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Summary
The angel stood before him, shoulders squared, hands clasped loosely before him as though he could will himself into stillness, but his fingers twitched, and his breath came a little faster, and Crowley could see, could feel the anticipation in him.
He was beautiful like this—always was—but here, now, with that quiet, unshaken certainty in his voice, with the gentle curve of his stomach rising and falling with each measured breath, the slight, soft roundness of his chest beneath his open shirt, the faint shadow of hair below his navel leading down to where his body, his real body, waited beneath his linen trousers—Crowley wanted to touch him, wanted to worship every inch of him, wanted to feel him like this, inside him, with the same unhurried reverence he had spent years devoting to every part of Aziraphale.