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Galactic Collision: A galactic collision is an event where two galaxies collide and merge together. A notable example of a galactic collision is the starburst galaxy Centaurus A, which is located within the constellation Centaurus, home to the star system Alpha Centauri. A starburst galaxy is one with an exceptionally high rate of new star formation.
“Hnnnng, ffffuck—”
Crowley’s moan is a tense and coiled thing that struggles its way through gritted teeth after the leather collides with his skin for the— actually, he’s lost count of the number of blows Fell has bestowed upon him with his belt, the one he often wears on days he forgoes his braces.
It’s become a signal, the worn yet beautifully cared for accessory Crowley conditions while kneeling at his professor’s feet (sometimes while still bearing the mark of it). Whenever Fell wears this belt, Crowley can be relatively certain he’ll be feeling it against his skin within hours, and then he’s mostly hard for the rest of the day impatiently waiting for just that.
Today was no exception, and as soon as Crowley spotted the chestnut leather encircling his professor’s hips in class, he’d needed to cross his legs and bite his tongue in order not to start touching himself right then and there.
Their walk to Fell’s home, starting separately and then joining once a safe distance from the university, was a quietly charged one: Crowley vibrating with anticipation and barely restraining himself from shoving his professor against every solid surface they pass to kiss him, Fell seemingly doing little better as his arm kept pulling Crowley closer and closer, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to teasingly stroke his bare skin.
They’d gone straight upstairs to Fell’s bedroom after Crowley had picked Nellie up for a quick kiss and cuddle inside the entryway. She still seems to greatly enjoy this to the great vexation of the professor, who will usually scowl good naturedly and mumble something about how his cat barely tolerates him holding her for more than a minute at best, to which Crowley will smile angelically.
As soon as they stepped into his room, Fell had removed his jacket before unbuttoning his cuffs in order to start methodically rolling up his shirtsleeves, piercing Crowley with his boiling sea gaze as he’d murmured, luxurious and velvety and kneecap-pulverising, “would you be so kind as to remove my belt for me, pet?”
“Yes, sir,” Crowley’s whisper had been shaky with want as he’d done as he’d been told, the clink of the buckle making his cock twitch, the swishing slide of the leather pulling through belt loops deafening in the otherwise quiet room. His hands had ached to roam lower between thick thighs, but Crowley knew better than to stray from his task; he’d not been in anything resembling a bratty mood, instead just longing for the chance to be good and to prove himself as such.
He’d carefully looped the belt and held it out for Fell, who purred as he took it from him, “thank you, my dear boy. Undress, but leave on whatever inevitably slutty lingerie you’re wearing, and get onto the bed; hands and knees, back arched, legs spread.”
And that was how they inevitably found themselves in their current positions.
The next strike is particularly harsh, catching Crowley just beneath the swell of his ass on a sensitive stretch of his throbbing thighs, and his yelp trails out into a hiccuping sob as the heaviness between his legs grows along with the emptiness inside him. He shifts his knees on the bed as much as the thong caught around them will allow (bright cardinal red, simply cut but eye catching and, as Fell correctly assumed, slutty), forcing a gradual breath out through his mouth as he savors the stinging tendrils of pleasure slinking all over him.
Crowley loves everything about this. He loves the percussive, rhythmic slap of leather wrapping around his thighs, he adores the burning impact that melts into a glowing warmth that seeps beneath his skin and flows through his body along with his blood. He craves the relief that it brings, he aches for the quiet that blankets his constantly racing mind, and he longs for the way he goes boneless after the tension of being struck fades into malleable pliancy.
He’s obsessed with how Fell plays him like an instrument custom made for him and him alone, how he can wrench agonised wails from Crowley just as easily as he can draw wanton, whimpering moans depending on the angle, force, and speed of his strokes. He can have Crowley shying away from anticipated blows as he begs for a reprieve just as effortlessly as he can make him arch into them and plead for more.
His professor is, for the most part and in quite a contrast to his usual manner, rather quiet as he belts him, and Crowley knows it’s because he’s enthralled with the symphony of sounds he draws from his student during impact scenes: the swish as he slices the air with a ruler, crop, paddle, belt or cane that changes pitch depending on the implement, the smack or slap or thwack of the collision between leather or wood on skin. The whines and keens and mewls and ecstatic wails of a painslut in ecstasy and the strung out, slurred begging from a desperate, marked up whore pleading to come as he’s cropped or belted or paddled or caned.
Fell does, however, occasionally murmur darkly simmering reminders for Crowley to breathe when he’s particularly tense, cooing over how his skin blooms into such a lovely, rosy shade of cerise. He’ll usually whisper that Crowley is beautiful like this, that he’s breathtaking and doing so well for him, and it’s then, if he hasn’t already dissolved into tears, that Crowley will start crying from the lush praise coupled with exquisite agony.
He doesn’t have to look over his trembling shoulder to know that Fell is hard in his trousers, that every now and then he’s palming himself as he administers blow after blow while he watches his submissive grow increasingly more euphoric and needy.
“Oh f-fuck, Jesus,” Crowley gasps as the belt lands again, and despite the pain of it, or more accurately due to the pain of it, he thrusts his hips back, he throws his ass up into the air and seeks more before grinding back down against the bed, the comforter beneath him slightly damp by how much he’s been leaking, “please—”
“Slut,” Fell purrs, the sound and degrading endearment pulling even more precome from Crowley’s aching cock, and he jumps as he feels the leather snaking across his lower back, slipping over his spine in a gentle kiss before it’s lightly tapped against his tingling, swollen upper thighs. “Look at you— so desperate to be fucked as the result of a belting. I’m obviously not adopting the right level of force to match your bratty attitude as of late; I do believe we’ll need to switch to something a little more corrective, my darling.”
“Daddy…” Crowley whines as he bucks and his knees spread further against the taut cotton stretched around them, the tiniest hint of delicious apprehension licking his insides trickling into his whimper, “fuck…”
“Are you questioning my decision, Anthony?”
Fell knows when to employ firmness and to inject the smallest breath of a threat into his voice so that it makes Crowley fucking crazy, and his aim never misses.
“No, sir,” Crowley breathes, shaking his head, inner thighs tensing, cock twitching, “no, ‘m not questioning you.”
“Good; I thought not. So, I will be using a cane on you next, and you are going to thank me for doing so in that delightfully charming manner of yours.”
“Yes, professor,” Crowley whispers before adding on, “thank you, professor.” He’s trembling all over now, his mounting desire and arousal about to explode into all out desperation.
“Good boy,” Fell whispers in that silky slip of a purr. “So very good and wonderfully obedient, when you really put your pretty head to it.”
His slow footsteps echo in the room as he walks to the little closet by his wardrobe where his impact implements hang. Crowley knows Fell is drawing out selecting a cane on purpose, his muted, merry humming under his breath as he does so slightly mocking and far too indulgent. Fucking bastard.
Crowley had admittedly been rather brazen and cocky, when they’d first discussed caning weeks earlier. Going on and on about how he didn’t really understand why the implement had such a fearsome reputation, bragging that he’d been able to consistently take caning so well that he’d go so far as to call it boring.
