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The ceremony started with the evening meal, and lasted until the sun was just touching the tips of the farthest mountains. At that moment the focus of this evening, in his simple white shift, was brought to the dais, to stand before the priests and acolytes in all their silks and finery.
Muriel watched from the edge of the crowd as the head priest made one more sermon about what an honor it was to be chosen, and how the gods alone could influence the lots and that was how they knew that each and every omega they had ever sent up the mountain had been chosen by divine will. He then turned to his assistant priest, nodding to the man to ritually bind the hands of this septennial’s offering.
Muriel had been little the last time this ceremony had taken place, but she remembered that septennial’s omega trembling and trying to hold back sobs. Adults had all remarked on how brave the lass had been and what a shame it was to lose such a sweet young omega to that terrifying serpent god.
“I glimpsed that beast once,” one elder had said. “Body as thick as a tree with scales black as soot.”
“I had heard tell of red scales.”
“Nay, black—the red is from slithering through blood.”
“They say if you displease The Serpent, he’ll spit his venom. Drop you where you stand before you’ve even laid eyes on him.”
“Aye. Eyes and ears in every adder and grass snake. Disrespect them—and you’ll displease him.”
“That poor lass, being given to such a beast.”
That wasn’t how it was this time around.
Out of all the omegas of eligible age, the lot that had been drawn had been Aziraphale’s—the younger son and only omega child of one of the most prominent families in their city-state. There had been much to-do over that, as the head of the family had planned to marry Aziraphale off come spring, but the lottery was the will of the gods and even such a prominent statesman couldn’t argue with it.
Muriel knew what few others did: that Aziraphale had been displeased by the arranged marriage but—as an omega—couldn’t disobey his father’s orders. He was not even free to speak his mind, was expected to acquiesce and even express thanks for such an advantageous match. “Sometimes, poppet,” he’d told her one evening in the archives, as she’d helped him clean up the brushes and inks from a day of copying scrolls, “I wish I had never presented. I shouldn’t wish to be an alpha, and be expected to train for war, but, oh, to have the freedom of a beta!”
Perhaps that was why Aziraphale seemed calm. Perhaps, for him, The Serpent was less terrifying than his impending marriage.
Head Priest Gabriel was praising his courage and fortitude, saying that Aziraphale should serve as an example to all of them. Assistant Priest Sandalphon, however, looked annoyed, and seemed to be tightening the ritual bindings a little more forcefully than necessary. Muriel couldn’t understand why.
“Always been a bit touched in the head, that one,” the adults around her were saying.
“Nonsense, he’s always been a sweet boy. He doesn’t deserve to be—well.”
“The offerings aren’t about who ‘deserves’ it, you know that.”
“Think of the darling pups we could have had in a year or two’s time if his lot hadn’t been drawn.”
“Just as well if you ask me; any alpha with sense wouldn’t want an omega with his nose always in books and his head in the clouds. Any pups he bore might’ve been just as off.”
“But you have to admit he’s a pretty thing.”
“Better to lose a pretty but daft one than one of our good, sensible omegas. Look at him—not a bit scared. How witless must he be?”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s for the best that he goes to The Serpent.”
Muriel looked up at the women as they gossiped. She couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t like Aziraphale; he had always been kind and patient, teaching her the archives and how to copy scrolls when everyone else just brushed her off as a silly pup or overlooked her entirely.
But she didn’t understand why they had to send an offering up that shadowy mountain, either. Or why the offering had to be an omega. What did this serpent god do with his offerings that he needed a new one every seven years?
“The ways of the gods are not always clear,” Aziraphale had told her when she asked. “Not at first glance. And sometimes . . . sometimes it is not for us to understand.”
When she’d pressed he’d winked and told her he might ask The Serpent when he got up there. She still wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.
The procession had started, Aziraphale walking within the half-circle of the priests, pulled along by his bound hands. The acolytes started up a chant, encouraging everyone to join in. Muriel, walking towards the back with the other half-grown pups, lost sight of her friend several times as the procession wound up the mountain path. But every time she did catch a glimpse Aziraphale never looked the least bit agitated. Although he did seem to be holding something in, nearly vibrating out of his skin, it didn’t seem to be fear.
The procession stopped at a sheltered terrace about two-thirds of the way up. Head Priest Gabriel said a brief prayer, then climbed onto the small ladder an acolyte provided to secure Aziraphale’s hands to a stone outcropping high above his head.
