Chapter Text
Aziraphale spent the entire morning drafting different ways to break the news to Shax, each more diplomatic than the last. “I’ve been assigned to Paris,” sounded cold. “Crowley wants me there instead,” felt like a betrayal. “It’s not up to me,” seemed cowardly. He deleted each version as quickly as he typed them. None of them felt right.
Shax, of course, was her usual whirlwind of enthusiasm and pre-sickness chaos. Her sniffles were louder now, her voice raspier, but that didn’t stop her from dragging fabrics across the office and announcing rhinestone-related emergencies every twenty minutes.
Crowley hadn’t looked at him once.
Aziraphale tried not to notice. He failed.
By late afternoon, he was so consumed with staring at his unread drafts that he didn’t notice the tall man entering the floor until a smooth, deep voice said, “Well, well. If it isn’t the infamous Aziraphale.”
He blinked up, startled.
The man was in his mid-forties, effortlessly stylish in a charcoal suit, sunglasses perched atop wavy brown hair. He looked like he belonged on the back cover of a critically-acclaimed novel—and Aziraphale immediately guessed why.
“sorry, you are?”
“Gabriel,” the man smiled, extending a hand. “Author. Former chaos-maker. And unfortunately, an old friend of your boss.”
“Crowley?”
“Is there another six-foot-something serpent-eyed man with too many rings and no patience walking around this office?”
Aziraphale chuckled before he could help himself. “That does sound like him.”
Gabriel leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “And yet here you are—working with him. Brave soul.”
Their conversation took off easily. Gabriel was sharp, quick-witted, and had the kind of charm that could disarm a room. Aziraphale, already flustered from the emotional backlog of the day, found himself relaxing just enough to enjoy the banter.
Which was precisely when it turned.
“So, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, voice dropping just a little, eyes trailing a bit too low. “Are you as tempting off the page as you are in real life?”
Aziraphale froze.
And Crowley, who had just walked out of his glass-walled office, definitely did not.
He stopped mid-step, watching them.
His sunglasses hid his eyes, but Aziraphale could feel the temperature in the room drop five degrees.
Crowley didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even tilt his head.
He just stood there for a second too long — long enough for the air to turn dense around them — before speaking, voice smooth as ever.
“Tell me, angel,” he drawled, each word dipped in sugar and arsenic, “have you delivered the message I asked for? Or are you still drafting sonnets?”
Aziraphale flushed instantly, every nerve in his body screaming for retreat. He opened his mouth — maybe to apologize, maybe to defend himself — but Crowley had already turned his attention.
“Gabriel,” he said, voice now sharper, businesslike. “Didn’t think you were in town.”
Gabriel lifted both brows. “Surprise.”
“Mm,” Crowley hummed. “Care to join me in my office? I assumed we were here to talk contracts, not compare notes on your one-night conquests.”
Gabriel gave a tight smile. “Of course. Business first.”
Crowley’s smile was all teeth.
He didn’t look back at Aziraphale — not once — as he led Gabriel away, his steps silent but cutting through the floor like broken glass.
Aziraphale stood frozen, cheeks burning.
This was going to be a very long day.
Shax had just stepped out of the building, phone balanced precariously between her shoulder and cheek, her heels clicking impatiently on the uneven New York pavement as she scrolled through her messages with one hand and clutched a tray of overpriced coffee with the other.
“Make it quick, angel-boy,” she snapped, barely hearing Aziraphale’s shaky voice over the street noise. “I’ve got Crowley breathing down my neck and some intern spilled oat milk all over my desk—”
“I—I have to tell you something,” Aziraphale said, his voice thin with nerves. “It’s about Paris. Crowley—he said I’m going instead of—”
And that was all he managed to say before he heard the sound.
The screech of brakes. The tray hitting the concrete. Shax’s phone clattering to the ground, followed by the sickening, final thud of a body against metal.
“Shax?” Aziraphale’s voice rose, breath catching. “Shax?!”
No response.
He didn’t think. Didn’t hang up. Didn’t grab his coat. He just ran — out of the office, down the steps, dodging pedestrians as horns blared around him.
