“Oh, you—you awful, oh, splendid, y-you ter-terribly cunning and wiley, devious serpent, I—”
The hitching, keening cry, inaudible to all but those involved in its making, splits the sky like a crack of thunder. The force of it shakes Crowley down to his bones, the trembling call of more, more, please emboldening his efforts. Aziraphale’s whimpers sing as blood through vein, power him forward as he presses further, closer still. The end of him, slick and oiled and dripping messily onto their blanket, catches at Aziraphale and pushes deeper, strains past his dewy, grasping rim. The tip of his tail bends to make room, coils around itself inside of him, creating a ball of heaving, heavy pressure.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale pants, punched-out. High, airy. Prayerful. “Crowley, love. Crowley. Crowley.”
Scales drag sinuously at bare skin, the heavy muscle of him curling tighter where he lies all around Aziraphale. All seven—eight? he’s not kept track—feet of Crowley is wrapped in a tangle at his legs, between his thighs, resting upon his chest. His wide head is buried at his cock. He loops over his wrists and under his head, bearing him down, cradling his neck. There is no up, no down: Crowley faces all directions at once. He is one mass, one great serpentine knot enfolding Aziraphale firm. Angel of the Eastern Gate captured, cushioned, cocooned in pleasure. Held safe by the Dragon of Eden.
Another pulse of thick, wet heat floods his throat and Crowley swallows it gratefully, greedily. The inside of his mouth is a smooth curve, willed fangless for the occasion. A slick and supple cushion, a cavern of warmth. His jaw flexes around the fat bulk of Aziraphale, glottis vibrating just so against the cockhead on a drawn out, satisfied hiss.
“Cro—” Aziraphale turns Crowley’s name into a long, desperate moan.
The moss of their garden floor is soft through the flannel blanket they rest upon, a pillow on a great, verdant mattress. Around them are shrubs and plants of all sorts, and flowers in full bloom. Nary a blemish or a spot in sight. The perfume of scents swirls in the air, earthy and diaphanous, beautiful and heady, an intoxicating fantasy made real. Their own patch of land, to do with as they see fit, grape vines and berry bushels and fruit trees for the enjoyment of all. No high, cold stone walls, but a neat fence: a white picket border off the side of their cottage.
They have a home, and—well. That merits a special sort of celebration, doesn’t it?
Aziraphale kicks out, toes curling, meat of his thighs bending to Crowley’s unyielding weight as he loses control of his hips, twitching wildly. He seizes around the mass of Crowley’s tail, and Crowley can feel the pulse of his heartbeat, agonizing in its intimacy, he’s sheathed so tight. The beat shivers up the length of him, coils around him in turn. Aziraphale is still hard, quivering, pooling in Crowley’s mouth. The girth of him, cock and bollocks all, sits heavy on Crowley’s narrow tongue. Crowley keeps his jaw small, tight; Aziraphale nudges up against the side of his cheek, sopping from his latest release, and Crowley swallows with his whole body, clenching down to his tail—
The clench is accompanied by one long, languorous thrust, the end of him dragging almost completely out and pushing back in, slowly, loudly wet and rivaled only by Aziraphale’s responding wail. There are going to be scale imprints on his forearms, Crowley thinks dizzily, proudly, contracting purposeful and possessive as Aziraphale strains where Crowley binds his hands above his head.
He’d surprised him with it. Their garden. It wasn’t meant to be finished for days, weeks yet, but he’d pooled his resources and finished early. (‘His resources’ being demonic powers, obviously; hence Aziraphale finding him, hours ago, drowsing in the sun with a serpentine grin.)
Might as well have been the plan all along, really, with how they ended up. Brilliant. Giving the space a good and proper middle-finger-to-the-heavens christening, they are.
Crowley nuzzles his face inward further as he continues to thrust his tail, rubbing, seeking, tiny increments plunging him deeper still as he basks in the smell-taste of him, heavy with musk and seed and the unique sugary sweet-sweat scent of Aziraphale. The curls at the junction of his thighs tickle at the underside of Crowley’s jaw, soft spirals of light.
The evening shade falls, blooms with the gentle, steady caress of time over their entwined forms, long shadows cast by the branches of the great apple tree (naturally) above them.
