This whole business is entirely Aziraphale's fault. He has no one to blame but himself. A few too many restaurant menus 'to go,' a few too many expansions of the bookshop, a few too many cross-continent trips for exactly the right sort of cooking chocolate. The next thing he knows his miracles have been restricted to a daily allowance of heavily monitored blessings, and minor corporation upkeep only.
Which, it turns out, makes it very difficult to avoid being unexpectedly kidnapped by a serpent cult.
That part at least wasn't Aziraphale's fault. He hadn't revealed himself in any way, and neither had they discovered his identity and targeted him specifically. No, they just happened to be looking for a rare book which only a few people in the world knew the whereabouts of. Aziraphale is, naturally, one of those few people. He even has a copy of the thing, though obviously he doesn't shelve it in the small, and rather well-thumbed, Herpetology section with the others, due to its occult nature. But they'd been very unhappy when he refused to help them, and once they became insistent to the point of rudeness, well, Aziraphale had been less polite about his refusal.
He might have been more careful if he'd known that their followers had already been gifted certain occult powers. Which included the ability to shape-shift into large, venomous serpents from the neck upwards. That had certainly come as something of a surprise. One of the guards had spat said venom at him, a rather nasty sort that he'd quickly learned caused dizziness and paralysis. The effects of which lasted long enough for them to throw him rudely into a car. Even hours later the side of his neck is still oddly numb.
They don't seem to have twigged to his ethereal nature yet. Though he'd overheard one of them hissing that he 'might still be of use,' so now he's locked in a grubby basement cell with only spiders for company. While serpent-headed guards stamp around outside. He'd only spoken to them once. He'd seen it as his duty to inform them that demonic transformations like the ones they were sporting - though they undoubtedly believed them to be 'very cool' - have been known to burn a human body out in a matter of days. Humans are simply not built to channel that much occult power.
They hadn't believed him, of course, but he'd done his best.
Aziraphale sighs and tugs miserably at the depressingly familiar manacles and length of thick chain he'd been attached to an old pipe with. He could certainly get out of them, though there is a risk it would be rather loud, and would end up pulling a fair few bricks out of the wall in the process, drawing unnecessary attention and an awful lot of bother.
He doesn't even know who's holding him exactly. He's not really up on all the ancient serpent deities, it's not exactly his area of expertise. Oh, it's not that they aren't all terribly fascinating. He'd even spent a few long afternoons discussing them with Crowley - gently teasing out if he was responsible for any of them, or knew them personally. But they tend to have rather a lot in common and unless they were named specifically it was really just so much guesswork. As for snake demons, he only knows Crowley, but he doubts he'd be willing to start a cult pushing for human sacrifices and riches beyond anyone's wildest dreams.
He prods the bruise on his cheek, which is still quite sore. He'd fallen awkwardly after being sprayed, and he supposes it counts as 'minor corporation upkeep,' but if there's anything demonic or otherwise here then they'll probably notice any sort of miracle he attempts. He tries not to think about how embarrassing this is going to be when he's sacrificed to some unnamed snake god. Gabriel is going to be unbearable. The reprimands this time are going to be awful, and the debriefing will probably go on for hours. He'd really rather not be murdered, if he has any choice in the matter.
Perhaps he could escape somehow? He may not currently have access to miracles but he has his own intelligence, determination, ingenuity - and brute strength if necessary. He's sure he could get the drop on a few serpent guards and overpower them, as long as he doesn't get hit with any more venom, he has a fighting chance.
He's still trying to work out how long it will take to quietly and carefully tease a few bricks out of the wall, so he can avoid the risk of having his identity discovered, when someone loudly shoves a key into the door of his cell. The unlocking is hasty and careless, the door almost kicked open.
Aziraphale lifts his scowl to the rearing serpent head that weaves in under the doorway. Ready to give whichever of the guards had chosen to visit him a piece of his mind. Only to blink and let out an explosive sigh of relief and pleasure.
"Oh Crowley. Thank goodness."
The snake head twists around over a shoulder, until one deeply familiar yellow eye is pinning him in bewildered surprise.
"How in Sssatan's name did you know it was me?" Crowley hisses and his long head folds down, as if to peer at the uniform he'd obviously pilfered off a guard who was both taller and wider than he was.