If being chosen was an honor like the priests insisted, then Muriel couldn’t understand why the bindings were necessary. Or the gag that Father Sandalphon was now securing.
The acolytes were spreading flowers and herbs and the priests were motioning for the people to return to the city, but Muriel lingered. She took one last at her friend, his arms stretched over his head and the simple white shift he’d been made to wear riding up to his hips. She wouldn’t want to be where he is now, an omega being handed over to a terrifying god, never to be seen again. Nor would she want to be where he had been a fortnight before, awaiting a marriage that felt more like a prison.
Maybe she should pray to never present, to remain a beta her whole life.
Maybe being unnoticed and brushed aside was preferable.
* * *
“The humans didn’t skimp, at least.”
Hastur and Ligur had waited until the humans were gone before skulking onto the terrace, but only barely.
“That is a tasty-looking offering.”
Beelzebub rolled their eyes at both of them as they followed.
The offering in question skittered back in alarm, pulled short by the bindings around its wrists. Both idiots leered at this as they flanked it.
Hastur looked the human up and down and made a show of sniffing. “Bit soft. And too sweet-smelling. Nauseating.”
“I like ’em soft. Something to sink your teeth into.”
The offering was in danger of making itself dizzy, trying to keep both Hastur and Ligur in sight.
Beelzebub perched on a stone just out of the way of the cave entrance. “Not your offering, idiots. Doesn’t matter what you think.”
“We’re just having a look.” Ligur leaned in close and the human made an indignant squawk as it tried to jerk away. “This one’s got a bit of spice to it.”
Hastur scoffed. “Yeah? Maybe if we sour that sweet a little it won’t be so nauseating.”
Hastur reached for the hem of its silly fabric covering and it kicked at him. Bold move for a soft human that was bound and gagged. Hastur, of course, was only egged on, squealing in delight and snatching at the fabric from different sides.
Beelzebub huffed and muttered, “Might want to be careful.”
“Just checking that everything’s in working orde—heeeek!”
Hastur shrieked and sprang back as a jet of venom struck the stone right where his feet had been.
“You—you could’ve hit me!” he screeched at the black and red streak that shot out from the cave to coil around the offering.
(Beelzebub shook their head with a muttered “Idiot.”)
“That was a warning,” Crowley hissed, “Touch my omega again—and I will hit.”
“Where do you get off threatening us, serpent,” Ligur snarled.
Crowley tightened his coils around the hapless human and gaped, fangs glistening and no doubt ready to shoot another bolus.
“Enough,” Beelzebub snapped before either of the idiots decided it was a good idea to push the serpent further. As entertaining as that might be, they didn’t want to be the one to deal with the clean-up.
Crowley swiveled around to face them, yellow eyes narrowing. “What are you lot even doing here?”
“Performance review,” they informed him, as if it was the most tedious thing imaginable. “Making sure things are—running smoothly.”
He hissed. “How I deal with my offerings is not your business.”
“Oh, but it is.” They smirked. “The higher ups have been talking about reassignments. If we see proof that you can’t handle this territory. . . .”
Crowley had the audacity to gape at them and Beelzebub narrowed their eyes, silently daring the serpent to make a wrong move.
Wisely thinking better of it he instead reared up and with a screech of claw on stone tore the offering’s bindings. “My territory,” he snarled. “My omegas.”
The omega grunted as Crowley threw it over his shoulder. It then had the audacity to glare at them as it was carried into the cave.
What a strange offering.
Inside, Crowley disappeared behind a heavy curtain, tail flicking the fabric back into place. Beelzebub sat on what passed for furniture in this part of the cave to wait.
“Ain’t we going after him?” Hastur grumbled.
“Why? He’s just preparing it. The altar’s back there.” They jerked their head to the far end of the cave. “He’ll be out soon enough.”
“I don’t like this,” Ligur sneered. “He’s up to something, I can smell it. He’s cheatin’ somehow.”
They rolled their eyes and refrained from stating the obvious. Of course Crowley was cheating; the ones who weren’t were too stupid to be topside. “We’ll see. We’re just here to make sure he completes the bonding and mating ritual properly.”
“No wiggling out for mister slick,” Hastur leered. “Not this time.”
“Can we have his offering if he doesn’t? I could use a new toy.”