Aziraphale groans and shakes and sweats and begs.
“Look at me, my love, oh, please—your eyes, I-I want your eyes on me—”
Twisting, angling his head, Crowley puts all the focus of his gaze on Aziraphale.
“Beautiful,” Aziraphale murmurs tenderly. The instant their eyes meet the word falls out of him like instinct. His face is so open, manic and wrecked, eyes and mouth a red, wet set. His hair, the only thing he’s able to get at with Crowley holding him, is ruined by clenching, kneading fingers. “You’re so…” he says, and Crowley stares, unblinking, thrusting in and out of him, suckling at just under the head of his cock, radiating Love, and trust, and care.
Beautiful, Crowley’s thoughts echo as Aziraphale arches, captivating full belly rolling, my angel, debauched and divine; primrosse, gloxinia, holly, myrtle, tulip, flax, fir, stephanotis, gladioli, arbutusss. Are they in sseason? They are now. Do those grow in England? Oh, you bloody bet they do now.
He hisses. A soft, contented rumbling.
Aziraphale’s mouth falls wide on a gasp. Drops of him spill weakly across Crowley’s tongue, flow as soothing honeyed wine down his throat. Great hitching breathes and compact, tethered thrusts take him. He bears down on Crowley’s tail and turns his head, eyes shut, lips curving in a wicked grin, rhapsodic in his own devastation as by sheer willyet another release is wrung out of him. One side of his face is cast into shadow and there appears an overlay, an otherworldly crossing over from just outside this realm: a wild scattering of eyes, multi-layered, staring out wide even as his human eyes remain closed.
The gaze burns with Holy light, ephemeral, just right, just enough of a sharp edge that Crowley can’t help but quake, shiver, hiss and hum. Saliva floods his mouth and trails down his jaw as he stretches his tongue long to curl at Aziraphale’s cock, in between and around the gentle give of him, squeezing; he thrusts hard with his tail in an unrelenting, deep drag, chasing the spark even as he shudders against him. A gratification beyond physical arousal howls, searing, scathing. Like a freezing man brought to fire. A writhing cocktail of pleasure and pain, his being crying out for him with abandon. Losing himself in his grace.
In answer Aziraphale’s whole body shimmers, the sheen of sweat like accelerant set aflame by celestial matchsticks as he flickers with divine light, flashes of eyes and golden rings and pulsing, throbbing heat. Ivy once content to sparingly lounge on the garden bed comes alive with vigor anew, vines slithering, trailing high, painting tree trunks and twining the fence, bordering and blooming bright yellow clusters. Absurdly plentiful and years premature.
“My—oo-h, Crowley,” Aziraphale groans. “Oh, my dear, I n-need—more of you—”
Scales still sparking but never, never one to deny him, Crowley flexes where he holds Aziraphale open, begging further ingress. Aziraphale murmurs soft encouragements, downright lustful mewls of praise as he holds lax. Made wet and wide, his lascivious, gluttonous body stretches wider at every exponential girth increase of Crowley’s tail.
If Crowley had eyelids they would shut tight. The tenderness tears at him. The soft give of Aziraphale is the only thing he knows. But as he can’t close his eyes—could make lids, yes, alright, as if he’d really want to—he looks at Aziraphale. Cradles him in his mouth and makes love slow with his tail and watches the pretty pink of his flush darken, eyes shut tight, dampness catching in his eyelashes; he watches his abdomen, awed as the crawl inside coils in him to bulging, the soft rolls of him carrying a foreign tautness, oh, hells.
The heat of his body is sweeter than any Crowley’s ever known. He begins a few hesitant, shallow thrusts to accompany his push. Eyes locked back to Aziraphale’s face. Every twinge of his jaw, crease of his brow, lift of his mouth is a cryptograph made for Crowley to decipher. He knows him, knows his body as his own. Knows when to stop. Just a few centimeters more. A hint of tongue, pinched through teeth. He sees the exact second Aziraphale has his fill.
For a long moment there is no movement save Crowley as he gently rocks Aziraphale. No sound but the vulgar suction of their joining.
