Work Text:
Prior to applying to the position of butler to Aziraphale Fell, Viscount of Eastgate, Crowley sought out rumours pertaining to the reclusive lord. He’d heard that the Viscount was comely, treated his servants well, and did not take advantage of them in pleasures of the flesh. His interests were books, taking walks in the country, and occasional small house parties. Nothing of concern, except for a whisper of a titillating rumour that the lord had… unusually exacting standards. But Crowley couldn’t chase down specifics of what that rumour may have alluded to, so he’d dismissed it as unimportant.
At his interview, he was too well-trained to let his expression betray the nervousness that had his palms sweating and his pulse fluttering like a hummingbird’s wing in his throat. He knew he was young for the rank of butler, and that it was a step up from his prior position of under-butler. Still, he had methodically working his way up the service ladder through careful planning and hard work, and he was determined to grasp for the golden opportunity of a butler to a viscount.
One of the reports he’d obtained was undeniably accurate. The Viscount was indeed very comely. Broad-shouldered, with a pleasingly solid frame that filled out his tailored waistcoat and breeches quite attractively. Close-cropped white curls as soft as thistledown framed a handsome face with captivating bright blue eyes that shone with intelligence.
The Viscount barely glanced at Crowley's references, instead plying him with questions designed to draw him into conversation. Lord Eastgate’s face had lit with enthusiasm when Crowley admitted he had spent some of his free time pursuing his previous employer’s library, and from that point was far more interested in what books Crowley had read and his opinion of them than of his experience in service.
The unusual interview soon made sense. In the evenings, when Crowley brought Lord Eastgate his sherry, the Viscount regularly pressed a book into his hands with the happy expectation that they would discuss it in the following evenings.
It became one of his duties to engage with the lord in such a manner, which was certainly not a hardship. He found the lord to have an engagingly keen mind. At times he tended towards pontification, but he was unusually encouraging of Crowley’s honest opinions, and was not put off when Crowley argued for opposite views. In fact, he appeared delighted when they engaged in a hearty debate.
That is not to say that they were friends.
Crowley was acutely aware of his station and did not make the mistake of offering topics that strayed into personal conversations. Nor did the Viscount. Although at times Crowley caught how the lord's eyes lingered on him with a wistful air. In those moments, he thought he glimpsed a reflection of the loneliness he saw in his own mirror.
But Lord Eastgate was a Viscount, and Crowley was the son of a housekeeper and a valet. Some lines were so uncrossable they may as well be twenty-foot-high walls of fire.
Another unusual stipulation of Crowley’s employment was the Viscount’s requirement that Crowley present for a daily personal inspection. It seemed a slightly eccentric lord's mad whim, but harmless. It was certainly a small price to pay for the exalted position of butler to a Viscount and, indeed, for the impressively high wage he was paid.
Each morning, Crowley stood at attention while the Viscount slowly circled him, inspecting every visible inch. If corrections were needed, the Viscount made them himself. Brushed lint from the arms of Crowley’s coat or the thighs of his breeches. Smoothed a crease in his clothing. Tugged Crowley’s shoulders back to improve his posture. Ran his hand up his spine while directing him in a low murmur to straighten it.
The touches never strayed towards impropriety, exactly, but they were still hands on his body, which Crowley seldom had the opportunity to feel apart from hasty encounters in darkened rooms. It confused his body into feeling that those brief points of physical contact were intimate in some fashion, even as he told himself sternly that they were not.
Yet over time, he found himself yearning more and more for those torturously proprietary touches that directed Crowley until the Viscount was satisfied.
He tried not to think about other ways he might satisfy his lord. And mostly succeeded. But he could not seem to prevent himself from carelessness prior to his inspections. A crease left in his waistcoat, or a streak of dust lingering on his sleeve. His cravat in need of adjusting. His stance off-centre, a slight slouch to his frame.
Once, daringly, he allowed a curl of his hair to fall out of place, resting on his forehead. It had taken every ounce of his training not to shudder when the Viscount’s hand had lifted and tucked the curl back into place. The sensation of his fingers gliding along Crowley’s scalp left a ribbon of light in its wake.
