Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Angel, your sofa is trying to eat me alive,” Crowley complained, sprawling dramatically across the ridiculously plush cushions, all long limbs and feigned irritation. “It’s like sitting on a cloud made of marshmallows.”
“Do be still, my dear. You’ll spill your horrible wine.”

Crowley attempted a scowl, but the effect was somewhat ruined when one of Aziraphale’s countless decorative pillows tumbled onto his face. He batted it away with all the dignity he could muster.
“Which episode were we on?” Aziraphale asked, settling beside him with practised ease.
“The one where that absolute child got kicked out,” Crowley replied, already shifting to make room.

They fell into their familiar rhythm—sharing commentary and food, topping up wine glasses, existing in each other’s space as if they'd been doing it forever. It had always been this easy, Crowley realised with a start. Even when they’d been pretending to hate each other, they’d fit together like this.
When Aziraphale finished eating, he pulled Crowley's feet into his lap without comment, thumbs working into tired arches as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was, Crowley thought, watching Aziraphale’s profile in the television’s glow.

It was never guaranteed how the night would end. Sometimes, they parted with a gentle kiss and a lingering embrace, agreeing without words that further intimacy wasn't in the cards. But sometimes, like tonight, their eyes met, and they knew exactly what they wanted.
Aziraphale gently lifted Crowley's feet from his lap, placing them on the sofa, then turned to face him. He prowled towards him on hands and knees, a predatory gleam in his eye that made Crowley’s breath catch. Crowley spread his legs invitingly, and Aziraphale lowered himself until their bodies pressed together, sharing breath in the narrow space between their lips.

“Something on your mind, angel?” Crowley’s soft chuckle turned into a gasp as Aziraphale’s weight settled against him perfectly. His arms wrapped around Aziraphale's neck, drawing him closer, lost in those storm-grey eyes.
“Yes, my dear.” Aziraphale's matter-of-fact tone sent shivers down Crowley’s spine. “You, inside me.”
“Fuck,” Crowley groaned, his hips jerking up involuntarily.

A short time later, Aziraphale sank onto Crowley’s cock, both still half-dressed, gasping into each other’s mouths. Crowley’s hands found Aziraphale’s hips, guiding their rhythm as they moved together.
“Angel, you—god. You feel so good.” Crowley was transfixed by the sight of Aziraphale above him, lost in pleasure but still so focused on him. “Is it—does it feel—?”
“Yes, Crowley, oh, I'm close,” Aziraphale panted. “Are you—is it—?”
“Perfect,” Crowley breathed, one hand moving to stroke Aziraphale in time with their movements. “You’re so perfect.”
“You are,” gasped Aziraphale, riding him harder now, fingers digging into Crowley's shoulders as they drove each other toward completion. Their lips met messily, sharing soft sounds until they fell over the edge together, ending in a tangle of limbs and shared warmth.

“Stay?” Aziraphale whispered into the quiet room. “I know we’ve both been saying no, but, at this point…” He trailed off, fingers tracing patterns on Crowley's chest. “I mean, friends stay over, right? Sometimes?”
Crowley’s soft laugh rumbled under Aziraphale’s cheek as he pulled him closer, pressing a kiss into his tousled curls. “Let’s be honest, angel,” he said. “Friends don’t actually do any of this.”

Though Crowley’s voice was steady, Aziraphale could feel his heart racing beneath his cheek. His own pulse quickened at the implications of those words. If not friends, then what were they? The question sat heavy on his tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask it. To name this thing between them felt dangerous. One wrong move, and it might shatter everything.
Because Crowley had become essential to him somehow. Had woven himself into the fabric of Aziraphale’s life so completely that the thought of losing him was unbearable.

Crowley woke to sunlight shining softly through unfamiliar curtains, the comfortably domestic sounds of movement and cooking coming from the kitchen.
He pulled on his shirt and trousers and padded down the hallway, grinning at the arresting sight of Aziraphale in a fluffy white robe, making coffee.

“I thought you hated coffee,” he said, sliding up behind Aziraphale and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Oh, I do,” agreed Aziraphale, handing him a steaming mug. “I have no idea how you drink it.”
They moved around each other easily, comfortable silence punctuated by casual touches—a hand at the small of a back, fingers brushing as they passed items between them.