Aziraphale stares at him in disbelief, at such a blatantly stupid question. The snake head that stretches almost high enough to brush the ceiling is wider and heavier than the others, the familiar spread of shining black scales curving easily down to his collarbones and half to his shoulders. He's wearing one of the same dark silk waistcoats that the others were, but has clearly made only the barest of attempts to disguise himself in any other way. Even if Aziraphale didn't recognise what passes for his face, didn't know him immediately by his striking yellow eyes, the body in question is still one that he's watched sway and saunter and sashay and slink its way through 60 centuries. Crowley's body is a well-loved and familiar thing. Aziraphale knows it better than he knows his own.
"Obviously it's you, who else was it going to be?"
There's a quick lash of tongue, Crowley's mouth opens and shuts, fangs glistening wet.
"Er, any of the other sssnake-headed imbeciles out there." His long snout gives the impression of a scowl, his opinion on the cult and their activities quite clear.
"You thought I wouldn't recognise you because you'd transformed to the shoulders?" Aziraphale thinks he has every right to sound insulted. Of all the ridiculous things to say. Even without dipping into otherworldly senses they can easily recognise each other from behind at this point. Even through a crowd of people, or from a hundred feet away. "You're suggesting that if I was wearing an unexpectedly large hat you wouldn't know me either?"
Crowley's head weaves back and forth, before finally settling and then giving a long hiss, as if realising that he has a good point.
"What are you doing here anyway?" Aziraphale asks curiously.
Crowley pushes the door shut behind him. "Looking for you, obviously. Had to be a bit stealthier than normal though. I'm really not supposed to be here, bad case of stepping on a superior's toes if I'm sniffed out. S'why the disguise." He gives a casual wave at himself, at the glossy scales and tongue that briefly surges out across the end of his own snout.
Ah, so it is a demon behind the whole thing then.
"I was given another reprimand," Aziraphale explains, with an embarrassed wince. "Nothing more than approved blessings and minor miracles for a month. Though I don't think these ruffians twigged that I'm anything other than a very stubborn bookseller who won't let them have what they want."
"Don't call them ruffians," Crowley complains, with a look back through the grill in the cell door. "They're not cartoon villains, they'd been throwing people into a bloody great pit."
Aziraphale tugs the chain holding him to the pipe, and hopes that conveys a little of his annoyance with his circumstances. "I had noticed," he says waspishly. "And I suppose they'll discover that I'm not human when their attempt to sacrifice me goes horribly wrong." The release of ethereal energy is going to give any half-way competent occult spell a bad case of indigestion. Things might explode. It will look bad for everyone.
Crowley's serpent head tips down, neck expanding briefly. "I'm not gonna let that happen, angel." He slinks closer, head bracing itself on his unnaturally long neck. The extra weight gives Crowley a gentle sort of sway from side to side, and Aziraphale thinks he might finally understand why the demon walks the way he does. He's still instinctively balancing a length of body that's not there. Not to mention, it must have been terribly confusing at the start to have a lower half that suddenly separated into two. He was forced to drag those confusing legs off the ground and totter around on them, possibly without any instruction at all.
"Oh that explains so much," Aziraphale mutters to himself.
Crowley twists from his contemplation of the chain, where it's wrapped several times around a pipe and threaded through itself, one honey-yellow eye is close enough for Aziraphale to count the flecks within. Though he already knows there are exactly forty two.
"What?" If a giant snake head can be said to be frowning in confusion - well, Crowley manages it somehow.
"Oh, nothing, just -" Aziraphale tips his head towards the wall and pouts. "Bit of a bother."
Crowley makes a harsh grating noise through his fangs, which Aziraphale suspects is either amusement or annoyance.
"Yes, well, we'll have to do a lot of this the hard way. I can't risk too much in the way of occult energy, don't want that coming up on anyone else's radar. If Xantiros gets a whiff of me they'll accuse me of muscling in on their gig, and there'll be fucking Hell to pay."
Aziraphale nods. "I understand completely, of course, so it looks like a bit of subterfuge is called for." He can't resist the brief wriggle of excitement at the thought. They've never done something like this together and he finds the idea more than a little thrilling. He might even get to break out a few of his rusty thespian skills while they make their escape.
Crowley lifts a finger and points it at him, head tipping down so he can fix both eyes on Aziraphale, his long tongue slides out and lashes in his direction in a way that feels admonishing.
"No, don't give me that look, I can taste how much you're loving this. This is serious, one fuck-up and we're in deep shit here."
Aziraphale feels rightfully chastised by that. Crowley's correct, of course. It isn't just him in possible danger now, and he'd never forgive himself if he was to blame for anything happening to Crowley.
"You're right, of course you are, I'm sorry."
