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Burn the House Down

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What made it indecent was how ridiculously in love they were. 

That was what the hostess told them when she offered them the job, anyway. 

Anyone can fuck, but the two of you will burn the house down.  

It was a risk, of course. A job for younger men with more stamina and one that could get them noticed at that. Still, they'd been in Paris long enough to be confident no one from London had followed them, and although business wasn't bad, it could be better. 

They didn't want to start eating into their savings yet. 

And any doubts Crowley had evaporated as soon as Aziraphale saw the chains. 

"Is that not in bad taste?" Aziraphale asked, but in that too precise way that meant he was trying very hard to control his breathing. 

The hostess didn't notice, but then she hadn't made it a particular hobby of hers to consistently push Aziraphale to the point where both breath and words started to fail him. Crowley, who had, noticed, felt his breath catch too, but not for the same reasons. 

Aziraphale did have a point about taste though. It had only been about 30 years since the Bastille fell. Granted, this board and paint stage set of a cell constructed in a drawing room could represent any prison in Europe, but Crowley doubted it. 

"People are kinky," the hostess replied with a shrug.

Neither of them could really argue with that. 


"So," Crowley tested cautiously as they walked home beneath the gaslight. "Which of us getting chained up got you so excited?"

Aziraphale flushed. Which was all the answer Crowley needed. If he was going to be the prisoner, Aziraphale would have just come out with it. He’d not have toyed with Crowley, but carefully and honestly dipped his toe into the waters of Crowley's past to see if it was something he wanted to do, could bring himself to do. 

Crowley exhaled slowly, relief sweeping through his veins. Not that he couldn't have said no , but they had not yet fully discussed all the pain of their histories. Some bits were more painful than others, and Crowley hadn’t quite marshalled the courage to lay them all out for inspection.

Aziraphale playing prisoner had its own dangers to be negotiated, but the idea sparked desire, low and hot in Crowley's belly. He liked being with Aziraphale, liked everything they did together, but Aziraphale liked to be in control. Or liked to feel like he was in control, at least, which led him to believe he had to be the one topping to be safe. 

"To be clear," Crowley said. "The expectation will be that the one chained up is the one getting fucked."

They did sometimes switch things around. Something Crowley had been hesitant about too, to start with. To start with. 

Now, those moments when Crowley was inside Aziraphale, felt his muscles gripping him, saw him open and vulnerable, made Crowley’s heart fill up to bursting. He hadn’t thought he could hold so much love. He hadn’t thought anyone would love him enough to let him be with them like that. 

"I am aware," Aziraphale said dryly, which didn’t hide the deepening of his blush. 

And the fact that Aziraphale would trust Crowley to do that, with restraints, before an audience, was another boundary being carefully taken down between them, another step closer together and further into their future. 

Crowley couldn't find the words for how in love he was. Instead he reached out, lacing his fingers through Aziraphale’s. It was dark, and the streets were empty, and in Paris no one cared as much, but it still felt like stepping over a vast chasm, 

Aziraphale didn’t pull away.  He slid his whole palm against Crowley’s.

"You sure? Because we don't have to decide now,” Crowley said.

"You're right. Perhaps we should test the water first?" Aziraphale looked away, biting down on a smile. 


They didn't have chains at home, but there were lots of tactile fabrics which could be used creatively. 

Performing for an audience was not something they needed to worry about. 

Still, it was a delicate situation. They took their time. Crowley liked taking his time over Aziraphale. He liked it when they talked, gasped admissions that remained secrets between them and the candlelight. 

Like this?

Is this alright? 

I love it when you do that. 

I love you. 

The words spilled from Crowley's mouth. 

Aziraphale had been pushed beyond words. His fingers gripped the scarves that kept his wrists above his head, the muscles in the underside of his stretched arms tensed. Aziraphale's eyes were closed, head tipped back into the pillows. His thighs tightened around Crowley's waist with each slow thrust of their bodies. 


Crowley lifted himself up higher on the mattress, working for more leverage, pushing deeper, which drew a moan from Aziraphale's parted lips.