Fell had demurely listened to Crowley’s insistence with a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and at the time, which had been so early on in their relationship, Crowley hadn’t quite known that the gleam flashing in his eyes had been a deviously, decadently sadistic sort.
The only time he’s called out red with Fell thus far was the first time he’d caned him, after he’d threatened Crowley with it as a punishment for being particularly mouthy and bratty with him one night. Crowley had only doubled down, challenging Fell to show him why the professor seemed to think a flimsy little bit of wood should be any viable form of intimidation.
That evening he’s received a thorough education as to why other impact bottoms he knew sometimes shuddered at the mention of caning.
He’d yelped and begged and sobbed more hysterically than he ever had during a session, rutting against the air as Fell had refused to allow him to lay flat on the bed. He’d also denied Crowley a pillow under his hips, eliminating any opportunity for additional pleasure, wanting to truly discipline him and to see if he actually could come from this flavor of anguish and nothing else.
Forced to grind on nothing in succession with each strike of the thin bamboo against the backs of his thighs and the curve of his ass, Crowley had endured a layered crosshatch of fiery welts all over his abused skin until his entire body shivered and trembled to the point that his teeth chattered. Finally he’d screamed ‘red’ when the hits continued raining down on him even after he’d come all over the bed despite the lack of any friction whatsoever.
He’d nearly drawn blood from biting into his forearm so deeply.
His professor had, of course, stopped at once, wrapping Crowley up in his comforting embrace without hesitation, pulling him onto his lap, all traces of the strict disciplinarian gone. He’d sobbed in Fell’s arms for the good part of half an hour, the purging catharsis of the scorching pain unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, vibrating and high from the cacophony of physical and emotional sensations that had continued to fuck him in the aftermath.
He’d never been so totally wrung out, had never felt so satisfied and never felt so cherished as he had when Fell massaged aloe vera into his purpling skin with utmost tenderness while gushing over how well he’d done. Thanking Crowley for so clearly expressing his limits, sweetly praising him for trusting Fell enough to call out red and for gifting him the opportunity to both solidify that trust as well as fortify his own in his submissive.
Crowley had fallen asleep on the warm, safe swell of his chest as his professor gently held a soft gel ice pack against the most vicious welts, humming softly and pressing kisses to his hair.
The way Crowley had squirmed in class the next day from being unable to comfortably sit had driven Fell so wild that as soon as the lecture ended, he’d taken Crowley back to his office, thrown him over his desk and fucked his bruised, tender thighs until he cried again and came on the polished wood surface which he’d then been made to meticulously clean with his tongue.
Both he and Fell had monitored the process of the bruising over the next week and a half, Fell fondling his handiwork when he’d fuck Crowley’s thighs from behind or when Crowley would straddle him while frantically frotting (this was during the torturous period of Fell not properly fucking Crowley, and he still is rather impressed that being forced to wait so long didn’t actually kill him; 6 weeks may as well have been 6 millennia). He sent Fell photos on evenings they didn’t spend together to show him the new colours that had blossomed that day, and needless to say, caning had entered their impact repertoire immediately.
After what feels like fucking hours, Fell finally seems to have found what he’s looking for, and his footsteps make their way to the side of the bed again towards the foot of it. Crowley gasps when something cool and smooth starts to trace his inner thighs, and those gasps turn into breathy whines as Fell starts teasingly tapping the cane up and down his thighs, trailing the tip over his hips and lightly swatting it over his smarting ass.
His professor prefers thinner whippy canes as opposed to thicker thuddy ones, whether they’re delicate wooden dowels or a classic reed of bamboo; Crowley is almost sure this one is the latter, based on the feel of it.
That first cane Fell used to bring him to such a piercing, Earth shattering release was bamboo, and Crowley has to admit he’s now very partial to it indeed.
“Are you ready, rosebud?” Fell’s query is a smoky bloom of affection that Crowley feels in his chest, and he’s applying slightly more pressure with the cane now in bursts of lightning fast taps or spread out, lightly flicking strokes.
Since their very first evening together, Fell has likened Crowley to florals quite often, most especially roses. For some reason there’s an odd swooping sensation in his belly whenever this occurs, and Crowley thinks that perhaps he deeply loved flowers in another life. He likes them now, of course, he has an affinity for plants in general, but there is an almost melancholic, nostalgic longing inside him whenever Fell calls him his rosebud or compares his flushed cheeks to the blooms, one that sometimes makes his throat swell and prickle with a sudden sensation akin to the urge to cry, but fainter— the whisper of something behind the locked door of an unfamiliar and inaccessible memory.
Although Crowley loves this category of endearments and their inexplicable intimacy, it also makes him want to lean into and hold on to his professor that much tighter when they’re used, and right now it makes him bite his lip as he nods, the tears prickling in the corners of his eyes burn.
“Yes, sir,” he whispers, and he arches his back again to arrange himself like he knows his professor loves, wiping his tears away and taking a deep breath, “I’m ready.”
“Good boy, and thank you for presenting yourself so beautifully for me, my dear. What an impossibly exquisite vision you are.”
Crowley whines as the praise curls around him in a painfully sweet predecessor to what he knows is coming next.
It doesn’t matter how much he attempts to prepare himself for the first strike, it’s never enough when it comes to how Fell wields a cane, and Crowley yelps as it collides with his skin for the first time with force behind it this evening mid thigh. He even pitches forward a bit as he pants through the sting of it, but puts himself back into position immediately. He’s so hard it’s beginning to hurt, and as Fell begins the caning in earnest, he knows there’s a thread of precome dripping from his cock that won’t slow until he comes.
The blaring, searing heat of a cane’s impact is so much sharper than a belt, and it’s a far more clever thief of Crowley’s breath, too, stealing away the air in his lungs with each crack of it against his already brutalised thighs.
“Fuck, Daddy,” his whimper is a strangled, breathless thing as he screws his eyes shut, “God, thank you— h-hnnnng—”
While impact in general is a substantial and sweeping release for Crowley, this implement in particular seems to draw out the deepest parts of him that he doesn’t always confront, and, in some rare circumstances, the usual quiet that impact play brings him is punctured by a soft yet insistent humming of something, something he’s tried to ignore, something he’s been fighting to keep silent inside him.
It’s the nagging buzz of an appliance during the night when he tries to sleep in what otherwise is a completely silent room, but still he can hear it, and it makes his skin itch. Sometimes he’s able to ignore it and pass out if he’s tired enough, but in other instances he rolls out of bed in a frustrated huff to savagely unplug whatever has been tormenting him with its incessant and unbelievably loud electric current.
Crowley isn’t sure if it’s the specific flavour of pain of caning, the total vulnerability needed to truly immerse himself within it, or the way Fell clearly is so in clearly and comfortingly in control as well as precisely cutting as he murmurs, “gorgeous, my dove, how you open up and bloom for me like this” in that growling, gravelly tone that’s simmering with barely bridled lust— but something about the bee-stinging venomous sharpness of it, something about the clarity of the shimmering agony seems to inspire additional inner clarity around that which Crowley has kept in, the deep things, the buried and shadowy secrets.
It’s enhancing what would usually be undetectable unless everything else goes dead quiet— quiet like the type this sort of scene brings to his head.