“This is nice,” Crowley said, without thinking too much about what he meant. And when Aziraphale stood on tiptoe to press a soft kiss to his lips, Crowley found himself saying, “Angel, god, I lo—”
He screeched to a halt, Aziraphale’s eyes widening, brows shooting up.
“I, um…” Crowley trailed off, something catching in his throat. “Love this toast. It’s really fucking good. Toast.”
“It’s lightly cooked bread,” chuckled Aziraphale.
“People should write songs about it.”
“I’d listen to them,” admitted Aziraphale. “Those songs. I bet they’d be quite thrilling.”

“Our next listener,” said Newt, “asks, “Dear Angel and Serpent: I’ve been dating this guy for almost a year. We haven’t said the L word, but I know I love him and I think he loves me. My friends are all about big romantic gestures, but he knows exactly how I take my tea, and he brings me soup when I’m poorly, he plays my favourite songs when I’m sad. I do things like this for him, too. How can I tell if that’s actually love?”

“Well,” Aziraphale began, “there’s certainly something to be said for traditional romantic gestures—”
“Oh, come off it,” Crowley interrupted, his eye roll obvious even behind the dark glasses. “You think an overpriced dinner is more meaningful than knowing how to cheer someone up?”

“I don’t believe I was finished with my statement,” Aziraphale huffed, tugging at the bottom of his waistcoat. “I was going to say that while grand gestures have their place, it’s these small, daily acts of thoughtfulness that truly indicate love. Like…like knowing how someone takes their tea.”
“Of course, you go straight to tea,” Crowley chuckled, slouching further in his chair. “Speaking of which, you’re almost out of that fancy Earl Grey stuff you like.”
“How in the world do you know that?” Aziraphale's eyebrows shot up.
“Because I pay attention, angel,” Crowley said. “Just like you’ve been adjusting the temperature on my thermostat every time you come over because you know I forget—”
“Well, you’d freeze to death if I didn’t! And I suppose keeping track of my tea inventory is your idea of being thoughtful?”
“Just as thoughtful as you always having coffee in your kitchen even though you hate it and constantly complain about the smell.” Crowley’s voice had taken on an odd tone, like he was just beginning to understand something.

“Just like you complain about my bow tie collection, but you keep encouraging me to buy new ones? What am I to make of that? You pretend to be irritated by everything I do, yet you remember all my little quirks—”
“You pretend to be proper and fussy, but you keep putting up with all my chaos. You even encourage it!” Crowley said, recognition dawning on his face. “Like the way you laughed when I reorganised all of your books by colour.”
“I have no idea why I put up with you,” Aziraphale huffed with a grin, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Because you’re in love with me!” Crowley exclaimed, the words bursting out like he couldn’t contain them anymore.
Aziraphale felt all the breath leave his lungs. He gaped for a moment before squaring his shoulders.

“So what if I am?” he shot back. “You—you’re in love with me, too!”
“I probably am!”
“There’s no probably about it!” Aziraphale's laugh was delighted. “You are head over heels in love with me.”
“Fine,” Crowley groaned, but he was fighting a smile. “You’re going to be insufferable about it, aren’t you?”
“That does sound like something I’d do,” Aziraphale agreed, beaming.

They sat in silence for a moment, gazing at each other across the small table, both looking slightly stunned at what had just happened. Newt’s awkward cough startled them back to reality.
“Oh! Goodness!” Aziraphale straightened suddenly, cheeks pink. “Our listener! I’m dreadfully sorry. Dear, if you’re wondering whether it’s love, I believe you already know the answer. As we’ve just...rather thoroughly demonstrated, it’s not about grand gestures.”
“Yeah, pretty sure the whole internet’s got that point now,” Crowley drawled, but his typical snark couldn’t quite hide his smile.

Gabriel approached them after the show, stalking across the room with his brow furrowed, hands on his hips.
“What…” he blustered, “was that?”

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged glances. Even through his dark glasses, Aziraphale could see Crowley tensing for an argument.
“We’ve been selling snarky co-hosts who can’t stand each other. What am I supposed to do with—with this?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the two of them.

“Actually,” Newt interrupted, then squeaked when Gabriel turned to glare at him. He thrust his tablet forward like a shield. “You might want to see this.”
Gabriel snatched the tablet, scrolling with increasingly raised eyebrows. “Wait. How many new followers?”
“In just the last ten minutes,” Newt pointed out. “The clips are already going viral.”
“‘Relationship advisors actually falling in love live on-air is the content I didn’t know I needed,’” Gabriel read aloud. “‘This is better than any rom-com I’ve ever seen.’” He looked up at them, his expression shifting from anger to calculated interest.
“Well. This could work.”
“Glad you approve,” Crowley drawled.
“Though I expect you to maintain some sense of decorum,” Gabriel added sternly.
“Oh, absolutely,” Aziraphale agreed quickly. “We will be completely proper and professional at all times.”
Crowley nodded. “What he said.”