"You like this?" 


Aziraphale's cock was hard and hot between them, smearing precome on Crowley's belly. 

"Do you like it?" Aziraphale's eyes fluttered open. 

"Yes, but, roll over for me?" Crowley liked seeing Aziraphale’s arse. Aziraphale knew it. 

The scarves were just long enough, if Aziraphale crossed his wrists, spread his knees. 

Crowley parted Aziraphale's cheeks, ran a thumb over his open hole, making him squirm. 

Crowley entered him again, slow, making them both draw breath together. 

Aziraphale pushed back against him. "Finish me!" 

Bossy bastard. 

Crowley let himself go, snapping his hips, thrusting until Aziraphale was pressed fully into the bed, rubbing his cock on the mattress beneath, and they were both crying out. 


"You sure?" Crowley asked. He'd lost count of how many times he’d asked, but once more, as he put the manacles on Aziraphale's wrists, wouldn't hurt.  Beyond the curtain that kept the set temporarily private, the whisperings of Paris’ most entitled and debauched shifted about. Aziraphale looked up at Crowley as the metal clicked into place. He was sure. It was written in the keen attention of his body, the slight parting of his lips and the dilating of his pupils. 

“Tell me,” Crowley whispered. “Just so I can hear it.”

Aziraphale’s lips brushed his. “I want you to bully me, darling, strip me and then fuck me into the wall. Hard as you like, if you please?”

Crowley nodded, words currently eluding him. 

“Yes, I’m sure. Now go get ready for your grand entrance.” Aziraphale sat primly on the low stool in the middle of the set and lifted his eyebrow. 

Skin hot and tingling, Crowley slipped back into the shadows and waited. 

There were different sets all over the grand house. School rooms and Arcadian glades, and one cell that was rather more Spanish Inquisition than this one, which had made Crowley’s stomach churn with dread. 

He was fidgeting. Last minute stage fright competing with desire. He knew the former would fade as soon as things got going and the later would flare, hot and all-consuming. Aziraphale gave him a lewd wink, which, of course, made Crowley snort just as soon as the curtain drew back. 

Crowley schooled his face into something vaguely menacing and entered stage left spouting some bravado in French. 

No more dialogue was needed, thank someone. His French wasn't that good, but Aziraphale's was worse. The audience were not interested in the cut and thrust of witty conversation anyway. They'd read the synopsis pasted up at the room's entrance. 

Aziraphale had leapt to his feet as soon as Crowley entered. Rather than wasting time on pleas and protestations he simply rolled his eyes, an indignant, "Oh, good lord!" conveying his opinion on the situation. 

He undermined it dreadfully by giving Crowley the filthiest once over, before turning away with a huff, and then glancing back and doing it again. 

It was that moment Crowley realised exactly how into this his lover was. Typical bloody Aziraphale, who could have had restraints and role play any time he liked, but rather than ask for it, had to go and make a bloody drama of his kinks. 

Sharp, hot desire twisted near painfully through Crowley's groin. What had been relatively easy money on a Saturday night took on a serious bent. 

He raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale, who shrugged, blushed and looked away. A wiggle, that could have been interpreted as a shiver, if the person looking didn’t know him at all, ran through his body. 

Right then. This was going to be the performance of Crowley’s career. 

With an increased amount of swagger, rather more overbearing looming than necessary, Crowley kicked the stool to the back of the set and grabbed Aziraphale's arm. 

Aziraphale struggled. 

Crowley was surprised how into that he was. 

He got hold of the lace at Aziraphale's throat, dragging him forward so he could kiss him lewdly, tongue wet and demanding. Aziraphale pushed against Crowley's chest, but he was a pampered little aristo and, as thrilling as his resistance was, it wasn't much of a fight. 

"Fiend," Aziraphale gasped when he was allowed to draw breath. Then softer, "do it again."

The background chatter of the crowd had hushed now things were getting juicy. 

Typical that they'd be playing such close attention for the tricky part. 

