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you call my name and it feels like home

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Crowley comes out of sleep slow, awareness growing in increments—his body pressed against the sheets, his fingers and toes stretching, then curling, limbs unfurling as his eyes flutter open in stages, a slow blink, then wide open when his hand slides across the bed to find nothing but cold sheets where a certain angel should be. Panic seizes up in Crowley's chest as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, peering around the room, hoping to find Aziraphale tucked into a corner, reading a book he conjured up, but the room is empty, feeling cavernous and devoid of life if it hadn’t been for his quickened breath, his heartbeat flooding his ears. 

The floor is cool under his feet when Crowley throws his legs over the side of the bed, standing up on wobbling, coltish legs, moving too fast for his body to catch up, still sluggish from sleep. He stumbles out of his room, looking for any sign of Aziraphale—not on the sofa, the telly black. He tries to focus his ears for the sound of his kettle being put on the stove, of cabinets being opened and rifled through, but it’s all quiet. 

Crowley has to catch himself on the wall before his legs gave out, balancing his weight while his shoulder comes to rest against the wall. He thinks about turning and pressing his back against the wall, sinking down to the floor and gathering his legs to his chest, an ache growing in his throat, muscles seizing up as his eyes start to burn. 

Which is worse, he thinks, letting it roll around in his head, all the possibilities, that he left because he chose to leave, or that he was taken?

Crowley knows how deep he can sleep, how he can sink so deep into unconsciousness that he is almost dead. He wouldn’t have heard anything, if Heaven had come and taken back what belongs to them, but there isn’t any sign of a struggle and he knows, right down to the essence of himself, that Aziraphale would have fought. 

He must have left. 

Crowley gasps, biting back a sob. His heart stops. 

Aziraphale waking up beside him and swallowing the guilt of what they had done. Aziraphale tasting regret and trying to save them both the embarrassment by slipping out, quick and quiet. Aziraphale not wanting to face him, perhaps never wanting to see him again. 

“Oh!” a voice says, sweet and bright, reaching his ears. “You’re all so lovely, lush and verdant. He takes such good care of you, doesn’t he?” 

Crowley’s heart stutters back to life, thumping hard and steady, his chest aching as warmth spreads out to his limbs and he finds his footing, sauntering in the direction of the atrium. 

When he finds Aziraphale, he is cooing over the dracaena mauna kea , running his fingers down a long narrow leaf, stroking the plant in a way that Crowley can see its imperceptible shudder. He almost clears his throat, makes his presence known to put a stop to the spoiling before the plants get used to such treatment— before I know it, they’ll get lax and rotten and there will be leaf spots everywhere —but his breath catches in his throat at the sight of Aziraphale. 

The sun streams through the window in heavy blocks of light, catching in Aziraphale’s hair, turning the white-blonde curls a startling, pure white and setting it alight. It glows around his head, cast around his body like Crowley is seeing the edges of his true form peaking out, head haloed by the sun, light rebounding off of him and spreading out around him like a wingspan. 

But Aziraphale’s wings are tucked away and his face is the well-worn human face he loves, teeth on display as he smiles at the plant in front of him. Crowley’s mouth goes dry when his eyes lower, drifting down the rest of his form and realizing he hadn’t bothered to get dressed, just thrown on his blue button-down shirt that Crowley can see has been miraculously altered to fit a little looser and to hit mid-thigh instead of hardly covering him. The sleeves are rolled up, hanging loose at his elbows, the top buttons undone to expose his throat and purpling bruises that stand out against Aziraphale’s pale skin, matching the shape of Crowley’s mouth. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, unable to pull it back and clamp his teeth down around it. 

Aziraphale turns his gaze towards him, his smile not faltering, but growing broader, eyes a brighter blue than the skies of Heaven. “I see you’ve finally woken up. Sorry I wasn’t there, my darling. You are quite lovely when you’re sleeping, but one can only watch for so long before one gets restless, and—” 

Crowley crosses the floor in three long strides, reaching for Aziraphale’s face, cupping it between his palms as Aziraphale falls silent, looking up at Crowley with his soft, pink lips parted; Aziraphale sucks in a breath before Crowley bends down, tilting Aziraphale’s head towards his as he presses their mouths together, stealing a kiss. Aziraphale jumps with surprise, but then settles his arms around Crowley, over his shoulders and tugging him closer with his hands pressing at the back of his neck.

