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on dragons and hoards

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Since the mutually and enthusiastically modified terms of their arrangement, post-apoca-lapse, Crowley has found that there’s no better place for a kip than curled up with—or on, or in on one absolutely glorious occasion—Aziraphale while he reads. The best cushion one could ask for. 

They’ve settled into a sort of routine: 

After another stunning round of lovemaking and the requisite clean up, kisses, assurances and praise, Aziraphale pulls a book from atop the nightstand, settles up against the extravagant headboard, and begins to read by low light of the lamp. Crowley lies at his side, resting his head to one soft, opulent thigh. He prepares for his slow descent to sleep, eyes on Aziraphale, trailing up the stretch of bare skin, the soft folds of his stomach, the swell of his chest; his head with curls aglow; the easy glow of his eyes; the gentle turn of his mouth. 

He watches his angel at peace. Crowley makes sure to keep his flat pleasantly warm for his own benefit, and now there is the added bonus that laying here like this, they heat each other just fine, no blankets necessary. Aziraphale feels no urgency when it comes to covering his own nudity; he sits exposed completely and casual as anything. So at home here, in Crowley’s bed. Unashamed and free. Crowley is struck, suddenly, with the novelty of the routine. The stability. The fact that it is a sort of routine at all—the remarkable revelation that this is his life. His and Aziraphale’s. The two of them have such time, now. All of it, actually.

Exhausted and overcome, Crowley turns into a snake.

That isn’t part of their routine, but, well, it’s not never happened before. Aziraphale only tuts affectionately, not even looking away from his book as he brings one leg up slightly, bent at the knee to accommodate Crowley, readily welcoming him as he slithers to his lap, seeking comfort.  

So it goes. Aziraphale reads, and Crowley dozes.

All six feet of Crowley’s serpentine form is nestled in the space between Azirapale’s legs, long weighted bulk of him wound starting at the ankle, thick rolling hills overlapping each other, cascading up and over to spill onto Aziraphale’s thighs. He soaks up the warmth of Aziraphale, luxuriates in the plush serenity that is the feel of his figure, the melting softness of skin-to-scales. His wide head rests, perched a tad proprietary, on the upper dip of his pelvis, the heat of his sex below warming him like coals on a hearth.

Crowley stirs as Aziraphale stretches, feeling his body tense and release beneath him. The pulse of him beats steady, a smooth, divine rhythm. It lulls him, rocks him. He’s held in his lap, in the cradle of his body, and Crowley holds him in turn. The deep desire to protect hums in the back of Crowley’s brain. 

The desire is always there; has been for thousands of years. It’s not that it hums stronger when he’s a serpent, exactly, but it’s baser, more animal in nature. With a flicker of his tongue he shifts his weight, languorous and smooth, and his muscled body easily parts Aziraphale’s legs wider as he pulls back and bends, burrows deeper into the junction of his thighs. 

Aziraphale sighs, a little high, airy. Crowley hears him turn a page of his book. 

A whisper from his snout, now, is the vulnerable arch of him—Aziraphale’s cock rests, looking small and delicate in its lax state, soft bollocks pillowed underneath loose and neat, a pretty prize enwreathed in a thatch of light. Oh, but he loves this part of him. The fat weight of Aziraphale in him; in his mouth, his hand. Aziraphale takes him well, always treats him to the sweetest joys of the flesh, all the earthly delights two men can show one another. Crowley goes right up to him, lies in curls and musk and heat and presses against the ruffled head, lightly. The silken skin of him shifts, gossamer, exquisitely soft. Tenderness tugs at Crowley. The instinct to care, to hold, to claim, to shelter and guard, sings through him. His mouth grows wet. His jaw aches.

Aziraphale tilts out from behind his book, eyebrows raised beyond his glasses. 

Crowley nuzzles him again.

“My dear…”

He hisses, tongue flickering. The sugary, fresh sunlight taste-smell of his angel surrounds him in a hazy, dense fog of pleasure. His mind races. 

“I,” Aziraphale starts, slowly, searching for the correct words like he does when working out a riddle, or a particularly stubborn translation, “I’m reading.”

Ssssso read.”

Crowley coils tighter, squeezing his body around Aziraphale. The forked end of his tongue sticks out, a playful glance across his cock. He parts his mouth in an approximation of a smile.