It’s irritating and hilarious how a simple sliver of woody grass forces Crowley to physically surrender more than any other implement just as it makes his mind do the same. It cuts through the defenses of what he’s been doing his very fucking best to keep locked away and ignored, breaking down the carefully maintained wall Crowley has built around the strengthening traitor in his chest brick by brick and blow by blow.
And it’s happening now.
The peace is there, yes— the perfect release and the all encompassing tranquility against a background of lovely, shimmering pain— but it’s tainted by a persistent whisper of something ceaselessly murmuring, look at me; pay attention to me, don’t ignore me, you can’t ignore me any longer, listen to me—
An appliance has been left on in the dark, and it’s deafening.
Crowley doesn’t always know what it is that’s bothering him in these galvanised moments, but he knows exactly what it is this time.
He’s not sure how much longer he can ignore this particular whirring in his head, and Crowley doesn’t realise he’s been holding his breath inside his quivering chest until a gentle reminder breaks through the buzzing quiet:
“Breathe for me, my sweet; you’re doing so very marvelouslly for me,” Fell praises as he dances the tip of the cane over Crowley’s lower back, caressing the skin carefully before it leaves, “and your marks are already stunning— what a perfect canvas you are, Anthony, so inspiring—”
Thwip, crack—
Fuck, it’s so good. The concentrated, almost slicing contact on the backs of his thighs just above his knees is not unlike the edge of a knife, and Crowley’s spine curves into an even more exaggerated bend as he keens and his cock throbs—
“You’re being such a good boy for me, Crowley— you’re taking this so beautifully, my precious painslut. Look at you arch your back even more as I brutalise those trembling, comely thighs; how very lucky I am to have such a delicious little tart spreading those easy legs for me at any hour of any day for any possible whim of mine, begging to be used, fucked or beaten—”
Thwip, crack—
The naked affection amongst virtuosic degradation in that voice is devastatingly difficult to bear even when he’s not being flayed into paralysing vulnerability, and while Crowley almost succeeds in choking back a fractured sob, tears start streaming down his cheeks. He whines wetly as his hips shallowly cant forward and the tightness in his sternum starts to tingle and burn, giving the mounting, droning thrum of love, love, love between his ears and prickling creeping under his skin a run for its money as far as overwhelm and oversensitivity and desperation.
A penetrating awareness to the fact he’s about to explode with it all cuts into Crowley not unlike the implement Fell’s wielding, and he can barely gasp for a grounding breath before—
Thwip, crack—
“Oh, ffffuck!” Crowley wails as his professor expertly lays the next strike exactly over the previous welt left by the cane, and he can’t ignore the now booming electric hum, it’s all he can hear now, he can’t hold it in anymore: the tears, the emotions, the secret he’s been holding close to his chest that’s gotten heavier and heavier by the day. The one that’s gotten to be torture to keep hidden as it’s grown its own heartbeat and developed an appetite he can’t satisfy anymore or starve out of it, and that last whistling thwip and cathartic crack of the bamboo over his blistering skin shatters Crowley’s grasp on it all.
He starts sobbing uncontrollably as he collapses onto the bed, knees giving out, elbows going limp.
He hardly hears the clatter of the cane dropping to the floor over his cries and the resonant, crackling hum, and Crowley feels sick. He’s nauseous from adrenaline bubbling into overwhelm and embarrassment for losing his shit like this mid scene, but God, he’s wrecked, and he can’t get a handle on it.
It’s as if he’s about to start disintegrating or burst into flame or simply evaporate; he doesn’t know which, but he just buries his face into the pillow and fists the comforter in his shaking hands, the reverberating sting of the repetitive impact from both leather and bamboo covering his thighs and ass offering none of its usual satisfaction and comfort, the shrieking, thrumming unsaid continuing to shout at him from the depths of his being.
“Sweetheart,” Professor Fell murmurs urgently as the mattress shifts under his weight. He’s just sat down onto the edge of the bed, and it’s a testament to how well he knows Crowley that he immediately clocked this particular crying to be different than Crowley’s normal ‘I’m crying during a scene or sex because I’m sensually and physically overwhelmed, but it’s a good thing’. “Oh, my darling— are you alright, Crowley?”
He sounds so fucking worried that it just makes Crowley sob harder in conjunction with the knowledge that Fell knows these tears aren’t the good sort. God, why does this man care so much, and how could Crowley not fall in so deeply fucking in love with him?
Because Crowley is in love with Professor Aziraphale Fell. He has been for weeks and weeks or maybe even always, and he’s been hiding it below the surface of himself out of fear and the certainty that the last thing a dominant wants is an overly clingy, lovestruck submissive when it’s not been explicitly stated he would. He’s convinced himself that yes, while he and Fell have had an emotionally intimate connection almost right from the start, that being in love is a different thing altogether and entirely off limits. Their relationship is one of mutual trust, affection, and frankly unhinged passion, and Crowley can feel how deeply his professor cares for him— he shows him constantly— but this is different.
There’s a creeping and horribly certain fear within him that if he were to tell Fell he’s in love with him, their relationship would change or perhaps even end, and Crowley can’t even think about that possibility for longer than a few seconds, because it rips all of him to shreds.
He may be young, but he’s had a few semi serious relationships and has dated a fair amount of people. He’s cared for his partners very much before, but again, this is different. He’s never been so himself and at peace in the company of someone else, he’s never been moved to tears by the depth of his feelings for another. Before Professor Fell he’d not experienced the phenomena of everything just being better by being near one particular person.
And the thought of losing that person, the thought of not being able to be near him anymore… it’s devastating beyond definition.
Crowley tries to speak, tries to reassure Fell that he’s okay, that he’s fine, but he’s not, and all that crawls out from his throat is a strangled, tearful whimper.
“Oh, my sweet dove— may I touch you, my dear? Or would you like some space?” Fell waits for an answer before moving, and Crowley coughs before croaking, “don’t leave.”
He doesn’t know if he can handle much more stimulation in the form of touch at the moment, but he’s positive he’ll die if Fell walks out of the room right now.
“Never,” the gentle ferocity in that reply nearly undoes Crowley all over again. “Not unless you’d want me to. I’m here, I’m right here for whatever you need, lovely.”
“‘m sorry,” Crowley sniffs as he gasps for air, wiping his tear stained cheeks roughly with the back of his hand, “fuck, I’m sorry, Daddy.”
And he is sorry. This is not what he wanted tonight, it’s not what he needed, and Crowley’s floundering as he both tries to communicate and reinforce the prison around the words doing their damndest to break free from his mouth.
“Oh, Crowley,” the devastation in that soft tone makes Crowley bite the pillowcase so he doesn’t sob any harder. “May I hold your hand, my dearest darling?”
There’s no expectation in the question, no persuasion; just a genuine ask, and Crowley nods his head against the pillow, the cotton soft on his overheated, puffy cheeks and slightly stiff between his teeth.
“Thank you, my dear one,” Crowley’s left hand is tenderly blanketed with the warmth of his professor’s, his fingers deftly sliding between his trembling ones, and as soon as Fell’s thumb starts stroking over the outer contour of Crowley’s hand, he’s finally able to take a decent breath for the first time since collapsing.