Crowley steps in close, still muttering uncomplimentary things, hand wrapping round the metal links - and Aziraphale finds that he's suddenly very invested in Crowley breaking them to free him. Not even with a demonic miracle, but physically grasping the chains and snapping them apart. He watches the demon's long, bare arm tense, muscle stretching - and Aziraphale is very glad that he waited. This is immensely pleasing.
The moment's ruined when there's the sound of boots in the corridor outside, tromping closer, along with the confused and jerky hissing that belongs to one of the other guards.
"Fuck." Crowley's whole neck pulls back into an arch, mouth widening and unhinging, like he's priming for a fight. Fascinating as that is to watch right now, Aziraphale can't let the demon put himself in danger. He reaches out, catches a handful of silken waistcoat and drags Crowley all the way in. Until his slender frame is crushing Aziraphale to the wall, serpent neck and head curled up and over him, still half-way through a surprised threat display.
Aziraphale hurriedly shifts his legs apart, letting Crowley slip between them - with a confused, strangled noise - and lending the whole tableau a more obviously nefarious air.
In the time it takes for the boots to reach the door Crowley has realised what Aziraphale is attempting to convey. He grasps the manacles around his wrists and jerks them up over his head, pinning them to the wall, snake head twisting down to stretch open at his throat. Aziraphale can feel the hot, sliding lash of Crowley's tongue wrap around his neck, once, twice - a startling and oddly affecting sensation that leaves him not needing to feign breathlessness at all.
"Stop, don't, take your hands off of me, you monster!" Aziraphale struggles in his grip, feeling the gentle strain of Crowley's body pushing back, almost instinctively, as well as the way that serpentine mouth flexes open wider around his neck.
The door rattles sharply as the entry of another key reveals that the door is already unlocked. It swings open to admit one of the guards. Aziraphale believes it's the one the others called Matthew, but it's a bit harder to tell now he has an elongated green and grey snake head. He also doesn't have anything like the control that Crowley does, Matthew's head keeps threatening to flop forward. He's having to perform something of a dance - shifting from foot to foot to keep his balance and stay upright. Also, his scales end abruptly at the neck, where Crowley's expand across and down his throat, then scatter out towards his shoulders, before fading away. In a way that's considerably more fetching and natural looking. Which makes perfect sense, he supposes.
Possibly Matthew pauses in the doorway, and manages to look surprised - not an easy task for a snake. Crowley drags his head up to glare at him, leaving Aziraphale gasping, the curve of his throat hot and damp.
"Oh ssshit - sssorry, uh...?" There's a slow bob of head, Matthew's tongue rolling out slowly, and then awkwardly dragging itself back in, as if he hasn't quite worked out how to use it yet. Aziraphale gets the impression his body is trying to identify Crowley. Whether he realises it or not.
"Anthony," Crowley says, after a moment. "I was just, y'know, questioning the prisoner." Crowley shakes the chain, and Aziraphale attempts to look believably rumpled and traumatised from said questioning.
"Right, I get it." Matthew's head wobbles ridiculously, and he can't seem to keep his tongue in his mouth while he talks. "I mean he'sss not exactly my type, but that'sss what we're here for right? The power to take whatever we want." He makes a firm gesture in Crowley's direction.
"Yeah," Crowley agrees. "Sure, taking, serpent rights and all that, exactly."
Matthew's head see-saws back and forth in a clumsy attempt at a nod.
"Right, ok, I'll tell the others not to come down here for a bit. I mean, don't kill him or anything, obviously. We'll still need him for the ceremony. But if you want to get your rocks off and make him cry for a bit I don't think anyone would mind."
Crowley's whole neck widens, jaw slowly unhinging. Aziraphale can see him starting to rear back, tongue sliding out in quick, threatening lashes. The human doesn't seem to notice, he's too busy trying to balance his new head while turning to grasp the door.
"No," Aziraphale reminds the demon, who's starting to feel just a touch furious. Before he remembers that he's supposed to be a horrified victim. "No, please don't leave me with him, he's a fiend," he pleads towards the doorway.
Matthew ignores him completely, giving Crowley one last rasping hiss, before tugging the door shut behind him.
"What an unpleasant young man," Aziraphale mutters, once the sound of Matthew's awkward, stumbling gait is halfway down the corridor.
"I'm going to eat him later," Crowley decides.
"Worked rather well though," Aziraphale points out. In fact it worked perfectly, they've not only allayed all possible suspicion, they've been left alone for long enough to properly plan and make their escape. "I like to think I can occasionally think on my feet when the situation -"
It suddenly occurs to Aziraphale that they're still pressed rather tightly together, and Crowley's eyes, so much wider apart than he's seen them for hundreds of years, both seem fixed on him. It also occurs to him that slotting their hips aggressively together to present an image of unwanted sexual attention means that there's absolutely no way to deny the fact that they're both quite erect - and are making no attempt to separate.
