Chapter Text
As a rule of thumb, angels and demons could feel each other's energy much in the way humans sense temperature, not unlike the gentle pulsing warmth of a candle or the ambient temperature around an ice cube. Their aura wasn’t overwhelming unless they made an effort to extend it past their corporations, and this was generally avoided for the sake of not interfering too strongly with humanity. Though angels and demons were, of course, cut from the same cloth originally, there were minute differences in each being’s ethereal energy. A being could eventually recognize another just by the feeling they gave off, assuming they’d been around each other enough.
All that being said, there was a distinct demonic presence that Aziraphale was feeling, and it was most certainly not Crowley.
He’d been in his bookshop, as he most often was, on a quite average day. The presence was not so overpowering at first. It was like an odd odor, so slight that he wouldn’t have noticed had he not been paying attention to the smell of his freshly baked raspberry-buttermilk bundt cake. Once he’d noticed it, it became a tad difficult to ignore.
Crowley’s essence felt sort of jagged and pointy, tinged by sulfur and alcohol in a titillating combination, with a cool edge that belied something warm deeper. This aura, however, was more smooth and sort of heady. Floral, with the hint of something heavier. It was not a presence he recognized outside of the knowledge that it was occult.
Aziraphale was able to ignore the presence for a few days. After all, it didn’t seem to be coming closer to him or the shop, and ultimately, things in Soho seemed rather as normal and pleasant as they’d always been. There was no sudden mayhem that often came with demonic presences, no bubbling wrath or sudden greediness that befell the lovely people of Whickber Street, so he initially elected to let it be, if only just to maintain the tentative separation between him (them) and Hell.
Since all that business with the Apocalypse, Heaven and Hell had seemingly left him and Crowley alone (after unsuccessfully trying to have them executed, of course). Aziraphale was certainly not one to push his luck and put them back in the ethereal crosshairs, particularly since neither Heaven nor Hell had made any moves against them. Besides, it was unlikely that either side would give up their duties on Earth just because the Great Plan had been interfered with. It was inevitable that they’d cross paths with other angels and/or demons eventually, so Crowley and Aziraphale had made the decision to ignore them until they started threatening humanity again.
However, Aziraphale’s curiosity was piqued.
If an angel or a demon stayed in one place for long enough, the aura would become stronger around them. Crowley’s Bentley, for instance, was practically a rolling beacon of occult energy. Aziraphale’s bookshop was surely the holiest private business in London, likely even holier than some churches in the area.
So, as this strange presence lingered, it was getting increasingly more noticeable. He could feel it in his bookshop, growing stronger if he stepped onto the street. It left a heavy taste in his mouth like a full-bodied red wine. If he focused on it for too long, he was sure he'd start to feel a bit drunk. It caused gooseflesh up his arms and the back of his neck. Not unsettling per se, but a little tingly.
Eventually, several days after he’d first noticed this demonic energy, he decided to investigate.
He rang Crowley before he left his bookshop, but when he only got his voicemail, he left a quick message. It wasn’t uncommon for Crowley to sleep in until early afternoon, and it was only ten in the morning. Early, for his standards. So, he adjusted his coat and stepped out into the sunlit street, determined to find the source of this vexing energy.
Ethereal energy wasn’t like a compass or a fancy GPS tracker; it was imprecise and often vague. However, as Aziraphale began to walk down Whickber Street, he could feel when the aura got stronger, much like a game of hot-or-cold. It was with some trial and error that he began moving in a direction that seemed to be on the right track. He could practically taste the heavy wine on his tongue as he walked, surely appearing lost and meandering to passers-by.
Eventually, several blocks away from his bookshop, he came upon a spot where the essence felt the strongest. He stood in front of what looked to be a long-abandoned shop, its windows boarded and displaying the logo of a real estate company. Aziraphale tried the door with no luck. He stood puzzled for a moment before noticing a staircase down beside the building, overgrown with ivy from disuse. The stairwell led below the concrete foundation to a door that appeared to be the building’s cellar entrance. The aura was practically oozing from it, wafting up from the staircase. He looked about; outside from this energy, there was nothing overtly demonic about this old shop. There wasn’t even a pentagram graffitied in the stairwell.
