(A/N) Standard disclaimers apply (i.e., none of it's mine, I get no profit from it). Please review. Is the beginning awkward, or is it just me?


One of the things Crowley loved most about a corporeal body had to be the senses. As a discoporated presence, you could still comprehend the nature of the world around you, but you couldn't feel it and it wasn't the same.

Clubbing was a joy that had nothing to do with Heaven or Hell, and was purely Earth. Heaven and Hell, when you came right down to it, were sensually dull. Same thing for all eternity. Same Purcell and sickening goodness and over bright light on one end, same pain and torture and vaguely spooky red horror movie lights on the other. Eternally boring, when you came right down to it, and all of that on a purely spiritual and metaphorical level anyway.

A club was the ultimate sensual experience. Simply walking inside from a cool night street was an attack on the senses. The music: so loud, it made your eardrums vibrate, so emphatic you had move with it, the air so saturated with the pulsing beat that you could practically feel it curl up your nostrils and flow down your throat. The lights: crazy and flashing, but isolating in the music-suffused air as they lit your fellows just long enough to blind you when they changed. The smells: sweat and a mix a perfumes that was never the same and could never be duplicated and perhaps only a demon could find beautiful, mixing with cigarette smoke and the undertones of less legal drugs, even more cloyingly sweet than the perfume. The stale taste of alcohol lingered in the heavy air, mixing with the sweat and the perfume and music to make a flavor Crowley would call purely human, for lack of a better world. And the feel. It all culminated in the careless touch of sweaty body against sweaty body in a writhing mass, people pressed so close together, none of them knowing each other, none of them caring. Because in some odd form of synesthesia, that was what it was: perfect isolation in the midst of people, as they pressed against you, so close you could feel every desperate move, but so far away, lost and distant from you in the intoxication of smoke and alcohol and music and light and pure sensation.

Crowley had never claimed clubs as a success, though sometimes he mentioned the drugs circulating there with pride. The angel wouldn't have either, because there was nothing heavenly about such a place. But Crowley visited them, and it wasn't only to suggest to those practically begged for Temptation. He loved them, and it wasn't only because it was an easy place to get work done.

At heart, the demon Crowley was a sensualist. He loved the feel of sun on his skin, and the plethora of scents and tastes the world had to offer, and most of all he loved clubs because they were the epitome of the sensual experience of living on Earth.