Chapter Text
Great Conjunction: A conjunction occurs when two planets appear to meet each other in the sky, as seen from Earth. A great conjunction refers to the rare astronomical event of a conjunction between Jupiter and Saturn; great conjunctions occur approximately every 20 years when Jupiter "overtakes" Saturn in its orbit. This planetary event has historically been assigned an incredible amount of meaning regarding change, particularly during the Medieval and Renaissance eras, so much so that it has been referenced in works by Dante, Shakespeare, and more.
“Mind if I sit?” Crowley asks, aiming for nonchalance as he glances down at the bench where his English lit professor is currently sitting. He’s wearing a dove grey wool suit and, as usual, looks unfairly attractive— even the bow tie that would be absurd on anyone else is oddly sexy.
Professor Fell lifts his chin and, Crowley thinks, looks him up and down in a subtle flick of pale blue. He tries his best not to flush wildly from that, but knows he fails; the heat that always shows up when he’s around the older man betrays his wishes and spreads over his cheeks in a rush of prickling heat.
“Certainly,” comes the murmured reply as Fell scoots closer to the side of the bench to make even more unnecessary room, much to Crowley’s dismay. He wants to be as close as possible to Professor Fell— he’d straddle him if he were totally out of his mind.
He’s not that far off, honestly.
Crowley sits down and praises himself inwardly for not tripping or climbing into that inviting lap or doing something else incredibly stupid. He sprawls over the bench as he’s wont to do, and he resists the temptation to nudge Professor Fell’s shoe with his own boot.
They sit in silence.
Crowley’s heartbeat is deafening in his ear as he fights not to flirt or beg Professor Fell to let him get on his knees for him when the older man speaks up, his tone one of polite, if not a bit detached, curiosity.
“Remind me of your area of study, Mr. Crowley, if you’d be so kind.”
Crowley swallows before replying, “astrophysics.” He prides himself on saying this relatively normally.
There’s a hum from Professor Fell that makes Crowley’s neck prickle as he nods.
“Impressive— so I can assume that you are most likely in possession of above average intelligence, I’m sure,” he says pleasantly, crossing his legs, and Crowley can’t help but smirk as he preens a bit.
“‘spose you could say that, yeah,” he drawls as he stretches slightly— his arm is over the back of the bench, and his fingers rest tantalizingly close to those ivory curls.
His fingertips itch.
“So I suppose that I can further assume that you’re purposefully doing abysmally in my class.”
Crowley didn’t expect to get to that part this quickly.
He sits up a little, feeling rather exposed as he tries to recover.
“Or,” he says as he picks at a thread on the cuff of his henley, “you could assume that Jane Austen is so abysmally boring that it’s hard to be inspired.”
Even from the corner of his eye, Crowley can see Professor Fell’s jaw set as he slowly shakes his head.
“And now you’re purposefully trying to provoke me,” he murmurs, and Crowley bites his lip from the hint of a purr simmering in that rich voice he often gets so lost in during lectures.
Finally, Professor Fell turns his head to look at Crowley, whose face is definitely not doing him any favors as far as not continuing to flush more furiously by the second.
“Just what is it you’re hoping to accomplish?” he asks, his eyes searching as he stares at Crowley, “please; enlighten me.”
Jesus. As far as things Crowley expected from this encounter, being asked this wasn’t that high on the list. And now, being ordered to share his scheme?
He’s so fucked.
“I’m—”
He scrambles for an answer that isn’t ‘I need you to bend me over your desk and fuck me until I pass out’.
Professor Fell now angles his body towards Crowley, too, and he jumps when their knees touch— the resulting shiver from the collision runs up his thigh and slithers along his back, sending signals to every neuron in his body that finally, a part of Professor Fell is touching a part of him.
“Tell me.”
Fell’s tone is ridiculously decadent now, it’s positively lethal in its delivery and pitch, and Crowley really is so fucking fucked.
He prays his voice doesn’t sound too high and embarrassingly thin when he opens his mouth to reply.
“Was hoping you’d offer me extra credit,” he breathes out in a rush, prayer laughably unanswered, “so I could— meet you. Outside of class. That’s all.”
Professor Fell raises an eyebrow.
It’s incomprehensibly attractive.
“That’s all?” Fell asks mildly, cocking his head to the side. He shifts his legs again so that there’s even more contact between their knees, and Crowley can’t stop himself from pushing his own leg closer, too, greedy for more, needing so much fucking more.
He thinks he sees that jaw set again, but he’s not sure.
“Y-yes,” he lies.
“Hmm,” Fell’s hand slides down towards his knee from its resting place on his thigh, coasting steadily down a slope of grey, and Crowley can’t breathe, “I see. If that’s truly all—” a finger grazes along Crowley’s kneecap, the nail catching on denim, “there’s not much more to be said, as I don’t offer extra credit.”
Crowley’s at a loss for words as three fingertips ghost over the top of his knee and casually flay the nerves beneath his jeans before they’re pulled back along with Professor Fell’s leg, and the junction between them is broken, just like that.
“Wait,” Crowley croaks, desperate.
There’s that fucking raised brow again; Crowley’s stomach swoops and flips and plummets in a now practiced gymnastics routine.
“Yes?” Fell asks, the picture of serenity as he gazes at Crowley, who’s fighting for his life not to melt into a puddle or start begging for those hands to please come closer to him again.
“I—” fuck, he didn’t think this would be so hard.
“You seem to respond well to commands versus questions, Mr. Crowley,” Fell whispers, and Crowley holds in a whine and confession that yes, it’s true, he fucking does, “so I’ll say this, and if you can’t answer, we will pretend this never happened, and you will cease your antics.”
Crowley’s throat seems to be paralyzed, so he nods, eyes wide.
“You are going to tell me why you want to see me outside of class,” Fell’s hand is on the move again, but this time he brushes the edge of it along Crowley’s outer thigh and it trails up along the curve of it lightly, hardly colliding but somehow mimicking the feeling of muscle being firmly kneaded for all its intensity, “the real reason.”