There was a reasonable part of his mind that was insisting going down would be a bad idea, that he should wait for Crowley, and it wasn’t even that he disagreed. However, his natural nosiness won out, and he began to step down into the dank stairwell.
To his surprise, the rusted old door was unlocked and opened with a creak. The dim light from the stairwell seemed to be swallowed up by an encompassing darkness, revealing nothing at all. He frowned. Spooky.
He extended his hand as he stepped into the pitch-black cellar. “Let there be light,” he murmured, creating a small ball of warm light in the center of his palm. To his dismay, the orangish glow only illuminated a few feet in front of him, but no further.
Just then, the door behind him slammed shut. He jumped, swinging on his heel as the darkness encroached quickly. He could see nothing; no figures or movement. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck.
“Hello?” he called, hearing only his own voice echoing back at him. He turned, trying in vain to make out anything beyond his little ball of light. “I mean no harm. I was just, ah, following after something.”
It was then that the darkness began to dissipate. On the wall, a gentle glow began to grow brighter, a deep red that began to spread outwards. Aziraphale squinted, taking a step closer. Growing from the cracks in the concrete were vines, slowly extending outwards to flowering bulbs. The gentle glow was emanating from the bulbs, which he realized were fruits. Roughly a dozen glowing red fruits the size of pears hung from the vine, each looking juicy and plump.
Aziraphale approached the vines, rather mesmerised by the slow-creeping tendrils of greenery. The red glow had become bright enough to dimly light the cellar. The wine-taste was strong, so much so that he could feel it at the back of his throat. He held the ball of light up to the fruits, watching as the ripe skin of the fruits both glowed and reflected, pulsing subtly. He couldn’t help but think of Eden.
He dispelled the conjured light and reached out. The moment his fingertips made contact with the fruit, they began to shiver. He stepped back, eyes widening as the vines began to retract before his eyes. The cracks in the concrete grew wider as the wall began to pull away from itself at the center with a rumble. He blinked as the dust cleared.
Beyond the wall was another room illuminated red, but not empty this time. Lit candles were placed sporadically across the floor, casting shadows along the walls. Vines crawled along the concrete, dotted with red fruits. In the center of the room was a plush red throne, lined with intricate gold patterns. Aziraphale inhaled a gasp. The essence was thickest in the air here.
Upon the throne lounged a man-shaped figure with subtle but noticeable musculature, his lightly-tanned skin reflecting the light. He had a short head of wavy brown hair and a wide jaw dotted with stubble. He wore a white shirt unbuttoned down to his sternum and sleek black trousers and shoes. His eyes were a piercing maroon, downturned and analyzing. Everything about him would fit in a modeling photoshoot, save for the pair of curled ram horns emerging from behind his temples.
He was a demon, and a rather handsome one at that.
“I didn’t plan on having company,” the demon crooned, head rolling lazily as he looked the angel up and down. Aziraphale momentarily found himself lost for words. “And who might you be?”
Aziraphale stuttered. This demon’s power was overpowering, heady and thick. He blinked against it, feeling a little lightheaded. “I’m- I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to intrude. I just- well, I felt a presence, and-” There was a light pressure on his ankles. He looked down to see the dark vines pushing him gently forwards toward the demon. The demon leaned forward with a hand on his chin, looking much like the cat who caught the canary. His eyes roved over Aziraphale, his lips curled into a slight smirk. “W-well, now I know that it’s your presence, there’s really no need for-”
“I know you, don’t I? At least, I’ve heard of you.” The demon’s voice was smoky and warm. Aziraphale shivered at the intensity of his gaze. “You’re the renegade angel, aren’t you?”
Aziraphale nodded quickly, in part attempting to dispel the cloudiness from his mind. “Aziraphale,” he clarified. The room felt nearly stifling. His hands were rather clammy all of a sudden.
“Aziraphale,” the demon purred, his voice like molten lava that he could feel running down his spine. The vines nudged him ever forward, but he felt clumsy and uncoordinated, like his brain’s signals to his body were run through syrup. He stumbled once he reached the steps leading up to the throne. Something was terribly wrong, but his mind wasn’t catching up quickly enough.
“Do I-” his voice squeaked a bit. He cleared his throat. “Do I know you?”