“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for, baby boy,” oh Jesus fuck, that pet name takes Crowley out every time, and he hiccups as he tries not to break down even more, “nothing at all. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” Crowley interrupts thickly, incapable of letting his dominant blame himself. “It wasn’t you, I promise. Please,” he weakly squeezes the thick fingers laced with his, “please don’t be sorry, professor. You were— you were amazing, as always.”
“You’re far too good to me,” Fell whispers as his other hand slips under Crowley’s palm, and he shakes his head unevenly before finally turning his head and laying his face against the now very damp pillow, eyes sore as the tears just keep flooding, but at least his chest has stopped heaving so violently.
He’s still shaking all over, though, and his professor clucks sympathetically as they make eye contact, kind concern shining from his gaze as well as nestling itself amongst his flushed features, and Crowley notes with a flutter in his lower stomach how undone he looks, takes in the disheveled disarray of starshine curls and how the bow tie Fell must’ve undone after he’d started the scene hangs loose around his neck.
He’s so bloody gorgeous.
“Oh, my poor little love,” Fell murmurs, and that endearment in this moment is, as expected, lethal, and Crowley sucks in a breath against more tears as Fell reaches out to softly cup his cheek, his thumb brushing away the wetness it finds there. “My sweetest pet. Might I persuade you to drink some water, lovely,” he delicately pushes sweaty locks of hair back from Crowley’s forehead, his touch tender but sure, “can you do that for me, hm? Or would you like to wait a bit.”
Crowley turns his head even more so he can kiss the palm stroking his wet cheek, which prompts a lovely, warm little smile from his professor in return, and Crowley is so in love with him that he’s in imminent danger of passing out, probably, nodding as he mumbles, “I can drink now, yeah. Thank you, angel.”
The fingers thread over his scalp before tucking his hair behind his ear as Fell mutters, “that’s my good boy,” and he sounds so fucking fond, and his touch feels so fucking good, and Crowley is just so fucking fucked.
He wants this all the time.
Fell leans over and reaches for the bedside carafe he refills religiously every day, and Crowley swears he can feel the reluctance to move in his fingers as they slowly untangle from his own in order to pour some water into the cup.
Crowley shakily props himself up onto his elbows and twists from laying on his stomach onto his side, trying to hide his wince from the billowing pain of his outer thigh pressing into the bed.
His professor opens his mouth, but closes it, apparently thinking better of his inevitable query as to whether Crowley is alright, because when it comes to the bruising in question, they both know that he is more than alright— as for the unspoken things that remain unknown to Fell, though, that’s another matter.
Crowley whispers another thank you as he takes the offered glass of water and sips dutifully, not quite meeting Fell’s eyes as they settle onto his face. The water is cool and soothing on his raw throat, and they sit in a mostly comfortable silence while he gradually empties the cup and his tears at last slow to a stop.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Fell asks quietly after a moment as he holds his hand out to take the glass from Crowley once he’s finished, and fuck, he doesn’t know what to say to that.
Yes, he does want to tell him, and no, he doesn’t want to tell him. He’s both dying to confess and desperate to withhold, head fuzzy from the combination of endorphins and hormones and that relentless fucking buzz that lingers still even though it’s dimmed, and Crowley shakes it marginally as he mutters under his breath, eyes cautiously flicking up to meet serious, inquisitive blue, “I’m— ‘m not sure.”
It’s as honest as he can be in this exact moment, and he hopes that’s enough, but he’s been ridiculously lucky that in the last two and a half months of being with his professor like this, Crowley has been told, multiple times and in multiple ways, that all he is and does is more than enough, so in theory, this should be no different.
Fell nods as he flips the cup back over to perch on the mouth of the carafe before returning his hands to Crowley’s left one, cradling it between his palms and raising it up to his lips for a kiss.
“That’s more than alright, my dear. Is there anything that I can do for you right now, anything at all?” His mouth lingers on the back of Crowley’s hand, his breath skates over the knuckles as he presses slow, adoring kisses to them, and Crowley nearly slips up, the electric, hungry to be released words almost tumble out as he watches Fell worship his hand:
I love you— I’m in love with you, and I know I’m not supposed to be, I know I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with my fucking professor or my dominant but fuck, I love you so fucking much and it’s killing me not to tell you but I’m so fucking scared—
“Would you,” Crowley starts, clearing his throat a bit to try and do away with some hoarseness and the confession composing itself too quickly for comfort, “would you lay with me for a bit? Hold me?”
He’s so unbelievably fragile right now that being held by the one he loves the most might break him, but Crowley would rather be broken by the warmth of Fell’s embrace than be splintered by the freezing absence of it.
Fell’s smile grows into something even more tenderly beatific as he places a final peck onto Crowley’s hand and nods, “of course, my darling, for as long as you wish; I’d like nothing more. Thank you for asking me.”
He almost forgot he’s still wearing the thong that’s been resting round his knees before they started, so Crowley gingerly pulls it back up over his hips, the sharp intake of breath through his teeth a hiss as the fabric glides over his bruised, welted thighs.
The combined belting and caning is resulting in the most delicious layering of sinking deep bruising contrasting with both raised and smooth surface marks, and Crowley can’t help the aroused shudder that passes through his body as the pain sparks and snakes around his hips to simmer between his legs; he’s also unsuccessful at holding back a wanton, slutty little whimper, and of course, Fell notices.
He always notices.
His professor says nothing, but Crowley knows, though, if he hadn’t just broken down, that Fell would be roughly pounding him into the bed by now, that the brutal, rhythmic smack of his thrusts against Crowley’s abused skin he used him would make him come at least once, if not twice, and then Fell would either fill his ruined hole with his come until Crowley was overflowing, or he would pull out to paint his welted thighs and ass with it, finishing off the tender, splashed crimson blooming violet canvas he’d created with nerve searing streaks of cream while Crowley would sob his hysterical euphoria into the pillow he’s just cried into for a different reason.
Fell fully climbs onto the bed and raises his arm in an invitation Crowley immediately takes, sinking into his professor’s solid heat with a massive sigh as that arm wraps around his back and he leans his body into the one welcoming him in.
“Come here, my sweet one,” Fell murmurs as he presses a kiss to the crown of Crowley’s hair, “I’ve got you.”
“Mmm,” Crowley mumbles as he snuggles even closer, draping a leg over his professor’s and nuzzling into his chest to inhale his calming scent deeply.
He lets himself melt into the comfort Fell so generously offers, allows it to soothe away the tension in his muscles and restore some of his frazzled, frayed nerves, and for a few minutes Crowley is content, laying there. He’s still keyed up, he’s still aching in a thousand ways, but for now, with a gentle hand rubbing his back and another threading through his hair, he’s content— mostly.
He can’t deny the still beating heart of his need, he literally feels it in his welts in time with his pulse, and it’s impossible to put out the wildfire of his want at the best of times, let alone when he’s just been belted and caned almost to the point of orgasm.
Crowley inhales again, the peppery, spicy citrus and black tea fragrance of Fell doing nothing to halt his renewing arousal, and a hand continues its dance down along the small of his back, tracing circles here and there and pressing into the twin dimples at the base of his spine, and that’s when fingertips lightly graze over of the edge of one of the highest welts left by the cane, the touch clearly not purposeful judging by how the fingers freeze.