Despite his determination to keep still, he could not prevent his lips from parting with a near-soundless gasp. It was burned into his memory, how Lord Eastgate had gone as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on Crowley with an intensity that seared him to his core. His fingers had lingered in Crowley’s hair for only a few seconds, but it had felt to be an agonisingly long stretch of time before the Viscount pulled his hand away and stepped back to crisply give Crowley his orders for the day.
This daily ritual had felt strange at first, but the awkwardness of it had quickly faded away, and it had even become oddly soothing, despite the exquisite frisson the lord’s hands ignited in his body. There was something irresistibly alluring about being focused on with that much attention, gently corrected to be his absolute best, and then sent out to start his day with the warmth of his lord’s approval settled like a warm mantle around his shoulders.
This morning, mindful of the importance of tonight’s dinner for the Viscount’s esteemed guest, Crowley had denied his vexing impulses and strived for perfection in his appearance. He had meticulously polished his black shoes until they gleamed, brushed his breeches and frock coat so they did not show the merest speck of dust, ensured his stockings were white as snow, precisely folded his cravat, and arranged every strand of his ginger hair perfectly in place with pomade.
He maintained perfect posture; arms to his sides, chin high, spine straight, and eyes fixed forward as Lord Eastgate circled him with slow, measured steps.
To his perplexion, today’s inspection failed to provide the sense of gratification he had become accustomed to. The longer it went on without a word or touch from the Viscount, the more unsettled and on edge he became.
He held his breath as the lord leaned so close to inspect his cravat that he could feel the other man’s warm breath fan across his chin.
Finally, Lord Eastgate stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back. “I cannot find any fault with your presentation today, Mr Crowley. Well done.”
“Thank you, My Lord,” Crowley replied automatically, even as he tried to parse out why he felt a flash of disappointment that seemed to be mirrored in the thin press of the Viscount’s lips.
The lord’s face cleared to neutrality as he turned to his desk and scanned a paper. “Be sure to consult with the cook for the proper wine pairings. The Duke’s presence demand flawless execution of tonight’s dinner.”
“Certainly. I have everything well in hand, My Lord.”
The lord gave him an approving smile. “See that you do. You are dismissed.”
Dinner was a disaster.
The Duke was a loud, opinionated bore who found fault with the food, disparaged the wine (although he drank great quantities of it), and was obnoxious with the servants; snapping at them when they failed to adhere to his exacting standards.
Crowley ran interference for the footmen and servers as much as possible and personally attending to the Duke’s whims, even as he was tempted to have the cook spit in the man’s soup.
He watched Lord Eastgate as attentively as he did the Duke. The Viscount’s demeanour was solicitous and his tone polite as he engaged his guests in conversation. Still, Crowley had become acutely attuned to every nuance of the lord’s expression. His smile did not reach his eyes, and there was a thinness to his mouth and a stiff set to his shoulders. Even more telling, he left his duck a l'orange half-eaten and waved off an offer of seconds of sweet potato pie, which Crowley knew to be a favourite.
Not for the first time, Crowley wondered at the lack of close companions in the Viscount’s life. He hosted these dinner parties with regularity and sometimes seemed to enjoy them, but more often, it was like this, where they caused the light in his eyes to dim in a way that Crowley did not care for.
He decided that when he brought the Viscount his customary nightly sherry after the party was over, he would also bring some of the soft caramel chews that the lord was especially fond of. The hour would be late, but perhaps he could tempt the lord into continuing their discussion of The Canterbury Tales. He flattered himself to think he could coax a genuine smile out of him as was his wont when Crowley said something particularly clever. The lord’s cheeks dimpled fetchingly when he smiled.
That thought perhaps was what distracted him when the unthinkable happened.
Crowley had just turned away from refilling the Duke’s wine glass and failed to notice that the broad sleeve of his formal dress uniform caught on the rim of the glass. The glass tipped over, splashing wine over the table and into the Duke’s lap.
The Duke pushed back from the table with a curse as he looked down in disgust at his wine-soaked brown breeches. The thudding rush of his pulse pounding in his throat, Crowley frantically babbled apologies as he snatched a napkin to stop the flow of wine dripping over the table.