At the hospital, Shax looked like she’d walked straight out of an old cartoon — one leg in a cast, arm in a sling, bandages on her face, and a glare sharp enough to slice through steel.
“You called me,” she said, pointing accusingly with her good hand, “in the middle of the street, to tell me you were taking my spot in Paris?”
“I… I didn’t know you were going to get hit by a car, Shax,” Aziraphale replied, already regretting every life decision that led him to this point.
“It’s Manhattan, darling. You either die of stress or traffic.”
Aziraphale looked around awkwardly. The hospital room was quiet, save for the steady beeping of a heart monitor. He knew this was the moment to say: “Don’t worry, you’re still going.” But the words didn’t come. The invitation was his now. The opportunity, too. And deep down… he wanted it.
“I… hope you recover quickly,” he murmured. Shax let out a humorless laugh and turned her face toward the window.
As he stepped out of the hospital, tugging his scarf tighter and watching the city move like a furious anthill, Aziraphale felt a weight settle in his chest. This world — of secret invitations, snide comments, and literal hit-and-runs — was starting to shape him.
And worse: he was letting it.
When Aziraphale arrived at the office, it was already dark. The building was quiet, emptied out from the day’s chaos, the usual buzz of voices and footsteps now replaced by the low hum of distant city traffic outside.
The silence was almost comforting—until he saw the book.
It was resting on the corner of his desk like a quiet threat, wrapped in thick black ribbon, a note pinned on top in Crowley’s unmistakable handwriting: Deliver to the house. Tonight.
Aziraphale sighed, tension knotting in his shoulders. So he’d have to go again.
His last visit still haunted him — the cold reception, the twins on the stairs, Crowley’s icy glare. But deep down, he knew there was no choice. He couldn't let this task fall to anyone else, not after what happened to Shax. This was his burden now.
He tucked the book carefully under his arm, straightened his coat, and headed out into the night.
When Aziraphale arrived at Crowley’s house, he hesitated at the door. The weight of the book in his hands felt heavier than paper and ink — it was symbolic, a reminder that he didn’t belong in this world. And yet, he rang the bell.
The house was wrapped in darkness. The windows were shaded, the air warm and quiet. It felt like the whole place was holding its breath. The only light came from a single lamp in the corner of the living room, casting a low golden glow.
Crowley sat beneath it, reclined on the couch in nothing but a tight black blouse and jeans, skin half-lit in a way that felt almost obscene. A glass of wine dangled between his fingers, and a slow, dangerous smirk played on his lips.
“You did what you had to, angel?” he asked, voice low and velvet-smooth, tinged with sarcasm and something else — something hungry. “Don’t look at me like that. All wide-eyed and wounded. You’re a paradox, you know that? Guilt and temptation in one ridiculously charming package.”
Aziraphale didn’t answer right away. His heart was pounding, and the warmth of the lamp seemed to hold his gaze right on the exposed line of Crowley’s collarbone. It felt too intimate — like he hadn’t just entered Crowley’s house, but something far more private.
Crowley tilted his head, gesturing lazily toward a chair across from him.
“Sit down. It’s going to be a long night.”
Aziraphale swallowed hard. He knew this wasn’t just about the book. He knew whatever had been building between them — in lingering glances, in accidental touches, in that kiss neither of them could forget — was close to breaking through.
And part of him… didn’t want to stop it.
The silence stretched as Aziraphale sat stiffly in the chair, book still clutched in his hands like a shield. Crowley watched him over the rim of his glass, eyes dark and unreadable in the amber light.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Aziraphale muttered finally, voice tight. “I mean— I don’t mean in your home, necessarily, I just... this whole world. Fashion. Power. Manipulation. I walked in trying to be myself and I can’t even recognize who that is anymore.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow, leaning forward ever so slightly. “Oh, come on, angel. You’ve never looked better.”
Aziraphale glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not.” Crowley set down his glass with a soft clink and rested his elbows on his knees. “It’s just cute. You — sitting there, all flushed and righteous, worrying you’ve gone dark side because you wore a tailored coat and stood up for yourself once or twice.”