His touch is gone as fast as it came, but it may as well have left a brand on Crowley, the sensation of it remains so vividly.
There’s silence again as he tries to figure out what to say, and he’s shy and overwhelmed and unbearably worked up as he finally manages to swallow again, a little louder than he’d have liked.
His eyes had been flitting between Fell’s eyes and literally anywhere else when he needed a viable breath, but he focuses them back onto opaline blue as he deeply inhales.
Crowley cannot ever resist a command.
“I want you,” he whispers, and he’s sure even his neck is bright red now, matching his face in hue and temperature.
There’s a flash of something shadowy in clear aqua that steals Crowley’s breath away again.
“In what way,” Professor Fell asks, and Crowley is thrilled that his voice is rougher than usual, it’s almost strained, “be specific, my dear.”
Fuck, not that endearment, not in this context—
It’s relatively common for the professor to refer to people this way, and it’s never sounded less than courteous. Crowley has never heard him say it like this— suggestive, seductive, erotic.
“In every way,” Crowley answers honestly, “I want— fuck, you’re not making this easy—”
“If you can’t handle this, Anthony,” oh fuck, “then you may want to reconsider what you think you’re so desperate to have, because I think you may already have an inkling,” he drops to a whisper, “that my particular tastes are not what one would classify as…easy.”
It’s a miracle Crowley doesn’t squeak.
He’d had a feeling, a very bone deep, nearly positive suspicion— he’d been wildly hoping that he was right, and the substantiation makes his head hazily fuzzy and his mouth water; his tongue begins to ache from its lack of engagement with any and every part of his professor’s body.
“I can handle it,” Crowley whispers, looking through his lashes up at Fell, chest tight and jeans even tighter, “I assure you that I can take it, sir.”
Professor Fell’s jaw setting is now without a doubt a confirmed tell of his, and some more ground layers itself beneath Crowley as he watches it, but it crumbles away under his feet again just as quickly.
“We’ll see,” Fell says as he now, very obviously, lets his gaze slide up and down Crowley’s body.
It’s a massive struggle not to arch his back and spread his legs wider as Crowley basks under the attention of the man he’s been aching to display himself for, and he nods as he bites his lip, knowing exactly how he looks while doing so.
“Yes, we will, Professor,” he murmurs.
When Fell smiles this time, it’s flirting with something akin to predatory, and not for the first time, Crowley wishes he could just drop to his knees right here.
His heart skips several beats when he next hears, “give me your hand, please.”
Crowley’s honestly pretty impressed that he hasn’t started whimpering at this point.
He holds out his arm, unsure what to expect, and his breath audibly catches when fingers reach out, a thumb hooks under his palm, and his hand is flipped over. Fell retrieves a pen from his pocket with his other hand, clicks the top of it, and begins writing on Crowley’s wrist.
The nib of the pen tickles as an elegant script appears, black ink leaving its signature over Crowley’s pale skin in a spidery caress.
“This is my personal email address,” Fell murmurs lowly as he carefully, meticulously writes, and Crowley wonders how fast his own heart rate is; he actually feels faint, “please send me a list of hard and soft limits as soon as you can.”
Things just got very fucking real very fucking fast.
“Right,” Crowley says weakly, shivering as Fell’s fingers wrap under his wrist to keep it steady as he writes, faintly curling but undeniably sure of their path, their strength evident even below a fairly tender touch, “you must have a lot of experience with this kind of thing, to be so, um…prepared.”
The pen pauses.
“Not as much as you might think,” Professor Fell says quietly as he resumes writing, “and never with a student.”
Now Crowley’s the one raising his eyebrows— he’s genuinely surprised to hear it.
“Seriously?” he asks as Fell finishes, “never?”
His concern regarding passing out returns in full as Professor Fell bends his head and lightly blows on the still drying ink, his breath a balmy breeze flooding over Crowley’s skin, surely speeding up his already frenetic pulse along with setting the shining pigment.
“Seriously,” comes the reply as Fell releases Crowley’s wrist and returns his pen to his jacket pocket.
Crowley scoffs, incredulous and blushing harder from this information as he pulls his arm back.
“I can’t believe no other students have ever,” he pauses as he gestures a hand vaguely at the professor, whose smile has taken on a tad of gentleness; he looks amused, “come onto you like this, or any other way.”
Professor Fell holds Crowley’s gaze unblinkingly as he murmurs, his voice lower once more and gathering heat with the sudden speed of tinder catching, “that’s not what I said.”
Jesus Christ.
“Oh,” Crowley says dumbly as he stares back, unbelievably flustered as well as still a little disbelieving.
“Oh,” Fell agrees, and his smile is quite soft now, even if his eyes continue to twinkle a mite mischievously.
He pulls out an antique looking gold pocket watch and studies it before he says to Crowley, “I have to be going, Anthony— may I call you that?”
Call me anything you fucking want, Crowley nearly says.
“Yeah, Anthony’s fine,” he mutters as Fell gets to his feet, and he does the same, “Crowley is good, too.”
He’s taller than Professor Fell, but somehow the older man manages to make him feel small when he looks at him, and not in a bad way.
Crowley finds he rather likes it.
“Very well,” Fell says as he smooths down the lapels of his jacket and straightens the collar of his shirt, “I’m usually in my office rather late, Crowley,” God, Crowley can’t decide which name he likes better coming from that frankly exceedingly kissable mouth, “usually well past midnight.”
This is happening, this is really happening— Crowley doesn’t know whether he’s going to explode or evaporate.
“Once you’ve emailed me, do feel free to drop by after ten— it starts to get much quieter around that time in my hallway.”
Crowley can hear the unsaid continuation of that:
That’s when less people are around.
Crowley nods as he wonders what to do next, already drafting his email in his head; it’s mostly done and edited at this point, really.
“Will do,” he says as he licks his canine and then his lip, wishing he could lick Fell’s instead.
“Excellent,” Professor Fell nods at Crowley as he continues, “lovely chatting with you, my dear; enjoy the rest of your day.”
There’s one last hungry glance from azure blue and a visibly deep inhale from him as Crowley nods back.
