Chapter Text
The Submissive was well trained, that much was plain to see. He was kneeling silently on the floor of Aziraphale’s drawing room, completely naked, aside from the thick collar fastened tight around his neck and the sturdy cuffs that covered his arms almost from wrists to elbows, buckled behind his back. The perfect poise, the downcast eyes, the delicate bow of his head–it all bespoke of a quite comprehensive education, bestowed upon a rather receptive student. As much as he looked (and he did, shamefully so), Aziraphale could find no fault in his stance, nor a twitch in his muscles to betray the strain. The Submissive was in perfect control of his body, collected, graceful, and beautiful.
There was no tip-toeing around that, as much as Aziraphale wanted to. The Submissive was a work of art, all clean lines and hard planes, pale skin stretching over tense sinews and sharp bones. His nape looked as delicate as a china-bone tumbler, but its fragility was belied by the play of coiled muscles along his back, framing the hard bumps of his spine and fanning out to span his sides. His shoulders were wide, well-shaped and delicately boned, and his long-fingered hands looked elegant and capable from where they rested, clasped together over the bump of a deliciously rounded bum. The black leather of the collar and the cuffs looked lurid against the naked skin, a shock of colour only matched by the flaming red hair, brushing his shoulders in wavy curls. There was a dash of red between his legs, too, where his lovely pink cock rested on a cloud of perfectly groomed red hairs.
Oh, yes. Aziraphale had definitely looked his fill.
He took a deep breath. Unlike almost every other Dominant he knew, Aziraphale had never had a Submissive assigned to him, mostly because he had never wanted one. A Submissive meant a great deal of satisfaction to his Dominant, physically, sexually and psychologically, but they also required a great deal of care, and Aziraphale simply didn’t think he was suited for that kind of responsibility. He was a selfish, distracted sort of man, too taken with his work and his books to dedicate that kind of attention to another human being, and the last thing he wanted was for a Submissive to suffer because of it. He’d decided a long time before that the sporadic tryst or the occasional prearranged encounter would have to suffice, and he’d managed to get on quite well in life that way, at least until now.
Now, he had to deal with a distressingly gorgeous Submissive demurely kneeling in his drawing room, and Aziraphale was tempted, for the first time in decades, to renounce a lifestyle that had served him rather well so far and actually keep the man. It was within his rights, after all. He didn’t care one bit that being handed this particular Submissive had been intended as a slight–if Gabriel didn’t think that anyone getting to touch this lovely creature would be blessed for it, he was the one at fault. Thinly veiled insult or not, the Submissive had been given to him as a gift, and Aziraphale had half a mind to keep him as such.
But a Submissive was not a thing, and Aziraphale had no intention to leave him chained to the floor like an animal.
He took his time to get up from the old armchair on which he’d been sitting for the past ten minutes, telegraphing every movement as he rose to his feet. The Submissive looked deceptively remote in his kneeling position, but Aziraphale had already spotted a keen intelligence and a sharp, nervous attention being focused on him since he’d stepped into the room.
That was the other side of the coin, the reason Gabriel had decided that saddling Aziraphale with this particular Submissive was a fitting punishment for a man that had been steadily refusing to conform for the last twenty-odd years, since he’d reached the legal age to take over a Submissive and become a contributing member of the society. Because if Aziraphale didn’t particularly care for his duties as Dominant, it was pretty obvious to everyone involved that this man loathed his role as Submissive. He’d been assigned to seven different Dominants in the last eighteen years, and he’d run from every single one of them. Hence why Gabriel had been so kind to chain the man down to his floor for him, lest Aziraphale was to come home to an empty room and a discarded collar.
Aziraphale clicked his tongue against his palate, as he slowly stepped closer. The room was far from cold, but it was November, for crying out loud, and the man had to be positively freezing. Was it really necessary to deliver him naked? But then again, Aziraphale himself had taken his time to look him over, before thinking that perhaps he ought to do something about it. A fresh wave of shame washed over him, and Aziraphale ducked his head slightly, as he reached the kneeling man.
