t lie. Even if mistaken, the tribes confirmed them. I was sent here to stop whoever accepts blood and flesh in their name.”

Crowley laughed—dry, crackling, like fire devouring wood—and mockery flared in his burning eyes.

“Heaven’s reports?” he spat, venom in every word. “You mean to tell me you’d rather believe their damned papers than me?”

The hiss that escaped his teeth was long and trembling, heavy with restrained fury. And then he stepped forward from the shadows, abandoning the darkness.
Aziraphale stumbled back. His breath caught. Crowley’s pale, lean chest was bare, every muscle drawn tight, and from the waist down his body melted into a long coil of black scales that gleamed with an oily, cruel sheen under the torchlight. His wings flared wide, feathers like midnight quivering with something close to wrath.

He was magnificent. He was… like a God.

“C-Crowley…” Aziraphale stammered, uncertain where to look, torn between horror and a fascination that burned beneath his skin.

The demon advanced with a feline grace, his tail dragging a harsh whisper over the stone. He seized the angel’s tunic and shoved him against the wall of the shrine. Aziraphale’s back hit the carved stone with a gasp.

Crowley was dangerously close. His bare chest brushed the thin fabric of Aziraphale’s robe; his forked tongue flicked between his lips, hissing, vibrating in the narrow space between them—so close it almost touched his skin—laden with equal parts threat and desire. A thick loop of his scaled tail coiled around Aziraphale’s legs, pinning him in place, and the angel realized with a sudden jolt that there was nowhere else he wished to be.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, eyes burning gold. “Do you truly think I’d feed on such barbarity?”

The heat of him, the weight of his anger, the tension of his body—it all caged Aziraphale where he stood.

“Yes, I am the Feathered Serpent. They’ve given me many names—Quetzalcoatl, Kukulkan, Nahualpiltzintli… They sent me here to build some cheap cult and harvest souls for down there. But humans… they’re mad. They started offering things—animals, then people… so when I demanded they stop, they began sending them alive, for me to decide what to do with them—consorts or prey.”

“And what did you do?”

“What do you think I did?!” Crowley burst out, furious. “I’ve been erasing their memories and sending them away. A place that would use them like that doesn’t deserve them!”

Aziraphale listened with his heart in his throat. He had come expecting horrors, to face the bloodstained echo of some demon delighting in cruelty—and instead found Crowley, his Crowley, confessing proudly that he took sacrifices only to free them, to give them another chance.

It was so utterly like him, so painfully contradictory, that Aziraphale felt the tightness in his shoulders begin to ease. But along with the relief came shame. He had doubted. He had believed Heaven’s reports, the cold judgment of others, over the truth he knew deep within himself.

And Crowley could feel it. He always could.

“I believe you,” Aziraphale whispered at last, hoarse and almost broken.

But the words didn’t calm him. If anything, they poured oil on the fire. Crowley’s amber eyes burned like coals, his chest heaving, his black tail striking the stone like a war drum.
Aziraphale saw him for what he was now—a creature who had spent too long in this shape, his nature consuming him, erasing what little of the man remained. And still, the angel couldn’t look away.

There was something hypnotic about that lean body, the slick gleam of scales blending with skin, the restrained power coiled in every line. The hiss from his forked tongue wasn’t mere threat—it was intimate, secret, like a whisper brushed against his ear. Every vibration reached his bones, kindling a strange heat low in his stomach.

Crowley had him trapped, one hand still clutching his robe, his face so near Aziraphale could feel the warmth of his fury. He looked as though he might devour him, swallow him whole, as if the distance between them was unbearable.

Aziraphale swallowed hard, his pulse wild. He was terrified, yes—but not only of danger. Of himself, too. Every fiber of him screamed to flee, yet everything in him longed to stay.
He closed his eyes for a breath, inhaling the thick air of jungle and pheromones, aware that if Crowley touched him just a little harder, a little closer, he would be lost.

When he opened his eyes again, his voice was low and trembling.

“I know exactly what you are, Crowley. And this isn’t it.”

Crowley hissed—a humid breath slipping between Aziraphale’s lips, making him shiver. He didn’t look away; those reptilian eyes cut through him, laying his soul bare.

“You don’t know me… you’ve no idea what I’ve done, what I’m capable of… of doing to you.”

It sounded more like a promise than a threat, and both of them knew it. Crowley tore himself away, though his tail still bound Aziraphale’s legs.

“Go!” the demon roared.

“I can’t leave you like this…”

“I need to sate this…” Crowley rasped, gesturing wildly to himself. “I need… something, someone…”

Something dark and ugly coiled in Aziraphale’s stomach, slithering through his bones like venom.

“So that’s what your consorts are for?” He would deny to the end of days the unmistakable tone of jealousy in his voice. “Every time you turn beast, you couple with some young mortal?”

“And what if I did?” Crowley hissed with malice. Aziraphale straightened, holy fire sparking through his veins.

“You cannot. I won’t allow it.”

“As if you could stop me.”

“I can—and I will,” the angel said, with a determination that carried straight into his hands as he cupped the serpent god’s face and kissed him—fiercely, without asking.

When they broke apart, Aziraphale saw the ravenous hunger in Crowley’s eyes.

“You’ve no idea what you’re doing…”

“I’m not a fool, Crowley. I know why the priests let me come here without resistance,” Aziraphale said, a wicked smile curving his lips. “I’m your sacrifice.”

And this time it was Crowley who lunged forward, crushing his lips in a devouring kiss.

Then, something cold—and burning—slid against Aziraphale’s thigh.

The tail.

Aziraphale gasped as the scales brushed against him. It wasn’t an accidental touch—each movement was precise, unnervingly careful, slithering from his knee upward, creeping slowly, inexorably, until it caught him in an intimate path. The angel stifled a moan as the sensitive skin of his inner thighs was caressed, the drag of the scales igniting a damp heat beneath the thin fabric that covered him.
Crowley knew. He knew all too well.

“Ah…” slipped from Aziraphale’s lips, more a plea than a protest.

The tail pressed right between his legs, rubbing with a slow, serpentine motion that made every nerve in his body vibrate. The thin linen undergarment was quickly soaked under the contact, clinging to his trembling body, revealing everything.
The demon tilted his head, fangs glinting in a dark smile as he placed each hand on either side of Aziraphale’s head.

“I can sssmell it,” he hissed, voice low, dangerous, erotic. His warm breath hit Aziraphale’s face, and his bare chest pressed harder against his, trapping him further. “Your lust. Your desssire. You hide it beneath that ridiculous robe, but I… I can smell it, angel. I can taste it.”

Aziraphale trembled, unable to move. His body betrayed him, yielding to the friction of that tail sliding back and forth, pressing against the growing wetness, drawing out broken gasps. Shame burned him, but so did a rush of pleasure so sharp it clouded his thoughts.

Crowley leaned closer, his mouth at the angel’s ear, the forked tongue flicking out to brush the sensitive skin of his neck.

“You’re burning for me,” he whispered, and the tail pushed harder, a deliberate, searing rhythm.

Aziraphale bit his lip, a sob escaping his throat. The demon was devouring him without using his hands, dominating his body with a single serpentine limb. And he, pinned against the wall, no longer knew if he wanted to resist.

The tail still held him between his legs when Crowley hissed, fangs just grazing the skin of his neck.

“If you don’t stop me now, angel…” his voice was a growl. “I’ll claim you. I’ll make you mine.”

Aziraphale trembled, his breath ragged. His eyes met Crowley’s, glowing like embers in the temple’s dim light. The answer left his lips before he could stop it, halting but firm:

“Do it… I’m yours. Your offering. Soothe your wrath with me.”

A guttural roar tore from the demon before he devoured Aziraphale’s mouth in a scorching, violent, passionate kiss. Crowley kissed him as though he wanted to drink his essence, to capture him, to fuse him into himself. Between gasps and moans, he hissed against Aziraphale’s lips:

“Mine. You’re mine. You belong to me, Aziraphale.”

He lifted him in his arms as though he weighed nothing. The angel, blinded by urgency, wrapped his strong legs around his waist, clinging tightly. He didn’t stop kissing him, holding on, as Crowley carried him, flying between the columns into a hidden chamber.

It was his lair. A warm chamber lit by torches, with heaps of blankets and cushions like a nest built just for him.

There he laid Aziraphale down with reverent care, though his body trembled with restrained hunger. His hands and tail tore the fabric from Aziraphale, leaving him naked, his skin gleaming under the reddish glow of torches and fire.

Aziraphale, flushed and trembling with desire, couldn’t help but run his hands over the demon’s torso. And then he saw it.

From between the black scales of Crowley’s serpentine belly, two members emerged—twin, powerful, erect and slick, throbbing with arousal.
The hemipenes, proof of his hybrid form, pulsed eagerly beneath the angel’s clumsy, fascinated touch. Aziraphale’s lips parted, gasping at the sight. He had never seen anything like it.

Crowley leaned over him, wings half-unfurled, forked tongue licking his cheek.

“Do you sssee, angel?” he purred with dark sensuality. “All this rage, all this hunger… it’s for you. I’ve never wanted to quell it with anyone… only you…”

The angel, trembling and damp, nodded, brushing his trembling fingers over the reptilian sexes throbbing under his touch.

“Then… take me, Crowley. I’m yours, there’s never been and never will be anyone else.”

“Yeesss…” Crowley hissed against Aziraphale’s parted mouth, forked tongue slipping just inside, tasting his gasps. The tail still stroked between his legs, soaking the torn cloth until it was useless.

The angel stared at him in rapture, caught between fear and desire. His hands kept moving over the twin members, throbbing in time with the demon’s ragged breathing.
“You’re trembling…” Crowley purred, leaning down to press the heat of his hemipenes against the angel’s wetness. The pressure was scorching, suffocating. “You’re afraid, my dove… and still… you don’t tell me to stop.”

