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“Crawly!”
“Yes, Hastur, my dear Duke of Hell?” Crowley says with a flourish and a bow.
He huffs. “I’d like you to do me a favor.”
“Since when do demons do each other favors?”
“Since now,” he replies, tilting his head with a crack. “I want you to stop your games of mild discontent.” The frog on his head twitches along with his eyes. “Tempt a good man. A priest, a school teacher, anyone. Cast doubt in their mind.”
“Oh, but humans taking their anger out on each other is so much more fun than getting just one soul, you can’t—”
“I can,” Hastur hisses. “Tell me a report of something worthy. Something more than you messing with their, ah, technologies.”
He smiles. “I will,” he says, knowing he will somehow manage to mess up such a simple request. Or maybe he’ll just do it his way, with his own special twist. “See you, Hastur.”
“See you, Crawly.”
Aziraphale is having lunch at a restaurant for a change.
He’s been having thoughts , those thoughts that make him decide to have lunch out instead of in. He doesn’t like being in the church the whole day, especially because of when the guilt seeps deep into his bones. But he still tries his best to be faithful, to pray for God to not have this ruin his life, his perfect track record, everything he has built. He imagines the word being spread and it terrifies him— as much as he likes some kind of clothing, some kind of mannerisms associated with them, he stays with his priest garb, so no one can identify it from far, far away.
Escaping to a restaurant doesn’t seem to work, though, because a man that causes even more thoughts of their kind is there. He’s a table away from him, alone, eating something clearly a lot less luxurious than most of the menu. He still scarfs it down like it’s the best meal he’s had in ages— maybe it is. He doesn’t look like a man with money, with long red hair, sunglasses he never has the damn sense to take off and a shirt with a bolo tie on top that is genuinely hideous, in Aziraphale’s opinion.
After a few minutes, the man heads to Aziraphale’s table with a plate of some minimalistic dessert in his hand.
“Sir,” he says, and Aziraphale swears his sunglasses slip down a little and he can see his sclera be bright amber. But he must be making things up, because his priesthood classes screaming at him demon, demon, demon isn’t helping him or anyone, for that matter. “Could you please bless this food for me, Father?”
Aziraphale clears his throat. “Of course, my child.” The word stings in his tongue, and he takes the plate in his hands. The man takes his sunglasses off for what seems like a nanosecond, but it’s enough for him to swim in those eyes. It’s enough for those thoughts to get at him again, to think about those damned lips on him— for God’s sake, he doesn’t even know this man’s name—
“H-Heavenly Father,” he starts shakily, and the man grins victoriously before putting his sunglasses back on. “Please do bless this man’s food. Keep him safe of any ills that could flourish from it, and make it an enjoyable experience. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen.”
The man takes his plate back and settles on the chair in front of Aziraphale, and he squirms uncomfortably. Both because of the spare sight of his amber sclera and because he is terrifyingly handsome.
“What is your name, Father?” he asks, tilting his head as he starts taking small bites of the dessert.
He swallows. “Aziraphale,” he says.
“Mm.” He pulls a face and finishes his meal. “A name made for the job, huh?”
There’s a lump in his throat, his mouth impossibly dry. “I guess so. What is yours, my child?”
A smirk tugs at the man’s lips and oh Lord, he is beautiful. “You don’t need to end every sentence by calling me your child,” he says with a teasing tone in the corner of his words. “But I’m Anthony Crowley. You can call me Crowley, Aziraphale.”
The insolence of calling him by his first name without anything tacked on behind or after it makes sweat run down his back. He draws in a breath and finishes his main course in quick gulps and bites before calling out for a waiter to give him the total. As soon as he pays he’s leaving, knowing the man— Crowley, he’s called, he reminds himself— is most likely following his steps.
He’s never been so nervous before. Even around other men who he’s felt impure around, he’s managed to keep his cool. Maybe because most of them were congregants— men full of faith, who would never tempt him because they knew how wrong it would be. But Crowley— there’s something terribly offsetting about him. Apart from his eyes, he looks like a normal bloke, really, But he couldn’t be a demon, right? Demons shouldn’t be on Earth, shouldn’t be speaking to priests, shouldn’t…
“Hey!”