Aziraphale lets out a divine little whimper when he pulls back. Crowley leans forward with his forehead, coming to rest on Aziraphale’s, looking down into the depths of his eyes as his hands travel south. They travel down the sides of his neck and over his shoulders, under his arms are winding around his waist, pressing their bodies together as Crowley squeezes, just a little. 

“G’morning, angel,” Crowley says, keeping his voice low and deep, going for a sultry purr, but Aziraphale just grins up at him, hand moving from his neck to Crowley’s cheek. 

Aziraphale strokes the sharp slope of his cheekbone with the edge of his thumb, gasping when Crowley turns his head to press a kiss to his palm. “A very good morning to you, too,” he says, not pulling his gaze away, staring forward at Crowley without hesitation. “Were you very worried that I was not there when you woke up?” Aziraphale cocks his head to the side, a sly smile playing at the corner of his mouth. 

Crowley swallows, a flush creeping up his neck and burning across his cheeks—he thought he had recovered rather gracefully, shoved it down before Aziraphale got a glimpse of him, eased the tension from his limbs and replaced it with his usual loose-limbed slouch. “What makes you say that?” he asks, trying to keep it casual, raising an eyebrow in jest. 

“You, ah,” Aziraphale says, lowering his voice as his eyes drop, then drag back up Crowley’s form, “seemed to have forgotten to put on any clothes, darling.” 

Crowley realizes that Aziraphale is, in fact, correct. 

The only cloth he feels on his body is the press of Aziraphale’s shirt front against his chest, the buttons rubbing across his skin, the warmth of Aziraphale’s body underneath the starched cotton. He must have turned redder because Aziraphale dissolves into a fit of giggles that turn his cheeks as pink as his lips, his laughter as high as bells, ringing in his ears, Aziraphale’s breath hitting his throat and cheek in heavy gusts. 

Crowley snaps his fingers and Aziraphale’s shirt is gone, he imagines it folded nicely on his bed. It sends a wicked thrill through him when Aziraphale stops laughing now that they’re on equal footing: nude, pressed together, skin on skin. There was something satisfying about being able to do that, to silence Aziraphale with a snap of his fingers and make his eyes turn round and his mouth fall open, shocked that Crowley would even dare. He grins down at him, lips peeled back to reveal his teeth. 

“It seems we are both naked, angel.” 

Aziraphale closes his mouth, rolling his eyes. “Obviously.” 

Crowley cups his face between his hands and brushes another kiss across his lips because he can, because he is allowed . Aziraphale tries to resist, pouting while Crowley peppers kisses across his cheeks, his brow; his lips on Aziraphale’s eyelids bring about surrender, Aziraphale closing his eyes, but grabbing for Crowley, dragging him back down to his mouth as he deepens the kiss, lovely long swipes of his angelic tongue into his mouth. 

“It seems you’ve made yourself a little slice of Eden here, haven’t you?” Aziraphale breathes into his mouth, but not pulling back, pressing quick pecks to the corners of Crowley’s mouth and wet, open-mouthed kisses to his jaw. “All this greenery, all for yourself.” 

Crowley wants to say, remember, no clothes were allowed in Eden , wants to keep it light and flirty, wants to not think about what’s to come and what came before, but he is struck-still by the comment, feels it twist and turn inside him, the knowledge always there, but he’d never allowed it come to light. Aziraphale was right, but also Aziraphale was wrong. 

“It’s only Eden now that you’re here.” He holds Aziraphale’s face still, keeps him from darting forward to kiss more bits of exposed skin. “You were the brightest, most loveliest thing in the garden. There couldn’t be Eden without you.” 

Aziraphale’s blue eyes shine with a welling wetness that Crowley brushes away with his thumbs—it stings, burns like the soles of his feet in a church. Of course angel tears are holy. Crowley doesn’t mind, keeps wiping them away until Aziraphale takes a deep breath, swallowing hard. 

“We’ve wasted so much time,” he says, voice small and raw. 