Crowley shivers sharply and whines, his entire body reacting to the accidental touch as Fell’s breath catches; his cock had already been steadily filling again from their deliciously close proximity, and Crowley looks down to find he is not the only one who’s hard again.
Fuck.
“Daddy,” Crowley whimpers breathlessly, his hips rocking tentatively as he presses even closer to his professor, wanting, needy, the sea of emotion temporarily overtaken by the rising tide of desire that constantly lurks beneath the surface of him.
“Baby,” Fell growls in response, and it rumbles in his chest and into Crowley’s ear as the fingers dip lower once more and drag along a fiery wheal with calculated intention.
“Fuck, more,” Crowley rasps as his hips buck forward desperately this time, and he’s completely hard now. “Daddy, please.”
He gasps as Fell’s fingers once more ghost over the swell of his ass, and he grinds into the thick thigh he’s nestled against, whining as he starts shakily thrusting into the muscle and biting the undone shirt collar just below his mouth.
“Fuck, professor, please,” Crowley’s slightly delirious now and aching everywhere with the need to be taken as he whines, “fuck me, please, I need you, need to feel you—”
“Are you certain you’re up for it, sweetheart?” Fell’s query is as hesitant as it is heated, and as Crowley nods emphatically, he frames Crowley’s chin between his thumb and a bent forefinger in order to raise it up. Crowley peers into eyes that are stormy once more, that have darkened into a dusky periwinkle that reminds Crowley of the sky just before dawn, its expanse still sprinkled with the last remaining stars of the night.
“Look at me, Crowley,” Fell murmurs as he holds Crowley’s gaze and chin. “Be a good boy and look at me.”
How could Crowley do anything else but gladly obey, keeping direct eye contact as his body continues its sojourn of pressing into Fell. The drive of his hips loses some of its intensity, but doesn’t stop entirely, and Crowley is hypnotised by the dominance of his professor’s smoldering regard and the just-firm-enough grasp on his jaw that has his heart fluttering.
“There you are, my dove, very good. Now— you’re alright, truly?” the scrunched knit of Fell’s brow betrays how concerned he is about possibly taking advantage of Crowley in any way and his current discernment of his state of being, “because those were not your usual sublime tears born of ecstasy, my dear.”
God, he’s always so careful, he’s ridiculously considerate and Crowley doesn’t want him to worry. All he wants is for Fell to feel as good as he makes Crowley feel, and also for him to be inside him now.
Besides, he is alright— he feels much better, enveloped in the arms of his professor, he feels steadier and although his mind the cathartic calm brought on by the impact, at least that perpetual humming has been overshadowed by the surrounding noise in his need once more.
“Yes, sir, I’m alright— really, I feel better,” Crowley insists as he moves to straddle his professor, moaning as the movement reignites the fire within the stripes and welts, “‘m alright, Daddy, please,” he sinks down into the lap he constantly wants to sit on and mewls at the hardness he finds there, “please.”
He rests his forehead on his professor’s, snapping his pelvis forward and gasping as his cock bumps against Fell’s stomach while the blazing, throbbing surface of his skin drags over the scratchy wool of trousers, and it’s so good, it’s so fucking good and it stings and it hurts and he’s already starting to leak again.
“As if I could resist a begging little cocksleeve like you,” strong fingers pull the red waistband of Crowley’s underwear down to rest around his sensitive upper thighs as Fell kisses the corner of his mouth, “especially one that’s marked up so enticingly—”
Crowley yelps and hisses as Fell’s hands start fondling his striped and swollen cheeks, as they part them and squeeze. It’s both excruciating and exquisite, and his cock jumps. He rolls his hips as his professor holds him open and slowly digs his nails into his abused flesh, coaxing a broken wail from his throat that stutters as two fingers slide their way inside him.
“Still so wet and open from this morning still, aren’t you, doll,” Fell’s softly smoldering whisper makes Crowley shiver and contract around his fingers, and they’re so close right now, their noses resting right up against each other, sharing the same breath of air. “God, so open and ready for me whenever I choose—”
“God yes, always ready for you,” Crowley mewls as Fell bends down to bite his neck as he fingers him, the digits sure and practiced as to how Crowley likes it, deep and strong and angled just right, their way eased by the come still clinging inside him from being fucked and filled hours ago just inside the landing before they both went their respective ways; being sent off filled by his professor is Crowley’s idea of a perfect start to his day, “always ready, always want you, fuck, please—”
“Shhh, darling,” Fell soothes as he licks the spot he’d just been teething and sucking on, the contrast of violence and tenderness dizzying. “Whenever will you learn the slightest shred of patience for me?”
“Never,” Crowley replies as his hands clamp onto Fell’s shoulders, biting his lip and undulating his hips both forward and down, fucking himself on thick fingers and rubbing his cock against Fell, “God, probably fucking never—”
“Good,” Fell murmurs, curling his free hand around the back of Crowley’s neck and pulling him down and in for a ravening kiss, pushing his fingers even deeper as he does and swallowing the high pitched whine right from Crowley’s mouth. “I should hate for you to stop being so desperate for my cock, day and night.”
He reaches over into the drawer of his night table and brings his hand back dripping with lube, slicking up his cock while Crowley kisses him, sucking his professor’s plush bottom lip into his mouth as he waits for what might be twenty seconds but may as well be twenty years.
The thrill of no longer using protection is still relatively new, and now that they’re fluid bonded, Crowley can’t even imagine how he was able to go as long as he did without being fucked bare by Fell, how he was able to survive without him coming inside him for weeks. He’d done so only this morning, but it feels like a lifetime, and he’s longing to be filled again.
“Oh, fuck,” Crowley yelps as Fell guides the slippery, thick head to his hole and simultaneously thrusts and pulls, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid movement of his hips as he rips Crowley down onto his lap, the force of it resonating into every mark left by leather and bamboo. “Oh my God, f-fuck, Daddy—” he breaks off into a silent scream as Fell gives him no time to adjust and starts fucking up into him, the iron grip of his hands locking back onto his ass and literally lifting him up and down off of his cock.
He can do nothing but tighten his grip onto Fell’s neck and take it, and God it’s so fucking good, the combination of the stretch he’s used to and addicted to by now with the brightly shocking pain of his sore thighs and ass being treated so roughly is so good, and Crowley knows he’ll come untouched from this. The angle is perfect, his prostrate’s being pummeled at a steady beat, and every now and then Fell slaps his hand down over where he’d left his marks on Crowley earlier; each time it makes his cock drip and dribble even more as he wails and grinds down to meet the thrusts splitting him apart.
“That’s it, my pretty little painslut, look how wet you are. Look at you gush from having your welts played with— what a responsive, sensitive boy I have—” the lavishly carnal tone of Fell’s voice has been imbued with his signature ferality, and Crowley’s far too close to coming apart already, his very nerves are attuned to every touch and word from his professor, they’re skillfully unraveling him at an alarming speed. “You skin is on fire, babydoll, nearly as hot as you are inside— how does it feel, darling, tell me how it feels—”
“Fuck, Daddy,” Crowley gasps as Fell’s hips slow in speed but gather more thunderous force, spearing him deeply and punching yelps out of him with every thrust. “Feels so good; you’re so f-fucking big, fuck you feel so good, s-so fucking good, and s-so deep—”
“I know; so very deep inside you, just like I’m meant to be,” Fell throws his head back and pumps his hips up with such punishing strength that Crowley wails and his body seizes. It’s so fucking good but too fucking slow, and he needs more. “I don’t believe I’m giving you enough impact, sweet thing— look how needy it makes you, how it renders you even more of a cockwhore than usual, hm? I should discipline you more often, shouldn’t I, Anthony?”
