Red Light AU
"Goodnight, Gabriel," Michael said softly, pulling away from the kiss he had bestowed on his brother's forehead. "Sleep well." He addressed both Gabriel and Raphael as he said this, gently closing the door to the room they both shared. Sighing, Michael made his way to the living room where Lucifer lay across the lumpy old couch, trying to watch Happy Days on a tiny screen that was fuzzy with static.
"Yo, Mike," Lucifer called without looking up. "You wanna bring me back a tin of peanuts or something?"
Michael smiled sadly; when Lucifer had asked a few years ago exactly what he was doing to keep their family afloat, he had replied that he was a bartender at a club in the North end. At the time, he had been working at a club, but serving something much different than drinks. He had only been nineteen then, so he was surprised that his normally shrewd brother had not seen through the lie. "You know I can't," he replied.
"Yeah, well—" Lucifer shrugged. "Worth a shot. I still think you should get me a job."
"I think not," said Michael sternly. "Someone has to watch over the children." Besides, there was no way he would let Lucifer anywhere near his line of work.
"Raphael is almost fifteen," said Lucifer. "You left me alone with them when I was fifteen. And Raph's way more responsible than me."
"Gabriel still needs you," Michael said calmly.
"But I'm saying Raph can look after Gabe," Lucifer argued.
"If you want a job, go get one yourself," Michael retorted, knowing full well that Lucifer had no motivation to do so.
"Sure thing," said Lucifer, which was what he said every time.
Michael grabbed his phone off the charger: it was an old flip phone, and had only become his personal phone when he had left the club to go private. A second, slightly newer phone served as the landline; both were on pay-as-you-go. "You know how to reach me," he told Lucifer.
"Yeah, except you never answer," Lucifer snorted, and Michael cringed at the accusation in his voice; his brother really had no idea.
"I do my best," he replied quietly. "Goodnight, Lucifer."
"G'night, Mikey."
Once the door had clicked shut behind him, Michael stood on the porch and took a deep breath to compose himself. He checked the address he had received earlier that day: apparently the ad he had snuck online through the library computer was working.
The house was all the way across town—nearly in the suburbs. Michael had to walk for twenty minutes after catching the bus as far as it could go. He did not need to check the number again, as it was plainly obvious which building was his destination.
While most of the houses on the street were of the cookie-cutter variety, quaint little things with minivan-filled driveways, there was one residence that must have been there before the neighbourhood itself. A soft yellow glow came from behind the windows, which peered out of the dark-bricked walls. A wrought-iron fence surrounded the property, spiked gate open in admittance to those brave enough to enter. The house boasted three storeys, and carved wooden pillars supported the balcony over the porch.
Michael approached with some apprehension, glancing nervously at the statues and plants that flanked the gravel path. An old-fashioned knocker was fixed to the oaken door and Michael made use of it, hearing the ensuing boom echo through the whole house. He swallowed thickly and took a step back, almost hoping his client would not answer.
He was disappointed a few moments later when he was doused in light from the silently opening door. His client was a well-dressed man with dark hair and a few days' worth of beard, holding a glass of dark alcohol in one hand while the other rested on the doorknob.
"Well hullo there," the man greeted in a rough British accent. "Find the place okay?"
"Y-yessir," Michael stammered. He had had his share of both attractive clients and repulsive ones, but this man was on a whole different spectrum. The rasp of his voice seemed to augment his rugged handsomeness, putting him in a category of his own.
"Save the 'sir' for later," said the man with a light laugh. "Just call me Crowley for now. Please, come in." He stepped aside to allow Michael room to pass and closed the door behind him.
Now that he had stepped into the light, Michael could feel himself being scrutinized. He maintained eye contact, no longer intimidated by this sort of examination after many years.
"It's fitting that you're named after an angel," Crowley remarked casually, then pausing to take a drink. "You're even prettier than your pictures."
"Thank you, sir."
"Crowley."
"Crowley," Michael amended. "Sorry."
"Don't be," said Crowley. "Would you like a drink?"
"No, thank you," Michael replied politely. Despite the fact that he was paid by the hour and accepting would have made him more money, he needed to remain sober so he could get home safely afterwards.
"Suit yourself," said Crowley with a shrug. He put his now empty glass down on his counter and started down the hallway. "Follow me, then."
Michael had to bite back another 'yessir' and padded quietly after the man. No matter how many times he did this, he still got a nervous roiling in his gut in anticipation.
"How old are you?" Crowley asked, leading Michael to the end of the hall and unlocking a set of double doors with a heavy brass key.
