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Aziraphale watched quietly as the demon Crawly descended from the wall. Their meeting (if one could call it that) had been unusually quiet. The Serpent had arrived by his side just as the horizon was shot through in veins of deep indigo and navy, unfolding himself upright to present the lissom shape that Aziraphale was most familiar with. Crawly had merely stood by his side, staring into the inky abyss, watching as diamond points of light began to stud the gloam. He had offered no conversation, a silent sentry scanning the eternal sky until one by one the stars faded into the mask of dawn and Crawly had taken his leave with it. The angel had thought it odd that it had been the first time they had run into each other during the night. Aziraphale had not even spotted the wily creature around the Garden after sunset, and he had certainly looked. He was the Guardian after all; even if Adam and Eve had gone, Aziraphale had not been relieved of his post on the wall, so there he remained to protect God’s Eden. Surely a demon would be attracted to the dark shadows, he had thought, and yet he had only seen the demon in the clear light of day. Certainly strange behaviour, Aziraphale supposed; of course, Crawly was a demon, so it was perhaps to be expected that he acted unusually.
The new day promised to be another beautiful one as the first fingers of sunrise reached out greedily across the dark desert to conquer the earth; and in doing so, it captured Crawly in the glory of its rays and gilded threads of molten gold into the demon’s crimson curls. For the briefest of moments, the top of his head blazed with an ethereal lustre. The angel exhaled a stuttered breath, noting how the scene unfolded like the haunting echo of a former halo. Aziraphale was struck by an errant wave of nostalgia; buoying himself in a memory that had preceded long swathes of trauma and division. The memory curled around his soul, imbuing him with the unwelcome sensation of regret. Then the crown of red silk retreated out of sight, back into the declining flora, and Aziraphale was left alone to realign his unruly introspections. To remind himself that he was keeping company with an agent of Hell, even if he had known the demon in his past life. Even if the company was intriguing and he secretly longed for more.
It was jarring to reconcile this darkly beautiful character with the charmingly enthusiastic angel who had once been at the epicentre of the birth of the cosmos. So many differences, yet so many similarities. Different eyes (yet still as beguiling), different classifications (yet still as inquisitive), different wings (yet still as beautiful), different names (yet still a name that would reverberate through space and time).
The star-maker and the snake. Aziraphale could not bear to linger on Crawly’s former name. It was branded upon his essence, a raw wound of absence that once held dear the names of all of God’s Fallen ones.
But there had been a third character made known to Aziraphale in the leaf-filtered light of Eden. A softened caricature of a former angel or a reluctant demon whose sighs and moans had been as musical to Aziraphale’s ears as the most talented songbird. Crawly had briefly been unburdened by the demands of demonhood and his duties as a Tempter for the time they had spent together, and he was all the more charming for it. In his mind’s eye, Aziraphale could vividly recall how pliant and joyous the demon had been in Aziraphale’s arms whilst the angel pushed inside him. They had transformed into one being, joined in human physicality and cosmic spirituality.
Aziraphale had not expected the human mating ritual to have affected him as much as it had. The time he had spent on earth so far had been pleasant enough; he had enjoyed the refreshing feeling of rain on his skin and the scents of a thousand blooms fragrancing the air, and he had expected this particular earthly experience to be nice, too. He had not expected to be so thoroughly remade by it. After all, he was an angel, a powerful, ancient cosmic being. He was only wearing a human corporation, it was not his true self, he was not supposed to be enslaved to their chemicals and inner workings; somehow the body he resided within had felt something transcendental. Indescribable. It had been overwhelming, and he ached to feel that euphoria again; something that he could cling to beyond his existence as a belittled and ignored angel who had been isolated from the Host in a strange world. The function was designed to create new humans; it was a tremendous thing that Her most cherished Creations would multiply. Therefore it made sense that the culmination of the act would create a sense of concentrated joy so intense that one would cry out to Heaven and the Almighty in their rapture. Like a prayer. When he thought of it that way, he was grateful for the opportunity to partake in another form of reverence. He could love Her Creation by integrating among them.
Though it was peculiar that such exquisite pleasure would be available to a demon, he considered. Crawly had certainly seemed as overcome as Aziraphale, and there had been no mistaking the contentment in the demon’s expression afterwards. Guiltily, Aziraphale’s reverie ran away with itself, conjuring the image of the demon’s twisting muscles, contortions that rippled under delicate skin and mesmerised the angel into a frustrated stupor.
The sun climbed ever higher, yet there was still a chill in the air that lingered from the deepest shadows of night. But when Aziraphale pressed a cool palm to his cheek, he felt a steady heat radiate from it. He refused to admit to himself that it was due to suppressing his reactions after he had spied Crawly touching himself the previous afternoon. At first, it was completely unintentional, of course. Aziraphale had simply been fulfilling his duties by scouting the Garden for trouble when he happened to see the Serpent transform into the man-shaped being, sprawled in the grass without a stitch to preserve his modesty. But then Aziraphale could not make himself turn away from such beauty, unrobed as it was. The endless expanse of his perfectly toned torso, the well-sculpted winding legs and arms that would not stay still as Crawly massaged the frilled flesh at his core. He could not tear his eyes away from the way juices spilt from the demon’s body like a ripe peach while the demon writhed in pleasure. Before he knew it, Aziraphale’s robes rose in response and his breath hitched like a stone in his throat.