“Lovely, yeah, and thanks— you too, sir.”
Not the most eloquent response, and Crowley didn’t even mean to tack the ‘sir’ on at the end of the sentence, but he’s very fucking frazzled, so he tries not to beat himself over it too much (he’s not successful).
Another deep breath from Professor Fell ends with him smirking.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, eyes darkening again, “I must thank you for giving me something to replay in my head for the rest of the day; I expect I’ll also be considering the variations of how that particular word might sound coming from your absurdly tantalizing mouth in other…scenarios.”
Fuck.
Perhaps Crowley has underestimated some things.
He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s mortified when the only thing that escapes his throat is a fractured whimper.
Fuck, he’s been doing so well up until this point.
Professor Fell’s smirk grows as he chuckles, and when he speaks, his voice is enveloped within sleek, velveteen silk, and Crowley miraculously withholds a whine.
“Another pretty little sound for me, and even more to help pass the time of the next few hours,” he steps closer, “you spoil me, Crowley; if you keep this up, I’ll only want more.”
I’ll give you anything you want, Crowley wants to say, but somehow he’s able to control himself and tone that down a tad as he replies, voice still annoyingly breathy, damn it, “then I’ll be sure to keep it up, sir.”
He smiles as he slowly turns to go.
A brick wall suddenly appearing wouldn’t have stopped Crowley in his tracks more harshly than Fell murmuring under his breath, but loud enough to be heard, “oh, I do so love a brat, especially the ones who are just begging to be broken.”
Crowley whirls around only to see the back of his professor as he walks off.
He’s not sure how he makes it through the rest of the day, but Crowley barely pays any attention during his last class; in fact, he spends most of it revising his mental email to Professor Fell, frantically rewriting sentences and fretting over phrasing as he ponders his limits.
As soon as his class ends and he walks out of the building into crisp air, he starts typing out Professor Fell’s email address on his phone with thumbs that shake. He’s memorized it— he’s been staring off and on at that annoyingly neat font that looks like it’s been typed onto his inner wrist, it’s so ridiculously precise.
It’s hard not to fixate on the idea that Professor Fell has left his brand on him, that he’s marked him so casually and then set it with breath from his own lungs— the entire gesture oozes dominance.
Crowley’s already preemptively mourning the inevitable loss of the ink once he showers as he types the email in the address bar:
Of course had Crowley immediately looked up the words ‘come slowly Eden’ and had been greeted with an Emily Dickinson poem— unsurprising, he supposed, although he would’ve expected an English poet perhaps.
His poor cheeks have been through the ringer today, and they’d given him no break as he’d read the two short stanzas that were undeniably erotic as he’d walked away from the professor in a daze earlier.
Crowley bites his lip as he now writes what he’s mostly polished in his head.
Dear Professor Fell,
Below you will find the information you’ve requested; I hope I’ve been timely enough with my response.
God, Crowley is overthinking everything— how flirty should he be, should he be more…professional? The formal element to this is oddly intoxicating.
He continues:
Hard limits: tickling, electricity, needles, degradation re: intelligence or worthiness, ‘set up to fail’ predicaments, bodily fluids other than spit/come (a bit of blood is a soft limit), ice/cold sensation play, water bondage, age regression
Christ, this is intense.
Crowley’s sure he’s missing things, and he reads over the list several times as he thinks and thinks and thinks. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t need to mention extremely obvious things— Fell seems to be experienced, responsible, and sane as far as he can tell.
He tries to take a breath against the frenzied beating of his heart as he lists his soft limits:
Soft limits (as in I am possibly maybe open to with discussion and certain people): breeding, feminization, knife play, sounding, CBT, sensory deprivation, pet play, being ignored
None of this is new to Crowley— he’s played with enough people to know what he likes and what he doesn’t, what he’s curious about or open to, but it’s the first time he’s written this down in awhile, and he’s irritated by how nervous he is.
The last thing he wants is to seem like an anxious, inexperienced mess to his clearly seasoned professor.
He’s also surprised Fell didn’t ask for details on what he likes, and he’s tempted to add that, but despite his bratty nature, he follows the instructions he’s been given and doesn’t expand on anything else.
He muses on his closing and, after brief consideration, settles on some cheek.
I hope the rest of your day has passed by pleasantly enough, and that what I’ve given you to think on hasn’t grown stale yet. I’d hate for my novelty to wear off so soon.
I’ll knock when I come to your office later.
-Crowley
Because he is going to go to Fell’s office tonight, he knows as he presses ‘send’— he’s known this as soon as the professor told him he could once he’d sent the email, and not even the blossoming, effervescent panic Crowley’s experiencing all throughout his body can change his mind.
He’s been fantasizing about Professor Fell for months; he’s been featured in his dreams, both night and day, and although the timeline of their meeting has sped up tremendously, Crowley is dying for it to happen, and as soon as possible, especially now that he knows Fell wants to.
As he’s about to step into the shower later that night, Crowley pauses as he glances down at the frankly beautiful ink lettering.
He reaches for his phone and takes a photo of the email on his wrist, but it’s blurry from his trembling hand, so he takes a few more, and from a different angle.
Just in case.
By the time he’s showered, dressed and undressed three times and fucked with his hair so much he’s almost tempted to chop it all off (thankfully he resists) it’s just about 10. Crowley sits on the edge of his bed, tapping his fingers rapidly on his thighs as he bounces a knee and fights growing nausea.
Of course he’s second guessing what he’s wearing— what is chosen is relatively simple and just a bit different (read: sluttier) than his usual fare. He’s perhaps predictably opted for some faux leather leggings that are subtle as far as that sort of thing goes, they’re not obnoxiously shiny or anything. His soft, thin black t-shirt has a draped cowl neck in the front that’s a wider, low neckline, and he’s paired it with his asymmetrical leather jacket. He leaves his snake printed Docs unlaced, and he’s tucked his chest length hair behind his right ear so the serpent tattoo by his temple is visible.
He wonders if this is all a very stupid idea as he picks at the cuff of his jacket before fiddling with the laces of his boots— he wonders if it’s all too good to be true, really. He still can’t quite believe Professor Fell hasn’t taken up any other students on their advancements.