The chain was Aziraphale's responsibility, him having more control over it, but Crowley still had to make sure he didn't trip. Hand still gripping Aziraphale's clothes, tongue thrusting back into his mouth, Crowley drove him backwards and slammed him into the cell wall. 

Not too hard. It was mostly paper. 

The prickling of attention on him kept Crowley in the moment though, and Aziraphale's body trying to subtly rub his already erect cock against him. 

"Just fuck him!" A half-drunk voice lifted above the crowd. 

Crowley pulled back biting the inside of his cheek, unsure whether to laugh or be irritated. 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Well, I am waiting," he mouthed. 

Crowley spun Aziraphale round so he faced the wall. The sexiest thing about that was how Aziraphale went lightly and without fuss, and without getting his ankle tangled in the chain. Crowley loved that he was such a professional. 

Crowley held Aziraphale in place with a possessive hand curled around the back of his neck. His eyes searched the crowd. "You!" he pointed at the pale youth at the back.

The youth flinched. 

Crowley forced his lust drunk brain to find the right words in a language he was only half familiar with. 

"This isn't audience participation, if you'd like it to be, come and see me after and we'll discuss rates. Now, does anybody else want to give me direction or can I get on with it?" His accent was probably awful, but they seemed to get the gist of it. 

"Please let him get on with it!" Aziraphale said, which rather ruined the fantasy but broke the tension and got a titter from the room. 

"Am I keeping you waiting?" Crowley tangled fingers in Aziraphale's soft curls, pulling his head back. "Such a dirty little, aristo, aren't you? So desperate to be ruined."

Not quite what they'd discussed, but a bit of dirty talk, some begging, was not taboo as long as it never got personal. 

"Tell the nice ladies and gentlemen how desperate you are for me to fuck you."

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes in a way that suggested he knew exactly how much Crowley was enjoying playing the big bad despoiler of virtue and was going to tease him mercilessly about it afterwards. However, right now, Aziraphale did want to be fucked so he got on and begged.

"Please," he gasped very prettily. "Please fuck me open, I'll take everything you give me."

Crowley's cock twitched, growing insistent again now the audience had learned their place. God, but he was desperate for this too. 

Aziraphale wasn't in a coat. Mostly because the length of it would cover too much below his waist and getting it off would be impossible. 

"I'll look half undressed!" Aziraphale had protested over afternoon tea. 

Crowley had merely lifted his eyebrows. 

"Very well, point taken." He sipped primly from his cup. 

The waistcoat was sacrosanct, but the shirt they had modified, they had practised. 

It came to pieces easily beneath Crowley's hands, the first shocking rip drawing an excited twitter from the crowd. 

Aziraphale's gasp was suitably scandalised as the material tore apart, dragged out from under the waistcoat and down his arms. 

Crowley was violent now, reaching round to undo the front of Aziraphale's breeches, not that they'd been done up fully to start with. He dragged his knuckles over the hard line stretching the satin, drawing a whimper from Aziraphale's parted lips. Crowley jerked the breeches down, letting Aziraphale's cock bob free. He wished he could see it, suddenly wished his eyes were in the audience and he could enjoy the vision of the red, uncut head, beaded with precome. Crowley wished there was time to taste. 

Maybe afterwards, if they had any energy left to spare. 

There was time to strip the sagging breeches off fully though. Crowley would make time. He would not fuck Aziraphale with them around his ankles like a cheap dockside rent boy. Besides, leaving them on would ruin the line of those splendid calves in their silk stockings and hide those ridiculous shoes from view. 

The price of admission to this den of excess was not cheap, but the vision of Aziraphale's legs, the laced back of his waistcoat exposing the full curve of his arse, arm muscles taut as he braced against the wall, would be worth it. 

Crowley knew how to show his lover off and didn't mind sharing. Not bodies anyway, it was hearts and thoughts and the quiet grey hours of morning that were just for the two of them. 