Alone in their office after the show, Crowley wasted no time in shoving Aziraphale against the door, capturing his mouth in a hard, searching kiss. His fingers went immediately to that dandelion-fluff hair, tangling in it while they gasped into each other’s mouths.
“Love you, ‘ziraphale,” Crowley panted, pressing flush against the angel. “Fuck.”
“Crowley, my—oh, I love you,” Aziraphale whispered between kisses, grabbing Crowley by the waist. “Want you. Always—want you.”
“‘M yours. All yours.” Fingers moved to shirts, unbuttoning, frantic now, pushing off clothing as they stumbled to the sofa. Crowley was awash with relief at finally getting to say everything he’d been holding back for the better part of the last year. He couldn’t stop talking, even as his mouth slid against Aziraphale’s, and he tasted so good, perfect as always.

He gently pushed Aziraphale down on his back on the sofa, clambering on top of him, hands clutching everywhere he could grab. “Fuck, I’ve loved you—can’t even remember when it started,” he gasped.
“I’ve been falling for you,” Aziraphale agreed, wiggling underneath him, fingers trailing down his back, “for a long time, so long.” He gestured at the desk beside them. “Lube, top drawer.”
“How do you want—?”
“Ride me?” Aziraphale asked, storm-blue eyes gazing into Crowley’s with so much adoration and want. Crowley slicked himself up, positioning himself over Aziraphale’s hard, leaking cock, lowering himself achingly slowly. He braced himself on Aziraphale’s broad, firm shoulders as they joined together.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale panted as they began to move together, “Oh my god—oh—”
“Yes, angel,” He pushed down against Aziraphale. “God, you—fuck—you feel so fucking good.”

The rhythmic sounds of skin against skin punctuated their gasps and moans; Aziraphale’s hands clutched his hips, raising and lifting Crowley on his cock, pounding into him, exhaling hard with each thrust. It was so hot, how strong his angel was, how he moved him with so little effort, chasing their pleasure together.
Crowley bent down to kiss Aziraphale as they fucked; their lips met over and over, Crowley finding friction for his own aching cock against Aziraphale’s belly.
“Yes—ye—oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned against his mouth, thrusting up faster, losing his rhythm, and his small, desperate cries and kisses drove Crowley over the edge. He spilt between them with a cry of “Angel!” on his lips. Aziraphale found his own completion seconds later, his head thrown back against the sofa as Crowley’s lips and tongue slid down his neck.

They rested there together, breathing heavily.
“Well,” Aziraphale chuckled, still slightly breathless. “That was neither proper nor professional.”
“A complete absence of decorum,” Crowley agreed, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale's chest and snuggling closer. After a moment, he propped himself up on one elbow, gazing down at Aziraphale's face, drinking in the sight of flushed cheeks and tousled curls.

Aziraphale reached up, tucking a lock of hair behind Crowley's ear—a gesture so tender it made Crowley's heart stutter in his chest.
“So,” Aziraphale mused, tracing Crowley's lips and jaw with gentle fingers. “We’ve progressed from nemeses to friends, to friends who kiss, to friends who make love, and then we declared our love on air. What exactly does that make us?”
Crowley pressed another kiss to Aziraphale’s plush lips. “Don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Partners?”
“Ugh.” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “Too corporate.”
“Boyfriends?”
“We’re hardly teenagers.”
“Well then, you come up with something,” Crowley huffed, punctuating his words with kisses—cheek, chin, the adorable tip of Aziraphale’s upturned nose.
“Lovers? No, too dramatic. I can’t introduce you as 'my lover, Crowley.' Significant other? Too unwieldy. Beau? Sweetheart? Darling?”
“Aziraphale?”
“Hmmm?”
“Shut up.”
“Rude.”
“I’ll show you rude,” Crowley growled, and blew a wet, messy raspberry against Aziraphale's neck. Aziraphale retaliated by finding Crowley's ticklish spots, and they tangled together on the sofa, laughing like children. Crowley couldn't remember ever feeling this happy, this complete.