For all that mortification burned bright spots in his cheeks, pride swelled in Crowley’s chest at how superbly his staff comported themselves in reaction. They immediately leaped into motion, reflecting their training well. Cleaning supplies appeared out of nowhere as they cleaned up the mess, and they presented Crowley with absorbent cloths to offer to the Duke.
He bowed deeply, chagrin squeezing like a vice in his midsection as he held out the cloth. “Please accept my deepest apologies, Your Grace. There is no excuse for my clumsiness. May I offer you a change of clothes while my staff works on removing the wine before the stain sets in?”
The Duke gave him a contemptuous look as he snatched the cloth from Crowley’s hand. He addressed the Viscount, who had also stood and offered his own apologies. “I’ll take my leave early, Aziraphale. I’ll need to bathe, and I’m sure my staff is far more capable to deal with this mess.”
Lord Eastgate inclined his head. “Of course. Again, please accept my apology for the regrettable incident. I do hope that the rest of the dinner was to your satisfaction. I’ll walk you out.”
The rest of the small party did not linger long. After they left, Crowley worked with the staff to clear the dining room, which was not typically his job, but he needed something to keep his hands busy as the squeezing in his gut continued unabated.
When those tasks were done, nothing was left to do but face the music.
Crowley approached the door of Lord Eastgate’s study and reached up to knock, but paused as he noted the fine tremor of his hand. The unabated shame that he had incurred his lord’s disappointment caused jittery tension to invade his muscles.
It would not do to present himself as anything less than his best. He pulled back his shoulders and closed his eyes to breathe away the knot in his belly. Calmer in body if not in mind, he knocked on the door.
Upon being bid to enter, he stepped inside and closed the door. His eyes immediately sought the Viscount’s who was sitting at his desk. To his chagrin, the lord’s expression was unreadable. There was a brief, bristling silence, broken only by the quiet crackle of flames in the fireplace.
Desperation drove him to speak first. “Please accept my deepest apologies, My Lord. There is no excuse for my clumsiness, but I swear it will not happen again.”
The Viscount slowly stood and walked around his desk, stopping in front of him. Crowley could pick out the tension he’d noticed in the dining room, still evident in the purse of his lips, the stiffness of his stocky frame. Although there was something new his countenance. An unerringly focus in his gaze, like a hawk scrutinising a field mouse.
Lord Eastgate finally spoke. “The Duke insisted that I dismiss you.”
Crowley closed his eyes, his chest squeezing tight at his worst fear realised.
“However. He is not the lord of this house. I am.”
His eyes snapped open, hope taking wing.
The Viscount’s eyes flicked over Crowley’s livery. “Your coat is stained.”
Mortification burned through him like a firebrand. He realised that he should have changed prior to entering to make himself presentable, but he hadn't thought things through in his haste to beg his lord’s forgiveness. He removed his offending coat immediately, draping it over his arm for lack of anything better to do with it.
“I beg your forgiveness for the oversight, My Lord. If I may be so bold, my greatest wish is to remain in your service, should you be so generous.”
“Mm. I’m gratified to hear that, Mr Crowley.” The lord’s reply was distracted as he looked him over. “You have wine on your breeches as well.”
Crowley looked down at the dark spread of burgundy on his fawn-coloured breeches. His throat clicked on a swallow as he raised his head and met Lord Eastgate’s eyes. The Viscount's eyebrow lifted in clear expectation.
He slowly raised his hands to the buttons on his breeches and unfastened them with trembling hands that betrayed the race of his heart. After toeing off his shoes, he pushed his breeches down and stepped out of them. His stockings were also stained, so he thought it best to remove them as well.
After draping his garments over his arm, he stood awkwardly half-dressed in his underdrawers, the cool air on his skin causing the fine red hairs on his legs to stand up.
The Viscount gave him a nod of approval and then clasped his hands behind his back.
“You must be aware, Mr. Crowley, that servants have been dismissed from their positions for lesser transgressions.”