While he was crouched down, Crowley coated his fingers in the oil from the dish they'd left by the wall. They'd done some prep earlier, but a little extra was always better. He stood up, plastering his back to Aziraphale's, oiled hand going between their bodies so he could work a finger into his entrance. Aziraphale's hips bucked at the contact, thrusting back on Crowley's hand. 

"You're loving this," Crowley whispered, his face shielded from the audience by Aziraphale's own. 

Aziraphale tipped his head back on Crowley's shoulder, his chest arched, filthy exhibitionist that he was. "So are you."

Crowley wrapped his other hand around Aziraphale's weeping cock, smearing precome along the length, handling him roughly while he pushed another finger into him. 

Aziraphale groaned, louder than he would have done at home, and began to fuck himself between Crowley's hands. 

Crowley gave him just time enough to settle into it before he stepped back. "That's enough." Crowley made short work of the buttons on his own breeches. He pushed them down, stroking himself and giving the hungry gazes trained on them a chance to appreciate him too. 

Only fair that. 

"Spread your legs," Crowley said. 

"You wicked man!" Aziraphale complained over his shoulder, before leaning forward, bracing his hands on the wall, opening his thighs wide.

When he wriggled his backside invitingly, a laugh tore from Crowley's throat. He just hoped he'd made it sound suitably demonic rather than fond. 

"Too late to protest now. You begged me for this." Crowley placed a hand on the small of Aziraphale's back and lined himself up. "All these nice people heard you."

"Oh dear!" Aziraphale gasped. “Whatever shall I...ah!”

Crowley slapped his arse. Not hard, but hard enough to stop the acting getting too ridiculous. Hard enough to get a satisfying sting on his palm and see Aziraphale’s flesh turn red. 

“Shut up and take it,” Crowley growled, ridiculously turned on by Aziraphale’s indignant, and yet delighted, squeal. 

Crowley pushed in, one sharp, smooth thrust. Aziraphale cried out like the blushing innocent he most certainly wasn't. His hips slammed back against Crowley's begging for more. 

Crowley gave it. His hands gripped Aziraphale's hips as he pounded into him, jerking him onto his cock with each thrust forward. 

They were still in a room full of people, but it felt like just the two of them now. Like they had moved through the performance and were more themselves than they had been. And they enjoyed being watched, they'd discovered, found a freedom in it where nothing was hidden and everything could be indulged. 

Aziraphale clenched around Crowley, needy and tight, milking every drag of flesh. His cries were wanton, and not for show. 

It was glorious. Crowley bit his lip, keeping his own mounting desire controlled and gave Aziraphale everything, as careless and dirty as he could have wished for, until Aziraphale shuddered, coming untouched all over the painted wall. 

Bringing Aziraphale off so thoroughly was enough to shatter Crowley's focus. He lost his rhythm, chasing his own ending, head falling back as he fucked hard and quick until his legs trembled and spilled into Aziraphale's still fluttering body. 

The curtain closed. There was no applause, as a general rule that didn't happen. Strangely it was that which was considered vulgar. There would be the second half of their payment though, which was better. 

"Alright?" Crowley leaned over Aziraphale's still bent back and kissed his ear. 

"I have a cramp in my foot and I won't be able to sit down for a week. Bloody perfect," he grumbled. "You?" 

"I had a lovely time." Crowley leered.

"Yes, I could tell." Aziraphale drawled. 

They eased apart, both wincing a bit. 

"Say thank you," Crowley said, "Or I won't I unchain you."

"Unchain me or they won't be able to set up the next scene and we won't get paid." 

Aziraphale was trying to sound all business, but only to distract from how much he'd enjoyed himself. 

He should know better. Crowley could always tell what was an act and what wasn't.  

"Fine. So when we do get paid, what do you want to do?" Crowley began buttoning himself back up, deferring winding Aziraphale up until they weren't around people that might have to be worked with again. 

"What would you say to some crepes?" Aziraphale brightened instantly. 

"With you looking like that?" Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale glanced down, apparently remembering he was half naked and blushed adorably. "You are a fiend. Help me."

Crowley did, then they went for crepes. That was bloody perfect too.