Aziraphale can't help but think that flinging them from carefully measured and necessary distance to this sudden and shocking intimacy might be to blame.
"Crowley." Aziraphale's voice comes out softer than he intends, nothing like a question. Crowley's mouth opens in one slow stretch, the wide interior giving a glimpse of sharp fangs as his tongue, forked and red, slides out and touches the curve of Aziraphale's lower lip in a soft, fluttery caress.
It feels so much like a kiss - Crowley has never kissed him before.
The long, scaled head jerks backwards, as Crowley seems to realise what he'd done. His feet slide on the stone floor, a hasty step meant to draw them apart. There's a brief moment of straining metal, an angry scraping-snap, and Aziraphale drops his freed hands to Crowley's narrow hips, preventing him from pulling away.
"No don't -" He decides that words will just complicate the situation. He reaches up, presses his mouth to the long, cool curve of Crowley's snout, where the scales are soft and supple. Where they flex under the touch and lean into him instinctively.
A forked tongue slides over his face in two frantic passes, a hiss escaping as desperate air. Aziraphale has a hand on that undulating neck, drawing him down and in. Crowley's long, warm hands finally touch him, settling uncertainly on his waist, before sliding around him, careful and then significantly less so when Aziraphale gives a soft, relieved sigh.
"Aziraphale, what are we doing?" Crowley asks hoarsely.
"What we should have done in the Bastille," Aziraphale confesses, reaching both hands up to fold them around Crowley's head. "You unbearable, impossible flirt. What I should have done forty years ago when you dropped a bomb on a church for me." What he'd wanted to do for far, far longer than that.
There's a strangled, confused hiss, before Crowley's mouth snaps shut, and Aziraphale finds himself crushed to bright red scales while Crowley's long throat flexes under his cheek. Their bodies sink slowly together, and there's no way to hide how desperate they are for each other. The thought of trying to do anything other to give in to that is almost physically painful.
"Can I?" Aziraphale asks, desperately, eagerly.
Crowley shudders, tongue sliding out in three quick slides, hands tangled in Aziraphale's untucked shirt.
"Yeah, yeah, of course," he says weakly, as if he's not even sure what he's asking for, but is more than willing to give anything.
Aziraphale pushes his hands between them, tugs open the button of Crowley's jeans, knuckles rubbing teasingly over what he's very quickly realising is not one erection but two, pressed tightly together. Oh good Heavens, that's certainly an unexpected surprise.
"Angel, we can't - here?!" Crowley sounds shocked, somewhere between horror and unbearable excitement. "Now, with me like this?" His head weaves backwards abruptly. "I can't change back, Aziraphale, I can't use any demonic powers for - for - oh, Satan, what are you doing?"
Aziraphale has gotten Crowley's jeans over the fine, sharp curves of his hips, hand moving to touch the bright red, tapering shapes of his hemipenes.
"Oh these are lovely." That doesn't seem enough, they are exquisitely lovely, rising from a flushed red opening, that stretches open around their swollen base. They're hot under his fingers and they squirm and bend slightly at his touch. Fluid gathers along their length and Aziraphale can't resist gently smearing it against the softly flaring heads.
Crowley gives a deep, shuddering hiss, hips jerking. "Aziraphale, for fuck's sake."
"And slippery, that will help immensely if we're going to have sex." Is that what they're going to do? Good Heavens. Aziraphale has been happily letting his enthusiasm and his delight - and the sheer weight of always restrained affection - push him forward. But he finds that he doesn't want to stop it. This place is somewhere where he can touch Crowley, where Crowley can touch him. This den of demonic interference, occult magic and ill-intent, where Heaven cannot possibly be watching. A place where Crowley can press into him, eager to have Aziraphale lean in and lay his mouth to his scales, to squeeze his long limbs and tell him he was lovely. To tell him he cared for him, that their desire for each other may be a long unspoken secret but it was a precious one. In this dangerous place, Aziraphale feels brave, and free, and deeply aroused.
Oh he always has enjoyed when Crowley comes for him, and he always does, he always has done.
Yes, he thinks they might very well have sex. How beautiful and how reckless of them.
"If you don't want to, all you have to do is say no," he tells him gently. Because of course Aziraphale would stop if he asked, doing this without Crowley's enthusiasm, or Crowley's desire - there'd be no point at all. "You know I would never make you do anything you didn't want to."