Aziraphale barely breathes. Every thrust rubs at his prostate. It can’t not—there is nowhere else inside of Aziraphale for Crowley to go. Aziraphale’s mouth hangs open, pillow lips bitten and spit-slick. His arms lay flat of their own accord by the side of his head, elbows eschew, fingers tangled in matted curls, unmoving. Sweat puddles in the bottom of his throat, shines in all the great delicious dips of him. Down to his core he trembles, fine shakes unreservedly out of his control, all seeming to originate from his desperate, fluttering rim, his aching belly as Crowley’s bulk inside him burns, spreads like a warm wave, covering him entire.
Such a rare vision, his angel overcome so.
Crowley shifts a bit of his long middle minutely downward to lie over Aziraphale’s abdomen. His heart skitters when he feels it, feels himself, and he can’t help but chase it, undulating lazily against the stunning, hazy sensation of himself bracketing Aziraphale.
“Ssstars,” Crowley blesses, losing himself in it, Aziraphale slipping from his mouth.
A desperate, pitiful hiccup breaks off into a choked sob as Aziraphale jerks his hips. “Q-qui—quite right,” he laughs, fragmented. He always laughs, when they’re like this. It’s wonderful. His stout cock bobs enchantingly, rosy and gleaming.
Crowley opens his jaw in a smile. “Ss-ssssatisfying, yeah, angel? Sssssstuffffed?” He rolls his scales over Aziraphale where he swells. A knowing, proprietary tease.
As Aziraphale hums low, breath caught, Crowley tenses his body, constricts, holding still with all devious fiber of will he contains just to see Aziraphale’s shining eyes go wide. His jaw drops and his mouth works, no sound emerging. Precome beads heavy on the tip of his cock and Crowley follows it, flicks his tongue for a smell as it pulses down. He knows this play.
“Wh—oh, you ,” Aziraphale moans. Tears break free, trail his face. The inside of him quivers against Crowley’s tail. “Oh, do, yes, yes—”
Crowley flexes every thick, muscle-made inch of him, and moves.
“Mercy,” Aziraphale chokes, another hitching wail singing through him, “o-oh, yes, mm, mercy me, utter perfection, I h—” his words scramble, body pumping against Crowley, frantic, “the fit of you— hhha, that does it—”
What issss thisss, fiffthhh, ssssixthh? Crowley thinks hotly, trilling with delight and swallowing Aziraphale back down in one go. Catching his jerking cock, his bollocks drawn tight. Instantly his mouth rushes with heat and he hisses a steady, low vibration, uncaring as the wet leaks out the long sides of his jaw. Every tremble, every toss of Aziraphale’s head, every bend of his back, push of his hips, his thighs, his arse at Crowley’s tail, spurs him on. Everything Aziraphale desires is his. Crowley will not leave him wanting. He does not slow his thrusts. His throat works, narrow, tight, milking him fiercely.
“One more, oh, one more yet,” Aziraphale grunts out, gluttonous though he shudders still, more of him spilling thick into the cup of Crowley’s mouth. “Y-you, oh, you vexing —dearest, you need to, I want to, one last time, w-w-with you, want us to reach our peak together—”
Crowley stutters, human in his breathing. Oh.
Clearly proud at having caught him off guard, Aziraphale wiggles happily, revels in it, as Crowley thrusts unevenly, grasps hopelessly at his composure. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow in mischief. Even as his chest heaves. Even as he rolls his hips, sweats and strains. How he manages looking so hungry and intent as his cock twitches on Crowley’s tongue and he whimpers through another blasted orgasm is beyond Crowley’s comprehension. Debauchee beastof an angel.
“Could I, darling, could I s—” he continues, and breaks off on a hoarse giggle as Crowley squeezes him, reflexive and instinctual, overwhelmed before he even has the words out. “S-suck you,” he gasps desperately, “let me suck you, I, I want you in my mouth, oh, could I, please—please, all, like this , I want all of you.”
Most of the time, being with Aziraphale as a serpent is about service: the bone-deep satisfaction of lending himself wholly to Aziraphale’s pleasure. He luxuriates in his own devotion and surrender, takes pride in providing, in the knowledge of Aziraphale brought apart again and again by his design. Crowley’s spent a considerable portion of his long existence finding ways to give Aziraphale what he wants. Satiating the insatiable. Books, miracles, plays, wine, favors, oh, do have seconds, angel, I insist. Every little sweet, soft indulgence that brings him joy, Crowley will deliver it, and do so gladly.