“We’re going to be absolutely unbearable, aren’t we?” he asked, grinning.
“Oh yes,” Aziraphale nodded solemnly. “The absolute worst.”
“Looking forward to it,” Crowley murmured against his lips.
“Me too, my dear. Me too.”

r/Angel&SerpentUnscripted · Posted by u/SouthernFriedAmy 1m

Because YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH ME

Podcast

Did I just see that? Or am I hallucinating?

Upvotes: 7.5k 4,969 comments

4,965 more replies

One Year Later

“Dear Angel and Serpent,” Newt read from the sound booth. “My long-term partner and I just moved in together, and I didn’t realise he had so many comic books. So. Very. Many. He’s practically a hoarder. I love him so much but this is really a lot. What do I do?"

“Well, isn’t this familiar?” drawled Crowley from his usual slouched position in his armchair. “Has he convinced you to install floor-to-ceiling shelves in the bedroom yet?”
“They are very tasteful shelves,” Aziraphale huffed. “And you have a whole room for your plants.”
“The key, listener, is designated spaces,” said Crowley, shooting a grin across the table at his co-host. “He restricts his books to the bedroom shelves, usually. And I confine the jungle to the spare bedroom.”
“Which all works wonderfully until he randomly re-arranges all your carefully ordered books. Again." Aziraphale took a sip of his tea.
“That was in retaliation for you naming all my plants after Victorian literature villains and plastering the names on their pots using a label maker,” Crowley retorted. “That must have taken you ages.”
“Probably less time than the book reorganisation. And I heard you whispering praises to Professor Moriarty just the other day, using his full name.”

“Angel and Serpent: My partner is chaos incarnate. They never put anything back where it belongs and it’s driving me crazy. How do I handle this?”
“Ah yes,” Aziraphale brightens. “Like someone who thinks the sugar belongs out on the side next to the coffee maker—”
“Because that’s where it gets used!”
“Rather than in the designated cabinet with the other baking supplies—”
“Angel, when was the last time you baked anything?”
“The point is, dear listener, sometimes chaos can be...endearing. Though I do recommend a labelled organisation system.”
“Which I follow. Sometimes. When I remember. If he asks nicely.”

“Dear Angel and Serpent: My wife won’t do any of the cooking at all. She thinks that because I can cook well, she doesn’t need to learn. But sometimes, I get tired of cooking every meal.”
Aziraphale burst into delighted laughter. Crowley responded with a scowl.
“Don’t you dare, angel,” he started, but it was too late.
“The first time Crowley tried to cook for us, he set the curtains on fire. We had to ring 999! The whole flat smelled of smoke for weeks.”
“Who puts curtains over a cooker?”
“People who can cook without setting them ablaze,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Regardless, listener, in a relationship, you play to your strengths. Crowley no longer cooks for us, thank all the heavens above. But he is an excellent gardener, while I can kill grass just by looking at it. So, I do all the cooking, and he maintains our garden.”
“And if he’s ever too tired to cook, we have sandwiches or soup or something easy,” added Crowley.
“You do make an excellent cheese and pickle sandwich, my dear,” said Aziraphale, smiling fondly across the small table. “Though I still question your addition of crisps inside it.”

After the episode, Aziraphale crawled into Crowley’s lap, snuggling up under his chin and sighing contentedly. Crowley wrapped his arms around his angel, resting his head in those soft curls, breathing in the vanilla-and-linen scent of him.

“What did I say about decorum? Every time, I have to tell you.”
“Sod off, Gabriel,” Crowley murmured.
The CEO stomped away, muttering under his breath, as he had for most of the past year.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aziraphale whispered, his fingers tracing slow patterns across Crowley’s chest.
“Hmmm?”
“We have plenty of space to add a few bookshelves to the plant room.”
“Oh, you—” Crowley tackled Aziraphale to the floor, crawling on top of him and biting his neck while Aziraphale squirmed and giggled under him.
“This is highly…unprofessional!” Aziraphale laughed. “I shall be filing a…written complaint…in triplicate!”
The studio lights clicked off around them, the rest of the staff already leaving, accustomed to their after-show antics.
Crowley pulled up Aziraphale’s jumper and blew a loud raspberry against his stomach. “Write about that,” he growled. “I’m sure…you can make it sound…all proper and…and posh.”
Aziraphale pulled Crowley up into a kiss. “There’s nothing proper about what I intend to do to you right now,” he whispered into Crowley’s ear.

They tangled together on the floor of the studio where it all began, still bickering even between kisses, exactly where they belonged.