Beelzebub shook their head. “Fine. I don’t care. That thing is not my concern. And if he botches this up, it won’t be Crowley’s anymore, either.” They had never seen the appeal, personally. Humans were too squishy and smelly.
All of a sudden the curtain was flung open and the offering darted out, freezing to look at them with wide, spooked eyes before sprinting for the cave entrance. In comparison Crowley seemed almost languid as he slithered out after it. He let it get within arms reach of the entrance before striking, snatching the omega back and sinking his fangs deep into the meat of its back. The pathetic thing cried out, once, then went slack.
“Playing with your food?” Beelzebub quipped.
Crowley turned to them and grinned, the now-limp omega cradled against his chest. “Only proper to give them a sporting chance. Gets their blood pumping. And it’s fun.”
“Does it make it taste better?” Ligur called after him.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” The serpent scoffed as he made his way to the rear of the cave. “I’ve got far better plans for this one, anyway.”
Both idiots turned confused faces toward Beelzebub. “What’s he mean, ‘better plans’?”
They just sighed and jerked their head for them to follow.”
* * *
“I’m so sorry, angel!” Crowley’s claws had made quick work of the gag and bindings and he cradled the abused flesh between his hands. “I had no idea they would be here!”
Aziraphale sighed as Crowley’s magic soothed where the bindings had cut into his wrists. Really, there had been no reason for Sandalphon to tighten them so much. How his father had thought that that alpha would make a good match Aziraphale had no idea. “So those are your—‘colleagues’? Are they always so,” he wrinkled his nose. “Unpleasant?”
Crowley grimaced. “I’m afraid so. Normally they can’t be arsed to come up here; they must’ve heard rumors of my previous offerings es-cape-ing,” he mocked.
“Well! Good thing then that I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
He shook his head. “That’s almost worse. A willing offering? That goes against the spirit of The Game.”
Aziraphale pouted. “And after all the trouble I went to to fix the lots.”
That teased a smile out of Crowley. A little.
Aziraphale sighed and leaned back against Crowley’s lovely coils. It was all so silly, really. Crowley was such a sweet serpent, and yet he had to play this ridiculous “game” his people had concocted so long ago that none of them even remembered why anymore. And if he didn’t—
“Locked underhill,” Crowley had explained. “No longer free to come up.”
(Aziraphale had protested that these were mountains, not hills, but Crowley countered that “it’s just a term, angel.” An irritatingly imprecise one, then. One would think a people so caught up in rules and games—)
“Oh!” Aziraphale sat up. “They just need to see that you’re playing the game properly, right? Following the rules?”
“Yeah? That’s the whole problem.”
He couldn’t help but wiggle in mischievous glee. “My dear, what if—what if we gave them a show?”
* * *
Their unwanted guests trailed behind them and, by all appearances, seemed to have bought it. Two of the three still glowered at them, but that seemed to be their default expression. Disgusting brutes—no sense of propriety or decorum at all.
The third one, though, was the real danger. The deceptively diminutive one the other two deferred to. This was the one Aziraphale kept an eye on as he draped over Crowley’s shoulder, unable to move.
It was a strange feeling. If this had been anyone but his beloved serpent it would be terrifying. But this was Crowley, and he trusted Crowley to keep him safe. Even from these interlopers.
He wasn’t completely paralyzed. He could move just enough to tap Crowley’s arm when his darling murmured in his ear, checking to make sure he was all right.
He was most definitely all right.
And, very soon, would be more than all right.
“Our bonding and mating process is a little more, eeehhh—intense. Than yours,” Crowley had explained. “Or more like, yours is a watered down translation of ours.”
Crowley’s description had been alarming—at first. But also . . . strangely thrilling. The more Aziraphale had sat with it, the more he’d felt anticipation rather than dread.
When Crowley finally laid him down on the stone altar, in the center of the circle of runes, he was downright giddy.
A good thing he couldn’t move. One delighted wiggle would have given away the ruse.
“There we are.” Crowley slid his hands beneath Aziraphale’s shift, working it over his head and then tossing it away. Leaving cool stone against his bare skin. “Sumptuous,” he purred, as he arranged Aziraphale’s limbs with care. “Simply exquisite.”
He wanted to preen.
Aziraphale knew he was considered attractive for an omega, his soft curves seen as a sign of fertility. That was why his father had been able to goad his suitors into that ridiculous bidding war. But from Crowley, the praise landed differently.