“I betrayed a colleague.”
“You told the truth.”
“I watched her get hurt, and I still didn’t—”
“You’re still here,” Crowley interrupted, quieter this time. “Still wringing your hands and talking about purity like it’s a virtue and not a cage. You’re not like them, Aziraphale. You never could be.”
Aziraphale looked away, but Crowley stood slowly, crossing the room in a few unhurried steps until he was standing over him. He leaned down, one hand on the armrest of the chair, the other brushing a curl from Aziraphale’s forehead.
“You think you’ve been corrupted?” Crowley said softly, his breath warm against Aziraphale’s cheek. “You think this world has touched that little soul of yours?” He let out a quiet, wicked laugh. “Please. You’re still the same, painfully good man you were the first day you walked through my door. You just happen to look sinfully good doing it now.”
Aziraphale’s breath caught. His eyes met Crowley’s — hazel and gold, defiant and confused, heated and afraid.
He should get up. He should walk out.
But he didn’t.
"I can't keep doing this," he said, voice unsteady. "The signals you give me—they're confusing. One moment you're cruel, the next you're... this. I never know where I stand with you."
Crowley straightened slowly, his expression unreadable at first. Then, a smile curled at the corner of his mouth—dark, deliberate.
"You think I don’t know what I want?" he murmured.
Aziraphale didn’t answer. His lips parted, just slightly, as if a protest were forming—but never quite made it.
Crowley leaned in, his hand gently curling around the back of Aziraphale’s neck, and his voice dropped to a gravelly whisper.
"I know exactly what I want."
And then he kissed him—slow, possessive, and undeniable.
There was nothing confusing about it. Not this time.
Aziraphale should have pulled away.
That’s what his mind was telling him — with a muffled voice, buried somewhere in the back of his consciousness. But his body didn’t obey. Instead, his hands clutched the soft fabric of Crowley’s robe, tugging him close with enough force to leave no room for hesitation.
The kiss, tentative at first, quickly turned urgent. Crowley smiled against his lips — that sinful, knowing smile that said I knew it — before deepening the kiss with teasing confidence.
The lamp cast flickering shadows across the room, painting the two of them like a scene from some forbidden novel. When they finally broke apart, breathless, Aziraphale’s cheeks were flushed, curls tousled, eyes dazed somewhere between shock and longing.
“This shouldn’t be happening,” he whispered, more to himself than to Crowley.
Crowley only raised an eyebrow.
“Then why are you still here, angel?”
Silence. The kind that thickens the air, heavy with all the things that haven’t been said.
“Because I don’t want to leave,” Aziraphale admitted at last.
Crowley smiled — genuinely this time. Less sarcasm, more vulnerability. Still dangerous.
“Good answer.”
Crowley pulled back just slightly, his breath still brushing against Aziraphale’s lips. His eyes were darker than usual, but not with anger—something more dangerous. More intimate.
“I need to say something before this goes any further,” he said, voice low, steady. “I don’t… I don’t do sex like most people.”
Aziraphale blinked, his heart stuttering. “Oh?”
Crowley tilted his head, studying him. “There are rules. Structure. Dynamics. Consent. I’m… very particular. And very intense.”
“I see,” Aziraphale whispered, not backing away.
Crowley narrowed his eyes slightly, testing the waters. “You know what BDSM is, angel?”
Aziraphale flushed immediately but didn’t look away. “I’ve never practiced it, but I’ve read quite a bit. I like to be informed.”
Crowley’s lips curled into a lazy, knowing grin. “Oh, you read the spicy books, do you?”
“I—well—it’s not all ‘spicy’! Some are quite literary,” Aziraphale said, flustered.
Crowley chuckled, voice dropping into something silkier. “Of course. Enlightening literature. Tell me, angel, do your little romances have safewords?”
Aziraphale gave a shy smile. “Some do.”
“Well, you’re going to have one,” Crowley said. “Even if we never need it—I want you to know you have that power. You can stop anything. Anytime.”
Aziraphale nodded slowly, his voice just above a whisper. “I trust you.”
