Work Header

Premature Evocation, or the Complete Idiot's Guide to Inadvertent Erotic Summoning

Chapter Text

It was the first time the demon Crowley had been summoned in over three centuries, and it happened exactly when he was least prepared for it, his guard let down in the afterglow of his yearly horticultural cull. His garbage disposal unit had once again demonstrated its exceptional loyalty to the cause, as could be seen by the newly vacant pots and planters scattered about the room. The surviving plants were broadcasting his favorite fearful smell, lemon-sharp and cloying. Ensconced in his office, he swirled his snifter of Gran Reserva brandy and eyed the thick envelope awaiting his attention. It had come in the mail last week and Crowley had been itching for a moment alone with it ever since, and, now that he had the rest of the evening to himself, he intended to enjoy his prize most thoroughly. He eased open the envelope and tipped its contents onto the red marble of his desk. And there she was: the 2019 Plants of Distinction heirloom seed catalogue. She was glossy and garish, and he wasted no time parting her pages and lovingly running his fingers over the colorful advertisements within.

"Look at you," Crowley crooned, lingering over the Cosmos atrosanguineus Black Magic, whose dark cascade of flowers reminded him of oxidized blood, smooth Merlot, the plush leather seats of his Bentley. "Three orders of you, I should think." He scratched down the specifications on the little order card tucked into the back in the catalogue.

The Aquilegia vulgaris was the next flower to draw his attention. Cheerful blue petals ringing a teacup-like corolla, and Crowley indulged in the fantasy of ever-so-casually pushing one through the lapel buttonhole of a certain creamy beige waistcoat. The flower was sometimes called a Granny's Bonnet, and didn't that just suit his stuffy angel to a T?

With a faint blush, he added the Aquilegia vulgaris to his order. He was just about to start in on the brandy when he was interrupted by a riot of Enochian runes spangling across his vision. He yelped and blinked against the searing light, noting that his corporation had started to fizzle ominously around the edges, never a good sign, and oh, bollocks, this was definitely a summoning. He lunged for his wall safe, hoping to retrieve a certain thermos, but he didn't even make it to the combination lock before he was dissipated into mist and shuttled towards... if he wasn't mistaken... Soho?

In the back room of a dusty bookshop in Soho, the angel Aziraphale had been yielding to a very particular temptation.

On the balance of things, Aziraphale was an excellent angel: a font of compassion, a beacon of holy love, a gleaming soldier of the Host. Even so, he had admittedly picked up a terrestrial eccentricity or two during his many years as a field agent on Earth, and one of these was a hedonist streak that would have put some of the later Roman emperors to shame. Which is to say, Aziraphale had never crossed paths with a croquembouche he didn't divest of a choux pastry or two; he'd never uncorked a bottle of wine without finding the bottom of it that very same evening; and lately he'd certainly not gazed upon the demon Crowley without drinking in the sight of him as if he were a High Tea at the Ritz all unto himself.

Ever since the Blitz, when Crowley had hobbled (dashingly!) to his rescue, Aziraphale had wrestled with certain... feelings, not all of which were entirely within his remit as an angel of the Lord. He'd loved his friend for quite some time, of course; indeed, it was atop that very love that these strange new sensations had settled, like condensation on a glass. He had taken to wondering whether Crowley’s skin would feel as cool as such a glass—reptilian and heat-seeking—or if some infernal engine warmed the demon from within. Occasionally he thought that it would be dreadfully nice to find out. To his alarm, it all rather resembled some of his favorite authors' descriptions of lust. 

In Crowley's presence, he was a crust of bread sponging up the remains of an over-rich stew. They would be discussing, say, the merits of comic opera when suddenly Aziraphale would feel faint with need, wanting desperately to be lavished with all the smiles and small kindnesses he could stand to receive, wanting to be Crowley's to rescue and Crowley's to have and even Crowley's to know. It set his ornamental heart quite aflutter, this new madness, and praise be unto God that the instrument of Aziraphale's corporation came with a kind of banishing spit valve for the more prominent side effects of his predicament. These days, Aziraphale was very much of the opinion that masturbation was one of mankind's cleverer innovations, and it was in pursuit of it that he had cleared his schedule for the evening.