“Fuck, yes sir, please,” Crowley begs as he does his best to fuck himself down onto the cock he’s obsessed with, but Fell’s still controlling their rhythm with effortlessly steely hands that Crowley’s can’t win against.
“Please what, slut,” Fell asks almost sweetly, and Crowley whimpers rather pitifully in response.
“Fuck,” frustrated tears have joined the euphoric ones as Crowley keeps fighting the now painfully slow fucking, but the palms and fingers sealed onto his hips continue to thwart his attempts with a laughable ease, “please, punish me more, cane me more, God— keep me so bruised that I can’t sit, so that I have to always kneel for you and just take more— and fuck me faster, God damn it, faster, sir, please—”
“Your demanding, brattily insistent nature never ceases to amaze,” the amused glimmer in those eyes as Fell whispers through a smirk has Crowley reeling, “and neither does the consistency of my relenting and giving into such bossiness; so perhaps I will do just that, my darling little toy.” Crowley moans gratefully as Fell blessedly increases the rate of his thrusts, “maybe I’ll keep you so very bruised that I’ll just have to keep you cuffed to this bed, on your stomach, day and night for me to do with you as I please—”
That’s not fair, as it’s one of Crowley’s fantasies that they chat about often: being chained or tied to Fell’s desk or bed or whatever else as a free use fucktoy for him to do whatever with, and hearing his professor ‘threaten’ such a thing is something Crowley can’t control his orgasmic reaction to.
“Oh f-fuck, ’m gonna come,” he breathes, fisting the collar of his professor’s shirt as Fell fucks him even more rapidly, as his greedy, devouring hands roam over his chest to pinch his peaked nipples, as his fingers slide into his mouth and press on his tongue for far too brief a stay before wrapping around his throat for a moment and then finally snaking back down to his waist and hips. Crowley keens when they grab his bruised ass once more, he gasps as manicured nails create new divots and cut half moons of brightly stinging pleasure into his skin, “please, c-can I come on your cock, Daddy, please—”
He’s expecting to be denied, given Fell’s penchant for edging, so Crowley is relieved and more than a little surprised when Fell nods and commands, “come on my cock, my desperate, greedy little pet, come around me as I fill this slutty hole of yours—” in between aggressive, biting kisses that leave his lips as bruised as his thighs.
And it’s all almost too much— almost too deep, almost too rough, almost too painful— but mostly it’s just fucking perfect, and Crowley comes with a shout, his cock spasming untouched as he spills all over himself and clenches around his professor, whose grip on him has become so tight it hurts. He shakes and sobs a mess of “it’s so much, too much, too good” and begs through his tears for he doesn’t even know what— a reprieve, to keep going, both, he doesn’t know— as Fell moves him up and down on his slick cock like he really is a fleshlight, growling into his ear in that deeply primal, animalistic tone that makes Crowley fucking wild, “take it, darling, you can take it— good boy, that’s it, God you take me so well, don’t you, you take all of me so well—”
His professor breaks off into a stuttered groan as he slams Crowley down onto his lap and comes, his thumbs anchoring into the concave canyons of his hipbones. Crowley feels him flex and pulse and empty into him, the warmth filling and flooding and diffusing inside as Fell continues grinding their pelvises together, as their thighs shake in tandem and tumultuous seas meet gold through a climactic haze, but its misty pleasure isn’t enough to successfully block out the murmuring breakthrough of ‘tell him, tell him, tell him—’
It’s right there on his tongue, flickering and tingling and tempting, but Crowley can’t let it out, he mustn’t let it free, so he kisses Fell messily in the aftermath of his own orgasm, crying into his mouth as come starts sliding down his straining inner thighs and as the relief brought on by getting fucked starts falling away and is replaced in its entirety with that all too familiar hum.
Oh no—
“F-fuck,” Crowley whimpers, approaching oversensitivity and soreness but unwilling to fall into the languid warmth of an afterglow, knowing he won’t be able to hold anything back while in that vulnerable state; as long as he keeps fucking, maybe the urge will pass, maybe it’ll fade away. “Fuck, p-please—”
“You’re such a marvel, my dearest, a perfectly slutty marvel,” Fell reaches up to cup Crowley’s tear streaked cheeks and meets his eyes, breathless and incomprehensibly handsome in his own fucked out state, and the genuine awe that often creeps into his voice when praising Crowley makes the buzzing short circuit before restarting even stronger.
“Professor, I need—”
Fuck, it might not be enough, more sex might not be enough—
“I-I n-need—”
Fell leans up to kiss him as he holds his face, “what do you need, Crowley? What does my gorgeous, insatiable dove want, hm?”
The thrumming has worked itself up into a previously unknown fervor, and it’s not only in Crowley’s head, but also swirling at the base of his spine, it’s sparking between his legs with an eardrum bursting frequency that’s becoming unbearable, it’s stuck in his chest and lodged in his throat, making it impossible to swallow—
“Angel, I— I n-need,” he tries again, unsure what the fuck he’s even trying to do, what he’s trying to articulate that isn’t I’m in love with you, I love you, I love you, I love you—
“What is it, my dear, what do you need?” and there it is, a flash of worry through oceanic depths that makes Crowley hiccup and flounder from its genuinely endearing concern, “tell me, my sweet, darling Anthony. Tell me what you need so I can give it to you—”
The hungry thing is back with a vengeance and breaking through the very last remnants of its prison, the decibel of its buzzing pulverizing the last remaining defenses, and he can’t hold it, he can’t hold it anymore, the belt and cane and fucking have released it and it’s too late—
“I—” Crowley’s lower lip trembles; he’s not stopped crying, and since he came it’s been mostly gentle, almost delicate, but he can feel the heaving, wrenching cries building back up in his ribcage now, he can feel the burden of restraining something so big reach a breaking point that’s going to snap no matter what he does.
“Go on, my lovely little lark,” Fell whispers as his hands slide down to blanket Crowley’s shivering back, and when he leans up and extends his neck to tenderly kiss Crowley’s dewy forehead, it turns out to be the killing blow to the last of his destroyed resolve he’d been clinging to.
“I— I love you,” Crowley bursts out in a sob, wretched with it. “God, I’m— fuck, ‘m in love with you, angel, I’m—”
Oh fuck, God damn it—
Fell says nothing as he stares up at Crowley with wide eyes, his hands still as a statue as they rest on his back, still buried deep inside him, and it’s too late to stop, now, Crowley knows. He’s burst through the gate with a momentum he can’t wrangle, so through his tears he tries to explain, he tries to fix it as he breaks the eye contact with his professor and pulls his hands away from the back of his neck, unable to face the silvered blue that can sometimes pierce him too deeply.