“Crowley.”

“Y’sss?”

“Talk to me.” If you want something, ask for it. 

The thing is, he doesn’t know what it is he needs, exactly, not right away. It’s just—he’s so happy , awash in love. It bubbles up in him like the good, proper wasabi Aziraphale has gotten him hooked on, burning up his spine, clearing out all his corners and making way for clarity, focus. A dizzy, anxious sort of contentment stretches, scratches against his scales. He knows he wants Aziraphale to read, to keep up their routine; he knows he wants to stay close to him, hold him, warm him; he knows, with a sudden sharpness, how he can be closer

Warmer. 

Dippy blood-soaked heart of his literally skips inside his chest as it clicks. 

“Jusss’ wan’ you in me, angel,” he says in a rush, breath right up against him. “Much the ssssame as ussual: you read, I sssleeep.” His eyes flick down over his cock, and the forked end of his tongue peeks out in emphasis. He hears a sharp inhalation. He’s never suggested such a thing, never touched Aziraphale so intimately in this form. And it feels, currently, like he’s never desired anything more. It’s not even that he wants… well… he does, oh, Godbless it, does he ever want; he realizes with a burning flush of heat that he wants everything with Aziraphale, absolute, entire, in all their forms, but not—not now. Now he wants this, only. Just the holding.

“And, angh, a-and more, if that’sss ssomething you’d like,” he can’t help but add. “Later.”

Everything in him has become narrowed, focused and intent. He raises himself up, makes sure to angle his head to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, so he can see his eyes. The same eyes as always. 

Oh.”

“Mm-hmnnn.” He flicks his tongue. He opens his mouth, just slightly. He waits. 

Aziraphale marks his place in his book and places it on the nightstand. He removes his glasses, arranges them carefully alongside. If he had on his waistcoat, or anything at all, he would tug at it, or try to, take a thing perfectly placed and styled and play at setting it right regardless, to stall for time. The soft folds of his belly shimmy wonderfully as he straightens his already perfectly postured spine.

After a heavy pause, he brings a hand to cup the crown of Crowley’s head. 

“Doesssn’t disssgust you, doess it?” Crowley isn’t reading disgust, but the scratching inside him grows mean in the quiet. 

“B—balderdash,” Aziraphale says, suddenly fervent, almost angry at the mere concept. “Never, my darling, never, oh—” he licks his lips, and the words tumble from him, “it’s only that I hadn’t lent much consideration to the prospect of such a thing being along the lines of what you would want. But, oh, I—I must be honest, I have allowed myself, to… to indulge in fantasy. I didn’t know how to ask. You want me, truly? You would let me? Have, ha-have me, let me have you?” he muses, tracing along his jaw. The lines at his eyes become more pronounced as one corner of his mouth lifts, tentative, fragile. “Like this?”

Shouldn’t have doubted, Crowley thinks, bursting with love. Naturally you’d want it all, too; never met a lotus you wouldn’t eat if it piqued your fancy, you stunning glutton of a thing.

Aziraphale has called his serpent form beautiful, many times now. Like so much of their story, when others would shy away, Aziraphale welcomed him in. At a distance, yes, but always left a door open a tad just the same. Even when it would be dangerous to do so. From that first day, he hadn’t thought to be afraid. Big black snake slithers into your space? Strike up conversation. Shade his human vessel from the rain. And now free to show his favor with words as well as actions, Aziraphale flatters him no matter his form. He praises his long elegance, his coiled strength, the iridescent quality of his scales in the light. He likes him resting heavy across his shoulders, or wrapped light around his neck. 

(“S’the first Crowley I met. Really,” he’d said recently, both of them drunk on some very expensive wine, “way I see it it’s Crowley that I love and you’re Crowley like that and you’re Crowley like this and all Crowleys are good Crowleys, Crowley. Crooowley.” 

Crowley had stumbled into his lap, giggling hisses into his mouth, “How’ssss thiss for good,” and shown Aziraphale some very interesting things he could do with his tongue.)

Of course he likes him as a serpent. Of course he balks at the idea that he could ever not

“You would trust me?” 

