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The Flame Grows Higher

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Despite of all Aziraphale’s indulgent, sensualist tendencies, he does possess a modicum of self-restraint.

They go years without this. Decades. Distance helps, distance is safe - Aziraphale resists for so long that he can almost say with certainty that he doesn’t feel the tug of Crowley any longer.


This is the longest he’s abstained since they began this thing - whatever it is that they’re doing - and it’s fine. It’s absolutely fine; Aziraphale has finally worked this nonsense out of his system and now can put this all behind him.

Of course, this is when he meets Crowley again.

From the moment he senses that familiar demonic presence, his blood begins to burn.

He tries to ignore it, really he does; but it moves like a tangible presence inside of him and he is physically incapable of staying away any longer. When he hears Crowley’s voice from across the room (a voice that he spends years conjuring up in his mind) something slots into place. Aziraphale’s body acts for him and he’s helplessly drawn in yet again.

Crowley’s gravity is too strong for Aziraphale to withstand.

He really is a travesty of an angel.

He’s had quite enough of this night, enough of Crowley’s damned mouth and it must show in his expression because the demon abruptly halts his infernal stream of words and-


It’s inevitable really.

He doesn’t exactly remember how they got here but it doesn’t matter at all; the only thing that’s important to Aziraphale right at this moment is the way Crowley is moaning for him. Each time he can’t quite believe this is real; that Crowley is letting him do this, letting him in, letting him take.

Aziraphale’s hands shake for want of him.

(he desperately hopes Crowley doesn’t notice)

Whenever they do this (it could be counted on one hand really, the amount of times they’ve given in) it’s almost as though he’s fighting himself. Has to remind himself to bite his tongue, hands rough with need rather than allow the unbearable tenderness to bleed through his fingertips.

He can’t have Crowley knowing how this affects him, how it nearly destroys him each and every time.

(he doesn’t want Crowley to know, can’t let him see how Aziraphale covets this, he’s so lovely and it’s terrible)

What his excuse would be if they were caught he doesn’t know, but-

Here he is anyway, staring at Crowley beneath him, and he rages with lust.

They don’t talk about this.

Ever, not once - it probably doesn’t even merit a conversation, the handful of times this has happened between them not even a blip on Crowley’s demonic existence.

(Aziraphale stubbornly ignores the hot feeling inside him that whispers, jealous, you’re jealous)

Crowley is spread out before him and Aziraphale has to push into him - slowly, so slowly, grasping blindly for control.

The crushing heat around his fingers consumes him, and in a fanciful moment he imagines that he can press his fingerprints inside of Crowley’s body; keep himself with the demon in some small way-

Crowley shudders on him and Aziraphale lets out a long, steady exhale.

He doesn’t try to justify it to himself anymore, just another human indulgence that he is hedonistic enough to temporarily take pleasure in.

(nothing about what he feels for Crowley is temporary, but if he doesn’t say it out loud it’s not real, if he doesn’t say it out loud it doesn’t matter)

He takes a moment, gathers himself; breathes out very slowly while trying not to notice the way Crowley is undulating his hips.

A very un-angelic desire to ruin this demon quakes up from somewhere behind his sternum, he feels it throbbing in his wrists. Something so sinful shouldn’t be so sweet, but as Aziraphale presses another finger inside, Crowley’s desperate sound is better than any divine choir he’s ever heard.

(oh he loves this, loves it; feels so blasphemously close to worship that he’s nearly sick with it)

Aziraphale very much feels as though he’s the one being taken apart, eyes frozen to where Crowley squirms on his fingers. He shoves himself back to try and take him deeper, an irritated whine shuddering from his chest when the angel stubbornly resists.

He’s greedy for it, craving Crowley’s body, can’t take his eyes from how his fingers slide in effortlessly.

A cut off shredded sound breaks its way from Crowley’s throat and Aziraphale feels his cock jump with it. He could stay right here for hours watching him writhe.

He doesn’t know if he’s ever felt so out of control, so worked up and wild with it (perhaps he’s waited too long this time, perhaps he’s exceeded his limit). Aziraphale drops his forehead to the back of Crowley’s neck in an effort to calm the hell down, taking a deep breath in through his nose.

Crowley arms are trembling where they're gripping the bed frame.

He wants to look at him, see his face, see if he feels the same; like his soul might jump out of this mortal body and into Crowley’s physical form. He can’t seem to get close enough, it’s so violent the way he wants Crowley.

(don’t say it, don’t say it, runs through his head like a benediction and Aziraphale clings to it-)

He can’t stop watching. He feels it sharply in his own body when Crowley seizes a breath in as Aziraphale’s knuckles move out of him - quite suddenly, nothing is more important than getting inside, getting Crowley stretched out on his cock.

A dark noise reverberates the still air in the room.

It takes Aziraphale a moment to realize it came from him. The heady rush of power this brings makes him feel almost lightheaded.