Aziraphale can’t help himself; he turns around. There he is, sunglasses still on him. “Yes?!”
“You didn’t even say goodbye!” he says, stepping way faster towards him. “I hope we meet again. I am not a fan of holy men, but you seem like the fun kind.”
Aziraphale swallows. “I do own a bookshop on the side,” he says before he can stop himself. He knows exactly what he wants, he knows it word by word, all those things he can’t have. Abomination, abomination, abomination— “A.Z. Fell and Co.”
Crowley smiles. “I’ll be sure to check it out.” He turns and promptly gets out of Aziraphale’s sight.
He blinks once, twice as he simply disappears, doesn’t even walk away. He must be imagining things— he has never quite participated in an exorcism or thrown holy water at a demon, and he’s not sure if he wants to start now. Probably not; even as such a creature, he doesn’t think he could make him dissipate out of existence. The thought is merely wicked.
“I got it!” Crowley exclaims to Hastur gleefully as he sinks back down into Hell.
it’s all too crowded, alright, but he can deal with it. He manages to get in a place that’s a little less full, only him and Hastur, Ligur at their tail. He shifts on his feet, excited to do this. This is fun now, this is great now that he’s got a clear goal— that he’s got something fun to do with this request.
“What? The man you’ve corrupted?” he asks, twitching a little. His frog’s eyes are closed.
“Yes!” he says, bouncing a little on the heels of his feet. “He’s a priest, and I’m going to fuck him.”
Crowley is sure that if he didn’t lack eyelids, Hastur would’ve blinked multiple times just now. But he doesn’t, just stares at him confusedly. “You’re going to what , Crawly?”
He laughs. “I’m going to have sex with him. Priests can’t do that, you know that, Hastur.”
“You’re going to have sex with a holy man,” he mumbles.
“Yes! And he’ll end up in Hell as soon as he’s dead.”
Hastur hums and shrugs. “As long as that consists of the favor I asked of you, I don’t see why not.”
Crowley’s eyes gleam.
“I’ll be sure to,” he tells him before quickly leaving the scene.
Father Aziraphale has a couple of odd qualities to him. Crowley could practically smell the lust underneath the surface, the forbidden fruit ready to be eaten, the— okay, no, he’s done with metaphors. The fact Aziraphale was horny and into men was glaringly obvious for his demonic senses, even from the first glance.
He’s sure he’d be easy to corrupt. He just has to avoid the church he works at, go to that stupidly crowded and small bookshop and seduce him. He can imagine his begging, his praying, and it makes chills go down his spine at the same time want goes through his body.
He’s ready to ruin a priest, so he gets out of Hell and into his flat. It’s not as crowded— in fact, it is the opposite of crowded. Fine art and fine plants, a small bed he curls up into just fine. It is minimalistic, and that’s what he adores of it. He can’t wait until tomorrow— it is a Thursday, and Aziraphale will be at his bookshop at those erratic hours of his.
By the time he’s sure the bookshop is open, he heads for it, humming to himself as he knocks on the door. Even as it has a ‘OPEN’ sign, he doesn’t want to risk it. He shifts his weight on his feet until Aziraphale opens the door, the thoughts of thinly veiled attraction jerking back into the front of his mind at once. He tries not to smile smugly and fails, looking at him with a lopsided grin.
“Hello, Father Aziraphale,” he says as he walks in.
Aziraphale gives him a nod and closes the door. Without any prompting, he flips it so it reads ‘CLOSED’.
“You are a demon, are you not?” he asks as he grabs a book and settles on his couch as if he is asking what’s for dinner tonight.
Crowley gapes a little at the question. “I mean— what, do you expect me to do, say yes?”
“It was more of a rhetorical question,” he replies without looking at him, eyes fixated on the book. He gets at an awkward angle to see that it’s a book about exorcisms. Great. “I know you are a demon— I… I saw your eyes. I’m a little intimidated, sure, but I do not think you are out to kill me.”
“Oh, well,” he replies, sitting down in one of the bookshelves, making sure to not let any books fall. “I am not out to kill you. Not my scene. Just doing a Duke of Hell a favor.”
Aziraphale finally looks up at him. “And what would that be?”