Aside from a muscle twitching in his jaw, nothing betrayed that the Submissive was aware of or concerned in any way with the Dominant’s proximity. Aziraphale walked around him slowly, luxuriating one last time in the man’s beauty before crouching behind him. The Submissive’s shoulders tensed at the vulnerability of that configuration, but he didn’t move, didn’t utter a single word. Aziraphale fought sternly the need to place a hand between those bony shoulder blades, soothing the Submissive’s obvious nerves. He could feel his own body answer to the man kneeling in front of him, his blood swirl faster in his veins, his skin prickle at the back of his neck. It was a strong reaction, one that Aziraphale didn’t get to experience very often, but it wasn’t particularly surprising. He’d known since the moment he’d stepped into the room and seen the man kneeling on his floor that he wouldn’t have been able to be indifferent to him. Aziraphale could feel a pull towards him that he’d never felt before, and if the Submissive hadn’t been so very blatantly dreading his proximity, he would’ve given in already, his work and hermit life be damned. But imposing his touch on someone that didn’t want it was too vile a thing to be even remotely considered, and Aziraphale was very cautious to unbuckle the leather cuffs without grazing the man’s skin. They were thick and soft and beautifully made (nothing was too expensive for Gabriel and his Council), perfectly encasing the Submissive’s forearms without cutting his circulation, and in another occasion Aziraphale would’ve taken his time to open one clasp after the other, admiring the craftsmanship and the pale skin revealed as each leather strip slipped free. But now was not the time. He made quick work of it, and soon the cuffs were dropping onto the floor with an audible clink.
Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from the man. Perhaps that he’d bring his arms back front, massaging his newly freed skin, or at the very least that he’d flex his wrists to lessen the stiffness in his muscles after being restrained from what Aziraphale suspected had been quite some time.
The Submissive did neither. He simply remained as still as he’d been until then, with his hands resting meekly on his buttocks and his fingers slightly cupped. If Aziraphale had taken before-and-after pictures, he’d have been hard-pressed to find a shift in his stance. It was an astonishing display of control, and Aziraphale was rather impressed.
He stood up just as slowly as he’d been crouching down, taking his time to reach the Submissive’s front. The man’s eyes were downcast, just as they’d been the entire time Aziraphale had been in the room. Yet, he knew the man had looked up, from time to time. He knew he’d been keeping tabs on Aziraphale’s movements. The fact alone that Aziraphale hadn’t been able to catch him in the act even once was remarkable.
The man’s breathing stuttered slightly, as Aziraphale crouched in front of him. He recovered immediately, resuming his flawless tempo of inhales and exhales, regular as clockwork. Aziraphale could’ve measured the time to them.
There was a clunky iron chain connecting the thick leather collar to the single ring embedded into the floor. The ring had been placed there specifically for that purpose, though in a more recreational context than the one in which the Submissive was finding himself in that particular moment. The chain was so short that the man was forced to keep his head bowed, though he did so with such grace that he made it look like he was doing it of his own volition, instead of being forced into it. Aziraphale’s temper flared at the ignominy of it. It was a humiliating position, which wasn’t essentially wrong per se, but done to someone who didn’t get pleasure from it was nothing short of disgraceful. It was pretty obvious that the Submissive wasn’t enjoying it, but merely enduring it. Gabriel ought to be ashamed of himself.
Aziraphale tried to be as careful unfastening the collar as he’d been with the cuffs, but it was tricky, with the Submissive’s long hair in the way. He didn’t want to touch him any more than he had to, but he must push it aside, and the soft curls trickled like silk through his fingers as he felt for the buckle. The warm gusts of the man’s regular breaths were lapping at his neck, and Aziraphale realised with a start that he was getting hard in his pants. How embarrassing. He was a Dominant, and this Submissive was showing a better handle on his own body than he was.
Eventually, the buckle was unlocked, and both the collar and the chain dropped with a loud clunk of iron onto the floor. Aziraphale rose slowly, grimacing a little at the pang in his joints (he was really getting old, how depressing), and took a step back.
The Submissive didn’t move a muscle.
Oh, buggers.
“You can get up, if you want.”
His voice had sounded unnaturally loud, in the still silence of the drawing room. The Submissive didn’t react for so long that Aziraphale was starting to wonder whether he’d heard him, when the elegant head finally rose and a pair of gorgeous amber eyes settled steadily upon him.
