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Over the steady course of 6000 years (give or take), Crowley had developed something of a fantasy regarding exactly how he would like to touch, and be touched, by a certain angel.
It had started chaste enough – their pinkie fingers might brush as they walked closely side by side. Perhaps, one day, Aziraphale might tuck a stray strand of crimson hair behind Crowley’s ear, and linger at his jawline for a fraction longer than actually necessary. They’d hold hands in St James Park, lips might meet, softly, oh-so softly, and a tingle would emerge at the bottom of his spine and warm his body with the distinct presence of love.
However, Crowley was a starved beast, and a demon, and filled with the sins of Man. Most notably, greed and lust. The fantasies twisted rapidly into something more, and so he craved more.
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