There's a ragged rattling sound, and Aziraphale is abruptly pinned to the cold brickwork, long fingers carelessly tugging open the catch and zip of his trousers. He hears stitching protest and gives a short, complaining whine.
"Ah, Crowley, do be careful, just because I'm a prisoner that's no excuse for mistreatment."
Crowley's snout does a fantastically good job of glaring at him, before the trousers are yanked down, along with his sensible cotton underwear, his cock bouncing upwards and smacking his stomach when they're pulled off entirely and left on the floor.
"Forgive me if the fact that you're asssking me to fuck you in a prison cell, after six thousand years, while I'm half bloody sssnake, leaves me a little careless of your clothes, Aziraphale."
Crowley does feel rather frenzied, it's true. Which is unfair, he doesn't mean this to be something tawdry - though he'll confess the word does hold a certain appeal. No, this is something important, everything between them always has been, has always had meaning, even the parts that are messy and sharp. Aziraphale has loved them all. He draws Crowley in, kisses the corner of his mouth again, makes soft soothing noises into every slow press. He holds the weight of his serpent head between his hands as it weaves gently back and forth.
"I would like that. I think you would like it too."
Crowley whines. "This is very confusing," he admits with a gentle bump of head, as Aziraphale trails kisses along his lower jaw and the bend of his neck. "I didn't think you'd want this, and I can't fucking bear it -" Aziraphale's hands draw away from the anguish in his voice, but Crowley catches them with a hiss and pulls them back. "No, don't, don't pull away, don't stop. I'm not sssaying no. Would never say no to you, angel. S'just, eh, I did the transformation kind of hastily, just grabbed a bit of each to get it right. Didn't expect to be - well, my body wants you in a bunch of very confusing ways right now." He gives a hissing laugh, and there's a quiet greediness to the way his hands are sliding on Aziraphale's skin, fingers drifting over his nipples and the soft curves of his body, before dropping to the demanding, stiff jut of his cock, the tight heavy hang of his balls. It's all so much sensation after having gone centuries with only the briefest of touches. A hurried exploration of how he likes to be touched, how hard, for how long before he shudders and whines, huffs an impatient breath and pulls at Crowley's waist.
"You are quite welcome to have me," Aziraphale says. He's surprised how sensible he sounds, how calm, as though he's not incredibly excited by the prospect. Though it may be prudent to be quick about it. He wonders if it would ruin the mood to say so?
"You feel lovely," Crowley says desperately, finally looking down at what he's touching, "Do you have any idea - any idea how long I've wanted to touch you."
"Will you hurry, Crowley, please."
His impatience seems to throw Crowley off entirely, his hands gripping Aziraphale's thighs hard enough to tug him upwards, scraping his lower back unpleasantly on the wall, even as Crowley's head knocks into the bricks, tongue briefly whipping his chin with a wet slap.
"Ah, it's going to be difficult like this." His tongue flutters and then draws back in. "If you really want me to - want me inside you. One of my - er - one of them will need to stay outside." Crowley lowers a hand, grasps himself, thumb sliding down to separate his cocks, and there's a stiff nudge of slick and ready hemipenis against the muscle of Aziraphale's hip. It leaves a wet smear of slick on the skin and he can't help the shocked gasp of eager and excited impatience, or the way it makes his thighs twitch open.
Aziraphale shakes his head roughly. "We don't have time for you to thoroughly fuck me with each one, put them both in me."
Crowley's long, serpent head jerks sideways, scales stretching before it shakes itself roughly.
"You what?" There's a breathless hiss. "I won't last a second, angel. You're supposed to alternate for fuck's sake." His eyes have gone wet and glassy, the pupils expanded and swollen. "I mean, theoretically - Satan, you have to be greedy, don't you." The way he says that is so soft, amused and delighted and wounded all the way through, as if he's given Crowley something he didn't think was possible. "You're going to kill me. I will fucking discorporate."
Oh that's unfair, Aziraphale is all but vibrating with desire.
"Darling, either say no, or get inside me," he hisses, and something in Crowley hisses back, only to look guilty and helplessly aroused. They've waited so long and he refuses to wait a second longer.
Crowley's hands curve round Aziraphale's thighs, before lifting him into the chill of the wall behind him. There's a contemplative rock of head, and then the demon's long fingers are slipping between Aziraphale's lips, sliding wet across his tongue, tasting like salt and spices and smoke, and Aziraphale closes his mouth around them with a sound of approval.