“Are you ready for me?” He murmurs, attention caught by the heaving of Crowley’s chest. He can’t keep his hands off the demon, stroking down his spine; Aziraphale feels oddly off balance without some part of him inside.

Like a man possessed, he runs his thumb over Crowley’s hole; barely there pressure, secretly thrilling at how used he already looks.

The noise Crowley lets out shocks him, blood rushing down so quickly that he‘s dizzy.

He can’t take much more of this.

“Please, angel.”

(as if he could refuse, as if Aziraphale isn't aching for this)

He sounds wounded. He sounds destroyed.

Aziraphale has to touch him again, so greedy. He could glut himself on this for days, tangled here in this bed trying to make up for the lost time (years, decades, centuries; with no end in sight).

He clutches hips that surely inspired sin itself, knows his grip is just this side of too tight.

He can’t bring himself to care.

The marks technically don’t need to stay on these physical bodies of theirs, but a hidden part Aziraphale wants them to remain, wants Crowley to have to look at them for days.

(maybe if he presses down hard enough, then perhaps the demon will feel just a fraction of what this does to Aziraphale, how he’s marked to his core, feels as though everyone can see just how ruined he is for this creature-)

His mouth is moving, telling Crowley to relax but all he can focus on is the obscene sight before him.

For a moment, as always, he thinks that there is no possible way he can fit.

The first give of Crowley’s body around him skitters treacherously across his nerve endings. His brain completely shuts down; all he can feel is wet heat - almost unbearably tight. He holds himself rigid as he pushes all the way in, teetering on the edge of losing it already.

(he has to close his eyes, can’t look at Crowley, can’t think of Crowley, or he’s going to shudder right out of this plane of existence-)

His hands must be squeezing hard enough to shatter a human’s bones.

A sudden, sharp pain makes Aziraphale gasp, eyes flying open to where Crowley has nails dug into his thigh. He can’t help the way his hips jerk in response, an aborted movement that causes both of them to tense.

Crowley is still but for the heaving breaths that spasm out of him. When he speaks it’s barely loud enough for Aziraphale to make out the words, cutting himself off in the middle of, “Move, fuck just-“

The demon shivers under his hands and Aziraphale casts his eyes heavenward, huffing out a disbelieving laugh. Surely, he’s not made to withstand this. Surely at any moment he will be struck down, justified enough by how carnal and out of control he is right now.

(he must be dripping with iniquity, with his own sweat, Crowley’s moans twisting around his bones and staying there)

His hips begin to move of their own accord, setting a hard, unforgiving pace.

(he doesn’t quite know if he’s trying to punish Crowley or himself)

Aziraphale burns with it, has to take and take; wants to tear him apart with his bare hands and remake him-

(the way Aziraphale feels remade from this, all shattered apart, pieces shoved back into the wrong places, so different from how he began)

He thinks he might be losing his mind.

“Fuck” he gasps out, all his mouth remembers how to say. The only word appropriate for what they’re doing.

(liar, he’s a damned liar, deep down he knows; there is another word that could describe it, four letters, bright and frantic - he can’t let it cross his lips, if he doesn’t say it out loud it’s not true; if he doesn’t say it nothing has to change, nothing can be broken-)

Crowley tightens around him like a vice, jerking him forcibly out of the pace that he settled into and he’s on fire, he-

He feels out of his body and drunk with it-

Aziraphale gets a hand in that ridiculous, blazing hair and yanks; pleasure knifing through him at how easily Crowley gives in to him. He wants to be closer, this is never enough-

His hand drops to Crowley’s throat.

Oh, fuck.

The demon is pinned against him and Aziraphale can feel everything; the sharp sound Crowley lets out reverberating dangerously against his palm. Looking over his shoulder the angel can see how flushed he is, a mottled red from the tips of Crowley’s ears and disappearing right down his chest.

Oh, he feels so deliciously wicked.

He reaches his free hand down to Crowley’s cock, neglected and leaking. Aziraphale’s going to come like this, Crowley’s throat in one hand and cock in the other; it’s all he can do to just keep going.

Crowley’s head turns and lips touch his cheek. Aziraphale is terrified.

They don’t kiss. They don’t speak of this and they don’t kiss; he feels the hot shock of want burst through him, paralyzed with how he needs to see those unmistakable eyes staring up at him, pupils blown and dark with pleasure.

He has to hold on, just wait until-

Crowley jerks in his grasp, shuddering hard, fingers reaching back and tangling in Aziraphale’s hair; broken curses from every language bursting from his bitten lips.

It hits Aziraphale in a rush, like a gut punch as he holds Crowley in his arms; he’s lost to it, finally surrendering.

Something huge rises up in him, aching with its existence. Aziraphale feels the crackle of it sparking in his human veins-

He doesn’t know what it is. He shakes with it.

(that’s a lie)

(it feels very much like love)