Aziraphale let out a choked moan as the tip of one of those members brushed the entrance of his soaked sex. The demon held him firmly, claws just barely sinking into his waist, dominating him completely.
“If I give in…” Crowley hissed, his eyes burning like coals, “if I enter you now… there will be no going back. You’ll be mine. Forever.”

Aziraphale looked at him, lips swollen from his kisses, skin beaded with sweat. He swallowed hard, and with a voice trembling but steady, answered:
“Then… claim me.” The angel cupped the deity’s face between his hands. “Because I’ve been yours for centuries.”

Crowley growled low and deep, and his tail coiled even tighter around the angel’s legs, spreading them with delicious violence. His mouth caught Aziraphale’s again, kissing him breathless while his hips aligned, rubbing with a slow, torturous rhythm, smearing Aziraphale with the rough, slick texture of his hemipenes.

The angel moaned loudly, arching beneath him as Crowley prepared him with his tail, stroking between his wet folds, opening him little by little, until he was left panting, open, needy. Until slowly, he slid inside his angel, impaling him completely.

The two members throbbed against the angel’s slippery sex, one sliding in and out gently, the other rubbing his swollen clitoris with a searing friction that drew strangled cries of pleasure. And Crowley devoured him with his eyes.
“You’re going to feel it, Aziraphale.” He kissed his neck with a soft bite, almost a mark. “I’ll give you everything.”

The angel was panting, his skin beaded with sweat, his body trembling under each stroke of the member that opened him patiently.
“Say it, angel…” the demon growled, his forked tongue licking his ear. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“To you…” Aziraphale moaned, arching his back. “I’m yours, Crowley. Only yours.”

A reptilian roar vibrated in the demon’s throat. The tail held him firmly, spreading his thighs as he thrust the first hemipenis into him with a sudden push. The angel cried out, the mixture of pain and pleasure tearing a guttural sound from him.
Crowley didn’t give him time to recover. The second member pushed in alongside the first, filling him completely, stretching him to the ineffable. Aziraphale cried with pleasure, nails digging into his demon’s bare shoulders, clinging as if he might lose himself in that scorching body.

“Mine…” Crowley growled against his mouth, each thrust punctuating the words. “Mine. Only mine.”

The double friction was unbearable, a burning tide consuming him from within. Aziraphale felt the different textures of each member stroking his most sensitive walls, filling him until he thought he couldn’t take it anymore.

The demon lifted him with brutal tenderness, driving deeper as he held him in his arms, as though he were his living offering. The black wings unfurled, covering the nest and wrapping them in a dome of burning darkness.

Aziraphale moaned, lips pressed to Crowley’s, repeating between gasps a single plea:
“Don’t stop… don’t stop…”

Crowley hissed, forked tongue exploring his mouth as he thrust hard, the two members pulsing inside him, claiming every inch of his angel.
“You’ll never be the same again, Aziraphale…” his voice was deep, demonic, delicious. “You’re my sacrifice. My offering. My eternity.”

And as he felt his angel shudder beneath him, trembling with an orgasm that shook him completely, Crowley followed with an animal roar, spilling deep inside his body, filling him to overflowing, as if marking him from within.

In the midst of that storm, Aziraphale knew he no longer belonged to Heaven.

The silence after the roar was heavy, as if the jungle itself were holding its breath. Aziraphale’s body slowly relaxed in Crowley’s arms, still trembling with the echoes of pleasure. The angel slumped against his bare chest, listening to the erratic pounding of his demonic heart.

Crowley held him with unyielding strength, the tail coiled around his waist like a jealous serpent that would never let him go. He cradled him in his nest of blankets, lowering his face to rest his forehead against the angel’s blond hair.
“Mine…” he whispered again, but this time it wasn’t a growl. It was a soft murmur, almost vulnerable.

Aziraphale, his skin still glowing, stroked him clumsily, tracing circles on his sweat-damp back. There was no shame in the gesture, only tenderness. He smiled against his neck when Crowley began to lick him, slow and reverent, as if he wanted to erase every tear and every drop of sweat with his tongue.
“Always…” he answered, his voice hoarse, lips trembling.

Crowley hissed in contentment and covered him with his black wings, creating an intimate refuge where nothing else existed. Within the dark folds, he kissed him slowly, unhurried, tracing his lips over and over until the angel sighed against his mouth, as though the demon wanted to make clear that Aziraphale was his even in the calm.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, tangling his fingers in the damp red hair of his demon, drifting off to sleep. And the demon, satisfied, held him as one holds the most sacred treasure.

Chapter Text

The night in the bookstore was, as always, peaceful. Outside, the city slept beneath a cloudy sky, and inside, only the ticking of the wall clock, the hiss of the wind against the glass, and occasionally, the purring of Jim, the gray cat who had claimed Aziraphale’s reading chair, could be heard.

The owner of that sanctuary of books had just poured himself a cup of tea when a crash made him jump. A dry, unmistakable sound—porcelain and wood breaking on the floor below.

“Oh, Jim…” he murmured, pursing his lips in annoyance. The little cat had the unhealthy habit of leaping onto the shelves as if they were cliffs, knocking down volumes that Aziraphale had carefully arranged. He had forgiven him before when he ruined a leather-bound edition of Dickens, and even smiled resignedly when another day he sent a Charlotte Brontë tome crashing to the floor. But if he now dared to get clever with his precious Austens, there would be no mercy.

But then the noise changed. It was not a playful cat’s knock, but the unmistakable creak of furniture being dragged and footsteps. Nervous footsteps of someone who shouldn’t be there.

The bookseller felt a shiver run down his neck. He turned slowly toward the kitchen, and his hands went straight for the most formidable weapon within reach—the cast-iron pan of Grandma McFell (may God have her brutally honest soul in glory). He lifted it with both hands and took a deep breath.

With stealthy steps, he descended the spiral staircase, careful not to let the steps creak under his weight. As soon as he set foot on the century-old wooden floor, he heard the noises again. From the shadows, he made out a figure, hunched over the shelves, pawing through books as if searching for something valuable.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. A thief in his bookstore! In his sanctuary! That was intolerable. He slipped behind the staircase, clutching the pan to his chest, and crept close enough to see the intruder from behind. Tall, slender, with a messy mop of hair glinting in the moonlight, dressed entirely in black, the clothes so tight he seemed painted on.

And beside him, on the desk, lay the posthumous remains of his invaluable gramophone (more sentimental than functional), shattered into at least three different pieces. That ignited a blaze of anger in Aziraphale’s chest.

He didn’t think twice. He raised the pan with all the force he could muster and brought it down on the stranger’s head.

“Avaunt! You foul demon!”

The blow rang out like a bell, followed by a muffled groan.

“Ngk!”

The thief collapsed immediately, hitting the floor with a clumsy crash like a poorly tied sack of potatoes. A couple of books flew from his hands and landed nearby.

Aziraphale, panting, heart hammering, looked down at the body at his feet.

“Oh, heavens…” he murmured nervously. “Did I… kill him?”

He bent down cautiously, checking the stranger’s vital signs.

No, he was breathing. Loudly, too. The intruder’s red hair was tousled over the tiles, and his profile… well, he had to admit, it was devilishly attractive for a criminal. What a waste.

Aziraphale swallowed and wiped his sweaty forehead.

“All right…” he told himself, mostly to give himself courage. “If someone breaks into my bookstore, I can’t just leave them here, free. I have to… tie him up, yes, that. Tie him up until he wakes and the authorities arrive.”

He needed to neutralize the sexy, unconscious, elongated threat lying on the floor of his bookstore.

And he remembered, with a sudden blush, those illustrations he had seen weeks earlier in a book of dubious origin. They showed human bodies wrapped in ropes in artistic patterns, almost like living paintings. Aziraphale didn’t understand the context, didn’t even know if there was one, but they had seemed beautiful, and he had even practiced some of the knots at home, like someone learning to copy ancient calligraphy without being able to read it.

Now, with the unconscious intruder before him, he thought it might come in handy. After all, he wouldn’t be spending the entire night lying on the floor with his eyes closed just… being pretty.

He got to work, fetching some ropes from storage and dragging the redhead onto the soft carpet beneath the chandelier. With surprising skill, he began wrapping his wrists, arms, and legs, admiring the symmetry of the patterns across the stranger’s firm chest (which he, of course, did not admit was attractive nor that he enjoyed the touch).

With each loop, he felt a little less afraid and a little more proud of his work.

When he finished, the stranger was secured in a crossed-rope pattern across his chest, firm yet elegant. Aziraphale stepped back, observing him with a blush of satisfaction he couldn’t hide.

“Oh, yes… very nice. Very secure.”

The redhead groaned again, beginning to wake. Aziraphale jumped, running to his desk for his weapon, clutching the pan to his chest as if he might still need it.

The intruder’s golden eyes slowly opened, and the first word he uttered was a hoarse whine.

“…What the fuck…?”

Aziraphale, still clutching the pan, stepped away from the immobilized body and went straight to the telephone on the wall. With trembling hands he began to dial the emergency number, murmuring a string of phrases to himself.

“This is the right thing… yes, the right thing. Call the authorities, let them take care of this… this miscreant.”

“Authorities?”

The hoarse voice made him start.

The bookseller spun around abruptly. The redhead had opened his eyes fully and was looking at him with a mix of bewilderment and annoyance. He tried to move, but the ropes held him perfectly bound to the chair.

“What the hell did you do to me?” he spat, writhing. “Why on earth am I tied up like a Japanese prostitute?!”

Aziraphale nearly dropped the receiver. His face flamed furious red.

“Excuse me?! A bit of gratitude — if it weren’t for me you’d be lying unconscious on the floor right now!”