“Have one in mind?” Crowley asked, his tone softer now, threading a hand through Aziraphale’s curls as if trying to ground them both.
There was a beat of silence, and then, very quietly, “ineffable.”
Crowley let out a low, delighted laugh. “Of course it is.”
Aziraphale glanced around the dimly lit living room, his voice low, cautious. “Are the twins home?”
Crowley shook his head, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They’re out. Won’t be back until late.” He paused, eyes trailing down Aziraphale’s form. “I want to take you somewhere more private.”
Aziraphale swallowed hard, nodding once.
Crowley offered a hand, and Aziraphale took it without hesitation. The house was vast — modern, sharp-edged, the kind of sleek luxury that always felt a bit too cold for Aziraphale’s taste. But Crowley’s presence made it warmer. More dangerous.
They walked in silence through the hallway, past expensive art, low golden lights casting long shadows across polished floors. Each step echoed with something unspoken — anticipation, doubt, hunger.
Aziraphale’s heart thudded against his ribs. He wasn’t afraid. But he knew — with every step closer to that door, to Crowley’s bedroom — that there was no going back.
After this, everything would change.
Their dynamic. Their boundaries. The invisible line they’d danced around for months would be shattered, rewritten in the language of skin and trust and something neither of them had dared to name until now.
He let himself be led.
And the moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, the silence turned electric.
Crowley kissed him hard — there was no hesitation, no caution. It was hunger, raw need built up over weeks. His fingers found the hem of Aziraphale’s shirt, and with a slow, almost reverent tug, he began to lift it, brushing against his skin with the tips of his fingers like he wanted to memorize every inch.
“You have any idea…” he murmured against Aziraphale’s mouth, voice low and hoarse with want and frustration, “...how much you’ve been driving me mad all this time?”
Aziraphale was breathless, heart pounding, eyes wide. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he allowed it. Because he knew, too. He knew what Crowley’s touch meant, the weight of that question.
It wasn’t just desire.
It was everything that had been repressed — disguised as sarcasm and bickering, sharp orders and lingering glances.
And now, finally, there was no turning back.
Crowley drew in a sharp breath, steadying his pace. His eyes raked down Aziraphale’s body like each inch revealed was a new sin—and he wanted to commit every single one.
“Lie back for me, angel,” he said, voice low and commanding, disguised as a whisper.
Aziraphale obeyed, hesitating only for a moment before settling back against the pristine sheets. His curls were mussed, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling faster than usual.
Crowley pulled off his shirt in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere into the shadows of the room. Every step he took toward the bed was deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was about to do with the body he’d wanted for so long.
When he climbed onto the mattress, hovering above Aziraphale, the kisses resumed—hungrier, deeper, full of promises. His hands slid confidently along Aziraphale’s waist, until they reached the waistband of his trousers.
“You’re wearing far too much,” he murmured against Aziraphale’s neck, beginning to ease the fabric down with maddening slowness. “Let me fix that.”
Aziraphale gave a breathy, half-laughed sound that vanished under the next kiss—and whatever resistance he might’ve had dissolved completely.
Crowley drew in a sharp breath, steadying his pace. His eyes raked down Aziraphale’s body like each inch revealed was a new sin—and he wanted to commit every single one.
Aziraphale gave a breathy, half-laughed sound that vanished under the next kiss—and whatever resistance he might’ve had dissolved completely.
Crowley lifted himself just enough to reach his waistband, fingers deftly undoing the button of those impossibly tight black trousers — so snug they looked painted on. Aziraphale watched, wide-eyed, unable to look away. But to his surprise, Crowley didn’t remove them entirely. He let them hang low on his hips, teasingly, the tension between them thickening with the restraint.
Without a word, Crowley shifted slightly, reaching over to the bedside table. From it, he retrieved a small bottle of lube and a foil packet of condoms, placing them on the mattress with a calmness that betrayed how certain he’d been that this moment would come.
Aziraphale swallowed hard. His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure Crowley could hear it.
Crowley looked back at him, a slow, wicked smile tugging at his lips.