Such a clever demon.
He lacks the skill at this that others might find instinctive, but he does his best, with quick, messy licks and several wet sucks. Which, judging by the scandalised tilt of snake head and the rapid-fire tongue flicks, Crowley seems to think he's doing on purpose. Perhaps as some sort of punishment. That does seem like the sort of thing he might do. But eventually the demon is just rocking helplessly against him, giving soft, hissing whines, and the stimulation is pleasing enough to have Aziraphale awkwardly moaning around the suddenly deep push of fingers across his tongue.
Until Crowley thumbs his mouth open and tugs them free. "Enough, enough, I don't want to come with my fucking fingers in your mouth -" He chokes an odd, sibilant laugh. "That's a fucking lie, I would have killed for that yesterday. Would have killed to touch you, kiss you." He presses in closer, one hand slipping beneath Aziraphale's balls, while the other grasps a buttock and spreads him open. Wet fingers find the tight clench of his anus, circle it indulgently on a long sighing breath, before they're pressing in, breaching him in one slow push.
"Crowley." Aziraphale loops arm arm around his long neck, grasping at the cool scales and tilting his hips into the pressure.
Oh, it's a tight burn, so much more immediate than he expected. Something his body needs to be coaxed to open for, as he sinks down into the lewd, filthy stretch that is Crowley's fingers inside him. His legs are spread so obscenely around the demon's shifting arm, swaying enough to make his cock bounce gently as Crowley works him open for a third finger. His wide, snake eyes are focused on Aziraphale's soft, half-open mouth. They are, without doubt, the same eyes he's been staring into for 6000 years and he loves them terribly.
"I'm ready." He digs the fingers of his other hand impatiently into Crowley's waistcoat, bunches the fabric, noticing absently that half a manacle and chain still dangles from one wrist. "Would you please - please -"
Crowley's head curls down, neck pressing into his own, pulling and rubbing in a way neither of them are quite designed to, at least not without the aid of a miracle.
"Angel." The demon sounds desperate. "I need to - let me wind around you. I need to wind."
Aziraphale pulls him in, lets him tuck his long neck around the warmth of his own, snake head rubbing in his hair. He just about manages to brace his heel on a jutting brick when Crowley squeezes the tapered heads of his hemipenes together and sets them against the tight ring of muscle between Aziraphale's spread buttocks, breaching him in a slow, steady push that leaves him groaning. Oh, that is significantly more than fingers. The slick heat of it pressing insistently into his body.
"Fuck, Aziraphale, fuck."
Crowley's hemipenes widen so quickly, the slipperiness of them only helping to a point, before Aziraphale feels the stretching, stinging burn of them where both bases are joined together. It's a mass that he can't quite accommodate, an ache that hurts to squeeze down on, though he can't make himself stop, not with the way it makes Crowley hiss and tremble and pant air. Aziraphale feels half drunk with it. He's never been able to pull these sorts of sounds from the demon, never felt him so desperate or so hungry. It's enough to have him rocking down repeatedly, feeling his rim stretch wider.
"It's too much," Crowley says, panicking almost, tongue fluttering at his throat. "It's too much for you."
"It's not." Aziraphale digs his fingertips into the flesh of Crowley's narrow waist and tilts his hips, spreading his thighs, trying to make the angle easier, trying to coax his body to open, to take it.
Crowley's neck stretches, the smooth flat plane of his snout pressing down hard on the top of Aziraphale's head, rubbing back and forth in a way that snags and rasps at his hair. Aziraphale leans in far enough to press his mouth to the smooth red scales on the bottom of Crowley's neck, leaving him groaning and flexing into the pressure.
"Push into me," Aziraphale urges. "I want all of it. I know you'll fit."
There's a series of rapid, wavering hisses and Crowley's whole body is trembling as he presses deeper, hands now bruise tight on Aziraphale's skin.
"Want to tangle around you," Crowley breathes, pushing up as Aziraphale bears down, moaning through every slowly buried inch. "Want to wind us up together and squeeze you. I want to press you into every flat fucking surface and pin you down and - Oh. Fuck." One last push has him shoving in all the way to the split base, Aziraphale's anus pulled tight and hot around him. He can feel the crush of both hemipenes throbbing inside him. He feels achingly, painfully, beautifully filled.
He hisses, shivers out a pained, laughing breath when it makes Crowley instinctively hiss back.
It's so perfectly obscene to have this happen while pinned to the wall of a dirty basement cell, while Crowley is half transformed, breathing the most delicious, blasphemous filth into his ear. He can feel the flex of scales at Crowley's neck, can feel the pulse thud under them when he lays his face there and moans, feeling Crowley's long snout sink into his hair.