He wasn’t sure if Lord Eastgate expected a reply, but it never hurt to offer an agreement. “Yes, My Lord.”
The lord turned on his heel and walked over to his desk. His tone was carefully thoughtful as he slid his hand over the edge of the polished mahogany wood. “However, it is true that your service up to this point has been exemplary. Should you accept a… consequence… for your mistakes of the evening, there is no reason you shouldn't keep your position.”
“I'm ever so grateful for your generosity, My Lord.” Gratitude eased the tightness in his chest.
Losing his position without a reference would be bad enough. If word got out that he had been fired for just cause, his career prospects would be ruined. He’d be fortunate to obtain a job as a lowly footman. He imagined that Lord Eastgate was intending to dock his pay, or perhaps a temporary assignment of duties typically beneath his station, both of which he would accept gratefully in lieu of dismissal.
The lord cast him a long, appraising look. After a silence, he said carefully, “I firmly believe a strong connection exists between the mind and the body. The mind easily deceives itself, you see. In very little time, the severity of regret fades, which dulls the drive to excel. But the flesh is more pure. It cannot lie nor deceive itself. Therefore, imprinting the flesh with the lessons the mind needs to learn leaves a lasting impression.”
Crowley shifted on his feet uneasily as he tried to follow the lord's winding logic. “Do you mean to have me beaten?”
The lord’s blue eyes widened in shocked affront. “Certainly not! I’m not a savage.”
“Of course not My Lord, my apologies if I have offended you,” Crowley replied hastily.
The Viscount lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if praying for strength, and then picked up his glass of sherry and walked across the room to stand before the fire.
“Even if I were so inclined—which I am not”—he cast a reproving glance at Crowley—“excessive physical retribution would, in fact, cause the opposite effect. A lesson tainted by fear has been proven beyond a doubt to be detrimental to learning.” The Viscount’s carefully detached tone was betrayed by the restless manner in which he was turning the glass of sherry around in his hands. “The associated lesson in physicality must be carefully calculated to be just the right amount. For example, an act no more severe than a… spanking.” He tilted his head towards him. “Would you agree, Mr Crowley?”
Crowley’s brows drew together, bewildered as to where the Viscount was going with this. After a pause, he replied, “That, erm, seems sensible, My Lord.”
The Viscount swirled the sherry in his glass and then took a long swallow. “Have you ever been spanked, Mr Crowley?” His tone was casual, as if he was asking about the state of the weather.
Crowley could not keep the startlement from his face. “Yes, as a boy.”
“Did it inspire you to correct your mistakes?”
“Um. It mostly inspired me not to get caught.”
Lord Eastgate huffed out a short laugh but said nothing further as he gazed into the flickering flames.
After careful consideration, Crowley ventured, “But… I’m sure it imparted a valuable lesson to me that I did not fully appreciate at the time, My Lord.”
Lord Eastgate’s blue eyes focused on him, searching his face.
”You think so?”
Crowley nodded, holding his gaze. An anticipatory tension returned to his belly, but of a very different sort this time. He tracked the Viscount’s eyes as they traveled over to his desk and lingered there before returning to him. The lord remained silent, but there was a coiled stillness to his body that suggested he was waiting for Crowley to make the next move in a board game that he was unclear as to the rules of.
After a long pause, Crowley mastered the tension that clung to his muscles, threatening to lock them into immobility, and walked over to face the desk. He set his livery on the desk and placed trembling hands on the drawstrings of his drawers. His fingers lingered unmoving for a dozen beats of his too-fast heart, hoping he wasn’t wildly misinterpreting the situation and about to do something that could get him arrested as well as fired.
With a shaky exhale, he untied his laces and let his drawers drop to his ankles. Leaning over the desk, he braced himself on his forearms against the cool, dark wood, keeping his back and legs ramrod straight.
His breath caught in his throat as it sank in how utterly exposed and vulnerable the position made him. His bare arse was on indecent display, the soft, heavy hang of his bollocks likely visible to the Viscount.
A profound hush lingered in the air, stretching out into a long and weighty pause. Crowley clenched his fingers against the polished wood in an agony of waiting for the lord’s response.