After all, none of the alphas—and the few betas—who had vied for his hand back home had ever been delighted to listen to him prattle on about his scrolls for hours. Not like his sweet serpent-deity.
After carefully arranging his limbs along the points of the star engraved on the stone, Crowley began to coat his skin with a spicy-smelling unguent. Aziraphale let his eyes fall closed as he reveled in the attention. Crowley’s touch was soft—his claws sheathed—and the unguent left a tingling warmth in its wake.
A warmth that settled deep into Aziraphale’s skin. Embers being stoked.
Embers that were steadily waking up his little omega cock. But Crowley skirted it, rubbing his hips and then skimming down to administer to his thighs. If Aziraphale could have squirmed, he would have.
“Patience, my prize,” Crowley purred. “All in good time.”
“Why’s he taking so long,” one of the goons grumbles. Aziraphale had almost forgotten about them.
“Some of us prefer not to shortcut things,” Crowley shot back.
Having an audience wasn’t something either one of them had anticipated, but Aziraphale found it gave him a little thrill. They should see what a perfect alpha his Crowley was; everyone should see how much Aziraphale belonged to him.
Let them enjoy the show.
* * *
Their encounters had started in a way that was, perhaps, not so unusual. No one else took much notice of the traveler with the deep red hair and a scent like a fresh-sprouted field. The stranger was here to trade goods and gossip, and the quality of each was what mattered. So the fact that he seemed to be “passing by” far more often than most was hardly noticed. Just as the dark glasses he never took off were overlooked. Traders were allowed their quirks, after all, so long as the trade was good.
Overlooked by most of the village.
“My dear, the dark lenses don’t hide as much as you think they do.”
Aziraphale smiled to himself at the incoherent sputtering. “I, uh. Dunno what you’re talking about, angel,” his friend stuttered out.
Aziraphale finally looked up from the oak apples he had been collecting. They usually met like this just outside of the city, where farmland became wildland. “And I suppose that little hiss to your words is just a lisp, hm? And I do apologize for being blunt, my dear, but it is clear that you were never meant for, well, this kind of locomotions.”
He watched as Crowley’s face went from startled to suspicious. “You mean ‘legs,’ don’t you.”
“Well—hips, mostly. Though it gives you a very enticing gait.”
Crowley took one step toward him. Then another. “And just what do you think you know, angel?”
Aziraphale bit his lip as he hooked his basket onto his elbow. He supposed it wouldn’t be received well if he tittered at his friend’s attempts to be intimidating. “Oh, I know very little, and never as much as I would like. But—” he continued, cutting off Crowley’s interruption with a raised finger, “what I think is that it’s rather nice for our patron deity to take such a personal interest in his people.”
More shock, and then something intense. When Crowley removed his dark glasses, exposing his eyes for the first time, Aziraphale did indeed feel a little thrill—but it wasn’t a thrill of fear.
“‘Nice’?” Crowley hissed. “You think you know me so well to call me nice, angel?”
Just as Aziraphale and previously glimpsed, Crowley’s eyes were a bright yellow, with elongated pupils reminiscent of the more dangerous snakes in their lands. He watched now as the lovely yellow irises completely ate up the whites, so entranced that at first he missed the rest of the changes. Only when he had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact did he notice that Crowley’s clothes had melted away, as had his legs, and he’d risen up on a massive serpent’s tail.
“Oh. . . .” Aziraphale’s basket of oak apples hit the underbrush with a dull thud. He drank in the sight before him, his eyes traveling the length of the seemingly endless, sinuous tail. “Oh, you’re beautiful.”
The noise Crowley made completely shattered any semblance of menace. “That’s—not the reaction I usually get.”
“Hm?” Aziraphale was too enthralled with running a hand over the silky smooth, black and red scales of the coil nearest him to properly respond.
He squeaked and giggled as the coils leapt into motion, wrapping around him and lifting him off his feet.
Crowley was smirking at him. “You really are an odd one, aren’t you?”
“So I’ve been told.” Aziraphale wiggled one arm free and traced his fingers along his friend’s jaw, where he could see the faint shimmer of scales beneath the skin. “Some say it makes me unsuitable. But I’m afraid I don’t know any other way to be.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Crowley caught his hand and brought it to his lips. “I’d hate for you to be anyone else.”
When Crowley grinned, Aziraphale could see a pair of what could only be fangs, neatly folded back.