— “Still with me, angel?”
Crowley leaned back over him, his body hovering just enough to keep Aziraphale pinned without even touching him fully. His lips brushed the shell of Aziraphale’s ear as he murmured, low and deliberate:
— “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this. You—” his tongue flicked against the lobe, “driving me mad in your ridiculous bow ties and that prim little act. You think I haven’t noticed?”
Aziraphale flushed deep crimson, squirming under the intensity, but he didn’t pull away. His chest rose and fell rapidly, the air between them thick with anticipation.
Crowley’s hand slid down, firm but unhurried, grazing over Aziraphale’s hip before tugging teasingly at the waistband of those checkered boxers. His grin widened at the sight.
— “Plaid, angel? Really? I ought to punish you for that alone.”
Aziraphale let out a small, startled noise, halfway between indignation and need. Crowley’s eyes darkened at the sound, hunger mixing with amusement.
— “Relax,” he soothed, though his tone carried a dangerous promise. “You’ll learn soon enough what happens to naughty boys who tempt demons for far too long.”
And with that, Crowley’s mouth began its slow descent across Aziraphale’s chest again, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower, leaving the angel gasping in anticipation.
Crowley’s deft hands tugged Aziraphale’s checkered boxers down until they were completely off, tossing the garment carelessly to the floor. The angel gasped, immediately bringing his hands to his body, trying to cover himself, his face burning with shame as he realized he was fully exposed before him.
“Oh, my dear…” Aziraphale whispered, his voice trembling.
Crowley leaned forward, gently pushing Aziraphale’s hands away and locking his gaze with him. There was no trace of mockery in his smile now, only raw, heated intensity.
“Shhh, none of that.” His voice was low, rough, dripping with want. “You have no idea how beautiful you are, angel. Absolutely perfect. And you’re all mine now.”
A shaky breath escaped Aziraphale, his eyes glistening with a mix of shyness and emotion. The blush painting his skin only made Crowley grin wider before lowering his lips to the angel’s neck, as if he wanted to taste every inch of him.
Crowley slid down until he reached Aziraphale’s already hardened length, aroused from their recent activities. Without breaking eye contact, he gave a long, deliberate lick from the base to the tip. Aziraphale couldn’t hold back—his eyes shut tight as the most indecent sounds slipped from his lips.
The next step for Crowley was to take Aziraphale’s cock fully into his mouth. He set a steady rhythm, movements that proved he knew exactly what he was doing. Aziraphale, already crying out in the best possible way, involuntarily tangled his hands into Crowley’s hair.
With a sharp, wet pop, the redhead pulled back, looking at the angel with a growing pride in his chest—after all, not just anyone could make a man that beautiful scream like that.
“This was only the appetizer, angel. Let’s move on to the main course.”
Crowley finished sliding off his jeans and briefs, licking his lips as he stared at Aziraphale. He tossed them carelessly into a corner. The lube, forgotten until now beside the blond’s head, was finally picked up. The older man squeezed some onto his fingers and began to massage Aziraphale’s tight, puckered entrance.
“Alright, angel?”
Aziraphale’s breath hitched, cheeks flushed as he gave a small, breathless nod. “Y-yes… it’s more than alright.”
Crowley smirked, still circling his fingers teasingly. “One thing, angel—are we using a condom?”
Aziraphale blinked at him, still panting. “I… I’m clean.”
For a second, the demon’s grin widened, almost feral, and he let out a soft, triumphant laugh. “Well, aren’t you just the best bloody news I’ve had all day.” He leaned down, brushing a kiss against Aziraphale’s lips. “No barriers between us, angel. Just you and me.”
Crowley’s fingers moved with a deliberate slowness, working the slick into Aziraphale’s tight entrance, stretching him just enough to draw out the softest gasps.
“Relax for me, angel,” he whispered against Aziraphale’s ear, voice low and intoxicating. “Let me in… let me take care of you.”
Aziraphale’s hands clutched at the sheets, his knuckles white, but his voice came out breathy, needy. “Crowley… please.”