“Well, I’d rather be unconscious than… this!” he protested, the cords pulling tight across his chest and arms. “This is shibari!”

The bookseller blinked, confused.

“Shi… what?”

The redhead snorted, a crooked smile on his lips.

“Japanese knots. An erotic practice. The kind that’s used to… you know, get someone aroused. Pretty ties, but ultimately, bondage.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, then squeezed shut in indignation.

“Oh, heavens! What an outrage! I… I didn’t… they just looked like artistic knots… curious illustrations in a book on cultural collections.”

“Sure,” the thief raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with irony. “And it just so happens you also had perfect ropes on hand, just in case.”

“I did not!” Aziraphale retorted, red as a tomato, hand to his chest. “I had… packing twine. It’s soft because my stock is delicate — I was prepared like any responsible bookstore owner. And the book is purely academic!”

The redhead gave a dark, throaty laugh that made Aziraphale’s knees tremble though he would never admit it. Then he sighed and, with a mischievous glint, added:

“Don’t take offense, actually… I like it…” The unnecessary wink was too attractive for Aziraphale’s fragile composure. “By the way… my name’s Crowley.”

The name hung in the air, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice it.

“Well, Mr. Crowley,” he said, trying to sound firm though his striped dressing gown and pink rabbit slippers robbed him of authority, “this is a disaster. I’ll have to untie you and call the police immediately... And I’m Aziraphale… nice to meet you... I guess”

Crowley arched his brows, tilting his head slowly, appraising. His eyes shamelessly roved over the pale cotton pajamas, the soft golden nest of curls, the flushed chubby cheeks, the adorable pout of full lips, and the way the robe was cinched too tightly at the waist. He smiled insolently.

“Well… it’s not every day I get arrested by a sexy porn-stud professor stereotype in pajamas. I must admit you’ve got… charm, angel.”

Aziraphale choked on his breath.

“I am not! That’s beside the point!”

“On the contrary.” Crowley tipped his head, the gloom emphasizing the feline curve of his smile. “I like to know who ties me up with such enthusiasm.”

The bookseller put his hands to his head, dismayed. He ignored the thief’s tone — Crowley — and how apparently accustomed he was to this kind of treatment… in far more sinful contexts.

“You broke into my bookstore, my sacred place! And worst of all… you destroyed my gramophone! An artifact from 1910, a collector’s piece, irreplaceable.”

Crowley dropped his gaze awkwardly, his voice losing its mocking edge for a moment.

“That wasn’t my intention… Look, I wasn’t here to cause harm. I just needed a few things I could sell…”

“Was finding a decent job not an option?”

“They just fired me, my office went bankrupt, and I’ve been living off my savings for months — which I no longer have because I’ve spent most of it paying for my pup’s treatment.”

“You have a puppy?” Aziraphale said, moved; there was something in Crowley’s tone, in his beautiful golden eyes, that left no room for doubt. He’d just caught the man stealing his precious books, and yet he believed him.

“Bentley. My only friend. The vet said she needs medication, but I can’t afford it. I thought about giving her up for adoption, but no one wants a sick puppy. If I hand her over like that, she’ll be put down. I— I have a photo in my wallet… if you could—”

“Oh yes, of course,” Aziraphale exclaimed, approaching the thief and taking from his snug back pocket a wallet and the photograph of a beautiful six-month-old mongrel pup: bright eyes, black furr, tongue lolling, utterly adorable.

Aziraphale looked at him skeptically, but in the thief’s golden eyes he found only sincere vulnerability.

With a resigned sigh, Aziraphale returned the receiver to its cradle.

“I’m sorry about your situation, truly… but it’s no excuse. You broke into my bookshop, you smashed my gramophone, and you made a mess. That’s not made right with a few apologies.”

Crowley lifted his chin and, this time, spoke with a surprisingly serious tone:

“Then let me fix what I’ve done. I’ll repair your… megaphone.”

“Gramophone…”

“Yes, that’s what I said, and… I’ll clean this bookstore from top to bottom and put it in order. If I do that, will you let me go without the police?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips.

“I’m not convinced that will be enough.”

That was when Crowley tilted his smile, returning to that feline, daring air that seemed to fill the room. His eyes trained on him, on the pajamas, on the blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Oh, come on…” he murmured, low and husky. “Let me make a counteroffer, and believe me… it’ll be much more… entertaining than having me hauled off to the police.”

Aziraphale drew a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as if the answer were written in his own pulse. The phone was still within reach, yet it felt like an unnecessary weight. The alternative was tempting: keep everything secret, preserve his decorum, and at the same time dispense justice… in his own way.

The redhead watched him expectantly, still tied on the floor with that improvised cord. He had the expression of a trapped fox who, nevertheless, kept smiling.

“So,” said Aziraphale, with a firmness that surprised even himself, “if I don’t want to call the police, what do you offer me?”

Crowley tilted his head, his smile crooked.

“Work” he answered without hesitation. “I can repair your prehistoric musical contraption, clean up what I messed, help you with whatever you need here. You can pay me or let me go… although I’d appreciate temporary work… And…”

“And…?”

“I can teach you what I know about bondage, if you like. Not as cheap entertainment, but as a pact. You command, I obey. That would be my punishment. I’ll do whatever you want and take whatever you give.”

The words fell into the room like a spilled inkwell, dense, dark and shining all at once. Aziraphale laced his fingers together, nervous, but his voice didn’t tremble when he replied.

“Are you even willing to… ‘submit’ this way?”

“Angel… between us… I’m a hopeless, hardcore submissive. I just can’t frequent those places for money anymore. But if I can save Bentley and stay out of jail, I’m completely willing…”

“You make me feel like I’m about to abuse you…”

“Not at all. If anything, the opposite… If you think I wouldn’t enjoy the company of a little treat like you… there’s a lot of me that would be delighted to show you.”

Aziraphale burned with bashful fire… He wasn’t used to such brazen flirting in his own home. Crowley had spent long minutes looking at him as if he were a feast of roast beef ribs, but saying it out loud was different.

“If I accept, it will be under my rules. You’ll do everything I say without complaint, repair the damage and have no contact with the police.”

“Deal,” Crowley nodded seriously, though the spark in his eyes revealed a wild enthusiasm, as if he were ready to begin at any moment.

“Good. Then I’d better untie you so you can start tidying up,” Aziraphale said, glancing at the old cuckoo clock on the wall; dawn was only minutes away and the sky was already light. “We could have breakfast first.”

“Or you could leave me in these beautiful knots and start with the fun part, and save the tedious stuff for later…” Crowley said with a lascivious look. “For now, I need your safeword.”

“What’s that?” said Aziraphale, straightening with the bearing of a judge delivering a sentence.

“If at any moment this gets too much, you say it and everything stops instantly. We both need one.” The redhead didn’t hesitate. “Mine’s ‘Apple’…” he said, his lips curling into a playful smile. “Easy to remember, and I like them… they look like your sweet cheeks.”

Aziraphale nodded solemnly and looked him straight in the eye.

“And what will mine be?” he asked.

Crowley studied him for a few seconds, his sharp smile softening into something gentler, almost reverent. And then he said it, with a certainty that disarmed the bookseller:

“Something that doesn’t belong in the context and is easy for you to remember…”

“Then ‘Ineffable.’ My word will be ‘ineffable.’”

Aziraphale swallowed hard, unsettled by the unexpected tenderness of the choice. He turned away, pretending to check the state of the room so as not to show the blush rising in his cheeks.

Finally, he made a decision and knelt in front of Crowley as one might seal an invisible contract.

“Then it’s decided,” he said solemnly. “You’ll repair the megaphone, ¡I mean gramophone! clean the bookshop and teach me… about this.”

Crowley nodded, bowing in an improvised reverence despite still being tied.

“So it shall be, angel. I’ll show you how I should be properly punished… You might even like it…”

Chapter Text

The apartment was wrapped in shadow, perfumed with expensive wine, ancient incense, and heat. Candles rose everywhere by virtue of a demonic miracle, forming a circle of flickering light around them. The fire reflected in the blue eyes of the golden-haired woman, a cascade that seemed alive under the faint breath of the night air. She was completely naked except for the ring on her pinky. She appeared distracted by the flame of the yellow candle she held in her hands.

Crowley watched her, spellbound; to her, nothing and no one was more beautiful than her angel. The redhead lay stretched out on the sofa, lips painted red, her pale skin glowing like warm amber speckled with freckles. There was a golden spark in her gaze, a serpentine glint that invited provocation.

Before her, Aziraphale caught her attention and approached, swaying her hips. Her curls, golden as wheat at sunset, fell over bare shoulders. Her body was soft, abundant, with the calm of an ancient goddess who knew the power of her own form. The fire played in her blue eyes, making them shine like the sea beneath a flash of lightning.

The redhead stretched like a kitten, arms back and legs restless, her small breasts erect as if begging for her angel’s attention. And Aziraphale was incapable of denying her demon anything. She moved closer, tracing with her index finger a path from sternum to navel.

“So you were flirting with humans again.”

Aziraphale’s voice was soft, almost maternal, but carried the edge of a command. Crowley tilted her head, a smile flickering at her lips.

“I was only talking.” Aziraphale’s hand holding the candle was far too close to her waist. “A little demonic temptation…”

“Talking?” The candle tilted slightly, and a thread of wax dripped onto the exposed leather of the sofa. “Or showing off something that isn’t yours?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, but her smile cracked before reaching the end. Silence thickened, heavy, broken only by the soft hiss of wax on synthetic leather.

“It meant nothing… It was only making him believe he had a chance… I’m still yours, angel, only yours.”

Aziraphale slowly lowered herself to press a chaste kiss to Crowley’s pubis mons. When she bent over her, the flame seemed to bend too, fascinated. Golden light caressed her curves, sketching her as though the fire itself adored her—almost as much as the redhead did.