Crowley wriggles, sinuous, pleased undulations, nodding with his whole length. His jaw clenches, empty— 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Aziraphale says, words catching on the edge of a laugh, indulgent and fond. Steady and firm as his unwavering gaze he smooths fingers over his scales. Just feeling him. A touch of reverence. “You are most lovely, I… I’m honored by your favor. As I ever am. Every new piece of you is a gift.”

If Crowley were to blush in this form, his face would be fire.

He nudges at Aziraphale’s fingers as they come to the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale says, “But what about…” and Crowley delights, whole being singing yes as his thumb catches and gentles his jaw open. 

Look! Look how I am changed to better serve you; a thing of hurt to harbor, see how good I am for you, you, you his reptilian brain trills. 

The inside of his mouth is smooth. Nothing but soft wet, pink and dewy top, bottom, and taut sides. The bulge of his glottis sits a centerpiece, a welcoming cushion. He hisses softly, vibrating against Aziraphale’s skin. The savory nectar-sweet of Aziraphale on his palate is ambrosial and it takes all of his self-control not to capture it, suckle at his finger like honeycomb. He reminds himself: Time for that later, and oh, the idea that that is something he can have is intoxicating. It’s that thought that spurs him on, and he opens his jaw wider still, the slim points of his tongue dangling as he preens, shifting his head from side to side, concentrating on showing off the stretch. 

A flush blooms deep on Aziraphale’s cheeks. “My, look at that.” His eyes are shining, wide and wondrous. Pupils blown. “How you’ve prepared yourself for me.”

With a shudder, and a great deal of reluctance, Crowley pulls back and says, “Ssshield and ssshelter you. Never could hurt you.” Changing his anatomy is not something he’d thought about doing until he knew it was done; he’d wanted to be ready for Aziraphale, and he was.

“You always do,” Aziraphale says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the universe, “and you never have.”

Heartbreaking, that. Liar. But the sentiment is appreciated. Before guilt can creep up his spine too far, roaring flames and the smell of ash licking at his memory, his angel continues:

“How would you like me? You wish to simply, mn, hold me in your mouth, just now, yes? I can’t say I quite… I know there are some reptilian species that transport their young in their, er…” he trails off at Crowley’s shaking, skittering hiss of a laugh.

“Overthinking, angel.”

“Am I?”

“More of a, ss-ssecurity artifice, I thhhink. The human habit of s ssucking one’s thumb, like—essnk,” he says, and shit, that’s embarrassing. His tongue scrambles for better. He finds it easier to be open, like this, but it remains a challenge. “It’ss about you trussting me, too. To keep you sssafe,” he adds, “or, gnngh, m-maybe you do such a bang up job keeping me warm, s’nice to return the favor. Like to be usseful, you know.”

Aziraphale’s hand goes to his chest. “I trust you entire,” he says, hushed. “And I’d argue that you always warm me splendidly, but I never would deny you a chance to share your affections with me.”

“Alllssso,” he slurs, cheeky, “jusst, love your cock.”

“Crowley!”

He smiles at him, gleeful. Tongue flicking out in a tease. Mouth all but watering. Too much sincerity makes him itch. And, alright—he’s eager to get started. 

“I suppose,” Aziraphale says, lips pursed with a sigh, sounding very put upon for someone whose face looks like it’s about to burst from smiling, “I suppose I should reward you giving voice to a want, hm?”

“Only ifff you want it too.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Aziraphale says in a twinkling, incredulous tone. His eyebrows raise: well?

And so Crowley coils himself back down, dragging scales heavy against the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s thigh, bulk bending and shifting under his weight as he rests again in the v of his hips. Hisses rumble from him, a constant rhythm as he waits, passional, rapt with single-minded craving. So close. 

Aziraphale shivers, holds a hand to him. Crowley’s head is almost twice the size of his palm. “Should I…?” 

Crowley bobs his head eagerly. 

After a few abortive movements where his angel visibly has to wrestle himself under control—and isn’t that delicious—Aziraphale has himself in hand, holding his soft, precious prick up for the taking. Looking so vulnerable in the span of his palm, laying along the plump spread of his fingers like an offering. The surety of trust inherent in the action catches in Crowley’s throat. He lets out a hiss more comparable to a growl, low and possessive; his scales flex and clench. Aziraphale twitches in his hand, and Crowley watches transfixed as his fingers give himself a cautionary squeeze, as a vein along the side throbs and the foreskin flickers. 