“I know I shouldn’t be, and fuck, I don’t want this to change anything, I—” he mutters as he looks down at his fingers that have started nervously picking at each other, and he thinks his teeth might be chattering, but it’s hard to tell, he’s tripping over his words so clumsily. “What we— what we have is so important to me, and I can— I can work on this, I can— I can take a step back, but I don’t— ” he sucks in a quivering breath and shuts his eyes, covering them with his palms as he shakes his head, flushing so hot in his cheeks that his face aches. “I don’t want this to end. I don’t want us to end, I— fuck, I’m sorry.”
Crowley roughly scrubs his palms over his puffy eyes, and his professor is so quiet. He’s rarely ever this quiet, and it’s terrifying, it’s petrifying, but it doesn’t discourage him from continuing— there’s really no going back now, and he knows it— it’s too late.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, his nausea reaching dangerous levels as he fights down the queasy anxiety rising from his stomach to his esophagus. “I didn’t mean to, I really tried to just— rein it all in and stop—”
“Crowley—”
He barely hears Fell murmuring his name as he fights to calm down and struggles to somehow salvage this, the fear and stress quickening his words with urgency, “I tried not to, I swear, I tried not to fall for you—”
“Crowley, my dearest—”
“I know you don’t need a lovesick 24 year old to deal with, and Jesus, I’m sorry I’ve started a bloody love confession during sex, I didn’t mean— and it’s not because you just fucked me into fucking oblivion, I promise— oh God, I’m fucking pathetic—”
“Crowley, stop— please,” the mounting desperation in the plea finally registers with Crowley, and he stops rambling but keeps his face covered, embarrassed and ashamed and sick, wishing he could disappear. “Please listen to me, my dove, please; may I see your eyes, lovely?” there’s a brush of gentle fingers over the backs of Crowley’s hands and along his wrists, “please, darling? Don’t be afraid, Crowley; there’s nothing to fear. You’re safe, sweetheart.”
Crowley reluctantly lowers his hands to rest on Fell’s chest, right by where his shirt is unbuttoned. His fingertips are close to numb, but he thinks he can feel a thumping, too fast heartbeat beneath them as he gingerly opens his eyes, and Crowley is afraid, he’s terrified of what will be said next, he’s sick with the worry he just fucked this entire thing up and he’s so scared to lose this that it’s tough to breathe through it the sticky, thick fog of fear.
“There we are, there’s my brave boy,” Fell’s murmur is sonorous and calm as he clasps Crowley’s face between his strong, grounding hands again; God, Crowley loves how often Fell holds him like this, it makes him feel cherished and so, so safe, “thank you, starling.”
It’s close to impossible to look at Fell right now, and it’s even harder to be seen by him when Crowley’s falling apart and has just spilled a secret he’s been caging for too long.
“You don’t have to be afraid, Crowley, not with me, not ever,” Fell whispers as he gazes at him— and he doesn’t look at all angry or upset, but there are tears in his eyes, Crowley realizes with some hazy alarm amidst his near panic. “Don’t be afraid, little bird.”
Somewhere in the back of Crowley’s agitated, anxious mind he makes the serendipitous connection of someone named for an angel saying nearly identical words to his biblical counterparts, and he wonders if there really is a sort of mystic power to them, because he feels a little bit of the fear that’s been manacling him break away as soon as Fell murmurs for him not to be afraid.
Crowley is not religious by any stretch of the imagination, but there does seem to be something almost heavenly about his professor in this moment, something intangibly celestial, and for the first time he really sees him as Aziraphale, Aziraphale without the honorifics or titles of his profession or his dominance, and Crowley is no longer paralyzed with fear as he takes in gentle blue brimming with that earnest, unbridled warmth that he is so far gone for.
“First of all, you are the opposite of pathetic, my dear, and I very much hope I never hear you describe yourself as such again— and second of all, my rose—” Crowley is suddenly sure he actually did pass out while getting fucked as Fell murmurs, softly but steadily, so very steady, “oh, Crowley; I’m in love with you, too, I’m— I am so utterly and hopelessly in love with you.”
They stare at each other in a silence that sucks in the peripheral sounds of their breathing as Crowley tries to wrap his head around what he just heard while also attempting to discern that he’s conscious.
“Wha— what?” he slurs dumbly, and he thinks of pinching himself somewhere to be sure he’s awake, but Fell’s thumbs sweetly caressing his cheeks feel very real indeed, and the way his eyes are shining with those unshed tears is too beautiful for even his most creative unconscious self to come up with.
“I’m in love with you,” Fell declares again, and the way his eyes literally soften, going all tender and shining as he says it, makes Crowley’s heart stutter to a stop.
“You are?” he asks, tentative, willing his heart to start back up again and breathing shakily as his fingers walk their way up from Fell’s sternum to join at the nape of his neck and find refuge in his galactic curls.
The smile that follows is a sweet, almost sheepish one as Fell nods, “rather madly, actually, and have been for quite some time—”
Crowley shivers, and he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t feel cold, doesn’t know what he feels besides disbelieving hope and slowly growing, incandescent joy, but the shaking that takes hold of him is that of someone who’s freezing, and it vaguely dawns on him that he’s likely dropping in the aftermath of the impact, sex, and something as harrowing as bursting out that you’re in love with your English literature professor who is also your dominant.
“Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry,” Fell murmurs as he tightens an arm around Crowley’s waist and reaches down towards the door of the bed with his other, grabbing the goldenrod chenille throw that’s folded there and bringing it back to drape over Crowley’s shaking shoulders, and the blanket is amazing on his still slightly sweaty skin, so warm and soft and comforting— what is it about being cocooned in a blanket that can help calm even the most activated nervous system and ravaged body— and he exhales deeply as he melts into Fell, choking on tears as he cries into his neck and lets himself be held.
“My brave, beautiful Crowley, my brightest star.” Crowley sniffles at that; the celestial endearments burn like their namesake, they’re so adoring it’s shattering. “Shhh, it’s alright, my dearest, come here.” Fell shifts the two of them so that they can recline further on the bed, his spent cock slipping out of Crowley as he pulls him close to his chest, and the loss of him nonsensically makes Crowley sob harder as Fell praises, reassures, and cradles him.
Crowley doesn’t know how much time passes as his trembling ceases and the headache that had been tugging at the base of his skull dissipates. All he knows in this drowsy interlude is that the one he loves also loves him, too, and it’s enough to chase away any remaining chill and his tears no matter how surreal it is.
“Thank you, Crowley, so very much, for being so brave and telling me how you felt, and for having the strength to do what I could not,” Fell’s words are warm against Crowley’s skin and end with an even warmer kiss to his feverish forehead.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Crowley asks, curious, the cautious bliss in his chest flowing outward to his limbs and making his toes curl as he closes his eyes and cherishes the concentrated fragrance just under his nose in the dip of his professor’s neck.
“I suspect for some of the same reasons you didn’t tell me,” Fell murmurs thoughtfully as he twirls some wayward strands of Crowley’s hair around his finger, “and because you deserve far better than a tired old man weighing you down at the start of your life— how could I be so selfish as to burden you with my feelings, knowing that?”
It’s not often Crowley has experienced any sort of self doubt or such low self esteem from his professor, and not only is it jarring, it’s heartbreaking, and he won’t stand for it.