Crowley swallows thickly as he lets himself think of the implications of that if it’s true, and even though it feels unreal, Fell doesn’t seem like the type to lie. He’s not sure why he himself would be the exception to the supposed rule, but he’d really like to find out.
It’s an exercise in self control to not arrive at Professor Fell’s office right at 10– Crowley makes it till nearly quarter past before he can’t wait around the corner of the hallway anymore. He’s close to losing consciousness from nervousness and desire, and doubts are closing in.
Every echoing step down the (blessedly) empty hall is another ‘what if’, and apparently Crowley just fucking shakes all the time now; his legs quake as he stands in front of the wooden door emblazoned with ‘Professor A. Z. Fell’ and stares at the lettering.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
He knocks on the door three times, softly, worried about being too loud (odd— that’s something he never worries about), and then waits for what feels like eons until the click of a lock sounds, there’s a creak of a turning handle, and the door opens slowly to reveal Professor Fell.
He’s dressed as he was earlier, bow tie and all, but the addition of gold rimmed glasses knocks some of the wind out of Crowley as Fell’s mouth upturns slightly. He says nothing for a moment— instead, he lets his eyes linger on Crowley, and they boldly but leisurely take in the sight of him.
Crowley forces himself to stay standing as he undergoes the visual undressing he knows he’s receiving— he’s being stripped by the pale blue gleam of Fell’s regard, the layers of him are being systematically peeled back and held open so that the professor can see more of him.
Crowley just fervently hopes he likes what he sees.
Finally, Professor Fell says something, and it’s another blow to Crowley’s perilously holding posture as he murmurs, “good evening, Crowley; lovely to see you again so soon.”
Crowley inhales as he nods, breathless and a bit off kilter as he replies, “good to see you too, sir.”
Fell’s smile quirks to the side and morphs into the smirk Crowley’s fast becoming addicted to as he opens the door wider.
“Please come in,” Fell cordially says as he steps back, and Crowley does, and he’s been in here before, but stepping over the threshold this time is striking in its new meaning.
Fell closes the door with another click, and Crowley has no idea whether to stand or sit, so he busies himself by looking around the room. It’s all warm, dark wood and copious bookshelves filled to the brim; some small plush, cognac leather chairs are clustered in front of a large antique desk.
It’s pretty dark inside— the only light is a warm glow from a brass double student lamp on said desk, and it’s a cozy atmosphere— it would all be very calming if Crowley wasn’t vibrating out of his skin.
He turns to face Fell, who is looking right at him.
The professor standing straight with his hands in his pockets, and he gives Crowley one last up and down look before he murmurs, “very nice.”
It’s another miraculous occurrence Crowley doesn’t trip or drop to his knees or squeak or fall over— the miracles are adding up today.
He doesn’t know what to say, which is bizarre— he isn’t often speechless.
Crowley forgets he’s supposed to be a brat then as he whispers, “thank you,” instead of something like ‘what did you expect?’
He can’t help it— he’s genuinely more than happy that Fell likes his appearance, and Crowley may have bratty inclinations, but more than anything, he just wants to please.
Fell says nothing, but his smirk gentles minutely as he walks to stand behind his desk. He takes his glasses off and folds them carefully before setting them down on the polished wood surface, and he closes a book that was laying open, too. He slowly runs a hand through his pale hair before he speaks again.
“I must thank you for both the timely nature and detail of your email, Crowley,” he’s looking at Crowley again, who is still standing— he’s actually not sure he can move, “I must confess myself glad that you’re so punctual,” he glances at a clock on the wall, the smirk teasing at the corner of his mouth again, “in more ways than one.”
Ooof. Crowley’s already overly heated face flares into more of an inferno at the implication that’s extremely true— he couldn’t wait to get to the office, and it’s embarrassing to be called out, albeit in an elegant manner.
He scrambles for some footing as he smiles coyly.
“Hopefully eagerness is something that you enjoy, professor,” Crowley murmurs as he mirrors Fell’s motion of threading fingers through his hair, “bratty nature aside— I live to please, and I don’t stop until I’m sure I’ve done just that.”
May as well play up what he can’t conceal.
Crowley’s eyes latch onto yet another jaw set from Fell, and his smile grows.
The professor may be confident and effortlessly smooth, but he’s not able to totally hide when he’s affected. It slightly levels things out on the playing field where Crowley’s likely pretty far behind currently.
Fell’s eyes don’t budge from Crowley’s as he says, low and warm, the tone of his voice sliding down Crowley’s spine and dousing him in simmering honey, “there are few things better than a genuine eagerness to please, my dear.”
He steps out from behind his desk, and fuck, he’s coming closer, fuck.
Crowley’s heart leaps to his throat as Professor Fell walks and stops immediately behind him, and he jumps as he feels Fell’s fingers curl around the shoulders of his jacket, the tips of them brushing over his shoulders as tiny points of flame that burn the skin below; he gently pulls it off as he whispers, so very close that his words tickle, “and I know you don’t stop until you get what you want.”
Crowley’s breath leaves him in a fractured shuddering huff in time with the leather leaving his body, a shiver snaking down his arms as they’re bared to the air and to the professor as Fell continues, mouth mere centimeters away from his neck, the flow of his words whispering over the expanse of exposed skin, “but I also know— you will stop if I tell you to.”
A flicker of defiance blooms to life from a match strike in the pit of Crowley’s stomach to join his arousal as he fires back, voice definitely not as steady as he’d like, but overall he sounds alright, “are you sure about that, Professor?”
Of course Fell is right, even if it’s annoying.
“Yes,” comes the instant reply as Fell steps away and drapes Crowley’s jacket over the back of one of the leather chairs, “it’s clear you thrive on following orders, you ‘live to please’, and I have a feeling that you will do exactly as I say, exactly how I say it. But please, do tell me if I’m wrong, my dear— I could certainly be misreading you.”
He walks so that he’s now in front of Crowley, and he leans back on his desk, bracing himself with his palms as he waits for an answer with a raised brow and an expectant expression.
