Chapter Text
"You're useless!" Lucien shouts at Crowley who is choking on the man's cock, tears running down his cheeks in streaks. It stretches Crowley's throat in a way that makes the gag reflex hard to fight. "You're so pretty, yet you can't even swallow."
The black haired man finally loosens his grip on Crowley's hair, letting him collapse on the bed. He drops gasping for air. Lucien is more demanding than anyone Crowley has done this for before. He likes to be in control, likes to see Crowley complacent and ruined. It will take him time getting used to.
Serving his time in jail for sodomy, Crowley didn't think he could end up in a worse place than his dark damp cell. When a week ago Lucien appeared in prison, proposing to whisk him away in turn for favours he's already been offering to others, he didn't think twice.
He should have.
The thoughts flash through his head as he's lying naked and unmoving on the bed, chest heaving, waiting for this to end. It's not long now. He screws his eyes shut as
Lucien jerks off over him, spent falling over Crowley's hips and hair in hot spurts.
Crowley can tell Lucien 'no' at any time, the man has made this very clear from the very beginning—he wants his lovers to want him. Unfortunately this doesn't stop him from lashing out or humiliating his consorts, but at least he has not turned to violence.
Once it's over Lucien pushes himself off the four-post bed to clean himself. Only himself. Then he covers his lean body with a silky robe and settles on a red velvet chair that looks more like a throne. He's lazily regarding Crowley's naked body while his spent is drying over Crowley's skin.
"Do you have anything to tell me?" The man says, splitting an orange with his fingers, juice running down his palm. "Would you like to try again perhaps?" He asks as if Crowley had any other means of surviving. This is just how things are in this world—he could go back to jail, or at best, back to the streets. Over here he has a prospect for a much better life.
"Tonight," Crowley says without hesitation.
Lucien laughs, he's delighted. Even if his toy is not perfect, at least he can use it as often as he pleases. "Eager, aren't you?" Lucien flashes his teeth, satisfied and stands up, closing the distance between them. "Eager little slut," he repeats brushing Crowley's cheek, smearing the spent from Crowley's hair across his face and onto his lips that part without delay—the tangy taste of spent mingled with orange juice.
"Tomorrow," Lucien decides and rings for his servants, not even giving Crowley time to cover himself. "I have matters to attend to tonight and you need to get cleaned."
Two figures immediately enter and Crowley realises with a startle that they must have been standing outside the doors all this time. He feels sick at the thought, but fights the sensation down.
"Get him cleaned and dressed up properly. I want him up to standard by tomorrow evening." They nod and move towards Crowley, who is standing up from the bed on shaky legs. " No one touches him." Lucien ads with a wicked grin, something wild and predatory flashing in his eyes.
"I can walk myself," Crowley mutters to the two strangers and follows them out of the room; clutching the bundle of clothes in front of himself as if it was the last shred of his dignity. But no one seems to pay attention, no one dares to stare as they walk the long corridors with dark tapestry and golden framed paintings. 'No one touches him.' Crowley shivers. How long will he endure?
They enter a spacious room with a single metal bathtub positioned by the fireplace. It's pleasantly warm with furry carpets lining every inch of the timber floor. He stands stunned—he's lived in smaller houses than this bathroom. Before he can react he is pushed inside and left there without a word, a bundle of clothes still in hands.
"Oh dear, you're new here, aren't you?" The man in the room says softly, his hand gently encircling Crowley's forearm as the others leave. Crowley tears it away immediately, he doesn't need pity.
The man sighs, but doesn't try to touch him again. "It's okay dear, I understand."
No you don't. Crowley thinks, but doesn't say anything. Just patiently waits until the man prepares the bath for him. He sinks without a delay into the searing hot water and a hiss escapes him, his skin immediately flushing pink. But it doesn't cleanse him of Lucien's phantom touches that still linger on his skin.
Another thing to get used to.
He hugs his knees and buries his head in his hands, curling on himself as much as possible. He'll learn to enjoy it without feeling sorry for himself, he will. This is what he wanted and he won't ruin it with a temporary feeling of unhappiness.
Before long there is a sponge gently pressing to his skin, soothing the places that are about to bruise. Places where Lucien held him too tight. The movements on his back are slow and patient, and Crowley feels some of the tension from his body disappearing, even though Crowley doesn't make the job easy for the man.
"You must find me disgusting." He mutters. He doesn't know why he says it, bites his tongue as soon as the words escape him.
To the man's credit, his hand stutters only for a brief moment.
"It might appear that all of us are here, because it's what we want," he says, moving to gently clean Crowley's shoulder-length hair. He used to like them, now he wants to cut them off. "...but it's deceiving. Most of us have been extracted from prison, had to make some hard choices... like you. Most of us haven't done anything wrong either. Hastur, the man who brought you here, has stolen a loaf of bread, Belz protected their sister from assault. No one's judging you, we're all in this together."
Only then Crowley raises his eyes to look at the man in front of him. He's beautiful in a sad way. His curly blond hair and soft edges give him the appearance of an angel.
"Of course there might be some who will be jealous of your position, some who might have lost the Master's favour in the past—"
"What did you do?" Crowley cuts in as the blond beauty slides the sponge down his forearm and reaches for his hand.
"I, ah, I gave away a golden ring to a poor orphan begging outside our gates. The baroness to whom the ring belonged wasn't impressed." He explains calmly as if it was the most normal thing to do.
"You what?" Crowley stares , regarding the man again, reconfiguring his whole opinion about him.
"She's had enough wealth even without it. Unfortunately I underestimated her reaction."
Suddenly the man breaks his methodical moves and Crowley notices the spot where his eyes are fixed on—thick lines over his right wrist, his old scars. Crowley jolts his hand out of the man's hold, covering it immediately.