The demon smiled again, equal parts dashing and wicked. “We’ve not officially met, but you’ll know me by my name.” Aziraphale tried to shuffle backwards to gain some distance, but the vines created a barrier that threatened to trip him. The demon was leaning even closer somehow, emanating heat and exuding a wave of thick occult ambience. Mischief glimmered in his crimson eyes. “You know me as Asmodeus.”
It was at that moment everything clicked; that aura, intense and overwhelming, was Lust. Before him sat one of the Dark Council, an infamous Prince of Hell in his own right, and Aziraphale had strolled right into his ever-potent orbit.
Aziraphale was not completely ignorant to pleasures of the flesh. Though angels were largely discouraged from sexual encounters (particularly given the risk of creating Nephilim), Aziraphale found himself dabbling in the occasional tryst after the publication of the Kama Sutra. Human bodies were so very versatile, and he didn’t think it was too great a sin to explore all of their wonders in moderation. Furthermore, he’d collected thousands of books since the invention of the written word, and a substantial number of them described all sorts of erotic stories that he couldn’t help but be captivated by.
That being said, it had been a few centuries since his last encounter. The threat of spreading diseases in medieval courts had been enough of a turn-off, and it wasn’t like lust was a core factor of his being.
Well, with one noticeable exception.
Crowley had been his friend for a very long time, and Aziraphale would be lying if he claimed that he’d never fantasized about running his fingers through that gorgeous hair or kissing those ever-tempting lips. Crowley was, after all, unfairly attractive. Particularly after their fateful night back in 1941, it seemed that those thoughts had become harder to ignore and he found himself haunted by his past fantasies with increasing frequency.
As if this situation couldn’t get more dire, he could feel all of those erotic thoughts returning with a vengeance. He felt increasingly like his head was being stuffed with cotton, his skin tingling with phantom touches that could easily have been Crowley’s hands running over him.
He squirmed, but the vines creeping about his ankles had begun making their way into his pant legs, holding him firmly in place.
“I’m so very sorry, I- I really didn’t mean to barge in, really, and I must be going-” At his protestations, Asmodeus reached out and ran his fingers along Aziraphale’s chin, leaving a trail of lamentably pleasant tingles in their wake. He attempted to jerk away, but the demon’s grip was firm and the room had begun to spin around him.
“Quite a pretty thing,” Asmodeus murmured appreciatively. His voice was aphrodisiac all on its own. Aziraphale felt his effort twitch despite his inward protestations. “Soft and sweet.”
The vines tugged Aziraphale to his knees before the throne. His limbs felt heavy and unwieldy, not to mention the way his skin lit up from those devious touches. He was trembling, his nerves alight. Asmodeus’ presence was drowning him, and despite the beleaguered voice of reason in his mind screaming to get away, he could hardly think past the pounding of his blood. Faintly, he was reminded of the tricks done by old-fashioned stage hypnotists before that thought was swept away.
“No wonder the traitor likes you so much. I’ve half a mind to keep you for myself,” he leaned in, voice tickling Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale gave a shuddering sigh at the mention of Crowley, oh, Crowley, his eyes fluttering shut. It felt good, and he’d always been rather bad at resisting temptations. He swayed on his knees before the throne, adrift and entirely at the mercy of Asmodeus.
The demon Prince reached out to one of the vines, plucking a ripe fruit with ease. It looked delectable, juicy, and soft. He brought the fruit down to Aziraphale’s mouth, close enough to taste. He traced the angel’s trembling bottom lip with his thumb.
“Take a bite, little angel,” he commanded, his voice utterly irresistible in Aziraphale’s dazed state. He opened his mouth obediently.
He dug his teeth into the skin of the fruit and thought only of Crowley.
Crowley was notoriously bad at answering his phone. For one thing, he was most often either sleeping or driving. During the latter, he almost always played music at full volume, and it was easy to miss his ringtone. When he was sleeping, well-
He was infamously hard to wake.
What was uncharacteristic was for Aziraphale to not answer his phone. He was insistent on being polite and made a habit of promptly ringing back if he missed a call. As it stood, however, Crowley was calling over and over to no answer and trying very hard not to lose it.