"Shussssh, ah, you're so tight, I just want to just stay in you for a bit." Crowley unwinds his neck, tips down slightly to rub the small, smooth scales against Aziraphale's face. "Can we do that, angel? Can I just be in you for a while?" He sounds so pleading, so desperate, as if it's a need he can't explain.
Aziraphale trembles at the thought of it, of holding that ache, of restraining the frustrated, urgent desire to have Crowley moving inside him. It fights with the need to please his demon - and he knows which one will win, which one always wins. He turns his head, opens his mouth to the chill of scales up his neck, to the line where Crowley's jaw begins, he leaves open-mouthed kisses there.
"Of course you can, as long as you like, as long as you need."
There's a flexing vibration, Crowley's wide mouth opens with a hot rush of air, fangs wet, long tongue sliding briefly over Aziraphale's face.
"It's good, it's so good. You're so good, angel, Aziraphale - so much - you're so much."
It's not very long, in the end. After ten minutes or so, Crowley is finally moving, in slow, careful rocks that tug gently at Aziraphale's stretched, sensitive rim, leaving him gasping - and then moaning when the tug becomes a pull, and then a push. Until Crowley is fucking him against the wall in quick, hard thrusts, the tapering cocks inside him squeezed together tightly, but still obscenely wide at the base. There's so much inside him, the swollen stretch of it nudging and sliding over his prostate in a way that leaves him gasping and tightening his fingers on Crowley's hips. Eventually he's just leaning back against the wall and taking it, his heavy thighs shaking, and his cock bouncing, in a way Crowley seems captivated by. It's overwhelming, and perfect, and he loves it.
"Ngk, angel, look at you, never thought you'd like this, never thought you'd let me do this." Crowley gives a soft, hissing laugh. "Tried to look so bloody human for you. If I'd known you wouldn't care, if I'd know I could do this -" He doesn't seem to want to admit to the rest, but there's a quick, almost frenzied lash of his tongue down Aziraphale's neck, slithering across the heaving spread of his chest, sliding over the peaks of his nipples and leaving him gasping. "Fuck, the things I could do with my tongue if you'd let me, angel. I could go down on my knees for you, open my mouth and slither it all the way inside. I could make you come like that. I'd do anything you wanted if you just let me. You just have to ask."
Aziraphale gives a gasping laugh, at the thought of it - no, the promise of it, oh, yes, he likes that.
"You are a lovely thing," Aziraphale tells him. "You've always been lovely. I thought so the moment I saw you."
Crowley makes a brief, dubious noise, but something in the clutch and slide of his hands is worshipful, pace shifting into something quick and greedy. "Even like this?"
Yes. Always. Every inch of skin and every scale of him was beloved.
"Even like this, and I would let you twine your way around me and press me down into any surface you would like. I would let you squeeze me - ah - so tightly -"
Crowley's head curves backwards, wide mouth jerking open, fangs fully exposed, and the long, slow hiss he gives sounds desperate.
" - pin me somewhere I couldn't squirm away, while you roughly found your pleasure in every part of my body that pleased you, whether you were wearing skin or scales or any configuration between."
Crowley pins him to the wall, his large snake head pressed down hard on the top of Aziraphale's, as he hisses and shivers and stretches him wide, over and over, for the swollen, split base of both hemipenes. Until his pace falls apart, breaks completely, leaves him pressing in deep as his cocks throb and twitch and then both spill come in long, hot bursts inside him. Aziraphale can't help the way he clenches down, quick and hard, and the hurt of it leaves his thighs trembling, toes curling. It all feels so deliciously raw and wonderful. He's a picture of debauchery, still wearing one manacle, clothes half dragged off, pinned to the wall by a demon. Two cocks stuffed in his stinging, protesting arse - and now also joined by the messy evidence of said demon's pleasure.
It's too much, he finds himself grinding down into those spilling, tapered lengths, forcing himself into that hot stretch again and again, spine twisting tight and desperate.
Crowley's long hand cups him, grasps him, fingers wet and slick and suddenly tight. Aziraphale's release is still something of a surprise, and leaves his cock pulsing wetly over Crowley's fingers, and against the silk of his vest, while Aziraphale gives short, gasping sounds of pleasure, pushing up into the demon's fingers and squeezing down on the softening cocks inside him while his orgasm ebbs into dribbles and drips of pleasure.