Crowley presses his lips to Aziraphale’s forehead and holds there, hands cups around his jaw as Aziraphale’s hands move from the sides of his ribcage to his back, running his fingers over the raised scars there, stroking them with long, careful strokes. 

“We still have time,” Crowley says, gathering Aziraphale up in his arms, his cheek pressed to his feather-soft hair. 




 

 

They stay put and don’t leave the atrium.

Crowley miracles soft cushions and a quilt to lay Aziraphale down on. He should stop using his powers, Hell surely keeps track now and the demonic miracles he uses shine like a beacon, daring them to come find him, but he can’t bring himself to care, not now. The cushion feels like clouds, molding to their weight as he pushes Aziraphale to lay on his back—his Eden comes with marble floors instead of mossy grass, stone in place of earth, and his angel deserves better, deserves the best he can offer. 

They could go back to bed, but Crowley wants to look at Aziraphale in the sunlight, surrounded by greenery, wants to imagine time has rewound itself and he had taken a chance the first time. Aziraphale doesn’t flush, even when Crowley’s eyes rake down his form, just lets himself be stared at, admired. His skin is paler under the light, that illusion of glowing stronger in the patch of sun coming through the skylight, a beacon stretched out across the quilt, smiling up at Crowley. 

Crowley kneels between his spread legs, kneeling before Aziraphale—he doesn’t fold his hands together or bow, not the way his body aches to do so, even as he wants to lay down his body in supplication, offer himself up in devotion. 

But he’s a demon, so he does what he was made to do.  

Crowley conjures up an apple, perfect ruby red with glossy skin, and leans over Aziraphale, the plushness of his thighs cradling Crowley’s hips, Crowley balancing with one hand resting next to Aziraphale’s waist as he presses his offering against Aziraphale’s mouth. 

“Are you tempting me?” Aziraphale asks, his tongue darting out to lick the surface of the apple, grinning. 

Wicked little thing. 

Crowley sucks in a breath. “I thought I had already tempted you, angel, or else what had we done in my bed last night?” 

“Made love,” Aziraphale says, “something we should have done a long, long time ago.” 

Crowley almost tosses the apple aside to climb on top of Aziraphale, but Aziraphale turns his head and opens his mouth, teeth sinking into the flesh of the apple with a loud, satisfying crunch, the juice spraying and catching on Crowley’s lip. Aziraphale looks up at him while he chews, right cheek full of apple. Crowley drops the bitten into fruit onto the quilt and hears it roll away, but he can’t bring himself to care as he presses forward, stretching across Aziraphale’s rounded curves and kissing the taste of apple from his lips. 

Aziraphale pushes a piece of apple into Crowley’s mouth with his tongue, kissing him until Crowley swallows it down and Aziraphale’s mouth is clean, but his tongue is still sticky sweet, curling against the roof of Crowley’s mouth, until Crowley sucks down, his own tongue lengthening, wrapping around and under. 

“You do such amazing things with that tongue of yours,” Aziraphale says, voice coming out in breathy pants, his fingers brushing the limp strands of hair that have begun to stick to Crowley’s brow. Aziraphale pushes his hair back and combs his fingers through the sweat-damp strands, his neat fingernails scratching against Crowley’s scalp. “Are we going to make love again?” 

Crowley chokes on the laugh he tries to keep from coming out of his throat, biting down on his bottom lip to keep from telling him, fuck, Aziraphale, we’re going to fuck. He takes a deep breath, instead, exhaling out slow. “What do you think, angel?” 

Aziraphale bends his knees, pushing his legs up higher as he lets Crowley fall into the cradle of his cushy hips, lets Crowley feel the hardness of his cock rub against his stomach. Aziraphale’s mouth makes a pretty O when their hips rock together, the friction making his eyes flutter low, looking up at Crowley through his white lashes. “I should like to. At least once more.” 

Crowley has to bury his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, has to break the stare, smiling against his skin, then opening his mouth and pressing sucking kisses up the side of his throat until his mouth presses behind his ear. “I should have known you’d be insatiable. Hedonistic angel like you.” 

Aziraphale lifts his hips, jerking up into Crowley, letting Crowley’s cock grind into the curve of his hip. “I think you’d like to have another go,” he says, grinning when Crowley lifts his head to look into his eyes. 