"Twenty-two, s—Crowley." Michael stopped in the doorway. Crowley's bedroom contained more luxury than he ever had or probably ever would see in his life. Tall lamps inlaid with gold stood in the two far corners, and a dark-wooded bed dominated the wall between them. A Persian rug probably worth more than Michael's house engulfed most of the floor, and a doorway on one wall led to an en suite bathroom. A closed closet door stood beside that, and an enormous wardrobe took up most of the opposite wall.
"Like what you see?" Crowley chuckled. He took his shoes off and placed them by the door, then gestured for Michael to do the same.
"It's very lovely," Michael complimented, trying to stay impassive. He did not want to sound too desperate, lest the other man pity him. "You must have had a successful career."
"Have had?" Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Just how old do you think I am?"
Not wanting to offend him, Michael quickly answered, "I don't know."
"I turned thirty last week," Crowley told him, making his way over to the bed. He lay in the centre of it, half-sitting propped up against two layers of pillows. He crossed his legs at the ankles and looked at Michael, who had remained in the middle of the rug.
"I'm sorry."
"You're awfully contrite for a whore," Crowley commented. In earlier years, the statement might have brought a blush to Michael's cheeks, but he had endured far worse since then. He remained silent, his green gaze locked on Crowley's face.
"Well, go on then," Crowley said decisively, gesturing at Michael. "Let's have a look at you."
Michael nodded, relieved that the awkward conversation was over. It was always then that he was most ashamed. He pulled off his sweater with hardly a thought and tossed it to the floor at his feet, hands coming up in the same motion to grab the back of his t-shirt.
"Oi!" Crowley said, stopping Michael cold. "Come on then, this is an art, not a duty."
It was comments like that that struck Michael to the very core of his being. He let his hands fall to his sides. "It is my duty to please you," he said simply, not telling him just how much duty fuelled his work.
"Well," said Crowley, "it would please me if you awarded your body the respect it deserves, instead of regarding it as a tool. As I said, it's an art. Now, make it a show."
Michael was too surprised to reply, but his body moved on instinct. He deftly undid his belt and rolled his hips once in the empty air to allow his shirt to ride up, giving Crowley the briefest glimpse of the V his hipbones formed. The other man appeared satisfied at this and settled back into the pillows, watching with a slight smirk.
Crossing his arms over his hips, Michael gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it off over his head, flicking it off his right hand while his left pushed one side of his waistband an inch or two down his hip. This was all one fluid movement that caused his shoulder and chest muscles to ripple: when he was not working, Michael found the time to work out, making use of the crossbars on the fire escape across the alley from his house; being well-toned meant he got more clients. He glanced up at Crowley, whose lips had parted slightly, and let a smirk that did not reach his eyes quirk up one side of his mouth. "Better?"
"Much," said Crowley hoarsely, devouring Michael's body with his eyes. His pupils dilated further as Michael undid his jeans, baring the roots of dark hair just above his low-riding briefs.
After allowing only that teasing look, Michael turned his back to Crowley to slide his jeans down his legs, rolling his hips again so his ass stuck out slightly. He hooked a thumb in the waistband of his briefs and pulled them halfway down one hip as he slowly turned back.
"Wait," said Crowley, beckoning with a hand. "Come here."
Michael removed his hand, allowing his waistband to return to its natural position, and sauntered over to the bed. He removed his socks on the way there.
Crowley shifted to uncross his legs and patted his lap, barely having time to move his hand out of the way before Michael had swung a leg over his to straddle him. The younger man rolled his hips down once, grinding against the bulge he felt rapidly growing, and ran his hands down Crowley's chest, then back up his shoulders to push his suit jacket off his shoulders. After impatiently tossing the garment aside, Crowley reached a hand up to grab the back of Michael's neck and to bring him forward to kiss, the other squeezing his thigh and stroking the inner flesh with his thumb.
Crowley's lips tasted like whatever he had been drinking, but his tongue beneath that was tinged with a heady sweetness that sent Michael reeling. He kissed back fluidly, rubbing his palms in slow circles over the chest of the man beneath him. He always performed better when he found the client mutually attractive, as was the case here. He registered Crowley's hand flow from his neck down his side to rest on his hip and could not help but moan quietly.
"You make the most beautiful noises," Crowley murmured, pulling away from Michael's lips to nip at his neck, which had always been sensitive. The added scratch of scruff on his skin only heightened the pleasure and he moaned again, low in the back of his throat this time. He felt Crowley's cock twitch, even through the layers of clothes, and shivered at the hot breath of the reciprocating groan on his neck. With shaking hands, Michael undid Crowley's tie and slipped it off his neck, the fabric slithering with a whisper against the bed sheets. He took in a sharp breath as Crowley sucked at the skin beneath his ear.