The garden was a gift. Aziraphale offering to share this with him feels terribly tender. Like he’s scraped raw, suddenly, beset with emotion and unequipped to cope.
Hours without a thought to reciprocation, no ounce of carnal want in him, this is not about him —but now he can’t stop the wanting. One more step forward in the slow, steady march that is Aziraphale’s own personal quest to convince Crowley to flip the script, to allow himself to want, to take, to ask, for himself.
like this like this like this
Aziraphale murmurs sweetly, breath catching as Crowley gives a particularly sharp thrust. “May I—m, may I taste you? Would you like that?”
He hisses an affirmation.
“My dear,” Aziraphale says, gently. “I’d be ever grateful, if you could tell me so.”
There it is. Crowley looks into pale blue eyes, lets the warmth wash over him. The security of Aziraphale’s love grounds him. The unrivaled patience in the soft set of his smile. Sweat-soaked curls fall over his forehead like a shining halo, the perfect portrait of triumphant, celestial excess.
“Yesss ,” Crowley says, and doesn’t wait for Aziraphale to ask for specification , “yeess-s I’d like thh, t-tassste, angel, yes .”
“Good, just lovely, thank you, ohh,” Aziraphale coos immediately. Muscles underneath the supple flesh of his arms flex and flutter in Crowley’s hold. He groans, arches his hips softly into him, and back onto his tail, rocking leisurely. As if patience is one of his virtues, now he knows what’s to come. Gone demure, calm and unhurried, as he awaits his offering.
Aziraphale gazes at him with such fondness. His tongue sits just past his lips, wet and welcoming. Eyes burning, covetous. It is an expression Crowley’s been witness to probably hundreds of times: directed at him, sure, but far before that, many a delicious morsel he’d spotted on a tray, on a fellow’s order, on Crowley’s own plate, and decided he must sample it himself, at once. Nothing to be done but flag down the waiter. Tip your spoon to his lips. Give him everything he asks for, and more.
Crowley opens his jaw to envelop Aziraphale further, feel the velvet weight in his mouth, soak in the minute tremors of his breathing and the hitching of his hips. He sucks at the bulk of him as a point of focus to bring his skittering heart to heel, curves partially loose from Aziraphale’s shoulder and loops down to rest by his open mouth. His scales shimmer. Playing fast and loose with biology is old hat to Crowley. One organ shifts to, another fro, et cetera—all Crowley has to do is reorganize a bit. The slightest effort.
Aziraphale licks his lips.
Smooth as anything, his cocks unfurl from his red underbelly, shockingly pink and fully engorged; one bulbous base with forked, cylindrical peaks. He doesn’t have it in him just now to will himself human-shaped. He doesn’t want to. Like this, Aziraphale had asked. Crowley’s scales burn in an imitation of a flush.
Without hesitation Aziraphale leans into him, brushes across the short tendrils at the ends of him with his lips. “Ooh, darling,” he says, breath full of wonder, pupils blown. “What a treat.”
A distinctly human whine forces its way out of Crowley and he ducks his eyes, presses his head sidelong to the soft skin at the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh. His tongue flicks, a nervous tick of little flustered licks fluttering at Aziraphale’s cock.
“You’re—ah —you’re p-presenting so handsomely , oh, look at that. For, for me?”
He keeps Aziraphale tight to his glottis and hisses. Long and stuttering with emotion, drawn out vibrations shuddering throughout them both.
“M-mh. Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale says, voice caught, wet at the edges. “Oh, my dear love. You take such good care of me.”
“A-allwaysssss,” Crowley slurs, more hiss than word.
“Don’t stop until we both come,” Aziraphale breathes, and takes him in his mouth.