Crowley is utterly fucked. He knows it, and Fell seems to be finding that out, and fast.
He’s grateful he’s no longer wearing his jacket— he’s hot, and even the thin fabric of his shirt is stifling as he admits, breaking eye contact and looking to the side of Fell, “you— you’re not misreading me.”
He looks back at the professor, who merely nods.
“I didn’t think so.”
There’s a silence between them that’s crackling, and Crowley’s close to blurting out something insane when Fell rescues him.
“As far as safety— do you have any mobility issues or restrictions, or any other physical limitations that I should know about, my dear?”
Crowley shakes his head, “not really, none that I can’t think of, no past injuries or anything like that— I don’t like to be extremely cold, I’m really sensitive to it, but otherwise, nothing else.”
“That’s very good to know, Crowley, thank you. I also want to let you know that four months ago, I had an STI panel done which came back negative, and I have had no partners since then; I can show you these records, if you’d like.”
When it comes to so-called ‘green flags’ with Professor Fell, they’re continuing to add up— Crowley had meant to bring this up at some point, and he’s pleased that Fell’s a step ahead of him in this regard; it can sometimes be awkward to talk about with a new partner, and Crowley’s used to dealing with that, but this feels easy, it’s not stilted at all, and it only serves to reassure Crowley even more about going through with this. He especially appreciates the lack of any stigmatizing language from Fell, too.
“Oh, I don’t need to see records, professor, I believe you— I was tested three weeks ago, all was negative, no partners since, either— I could email you the results, if you want, it’s no problem. Also, as far as protection goes, I’m okay with not using any for oral, but I’d use it for anything more for now.”
Fell nods as he murmurs, “thank you so much for sharing that with me, Crowley, and that won’t be necessary to show me. Also, you are far ahead of me as far as methods and instances for protection; I feel the very same.”
There’s a beat of quiet as they both smile at each other, and Crowley’s not totally sure what Fell is thinking as he regards Crowley with those assessing, alluring eyes. Fell isn’t a very tall man, but even as he leans back against his desk, his physicality calls for attention and dominates the room. Again Crowley muses inwardly how the professor makes him feel smaller, like he’s standing below him even though in reality he’s nearly always looking down from his additional height.
Crowley’s eyes drop and linger on Fell’s hands, studying their white knuckled grip on the edge of the desk as he pushes against it. His hands are big, and Crowley’s often been very distracted in class as he watches the way the professor uses them as he talks. They look strong, and Crowley’s feeling a little dizzier again as he ponders whether he’s going to find out if that’s true relatively soon.
“Back to your email,” Professor Fell says eventually, pulling Crowley from his reverie, “you’ll be glad to know your limits lineup with my interests as far as I can tell— thank you for being so open, truly.”
Crowley nods, very glad indeed to know this. “‘Course,” he mutters as he plays with the hem of his shirt, and he’s unable to hold back his curiosity any longer, “I’m surprised you only asked for my limits, professor. I would’ve thought you’d want to know my likes, too.”
Fell smiles again, but it’s a little darker, and it makes Crowley bite his lip.
“Oh, I assure you that I do want to know that, very much, my dear; but I want the pleasure of watching your cheeks bloom with a flush and to study the way you squirm as you tell me them right now.”
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—
Crowley doesn’t know what he was expecting, and he walked right into this if he’s honest, but he’s not prepared for how that speech makes him feel.
He lightly stumbles backwards, but he rights himself quickly, trying to play it off.
Crowley is unable to wrench his eyes away from Professor Fell, who actually looks like he was about to lunge forward— his hands left his desk for a second, but they’re back now as he settles into his lean again.
“So please, Crowley,” he says, polite but silky, “tell me what you like.”
Crowley’s victorious in wrangling the whine that’s trying its best to crawl out of his mouth as he takes a breath.
He exhales and tries to order his thoughts before they start spilling out, but that’s a skill he’s not really well versed in.
“I like—” he starts, but trails off.
Fell’s quiet as he watches him search for words, but it doesn’t have the quality of a condescending silence, and he’s not grinning at Crowley or anything close to it by any degree. His eyes are tempests of deepening pewter and are very intent, but he doesn’t look to be in a hurry.
It’s heartening in a way Crowley can’t explain.
He licks his lips before he starts talking, and it gets easier as he goes on.
“I like a lot— power dynamics, obviously, and I’m mostly submissive. I love to be dominated.”
He waits a beat before tacking an addendum onto that statement.
“I also like being made to submit.”
He wonders if he imagines the soft purring growl from the professor as he listens.
“I enjoy impact play, breathplay…I like being restrained. I love having my hair pulled, and being manhandled— maneuvered, tossed around. Made to feel…helpless.”
He stops for much needed air and a moment to collect himself— the piercing nature of Fell’s gaze has increased exponentially over the last few seconds.
“I like being marked— hickies, biting, impact marks, things like that. Typical BDSM things I guess; I’m not really very original, I suppose,” Crowley says, suddenly very self conscious about his desires. As he’s listing them aloud, they feel cliche and boring, they feel overplayed.
“You’re lovely,” Professor Fell murmurs just then in a way that slices through Crowley’s insecurities as well as his last remaining defenses— the tendons responsible for the function of his knees are also on their way to being shredded, “please, go on. You’re doing wonderfully.”
Crowley’s already vast, vivid flush grows as the almost tender praise washes over him in a rush of sizzling warmth, and he closes his eyes as another broken exhale escapes his lips.
He’s trying his best not to devolve into needy whimpers, but the battle is starting to turn, and not in his favor.
“Do you like praise, Crowley?” Fell whispers, and there’s no room for Crowley to deny it; he’s been found out, and he can’t lie.
“Y-yes…fuck, yes. I do. But— sometimes it’s hard for me to take a lot of it.”
There’s a mushrooming plume of anxiety in his chest as he shares this particular kink.
“I also like degradation,” he tumbles on, “as long as I know that it’s not, you know— coming from a place of contempt or cruelty, or like I mentioned in my email about being called stupid or useless or a disappointment, that sort of thing. Other than that, I really like it.”
