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 eye. 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. 



Chapter Text

It wasn't every day a demon was summoned to Soho, let alone deposited on a scratchy old desk just in time for the angel he'd been dancing around for six thousand years to ejaculate all over his unexpectedly naked torso. It was all a bit much for him to process. Aziraphale had summoned him here, he could feel that now. The stamp of the angel's intent continued to press down on him. Crowley was pinned to the surface of the desk like prey. Yet Aziraphale was slumped back in his overstuffed chair, eyes closed, gulping for air. He had yet to acknowledge Crowley at all, for all that he was lying sticky and prone before him. Not exactly the bedside manner he would have expected from an agent of the Lord who'd just spent himself across somebody's breastbone.

Crowley drew a few wondering fingers through the mess on his chest, beginning to piece together what had happened. Given what Crowley knew about the necessary conditions of a successful demonic summoning... His eyes grew wide. Light dawned gradually over the whole. Aziraphale had said Crowley's name while tossing off, and wasn't that interesting?

Crowley would have liked to spend some time with that thought. It was the kind of thought worth making soppy mix-tapes with handwritten labels for, the kind of thought that might make an honest demon out of him, had it any mind to try. Unfortunately, his period of acquaintance with it was cut short when Aziraphale finally dragged himself out of his post-orgasmic stupor and noticed him. The angel squealed, his chair tipping over backwards and launching him arse over teakettle into a first edition set of David Hume's History of England.

"H-how dare you!" stammered Aziraphale from his landing place, his affronted tone wrenching Crowley back to reality. The demon shook himself free of the ethereal bonds pressing him down and propped himself up on his elbows, looking the angel over. Aziraphale had restored his modesty somewhat by pulling down an atrociously puce curtain and wrapping it tightly around his body like the world's most hideous trauma blanket. His face had gone a deep red, precisely the color of those Cosmos atrosanguineus Crowley had admired earlier – yes, he was definitely in shock – and was the angel actually angry with him? Apparently, he was. Aziraphale sputtered, "Even for a demon, this—”

Crowley stopped him right there with a hysterical bark of laughter. "Do you think this was me?" He swept an arm to encompass the whole general... whatsit-ness... of the situation. "Do you think," he continued, working himself into a bugged out frenzy, "that I've spent millennia orbiting you like a sorrowful fucking moon, doing little miracles for you to– to just–" Crowley swung himself off the desk and advanced on the angel, whose expression of righteous fury had given way to unease. Crowley wasn't going to hide his nakedness. Let Aziraphale look at him. He boxed the angel in close, backing him against a bookshelf with a hand pressed flat on either side of his stupid, sandy-haired head. "You came on me, angel," he growled, raking a palm up his own chest. "How did that happen, do you think? Did I come crashing through your wards at precisely the right moment, did I land in precisely the right place?" His voice fell to a whisper, dangerously low. "Did you think this was one of mine? A temptation just for you?"

Aziraphale was goggling at him. Stupid, stupid angel.

"Consider," he continued, "if you will, that this was one of yours. You know the rites of evocation as well as I do, Aziraphale. I was named and I was bound, and it was not by my own hand. Discuss."

Aziraphale withdrew deeper into the folds of his curtain. "C-Crowley... I didn't... Couldn't, cannot." He met Crowley's eyes for an instant and then looked guiltily away. "I must not," he breathed, radiating a strange brew of discomfort and longing.

"Whether you can or not, or ought to or not, you fucking well did, Aziraphale. Look at me," he insisted, until the angel dragged his eyes reluctantly back to him, gaze darting down to the demon's spattered chest and back to face with an unreadable expression.

"They say," Crowley tried, "that whoever looks at a woman to lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart." The Biblical verse sizzled a little on his tongue, but he managed to spit his way through it. "Ssso at thiss point… where'ss the harm?" He looked at the angel and repressed a rising urge to lick him with his snakish tongue. Really, it took everything Crowley had in that moment to rein in his baser instincts, to refrain from radiating lust like an incubus in heat. He held himself back and trembled at the effort of it.