For one wild, writhing moment Crowley thinks he’s caught fire. Electric shoots up his shine (which is just about all of him) and warm, wet, soft cradles him, base and all. Twin lengths sit heavy on Aziraphale’s pump tongue, heads pressing up against this cheek; Crowley can feel himself stretch at his mouth, the pressure where they’re joined, where Aziraphale’s lips pillow right against his scales, damp on his underbelly, breathing flickering heat as fuel to the furnace of his core as he sucks, moans through the tiny rolling thrusts and swallows as Crowley shakes, tries to pull himself together.
Aziraphale swirls his tongue around and in between him and licks, coats him in saliva with joyful little cries and murmurs and love, so much Love, as he clenches his muscles around Crowley’s tail and squeezes, breathing loud through his nose and relishing him like the sweetest candy.
It turns Crowley into one long spiraling nerve. He was aflame, and now he’s all but burnt away, left exposed, raw like a sunburn made of Hellfire. His cocks quiver in Aziraphale’s mouth, his head a spiral of both. both! greedy basttoo much , and he thinks hysterically: s’ppossssed to take turnsss. Everything he is is instinct, and he chases the heat, lets Aziraphale take him. Best he can he massages Aziraphale from the inside, flexes right up against his prostate and clenches his body like a heartbeat, hissing, vibrating along his cock, his bollocks, hisses and hisses and keeps hissing, spit and slick trailing out of him and down, mingling with the oil and emission on Aziraphale’s thighs.
The noises breaking from Aziraphale grow rapturous, ecstasy crashing over him, movements erratic as he swallows around Crowley’s cocks messily and bends back on Crowley’s tail with fragile, muffled wails, thrusting into Crowley’s mouth, body boiling up, coiling tight and Crowley wrapping him tighter.
It goes until they are nothing but sensation, nothing but one hot, throbbing heartbeat of a being, fit together as a single entity of aching, roaring love. Bone of my bones, flesh of my flesh, a collage of incoherence, low and wrung-out cries coming together as their jouissance peaks in the blinding, brilliant light of stars being born; a deific, distant rolling chorus of wings resounding. Buds open, and fresh blooms pop in shocks of color all around them. An Eden of their own making, a garden growing in their hearts for millenia. Not of knowledge caged but knowledge freed; knowledge found in familiarity. There is nothing so sacred as knowledge in love. The most precious act of keeping close another’s soul as your own.
Apples fall from the tree, scattering harmlessly around them.
Aziraphale laughs, echoing not a noise so much as a feeling.
And they’re in bed.
When Aziraphale comes to it’s on delicate mauve sheets, clean and dry. Foam pillows adorned in frills a lavish cushion at his head, colorful quilt a hairsbreadth within reach. He breathes steady, sated, and gives a languid wriggle, a soft moan escaping him at the feeling of the cool cotton on his bare skin.
Crowley curls, human-shaped, in a question mark at his side, tracing the faint scale patterns creased into the skin of Aziraphale’s plush upper arm.
“You liked—” Crowley coughs; his voice scrapes out low, creaking and rough. The taste of spend is heavy on his tongue. He licks his lips with relish and curls his mouth in a smile, trying for devilish rake but probably ending up besotted fool, as is usual. “Well done on the garden, then?”
Aziraphale giggles, sudden and soft and worn at the edges, like a secret scraping free, and ducks his head to Crowley’s, curls brushing feathery at his crown. He tugs Crowley to him tight, gathering him up with an arm winding around his shoulders. Crowley basks in the sound of his delight, melts eagerly into him; they are boneless, the both of them—their movement as they embrace feels as if it happens in slow motion, weighted and liquid. As if it would be the most natural thing in all the worlds to flow together as one on the cool of the sheets.
But no. Crowley likes them as two, just now. He presses his mouth to the plush skin of Aziraphale’s chest, right over a ghost image of his scales.
“Thesssse are niccsse,” he slurs hoarsely. His jaw feels loose, soft and smooth. Like he couldn’t clench his teeth if he tried. All tension drained away.
“Mm. You know just how I, ah,” Aziraphale’s voice did not escape a bit of roughening, either, “just how I like them. Yes.”
The praise flows warm over Crowley. In the dim light of the room, in the tender glow of the lamp at their bedside he can still see clearly his marks left on his angel; winding about his arms, wrapped around the bulk of his thighs, thick across his ribs. They’re only there because they want them to be. A road map for Crowley, later.
