𝕮𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖑𝖊𝖞

Crowley doesn't let Aziraphale fumble long. While seeing the angel flushed and red is nothing short of completely adorable, it's never Crowley's intention to truly embarrass him. He won't leave him floundering. He slides his hand down to take Aziraphale's, to direct his touch up, still above the fabric, to where his hardness is pressed. He should really have the angel remove his especially tight trousers (not quite as tight as the ones he wore in the early 1990's that required him to ensure he never had any genitals on, because the pressure made them far too uncomfortable), but he doesn't want to move too fast. One step at a time. A touch, and he moves his hand to stroke through the fabric.

Crowley could've easily written poetry about Aziraphale. He liked poetry well enough, found some joy in it, but never got past his own ego to put pen to paper. But it had always been there, the desire to write a little about how he was feeling, about the things he wanted. He lived through all of human history, all of the different eras of human poets. He could've written anything. Would that have wooed the angel sooner?

They would never know. But they have this.