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History Books Forgot (Art)

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“What do you want?” Crowley asks, his hand warm at the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “Anything. Say the word and it’s yours.” “I’m supposed to be asking you the very same,” Aziraphale reminds him. “I am trying to thank you, after all.” “Whatever you like,” Crowley breathes, well-practiced in asking for what he wants in his own roundabout, Crowley-specific way that’s less a request and more a vague suggestion he can pass off as Aziraphale’s own idea. The way he hooks one leg over Aziraphale’s hip, letting Aziraphale’s weight settle bluntly between his parted thighs, is so brazen an invitation that Aziraphale couldn’t possibly misconstrue it. “In that case,” Aziraphale says, stroking along Crowley’s thigh and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’d have you right here, darling, if you’re amenable. I’d very much like to be inside you, and I’d rather not wait.” “Definitely amenable,” Crowley agrees, his pupils big and dark and his breathing undeniably ragged as Aziraphale deftly unfastens the layered front of his own clothing and gathers Crowley’s dark robes higher still up his bare thighs. “Very amenable, me.”

 

 

With a murmur of a thought Aziraphale’s fingers are slick. It doesn’t take much to get Crowley ready for him, and then he’s finally sinking inside him until he has nothing left to give.

“I want,” Aziraphale says  and oh, he does, an all-encompassing pulse of desire as he draws back gradually then presses forth in a slow, inexorable slide home  “to take our time.”

He’s so focused on Crowley, the universe narrowed to every warm place their bodies align as they move together, that he doesn’t notice the gathering clouds. The flash of lightning and rumble of thunder finally catches their attention, just as the first few drops of rain begin to slip through the canopy of leaves above them.

“Did you know?” Aziraphale asks him, wide-eyed with wonder. “You took us back to our very first meeting. We’re up there right now, aren’t we?”

“I’d hoped,” Crowley says, justly pleased. There’s a gorgeous flush of arousal creeping down his throat Aziraphale wants to follow with his tongue. Wants to feel the searing heat of it against his mouth. “Wasn’t sure I’d got my timings right.”

“Gosh, you’re ever so clever,” Aziraphale assures him breathlessly. “Quite remarkable.”

Gripping at Crowley’s thigh where it’s hitched up around his hip, he pushes up inside him with an accuracy that makes Crowley’s eyelashes flutter, his head falling back with a hiss of a breath through his teeth.

 

 

Aziraphale shields him not with a wing this time but with his body, bearing him up against the tree with not a speck of space between them. They’re both quickly soaked through regardless, clothes clinging and the rain relentless, but Crowley doesn’t appear to mind. Aziraphale presses his mouth to Crowley’s neck; licks water from his skin and breathes in the scent of him along with pollen and petrichor.

His heart aches sometimes to imagine what could have been had Crowley not fallen. If they’d been angels both, all this time, no sides. There’s every chance though that they’d never have arrived at where they are now; never dared under heaven’s watch. Perhaps they wouldn't fit half so well, complement one another as perfectly as they do. Better not to dwell on it.

Aziraphale sees to him at a meticulous pace until Crowley is shivery and flushed and looks quite as desperate as Aziraphale feels. It takes little effort at all to bring him shuddering over the edge, and Aziraphale quickly follows; draws Crowley’s other leg up, both wrapped tightly around his waist as he drives into him a final time, Crowley breathing encouragement against his ear which has no right being as tender and as wonderfully, knee-tremblingly good as it is.

Afterwards, in no hurry to untangle themselves from one another, Aziraphale simply looks at him; feels content in himself and content in Crowley’s own satisfaction and so happy it’s as if he could burst. Perhaps this body wasn’t made for so much joy, he thinks. There’s just so much of it to contain and they are, in the grand scheme of things, ever so small.

“I'd like to stay right here for a while,” Aziraphale says, brushing his lips against Crowley’s and remaining there unmoving, breathing against one another. The rain is easing off, he realises distantly. Soon to stop altogether.

“Inside me? Not very practical,” Crowley murmurs, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s rain-soaked curls.

“Here in the garden, I meant, as you very well know,” Aziraphale says, amused. “Though inside you is rather a lovely place to be, I must admit.”

“Sun’s coming out,” Crowley points out, casting his eyes momentarily heavenwards.

“Ah. Well then,” Aziraphale says. “What do you say we go out and enjoy it? Just you and I.”

*

There’s a lovely, sun-soaked patch of grass not far from their tree which Aziraphale dries off with a quick miracle. Crowley cleans them both up, drying them off with a mere snap of his fingers, and promptly finds the most comfortable spot to lie down on his back, closing his eyes and basking in the warmth with serpentine gladness.

Aziraphale kneels beside him and adds little plaits to Crowley’s fanned hair, plucking daisies from the grass to adorn each braid. They’re probably a bit clumsy for lack of practice, but he doubts Crowley will mind.