Aziraphale felt his breath catch in his chest. The man was even more beautiful than he’d thought. There was something savage in his eyes, something never truly tamed that belied the perfect countenance of his stance, and Aziraphale realised that the fight had never been trained out of him. He wondered if he was actually a Submissive, even, although he knew that the Council didn’t make those sorts of mistakes. The man was a Submissive, there were no doubts about that, but he surely wasn’t a meek one.
A forbidden thrill ran down his spine. That wasn’t the first strong-minded Submissive Aziraphale had ever seen, quite the contrary, but he usually didn’t go for the type. He liked tame Submissives, easy to please and eager to please others, with which he could have satisfying, uncomplicated sex. He didn’t have the patience or the temperament to keep the more difficult Submissives in check, and didn’t draw any particular enjoyment from punishing them. That was yet another anomaly that was relentlessly mocked, especially by more forceful Dominants, who actually liked Submissives with a bit of a fight to them. Aziraphale was the weak, substandard Dominant who got his standing by a curious quirk of nature and could only handle the meekest, easiest Submissives, because anyone who wasn’t ready to roll over and show his tender underbelly would undoubtedly prove to be too formidable for such a spineless Dom. Giving Aziraphale someone like the man kneeling in front of him was yet another form of cruel mocking, another layer to the insult.
The man didn’t seem willing to submit even enough to stand, if that was what was required of him. He managed to turn even kneeling, a glaring act of obedience, into a form of silent jeer.
Aziraphale sighed.
“Come on. Up.”
What a dizzying display of dominance. Gabriel would be so proud.
Although the Submissive didn’t look particularly impressed either, he did as he was bid. He rose slowly to his feet, gracefully uncoiling from his crouch, and Aziraphale’s breath stuttered in his chest as the man was revealed in all his naked glory. He was taller than Aziraphale, even if not by much, but his body was as wiry and as perfectly tuned as a violin, with no flesh to spare. He looked like a thing used to hunting in the jungle, all sharp teeth and sharper claws and glowing eyes. He was staring at Aziraphale with a steady, almost unblinking gaze, and even if his body seemed relaxed and not threatening in the slightest, there was something in the wary way he was regarding him that made Aziraphale think of a coiled snake, ready to strike.
The Submissive seemed unconcerned about his nakedness, his entire focus needle-sharp and trained on the Dominant standing in front of him. Aziraphale did his best not to look at the man’s cock. From the slightest shadow of a smirk that graced those thin lips, he doubted he was doing a particularly good job of it.
Aziraphale took a deep breath.
“You can go.”
That seemed to disrupt the Submissive’s stance like nothing that had come before. The man blinked, then frowned, then regarded Aziraphale up and down with a hard stare that had nothing submissive about it, as though he was wondering where exactly Aziraphale was stashing the knife he was undoubtedly waiting to stick into his belly.
“What did you say?”
It was the first time Aziraphale got to hear his voice. It wasn’t particularly deep, but it was smoky, a little raspy at the edges, and it suited him as much as his pale, freckled skin.
“I said,” Aziraphale repeated, slow and deliberate, “that you can go.”
“Go where? To your bedroom?”
There was something defiant there, like a sneer. Giving ground had apparently been enough to convince the Submissive to drop the act, and now the real man was standing in front of him, a coil of barely restrained violence, all taut sinews and compact muscles and screeching anger.
Aziraphale smiled serenely at him.
“Wherever you want to go.”
The Submissive seemed properly unnerved, now.
“Within the property?”
“No. Wherever you want.”
The reality of the situation seemed to hit the Submissive all of a sudden, then. He looked at Aziraphale up and down once again, then lingered on his face, studying him with piercing amber eyes.
“You’re letting me go.”
“Yes.”
A beat. Two.
“Why?”
Aziraphale shrugged.
“I’m not interested in having a Submissive permanently chained to my floor, and you’ll run off the first chance you got. I thought it best to save everyone time and let you go straight away.”
The man scoffed in his face.
“You think you can’t keep me, so you’re giving me up before you even try. They told me you were weak, but I thought you’d at least put up a fight. Even a token one.”
The words stung, but it wouldn’t do to let the Submissive know.