“I think you need to remember who you belong to,” she murmured, bringing the candle closer, so close the heat became a promise.

Crowley held her breath. Her lips parted, but no sound came out—only the faint, expectant tremor of one who understands she is about to be marked deeper than her skin.

The flame descended. There was no scream. Only the shudder of held breath, the touch of melting wax on skin burning more from contact than from heat. Crowley felt no pain from the warmth, not even from the fire itself—she had been forged by Hell after the Fall… but this, this burn, was different, maddening in an unjustly delicious way.

Aziraphale watched her calmly. There was no cruelty in her gaze but a dangerous tenderness, admiration, desire.

“You were forged in fire,” she whispered as the candle trembled in her hand, letting a few drops fall onto Crowley’s pale ribs, making her gasp. “But I’m the one who decides where you burn.”

Crowley closed her eyes, her body surrendered to that voice which was both command and refuge at once. Aziraphale straddled Crowley's slender hips, their feminine sexes barely touching.

“Yes… make me burn…”

The candles flickered as though acknowledging the unspoken pact. The air grew thick, golden, almost sacred. The angel drew lines and curves with the yellow wax, drops scattered like constellations across the milky canvas of her lover’s skin.

Crowley’s body was strong and resilient, but not any less sensitive. A particularly mischievous drop fell onto the demon’s pink nipple, making her gasp, but she didn’t flinch under Aziraphale’s hands, nor did she take her eyes off her angel’s piercing gaze.

The blonde continued scattering kisses over Crowley’s heated skin, licking the hypersensitive erogenous zones, while her free hand caressed the fallen angel’s slender thighs, until her fingers touched her curls just above her cunt, finding her completely soaked.

She kept dripping the candle wax over Crowley’s arms, punishing her, marking her, loving her. Her mouth descended forcefully onto Crowley’s red-painted lips, devouring the redhead’s mouth bite by bite, drinking in her moans of pleasure, while her unoccupied hand caressed her sensitive folds and clitoris in circular motions, moving her own plump hips as if her warmth and touch weren’t enough to drive her insane.

And when the last thread of wax fell, sealing what the fire had already promised, Crowley spilled over her angel’s fingers, and Aziraphale leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“Now… you’re mine. I know it… and you know it too…”

The flames of the floating candles responded in silence, dancing as if celebrating the most beautiful sacrilege ever witnessed. The quiet that followed was almost unreal. Only the barely perceptible crackle of the candles remained, like a respectful murmur to what had just occurred. The air smelled of honey, sweet smoke, and warm skin.

Crowley lay still beneath Aziraphale’s gentle figure, her body still trembling and her pulse beating under her skin like an echo of the flames that had claimed her. Her lips were parted, breathing slowly, with an expression somewhere between surrender and peace.

Aziraphale carefully descended from the sofa, placed the candle on the table, its light flickering softly, and watched her in silence. With a snap of her elegant fingers, all traces of wax disappeared from Crowley’s bruised body. The fire had left tiny patterns on the redhead’s skin, whimsical designs that looked like sacred runes.

Aziraphale observed her in wonder, perhaps never having seen anything more beautiful.

She touched the patterns with her fingertips, unhurriedly, following their lines, erasing the pain and leaving only warmth with a gentle miracle drawn from the softest part of the ether.

“Just like this...” she murmured, almost to herself. “Perfect again.”

Crowley opened her eyes slowly. She looked at her, her gaze still golden from the fire, and smiled faintly.

“You’re going to end up believing you can tame me.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow, but her smile was calm, almost indulgent.

“I don’t need to tame you. Just remind you that you belong.”

There was a silence. Then, with a resigned sigh, Crowley reached out and caught her hand, bringing it to her chest. Aziraphale leaned against Crowley’s slender body, comforting her. The difference between their skins—one soft and warm, the other cold and sharp—seemed to close an ancient circle, something that had begun long before the world existed.

Aziraphale leaned in, her curls brushing Crowley’s skin. The kiss she placed on her forehead was slow, tender, like a blessing.

“Did you really think I was flirting with that human?” Crowley asked, inhaling the sweet scent of her angel’s hair.

“I wasn’t… I’m simply me… I can’t help feeling this way… you’re so… radiant, Crowley, you could have anyone.”

“There’s no one like you… I’m yours…” Crowley smiled against her shoulder. “But I don’t mind you reminding me more often.”

The angel laughed, a soft, luminous sound, and wrapped her in her arms. The room was bathed in a golden glow as the candles burned down one by one, as if the fire accepted its role and withdrew, satisfied.

In the final flicker of the flame, the contours of both were still visible: one woman blazing with golden hair, the other with fiery curls and shadow, entwined in the stillness that followed the blaze.

Chapter Text

The room was in dim light, bathed in the pale glow of an old lamp. Aziraphale allowed himself a moment to observe him: the curve of his back, the small scales beginning to appear along his ribs, the slight tremor running through his restrained breathing, the way the light slid over his sweaty skin.

The silence was broken only by Crowley’s interrupted gasps in the gag, as he bit the sphere that silenced him while keeping his mouth ironically open. 

Aziraphale had always believed that silence could be an important form of redemption, like a prayer. And there was Crowley, offering himself silently, paying the price for his insolence and mischief.

The gag kept his mouth open, wet and shiny. Aziraphale had placed it on him as a form of punishment, but it was also a sweet reminder of who held the word and who took it away.

Most of all, it reminded him who would return it when he was deemed deserving. And Crowley was earning plenty of merit to have his say again.

The angel watched him with a calm that, beneath the surface, was an electric current that thrilled him with every breath Crowley took through his controlled gasps. The redhead felt Aziraphale move his fingers at his loosened entrance, tighten them, and resist the impulse to enter. He could feel him close his eyes as if the sensations were overwhelming him.

And on the other hand, Aziraphale realized something that made him smile tenderly: Crowley would not surrender so easily. He never did. Even in this act of voluntary submission, he kept resisting, as if each shiver was a way of saying he would do it again, and to make his point, he turned his head toward the blonde with a look that said, “you will never fully tame me.”

That defiance was what fascinated him. What undone him, and what made him decide he wanted to possess him again, even if this time it would be the twelfth time that night.

He leaned over him, letting his breath brush against the back of his neck, and with his tongue, he licked the sweat that had gathered on his beautiful back. Crowley shivered, a slight tremor, but Aziraphale felt it vibrate through to his bones.

His fingers grazed his side, slowly descending, almost reverently. He brought his hand to his own member and aligned it with Crowley’s restless ass. With a single, firm thrust, he penetrated him without hesitation.

Silence gave way to Crowley’s muffled moans through the gag and Aziraphale’s erratic grunts from the effort of the rhythm of his hips. Crowley struggled for breath, fearing to lose the air his body didn’t really need. Aziraphale, on the other hand, moved calmly, setting the pace, keeping a hand on his demon’s neck in such a way that he arched over the soft tartan sheets, lifting his rear toward the angel’s strong hips, taking everything he had to give.

When Aziraphale saw Crowley tremble, he quickened the pace, placed a hand on his chest, and lifted them both, sitting on his legs with the redhead impaled to the hilt, and just a couple of movements were enough for Crowley to reach his climax, stifling a pitiful scream of pleasure into the gag that filled his mouth. That sight drove Aziraphale to his own peak.

Carefully, the angel laid his demon on his back, and Crowley arched, seeking air, seeking more. When he removed the gag, the buckle’s metal tinkled softly—a small sound, but to Aziraphale it seemed as clear as a celestial bell. He extended a hand and took it off gently, delicately, forcing him to lift his face, though Crowley still seemed on the brink of pleasure that left him out of commission.

“Like this…” he murmured, almost reverently. “Perfect.”

Crowley opened his eyes. Golden, bright, ecstatic, and defiant. A look that said a thousand things even though his mouth could speak none. And Aziraphale, who had always been weak for the beauty of chaos, got lost there, completely in love.

“If you promise to behave at the next merchant council…” he whispered, his voice deep and steady despite a sweet smile, “if you promise not to mention again that Mr. Brown’s mustache looks like a lumberjack’s pubic hair… I won’t discipline you anymore today.”

Crowley trembled with uneven breaths. Then he shook his head slowly. A mischievous, untamed smile shone beneath the gag.

“Or what will you do…? Angel…?”

Aziraphale exhaled a soft, almost affectionate laugh. His thumb traced a line along the demon’s cheek, his voice blending affection with the sweetest threat.

“Very well, my dear. I have no problem with that.” He leaned just enough for his breath to brush his ear, letting the promise hang in the air. “Au contraire…, the supreme archangel has no refractory period.”

Chapter Text

“It’s the real thing?”

“The holiest”

“After everything you say…” “Should I say thank you?”

“Better not”

“Can I drop you anywhere?”

“No, thank you…”  “Oh, don’t look so dissapointed… perhaps one day we could, I don’t know… Go for a pinic, Dine at the Ritz”

“I’ll give you a litf . Anywhere you want to go”

"I think we've wasted too much time, Crowley."

The Bentley stopped at the top of the hill, with the sea stretching far beyond the meadows. The sky was beginning to lighten, a bluish gray slowly dissolving into gold. The silence of the engine gave way to the sound of wind and the distant surf.

Aziraphale got out first, breathing in the cold morning air. He stretched his arms, closing his eyes, and his wings in the ether did the same. The scent of damp earth and salt surrounded him completely, and for an instant he felt suspended in time.

Crowley followed him out. His steps were silent on the grass. The demon sat on the hood, arms crossed, watching the sky with that ambiguous expression that mixed irony and melancholy; the sunglasses hid how his gaze drifted toward Aziraphale.