Aziraphale’s voicemail had been worrying enough: “Hello! Sorry to trouble you, but I’ve been noticing the strangest thing. There’s been this odd aura around the neighborhood recently. I’m sure it’s infernal in nature, and I would know if it was you. Anyway, it’s become quite distracting! I can hardly focus on my books so I thought I’d look into it. I suppose I have some questions that you’d be more fit to answer, if you’d call me back when you have the chance.”
The demon was currently speeding towards Soho with his teeth gritted. Of course Aziraphale would decide to look into some strange demonic energy on his own, the utter idiot. It could have been anything. Any number of bastards would love to get their grimy hands on Aziraphale if they had the chance, and normally he could probably handle a demon or two on his own, but the angel was going into whatever this was alone and he’s not. Answering. The. Phone.
What was worse, Crowley was starting to pick up on that same energy, and it was strong. Like, strong enough to choke on levels of overpowering, and it took him only a moment to recognize it as pure undiluted lust.
Crowley was familiar with all seven deadly sins. He had to be, given his previous occupation, and he’d tempted humans with all of them. Power this strong, however, was exceedingly rare outside of the deepest pits of hell. He’d been at orgies that emitted less horny vibes.
He kept pressing the ‘call’ button every time Aziraphale’s number went to voicemail, hoping he’d pick up with a jolly, “Oh, Crowley! False alarm, everything is just peachy!” or whatever outdated phrase he was in the habit of using. However, as he suddenly felt the apex of demonic power coming from a closed retail space, that outcome became less and less likely.
He parked aggressively on the curb and practically threw himself out of the Bentley. It was here, it had to be. He could even feel Aziraphale’s energy - soft, fuzzy, sweet like vanilla with a hint of shoe polish and old books - though it was practically smothered by the infernal entity.
The aura was strongest emanating from a stairwell beside the building. Creepy, dank, and utterly ominous. Crowley scowled. “Damn it all, angel…” he paced about for a moment. This was a terrible idea. Like, tightrope-walking-over-a-vat-of-holy-water level of a really stupid idea. Whoever’s energy was pulsing this strongly could surely overpower him, and demons weren’t known for calling it a day when they had the upper hand. Crowley had half a mind to race back to his flat, see if there was any holy water left in the thermos, and grab the Pope for reinforcement.
But he could feel Aziraphale down there; he couldn’t just walk away even if he tried.
He groaned in frustration. Quickly, he reached into his pocket, grabbed his phone, set it to Do Not Disturb, and tossed it into the Bentley. He took a breath. The emanation of lust was powerful enough that he was starting to feel it physically: a flush on his face, his blood running hot, and a tension at the base of his spine. Going straight into the cloud would only affect him further.
He shook his hands, psyching himself up. “You’re a demon, you’re a demon, just go in. In and out, quick, grab the angel and go.” Then, before he could think twice, he turned on his heel and descended the stairway.
The door opened with a loud squeal into darkness. He squared his shoulders and stepped into the cellar, blinking as his eyes tried to adjust. The door shut slowly behind him and he made no attempt to stop it. There were vines along the concrete walls adorned with red, glowing, bulbous fruits…
Bollocks.
He recognized these fruits as tempting little things that grew in abundance around the 2nd circle of Hell. They were potent, and it was something of a pastime for demons to eat them and coagulate in a great pile of moaning, writhing bodies. For them to be in such abundance here on Earth was not a good sign.
The vines created a thick lattice at the far wall, leading into a second room. Candlelight flickered beyond the greenery, casting red shadows on Crowley’s face. There was the faint sound of murmuring further into the cellar, barely audible beneath the pounding of his pulse. He reached the vines and, with a breath of determination to reach his angel, clawed them out of his way. He stumbled as he pushed through the vines but, as he righted himself, the aura of lust was so strong that it nearly knocked him over completely.
And the sight before him? That practically sent him to his knees.
Sitting cross-legged in a throne before him was a figure he knew all too well, even despite his often-changing appearance. Asmodeus, Prince of Lust and ruler of the Second Circle, was watching him with amusement.