He pauses before he decides to keep going.
“And I can take a lot more of that than praise, usually.”
The last of his words fall out of him like they’ve been pushed, and Crowley knows it’s typically not wise to drop this sort of information to someone looking to dominate you— he knows what it’s like to give someone too much power— but something about his professor makes him feel comfortable enough to share more (or makes him more of a naive idiot; time will tell).
“Mmm,” Fell propels himself from his desk with his palms as his eyes stay focused.
Crowley thinks he sees a faint shock of pink gathered on Fell’s cheeks as he walks forward and stops just in front of him, and there’s not much space left between them as he murmurs, “absolutely marvelous; our interests continue to align with almost frightening serendipity.”
Shimmering cerulean shifts down to Crowley’s lips, and the ravenous expression in those eyes looks like it’s barely being contained.
Part of Crowley wishes that he would just lean forward and roughly capture his lips, that Professor Fell would take what he wants from him.
He wishes that he’d grab his biceps and slam him into the wall that’s really not that far behind them and would kiss Crowley until he was forced to beg to be allowed to touch him, he wants to be tortured by his touch and his desire until he can’t take it anymore.
“Tell me more, Anthony. What else do you like?”
“I like—” Crowley pauses, another shiver of shyness sparkling over his limbs, the use of his first name an intoxicating dram of surprise, and Professor Fell shifts his feet forward even closer.
“Yes?” he asks, and he’s so very close now that Crowley can smell him, and it’s a provocative aroma that’s spicy and green at the same time, something that reminds him vaguely of autumn and spring simultaneously.
The intricate pattern of the tartan bow tie is so clear from this close.
Crowley breathes in the fragrance as his eyes close for a moment, and he’s slammed with the awareness that he’s so hard his thighs are quivering.
Once again he needs to remind himself that this is really happening, and when he opens his eyes, he obeys the directive he’s been given.
“I…I like pain. Not a ridiculous amount, mind you; but I’m definitely a masochist,” Crowley’s terribly, horrifyingly breathy again, and it gets much worse as velvety purr leaves Professor Fell’s throat that’s absolutely devastating to the failing structure of Crowley’s knees.
“Is that so?”
Fuck, the gravelly heat wrapping itself around those words goes right to Crowley’s already aching cock, and he nods as he drops his eyes and bends his head, unable to hold Fell’s gaze any longer, needing to submit in some small way before he fucking combusts.
“Yes, sir,” he whispers, dangerously close to a whine, and Crowley’s well on his way to shamelessness here in Professor Fell’s office as he takes a step back towards the wall. He feels he’s about to be pinned there like a butterfly that’s going to be intensely studied, spread, and kept.
Fell follows him; Crowley watches his shoes edge closer on the floor, and he’s not consciously trying to put space between himself and the professor as he unconsciously slides his own boots back again— he might be about a hand’s length away from the wall now.
He startles when a finger slides under his chin and tips it back up, the touch unexpected and electric; it shoots thunderous bolts through his blood to a point where he’s scared he’ll catch fire.
He meets oceanic irises with difficulty, but it’s worth it to see their stormy depths whirl into even duskier, carnal want, their luminosity changing by the millisecond.
“Does pain make you come?” Professor Fell then asks so softly that Crowley strains to hear him, but as the words settle into his brain, it’s all he can do not to orgasm just from the sound of them and the thrill of being asked such a filthy, intimate question in such a calm manner.
“Fuck— yes, sir, it can. Sometimes,” Crowley whimpers, and he tries to stop his hips from arching forward in a wanton display of need; he ends up trembling harder from the effort, and the pain of not being touched or being allowed to touch Fell is about to make him come.
“Gorgeous,” Fell’s voice is still featherlight as he grazes his thumb over Crowley’s chin and then along the bottom contour of his lower lip, his touch sparkling with a frisson of more lightning.
Crowley has no clue how he’s able to stop himself from sucking that thumb into his mouth.
He fails at stopping himself from whining in protest when Fell drops his hand away from him, though, and the professor exhales through his nose in a manner that suggests he’s also not happy about the renewed distance between them, nostrils flaring, jaw flexing.
“Anything else you want to tell me, my dear?” he asks, and his tone continues to be a dizzying contrast between gentle and powerful.
Crowley nods weakly, needing to confess this particular passion of his.
“I— I love having my mouth used. I love fingers in my mouth, and I— I love sucking cock, I fucking love it, and I love facefucking. I’m orally fixated to a point that I— I can come just from having something in my mouth.”
“Fuck,” Fell murmurs as his eyes shut for a a few seconds.
It’s the first time Crowley has ever heard the professor say ‘fuck’.
And it makes him fucking leak.
He needs to hear more of it, and as soon as possible.
“I’m beginning to wonder if you are too good to be true, my dear,” Professor Fell growls as his eyes fly back open, and it’s an honest to God growl, but it’s imbued with enough admiration that Crowley’s not sure how much longer he can stay conscious— the praising aspect is fucking killing him.
Crowley whimpers again— he’s not holding that back anymore, as all of his energy is now dedicated to standing for the time being.
“Anything else?” Fell’s voice is considerably rougher than it has been yet; Crowley’s fucking obsessed.
“Not that I can think of, but you’re distracting,” he whispers, his own speech wavering.
A breath of a laugh escapes Fell at that, but again, there’s no disdain within his affect thus far, no arrogance or superiority, some of the things Crowley looks out for in potential dominant partners and what he sorts into the category of ‘red flags’.
“You’re utterly charming,” the professor murmurs as he steps even closer, Jesus Christ, “I have a few questions I’d like to ask, if you’re alright with that, Crowley.”
He nods— he’s alright with almost anything except more soon-to-be-deadly praise, probably.
“Thank you,” Fell murmurs, “are you interested in the discipline aspect of BDSM?”
“Yes— yes. Very much. I— I like pushing to an extent so that I can be punished. You called me a brat, and I am,” Crowley rasps, and his voice has completely given up any semblance of suaveness.