“It’s beautiful,” Aziraphale murmured softly.

“It is,” Crowley said, without really looking at the sky — not when he had Aziraphale so close.

The angel turned toward him, wearing a tired but luminous smile.

“You never admit that something is simply beautiful. What changed?”

Crowley shrugged. “Beauty doesn’t usually last.”

“That’s precisely why it’s worth appreciating every sunrise. Even if we’ve seen thousands of them, we never know when humans might try to end it all again… we barely survived the ’40s.”

Crowley looked at him, and in his golden eyes there was a glint that didn’t come from the sunrise.

“What are you talking about, angel?”

Aziraphale held his gaze. “About us, I’m afraid.”

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with something neither of them dared to break with words. The wind stirred the angel’s long coat and the demon’s crimson hair. The horizon was starting to blaze with shades of amber, and the shadows grew softer.

Crowley moved closer without really thinking about it. His fingers brushed the angel’s — barely a touch, but enough to ignite something that had been dormant for centuries.

Aziraphale didn’t pull away.

“I still can’t believe you’re here with me… I thought maybe I was going too fast for you…”

Aziraphale held Crowley’s fingers with a gentle caress.

“I’d never forgive myself if I made you believe that… but sometimes I’m afraid that someone might discover our arrangement and try to hurt you.”

Crowley placed a hand on Aziraphale’s warm, soft cheek. The angel didn’t send him away.

“It would be so lovely to live in this moment,” Aziraphale murmured. “Just this. You, me, this sunrise. Forever.”
Crowley smiled sadly. “Maybe we can’t live in this moment, angel…” he lowered his voice, his accent dragging over the words like a touch, “…but we can treasure it. We just have to make it… unforgettable.”

The kiss was inevitable.

Crowley’s hands held him by the nape; Aziraphale’s pulled him closer with a kind of urgency he didn’t know he possessed. The demon traced the angel’s lips with his tongue, tentative, and Aziraphale welcomed it eagerly. The world faded away. Only the heat of their mouths, the rhythm of their breathing, and the way the air seemed to vibrate around them remained.

When they finally parted, Aziraphale’s lips were damp, his eyes shining.

“Crowley… I–I lo–” he began, and that single syllable carried centuries within it.

Crowley took his hand and, without a word, led him back to the car.

The Bentley’s interior greeted them with the scent of old leather and the lingering magic of demonic miracles. The temperature rose slightly once the doors closed, and the air inside grew thicker, as if the car itself wished to keep them warm.

Aziraphale looked at him, chest still heaving, while Crowley’s fingers debated between removing his coat, unbuttoning his vest, or undoing his bow tie — somehow managing to do all three at once.

“Here?” he breathed.

Crowley smiled with that crooked grin that always disarmed him. “The Bentley won’t say a word… I promise. We only have this moment… let me give it to you.”

The angel let out a soft laugh — nervous, fleeting — that turned into a gasp when Crowley leaned in again and pressed her burning mouth to his neck. The seat slid back with a mechanical whisper. The demon’s hands moved over the fabric of his vest, the buttons of his shirt, the warm skin revealed beneath. Aziraphale let her, with a docility he had never shown anyone — a display of trust almost as great as handing Crowley that damned thermos of holy water.

Quickly, almost desperately, the angel helped Crowley remove their clothes until both were barely dressed — but unstoppable in their passion.

The sunrise streamed through the windows, painting their bodies in golden light. Shadows danced across the leather and wood interior as the Bentley creaked faintly beneath their weight.

Neither spoke — there was no need. Each breath was its own language, each gasp and moan a conversation of its own. Every rolling movement was a prayer to their hereditary enemy, an ancient supplication in humanity’s oldest tongue.

The rhythm began slow, clumsy even. Then firmer, deeper, until the car itself seemed to move with them, resonating with every thrust. The humid air fogged the windows, and the prints of their hands smeared against the glass.

Aziraphale whispered her name, and Crowley answered with a sound not entirely human. Outside, the sun was fully rising. Inside, time ceased to exist — replaced by something far more powerful than a miracle, and God Himself knew how much that meant.

A final push, in perfect rhythm, sent the angel to the edge of the abyss; the ecstasy was so intense that his wings unfurled, filling most of the Bentley’s interior. Crowley followed seconds later, clutching Aziraphale’s bare waist, her face pressed against his chest.

The angel’s human heart pounded like a frightened creature, and it was the most beautiful sound the demon had ever heard.

When silence finally returned, only the soft lapping of the sea could be heard in the distance. Aziraphale leaned over the redhead, wrapping them both in his wings as much as he could, his face buried in the hollow of her neck, curls tousled and wild. Crowley, eyes closed, kept one hand on the angel’s back, as if afraid she might vanish.

Aziraphale lifted his face, lips curved in a peaceful smile. “Thank you for bringing me here…”

“I told you I’d take you anywhere you wanted.”

The Bentley remained still atop the hill, bathed in light. Outside, the day began for everyone else.

But inside the car, among the echoes of dawn and the salt-tinged air, there existed only the lingering presence of two beings who, for one fleeting instant, had touched eternity.

Perhaps in another reality, Crowley stayed alone in her car for hours, watching the sunrise from some forgotten alley in London.

But not this time.

Chapter Text

The hearth fire flickered softly, casting golden gleams over the spines of books and the velvet curtains. Aziraphale stood still, his wings trailing against the floor like a sad grimace, and his right hand brushed the edge of the Chesterfield armchair. He wore nothing, only the faint halo of the fireplace’s glow covering him, while his legs shifted uneasily, pale skin breathing beneath the dim light. Crowley watched him from across the room, wearing that impossible expression that hovered somewhere between devotion and resentment—though not resentment toward the Principality himself.

He had learned to recognize the cracks in his angel after those dreadful “inspections” with the archangels. His silence lasted too long, and sometimes the way he smoothed the edge of his waistcoat—as if trying to erase something invisible from his abdomen—spoke louder than words. Probably that part of his body altogether. And that night, those cracks were laid bare, painfully exposed.

“What did they do to you, angel?” Crowley murmured.
Aziraphale didn’t answer. He simply averted his gaze, a gesture steeped in deep shame and a weariness bordering on self-loathing.

Crowley moved closer, slowly, still not touching him—because he knew touch was a language that had to be earned. He knelt before him, and when at last his hands came to rest on those glorious, soft thighs, the angel trembled.

“Shh…” Crowley whispered, as if trying to calm a startled creature caught in headlights. His fingers traced a slow, reverent path along Aziraphale’s legs, up to the crease of his waist, brushing his skin with featherlight care. There was no urgency in his movements, only a desperate attempt to remind him that he was loved—that Crowley loved him more than anything else in existence.

Aziraphale’s breath hitched. For a moment, the firelight seemed to yield to another kind of flame—fainter, more intimate, far brighter. And then, the memory of that morning seized Aziraphale from behind, like a cold hand pulling him away from Crowley’s warmth.

“I’ll be honest with you, Sunshine…” said Gabriel with a grimace that didn’t quite reach his perfect smile. “You’ve put on weight, Aziraphale.” His voice was smooth as marble—and just as cruel.

The guardian angel of the Eastern Gate stood before the Council, wings folded, hands clasped as though he still believed in Heaven’s mercy. Sandalphon let out a low, ironic chuckle before opening his despicable mouth.

“It’s clear you’ve grown a little too fond of Earth,” he remarked, savoring the word as if it were a sin itself—as if Aziraphale were sullied by it. “The Third Choir expected an ambassador, a consul—not a pastry inspector.”

Gabriel didn’t even flinch. “Your devotion is… selective, isn’t it? Too much affection for humans. Too much curiosity for material things. Hedonism is a very, very filthy sin. Do you remember your purpose, Aziraphale?”

“You don’t need to be one of them—you’re the best thing She’s ever made.”

Crowley slid a hand down his back, pulling him gently back into the present. His voice was a warm purr, almost a prayer to the sacred temple that was Aziraphale’s body.

“Look at you, angel… so bright, so perfect…”

Aziraphale let out a tiny laugh—more a tremor than a sound.

Crowley rested his forehead against his bare chest, breathing in the scent of books and weary heaven.

“Everything they despised,” he murmured, “is what I worship.”

His fingers traced slow curves over his stomach, over his chest, as if every touch were an act of absolution.

“Your body… your hands… your voice when you say my name.”

The angel’s eyes fluttered shut. For a moment, Gabriel’s words tangled with Crowley’s in his mind. You don’t need to be one of them.

And yet, the feel of skin against his, the warmth of that voice—melodic, reverent—more divine than any hymn.

“Crowley…” he whispered, voice fragile. He turned until he was facing the demon, needing to see his face when he answered.

“Yes, angel.”

“Why do you love me?”

Crowley lifted his head, and his golden eyes looked like molten fire contained within glass.

“Because you’re the best thing in Heaven, on Earth, and anywhere else.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, letting Crowley’s forehead rest against his heart. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was redemptive, as if every shared breath could undo centuries of humiliation.

“Tell me what I am,” the angel asked, his voice barely a thread.

Crowley smiled, his lips brushing the skin beneath his throat.

“You’re everything they wished they could be and everything they’ll never have.”

Chapter Text

London, 1941.

The city smelled of smoke, ash, and hot iron. Even from the outskirts of Tadfield, Father Crowley could still sense the scent of last weekend’s bombing lingering in his nostrils.
The sound of sirens had become as common as birdsong had once been before the war. And yet, every morning, Father Anthony Jacob Crowley rose before dawn to light the candles of St. James Church on Whickber Street, hoping that the fire’s glow might drive the darkness away.

Faith had been seeping out of him through the cracks, like water between the bricks after the autumn rains. He no longer knew if he prayed out of conviction or simple habit. But he remained standing, like the shattered stained glass that still resisted the wind. He had patched the holes in the windows with newspaper much in the same way he had put on his cassock—to cover his own weakness.