At Asmodeus’ feet, laid against the steps, was Aziraphale. His arms and legs were held still with the same vines that covered the walls. He squirmed against his restraints, breathing heavily, his head lolling to the side. His usually discerning eyes were hazy and unseeing, and his face was flushed pink and shiny with sweat. His coat and vest were gone, seemingly wrapped up in the mess of vines. His bowtie was still there but undone and hanging limply around his throat. His expression looked pained. Needy.
And the cherry on top was the obscene bulge at the crotch of the angel’s trousers, standing at attention. Crowley gawked, the sight of Aziraphale momentarily knocking the wind out of him. Asmodeus had one hand tangled in Aziraphale’s hair, slowly scratching up his scalp like an obedient dog. Aziraphale moaned quietly and leaned into the touch.
“Crowley,” Asmodeus crooned. “I was wondering when you were going to arrive.”
Crowley’s eyes locked onto the hand in Aziraphale’s hair. Something possessive and rageful began to boil in his chest, warring with the sick thrill of seeing him so undone.
“So, you crawled up through the dirt yourself, Asmodeus. Thought you were more the ‘lazing about in Hell’ type,” he said through gritted teeth, failing entirely to act casual. Asmodeus grinned.
“I wanted a change of scenery,” he said simply. “Hell can get very stuffy after a while.”
His eyes flicked back to Aziraphale who made no indication that he’d noticed Crowley at all. He looked utterly entranced, so deep under Asmodeus’ spell that he’d lost lucidity.
“And wasn’t I surprised when your little angel pet came walking into my cellar.” He gripped Aziraphale’s hair tighter, causing him to give a whiny yelp that trailed into an obscene groan. Crowley’s fists clenched as he tried to keep his own reactions under control.
Aziraphale looked like something out of his most provocative fantasies. How many times had he imagined the angel looking just like this, flushed and wanting? For so long, Aziraphale dressed and acted so proper that it left everything up to fantasy, and now his defenses were stripped away. Those sounds, so indecent that it would make a damn prostitute blush, would surely be etched into his consciousness for the rest of time.
And it felt so wrong.
Crowley wanted Aziraphale, there was no question about that. Since the Beginning, he had been pining for the odd angel who secretly defied God, who had such good humor - who looked at him, a demon, not like something to be squashed under a heavenly foot, but as an equal, even on opposing sides. He’d been falling hard for Aziraphale for thousands of years and, at some point, he realized that he had done what was thought impossible: he, a demon, loved. He was utterly smitten with the angel, and nothing had proved that more acutely than the near-Apocalypse. He’d lost his angel for a mere few hours, but it had felt like the entire world had already gone up in flames (and it had, hadn’t it?). But they’d still worked together, stood side-by-side before Satan and put on a brave face. Despite the insurmountable odds, they’d won.
After everything, they’d finally ended up together on the same side, and it was nice. Even so, he never mustered up the courage to tell Aziraphale how he felt. Crowley never managed to admit to the feeling that swirled in his chest at the sight of his angel, never was able to say exactly what every fleeting moment between them was amounting to. It was much too daunting, and the spectre of rejection stuck around enough to discourage him. After all, what they had was wonderful. Why risk ruining it should Aziraphale not feel the same way? He could live with their friendship, could smother his own desire for the sake of maintaining the best thing in his existence. He could fantasize and yearn in private, could act nonchalant during their lunch outings, and he’d been doing a fine job.
Then Asmodeus had to show up and drag all his buried feelings out in the most perverse way possible. Aziraphale was trapped in Asmodeus’ wicked aura, soaked in lust and helpless. Crowley was utterly caught between his own yearning and the fierce possessiveness he could never really tamp down, not for his angel.
Crowley swallowed, face twisted into a glare. “What’ve you done to him?”
“I gave him a taste,” Asmodeus gestured to a half-eaten fruit discarded on the floor, “of temptation. I thought angels couldn’t be tempted, but the moment he walked through my door, he fell hard. Turns out, angels can lust. And my, the scandalous thoughts this one has - it’s a shock he hasn’t fallen already.”
“Let him go.” Crowley’s voice was unwavering, but he could feel the aura of lust affecting him more as he stood before its Prince. His head felt a little foggy, and fuck, he felt his cock throb. He needed to get this over with and fast.
Asmodeus tutted. “And why would I do that? He seems to be enjoying himself.”