“Beautiful— although I really do think you’re less of a brat than you might think…the longing to serve and please seems to be so very deeply woven within your veins, Anthony, and I don’t think you enjoy feeling like so much of a brat that you don’t feel like you’re being good.”
Fuck.
Their eye contact is excruciating now as Crowley swallows and whispers, “you might be right.”
Fell inclines his head.
“Possibly,” he concedes, “what about denial, edging…orgasm control in general, things like that?”
“Don’t have much experience with those things, but I’m very open to them.”
The now familiar tension of a jaw flexing catches Crowley’s eye.
“Good to know,” Fell whispers, “those were my specific questions regarding your tastes for the time being, my dear. Thank you for answering.”
Crowley nods, but not so much he cannot stay trained on blue— he’s never looked into anyone’s eyes this long, and it’s strange, it’s addicting— he finds he doesn’t want to look away even though he’s really very woozy, hormones and endorphins spiraling within his cells with a heady potency.
“What about you,” he asks, lifting his chin towards the professor, “what do you like?”
Fell smiles, and by now the flush is evident on his cheeks even in the low light.
“If you can believe it, nearly all of what you’ve just shared, just from a dominant top’s point of view. I’m enamored with dominant/submissive power dynamics, impact play, praise and degradation—”
He stops and lowers his voice again, like he’s almost hesitant to go on, “I— I am dangerously close to obsessed with all aspects of orgasm control. I love drawing things out, edging, at times denying…it’s definitely a hyperfixation of mine, and has been for a long time.”
Fucking Hell.
‘My particular tastes are not what one would classify as…easy’ just became even more relevant than Crowley anticipated.
His mouth is watering again.
“Anything else?” he asks, biting his now very bruised lip even harder.
“Yes,” Crowley’s back finally collides into the wall as Fell takes a final step towards him— there’s only a few tiny centimeters between them now, “inflicting the right amount of pain so that it brings delirious pleasure—”
“Oh, fuck—” Crowley softly moans as the inside of his leggings gets wetter.
“And I must confess that I am deeply interested in your so-called oral fixation. Because I just love,” Fell raises his index finger to dance over Crowley’s tremulous lips, drawing another needy sound from him, “to play with pretty, sweet little mouths that are pleading to be used, filled, and fucked.”
“Fuck, please,” Crowley desperately whines, and Fell’s finger glides along his bottom teeth for a split second before he pulls away— he’s not even able to lick it before it’s gone, and there might be tears in his eyes as he whimpers and weakly gasps.
“Shh, darling,” Fell murmurs softly, voice consoling and kind, as he cups Crowley’s cheek with one hand and strokes it with his thumb gently, and fuck, his touch is as lovely as Crowley imagined it would be, it’s sure and warm and soothing on his overheated skin, “just a little more we have to discuss, Crowley— you’re doing so very well. Can you hold on a bit longer for me?”
Crowley pants before he nods unevenly, the sting of denial comforted by Fell’s tender reassurance and the brush of his palm.
“Good boy,” the professor whispers, and Crowley lets out a sob at that, fuck, God that’s so fucking good to hear, he can hardly take it despite (or because of) how good it is, “take a breath for me, my dear—”
Crowley breathes as deeply as he can, and it does help.
“— very good. I’ll be quick, but you must listen as best you can,” Fell says as he lets his hand slide down to clasp Crowley’s shoulder, and even though it’s driving him wild to be touched by the professor, it’s grounding, too, it’s something to focus and hold on to, “I need to trust that you’re hearing me and responding clearly, Crowley.”
Crowley nods frantically— he knows, and suddenly he’s terrified he’s fucking his up with how overwhelmed he is as he gasps, “I know, I know— sorry, ’m alright, I just— it’s a lot. I’m sorry,” but Fell shakes his head.
“No, don’t apologize, dear boy— it’s so much, I know. You’re really doing so well, truly— keep breathing, we’re nearly there,” the professor’s voice isn’t so steady anymore, Crowley realizes; it trembles for a second before it seems to reorient itself into a measured cadence. “now— I like to use endearments, is that okay with you?”
“Think so,” Crowley says, slightly more composed, now, “again, not too much experience.”
“Very well— tell me if I use something you don’t like,” Fell’s is now gently stroking up and down Crowley’s arm; it’s meant to be calming, and it is, but it’s also so much, it feels so good, “I have zero interest in making you endure things you’re not enjoying in some way, Crowley. I may have some sadistic tendencies, but I only indulge them if it’s wanted— otherwise it loses all pleasure for me. I don’t want you to suffer for the sake of it— I want you to suffer because you crave to, because it quiets that ache so deep inside of you that’s begging to be soothed.”
Crowley nods as he leans against the wall heavily, tensing his thighs to stop himself from coming as he hears that last bit— he’s feeling a little too seen right now, Fell just nailed something that Crowley might not have even been fully aware of until this exact moment— and he’s absolutely fucking suffering, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t loving every second of it, if he’d claim it wasn’t holding him hostage right at the point of overwhelming euphoria and paralyzing anguish.
“I understand,” he manages to mutter after a moment, and Professor Fell nods. He’s now lightly dancing a hand all over Crowley’s chest, dragging the back of his hand across his sternum and clavicle, letting his fingers trail languidly.
“Good boy, excellent,” Jesus, Fell’s not shy about using that term on Crowley, and it’s definitely a sort of kryptonite for him— he really won’t be able to stand much longer at this rate, “Now, I assume you’re familiar with the stoplight system, given your familiarity with all we’ve talked about so far,” and Crowley dips his chin, shivering as Fell’s hand sweeps some of his hair to fall behind his left shoulder, “good— I’d like to use that, if you’re amenable; I like to check in quite a lot when I first start playing with someone. And of course we need a safe word, too. Do you have a preference?”
Crowley thinks for a second before he whispers, which is quite a fucking struggle at this point the more his professor touches him, “quasar?”
Fell’s eyes twinkle before he replies, his fingers now delicately playing with the ends of the remaining coppery strands he didn’t tuck back.
“Perfect— and if you cannot speak, tap my arm or leg three times, hard?”