* * *
Now with the unguent on his skin Crowley’s fingers were trailing sparks and lightning in their wake. Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut; he wanted to squirm, to both curl away and curl into that sweet torture, but all he could do was endure. It was exquisite.
Something blunt nudged between his thighs and his eyes flew open as he gasped. Crowley was grinning down at him, his fingers tracing nonsense symbols on his belly as what had to be the tip of his tail nudged and wriggled and finally penetrated. Aziraphale gasped again and whimpered. It wasn’t bigger than one of the carved phalluses he used during his heats, but his toys didn’t—squirm like that. What’s more it was coated with the same unguent, and his nether regions now tingled and burned and flared.
The tail-tip retreated, then returned, coated in fresh unguent and working its way deeper. Aziraphale keened at the stretch, the sound thin and reedy. His hips desperately wanted to buck, his insides to clench down.
“Ssshhh . . . just let go. . . .”
Crowley’s fingers curled around his cock, now rock-hard, and began to stroke, the unguent making each stroke more intense than the last until he was was shoved headlong into climax, his scream muffled down into a whine and the convulsions down to twitching and shivering.
“Perfect.”
As Aziraphale lay there, panting and wondering how he hadn’t shattered into pieces, Crowley swiped a hand over his belly. Aziraphale watched with a dazed fascination as he gathered up the spend, and then leaned over him to smear it along the carved circle of runes.
“Absolutely perfect. We’re almost there, my prize. Once the moonlight hits, I’ll make you mine. For good.”
Grumbles from the side of the chamber reminded him that they had an audience, but Aziraphale’s attention couldn’t be drawn from the being, the alpha, fine tuning the placement of his limbs with gentle nudges. The being whose tail was still lodged inside him, anchoring him as he came down from his climax. They were rapidly coming to the part of the ritual he’d had the most trepidation over, but under Crowley’s tender care fear was the furthest thing from his mind.
“That starts the true ritual,” Crowley had explained. “The moment there’s no stepping back from. And it’s—intense.”
“That’s gotta be cheatin’. Taking the fight out of ’em like that.”
“You’re just jealous you never thought of it.”
“I like ’em feisty. More fun that way.”
Crowley rolled his eyes where only Aziraphale could see.
“Shut your yapping. There’s no rule against it,” the small one snapped. “Ligur, if you don’t back up you’re going to lose a hand, and I’m not authorizing a new one.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Crowley reassured him with a smirk and a gentle nudge of his tail, before withdrawing the appendage.
“If you move too much out of place or—gods—break the circle—it’s—it’s just better you don’t. Trust me.”
And he did. Gods help him, he did.
That trust was why Aziraphale had agreed to let Crowley use his venom. Why the racing of his pulse as he lay on this stone altar, watching the circle of moonlight crawl down the far wall, was more anticipation than fear.
He was Crowley’s. And after this, no one would be able to change that. That was worth a bit of—intense.
The moon was just starting to peek though the circular opening at the apex of the chamber. Crowley grinned at this and leaned back. “It’s time.”
At the first arc of light Aziraphale gasped. The second one he felt reverberate in his bone. With each arc the resonance grew, and they came faster and faster until he was covered in a dome of light and his bones were buzzing so hard they must surely shatter to pieces.
His mouth fell open in a silent cry. It wasn’t pain, exactly. But the lightning storm inside his skin made him want to writhe and contort.
Then the energy settled in his guts. He could feel his insides twisting, roiling. The only thing he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and wait for the inevitable crescendo.
The stillness was deafening, the darkness blinding. Like he’d been dropped from a raging sea into a still, moonless pond.
Only when he felt a hand on his chest did Aziraphale realize that he hadn’t burst into oblivion after all.
“Breathe, angel. Breathe for me.”
With a shuttering gasp, Aziraphale did.
The air he gulped in tasted of lightning. He twitched his fingers, and took stock; everything was . . . accounted for. But nothing felt—quite right. His pulse was thrumming in his ears, his skin felt tight and flush, and—
Aziraphale gasped, his eyes flying open.
Everything felt like he was two days into an intense heat. No pre-heat, no mild first day—just straight into the most intense part of the most intense heat he’d ever experienced.
At that thought his quim fluttered and clenched, squeezing out slick. His cock throbbed in sympathy.