“Perfect presentation, Mr Crowley.” Lord Eastgate’s tone held the same molten glow of approval that he used during Crowley’s inspections.
“Thank you, My Lord.” The reply was automatic, pulled out of him by decades of training.
He released the breath he’d held tight in his lungs, relaxing slightly as the familiar feeling of satisfaction of obtaining his lord’s approval washed through him.
The next breath was sharply sucked in through his teeth when the warmth of a hand settled over his bare buttock. The hand squeezed gently as if testing the firmness of the rounded flesh.
“I’m going to begin dispensing your punishment now, Mr Crowley. Are you ready?”
No, he wasn’t ready. He didn’t think he would ever be ready, but the anticipation was winding like the tight coils of clockwork springs under his skin, and he felt that he might snap if he had to wait any longer.
“Yes, My Lord.”
For all that he had been braced for it, the sharp slap against his arse made him yelp. The sharp crack resounding loudly in the hushed silence of the study startled him as much as the brief sting, like a starburst against his skin.
“You took that very well, Mr Crowley. I’m very proud of you.” The lord’s voice was warm and pleased. It made Crowley want to please him more. “You can take your punishment, can’t you, my good man?”
He let out a trembling sigh as he lowered his head over the desk. “Yes, My Lord.”
“Excellent. I knew you could. Here we go.”
Two sharp slaps in quick succession left a burst of fire on his arse. There was a pause as if to assess Crowley’s reaction.
Crowley’s impulse to squirm in embarrassment and shame was eased by the wash of conviction that he would dutifully and without reservation serve his lord however he desired. He settled on his heels, lifting his hips in wordless invitation.
“Oh, Mr Crowley,” Lord Eastgate breathed, his voice reverent as if witnessing a divine manifestation.
The spanking resumed, this time in earnest. Lord Fell’s hand came down again and again, dispensing rhythmic smacks that left flashes of burning heat all over his bare arse.
As the slaps jolted Crowley forward, he spread his legs as wide as the drawers trapped around his ankles would allow him to brace against it. His panting breaths left circles of steam on the varnished wood of the desk.
The world went fuzzy around the edges as if in a fever dream. He hardly had words for how he felt. The lord wasn’t hitting him overly hard, just enough so that the sharp smacks from the flat of his hand stung more than hurt. Despite that, his throbbing arse felt intensely alive, each slap searing into his flesh in a manner that left his nerve endings alight and tingling.
His submissive bent over position, his backside naked and exposed, being treated in a manner that felt oddly, exquisitely intimate despite the punishing nature of it, sparked a visceral reaction deep inside of him. He had no purpose but to serve his lord, giving himself completely and utterly in a manner that transcended anything he had done before.
He was acutely aware of his lord’s presence behind him. Of his breathing, low and rough, faster than was warranted from the slight exertion. Of the praise he dispensed along with the spanking.
Yes, very good, Mr Crowley.
Look at you; you’re magnificent. Just as I imagined. Better, in fact.
Perhaps it was those approving words uttered with an edge of a growl that caused the sharp stinging slaps on his arse to transform into a generalised fiery warmth that bloomed and proliferated like a flowering vine. With every slap, scorching tendrils of sensation migrated up his spine and spread throughout his body, to the point that every inch of his skin felt awash with a delectable heat.
And then, to his utter dismay, his cock began to thicken and rise.
The mortification that squeezed his chest tight over becoming helplessly aroused while being spanked only quickened the filling of his member until it jutted stiff and heavy between his legs. His head dropped onto his arms, muffling his cries, which were beginning to sound suspiciously like moans thick with want.
The lord stopped after one last firm slap that cracked loudly against his tender flesh. The dual pants of their breathing accompanied the quiet crackle of the fire.
Crowley quivered as he felt a soft, smooth hand caress his throbbing buttocks, the palm cool against the heat of his no doubt bright-red flesh.
“It pleases me greatly how well you took your punishment for me, Mr Crowley.” The lord’s voice, a thick murmur, poured over Crowley like dark honey.
“Th-thank you, My Lord,” Crowley managed.