Another go,” Crowley splutters, can’t contain his laughter now. “We’ve gone five times already.” 

“What’s the matter, my dear boy? Can’t keep up? I do hope I didn’t wear you out last night.” Aziraphale sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, trying to look innocent, but he was teasing him. 

Aziraphale was teasing him. 

Crowley lifts himself up on his hands, knees hitting the cushions, drawing his body away from Aziraphale. He whimpers at the loss of contact and tries to grapple with Crowley’s hips, hands grabbing him and trying to tug, but Crowley imagines Aziraphale with his arms pinned up around his head and then he blinks, looking down and sees his arms stretched and pinned by nothing. There’s a spark of fire in Aziraphale’s gaze from where he stares up at Crowley, his spine rolling, testing the limits of the invisible bonds. 

“That's not playing fair,” he says, his lips turning downward, but his cheeks are still pink with arousal, his cock wet at the tip. 

Crowley winks at him.

“What shall I do with you?” Crowley asks, moving back to kneel again. Aziraphale knows he could undo whatever has been done to him, snap his fingers and he would be free—they both know it, but Aziraphale lets Crowley keep him held down to the cushions,  looking up at him in a way that makes Crowley shudder with the weight of the faith Aziraphale has put in him, the trust that he would let Crowley do whatever with him. It’s a gift, too precious for his hands and Crowley wants to honor it proper. 

Crowley starts with his feet, scooting down to lift Aziraphale’s foot by his ankle to press his lips to his heel, then a kiss to his arch, moving around to kiss the top of his foot and then his ankle. Aziraphale goes quiet, silent except for his quick, shallow breaths the make his stomach rise and fall as Crowley turns to his other foot. He moves to his calf muscles, mapping out the thick curves with firm, wet kisses that end at Aziraphale’s knees. He holds his mouth against the tops of his knees for five heartbeats each, stroking his fingers against the backs, liking the way Aziraphale’s legs start to tremble. 

He takes his time with Aziraphale’s thighs, running his palms down Aziraphale’s flanks as he sucks and bites a line of marks down each side of his inner thighs, a row to go with the bruises he had left behind the night before. Aziraphale hisses above him when he licks up the line he made, moving past his cock to lick up his other thigh. Crowley lifts himself up on his hands and knees, rolling his spine away to keep from brushing Aziraphale and leaning down to kiss up the curve of his belly to his sternum. Aziraphale gasps, arching up, a moan finally working out of his throat when Crowley takes a nipple into his mouth, letting it his tongue roll around it, feeling it harden against his lips before nipping it with the edges of his teeth. 

“Crowley, please ,” Aziraphale begs, but doesn’t say stop, so Crowley moves to the other nipple, following the same pattern as Aziraphale trembles below him. 

Crowley releases his arms as he slithers back down his body, settling back between his thighs as Aziraphale hands reach for his face, as Aziraphale tries to draw him back up. Crowley holds onto his forearm as he presses his lips down against the heavy flutter of his pulse at his wrist, holding his lips there until he hears Aziraphale moan again, breathing out another please . He kisses his palm, each one of the tips of his fingers, then switching to his left hand to pay tribute there. 

After, he lets go of Aziraphale’s arms, Crowley feels his hands capture his face, palms cupped around his jaw, making Crowley look at him. Aziraphale pins him with a stare, eyes bright blue and intense. “You don’t have to,” Aziraphale says, his grip on Crowley’s jaw is firm, almost like iron. “I need you to know you don’t have to.”

Crowley shakes his head, lowering his lashes, then lifting his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s again. “I want to, angel, so please let me.” 

Aziraphale lets go just enough to let Crowley kneel down, his head bowing as Aziraphale’s hands stoke over his head, fingers tangling in his hair. Crowley whimpers, groaning around Aziraphale’s cock when he takes him all the way inside his mouth, Aziraphale’s hips jumping as Crowley’s hair is tugged, hard. 

“Oh, Crowley ,” Aziraphale says, his eyes fluttering closed and his head tipping back, baring his throat as his delicious whimpers turn into something more guttural, more debauched. His hands can’t seem to decide whether to pet Crowley’s hair or pull, so when Crowley sucks up the length of his cock, he feels the pressure pushing down on the back of his head, Aziraphale’s hands stroking over his hair. 