“Well, as you see, I’ve never been too fond of the focusing on one person to get souls for our Lord thing,” he says. “I’m more of the causing major discontent type. Like with the ah, London—”
“When all the phone lines in London stopped working, that was you, wasn’t it?”
He stops in his tracks. “Yes. Yes, it was.”
Aziraphale grins and nods. “Do keep going. I have never actually encountered one of you lot and you aren’t actually like what I expected in the least.”
Crowley clears his throat. “Well, I caused discontent with the phone lines. And I’ve never taken the time to tempt one person until Hastur asked me to. Which is why I’m talking to you.”
He sees the recognition in Aziraphale’s eyes, the well-known shame his eyes have in them. A part of him wants to kiss him gently, and it fills him the dirty bad wrong feeling that makes him itch. He shouldn’t want anything gentle with this priest, he’s meant to be ruining him. “So being gay is a sin, after all,” he mumbles resignedly.
“No!” Crowley immediately exclaims. “If I successfully seduce you, well, it’s because of you having sex with a demon. It doesn’t matter that I’m a man-shaped demon, just that I’m one.”
Aziraphale blinks, biting his lip hard and looking down at his book. He puts it down and looks at Crowley intently. “So, being gay won’t land you in Hell on— on its own?”
“Nah,” he says. “Trust me, if you’re gay and in Hell, it’s because you fucked up, not because you sucked dick a lot.”
“Mr. Crowley, don’t be so crude—!”
He laughs and floats up to be closer to him, twirling one of his curls with his index finger. Blush settles on Aziraphale’s cheeks.
“I’m a demon, darling,” he says with a lopsided grin. “I’m made to be crude.”
He takes in a breath. “That’s fair. Ah, I assume I’ll be free from you on Sunday?”
“Yep. Can’t really go to church. I mean, I can, but it hurts like a bitch.”
He nods. “By the way, uh, you’ll have to really try if you want to actually have me do anything with you.”
“It won’t be that hard. Besides, you’re completely inexperienced.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widen and he looks up to make eye contact with him, false offense in his gaze. “How would you know?”
“You’re a gay priest with a serious case of repression,” he shoots back. “Of course you’ve never had sex.”
He rolls his eyes and grabs Crowley, shoving him towards the door before opening it. “Could you go now, perhaps?”
He smiles. “Of course.” He quickly leaves through the door, closing it behind him.
Crowley doesn’t see it, of course, but the smell makes him know exactly where Aziraphale goes after he’s gone, what Aziraphale does as soon as he gets inside his bedroom.
He can’t help but grin. He’s doing a great job.
“Mr. Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims when he gets to the church on Sunday morning, about two hours before mass starts.
Crowley turns to him, still kneeling in front of the plant life all over the edges of the church, the plants somehow becoming even greener than usual while he’s holding them and mumbling threats against their leaves.
“You can drop the mister, you know?”
Aziraphale shifts on his feet and gets closer to him, a hand on his shoulder. Crowley smiles a little and it is lacking any malice— a genuine smile that spreads through his face lights up it all. It makes his insides a little weak.
“I can, but I’m not going to,” he says. “You are— gardening? On the outside of my church?”
He nods. “Yes. You’ve got nice plants. Quite uncared for, though— if it wasn’t for the London rain they would be dead by now.”
Aziraphale blinks, watching on as Crowley hisses at the plants. “...Thank you?”
“Oh no, it’s not a compliment.” He stands up. “Anyway, I’ve got a reservation for the Ritz after mass. Wanna come?”
He squints. “You’re… inviting me out for dinner?”
“Why not? It seems I’ll have to do the old-fashioned way. And as it seems, that’s what you’re in need for.”
Aziraphale’s common sense says he’ll regret this. That this will be a mistake, no mind how he’s already had impure thoughts that have taken him to his bedroom about this demon. But he wants the touch, his touch and Crowley doesn’t seem all that bad, really and— oh God, what is he thinking ?
Before he can stop himself, though, as his brain screams at him (and his heart congratulates him), he says, “I’ll go.”
Crowley grins wide and toothy, forked tongue slipping right out of his mouth.