If the manner in which Aziraphale divested himself of his garments was workmanlike, it was only because he was impatient to proceed to the main event. He and the demon had been spending a lot of time together in the months since Crowley had told him of the delivery of the Antichrist, probably more than was strictly necessary for the laying of plans, and an evening all to himself was a rare opportunity. It was only a wee spot of Onanism, Aziraphale reasoned with himself. Hardly much of a sin to begin with, and surely eminently forgivable in this instance, where it was only undertaken for the sake of Aziraphale's being able to suffer the demon's presence with dignity the next time they met. Really, if anything he was guarding his purity, not defiling it.

Nude as a son of Eden, Aziraphale summoned his customary Effort and sank into the velveteen shell of his favorite chair, situated behind a scuffed pedestal desk of dark mahogany. Its upholstery wore deliciously against his bare flesh. He cracked his knuckles and got straight to business. He started out by remembering Crowley in Mesopotamia, the bright spill of the demon's hair under the sun. He brushed his fingers across the sensitive flesh of his nipples as he relaxed into the memory of it. Crowley had presented as a woman that century, a rarity, and he called forth the image of the dark-spun billows of her robe as she walked beside him, stepping sylph-like across the stones, her burnished eyes fearlessly on display. The fashion at the time had been robes that were all of one piece, and Aziraphale let his hands roam lower down his torso as he imagined what it would have been like to have taken up one corner of Crowley's robe all those centuries ago and unsheathed her serpentine lengths beneath the desert moon. Oh, she would have been the very picture of sublimity, his lady devil.

But for all Crowley's appeal as a woman, Aziraphale's own male-presenting corporation did have its preferences, and he acquiesced to them, leaving behind swaying hips in Mesopotamia in favor of breeches fastened with buckle and strap and "What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille?" and Aziraphale standing there utterly at Crowley's mercy in gold brocade and prisoners' chains. Since Aziraphale began his adventures in auto-carnality, Paris 1793 had fast become an old stand-by. He grasped coaxingly at his member and it grew firm at his touch, pearly beads of pre-ejaculate condensing at its tip. Sometimes Aziraphale imagined Crowley choosing not to miracle him free, or else demanding a sinful price for his release. Today he dared to dream up something a little more revisionary: Crowley decked out in chains and Aziraphale as his resplendent rescuer, appearing in the demon's cell and stopping time with a careless swish of his hand. Tables turned and his Adversary trussed, like a side of beef for the roasting. He stroked himself enthusiastically, picturing the scene. He'd miracle the chains, certainly, but only to detach them from the wall, not to release Crowley. Then he'd take them up and oh, how he'd tug, leaving the demon no choice but to stagger towards him like a dog on a lead. What else might he spend a miracle on? Removing Crowley's clothing, perhaps, and exposing his naked skin to the cold links of his tether? He could well imagine how the demon might gasp at that.

Aziraphale moaned roughly, lost to his imaginings. As his pleasure built, he spat out wrecked half-syllables, murmured what sounded like "Crowley", and "mine", and "devour you". He was very close now, eyes glassed over and pulse racing. He felt, by turns, like a kite with a snapped string surging unstoppably skywards and an entire shrieking flock of Northern gannets plunging as one into the depths of the sea. He tingled, he simmered, and he let off strange, arcane light.

Angels do not take their pleasure in precisely the same fashion as men, not even those who favor the guise of frumpish human book-keepers. As Aziraphale shed the last of his self-restraint, he began to speak in two voices. The first voice was unquestionably his own, and it continued much as it had before, rasping out "Crowley" again and again and he wrung joy from his body. The second Voice, however, had a capital V, and if it was also Aziraphale's, it was so in an older and deeper sense than the first. It was the Voice of the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, the Sword-Bearer, the Principality, and it had been many eons since it last shaped words. In a rumbling tone beneath the angel's higher cries, that Voice named the one for whom its surface self longed. It boomed SERPENT and FIRST FIEND and all the demon's other names in a language far older than the bones of the world, a language that ran roughshod over reality like a wild horse. It was entirely possible that until this very moment there hadn't even been a way to say 'Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy' in High Enochian, but the Voice spoke the translation into being undeterred. They raced towards Mayfair, those sibilant phonemes, and, grabbing their referent by the scruff of his neck, served him up stripped and splayed atop a certain antique mahogany pedestal desk in Soho.