He had been a frail child, his lungs barely surviving the winters, and his unusually red hair (even for a Scotsman) had never spared him from the fists of other boys. His father sent him to the seminary partly to keep him safer, and partly to have one less mouth to feed.

The church itself was barely surviving. What once had been beautiful windows letting in the light were now boarded up. The statues were blackened, and the pews had been eaten away by damp.

On the altar, a wooden Christ had lost an arm during the last bombing. Crowley often said that made Him more human—he liked Him better that way. He’d say it with a half-smile and a cigarette hanging from his lips, lighting up as soon as the parishioners left the grounds.

At least everything followed a cold and gloomy routine—until the morning the letter from Bishop Beel Zee Bub arrived, on a particularly rainy, soot-stained day. Crowley couldn’t help but think how much the poor postman must have gone through to deliver it, and he secretly slipped him a few coins from the offertory box.

He opened it with little enthusiasm, not suspecting that the envelope contained something more than a bureaucratic order.

 

“Father Crowley,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and safety in these difficult times. I bring you news that will surely fill both your heart and that of your parishioners with joy.

Mr. Arthur Fell, a restorer of sacred art, will be arriving at the end of the month to oversee the repairs.
You are to receive him, offer him lodging, and assist him in whatever he may require.

Significant funds have been allocated during these critical months to carry out this most important task. You must by no means allow our dear Mr. Fell to suffer any inconvenience during his stay.

It goes without saying that any such failure will be met with the most extreme sanctions.

 

Wishing you health and that the Almighty may bless you,
Bishop of the Cathedral of London, Beel Z. Bub.”

Crowley let out a low laugh, roughened by smoke.

“The Almighty hasn’t been around here in years, Father Beel,” he muttered, exhaling a puff into the air. “If He does show up, tell Him to bring me some matches.”

But he did as he was told.

In the following weeks, he cleaned the guest room of his small cabin behind the church, swept away years of dust, and lit the candelabra with a kind of enthusiasm even he didn’t believe he still had.

He smoked while he worked, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he scrubbed the floors or polished the pews, leaving behind little ashes like involuntary offerings that he would later sweep up at night.

Sometimes he spoke to the one-armed Christ:

“Easy there, Your Holiness. You’re not the only one who’s lost something. Maybe this Fell fellow can fix you too.”

The morning of his arrival dawned gray.

Crowley waited on the church porch with a cup of cold coffee in one hand (it left a peculiar earthy taste on his tongue, but with the food shortage he ought to be grateful for having anything to drink at all) and a cigarette in the other. The wind from the river beside the village carried the scent of burnt metal and the distant sea.

Then he saw him —a man walking among the piles of rubble along the street, the collar of his sand-colored coat turned up and a leather suitcase clutched against his chest.

The sun—shy, as though it were tired—peeked through the clouds and caught his blond hair. For a moment, the man’s profile seemed to turn to gold.

An angel. It was the only vaguely blasphemous thought that slipped into the priest’s mind.

When the stranger reached him, he smiled. Not a polite smile, but one that seemed to contain all the gentleness that had long since vanished from the world.

“Good morning. You must be Father Crowley. I’m Arthur Zira Fell, though I’d prefer you call me Zira.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, exhaling smoke slowly.

“Zira, then. Welcome to this little piece of heaven in ruins. I can’t promise miracles or a hearty dinner, but at least we’ve still got a roof—last I checked.”

Zira laughed, and his laughter sounded like something that didn’t belong in the ravaged world around them.

“Oh, believe me, Father, miracles hide in the most unexpected places. I can make a meal fit for royalty with only a few humble ingredients.”

His gaze lifted toward the church—specifically the broken stained glass—and he added softly,

“Even shattered light is still light.”

Crowley stared at him longer than he should have. There was something about that man one couldn’t look at without feeling a sharp ache in the chest—like his beauty, so out of place amid so much ruin, was as fleeting as the smoke from his cigarette.

The following days passed between dust and silence.

Zira worked from dawn until dusk, moving with delicate precision among the plaster statues and the shards of colored glass destined for the new stained-glass windows.

His fingers touched the glass as if caressing a living relic, and when he spoke, his voice was so soft it reminded Crowley of the tone his father once used when speaking gently to his mother.

Without realizing it, the priest kept finding excuses to stay close—to start a conversation, to work beside him, to brush his fingers ever so slightly. He offered him tea, the least moldy biscuits the parishioners had brought as thanks for keeping their faith alive. He even offered him one of his precious cigarettes, just for the excuse to take the restorer outside, into the warmth of the sun—fascinated by the way the light glinted off Zira’s golden curls.

The blond man turned to him while taking a drag from the cigarette they shared, sitting together on the porch of the small cabin. The priest couldn’t ignore how indecorous it was to share a cigarette—almost like a sweet sin. An indirect kiss.

“Father Crowley,” he said, in that warm voice that seemed to undo everything it touched, “do you think this kind of service I provide will open the gates of Heaven for me?”

Crowley inhaled the smoke and exhaled it with a sigh.

“If Heaven truly exists, you’d definitely be part of it.”

Zira smiled faintly.

“That sounds a bit depressing coming from a priest. Have you lost your faith?”

Crowley looked at him in silence before replying. He took one last drag and released the smoke with a bitter laugh.

“Let’s just say I have… a complicated relationship with the Boss.”

The restorer lowered his gaze, but there was no reproach in his tone.

“Perhaps faith isn’t about believing He listens,” he said slowly, “but about continuing to speak, even when we can’t hear His reply.”

“You would’ve made an incredible priest, Mr. Fell.”

“I doubt that with all my heart, dear boy…” A wicked little smile tugged at the corners of his mouth—and Crowley realized, horrified, how much he wanted to kiss him. “I’m a hedonist. I couldn’t possibly deprive myself of the pleasures you’ve so bravely set aside.”

Crowley stared at him for a long while, the cigarette burning down between his fingers until the ember touched his skin. He didn’t even feel it.

That night, the priest couldn’t sleep. The distant wail of London’s sirens reached him faintly, as though from another life. Nothing stopped him from thinking about Zira in the solitude of his room—nor from touching himself while thinking of those blue eyes, those sweet lips, that perfectly round ass.

If self-pleasure was a sin, Father Crowley didn’t care. The memories of Fell’s bare forearms, his body wrapped in only a towel after a quick shower, or the sound of his voice in the middle of their philosophical talks—but in his imagination saying filthy things to him while touching him indecently over the church pulpit—brought him the most blissful release he’d had in years.

And the sun was only just beginning to rise.

He went down to the church, lit a candle, and sat inside the confessional, where the scent of old wood mingled with tobacco smoke.

He lit another cigarette, sat on the penitent’s side, and leaned against the wall. The smoke rose lazily, curling through the small lattice.

In the silence, he surprised himself by speaking.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he murmured, chuckling to himself. “I’ve smoked in the temple, I’ve doubted everything I was meant to believe… and I’ve looked at a man as though he were a revelation. I’ve touched myself imagining his flesh while I’m bound to a life of service to You.”

The echo of his own voice came back from the other side of the confessional—soft, almost amused.

“And is it truly a sin, Father Crowley, to find pleasure in something so solitary and harmless?”

The priest froze.

He turned his head slightly. Zira was there, sitting in the opposite compartment, cigarette in hand, his coat still on, and a smile that was pure light amid the shadows.

Crowley cleared his throat, uncomfortable, crushing the cigarette against the confessional floor.

“I thought you were asleep. Could you perhaps forget what you just heard?”

“I’ve been here for an hour… then I heard the sound of a match being struck, and for some strange reason, I stayed still,” Zira replied calmly. “I only wanted to know who needed so much comfort at this hour.”

Crowley gave a short, dry laugh, trying to ease his shame.

“Tobacco’s my own kind of incense.” Then his voice cracked, a painful whimper slipping out. “You still haven’t answered my question…”

Zira leaned closer to the lattice, and for an instant, the smoke mingled with his breath.

“I dont know...” he said quietly, “not every prayer needs words. And not every blasphemy is a sin.”

Crowley looked at him through the screen.

“No, Crowley, I can’t forget what I just heard… not when it’s mutual.”

Their eyes met—one pair gold, the other blue—and between them, the smoke became an invisible thread binding them together.

Zira gave him a small nod and slipped away silently, as if he’d never been there at all.

“The restorer is still here,” Crowley wrote in his diary that night. “He says faith is speaking without expecting an answer. Perhaps, this time, someone has replied. The one I’ve been waiting for all along.”

The days that followed passed with the slow rhythm of an endless prayer.

The distant rumble of bombs became part of the landscape, a constant reminder that Heaven didn’t always respond with blessings.

Crowley found Zira every morning, bent over his work, the candlelight catching on the dust that floated around him. He was restoring the statue of Saint Michael, a figure that had lost part of its face in an air raid.

Zira treated it with a devotion that bordered on tenderness.

His hands moved slowly, repairing the cracks in the marble, wiping away centuries of grime with a damp cloth—and with a care more fitting for a lover than an artisan. The priest longed to be the one receiving that tenderness from Fell’s hands.

Crowley stood at a distance, smoking, watching the smoke curl into spirals that dissolved in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the holes in the roof.

Sometimes he thought that man was far too good to be in such a broken place.

Too pure. Too radiant.

And at the same time, dangerously human.

One afternoon, while Zira was kneeling before the statue of the archangel, he broke the silence:

“Father Crowley… do you think Saint Michael was ever happy?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Happy? The Almighty’s favorite soldier? I doubt he ever had the time for that. He was a celebrity.”

Zira smiled faintly, without taking his eyes off the damaged face he was repairing.