Aziraphale held his best neutral expression, regarding him with placid eyes.
“I do not care much for the Council’s beliefs. A Submissive is not an animal, to be kept leashed and forced into whatever their Dominant thinks it’s appropriate. I have no interest in a Submissive who does not care for my company, or who does not want my dominance. If you wish to leave, you are free to go.”
There was a jagged sneer on the Submissive’s face.
“What a pretty speech. I’m impressed.”
The man didn’t believe him. Aziraphale had an inkling of what he’d probably gone through, and couldn’t fault him for it. A fresh wave of sorrow hit him, a deep sympathy for someone who had most likely been forced to endure things he would’ve never chosen of his own volition. Being chained to the floor of Aziraphale’s drawing room was only the last item on the list.
Slowly, Aziraphale took his coat from the back of the armchair and handed it to the man. The Submissive stared at it as though he didn’t quite know what to make of it, and did not move a finger to take it.
Aziraphale sighed again.
“You’re naked, and the room is not exactly warm. You must be cold.”
“I’m not going to wear your stuff,” the man hissed, recoiling from the proffered piece of clothing as though it was venomous. “I’d rather be naked.”
Aziraphale took the coat back.
“As you wish. It’ll be difficult to find some clothes around that will fit you, but perhaps we could ask the cook. Her son is a strapping boy.”
Aziraphale draped the coat on the back of a padded bench and stepped around the man to reach the door. He was completely unprepared for his path to be blocked, and arched a brow at the Submissive who was now standing in front of him.
“Where are you going?” the man asked, sharp and pointed.
Aziraphale wasted a moment to be outraged by such nerve, before realising that the Submissive wasn’t being challenging, not really. He was terrified. Aziraphale had caught him off-balance, and the man had absolutely no idea about what to do to get his footing back. He couldn’t make sense of whatever was going on, and was anxiously waiting for an upcoming blow to hit him unaware. It reminded Aziraphale of a cornered cat, fear oozing off him in waves.
Aziraphale relaxed, looking up at those amber eyes. The man was rather stunning, so up close.
“I’m going to get you some clothes, unless you’d rather run off naked,” Aziraphale answered, just a touch of mischief in his voice. That seemed to do the trick. The Submissive relaxed, however slightly, and even if he didn’t seem particularly appeased by that unexpected turn of the events, at least he took a small step aside.
Aziraphale took advantage of that begrudgingly given concession and walked out of the room.
“You can come with me, or you can get a shower, while you wait,” he said over his shoulder, as he made his way to the kitchens. “Your choice.”
The Submissive snorted.
“A shower. Right.”
Aziraphale paused, looking back.
“Why not? You must be chilled to the bones, kneeling on the floor like that. And if you run off, who knows when you’ll get the luxury of hot water next.” He shrugged. “You’re already naked, after all. You can’t possibly fear that I’ll jump you unaware as you wash your hair.”
For a moment, Aziraphale thought that he’d gone too far. He hadn’t intended his little quip to be mocking, or insensitive, and he’d realised only too late that it could be interpreted as such, from someone in the man’s position. But he didn’t think that the Submissive would take too well what he’d perceive as being coddled, or worse, a sign of weakness from a spineless Dominant that he already despised, so a brutal reminder of the situation with a sprinkling of cold logic on top had seemed the best choice. As the Submissive stared him down with narrowed eyes, however, clearly trying to decide if he was being ridiculed, Aziraphale was forced to consider whether he’d put his foot in his mouth, instead of being helpful.
Thankfully, he’d judged the Submissive well.
The thin lips opened in a jagged smirk, as the man rolled his shoulders in a shrug.
“Very well.” A beat, as the Submissive took a look around. “Where is the bathroom?”
“Take those stairs to the first floor. Third door to the left.”
The Submissive regarded Aziraphale for a long moment. He had long lashes, drooping lids, and upon looking at him so close, an eye slightly bigger than the other. It was a small thing, a little asymmetry that took nothing away from the rugged handsomeness of his face, but Aziraphale found it oddly endearing.
“Is that your private bathroom?” the man asked carefully, as though he was prodding a trap.
Aziraphale chuckled.
“No. I have an en suite. That’s the guest bathroom.”
