Good Omens Crowley and Aziraphale shorts--Ineffable Husbands PWPs and fluff

The kiss sinks deep and should suffice for love

Notes

This is angst, and with only an implied post-canon happy ending, although they do love each other. Mature content, but no actual sex. 

1348

Take your mouth in my mouth

The first time they kiss, it's in the middle of the fourteenth bloody century, and Aziraphale is the one who kisses Crowley.

They've been drinking in some squalid little place that somehow still manages to have drinkable ale and delicious seafood soup in bread trenchers, because Aziraphale always knows. They are slightly sozzled, but not past sense, and have just agreed to go back to Crowley's lodgings to correct this oversight, when they see a grey-cloaked figure passing down the street. She turns, curtseys to them with skirts of veil around her wasted legs, and passes into the first house of the street.

"I've seen her far too often," Aziraphale says, biting his lip. "Following in Famine's footsteps. War never leaves. Some of the humans are saying it's the End Times."

"It's too early," Crowley says sharply. "I haven't heard anything from our lot. Yours?"

"No. But would they tell me?" Aziraphale stares up at the stars, as if he can read the answer there.

"They're not--they're not necessarily assembling. Just, you know, in the same time and place. Hanging out. You know our jobs get lonely. Nice to see someone who can understand." Crowley touches Aziraphale's cheek, to reassure Aziraphale or himself, he's not sure which one, and suddenly Aziraphale is kissing him.

Kissing him abruptly, against the wall of the tavern, in a stinking alleyway, all seeking lips and eager hands pulling his shoulders close even while a thick warm body is pushing him backwards, as if Aziraphale doesn't know which direction to steer him. Crowley, boneless, tries to be and do all things at once, whatever the angel needs of him, snaking his arms around Aziraphale's neck and crowding forwards even as he's pulling him back. It's clumsy and desperate and their lips crush and teeth clash, Crowley's sensitive nostrils are full of beer and stinking water and rotting food and sweet, sweet angel, and it's like nothing Crowley has ever imagined.

It's not like he hasn't thought about it. A lot. In his imagination, it was always himself doing the kissing. Seducing and tempting. Slick--or maybe romantic. Since the twelfth century he's had guiltily ludicrous daydreams of Aziraphale locked in a prison tower, deprived of his powers for vague reasons, and himself singing outside like Blondel, until he hears Aziraphale's voice. Crowley's imagination blurs over the fact that he tends to hiss more than sing with seraphic beauty since he left Heaven, and skips right to a grateful angel lifting his lips to his in promise.

Before that, accidentally coming on each other bathing in hot springs was a popular theme in his imagination, as if he was a nymph rather than an overall man-shaped demon, certain details aside. He would rise out of the water, droplets streaming off his skin, and Aziraphale's mouth would open as round as those river-stream eyes. Crowley would sway seductively close, as if the snake was the charmer for once. As if he was an incubus of otherworldly beauty and not a minor spreader of temptation and inconveniences in a bony, lanky form. As if Aziraphale was a heroic hunter or young demigod and not a fussy angel in a plump, middle-aged corporation. Daydreams work like that.

Even in his daydreams, kissing Aziraphale was something to be carefully worked up to, with immaculate plotting. Don't scare the angel away with your crude demonic desires. He never dared fantasise it would be without plans, without warning, and with the angel crushing his mouth to his, as if Aziraphale's own uncontrolled desires had somehow spilled over without warning.