“Perhaps he was, before the war. Before he had to fight.” His hand brushed the marble almost tenderly. “I’ve always thought it must be terrible—to destroy in the name of what you love. I’m afraid this war will last so long… that it’ll take more things away from me. I’m far too soft to be part of it; I wouldn’t be of much use, Father.”

Crowley flicked the ash to the ground, letting out a low, bitter laugh.

“Believe me, the world needs more men like you—men who bring kindness, who give life back to beauty, who create instead of destroy…”

Zira looked up at him, wide-eyed and tearful, and Crowley felt that familiar tightness in his chest. As though the air he exhaled wasn’t enough to fill his lungs, he moved quickly toward the blond man and pulled him into a fierce embrace—not as a priest, but as a man.

Days later, on a Sunday night, when the parishioners were safely tucked away in their homes and Father Crowley was sitting in the front pew of the church, thinking about the sermon he would deliver at the next Mass, the restorer emerged slowly from the chapel. Yet the sound of Zira’s steps was different.

There was something in his walk—a heaviness, a pause between breaths—that Crowley recognized immediately, and a cold sweat ran down his back. Zira held a folded letter in his hand.

“It arrived this morning,” he said without preamble. “From the Ministry of War.”

Crowley froze. He didn’t need to read it to understand. The words were written all over his face.

“They… called you?”

Zira nodded.

“I’m a citizen. Everyone must serve.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“They say they need healthy men at the front… specifically someone to safeguard the heritage of churches and other valuables before they’re destroyed or looted, to record what’s lost…”

He let out a small, shaky laugh.

“Zira…”

“I suppose even in war, they still need people like me.”

Crowley crushed his cigarette against the stone of the altar in anger.

“And what does that mean, exactly? That you’ll cross the river and let them kill you?”

Zira blinked, surprised by the tone.

“It’s not that simple—”

“It is,” Crowley interrupted firmly. “You’re a man who protects beauty, Zira. Not one who destroys it. You shouldn’t have to raise a weapon. They shouldn’t be sending you there!”

The restorer lowered his head, holding the letter between his fingers.

“Maybe we all have to make sacrifices, Father. Even those of us who don’t fully believe in the cause.”

Crowley let out an empty laugh. He knew Zira was speaking about himself as something the priest had to let go of.

“Sacrifices? You call sacrificing a life—or having yours taken—a sacrifice?” He stepped closer, voice tense, almost trembling, approaching the man he loved with firm steps. “I won’t allow it.”

Zira lifted his gaze.

“And what will you do? Pray that they let me stay?”

“Believe me, if that shit worked, I would.”

Silence fell between them, thick as smoke from a fire, as if a bookstore were burning nearby. Crowley stared at him with fury, but beneath that anger was something deeper—fear. He couldn’t explain it, but the mere thought of losing him was unbearable.

Zira took a step forward, finally closing the distance between them. With unshakable calm despite the tears rolling down his cheeks, he cupped the priest’s face in his hands.

“Anthony.” he whispered. “I’m scared too.”

And that confession was enough to break everything. Crowley took him by the waist, hands stained with ash, and kissed him.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a plea, a defiance against the heavens. Zira responded with a tremor, then with force, as if both were clinging to the only miracle they could still touch.

The sound of a siren in the distance brought them back to the world.

Crowley grabbed his hand, without thinking, and led him to the confessional. The same one where they had met nights before. The same place where Crowley had confessed his sins alone.

They entered, closing the door behind them. The dimness enveloped them, the air thick with the smoke of cigarettes and old incense. Inside, the murmurs of the world seemed to stop. There was no fear, no war—just the two of them.

The priest guided the blond to the confessor’s seat and sat astride him, adjusting his robes.

“Zira…”

“Shhh, my dear love,” the other interrupted, bringing a hand to his cheek. The touch was gentle, almost reverent. “Here we are safe.”

Crowley leaned his forehead on his shoulder, trembling. The wood creaked as they shed enough clothes to touch each other where they most yearned, and their moans became a prayer. The priest hadn't touched another man in over two decades, not since his roommate, a certain Furfur, convinced him to share a bed on a cold winter's night at the seminary, but masturbating was like riding a bike, and his hands quickly drew gasps from Zira's swollen lips.

The restorer couldn't stay still. He moved Crowley's sacred vestments, freeing his member from his trousers, and massaged it with one hand while the other he brought to the priest's mouth, who sucked on it as if drinking from the Holy Grail.

"You make the sweetest sounds, Father Crowley..." Fell said, watching the man of God suck his fingers in wonder. "What a beautiful tongue... on another occasion, I'd like to feel it on my... but for now..."

Fell snatched his fingers from his mouth, and a pained whimper escaped Crowley at the loss.

But it didn't last long, as the same fingers that had been between his lips were now penetrating his entrance, caressing his muscle ring with deliriously circular movements. Fell prepared him with enthusiasm and devotion, inserting his fingers long enough to be sure the priest was ready to receive him and for him to almost finish on his own legs.

Then Zira smiled at him as he lined up at his entrance, bright, kind, beautiful, alive. Crowley had never loved anything or anyone as much as he loved Arthur Zira Fell at that moment.

They merged slowly, Crowley descending carefully, savoring the stretch and the pinch of pain left in its wake.

Zira took him and adored him like a temple, moving his hips in a dance that drove the priest mad. His wide hand embraced his slender waist, and the contrast was perfect. He cradled his head as if it were the most precious thing Fell had ever held in his hands, and they simply got lost in kisses and gasps.

There was no faith or dogma, just two men seeking redemption in the other's body, in the impossible comfort of contact. Crowley rode him to orgasm, heedless of the sin of staining his ceremonial robes with his white seed.

The bell tower clock struck midnight. Outside, the sky was burning in the distance, over the city. Inside, the fire was different. It burned their skin as they undressed to continue, but at the same time, it cauterized the wounds they had kept open for so long.

"I love you..." one of them said. Neither of them cared which one.

The next morning, Crowley woke up in his room, unsure how he had gotten there. He found himself dressed but alone; the church was empty. On the altar, the statue of Saint Michael gleamed clean, fully restored, with a serene face it hadn’t worn in ages. The paint on its eyes was still drying. Crowley remained motionless, staring at that detail for a moment.

At the feet of the angel lay a folded envelope.

“Dear Anthony,

I do not ask you to pray for me.
But if you ever look upon this archangel, remember that there are still hands that create.
And that what we touch with love does not break so easily.
Even when summer dies and severs the ties. I am with you always.

—A. Zira Fell”

Crowley lit a cigarette with trembling hands. The smoke curled up toward the blackened ceiling. And among the shadows of the confessional, he could still swear he smelled the church incense and the scent of his angel.

Chapter Text

The dressing room was small, smelling of makeup and old velvet. The mirror lights flickered with a faint hum and were annoyingly hot; on the table, jars, brushes, and half-opened bottles piled up. In the middle of that chaos, Aziraphale was clumsily trying to get dressed, without much success.
His vest was unbuttoned, the bow tie hung undone, and two buttons of his shirt left an indecent portion of his pale chest exposed. His trousers threatened to fall with every nervous movement. He looked like a man in the midst of a fit of stage fright.

Crowley, leaning against the doorframe, watched him in silence. His golden eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, but a mischievous smile curved his lips.

“Are you going out on stage like that, angel?” he finally asked, his tone hovering somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

Aziraphale looked up, his blond hair tousled and his cheeks flushed.

“I’m… trying to get ready,” he murmured, wrestling with the bow tie that refused to obey. “It’s not as easy as it looks. These things never come out the way they should…”

Crowley moved forward with slow steps until he stood behind him.

“Let me,” he whispered near his ear, and without asking, brushed Aziraphale’s hands away. The demon’s long fingers took the bow tie, adjusted it precisely, and pulled the knot until it sat perfectly in place.

Aziraphale swallowed hard. The closeness unsettled him more than the rebellious buttons. He could feel the heat of Crowley’s body behind his own, the brush of his coat against his back, the faint scent of leather and smoke.

“There you go. Impeccable,” murmured Crowley. His voice was low, velvety — a touch that lingered against the skin.

But Aziraphale didn’t look convinced. He tried to turn to face him and bumped into a perfume bottle. It rolled across the floor, and the angel bent down to retrieve it, the fabric stretching over his waist as he moved. Crowley watched in silence, lips slightly parted.

He looked disheveled, yes — but not from nerves.

“He looks like someone’s already wore him out” Crowley thought, and the idea struck him like lightning.

Aziraphale straightened up again, his face still lowered, unaware of the look devouring him.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” he finally said in a low voice. “The performance… all those people… what if I make a mistake?”

Crowley let out a short laugh. “Aziraphale, you’re an angel. You can literally do miraculous things. If that doesn’t give you confidence, nothing will.”

“Oh, dear boy…”

The demon picked up one of the brushes from the vanity and, without asking, dipped it into the eyeliner. “Come here. You’re missing something.”

Aziraphale stayed still as Crowley leaned close, their faces just inches apart. The brush’s tip traced softly against his skin, and both their pulses quickened. With a careful stroke, Crowley drew a playful little black mustache above the angel’s lips.

Crowley smiled, pleased. “There. Perfect.”

Aziraphale looked at him, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and shining under the mirror’s glow. And Crowley, without thinking too much, dropped the brush and kissed him.

It was brief at first, just a hint of a touch, but Aziraphale responded with a trembling sigh. His hands clutched at the feather boa and then at Crowley’s coat, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, growing urgent, and Crowley murmured between breaths:

“Let me help you ease the tension, will you?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer; he simply nodded, lips damp and breathing uneven — and that was more than enough.

Crowley’s gaze dropped to the undone buttons; his fingers traced the path down the open vest and the poorly fastened trousers. With a quick motion, he straightened the fabric and steadied him, setting him down gently on the table. Bottles and brushes rolled to the floor with a muted clatter.