Michael bit his lip and ground his hips down again, trying to achieve some friction on his strained erection. Keeping his movements as gentle as he could, he un-tucked Crowley's shirt and undid the buttons one at a time, letting his hands spread the parted material afterwards. His hands were warm and soft, and he had long mastered ghosting his fingers over just the right places to evoke a reaction; his efforts were rewarded with a shudder and a shaky exhale.
Both of Crowley's hands descended to rest on Michael's ass, where he applied firm pressure. Michael's own hands had trailed down and he toyed idly with Crowley's belt, undoing it painfully slowly. He turned his head to capture Crowley's lips in another kiss, dragging his tongue along the other's bottom lip. He soon found Crowley's tongue pressed up against his and both of their moans sent vibrations through him.
Once Michael had undone his trousers, Crowley took his hips and eased him off of his lap, sitting up to reach into the bedside table. The small packet he procured, he pressed into Michael's hand as he pushed his trousers past his knees and then kicked them off. He knelt on the mattress and reached down into his pants to palm himself, nodding at the condom in Michael's hand.
"You're gonna put that on me," he said. "With your mouth."
"Yessir," Michael replied, heeding Crowley's earlier warning about saving the 'sir' for later. He tore open the package as Crowley pulled his cock out, but stopped short with a ragged gasp; he had to be ten inches, at least. Shaking his head to regain his composure, Michael rested his weight on his forearms and knees in front of Crowley, looking up into his eyes with an expression he had been told was 'innocently sinful.'
"You look lovely, darling," Crowley crooned, his eyes glittering with excitement. One hand quickly dropped his pants to around his knees while the other stroked back through Michael's hair possessively. Michael, for his part, shifted his weight to his elbows as he reached up to wrap his hand around the base of the other's cock. He held it still as he placed the condom on the head and rolled it down enough so it would stay in place when he replaced his fingers with his lips. He let his tongue slide along the underside of Crowley's length, further unfurling the rubber along it.
Crowley let out a long moan and his hand clenched in Michael's hair. He leaned forward to impatiently push Michael's briefs off his ass so he could admire the view.
Not even fazed by the cool air, Michael finished rolling the condom on with his hand, not trusting in his ability to take in Crowley's full length. Crowley did not seem to mind, however, only tugging at Michael's hair to punctuate his raspy, "Ass up." Michael complied immediately as he began stroking the lower half of Crowley's cock while his mouth worked the upper half.
Crowley's free hand clamped onto Michael's shoulder and he thrust into his mouth, wanting to feel the soft warmth of the other's tongue on as much of his length as possible. It was only thanks to Michael's years of experience that he managed to close his throat before the tip hit the back of it, but he still gave a slight grunt. Crowley seemed to acknowledge this by not pressing any farther, actually thrusting a little shallower as he moved just to get friction. The consideration was unnecessary, but it was highly appreciated on Michael's part. He focused on swirling his tongue around Crowley's girth and keeping his hand pumping evenly, settling into a haze of routine that was only broken by the other man's voice above him.
"Get up," Crowley ordered through clenched teeth, releasing his hold on Michael's hair and pushing him back. Michael settled back on his haunches, but Crowley dragged him forward and up to kiss him again. Unable to stand the pressure any longer, Michael slipped his briefs the rest of the way down. He sighed into Crowley's mouth as his aching cock was finally released, the end of the exhale turning into a whimper. Crowley's hands trailed down to Michael's ass once more: he teased one finger up the entire length of his entrance while his other hand delivered a sharp slap to his lower cheek.
Michael let out a cry of surprise, but immediately went back in for the kiss. It seemed Crowley had other ideas, however; he gave Michael's ass a lighter slap and then pulled away from him, resuming his semi-horizontal position from before. He curled his fingers inwards in a beckoning gesture after removing his socks and smirked when Michael straddled his lower stomach. The sting from the slap was already fading, and he ground his ass down as Crowley's hands roamed up his thighs, thumbs pressing into the hollow between them and his hips. Michael rested his hands on Crowley's chest and tried to subtly lean forward so his cock rubbed against the other's stomach.