Even as the thrill of satisfaction shimmered through him at the knowledge that his lord was pleased with him, he prayed the Viscount would not notice the shameful state of affairs between his legs.
Unless… the Viscount meant to take his pleasure of him. He wondered if at any moment he would feel the blunt nudge of his cock against the furled entrance that must be so prominently exposed, ripe for the taking.
He wondered if he would mind.
His hard member certainly had left no room for doubt as it pulsed out a small gout that dripped down his shaft at the thought.
He held his breath as the lord moved so close that he could feel the slight drag of his clothing against Crowley’s oversensitized flesh. He thought he might combust into an inferno when he felt questing fingers slide under his shirt, skirt the edge of his hip bone, and then dip between his legs to discover the evidence of his proud shaft jutting upwards towards his belly.
“Oh, Mr Crowley,” Lord Eastgate breathed. “You continue to surprise and delight me at every turn.”
Crowley couldn’t manage anything more coherent than a moan as the fingers traced along his shaft with maddeningly light pressure.
“I confess that I have spent much time thinking about how pleased I have been with your service, Mr Crowley. And how much I’ve wanted to reward you for your hard work.”
Crowley licked his lips in an effort to will moisture into the dryness of his mouth. “It is my pleasure to serve you, My Lord,” he replied breathlessly with earnest fervour. “I am yours to command.”
“Is that so?” The Viscount’s tone was curious. “I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been remiss in my duties as your master in providing you with the proper motivation and encouragement for such dedication. It’s just as important to be rewarded for good service as it is to be corrected, don’t you think?”
As he spoke, the Viscount’s fingers circled around Crowley’s aching shaft, giving him a long stroke tip to root.
“Y—yes. I am in full agreement, My Lord,” Crowley managed around a shaky moan.
That earned him a soft Ah that was saturated with delight. The lord continued the sweet slide of his fist, not fast but with long, deliberate downstrokes that had Crowley’s bollocks drawing up tight against his body and him biting his lip in an effort to keep in the lewd sounds that threatened to spill past them.
“Now, now, Mr Crowley. I want to hear how much you appreciate your reward,” the lord admonished him with a particularly clever twist of his hand.
Crowley instantly obeyed, a keen pouring out of him with desperate intensity.
“That’s it, just like that. Good man. Such lovely sounds you make.” The Viscount’s voice turned darker, nearly a growl, as the grip of his hand tightened deliciously. His other hand returned to Crowley’s arse, fondling the aching flesh.
Crowley’s thighs trembled as the pressure in his lower abdomen intensified, like a pending avalanche needing only the weight of a single pebble to trigger its cascade.
“Ah, ah, oh. My Lord, I’m—uh, going to—”
“Yes, my perfect, gorgeous man. You’ve earned this; go on now, let me hear you.”
“Oh, thank you, My Lord, thank you—oh, ah—yes, yes, yes!” Crowley garbled as the avalanche released in tumbling pulses of pleasure that had him wailing.
His hips snapped up into the Viscount’s fist as he shook through the orgasm of his life. As the last feeble bursts of spend trickled from his cock, Crowley slumped forward on quivering legs over the desk as he sucked in ragged gulps of air.
“Very well done, Mr Crowley. I couldn’t be more pleased with your excellent performance tonight,” Lord Eastgate murmured approvingly.
“I’m very glad to have pleased you, My Lord,” Crowley mumbled sincerely onto the desk. He was weightless, ready to float away at any moment.
The Viscount’s hand swept soothingly up and down Crowley’s back. “That position can’t be comfortable for long, my dear man. Up with you, I’ll help.”
Crowley struggled up to a standing position, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He turned to face the Viscount, who supported him with a steadying arm around his back, holding him firmly.
“There you are, I have you. Take your time.” The lord’s tone was tender and soft.
Ever attuned to his lord’s state, Crowley noted that the tension that had clung to the lord’s demeanour all evening was absent. He looked as contented as a cat with cream, humming lightly under his breath as he adjusted his arm more securely around Crowley’s waist and tugged a handkerchief from his coat.