That single word was all the encouragement Crowley needed. He slid a second finger inside, scissoring gently, watching Aziraphale’s face twist between discomfort and pleasure. The sight made his chest tighten with something deeper than lust.
“You’ve no idea,” Crowley murmured, lips brushing Aziraphale’s jaw, “how long I’ve wanted this… how long I’ve wanted you.”
Crowley added a third finger, stretching him with care, his movements deep and steady until Aziraphale was trembling beneath him. The angel’s breath came in sharp, broken sounds, and every gasp only pushed Crowley further over the edge of restraint.
When Crowley finally withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening, Aziraphale whimpered at the sudden emptiness. The ginger gave a dark chuckle, reaching for the forgotten bottle to coat himself, every motion slow, deliberate, as though savoring the anticipation.
He pressed forward, the head of his cock nudging against Aziraphale’s entrance, and for a moment, Crowley stilled—hovering right at the brink, his chest heaving.
“Are you ready for me, angel?” he asked, voice ragged but laced with reverence.
Aziraphale, flushed and trembling, nodded quickly. “Yes… Crowley, please.”
With a low growl, Crowley pushed in, inch by inch, stretching him open. Aziraph
ale cried out at the sudden intrusion, his hands gripping the sheets as if to anchor himself. Crowley bit back a moan, lowering his forehead against Aziraphale’s.
“Fuck, angel… you feel incredible…”
Crowley sank deeper, slowly, savoring every inch until he was fully sheathed inside Aziraphale. The angel gasped sharply, his back arching as his body adjusted, his nails digging into Crowley’s arms.
“Breathe, angel,” Crowley whispered against his ear, kissing his temple gently, though his voice trembled with the effort it took to hold still. “Let me in… let me take care of you.”
Aziraphale whimpered, shifting beneath him, and finally gave a shaky nod. That was all the permission Crowley needed. He drew back just slightly before sliding in again, setting a steady rhythm—slow at first, deliberate, letting Aziraphale feel every movement.
The angel’s moans spilled freely now, soft at first, then louder, unrestrained, filling the room with desperate, beautiful sounds. Crowley’s lips curled into a grin as he pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s open mouth.
“That’s it… let everyone know you’re mine,” Crowley groaned, thrusts growing deeper, harder, each one punctuated by a strangled gasp from Aziraphale.
With every push forward, their bodies seemed to melt further into one another, pleasure and need blurring into something far more dangerous—something neither of them could take back.
Crowley’s rhythm grew relentless, his restraint unraveling as Aziraphale clung to him, every thrust pulling ragged moans from the angel’s throat. Their bodies moved in desperate sync, sweat-slick and trembling, neither of them able nor willing to hold back anymore.
“A–Angel…” Crowley groaned, voice breaking as his grip tightened on Aziraphale’s hips. He was close, too close, and the sight of Aziraphale undone beneath him was more than he could stand.
Aziraphale’s cries rose higher, his body arching beautifully against Crowley’s with every deep, perfect thrust. His hands fisted into the sheets, into Crowley’s skin, anywhere they could hold on as the pressure built impossibly fast.
“Crowley—! I–I can’t—” Aziraphale gasped, his voice catching on the edge of ecstasy.
“That’s it, angel. Let go for me,” Crowley urged, his forehead pressed against Aziraphale’s, his own voice thick with urgency and pleasure.
With one final thrust, Aziraphale shattered, crying out Crowley’s name as he spilled between them, his whole body shaking with release. The sight, the sound, the sheer rawness of it dragged Crowley over the edge too—he groaned deep in his chest as he buried himself one last time, his climax tearing through him with blinding force.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their gasps, their bodies still trembling as they clung to each other, utterly spent and undone.
Crowley eased himself off Aziraphale, both of them breathless and spent. The angel, already heavy with exhaustion, felt sleep tugging at him almost immediately. His body was worn out, but his mind still buzzed with everything that had just happened.
As his eyes finally fluttered shut, he could have sworn he felt the softest press of lips against the top of his head, followed by the warm weight of an arm draping around his waist.
And then—nothing but sleep