Crowley knew exactly what Michael was trying to do, and he chuckled in sympathy. "No one's paying any attention to you, hm?" he soothed in sickly sweet tones. Michael bit his lip in embarrassment, which only made Crowley laugh as he closed one hand over each of their cocks and rubbed at the tips with his thumbs.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Michael became aware that he was being paid to pleasure this man, not the other way around, and certainly not to have his client do it himself. He pushed Crowley's hand away from his cock, though he let be the hand that was working his own. As if to make up for his lapse in performance, Michael lifted himself up and positioned himself over the other's tip. Though the pre-lubed rubber helped to ease the strain, Michael still cried out as he was fully penetrated un-stretched.
In the throes of sudden pleasure, Crowley lost his grip on Michael's cock and pressed his head back into the pillows, arching his hips up. A single shout of "Fuck!" pierced the air, and Crowley's hands clamped onto Michael's hips, his nails digging into the flesh.
After the initial shock of both Crowley's size and suddenness had subsided, Michael was able to ride with a smooth ease that would leave no doubt as to his profession in anyone's mind. He let out little wanton cries as he slammed down against Crowley's skin over and over again. Crowley matched his movements, arching up at the same time Michael pressed down. His breathing was ragged and he was whispering a string of obscenities under his breath.
Michael's head was swimming. By the time he reached this part most days, he had already zoned out, counting down until when it was over; but Crowley's body seemed to move so in time with his that Michael nearly forgot he was working, actually enjoying himself for the first time in months despite the ache growing in his lower back. He could tell he was going to hurt in the morning.
"I…I'm close," Crowley panted, his fingertips still pressed firmly into Michael's hips. "Make it good for me, love."
Michael clenched around Crowley's length, though he was nowhere near release himself: he did not even climax most nights, but it was his job to guide the other through his orgasm.
Crowley lasted longer than he expected, though the tight pressure of Michael's hole was sending a sensory overload through his body. He scratched down Michael's sides, albeit lightly enough to leave only faint pink marks, and let out a cry of pleasure as he released. Michael rode him through his climax and only slowed when Crowley let out a sated sigh, eyes fluttering open to look up at Michael breathlessly. "Wow…" he breathed, but Michael did not take the compliment to heart; enough people had told him he was good at what he did. Crowley slowly relaxed his grip on Michael, letting his hands fall back to the other's hips.
Swallowing thickly and composing himself with a few deep breaths, Michael concentrated on allowing his erection to subside, though he was unsuccessful in escaping Crowley's notice.
"Need some help with that?" the older man quipped, now able to speak in full sentences.
Michael shook his head. "I need to get home." Again, staying would have made him more money, but his brothers were his primary concern. "Besides, that is the opposite of my job."
"Nonsense," Crowley grunted, sitting up and easing Michael off his length. As he carefully rolled the condom off, he spoke casually: "I could get off on the noises you make."
"It is up to you," said Michael in resignation. He dangled his feet off the bed, but didn't get up in case Crowley still needed him.
"No, it isn't—" the whump of the condom hitting the bottom of the garbage can. "It's your body."
"It's your money," Michael countered. "But, as you can see, I have handled it myself." Indeed, he had gotten rid of his erection completely.
Crowley shrugged one shoulder. "Fine."
Michael hopped off the bed and began to get dressed. He was tying one of his shoes when Crowley walked over to him, his pants hastily thrown back on. "Three hundred should suffice?"
"What?" Michael dropped the other shoe.
"Three hundred," Crowley repeated.
"I heard you." Michael's hourly rate was seventy-five, but they had not even been an hour. He imparted this information to Crowley; he was nothing if not honest.
"Maybe if you were an eighty-year-old broad with a mouth full of gums and cobwebs between her legs!" Crowley scoffed. "But that was a fuck fit for a king."
Michael was not going to argue. He took the stack of bills and pocketed them, then bent to put his other shoe. No more words were needed, in his opinion: he had done the job and he had gotten paid. He quietly began to walk out the still open door and back down the hallway.
"Michael," Crowley called after him, which made the younger man turn. His clients never used his name; he was never fully a person in their eyes.
"Thank you," said Crowley.
Michael shrugged. "It is just business. You got what you paid for." Without another word, he returned home. When he arrived, he was pleased to see that Lucifer had fallen asleep. Even though his brother would have hated it if he was awake, Michael kissed his temple softly and tucked the knitted blanket from the back of the couch around his shoulders. Smiling sadly down at Lucifer, Michael made his way to the bedroom they usually shared and lay down carefully on his stomach. It was best not to think too hard about nights like this one—though Michael was unsure as to whether he had really ever had a night like this one. His eyes drifted closed as he exhaled; he had not realized how tired he was until sleep had already claimed him.