Now, Aziraphale is heavy with exhaustion. He winces as he shifts—and hums. A little twinkling chime of joy. There is a well-used, pleasant ache Aziraphale craves, the glutton. Seems like Crowley got it right. He preens quietly to himself as he slinks down along the sheets purposefully. He trails a hand down Aziraphale’s arm, chest, leg as he goes, pressing into the delicious dip of him, not wanting to lose that connection. One more thing to take care of.
Aziraphale meets his eyes, all heavy lids and delicate laugh lines, and obligingly moves his legs up.
Crowley flicks his fingers, and conjures a neat little plug out of the air.
Details on the sex lives of serpents aside, the thing is, male snakes—real male snakes, not Crowley male snakes—have a plug they make biologically after mating; the point is to keep the seed inside, to prevent other males from having their mates for themselves, or suchlike. It had been Aziraphale’s idea, the first time. He’d been reading up on earth snakes and had come to Crowley, eyes wide and eager, flush on his cheeks, wringing his hands like he gets, sometimes, that Crowley half expected him to start the usual spiel of Oh, a place just opened up down the way, we must try it, tonight, today, this very second—but what he’d been after had been very different from some new restaurant.
Crowley had listened to his fluttery sales pitch patiently—and then impatiently, as it went on. (His angel isn’t the only one always eager to try new experiences.)
This plug is neat man-made silicone, not more than a few fingers, black and iridescent and flared at the base. There’s no seed (this time) and a 0 to 7 billion chance of ‘other males’ entering the equation, but still. It’s a little role-play. A snakey affectation. There’s something primal, something thrilling, in staking one’s claim.
Crowley goes on instinct, finds Aziraphale’s hole slick enough still to slide the plug home. Aziraphale grunts softly, melodious, and Crowley growls in harmony with him as he presses his lips to the meat of Aziraphale’s inner thigh, kisses his hot, fluttering skin open and wet before slithering upwards back into his arms.
“Ohh, thank you, love,” Aziraphale says, sliding his legs down the sheets to lay flat with a roll of his hips, a pleased hitch as he settles. He’ll stay just like that the whole night, happily claimed.
With contented murmur of his own, Crowley crawls back up his body, pulling their quilt up the bed as he goes, making a canopy, ensnaring warmth above them. His lips find Aziraphale’s in a lazy, sliding kiss. Aziraphale opens readily for him and Crowley tastes himself on his tongue, laps at his mouth slowly. He could kiss him for hours. He’s pretty sure he has.
"The garden was wondrous," Aziraphale says when they part.
Crowley rests his face to Aziraphale’s chest, slings one long leg across his legs, allows himself to lay heavy, blanket above and heated rhythm of heartbeat below. There is still nothing like it, all these years after, the plush give of Aziraphale, the frightening fondness that tugs at him just at the feel of his cheek to his chest. A palm comes to the small of his back and Crowley closes his eyes and breathes deep as Aziraphale cards a hand through his hair, moves an arm back around him.
The lights dim further around them as sleep starts its whispering.
Crowley speaks through the emotion swirling about the room, eyes shut tight. “D’you know the flowers? Chose ‘em ssspecific.” Ssssnakes don’ mate for life, he thinks, hazy. Wha’ kinda sssstupid... hmnff. S’only you. All for me. Take care of you forever.
Or, he thinks he thinks it.
Forever echoes in the broken noise Aziraphale makes, in the way he pulls him tighter, cards a hand through his hair, tangles their legs; a feeling so divine Crowley can feel the capital-L, Love, blooms in the room, near-tangible and beautiful and just about too much for his blessedly sappy, eggshell emotions that Crowley feels it like a physical blow. He whines as wet pricks behind his eyelids, and squirms closer.
Aziraphale tsks adoringly at him and continues on, sounding just as caught in it, “Oh, I was fairly distracted, but I did, o-oh, I did make note of a few on my way…” a yawn interrupts, a rise and fall of his chest, “mhm. To bed now, do you think? I’d adore a tour when we wake.”
“‘Course,” Crowley mumbles, wrecked. “Not done, eith… mhmr, you know, lots to do yet.”
“Together?” Aziraphale pets him.