The man harrumphed, studying Aziraphale for another moment before nodding and turning on his heels. Aziraphale watched him go, powerless to look away from the swaying of his narrow hips, the little glimpses he could catch of his balls and cock from between his thighs. The Submissive moved as though he was made of molten silver, taut muscles bunching under tight skin. He seemed to catch Aziraphale’s gaze halfway up the stairs, and stopped just enough to cast a jeering scoff at him.
How mortifying.
Aziraphale coughed in his fist, trying to hide his embarrassment, and went straight to the kitchens.
Luckily, the cook did have something the Submissive could wear, and wasn’t particularly fussy about giving it away.
“Is it for the new guest?” she asked, coming back from her son’s private quarters with socks, underwear, a shirt and a pair of trousers. “It wasn’t very polite of Master Gabriel to drop him here without a warning, not very polite at all.”
Aziraphale could only nod. He’d been in town the entire afternoon, busy with an auction of rare books that he needed for his research, and Gabriel had taken advantage of his absence to drag the Submissive into his home and leave him chained in his drawing room, knowing perfectly well that Aziraphale wouldn’t have stood for it, had he been there. But why allow him the luxury of starting his forced relationship with the Submissive he’d been given from a place of trust? No, it was much better to thrust the poor man onto him naked, cold, angry, mistrustful and possibly hungry when Aziraphale least expected it.
“Thank you, Madam,” Aziraphale said. “I’m awfully sorry to ask you for more, but do you happen to have some shoes and a coat as well that I could borrow?”
“I’ll see what I can do. What’s his shoe size?”
Aziraphale hesitated. He’d given a cursory look at the Submissive’s file, when he found him kneeling into his drawing room, but while such details were undoubtedly there, Aziraphale had been more interested in the man’s history of running off the first chance he got than his shoe size.
“I’m not quite sure. I’ll ask.”
“You do that,” Madame Tracy chirped, handing him the bundle of clothes. “And I’ll see what I can do about the coat.”
Aziraphale thanked her again, but the woman was already on her way, grumbling about rude Dominants who should know better than to drop unannounced in a respectable household such as theirs.
Aziraphale slowly made his way upstairs. He was half-expecting to find the bathroom empty and cold and the Submissive long gone, and was quite surprised to find the door ajar with a trickle of steam coming out of it.
“I have your clothes,” Aziraphale called from the hallway, a little tentatively.
The door opened wide, revealing a scrubbed-pink Submissive with a towel wrapped around his hips, busy rubbing his hair dry. Aziraphale did his best not to stare, but it was quite unfair to ask him not to. The man gave him a haughty glare and snatched the clothes from his hands.
“Great,” he said, slamming the door in his face. Aziraphale almost got angry for a hot minute, before giving up with a sigh. He couldn’t expect someone who was effectively a captive to be grateful for not being treated like dirt, but still, a little politeness would go a long way, in Aziraphale’s opinion.
He was busy preparing a bag in his quarters, when the Submissive came looking for him. His room wasn’t far from the guest bathroom towards which he’d directed the man, and Aziraphale had left the door open, so that the Submissive could see the lights shining into the hallway.
“I’m leaving,” the man announced, a little testily, as though he was challenging Aziraphale to forbid him to. Aziraphale found it somewhat warming that he’d bothered to come all the way to tell him that himself, instead of climbing out of the window. Of course, that wouldn’t end particularly well for the Submissive, since he had no shoes and no coat, but the fact that he’d trusted Aziraphale enough to come to him of his own volition was more than what Aziraphale had been expecting.
“Very well. There’s a pair of shoes in the hallway. Try them on, they should fit.”
Since the man hadn’t seemed particularly keen on answering his questions, Aziraphale had done some digging in his file, and it’d turned out that the Submissive had exactly the same shoe size as the gamekeeper. Mr. Shadwell hadn’t been particularly enthusiastic about giving away his shoes, but Madame Tracy had a way with him, and eventually a pair of mud-crusted boots had found their way to Aziraphale’s quarters.
The Submissive nodded and disappeared behind the door. A moment later he was back, dark trousers stuck into the high rims of a pair of combat boots.
“Are they all right?”
The Submissive gave a noncommittal shrug.
