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.”