(no subject)
I'm just in a ficcy mood today, I guess.
Written because
southern_pansy is made of awesome and win, and I love her bunches.
Crowley, like any good snake, likes warmth. He likes sun-drenched beaches with white sand and clear water. He likes the heat of an open fire as it soaks into his skin. He's from a warm climate, after all; he's used to it. Warmth relaxes him, leaves him feeling loose and content, almost drunk with pleasure. It's such a simple thing, but it has a startling effect on him. Cold weather makes him cranky, leaves him feeling at-odds with everything around him, until he's able to find somewhere to warm up.
While Camp Fuck You Die is still entrenched in summer's warmth, Crowley isn't particularly worried. The climate in his flat was always just how he likes it -- mild, but not oppressive. But once pet and Aziraphale started spending time there, concerns had been raised about the climate. Grudgingly, Crowley adjusted the temperature until it was significantly cooler.
But with that change came another one.
In his bed, a wide, sprawling affair, always covered with smooth, soft linens, one demonic and one angelic body lay beneath the dark blue duvet. Their limbs are tangled, their hair bed-tousled. Crowley's arms are twined possessively around the angel, and the angel's arms hold Crowley with something that is more like reverence than possession. Aziraphale's skin is smooth and warm, smelling faintly of books and something else, something woodsy and clean, and the scent surrounds Crowley, warms him until he is as relaxed as on any tropical beach. The bed is cozy with the combined heat of them, and the result is such that Crowley, at least, could be tempted to lose himself under the duvet and sleep for a week.
For the first time in a long time, Crowley isn't bothered by the inevitable change of seasons. Let winter come: he's ready.
Written because
southern_pansy is made of awesome and win, and I love her bunches.
Crowley, like any good snake, likes warmth. He likes sun-drenched beaches with white sand and clear water. He likes the heat of an open fire as it soaks into his skin. He's from a warm climate, after all; he's used to it. Warmth relaxes him, leaves him feeling loose and content, almost drunk with pleasure. It's such a simple thing, but it has a startling effect on him. Cold weather makes him cranky, leaves him feeling at-odds with everything around him, until he's able to find somewhere to warm up.
While Camp Fuck You Die is still entrenched in summer's warmth, Crowley isn't particularly worried. The climate in his flat was always just how he likes it -- mild, but not oppressive. But once pet and Aziraphale started spending time there, concerns had been raised about the climate. Grudgingly, Crowley adjusted the temperature until it was significantly cooler.
But with that change came another one.
In his bed, a wide, sprawling affair, always covered with smooth, soft linens, one demonic and one angelic body lay beneath the dark blue duvet. Their limbs are tangled, their hair bed-tousled. Crowley's arms are twined possessively around the angel, and the angel's arms hold Crowley with something that is more like reverence than possession. Aziraphale's skin is smooth and warm, smelling faintly of books and something else, something woodsy and clean, and the scent surrounds Crowley, warms him until he is as relaxed as on any tropical beach. The bed is cozy with the combined heat of them, and the result is such that Crowley, at least, could be tempted to lose himself under the duvet and sleep for a week.
For the first time in a long time, Crowley isn't bothered by the inevitable change of seasons. Let winter come: he's ready.