“They don’t smell particularly good, but yeah. They’ll do.”
It was a little odd to see him dressed. Newton’s clothes were a bit too big for him, which in turn made him look lankier than he actually was. He’d pushed his red hair away from his face, and Aziraphale noticed a small tattoo on the side of his head–a coiled snake, no bigger than the first two phalanges of Aziraphale’s little finger, inked into his cheek close to his right ear. Aziraphale thought it rather fitting.
“Take this, it’s cold outside,” he said, handing him Newton’s coat. “Don’t worry. It’s not mine.”
“I know,” the Submissive answered, slipping into it. “It doesn’t smell like you.”
It was such an intimate thing to say, however casual the delivery, that Aziraphale’s breath caught a bit in his throat.
“Well,” he coughed, trying to get his bearings back. How silly of him, getting all worked up over such a little thing. “There’s some food in the bag. A blanket. Clean socks and a few more pairs of underwear.”
Aziraphale frowned, trying to think about anything else the man could find useful.
“I have actually no idea what you might need,” he admitted rather sheepishly. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“That’s pretty self-evident,” the Submissive chuckled. It was the first time Aziraphale had seen something that wasn’t a sneer or a grimace on his face, and he looked younger with that shadow of a smile, less guarded. It lasted a split of a second–just the time for Aziraphale to blink, and it was gone.
“Give me that,” the Submissive sighed when it became clear that Aziraphale was having A Moment, standing there frozen like a tit with a leather bag in his hands. “It’ll work. Don’t worry.”
Of all the things Aziraphale had thought he was going to hear, being reassured by the prickly Submissive who not one hour before had been chained to the floor of his drawing room was not one of them. It startled him a little, but it worked well enough to drag him back to the present. He handed over the bag without a word, and the man took it, their fingers brushing for one charged moment.
“I have money, too,” Aziraphale blurted out. He picked up the roll of notes he’d put aside and handed it to him. “It should help.”
The Submissive reached for it, taking it slowly.
“Has it ever occurred to you that I could simply knock you over the head, steal everything you have and run away?” the man asked, searching his eyes as though Aziraphale was a book written in a language that he couldn’t quite understand.
Aziraphale shrugged.
“Of course not. You never did.”
Mentioning his file was perhaps the wrong move. The Submissive straightened up, eyes hardening as he scowled at Aziraphale.
“And I always got caught. Perhaps I should change my methods.”
Aziraphale knew that the man was trying to be intimidating, to assert his own strength, but Aziraphale simply couldn’t picture him doing something so vile as taking by force what was willingly offered.
“I don’t think you will.”
“Because I’m too weak?”
“Because you’re too kind.”
That was enough to startle a bitter laugh out of the man. He looked at Aziraphale with something warring between anger and contempt.
“You don’t know a single damn thing. You’re the most stupid Dominant I’ve ever seen.”
Aziraphale shrugged. He knew he should’ve been outraged by such blatant disrespect, but he guessed the prickliness of the man was growing on him.
“I know that you have a head-start on the Council, but it’s not going to last forever. Gabriel will come back in three days to see how you’re doing, and he’ll demand to meet you. I’ll be able to cover your escape until then, but if you aren’t here when Gabriel shows up, they’ll know you’re gone. And they’ll come after you.”
Aziraphale got a long, hard stare for his trouble. The Submissive regarded him in silence for so long that Aziraphale was actually thinking to clear his throat and break what was becoming an almost unbearable silence, when the man stretched out the hand that wasn’t holding the money and offered it to him.
“I’m Crowley,” he said. Such a simple thing, but Aziraphale felt his heart thunder in his ears.
He knew the name, of course, it was in the file, but hearing it from his lips made it real. Not the Submissive, or the man. Crowley.
He took the proffered hand. It was a bony hand, hard and unbending, but the skin was dry and soft against Aziraphale’s palm.
“Aziraphale.”
His own hand felt cold, when Crowley let it go.
“Goodbye, Aziraphale,” he said, stuffing the money into a pocket of his coat and slinging the bag over his shoulder. He turned on his heels, and then he was gone.
“Best of luck,” Aziraphale wished to his retreating shadow.
Something told him that he’d be seeing Crowley again.