Sunday mass passes even slower than usual. He replies to questions, sings along to the hymns, but the only thing he can think about is Crowley. A demon, yes— but he hasn’t felt like this around anybody before. Of course, he’s had lust sing in his brain before (many, many times before, always ending up in the same way, kneeling after mass in the confessional). But this isn’t it.
He makes sure everything in his church is in tip-top condition until he’s sure he can leave by time for dinner. He swallows nervously as he goes home just to change into normal clothes. It’s not something he does often, per se, the fear of someone hitting on him while he’s outside of the garb scaring him to no end. He’s not ready yet for that kind of contact, as much as it has happened before— it makes him spiral down into sheer panic, especially because most of those hitting on him have been men.
But he knows that’s what the demon’s intentions are. And well, he doesn’t think it will hurt anyone. If Hell is going to have him, it will be because he’s going after this being’s company, not because that being is a man. The thought is oddly comforting.
He fixes his tie and his collar, the nicely fitting button-up making his fat rather flattering. He smiles and fixes the suspenders, looking at himself in the mirror and trying not to think of the sin of vanity before getting out of his apartment. He hails a cab and there he is, waiting for him at the door of the hotel, the same wicked smile of always on his lips.
“Aziraphale,” he says, tilting his head.
He looks divine, he has to admit— if it wasn’t for his demonic presence, the way he makes his skin itch, he could’ve confused him for an angel. He’s wearing an ugly maroon tie along with his darker clothes of choice, both his shirt and pants dark or nearing it. His sunglasses don’t let him quite see his amber eyes, but he knows just how scathing and enchanting they are like the back of his hand.
“Crowley,” he replies, letting him lead the way.
The next few hours consist of a few things. Incredible food, firstly and obviously, followed by Crowley abusing freely of the great menu of wines and other such alcohols, until he’s pleasantly tipsy.
“So,” he starts as he downs another glass of red wine, his sunglasses slipping down the bride of his nose. “Have I told you that, ah, I don’t got these eyes for nothing? I’m— I was— I fell, I wasn’t born like this.”
Aziraphale’s brows knit together. “Why did you fall?”
He rolls his eyes and throws his free hand onto the air, gesturing vaguely. “Agh. Just, y’know Eve.” Aziraphale nearly chokes on his white wine but regains his composure before putting it down on the table. “The apple, the tree, all that. I just asked questions—” He drinks the rest of the wine in his glass. “That’s all it took back then.”
“You’re..." He swallows. “You’re
the
snake.”
Crowley pulls his sunglasses right off, his eyes with the brightness of a thousand suns. “That I am. I’m a pretty insignificant demon, anyway. It doesn’t matter all that much, I just— I just tried to do what I thought was right, and I got just— just—”
He can’t help himself, his heart aching in his chest. He pulls him closer and squeezes his shoulder, and amid his drunken stupor, Crowley smiles.
He hiccups. “Y’know, you’re a lot more tolerable than I expected you’d be.”
“...Thank you?” he replies, blinking a little.
A short laugh escapes Crowley’s mouth. “It is a compliment,” he says.
Aziraphale blushes and he stays silent, pulling his hand away. It itches a little after the touch, nothing he can’t ignore, and Crowley is such a foul creature, that he is. He’s the one who doomed humanity, but there is just something so human about him. Something so… understandable about him. He’s made his fair share of mistakes that cost him far more than they should’ve. He gets it, or so he thinks.
“For how long have you been here?” he asks. “In our world, I mean.”
“Ah,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers. “That’s— that’s the thing. I’m kind of like ah, a… what’s the word?” He focuses for a second. “Ambassador! A really shitty one, granted, but yes, still— I, ah, have been on Earth for most of my existence. I like it here. Hell is, well, hell-y.”
Aziraphale nods and takes another sip of his wine. “You know, ah, I’ve got something to tell you.”
Crowley looks at him intently, and his eyes widen. “I can sense desire.” It’s Aziraphale’s turn to be shocked, blush settling on his cheeks as he struggles to form words. “Wait, let me, ah— sober up.” His face scrunches up and after a few moments, his wine glass is refilled. He pants and looks up at him. “Okay, so.”
“I’ve…” He looks around. No one is paying attention to them but everyone is paying attention to them in the same breath. He fiddles with his hands. “I’ve…” He can’t find the words. The mere thought of kissing Crowley makes his anxiety skyrocket at the same time it makes him itch for it, he wants it desperately. “Can we go back to my bookshop?”