Crowley moans his name, his messy hand sliding on Aziraphale's skin as he pushes weakly up and in with his hips. It does nothing but tug at his stinging, over-sensitive rim, pulling shaking, wet gasps out of him as his body shivers with sharp little stabs of bliss. Crowley grips Aziraphale's heavy thighs, with clumsy, bruising hands, even as his head and neck waver back and forth, seemingly torn between pinning Aziraphale's head still and rubbing the long underside of his snout against every piece of bare skin he can reach.
"Angel, fuck, angel, you're beautiful. I knew you'd be beautiful." After a while Crowley's just holding Aziraphale up, while he trembles and squirms and gives long, breathy sighs of satisfaction. Until the hold softens into an embrace, something affectionate in the way they stay pressed together. Something Aziraphale doesn't want to untangle himself from.
"Oh, you've quite ruined me, you serpentine fiend," he says eventually. His voice sounds soft and adoring and he doesn't care who hears.
Crowley whimpers, a strange thread of a noise that Aziraphale wouldn't have thought was possible for a snake.
"Satan, I can't believe you. We're supposed to be escaping - this is supposed to be an escape."
Aziraphale hums agreement and encourages Crowley's long head to fold and sink, so he can kiss the cold curve of it. A long forked tongue dips between his lips, flutters around inside his mouth in a way that's terribly erotic, enough that his soft cock gives a valiant twitch and considers filling again so he can be flung over the grubby table in the corner and thoroughly buggered from behind.
Crowley's head squirms away.
"Escaping," he reminds him. He carefully eases out of Aziraphale's body, his hemipenes shiny-red and wet. Aziraphale is left braced lewdly against the dirty wall with his legs spread, the demon's warm semen dripping out of him. The sight of which seems to be rather appealing, judging by the slow expansion of Crowley's throat scales and the way his tongue extends in one long, considering flick. There's a moment where Aziraphale thinks Crowley might even slip back between his thighs, find the space he'd left slick and hot and bruise it anew, or perhaps go down on his knees and apologise for his roughness with his tongue. Good Lord, he's developed something of a filthy imagination.
But instead the demon is hissing a curse and tugging his trousers awkwardly shut over the not entirely limp set of cocks. Then he sinks to the floor, to scrabble around for Aziraphale's trousers and underwear, before stuffing them shakily into his outstretched hands. "Will you please just let me rescue you," he says desperately, as if it matters terribly to him.
Aziraphale relents, carefully shakes out his trousers. The rather judgemental snake head sways back and forth in irritation at Aziraphale's lack of haste. But he flatly refuses to put his trousers on inside out, and he's rather enjoying the languid satisfaction and pleasurable twinges from their lovemaking. They are lovers now, are they not? After so long it seems barely believable. He finds himself smiling like a fool - Crowley eventually decides to help re-button his trousers, and his waistcoat, narrow fingers better with the tiny pearl buttons, even if he has to tip his head sideways to see them properly.
"Angel, I want to - can we do this again?" There's an awkward broken hiss, and the long head is focused entirely on Aziraphale's clothing. "Please say we can do this again. It doesn't have to be like this, obviously, I don't expect that. But can this not be just a one time thing - can it be something we do - not just adrenaline and a - fuck - a weird thing brought on by your rescue fetish."
"I do not have a -" Aziraphale stops, because Crowley is deadly serious and it seems cruel to tease him, or to lie so blatantly. He sees the way the demon is holding himself so tensely as he pats his own waistcoat straight, the way he shoves his hands into his elbows so he can't fidget. His snout is pulled down, but his pulse is obvious in the bend of his neck. Aziraphale reaches out and pulls him in, draws Crowley's snake head down to settle against his throat and cheek. The scales are cool, he can feel the slippery rasp of them. "My beautiful demon, we've not been careful all this time through lack of desire, or lack of affection, and you know it."
Crowley's long neck contracts, squirms against his skin.
"And perhaps I haven't been as reckless as I should have been, or as brave as you deserved."
The wide mouth opens, the tongue fluttering in apology.
"Aziraphale, I didn't mean -"
"Shush, let me speak, my love," Aziraphale says, very quietly, and Crowley goes completely limp in his grip.
"Next time one of us comes for the other -" He can't resist a brief laugh at that. "Well, I'm sure the one who's being rescued will be very grateful."
Crowley whines and knocks their heads together, possibly forgetting that his was now considerably larger.
"Now then." Aziraphale tugs Crowley's own lovely waistcoat straight, cleaning as much of the incriminating marks off as he can with his handkerchief. "Let us escape."