The redhead kissed him again, deeper this time, and the angel's hands slid through his hair, down his neck, and to his chest. He quickly tore off his clothes, leaving him barely covered by the unbuttoned white shirt. Aziraphale gripped the boa with one hand and Crowley's coat with the other, seeking to anchor himself against the whirlwind that was sweeping him away.

Then the demon grabbed a cream from the table and poured a generous amount into his hands before using them to stroke Aziraphale's hard member up and down. The breathing of both men filled the room, blending with the creaking of the wood beneath their bodies' weight.

Afterward, Crowley held him with a firm hand on his back. With the other, he continued to tease him, marking the slow, steady rhythm of a long-denied release. The movements were patient, reverent, pouring into them the kindness he always denied possessing.

Aziraphale leaned into him, his head resting on his shoulder, his lips parted in a muffled groan. Each caress on his member brought him closer to orgasm. Crowley's lips had paused behind his pale ear, whispering burning words.

"Come on, Angel... let go... give me everything you've got."

Aziraphale reached a thunderous orgasm, drowning a long, drawn-out moan against Crowley's lips. The boa fell to the floor, its feathers floating in the air like tiny sparks under the light.

Crowley held him through to the end, until the angel's body silently trembled. He received every jet in his hand, guiding it up onto the angel's belly. And when his pulse quieted, he simply held him close without a word.

For a moment, only their ragged breaths and the noise of the city beyond the window could be heard.

Crowley was the first to speak, a slight, knowing smile on his face. "Well... that ought to sort you out..."

Chapter Text

Crowley hated the corset.

He hated it passionately, with that kind of resentment reserved only for particularly cruel human inventions, like parking fines, bread always landing butter-side down, or unannounced visits.

And yet, there he was: Nanny Ashtoret, in all her glory, corseted, made-up, and wearing a wine-colored dress, very tight, that had miraculously appeared in the nanny’s wardrobe that morning. The heels—diabolical, though not literally—sank into the garden grass, and a little flowered hat clung to his red hair, unmoved even by the wind.

Francis, for his part, watched the scene from the porch with an angelically pleased expression that would have seemed suspicious if anyone had bothered to look, while watering the plants. Crowley would never admit it, but he thanked the heavens for the summer sun that allowed him to appreciate the angel’s strong bare forearms, especially while gardening, and the sensual drops of sweat at his unbuttoned neck that the demon would have loved to lick.

“Are you sure you can handle it, dear? You look uncomfortable.” Aziraphale asked, holding back a smile. “I can go to the shed later for my pruning shears after watering these adorable hedges.”

“I can handle anything, angel,” Crowley replied with a dramatic sigh, adjusting the hat. “Including these ridiculous stockings. In the name of hell, how do women walk in these?”

“With grace, I hope,” said Aziraphale. “I assume you can keep your balance, and if not, the grass is soft if you stumble.”

Crowley shot him a look over his dark glasses.

“Thanks for the moral support, little angel. Very uplifting.”

The angel smiled—that radiant, perfectly composed smile that Crowley secretly considered the undoing of all his composure.

Aziraphale, or Ezra Francis as he now called himself, disappeared into the backyard, while Warlock napped, leaving the garden in peace, and Crowley —Nanny Ashtoret to the world— focused on watering the flowers that miraculously never died. Everything seemed in order… until the guard appeared.

The man was large, with arms like tree trunks and a rodent-like mustache that seemed to have a will of its own. He had been loitering for a while, looking far too often toward the garden.

“Good afternoon, miss.” he said with a smile meant to be charming. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise.

“Oh, yes, absolutely delightful,” she replied in her best falsetto, which suspiciously sounded like a cat with a cold.

The guard laughed, taking a step closer.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. Are you new, right?”

Crowley smiled, baring all her teeth.

“New? Darling, I’ve been here since the dawn of creation.”

“Pardon?”

“Since… Master Warlock arrived from the hospital with his mother.” Crowley said in an annoyed tone. “I’d like to remain in silence if it’s not a complication for you, sir-whose-name-I-don’t-care-about…”

The guard let out a coarse laugh.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue, miss. Like a little kitty.”

Crowley was about to reply with something devastatingly witty—perhaps even dangerous—when a voice interjected.

“Is something happening, Nanny Ashtoret?”

Aziraphale had approached from the backyard, his sleeves even more rolled up, forehead slightly beaded with sweat, gardener’s shirt clinging to all the right places for both the nanny and anyone with an appreciation for the male form. Yet his voice carried an edge he rarely used, except perhaps when wanting to sharply reprimand a human or demon.

“Just chatting, sir,” the guard replied awkwardly.

“Chatting?” Brother Francis repeated, a protective spark in his eyes. “Perhaps it would be more appropriate to chat with someone not under my personal care.”

The guard blinked, confused.
“Under your care?”

“My wife,” said Aziraphale, entirely naturally.

Crowley, who in his long life had seen empires fall, horrendous famines, and cities burn, nearly dropped the watering can. His legs turned to jelly at the angel’s voice.

“Your… wife?” repeated the guard, taking a step back.

“Indeed,” confirmed the angel calmly. “And I wouldn’t want anyone to bother her while she’s doing her job.”

The guard muttered an apology. Despite his height—he was taller than Crowley by a head—he looked terrified, as if Aziraphale’s icy tone had silently said, Be more afraid, and he hurried away as fast as his legs would allow. Crowley watched him leave, incredulous, before turning to Aziraphale.

“Your wife?”

The angel met her gaze innocently.

“Would you prefer I said fiancée?”

Crowley blinked several times.

“I’d prefer you didn’t make me look like a damsel in the middle of the garden, thanks.”

“It was just a convenient excuse.”

“Convenient, my wings. You know perfectly well what you’re doing.”

“All I did was defend my dear friend from a jerk,” Aziraphale said in his melodious voice, then looked up at him from under his lashes, arms crossed, with that sexy smirk Crowley wanted to bite. “What do you think I was doing, darling?”

Crowley growled something unintelligible, removed his hat with an exasperated gesture, and threw it onto the nearest bench.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re blushing,” replied Aziraphale, amused. “Adorably, I might add.”

“I’m… hot. The sun!”

“Of course.”

Crowley looked him up and down. That horrible gardener’s shirt had no right to fit him so well, nor his smile to shine so brightly in the golden afternoon light despite the ridiculous fake rabbit teeth. Something inside him ignited, an old, dangerous fire he preferred not to name.

“I’m going to get Warlock” he muttered, turning before the angel could say more.

Aziraphale watched him leave with a mix of tenderness and longing. The demon had no right to look so enticing in a dress far too plain for what Crowley was used to.

He tried to convince himself that what he’d done was just a protective gesture, a way to keep up the disguise. It had nothing to do with the way the guard had looked at Crowley. No, of course not.

Yet every time he recalled that insolent smile, Nanny Ashtoret’s confident posture, and how the sun made the red hair shine under the hat… he felt a pang in his chest.

He had learned over the centuries to recognize when Crowley was running from something he felt too deeply, and he only wanted to make him feel even more.

The demon entered the house, moving silently through the halls. The little one slept peacefully, oblivious to all the universe plotting his destiny. Crowley watched for a moment—that innocent creature soon to be known as the Antichrist—and then went to lock himself in his own room, covering his face with his hands.

He shouldn’t feel like this. He shouldn’t enjoy seeing Aziraphale angry, protective, jealous. He shouldn’t remember how his voice had trembled calling him my wife.

But there was something impossible to deny: the idea that the angel, his angel, had felt something so human, so earthly, for him… made him boil inside.

Later that night, Aziraphale found him in the backyard, smoking carelessly, wearing a dress with a beautiful low back showing his delicate freckles. The smoke floated in the air like a small gray spell.

“You shouldn’t smoke near the house” Aziraphale said gently.

“I know,” Crowley replied without looking at him. “I also shouldn’t enjoy scaring a human so much, according to Harriet the guard requested a schedule and location change… but here we are.”

Aziraphale sighed, moving a little closer.

“I only did it to deter that horrible man. It was… a reaction.”

“A very convincing reaction.”

The angel smiled, sweet but remorseful. “If it bothered you, I’m sorry.”

Crowley turned his head, raising an eyebrow. “Bother me? Angel, you almost made me melt right there. A puddle of drool, me. If I had a human heart, I’d have had a heart attack.”

“So it doesn’t bother you?”

Crowley let out a low, dark laugh.

“Bother me? Never.” The redhead approached Aziraphale and planted a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. “I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to pretend to be your wife.”

Aziraphale swallowed, and for a moment the air between them grew thick, charged with something neither dared name.

“I’d better go to bed. Tomorrow Warlock will want to play in the dirt, and my skirt won’t survive another wash.”

Aziraphale grabbed him by the waist and pulled him firmly close as the demon seemed ready to leave.

“My wife…” he murmured against Crowley’s neck before planting a lascivious kiss on his burning skin, drawing a moan from the demon. “I shouldn’t have to sleep alone…”

“Are you implying what I think?” Crowley asked, but kissed Aziraphale so fiercely he didn’t let him answer. “Your wife, eh? What a damned miracle. You owe me a honeymoon.”

Then Aziraphale lifted the skirt, planting his hands on the demon’s pert butt, squeezing the flesh so hard it made him briefly cry out before lifting him so he could wrap his legs around his waist.

“I think I can very well take you to my cabin, far from the Dowling house, far from horrible guards who think they have the right to look at what’s mine… and do to you what husbands do to their wives on a honeymoon…”

Crowley kissed him again, tongue entwined, stealing his flavor. Then he simply looked at him with lust, giving the most appropriately ironic response.

“Temptation fulfilled, angel.”

Chapter Text