Aziraphale had been transfixed, watching the glorious being reap his own gratification and then sleep away the remainder of the day once sated.
The tension of the memory spiked ever higher and was unbearable whilst he stood by Crawly’s side as he tried to appear unaffected. Aziraphale had been truly desperate to reach out to the demon and bring him more pleasure, but Crawly had seemed rather sombre as he stared at the night sky, so it had not felt appropriate to broach another round of experimentation, nor did Aziraphale think the demon would appreciate the knowledge that he had been watched. It was not as if the newly discovered sense of shame which plagued the humans would affect ethereal beings such as them (or occult in Crawly’s case) but it certainly had not felt like the right time. The demon had seemed contemplative, vulnerable somehow, and Aziraphale had felt it would be better to offer his silent companionship instead.
But now Crawly had departed, and Aziraphale had a throbbing bulge that he could no longer ignore. He made certain that the demon was safely curled away in the den of sun-warmed rocks that Aziraphale knew he favoured for naps and then hurriedly slid down to the dusty floor. The sand was encroaching further by the day and usually, Aziraphale would rather avoid besmirching his raiment, but he was beyond considering anything more than the throbbing between his legs. He knew that his bottom half would be out of sight of the Garden and the wild desert beyond. It was not ideal by any means, but it would do in a pinch. He tried to ignore the fact that he was still exposed to the heavens, casting an uneasy eye upward out of habit. A dazzling flock of doves wheeled about in the lightening sky, scattering spiderweb-fine clouds in their airborne dance; their white wings exacerbated Aziraphale’s mild paranoia, perpetually worried that disapproving violet eyes might be trained his way. A pang of anxiety lanced his chest and he immediately locked it away for later penance.
He knew he was being silly! This was no sin, after all. Using the corporation he was granted in its intended manner was his way of understanding his human charges, for the same reason he had a beating heart and lungs that expanded and contracted with air he did not require; how could he care and guide humanity if he did not understand their most primal urges? It made him a better angel, surely? He would simply achieve the release that was promised by a moment of indulgence, and then he could return to his duties unburdened by the image of freckled skin, luminous with sweat.
That decided, Aziraphale firmly trailed his thumb down the robed and pulsing length with a guttural sigh of relief. The friction was delightful; like a dip in a crisp, clear pond when the Garden was particularly stifling. He huffed out a heavily charged breath and let his eyes flutter closed as the sensation claimed him. His thumb was followed by his remaining fingers, sending a shiver of need through his extremities. His mind immediately returned to the vision of Crawly, the sensuality of his sinuous back pressed into the grass, his elegant fingers massaging slick and shining flesh until he achieved completion with a jubilant cry. Aziraphale had burned to fly down to him, he had longed to press his fingers into that enticing wet heat and savour Crawly’s sounds of pleasure for himself. Aziraphale groaned as he grasped himself through the fine material and squeezed gently, remembering how Crawly’s body clamped around him possessively just like that. His mind flickered again to the stimulating memory of the demon’s lithe frame, the way his hips rolled into his own touch as Aziraphale watched from afar. The picture in his head heightened the sensation of Aziraphale’s hand as he tentatively pumped the supple skin wrapped around a solid core of hot blood. A flood of sparks settled beneath his skin, waves rolling out from where his hand made contact at the crux of his thighs.
As the molten churning in his stomach surged, Aziraphale lost all patience with the tease of clothed contact, he hurriedly bunched his gleaming white robes up above his hips and greedily grabbed the straining appendage with a moan. The primal sound that escaped his lips reverberated out into the fathomless blue sky to join the chorus of other wild animal calls. He could not find it in him to be embarrassed, as lost as he was in the moment. The feeling of skin on skin initiated something explosive in his abdomen and Aziraphale thrashed against the overpowering sensation. Between his full-body shivers and gasps, he found a coherent corner of his mind and was astonished by his success; he had not felt such satisfaction the first time he tried this; it had been an almost bland affair when compared with his time with Crawly, both physically and imagined. He had not even found the height of pleasure the first time but somehow knew that he would this time.
Sinking into the heady sensation, Aziraphale readjusted his grip and hissed when a flare of white-hot bliss ripped through him. The slitted tip of his shaft spilled over in a jet of clear liquid which first beaded like a dew drop and then dripped down the veined exterior making his eyes roll back and a decidedly unangelic groan erupt from his parted lips. Aziraphale smeared the natural lubricant across the sensitive head, imitating the way he had seen Crawly spread the slick that had accumulated from his opening. It seemed to work, as the rigid organ twitched in Aziraphale’s fingers, eager for more. He could feel that the climb which promised release was approaching.
