Happy Holidays, waterofthemoon!
Dec. 8th, 2019 05:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: ataraxia
Rating: G
Summary: On a cold winter night that leaves travel nearly impossible, Aziraphale and Crowley bask in the warmth of the bookshop, some fine bottles of red, and each other.
The snow had picked up some time overnight, rushing from a light flurry to bitter shards of icy dust that covered London in thick blankets of white. It brought the city to a sort of standstill, putting a tamper on its crowded streets and stifling its bustling atmosphere. As the snow continued its gentle onslaught, piling up in fierce drifts, there was not a single person in sight.
There was, however, a certain bookshop on a corner street in London Soho that did not embrace this halting of life, and in it held two man-shaped beings who carried on with their usual drunken charades, nearing their sixth bottle of red, blissfully oblivious to everything save the other.
————————-
There was something so magical about the wintertime, Aziraphale found, when the skies washed with the dullest shades of grey and the wind armed itself with such bluster and ice, heightening the chill of autumn with a frightening fervour. It gave way to such precious moments, and the urge to cherish the warmth was nearly irresistible. He’d often find himself tempted to curl up beneath a thick duvet, fingers wrapped snugly around a cup of steaming cocoa, first edition Hobbes in hand, with an old record filling the atmosphere of his barricaded bookshop.
It was only fitting, after all, when the weather was so terribly cold and his shop was so delightfully empty, void of any pestering humans looking to purchase. Bar this, it could only be said that the joy this season brought Aziraphale was quite unmatched.
It was truly a shame that the same could not be said for Crowley. The problem was really that demons, by and large, were cold creatures. Hell was full of fire and smoke and damn good coffee. Add to this Crowley's serpentine alter ego, and you had one naturally cold demon.
So of course he hated the winter. It was only natural. However, it was also only natural for the angel, in true holy fashion, to adore the blasted season – its beauty and whiteness making him glow even more than usual.
This night had been no different than others, if one were to dismiss the weather. Dinner had been at a little Indian place down Oxford, and had again consisted of Crowley picking at whatever occupied his plate (a soupy dish of lentils, this time around) until eventually sliding it over to Aziraphale (who had eaten it with no small amount of glee). This had then led into one of their usual strolls, done hand in hand through a snow-caked St. James, accompanied by steaming cups of local flat whites and the warm weight of their palms. It was so familiar, the path they took and the meal they ate and the things they said, but by no means was it stale.
By the time they’d reached the bookshop the night was nearing an end, for the streets were getting sparser and the lights, dimmer. They paid it no mind, though, Aziraphale and Crowley, because an old bottle of Cabernet was the first thing they’d broken out upon crossing the threshold. It was needless to say that one bottle had led to another and, as the night carried on and the weather outside worsened by the minute, their sobriety withered with it.
————————-
“You’re warm,” Crowley muttered, his breath still hot and wine-wet in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. He had always been a bit of a lightweight, Crowley, and it was most evident by this particular state: halfway between pleasantly buzzed and absolutely pissed. When he spoke, the words left him in one fell swoop, running into each other and coming out a lazy slur. His breath, too, was still coloured by traces of alcohol and Ultradex, radiating a rather off-putting odour. “Damn warm.”
This much was true, as it ought to be. Aziraphale was warm, and Crowley was warmed by him. One of the angel’s arms had wrapped around Crowley’s bony shoulder in a nearly vice-like grip, his plump hand resting against the nape of the demon’s neck, fingers moving gently through his dark hair. Crowley, likewise, had a hand pressed against the softer side of Aziraphale’s chest, palm above the slow beat of his corporation’s heart. From beneath his own hooded ones, he watched pale eyelids flutter after every pulse. They made quite a sweet scene, crammed as they were on the little settee in the bookshop’s backroom. Odd, yes, but sweet all the same.
“Ah,” Aziraphale said, lips twitching into a smile. He did a little shift on his back, shoulders rolling. Crowley’s lithe figure moved with him, for the proximity between them was nearly nonexistent. “Is that a bad thing, do you think?”
There was a brief pause before the low reply came, muffled by the soft woolen collar of Aziraphale’s jumper. “You know how it is.”
“Oh? Pray tell.”
Crowley must’ve caught sight of the smile that had crept up the angel’s face because he shifted, and now spoke with the slightest bit of irritation. “It’s human biology, angel, c’mon.”
Aziraphale huffed in that wonderful, bastardly way of his. “There’s really no need for that tone, dear.”
“Ssshut up.”
Just as the angel was about to voice his usual admonish, he was cut off by the demon leaning forward and pressing cold, chapped lips to his. At first Aziraphale found himself starting - caught slightly off guard by the chilly intrusion - but soon felt the rest of him relax, melting into the gesture.
Kissing Crowley had always sort of felt like kissing glass; not cold enough for ice, but not soft or warm like a pair of lips ought to be. It was needless to say that Aziraphale hardly cared for it, and when the angel let a serpentine tongue slip into his mouth he was reminded, beyond the traces of grape wine from earlier, just what satiation tasted like. Then Crowley was kissing him like he was a drowning sailor and Aziraphale was his last breath of air, and any semblance of thought flew out the shop window.
They stayed like that for quite a while, leisurely moving lips against lips. There was no hurry as they relished the feeling of each other’s warmth - no blasted feelings of the haste they’d once felt - for all the time in the world belonged to them.
Rating: G
Summary: On a cold winter night that leaves travel nearly impossible, Aziraphale and Crowley bask in the warmth of the bookshop, some fine bottles of red, and each other.