Then, before Crowley’s eyes, Asmodeus’ form started to warp. His dark hair brightened to a deep red, his appendages thinned, and suddenly Crowley was staring at a spitting image of himself. His own face grinned back at him while the real Crowley could only gawk.
Asmodeus leaned down to nose at Aziraphale’s ear. “Doesn’t this feel good, angel?” Asmodeus said in Crowley’s voice. Aziraphale did respond this time, head falling back into Asmodeus’s grip and his chin tilted up.
“Crowley,” he moaned dreamily and leaned further into Asmodeus’ grasp. Crowley choked on air, his face somehow growing even hotter. He was frozen, watching with horror (?) as Aziraphale was moaning his name and nuzzling his head into Asmodeus’ knee, which fashioned a rather spot-on impression of his own trousers.
Asmodeus turned the angel’s head, his own face inches from Aziraphale’s. Crowley’s head nearly exploded as he saw his own lips brush Aziraphale’s while his own slitted pupils stared back at him tauntingly.
“Don’t touch him!” Crowley shouted, stepping forward. His hair was beginning to smoke. Asmodeus pursed his lips in a mock-pout. Thankfully, he did let go of Aziraphale’s hair, stepping up from his throne.
“Come now, Crowley,” he murmured. Once again, his visage began to shift. His hair lightened, his silhouette growing softer. Lanky hands grew plump and his black blazer extended into a beige overcoat. Crowley stepped back as, agonizingly, Asmodeus’ form settled into a mirror image of Aziraphale. “I know what you want~” Asmodeus sang, his voice now utterly indistinguishable from the angel’s aside from the mocking undercurrent.
Crowley snarled as his fingers began to crackle with electricity. “You all were supposed to leave us alone.”
Asmodeus tutted as he reached out, caressing Crowley’s shoulder with a familiar soft hand. “He thinks of you, you know. Dreams of you.” He slid around Crowley to stand behind him, then hooked his soft chin over Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley jerked his head away, but breath hitched as his eyes found the real Aziraphale’s: foggy and completely lost in a lustful haze.
This close, Asmodeus’ aura was giving him a contact high. His whole body tingled with sensation, his dick throbbing painfully. The sight of Aziraphale was only clouding his judgement further, any sense of logic being worn away.
“He’s dreaming of you right now,” Asmodeus murmured from his place pressed against Crowley’s back, and fuck, he sounded like Aziraphale. “He yearns for you. He wants you so bad, and here he is, right for the taking.” Asmodeus gently guided him forward by the waist and Crowley was helpless. His head swimming with desire, every cell in his body gravitating towards his angel. He stumbled on the steps before Aziraphale, with Asmodeus at his shoulder coaxing him down. He hovered over the angel, utterly undone. Aziraphale’s eyes actually seemed to track him, fluttering lazily.
“Crowley, please,” he moaned, squirming, hips seemingly attempting to thrust into empty air. Crowley eased down to kneel on the steps, his mouth dry.
“Angel,” he croaked. It would be so easy cooed a terribly persuasive voice in his head. He could feel Aziraphale’s desire, his need, and he was groaning so beautifully. He was plump and flushed and ripe for the picking. Aziraphale wanted him, and he was right there. Crowley could finally have his angel - he could make love to him, fuck him, worship him as he deserved. There was no one stopping him from taking what he wanted most.
With a shaky hand, he reached down to Aziraphale’s trousers. Aziraphale whined, leaning into the touch so wantonly that it made Crowley shudder. He felt up his trousers, before finally finding what he was searching for.
By some miracle, Azirapale’s mobile was still in his pocket. Crowley moved fast; with a click, he speed-dialed his own number. The second he reached his own voicemail, he grabbed Aziraphale tight, and suddenly they were both as small as electrons and zapped into the phone line.
He could hear a rageful shout from behind him that faded just as quickly to the electric hum.
Then, they were out. Crowley gasped as he collapsed into the front seat of the Bentley, his head clearing significantly without Asmodeus’ hold on him. With a thump, Aziraphale appeared next to him in the passenger’s seat, body going lax against the door. Without a second to spare, he put his keys in the ignition and they were speeding back in the direction of the bookshop.