Crowley's hands twitched with the impulse to take the cloth from the noble as he took in the improbable sight of the Viscount of Eastgate using it to gently, perhaps even reverently, wipe the spend off of his bare skin. As if Crowley was someone to be cared for. Cherished.
He sucked in air between his teeth at the jolt of overstimulation when his flagging cock was wiped down. The Viscount flicked a glance at him, his eyes soft and apologetic.
“Almost done,” he murmured.
After he had wiped off the last glistening streak, the lord held the soiled handkerchief and his brow dipped as he looked around as if at a loss for what to do with it.
Crowley hastily pulled up his drawers. As the Viscount moved back to give him room, his hand trailed over Crowley’s waist as if reluctant to be parted. It dropped away completely as he took a step away. The space he vacated felt cold and bereft.
After tying his drawers, Crowley reached out and took the handkerchief from the Viscount.
“I’ll, um. Have it cleaned, My Lord.”
“Ah yes, quite.”
The Viscount lowered his eyes as he shifted on his feet, his hands tangling in front of him.
Crowley’s eyes dropped to the not-inconsiderable bulge in Lord Eastgate’s crème-coloured breeches. He swayed a step closer. The urge to please his lord had not abated in the slightest. If anything, it had intensified, all-encompassing and endless.
“Is there… any other way I can be of service to you, My Lord?”
The Viscount hesitated, his hands clenching tighter, as if to keep them from reaching out. He looked up at Crowley, yearning desire shining clear in his eyes. But to Crowley’s dismay, his confident demeanour faded like a vibrant painting exposed overlong to the sun. His gaze dropped, and he turned away.
“I wouldn’t dream of imposing on your time further, Mr Crowley. It’s been a long day, I’m sure you must be tired and in need of rest.”
The Viscount moved closer to the fireplace, appearing utterly engrossed in the flickering flames that cast a golden light on his reddened cheeks. Awkwardness settled in the room like the weight of a heavy blanket.
Not knowing what else to do, Crowley gathered his clothes and left the room. He lay awake in his bedchamber late into the night, trying to process the events of the evening as he floated in a world that had shifted on its axis.
The following morning, Crowley wiped his damp palms against his coat and then took a bracing breath before entering the Viscount’s study.
As he walked in, the tight stretch of his form-fitting breeches strained against the mild ache of his buttocks, each step a reminder of what had transpired the previous night. Not that he needed a reminder, as he’d been able to think of little else since leaving the study.
His eyes sought out the Viscount, who quickly stood and ran a hand through his tousled hair. He was as impeccably dressed as always, in buff-coloured breeches and matching frock coat adorned with wide gilt buttons that gleamed in the morning light. However, the curls on his head were sticking up every which way, as if pomade and anxious hands had fought a losing battle.
His eyes were wide, and he looked one step away from spooking like a startled horse. The tight knot of uncertainty in Crowley’s gut that had plagued him all night eased at seeing the same emotion reflected in the Viscount’s eyes. He felt humbled by the vulnerability he saw in their depths.
“Good morning, My Lord,” Crowley offered after a prolonged silence.
Lord Eastgate visibly collected himself. “Ah, good morning, Mr Crowley. Did you, um… sleep well?” His tone was hesitant, the words treading lightly in the space between them.
“Exceedingly well, My Lord.” He made his tone gently encouraging. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had a better night’s sleep.”
The tense set of the Viscount’s shoulders eased fractionally. “Oh. Ah, that’s good. Very good.” He clasped his hands together fitfully, his eyes darting around his study as if further words failed him.
“Would My Lord like to inspect me?” Crowley prompted hopefully.
Lord Eastgate’s expression cleared to one of relief, as if a return to a familiar ritual was one he grasped at eagerly. “Oh—yes. Yes, of course.”
Crowley assumed his formal stance; spine ramrod straight, shoulders back, gaze fixed forward. Surely this would help ground them both, and help relax the Viscount enough that they could—well, perhaps not talk about what happened, because Crowley wasn’t confident he could manage to be so familiar with his lord as to have such a discussion as if they were equals. But he was well-versed in the aristocratic language of hidden meanings and half-truths, and would unhesitatingly meet his lord step for step should he offer the opportunity.