“If I can’t call myself pathetic, then you aren’t allowed to call yourself a tired old man, or insinuate that I deserve any better than you, angel,” Crowley whispers as he reaches up to slide his thumb over Fell’s jaw, “and how can you feel you’re a burden? You’re the one who does so much for me, and I—”
He trails off, because it’s no easy thing, trying to sum up how Fell has made him feel, how seen and valued and joyful and overall just fucking glad to be alive, even, but he’ll give it his best shot in the sub drop aftermath of intense impact, mindblowing sex and confessing a deep dark secret.
“God, don’t you know how— how incredible you make me feel? I’ve never experienced this, you know— not with anyone but you,” he leans back and gently lays a hand on Fell’s cheek and guides it so that their eyes meet, and he smiles at being the one insisting on eye contact for once. “I feel safe and respected while getting fucked into the ground and called the absolute filthiest things by you, I’ve never felt more held and—” he hesitates for a second before deciding fuck it, why not call it what it is since they’ve both already admitted it, “—and loved than I do when you’re caning me until I cry and as you hold me after, and I— you’ve accepted every part of me, you’ve encouraged and celebrated them.”
Fell reaches up to cover Crowley’s hand with his own, and his eyes are welling again. Crowley can almost see the start of a protest gathering itself around his professor’s mouth as well, so he leans up to smooth it away with a kiss.
“I need you to know this, angel,” Crowley whispers, and he does. He won’t be able to bear it, Fell thinking that he’s not good enough for him; what a distressing and laughably impossible concept. “I’m young, and I know that, I’m not saying I know everything there is to know about relationships or anything of the sort, but— I’m not completely inexperienced, and I know some things, so when I tell you that you enrich every part of my life, I mean it. And you’ve got to believe me, or I need you to try, anyway.”
He swallows around the lump in his throat that’s been a threat all evening, ordering his thoughts as much as he can, but nothing he’s saying in his head feels right, nothing he can come up with conveys just how much he adores this man, but nonetheless he keeps going, hoping Fell will at least glean a little of the depth to Crowley’s feelings for him.
“You’re the safe space I never want to leave, Daddy,” he doesn’t think he’s got the strength left in him to even try to address just how much he loves that aspect of their dynamic at the moment— perhaps another time Crowley can attempt to express to Fell just how unexpectedly wonderful it’s been to explore and embrace that Daddy/boy aspect of their relationship, when he’s not already wrung dry emotionally and physically. “You never weigh me down. You do just the opposite: you’ve shown me what it is to feel weightless in the face of the heaviness of life, because you’ve been holding me up and so very close to you with tireless arms. What else could anyone even dare to hope for other than that, angel?”
He catches some of the tears that overflow with his thumb and cranes his neck up to kiss away some others as his professor breathes out a shivering huff of air.
“Did you switch your course to poetry without telling me, darling?” Fell mutters, shaking his head and closing his eyes. “Not even Keats could have penned something so breathtaking, good Lord.”
Crowley can’t help but blush a bit at that as his smile grows; Keats is someone they agree on.
“I— thank you, Crowley, truly,” Fell turns his head to kiss Crowley’s palm, his words soft and full of emotion. “I’m going to have to beg your forgiveness for my inability to be eloquent at present, seeing as you’ve absconded with my breath as much as you’ve stolen my heart,” blue flickers silver as Fell blinks away more tears, “and one day I’ll try to describe just how much you mean to me, but this I’ll say right now, with you here, in my arms and as luminous as a moonlit garden I somehow had the fortune to stumble upon in the dark—”
Crowley is dearly and predictably tempted to say something along the lines of ‘who’s the poet now’, but he’s so transfixed that he refrains.
“It is a soul-deep joy and honor for me, being a safe space for you, Crowley,” a hand hooks under his to bring it in for a kiss, and Fell’s eyes don’t leave Crowley’s from over the back of his knuckles. “I will never take such a thing lightly; and you never have to leave it, my dear. It is yours, however long you wish, just as I am.”
Crowley can’t conceive of a moment in time when he won’t long for the man that is Professor Aziraphale Fell, but he keeps that to himself.
“I still cannot think that I am worthy of you,” there’s still a fretful timbre to the professor’s words, but Crowley empathizes more than he’d like to admit; he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling similarly.
“I’ll try to show you that you are,” he promises, bringing their noses together and kissing a tearstained cheek. “I’ll try however I can, because you are.”
“I said it the first night we spent together, and I’ll say it again; you are a dream, my lovely Anthony,” Fell whispers as he draws Crowley closer, tucking his head under his chin as he lifts his long hair to be sure it doesn’t get tangled in the blanket he’s still wrapped within, “one I never could have anticipated.”
“Would you like to take a bath together, love?” he asks after a few more comfortably quiet minutes devoid of any grating, internal electric background noise as he squeezes Crowley lightly, “or I can clean us up if you’d prefer to lounge in bed— and I need to tend to you at some point, too. I’ve not broken the skin, but some ice and aloe wouldn’t go amiss.”
“A bath sounds good, but I might fall asleep, whatever we do,” Crowley’s jaw cracks as he stifles a yawn, fatigue settling into his bones like sediment, “‘m so tired.” He doesn’t often experience sub drop, and he’d forgotten how draining it can be on its own; the addition of admitting his love has only further pushed him into total exhaustion.
“I’m sure you are, my sweetest thing. You’ve been through so very much this evening; I’m so proud of you as always, my dear,” Fell brings his lips to his forehead again as he gives him another hug, “close your eyes and let me take care of you, dove. I’ve got you.”
He slowly extricates himself from Crowley and stands as he removes his waistcoat and loose bow tie, both of which he then folds and deposits onto the top of the tiger oak dresser behind him.
“I know you do,” Crowley disentangles himself from the silky throw with weak arms but a strengthening bravery, “and— dunno if you’re someone who likes to say it a lot, and no pressure, but I kind of need to say it out loud again— I love you,” there’s a lick of fear associated with the words as he murmurs them, like they’re not yet allowed, but Fell’s entire face lights up as he bends at the waist, guides one arm under Crowley’s knees and circles his back with the other.
“I quite like saying it, actually. You shall have to stop me from doing so if it becomes too much,” Fell mutters almost shyly through a smile as he lifts Crowley, bridal style, to take him to the bathroom, and before he starts walking he nuzzles Crowley’s nose with his own, his whisper as soft as the pale eyelashes grazing his cheekbone, “I love you, my darling.”
“Don’t think it’s possible for it to be too much, angel,” Crowley has known his professor to be a romantic in many senses of the word, but still he’s thrilled to know that translates into freely spoken affirmations as well. “Still can’t believe it’s true, just yet.”
“I will endeavor to tell you as much as is needed for you to believe it, my star, and then I’ll tell you some more,” it’s another one of those tenderly fierce promises from Fell, and Crowley can’t help but accept it as an undeniable fact.
As they make their way down the hall, Crowley sleepy smile melts into one of peace as it becomes clear that the grating, incessant buzzing has completely gone from his head along with the weight of the secret he’s no longer carrying within his ribcage; there’s only the tranquil serenity the arms of his professor brings to his body and mind that’s all the sweeter now.
His angel told him not to be afraid, and Crowley isn’t, not anymore.
He just feels loved.