Aziraphale inhaled shakily and unfurled his curtain somewhat. Crowley stared hungrily at his broad shoulders, his softly furred chest. He felt decidedly serpentine and hoped his desire to swallow Aziraphale down like a speckled egg wasn’t visible on his face. Meanwhile, Aziraphale seemed to have come to a resolution. He shook his head and shucked off the rest of the curtain, then leaned forward to press his brow against Crowley's own.

"Dear, my dear," Aziraphale attempted, "however to apologize or explain? You know," he continued in strained voice, "I think that all this time, I've been less frighted of impurity— or of punishment— than of not having my affections, well, reciprocated. And I was scared quite a lot of those first two things, so that's— that's saying something, Crowley."

The angel trembled against him and Crowley wanted wanted so, so badly to pull him in, but this had to be exactly right. Crowley couldn't bear for it to be anything like a corruption; he would yield, but he wouldn't take, not from Aziraphale. He leaned in and breathed raggedly against the angel's lips, his body an invitation and a question. Aziraphale hummed consideringly against Crowley’s mouth and closed the distance.

Crowley came apart. His hands flew to Aziraphale's face and he crushed him close, kissing him fiercely. It was inexpert wetness, it was teeth, and it was mess, and Crowley squirmed joyfully through the motions of it, a snake against a scorching heat. Aziraphale's hands swept down the curve of his back and came to rest on his rear with a firm squeeze. Crowley's prick responded with enthusiasm, straining against the angel's thigh. "Did you call to me?" he whimpered, wanting to hear Aziraphale say it. "Did you bring me here, bring me to you like this, did you use your Heavenly powers to ssserve me up like dinner?"

Aziraphale huffed, hands continuing to knead Crowley's backside. "M-must have done," he murmured, pulling the demon closer. "Let me... back where you started," Aziraphale moaned, somewhat incoherently. He hoisted Crowley up – the demon readily wound his legs around the angel as if he were built to be carried – and deposited him back onto the surface of the desk. "Yes, that’s precisely where I need you." He knelt beside the desk, parting Crowley's legs—and they opened readily, oh, the demon was delightfully receptive. He worked Crowley open with his tongue, and then with his fingers, spreading him tenderly. Was it idolatry, he wondered, to kneel in wonder before this golden creature, to make its pleasure his own supreme end? Crowley keened and reached for Aziraphale, cutting short his philosophical aside.

"'Ziraphale, have me," Crowley shuddered, wrecked. "In me, please, hurry."

And the angel never was one to let a prayer go unanswered. He straightened and seized Crowley's hips with firm hands, pulling his lithe body nearer to the edge of the desk. Crowley was already slick from Aziraphale’s previous ministrations, and the angel sank rapturously into him. There was bliss in this, deep and strong, unfurling outward from that single, sharp point where flesh called to flesh.

Crowley writhed in response, bucking up wildly, fluttering against Aziraphale's cock like a bird snatched from the air trying to take flight again. Aziraphale grunted and held him fast, pushing into him slowly, forcing Crowley to match his steadier rhythm.

"Yesss," Crowley cried as Aziraphale reached down to grasp the demon's prick. Crowley felt as if he were a weapon in the angel's hand. A truncheon; a cudgel; a sword. Aziraphale continued to fall into him, slow and unrelenting, and Crowley found his pleasure with a spasm. Hot fluid plumed out over the angel's hand and onto his stomach. Aziraphale moaned and brought the hand to his mouth, where he did something so positively libertine that Crowley thought he might pass out. Instead he fell back, limp in the aftershocks of orgasm, and concentrated on the sensation of Aziraphale continuing to slide into him with throaty moans and increasingly uneven thrusts. When the angel came inside of him, it burned like a bright flare. It was wonderful, yes, and Holy, and terrible, too, but over and above all that it was his, it was Crowley's.

Afterwards, Aziraphale settled back into his chair and Crowley straddled his lap, nuzzling at the join of his neck and shoulder. "My dear," Aziraphale sighed, pulling Crowley into a tight embrace, "If only I'd known, I'd have put you on my ethereal fast-dial."

"Speed-dial, angel," Crowley murmured sleepily into his chest. "'Thereal speed-dial."

"Just so."