Although, to Crowley’s increased disappointment, as Lord Eastgate slowly circled around him, there were no murmured comments, nor the touches that Crowley ached for. He held his breath in hopeful anticipation when the Viscount completed his circuit and stopped in front of him, his eyes lingering on the cravat that Crowley was perfectly aware was tied sloppily.
Crowley kept himself as still as a statue as the Viscount’s hand rose towards his cravat. But before his fingers came into contact, they curled inwards, and then his arm dropped to his side.
Lord Eastgate’s eyes searched Crowley’s face with the air of a desperate man. “You’re—” His mouth worked for a moment, as if forming and then discarding a half-dozen things to say. “Quite well?”
Crowley let his eyes meet the Viscount’s. “Exceedingly so,” he assured him earnestly.
His hand twitched with the urge to take the Viscount’s fisted hand and stroke it softly to soothe his concerns over Crowley’s well-being. If the lord made such a move, Crowley would take his hand gladly, but a lifetime of service made it impossible for him to be so bold as to try to breach the divide.
Still, he tried. “Please rest assured that I would not have wanted to be anywhere else in the world last night than in your service, My Lord.”
The Viscount’s tight expression softened, but lines of doubt still creased his brow. He was quiet for a moment. Disappointment pressed sharply against Crowley’s breastbone when the lord turned away. He crossed to his desk to sit behind it and picked up his quill.
“That will be all, Mr Crowley.” There was a forced quality to the formality of the Viscount’s tone, but it was a clear dismissal.
Crowley opened his mouth to say something, although what, he had no idea. The Viscount was his lord, and he was his servant. He could do nothing less than obey. In the end, he simply bowed and left the room.
Over the next few days, Crowley endured the Viscount’s painfully proper veneer that was smooth as porcelain. Yet occasionally, the lord’s composure would slip. Cracks appeared in the form of looks that lingered too long to be considered anything but longing before he averted his eyes with an air of self-recrimination.
Crowley wanted to howl in frustration.
He’d not deny that he had harboured certain desires concerning the Viscount. Desires he’d carefully boxed up and secured the lids on tight. Now though, it felt like those boxes—and new ones he’d hadn’t known existed—were not only full to bursting, but also constructed of sodden pasteboard, crumpled and crumbling. Their contents leaking to the point he could hardly think of anything else.
And he knew as surely as the sun sets in the west that the Viscount was similarly affected. But Crowley’s internal conflict of knowing his place as a lowborn servant and brazenly asserting his desires may as well be clashed armies unyielding on the battlefield. There was no doubt which outcome (certainly for his position, likely also for his heart) was safer, so he applied his resources to bolster the brigade of keeping the status quo.
The day had swayed into the arms of the night some hours ago when Crowley slipped into Lord Eastgate’s study to bring him his customary evening glass of sherry. The Viscount sat at his desk, absorbed in a book.
The Viscount was sitting at his desk reading. “Thank you, Mr Crowley. You are free to retire for the evening,” he murmured without looking up.
This time, Crowley couldn’t make himself turn away. His resolution to remain within the constraints of his station popped like a soap bubble, and turned into a very different sort of resolve that settled into the marrow of his bones.
After a moment when Crowley remained motionless, the Viscount looked up at him, his eyebrows raised in question.
Crowley let the fire in his belly ignite in his eyes as he locked gazes with the Viscount. He slowly reached out to the tumbler of sherry and flicked his wrist, sending the glass tumbling to the tiled floor.
It crashed spectacularly.
“Forgive me, My Lord. It appears that I am unusually clumsy tonight.”
Lord Eastgate’s wide-eyed startlement transformed into one of burgeoning hope as he set down his book, holding the charged connection of their eyes.
“That… does appear to be the case, Mr Crowley. I may venture to say that such careless behaviour begs for correction.” The upward lilt to his tone curled into a question.
Crowley placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward until their faces were no more than a handspan apart. “Quite right, My Lord. Tell me, however can I make amends?”
Lord Eastgate’s answering smile was slow and sweet.