𝕮𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖑𝖊𝖞

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale as he looks down at him. Neither of them have picked the most stunning forms, he thinks. Men, average men, in their late forties, with physical flaws and interesting characteristics that neither have felt the need to get rid of. Oh, Crowley has played a bit with his gender and his hair here and there, but they've stayed the same more or less for the last six thousand years. And over this time, Crowley can't help but have decided that Aziraphale is totally and completely stunning. The hair, the eyes, his skin. He's what Crowley thinks about when he thinks of the word angelic.

He kisses Aziraphale back slowly, deeply. To him, there's no rush. He just wants to touch Aziraphale everywhere, which he's going to do first by slowly memorizing the skin of his bare back, then sliding it down to touch the clothed skin of his backside. That, he'll admit, is also partially to see what Aziraphale will do once his hand is there.