More slip. More friction. More pressure. More Crawly. His corporation demanded it, and he was helpless to refuse, enthralled by the urges that possessed his mind, body and spirit.
The sun was well on the way to its zenith, burning the chill from the stone wall he leaned against. Beasts, birds and bugs, who had remained in the Garden as it was slowly consumed by the wasteland, clamoured raucously in their appreciation of the increased heat. Aziraphale was already damp with exertion, the thin patch of hair in the centre of his chest was saturated and flattened to the skin. It was another level to his fantasy, the heavy air simulated Crawly’s hot breath rushing against the angel’s fevered skin, raising a rosy flush in its wake. Their corporations were hot but prickled in gooseflesh as each brush of contact set their skin alight with bolts of lightning. He could almost feel the glide of sweat-doused demonic flesh against his own as it had when Crawly bounced in his lap, filled up with the angel’s aching need. Aziraphale’s hand sped up, pulling, twisting, and stroking himself to the edge of madness. His all too human heart drummed its beat like a hummingbird’s wings, a marathon tempo to match his eager handwork.
Every spare cognitive function left was devoted to the image of constellations of freckles, bathed in a spotlight of fronds and ferns. Crawly had been unobtainable in his beauty; the way his sharp features had softened in pleasure had made Aziraphale insensible. There had been a nebulous quality to the demon’s citrine-yellow eyes, so stunning in the sunlight. The waterfall of ruby curls cascading over slender shoulders made Aziraphale’s stomach lurch with an urge to run his hands through them, rake his fingers through the locks with as much reverence and care as he would his shimmering midnight wings. This strange physicality blended seamlessly with such startling emotions. The heat in his gut was frothing, boiling, rising, ready to crumble his essence until he fragmented into the surrounding sands that banked high against the walls, encroaching into the lost Paradise of man. Eventually, the sand would envelop the Garden, hiding it away from humanity forever more. Aziraphale wished that he could have stayed in this wondrous place for all eternity.
Aziraphale gasped, trying hard to catch his breath even as his hand clutched harder and pumped faster. There was a steady trickle of fluid flowing over his fist as he worked himself, imagining how Crawly would cry out in his delirium. As much as Aziraphale was titillated by how the demon used the word ‘angel’, he truly adored how Crawly caressed his name, spelling out every syllable, injecting it with significance as if it were the very centre of the universe. Showing Aziraphale that he was valued in such a simple way. He wanted to hear it drawn from Crawly’s lips, caught somewhere between a moan and a whisper. The word would mingle with the wet sounds of their joining, rivalling the celestial bells for their wonder.
Aziraphale’s head tipped back involuntarily as his chest started to shudder with the intensity of effort. He could feel his body tensing in on itself and knew that he was on the brink. He needed to tip himself over. The slide of his curled fingers up and down his sensitive skin was sublime; it caused a creeping shiver down to the base of his spine.
The image of Crawly still glowed behind his closed eyes. Glorious and rapturous as his fingers dipped in and around the glistening pink centre of his thighs. The picture changed: Aziraphale, dizzy with joy between Crawly’s legs, the demon’s pleasure-wet fingers pressed into the angel’s eager mouth as he moaned around them. Crawly’s legs twined around his middle, pulling him closer into all of that heat. Aziraphale would be close enough to smell that salty musk that had delighted him so. He would be close enough to press his lips and tongue against that liquid intimacy. Aziraphale could imagine those delicate folds, malleable and fragile under his mouth, as he took the hooded button between his lips, sucking until Crawly wailed and pleaded, pressing against the angel’s face for more.
The erratic rocking of his hips began to feel urgent as he thrust into his fist. The idea of satisfying Crawly with his mouth sent a frisson of fire through his stomach, and he felt the building tension snap with a cry that felt like he had been torn asunder. Thick strips of white rose into the air and baptised his robes and thighs with the peak of his pleasure. Aziraphale’s shout of ecstasy boomed across the landscape, immediately releasing the long-held tension so that he sagged bonelessly against the cool stone wall.
It took a while for his ears to stop ringing with static and his vision to clear of its fog. But when he did come around, it was to a din of birds chattering and the babble of the many pools and streams. The clamour of the Garden steadily returned to his consciousness as he sat, slumped and panting with the result of his release drying on his skin and garments.
With an exhausted gesture, Aziraphale banished the sticky mess and sighed. There was a bone-deep hum vibrating through his corporation, and he felt pleasantly lax. How ingenious of Her to gift humanity with the means to achieve physical fulfilment with nothing but one’s hands. It made him wonder at the possibilities. What else were these bodies capable of? What other methods could replicate such an intense feeling?
Although he had used it as a thinly veiled excuse to himself, Aziraphale was rather curious about this biological function. His mind turned to his beloved humans, mulling over the impact it would have on his charges. How would humanity be moulded by the explosive chemical reaction within their own bodies, and how could it make or destroy future communities? Aziraphale needed to understand more, which required him to actually further his research if he was to be successful in understanding its influence.
An unpleasant dip in his stomach brought an end to his hormonal high as he contemplated a trip to the office.