He tastes sweeter here, like this, his thighs opening and squeezing around Crowley’s head, as his fingers pull at his hair again when Crowley’s tongue winds around the head of his cock, teasing around the tip while his lips remain wrapped tight around his shaft. Crowley laps at the fluid leaking out, wanting to roll it around his tongue, commit it to memory, never forget what Aziraphale tastes like when he’s pushed so close to the edge because Crowley brought him there. 

“Crowley, please be careful, I’m—” Aziraphale cuts off with a sharp whine when Crowley pulls all the way off, his hand wrapping tight around the base of his cock.  Aziraphale looks at him, his white-blonde curls darkened with sweat, damp and curling over his brow. “Thank you.” 

They hadn’t spoke it aloud, but they had come to an agreement, trainspired somewhere been their heads or hearts or souls, an agreement on how this would end and Crowley couldn’t help but smile when Aziraphale seemed to be of the same mind. 

“Yes, I don’t want you to come until I’m inside you,” he says, enjoying the way the red on Aziraphale’s cheeks and chest brightens. “Is that what you want, too?” 

Crowley is caught off guard when Aziraphale grabs him by the arms and hauls him back up his body like he weighs nothing, legs now wrapped around his back, ankles locked as Aziraphale tilts his jaw to get at his mouth, kissing him as Aziraphale’s tongue licks inside, lapping at Crowley’s tongue and the roof of his mouth. “I wanted to taste myself from your mouth,” he says, drawing back and pressing their foreheads together. “And I want to feel you inside me again.” 

Crowley shudders, having trouble finding his voice, but he gives Aziraphale a nod and tries to slide his hand down between their bodies, but Aziraphale catches his wrist, stays his hand. 

“I am already ready, my darling,” he says, lifting his hips until Crowley feels his cock slide against him, between his cheeks and finding him slick, the center of him puffy and stretched— ready, Aziraphale said. “We never cleaned up from last night and honestly, you’re not the only one who can perform frivolous miracles.” Aziraphale grins, something smug about the way he bares his teeth. 

Angel, ” Crowley moans, trying to catch up, but he feels Aziraphale’s fingers stroking along the length of his cock, working his hand between them until Crowley feels slick heat around the tip of his cock. Then his hips snap forward and he’s buried all the way inside. Aziraphale gathers him closer to his body, arms wrapped tight as he sighs and whimpers against Crowley’s cheek, his hands moving down the back of his neck to his shoulder blades, his fingers digging into the scars there. 

Crowley doesn’t move, stays thrust in deep, feeling the suction and the pull, like Aziraphale could take him deeper, take him all the way inside so that Crowley could find a place to make a home under his skin, right down against his essence. It’s not the first time they’ve been like this—they switched throughout the night, taking turns, each wanting to crawl inside the other—but Crowley is not sure he’ll never not be bowled over by the sensation, overwhelmed that Aziraphale would even let him, that he wanted him to. The corners of his eyes burn and he has to hide his face away, let Aziraphale tuck his face against his throat, right up against Aziraphale’s pulse. 

He’s not sure who starts moving first—him or Aziraphale, but he starts rocking into him without thinking about it, his hands finding a nice hold on Aziraphale’s hips, the heels of his feet pressed against Crowley’s lower spine, Aziraphale’s fingers unable to drift from the scars—rubbing, stroking, scratching, petting, the maddening feeling of being touched where God had cut him out of Heaven by the best of Her angels as he fucks into him and Aziraphale letting him, over and  over, legs locked around his waist to keep him there. 

Crowley sobs out against his throat, feeling the tears leak out from his closed eyes and wet Aziraphale’s neck. He can feel the salt in his mouth, running down his raw throat, but he can’t stop, letting them shake through him as his hips stutter, working into the sensation of being pulled inside out and left exposed. Then his world spins around as he lands on his back against the cushions, Aziraphale settling heavy on his hips as his hands fall, pinned, around his head. 

“Look at me,” Azraphale says, his breath close to Crowley’s mouth and his eyes are above him when he opens his eyes. The sight of him with the sun flowing down around him burns, but Crowley can’t stop looking, gasping out when he realizes Aziraphale is working himself on his cock, fucking himself up and down, while his hands are pressed over Crowley’s wrists, holding him in place. “Look at me, Crowley.” 