Crowley was smirking down at him. “Look at you—gorgeous. You took that beautifully.” His hand trailed down Aziraphale’s belly. “You’re ready now.”
Aziraphale gasped and shivered as the hand dipped between his legs and parted his dripping folds.
“All he’s doing is toying with it,” one of the goons whinged from the side of the chamber.
Aziraphale had forgotten about them.
Crowley’s grin turned wicked. “It’s called savoring, Hastur.”
The goon was muttering something about “Looks more like stalling,” but all thoughts of their audience fled because in that moment, Crowley rose up.
And Aziraphale’s eyes flew wide.
Just below where flesh became scales, Crowley was sporting . . . they had to be phalluses. Two of them. Each thick shaft appeared to be—textured, and each head split into two lobes, making odd, purplish heart shapes.
Crowley had told him that his shape was “different,” but had neglected to mention just how different. But Aziraphale’s body didn’t care; as soon as he laid eyes on his intended mate in all his glory a wave of raw need had washed over him. His body clenched, slick dribbling down his buttocks.
“Like what you see, my omega?”
The lobed head of one phallus slid up the inside of his thigh and then caressed the underside of his own straining cock, sliding down to the lips of his quim. Aziraphale felt his body shutter and open, and his hips twitched with the urge to buck.
When that strange lobed head breached him, his body offered no resistance. His channel clenched and trembled, trying to draw the shaft deeper. Frustratingly, Crowley held there for a moment, until Aziraphale let out an imploring whine. Then he sank in, bit by bit.
Aziraphale sighed, letting his eyes drift shut. Smooth scales against his thighs, the rough shaft of the second phallus along the seam of his hip. And inside of him. . . .
Crowley fit inside him like a lock and key.
No strangeness. No discomfort. Only perfection.
Then Crowley started to undulate. Aziraphale gasped and moaned; the sparks of pleasure were so different than anything he’d experienced from his own fingers or a toy. The sparks built, tumbling over into waves, the waves coming faster and faster until—
With a grunt and a sharp thrust, Crowley stilled.
Aziraphale’s eyes popped open and he whined as Crowley withdrew—withdrew.
“Ssshhh,” Crowley mollified. “You’ll get your knot.” The second phallus slid inside him. “After I’ve stuffed you full of my seed.” He leaned down, bumping their noses together. “The more of me inside you,” he purred, “the better the bond will take.”
Oh, he liked the sound of that. He liked that very much.
After that, it was easy to lose himself to pure sensation. The delicious torture of too much and not enough. His heat ramped up as it was both fed and denied and every twitch, every gasp and keening and moan spurred Crowley on. The serpent god paused only seconds between rounds, switching off between cocks with seemingly endless stamina.
Aziraphale found himself trying to clench down as things became messier and messier. He was starting to feel quite full but couldn’t bare the thought of losing any of that precious seed.
That seed would become the tie to his beloved serpent.
Scales brushed against his hand and he realized that Crowley had coiled around him, his sinuous body looping over the circle of runes, becoming a barrier. He leaned down, his wild curls curtaining them off, giving them as much privacy as possible.
“Are you ready for me?” Crowley breathed. “My omega?”
Aziraphale tapped a finger against his coils.
“Perfect.” Crowley gave him the briefest of kisses before pulling back, and pulling out.
Aziraphale found himself scooped up and deftly flipped over, propped against those coils and immediately mounted. This was the proper position for marking, but instead of leaning over him as expected Crowley gathered him against his chest. Aziraphale gasped when his weight settled the cock inside him deeper than it had ever been, so deep that his whole body spasmed and twitched in anticipation.
“You’ve taken my seed so well,” Crowley purred, cupping his chin to draw his head back and expose his neck. His other hand pressed low on Aziraphale’s belly, squeezing out a stuttering moan as the over stuffed feeling almost tipped over into pain. “But you can take just a bit more for me, can’t you, my beautiful prize.”
Crowley was undulating. Aziraphale keened as he was bounced on Crowley’s cock, and the overwhelming pleasure built yet again. This time as Crowley’s movements reached a fever pitch and he spilled his seed his knot swelled, stretching him and filling him impossibly more. As Aziraphale’s orgasm overtook him and his own body clamped down, locking them together, he felt teeth sink into the base of his neck—not just fangs, but a full claiming bite. Perfectly framing his scent gland.