"Don't." Crowley mutters, curling back in on himself.
Neither of them speak for the rest of the bath. Crowley is silent while the man patiently combs his wet curls, when he leaves new clothes for Crowley to wear and politely turns away so Crowley can have some privacy, despite the fact he's already seen Crowley naked.
"You are free to come and go as you please except, of course, when the Master has guests or when he calls for you." The man explains rules of the house to Crowley as they traverse the wide staircase with golden balustrade up. "His private chambers are off limits of course. Garden is particularly nice, especially this time of the year. I can show you around, once you...recover a little."
They stop on the second floor and there the man opens one of the doors for Crowley. It's a small, but cosy room with a bed, table and a chair. A fire flickers from the fireplace in the corner. It will be warm, it was worth it after all.
"This is your chamber. It's nothing special, but Master tends to give better rooms to people he's particularly...pleased with, so there's always room for improvement. Call for me, if you need anything. I'm here to take care of you."
The man gives him a weak smile and turns to leave.
"Wait!" Crowley calls and the man turns in anticipation. "What's your name?"
"Aziraphale," the angel smiles. "I'm Aziraphale."
Only when Aziraphale is gone Crowley realises how lonely he feels. He crawls onto the bed—his bed—that's firm and stale and not at all like the soft four posts bed he's just been thrown out of.
But it's warm and there's already a small hope forming in his chest. Hope in the shape of crystal blue eyes and golden hair, of soft gentle touches.
I can show you around.
I'm here to take care of you.
Crowley is quiet when the next evening Aziraphale brings him a new set of fancy clothes—black frock coat and red velvet waistcoat embroidered with a flowery pattern—a combination Lucien has personally picked for Crowley.
Just thinking about it makes Aziraphale sick.
Only a day before Aziraphale ran his sponge up and down Crowley's skin, over and over, even after the man had already been cleaned. The consorts he is tasked with taking care of never have enough of it, he knows. It's not as much about the dirt on their skin as the ritual of being cleansed. That's as much as Aziraphale can do for them. That's all he ever could.
He helps Crowley dress up, all the while the redhead man's limbs are slack, completely resigned to his fate. It brings Aziraphale close to tears, even though it's not him who will have to endure Lucien tonight. Dressed in black and red Crowley looks truly magnificent—he notes as he ties up Crowley's wine-red cravat. Lucien likes to unpack his new toys like gifts, Aziraphale realises with disgust.
Crowley is quiet when he's being led down the corridors with flowery tapestry, a lavish interior for the most spoilt and rotten in this country—soft deep carpets, gas lamps and heavy wooden furniture, ornaments mocking him from every wall.
The glitter and gold covering society that's rotten to the bone, the double standards for the rich and poor, the justice system that's full of holes, that lets people like Lucien slip through the cracks and the ones like them bear the brunt of punishment.
Aziraphale hates it.
He hates that he has a hand in this, that he is helping to make this happen. Especially to someone as vulnerable as Crowley. The image of scars on his wrist still fresh in Aziraphale's memory, burning like hot iron.
"Crowley," he starts unsure. "Have you… done this before?"
Crowley snorts, not even raising his head. "I've been jailed for sodomy, what do you think?"
Aziraphale frowns. "Yes, but have you been...on the receiving end like this... before?" This is as far as he'll ask. It's not his business and the less he knows the better he sleeps. If he can sleep at all.
Crowley purses his lips, his mouth a thin line. The lack of an answer tells him more than a thousand words and he doesn't press any further.
They walk side by side towards Lucien's bedroom through the lavish corridors, where Hastur is already waiting by the doors. He'll be listening for further instructions from his Master and guard the room. He will hear everything that happens inside, Aziraphale realises.
They enter. Crowley stands a few steps forward and Lucien circles him like a wild animal its prey. Aziraphale can't help but stare at the four posts bed with heavy blood-red curtains, can't help but imagine Lucien holding Crowley down in his grasp, thrusting selfishly all the while Crowley endures this in silence. Crowley who has never known another man in this way. It makes his skin crawl. Lucien is not known for his gentle nature, even though he never hurt any of his consorts deliberately before.
"Good, very good." Lucien says approvingly, running his nails across Crowley's cheek.
Aziraphale takes a breath to say something, and then releases it as Lucien squeezes the man's butt—
"Sir!" Aziraphale feels the heat burning his cheeks. He's surprised at his own boldness. "Sir, can we speak...in private?"
Lucien frowns, but nods and they walk into another room, leaving stunned Crowley behind.
"Sir, I'm terribly sorry, but it's just—"
"What is it!?" Lucien snaps. He's impatient, eager to already pounce at his spoil.
"It's just, I've washed him and he appears to have a rash, um, down there. Nasty thing, looks contagious and I thought...I thought you should know, sir." Aziraphale's last words are a whisper and he lowers his gaze to the floor, waiting. Silence stretches into eternity as he waits for his Master's decision, with every second more aware how easy his lie could be exposed.
"You've done well telling me this." Lucien puts a hand on Aziraphale's arm at last and walks past to the room, where Crowley is waiting, brows knitting together in a silent question. Lucien seems to be considering his next steps for a few minutes, looks him up and down as if he was a product on the merchant stall's display.
"Well I suppose the main meal will have to wait. Let's work on your gag reflex instead, shall we?" Lucien runs his finger across Crowley's lips. "Oh and Aziraphale? I take it you'll take care of the… issue."
Aziraphale nods, with a corner of his eye snaking a glance at confused Crowley. It's something, he tells himself. At best he bought Crowley a couple of months, at worst a couple of weeks to at least prepare himself for the inevitable.
And in the meantime Aziraphale will contact Tracy to provide them a fake medical diagnosis. Everything will be alright.
Everything will be alright.