The snow had picked up some time overnight, rushing from a light flurry to bitter shards of icy dust that covered London in thick blankets of white. It brought the city to a sort of standstill, putting a tamper on its crowded streets and stifling its bustling atmosphere. As the snow continued its gentle onslaught, piling up in fierce drifts, there was not a single person in sight.
There was, however, a certain bookshop on a corner street in London Soho that did not embrace this halting of life, and in it held two man-shaped beings who carried on with their usual drunken charades, nearing their sixth bottle of red, blissfully oblivious to everything save the other.
————————-
There was something so magical about the wintertime, Aziraphale found, when the skies washed with the dullest shades of grey and the wind armed itself with such bluster and ice, heightening the chill of autumn with a frightening fervour. It gave way to such precious moments, and the urge to cherish the warmth was nearly irresistible. He’d often find himself tempted to curl up beneath a thick duvet, fingers wrapped snugly around a cup of steaming cocoa, first edition Hobbes in hand, with an old record filling the atmosphere of his barricaded bookshop.
It was only fitting, after all, when the weather was so terribly cold and his shop was so delightfully empty, void of any pestering humans looking to purchase. Bar this, it could only be said that the joy this season brought Aziraphale was quite unmatched.
It was truly a shame that the same could not be said for Crowley. The problem was really that demons, by and large, were cold creatures. Hell was full of fire and smoke and damn good coffee. Add to this Crowley's serpentine alter ego, and you had one naturally cold demon.
So of course he hated the winter. It was only natural. However, it was also only natural for the angel, in true holy fashion, to adore the blasted season – its beauty and whiteness making him glow even more than usual.
This night had been no different than others, if one were to dismiss the weather. Dinner had been at a little Indian place down Oxford, and had again consisted of Crowley picking at whatever occupied his plate (a soupy dish of lentils, this time around) until eventually sliding it over to Aziraphale (who had eaten it with no small amount of glee). This had then led into one of their usual strolls, done hand in hand through a snow-caked St. James, accompanied by steaming cups of local flat whites and the warm weight of their palms. It was so familiar, the path they took and the meal they ate and the things they said, but by no means was it stale.
By the time they’d reached the bookshop the night was nearing an end, for the streets were getting sparser and the lights, dimmer. They paid it no mind, though, Aziraphale and Crowley, because an old bottle of Cabernet was the first thing they’d broken out upon crossing the threshold. It was needless to say that one bottle had led to another and, as the night carried on and the weather outside worsened by the minute, their sobriety withered with it.
————————-
“You’re warm,” Crowley muttered, his breath still hot and wine-wet in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. He had always been a bit of a lightweight, Crowley, and it was most evident by this particular state: halfway between pleasantly buzzed and absolutely pissed. When he spoke, the words left him in one fell swoop, running into each other and coming out a lazy slur. His breath, too, was still coloured by traces of alcohol and Ultradex, radiating a rather off-putting odour. “Damn warm.”
This much was true, as it ought to be. Aziraphale was warm, and Crowley was warmed by him. One of the angel’s arms had wrapped around Crowley’s bony shoulder in a nearly vice-like grip, his plump hand resting against the nape of the demon’s neck, fingers moving gently through his dark hair. Crowley, likewise, had a hand pressed against the softer side of Aziraphale’s chest, palm above the slow beat of his corporation’s heart. From beneath his own hooded ones, he watched pale eyelids flutter after every pulse. They made quite a sweet scene, crammed as they were on the little settee in the bookshop’s backroom. Odd, yes, but sweet all the same.
“Ah,” Aziraphale said, lips twitching into a smile. He did a little shift on his back, shoulders rolling. Crowley’s lithe figure moved with him, for the proximity between them was nearly nonexistent. “Is that a bad thing, do you think?”
There was a brief pause before the low reply came, muffled by the soft woolen collar of Aziraphale’s jumper. “You know how it is.”
“Oh? Pray tell.”
Crowley must’ve caught sight of the smile that had crept up the angel’s face because he shifted, and now spoke with the slightest bit of irritation. “It’s human biology, angel, c’mon.”
Aziraphale huffed in that wonderful, bastardly way of his. “There’s really no need for that tone, dear.”
“Ssshut up.”
Just as the angel was about to voice his usual admonish, he was cut off by the demon leaning forward and pressing cold, chapped lips to his. At first Aziraphale found himself starting - caught slightly off guard by the chilly intrusion - but soon felt the rest of him relax, melting into the gesture.
Kissing Crowley had always sort of felt like kissing glass; not cold enough for ice, but not soft or warm like a pair of lips ought to be. It was needless to say that Aziraphale hardly cared for it, and when the angel let a serpentine tongue slip into his mouth he was reminded, beyond the traces of grape wine from earlier, just what satiation tasted like. Then Crowley was kissing him like he was a drowning sailor and Aziraphale was his last breath of air, and any semblance of thought flew out the shop window.
They stayed like that for quite a while, leisurely moving lips against lips. There was no hurry as they relished the feeling of each other’s warmth - no blasted feelings of the haste they’d once felt - for all the time in the world belonged to them.
(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-08 07:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-09 02:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-08 10:28 pm (UTC)"Hell was full of fire and smoke and damn good coffee." Okay, this absolutely made me laugh XD
"but by no means was it stale." :)
This is so sweet and comforting!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-09 03:01 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-08 10:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-09 03:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-09 03:14 am (UTC)Thank you so much for writing this for me! ♥♥♥
(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-16 06:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-09 03:47 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-16 06:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-14 08:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-16 06:59 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-24 01:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-30 07:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-24 02:23 pm (UTC)Reading this was my morning moment of sanity before jumping into the holiday crazy. Thank you for sharing and for participating!
~threequarters
(no subject)
Date: 2019-12-30 08:03 pm (UTC)