The spice of the pain sent wave after wave of pleasure coursing through his body—and riding its wake was something else. It felt like an echo of the earlier ritual and Aziraphale knew, instinctively, that this was it—the bond was set. He now belonged to The Serpent, body and soul.
The stillness that followed was punctuated by a purr.
“Not bad.” The ringleader of their little audience was smirking at them. “It won’t be shaking that off any time soon. Might even give you pups.”
Crowley eased his teeth out of Aziraphale’s flesh and ran his tongue over the bite. “That’s the idea,” he drawled. “I plan on keeping this one for a long time.”
Crowley uncoiled and lowered them to the floor. Aziraphale grunted as the movement jostled the knot inside of him, but his purrs didn’t stutter. He was perfectly content to be cradled there against his serpent’s chest, locked in place by an alpha knot that pressed deliciously against his inner walls.
“Pups?” one goon was muttering to the other. “Why would anyone want pups?”
“I dunno. Are they good eatin’? Just a lot of mess, if you ask me.”
“Out,” Crowley growled as he slithered past them. “The lot of you. You’ve seen what you came to see.”
* * *
The two of them lay curled in Crowley’s nest of furs and pillows. As the paralyzing effects of the venom wore off Aziraphale stirred, finally turning over and tilting his head back to regard his mate—yes, mate.
Crowley caressed his cheek. “All right, angel?”
“Mm-hm. Perfectly.” He pillowed his head on the nearest coil. “What the little one said about pups. Could it. . . ?”
“Nyuhpossibly.” Crowley traced a finger over the still-stinging bite. “The ritual makes your body compatible with mine—not just with the, y’know, shapes and all, but truly compatible. But the binding itself uses up quite a bit—oh put that pout away, angel. There’s a reason I stuffed you so full. And not just because you were enjoying every bit of it.” Crowley tapped his nose, making Aziraphale scrunch his face. “It’s not necessarily likely that pups will take from a binding ritual, but it’s possible. And if it doesn’t—there’s always the next heat.”
Aziraphale beamed at that.
He let himself be bundled up, drifting off to sleep with visions of babies with golden eyes or red hair or even serpents’ tails.
* * *
Muriel dug her small trowel into the ground, carefully digging up the roots that would make the best ink. With Aziraphale gone, no one else was diligent in making the inks, so the task often fell to her. It was tedious work, but she didn’t mind. It had a rhythm to it that she found soothing.
She hadn’t noticed that she’d worked her way over to an outcropping of stones until a black shape raised its head. She let out a startled “Oh!” and rocked back on her heels. An adder; a black one was rare but not unheard of, but she’d never seen one with a bright red belly like this.
“Hello!” Muriel bobbed her head in a polite bow as they had all been taught. Manners were important, after all. “Forgive me for disturbing your rest. I’ll leave you to it.” Gathering up her basket she slowly stood, bobbing another small bow, and backed away.
Once she had a polite enough distance, Muriel turned to head back home. She had enough to make a batch of ink now, anyway.
“Muriel, isn’t it?”
Muriel squeaked as she whipped back around.
Standing in front of the stones was a tall man dressed in all black, with red hair tied back at the nape. She’d seen him before; he seemed to be a trader of some kind. Though mostly she remembered him as a friend of Aziraphale’s.
“H-hello.” She clutched her basket in front of her and bowed yet again. “Yes, I’m Muriel.”
“Wonderful!” The man—an alpha, she thought, though she was only just starting to distinguish scents—smiled, his eyes crinkling behind the dark lenses he wore. “I have a letter here for you.”
“For—for me? But—I’m no one.”
“That can’t be right—a ‘no one’ doesn’t get letters.”
The stranger pulled a small scroll out of his bag and held it out. Just to be polite—for there really must be some mistake—Muriel took it.
“See? Now you can’t be ‘no one’.” The stranger tapped her shoulder as he went by, hips swaying as he headed for the city.
Muriel turned the scroll over in her hands. It was very pretty, tied with a ribbon and held with a little wax seal. And next to the wax was her name, written in fine black ink. The seal was unfamiliar to her, but the handwriting—
Muriel spun around. “Oh! Uh—”
The stranger paused, looking back at her with eyebrows raised.
“That is—” She hesitated; everything she wanted to ask sounded impertinent. She finally settled on, “How—how would I write back?”
He grinned at her. “Give it to the snakes!”
With a last wave over his shoulder the stranger headed into town.