“Go on, love,” Aziraphale says, voice tight. 

Crowley holds his mouth open eagerly, a cup for Aziraphale’s holy communion. The first touch of velvet flesh is a balm to his skittering heart, a sweetness to rival any wine. He widens his jaw, scoops up his bollocks too; might as well collect the set. 

Minute tremors roll over Aziraphale, fingers parting from him with a lingering caress, little punched-out whimpers falling like rain as Crowley nuzzles into him, coming to rest with his nose to wiry, soft curls. Perfect. The whole stout girth pliable, loose and lax cocooned entire under his charge. The taste of him honey smooth. He gives a pleased hum, settles around him with a full-body shudder, scales rippling.

Aziraphale’s breath hitches on a fragile oh, and he pets at him with both hands, well-manicured nails kneading ever so slightly into his scales. “Oh, that’s…” He shifts, worrying his lip, like he can’t help himself, squirms at the low, simmering heat as Crowley swallows against him, adjusting his grip. “Oh, you feel…”

His cock nudges against the cheek of Crowley’s upper jaw and holds there. Crowley meets Aziraphale’s gaze, unblinking as ever, emanating pure, undiluted Love. Vowing with everything he has to honor the gratitude he feels. All of me. All of you. 

“I-I love you too, oh, my dear boy, I know,” Aziraphale’s voice cracks, shaky. “I know.” A great gust of a sigh echoes through the room. His thighs quiver like a heartbeat. “Like this, then, rather—rather nice. Yes. Divine, Crowley.”

His angel always feels good in his mouth, hard or soft and all degrees in between. It is something new, profound, to hold him in this form, feel Aziraphale’s cock rest against his glottis, stretch the shallow jaw of him so differently, and with no intent other than the act itself; already there is a soul-deep satisfaction spreading throughout his body, filling Crowley up like a warm bath, suffusing him with purpose, contentment in his place, in his duty to Aziraphale. To have, to hold. 

He can’t articulate to himself the enormity of this, and why, but he knows if he had his human form there would be tears staining his cheeks. Wet pools in Crowley’s mouth and he swallows it down. In his head there is a heavy fog rolling in, soothing unlike anything he’s ever experienced. He gives himself eyelids with a quick blink, just to further cloak himself, bury himself in darkness. He wants to surrender—and he can. He’s safe. He feels stuffed with light, complete in a way foreign to him. It would be frightening, this great, boundless tug at his core, but it isn’t, couldn’t ever be, not with Aziraphale the cause. His anchor.

Another shaky exhale drifts above him, soft as a cloud shadowing, warding off the burn of the sun when it’s rays seem a danger. Calming him, a sweet petrichor. Distantly there is motion as Aziraphale lifts his book up from the table, and the crisp sound of well-worn pages turning as he resumes his read. 

There is nothing Crowley wouldn’t do to keep him, just like this. All his; unfettered, utterly at ease. 

They’ll not touch you again, he thinks wildly, thoughts a haze.

He wonders what else they can do while he’s in this form. He wonders when they can do this again. Maybe while Aziraphale sits at his desk; Crowley slinking underneath, a comfort as he catalogs. Or as he eats, as he nourishes himself to satisfaction, and all the while Crowley cradling him, connected so intimately, nourishing himself in his own way, satiating his soul with the treasure-trust weight of him tugging like a string tied taut to his heart. 

A hand remains resting gently atop his crown, occasionally swiping a thumb over cool scales but mostly just sitting an attentive pressure, a reminder; grounding, warm. 

Crowley gives into the heavy pull, lets himself drift off, sink down into a place where he needn’t think at all. There is nothing required of him but seeing that Aziraphale is kept. Nothing but Aziraphale curled in him, a heated, damp softness, and all around him, a plush more comforting than the mattress beneath. Crowley melts into him like foam, thinking of routines; of new additions and addenda, of possibilities and broken barriers. 

All that he is, all that he’s done, fades away. Pales in the face of Aziraphale’s love. Aziraphale’s trust. Like Heaven is supposed to feel. Bliss.

His thoughts swirl and slow, and float off. 

The ache in his jaw finally, finally eases.