“You’re not done with your food,” he points out quietly, frowning a little.
“I know,” he replies, voice tight.
He smiles (a smile too innocent for a demon), and it makes his knees weak as he calls for the waiter. Crowley pays hurriedly before he stands up, heading towards his car with Aziraphale by his metaphorical tail. He doesn’t know the exact model or brand, he’s never been a fan of cars, but it does look really vintage.
There’s no music during the ride.
“You’re not as forceful,” Aziraphale notes as Crowley parks in front of his bookshop.
Crowley gives him a stiff smile. “I don’t feel the need to be.”
He opens the door and Crowley walks in without much trouble, his hand brushing against Aziraphale’s when he goes to flip the sign back to ‘CLOSED’.
“So, where were we?” Crowley asks him with a tilt of his head. “D’you want me to make my tongue more, uh, human for this, or—?”
“I’ve never kissed anyone before,” Aziraphale stammers out.
Crowley stares at him, rendered speechless. “Oh.”
He wants to sink into the ground so Crowley can’t look at him like that, with this shocked look in his face. Brows raised, mouth agape, his eyes shining from underneath his sunglasses. He can’t imagine just how excited he feels because of this. A virginal priest who hasn’t even had his first kiss, and he’s seducing him, ruining him, making him into an abomination—
His thoughts are cut short by Crowley says, “I promise I won’t go too fast for you.”
“What?”
He steps closer to him, grabs his hands. Squeezes gently, like he’s made of fine china. Aziraphale doesn’t know if he likes it or if he loathes it, how a demon treats him so kindly, kinder than most people he’s been close with, most humans he’s been close with—
“I promise I won’t go too fast for you, Aziraphale,” he repeats, tackling his name at the end like anything but an afterthought.
Of course, he thinks. Crowley is more human than a demon, he didn’t mean to fall, and he has grown attached to the priest he’s simply been meaning to ruin. Perhaps because he’s a closet case, perhaps because he’s repressed, perhaps because he is just… Not anything interesting.
He smiles. “Okay, dear,” he says.
Crowley clears his throat, looking away. “So, human tongue it is, I assume?”
Aziraphale chuckles a little. “I think that’d be preferable.”
He nods and closes his eyes, brows knitting together before he sticks his tongue out, now perfectly humanlike and not snakelike in the least. Except for the slight black tinge but ah, details.
“So,” Crowley says, smiling at him as he takes off his sunglasses.
“You have beautiful eyes,” Aziraphale blurts out.
He rolls his eyes. “They’re what tipped you off about me being a demon, they’re not beautiful.”
He leans in and puts his hand on Crowley’s bony cheek, and he effectively melts into the touch, purring a little. “They are.” He clears his throat. “Care to, ah…?”
“Yes,” he says, pulling his hand away. “I’ll kiss you. I’ll be here during the subsequent breakdown, too.”
“I won’t have a breakdown—” he starts, but he’s interrupted by Crowley kissing him.
He might be a demon— yes, he is a demon, but his lips on his is one of the holiest things he’s ever had the pleasure of experiencing. His eyes flutter shut and he keeps his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, pulling himself closer until they’re chest to chest, Crowley holding him by the small of his back oh so sweetly.
He melts, clinging onto him until he needs air, pulling away and smiling at him. Crowley rubs circles into his back.
“Temptation accomplished, I believe,” Crowley tells him, pulling him into another kiss.
Aziraphale lets him, and he categorizes all his worries about the nature of this encounter for other time. Perhaps as soon as he’s done with Crowley’s mouth on him he’ll lock himself in his bathroom, panic a little, but not right now. It can wait, it can wait as he kisses the demon like he’s God himself.
The guilt will eat at him, but not right now. And he knows he’ll grow to live with it like he hasn’t ever before.
(When they’re done kissing, he hurries to the bathroom and Crowley makes no effort in pretending he’s not entering with him. He shushes him and plays with his hair as he whimpers and tears slide down his cheeks, and he promises him it’ll pass. A little demonic miracle of my own, he says. And he feels better— and he’ll learn to feel better.)