Crowley looks, then he sees

Aziraphale’s wings are out, full wingspan spread out around them, blanketing them in white. The sun setting off the sheen of his feathers and turning Aziraphale bright, bathed in warm white glow surrounding him, the blue of his eyes incandescent, too holy to be real, too sacred to be his. 

But he’s inside Aziraphale and Aziraphale is riding his cock as he keeps Crowley’s gaze on his, repeating his name, over and over again. 

Crowley, please. Crowley, look at me. That’s it, Crowley. We’re almost there. 

Crowley, Crowley, Crowley— 

His vision whites out as he feels Aziraphale squeeze tight around him, feels the wet sticky heat of his release spilling out across his stomach and his chest, feels the way Aziraphale grows slicker, fuller, then finally, the weight of Aziraphale, collapsing against him. 





 

Crowley comes to with Aziraphale still on top of him, eyes blinking open to the tender press of Aziraphale’s lips, christening kisses down and across his face. Aziraphale’s fingers are combing through his hair, smoothing the strands back as he maps Crowley’s hairline with kisses. He intersperses his kisses with sweet everythings, words of love, dearests and darlings, and most ardently; the words burn, like his tears had, but in a way that won’t leave a mark.

Crowley wishes he could be marked up with love.  

He stirs, enough to make Aziraphale aware of him, but doesn’t try to move—there’s a twinge between his legs that builds, until he comes to the realization that he is still within Aziraphale. His cock remains held in, despite the effort now soft, flaccid; Aziraphale flexes around him, their releases drying as they stick to each other, fusing their skin. 

Aziraphale hasn’t put away his wings, the impressive span lowered now, drifting down their bodies like a blanket, the downy soft feathers brushing the places on his body that Aziraphale isn't draped over, where Aziraphale doesn’t cover him completely. The wings are warm, radiating heat from the sun, from deep within Aziraphale. Crowley can’t stop himself before he reaches up and lets his fingers touch, exploring the arch of the bone, the density of Aziraphale’s feathers, layers that he runs his fingers through. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, letting out a gentle cry against the underside of Crowley’s jaw. “That feels quite lovely, but a bit much if we ever intend to leave this room, my love.” 

Crowley doesn’t see where the problem in that idea lies; he would love to see envoys from Heaven and Hell to come get them and find them entwined like this, but he supposes that Aziraphale’s way is more sensible—though he is not sure how Aziraphale manages to think at all. 

He allows himself to look beyond Aziraphale and into the canopy of greenery above their heads, then gasps at the wild dashes of color that have begun to bloom where blooms should definitely not be. Blues, and pinks, riotous purples, bold reds and firey oranges, and sunshine yellows dot along his plants, flowering impossibly. Some plants droop heavily, bearing the weight of fruits. It’s madness, absolutely absurd, but he’s awestruck at the beauty of it, the resplendent bounty that reminds him of a garden long forgotten. 

“What have you done to my plants?” he asks the angel seated atop his hips, the angel who cannot seem to stop kissing him, the guardian of the Eastern gate of Eden. 

Aziraphale glances up, then draws his gaze back to Crowley, his cheeks pinker than the small flowers that have begun to sprout inconceivably on the branches of his bonsai tree, despite Crowley knowing full well that the species he had obtained is not a flowering kind. 

“Well, if we’re going to point fingers, it was you who decided to lay me down and practically ravish me, and honestly, can you blame me for getting a mite bit carried away, given the circumstances and the duress I was under, and—” 

Crowley yanks him back down and silences him with a firm, unyielding kiss, swallowing the rest of his unnecessary words until Aziraphale presses forward, his hands coming to cradle around Crowley’s face, kissing him until their lips are plump and swollen and sore. 

“I don’t mind,” Crowley says later, Aziraphale slipping to his side, his softness filling into the cracks of his sharp edges. “I could do with a bit of change.” 

Aziraphale makes an endearing sound of triumph, pressing his kiss-slick lips to Crowley’s temple, breathing out, “splendid, absolutely splendid, my dearest boy.”