“Yes, definitely,” Crowley breathes, and as soon as he’s said it, there’s a sharp tug on his hair that makes him yelp, the scintillating burn of it oozing over his scalp and down his spine to flare the edges of the orgasm that’s tightly coiled and just waiting to explode into being—
“Just one more thing, you beautiful, desperate little slut,” oh, fuck, he’s so close, he’s going to—
“—don’t come yet,” Fell growls, stern enough to both throw Crowley closer to the edge and chain him right at the precipice as he quietly keens, “subspace— are you prone to it?”
Crowley shakes his head, teeth chattering as he halts the glittering, teasing pulse of solar flare release that gleamed so brightly at being called a slut, “n-no, n-never been able to get there. Not for lack of trying; just don’t think I can.”
“Very well.”
Fell brings his other hand up to tangle in Crowley’s hair at the back of his head, massaging the sensitive scalp before fisting in his locks and pulling so that Crowley’s jaw angles up and exposes more of his neck to the professor, ripping a strangled moan from him as Fell bends his head closer, mouth hovering just over Crowley’s jugular.
The tip of his nose grazes along the slope of Crowley’s neck, his breath absurdly hot as it covers more and more of his sensitive skin, making Crowley quiver with nearly hysterical need as the professor murmurs, rough and ardent, “one thing I neglected to mention— I like begging.”
“Please,” Crowey instantly dissolves into frantic pleading, close to crying now, desperation relentlessly fucking through his every muscle, “fuck, please. Please, sir, I— God, fuck, please touch me, professor, I need it,” the hand in his hair tightens, “I need you, fuck, I’ve needed to feel you for s-so long, p-please—”
He hardly realizes he’s urgently arching his back off the wall, his hips and Fell’s colliding with every undulating thrust in a burst of deliciously scorching friction, and a hand drops to the back of Crowley’s waist that pulls him even closer to the professor as he’s cut off by a rough kiss that’s instantly brutal, it’s all slick, searching tongue, voraciously seeking lips and bruising impact. Fell’s drawing Crowley to his body with a crushing force, so much so that Crowley thinks his waist may bear the vicious violet indents of his fingertips tomorrow, and finally their cocks are flush with one another, the sensuous pleasure of the straining contact stinging and staggering and fucking mindblowing.
It’s so much better than Crowley’s imagined, and that’s saying a lot, because he’s imagined so much it borders on pathological, and it’s always nothing short of amazing, but the feeling of strong hands finally roving over his body and grasping, gripping and grabbing at his muscles and curves and angles is so much more incredible than he could’ve known, and that mouth, fuck, those lips, that tongue—
Professor Fell is devouring him, he’s licking into his mouth with a starving velocity and vigor, and he’s not gentle at all— he’s sucking on Crowley’s lower lip, he’s nipping and biting until Crowley cries out from the painful ecstasy of it— and only then does Fell tenderly kiss the bruised skin, the tip of his tongue turning delicate as it laves over broken capillaries before he begins ravishing anew.
Fell’s growling during the onslaught, he’s pulling away to say a few words before he dives right back in— “do you have any idea,” kiss, “how long,” kiss, “I’ve been staring at you,” kiss, nip, suck, whimper, “in my class? Sitting there,” snarling bite along the jawline, “looking so,” kiss, “obscenely wanton?”
Crowley’s at a loss for words again as he helplessly kisses back, mouth pliant and open and wanting to be claimed when he finally finds the wherewithal to bury his hands in Fell’s hair as he snarls in Crowley’s ear, sucking the tender skin below so viciously it’s sure to leave a burgundy burst vessel nebula, “it’s a fucking sin how lovely you are, my darling little harlot—”
Oh fuck, fuck, this is too much, the friction between their grinding hips is too much combined with the mark making, and Crowley gasps for air as his neck is ravaged and conquered by a rapacious mouth and skilled teeth that brutalize his sensitive skin, leaving behind what he’s sure are saturated ruby splashes of wine on cream, “fuck, God, I’m, fuck I’m so close, sir, please, please—”
Fell quickly steps back enough to shatter their connection save for a hand in Crowley’s hair.
“Do not come yet,” he growls as Crowley keens, and a cascade of tears streams from his eyes as his hands fall from those ivory curls that are now in total disarray, “you’re not going to come until you’re on your knees and I’m using that filthy mouth, my dear. Don’t. Come. Yet.”
“Y-yes s-sir,” Crowley squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, fending off the orgasm that’s threatening far too closely, torn between obeying and disobeying, because now he knows his mouth is getting fucked— it’ll be a feat of nature if he doesn’t come the second that starts.
He feels plush lips kiss away his tears as he’s pulled back into Fell’s embrace, the solid warmth of him realigning with Crowley’s body as he slots both of his hands around his waist, squeezing and caressing as he murmurs, “that’s it, good boy— you’re so good for me, Anthony, you absolute beauty.”
They’re kissing again as Crowley shakes and shakes and shakes— he’s never been praised so much, he’s never been degraded so artfully in a way that’s coupled with such naked adoration, and it’s indescribable— it’s heavenly and torturous and intoxicating, he feels both high and drunk.
“Color?” comes a heated whisper with a contrasting, barely there kiss on his swollen lips, and a hand brushes wayward strands of Crowley’s hair back from his forehead to tuck behind his ear as he pants, “green, so fucking green, more, please—”
“Knees,” Professor Fell immediately murmurs, direct and commanding.
Crowley drops so fast he sees a blur of stars, he’s so dizzy with want— he quickly arranges his shins under him as neatly as he can as he looks up into blazing eyes that resemble the midnight sky in the warm, dim light, shoving his back against the wall as he waits.
“What a perfectly obedient thing you are, Crowley,” Fell whispers as he works at his bow tie with one hand, untying easily with deft fingers, “I think 'brat' is quite the misnomer for you, pet.” He pulls the tie free and tucks it into his trouser pocket before undoing the top two buttons of his shirt.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a desperate little cockslut before,” he continues almost lazily as he gazes down at Crowley, who’s now constantly whimpering and panting, thighs spread wide to the point of overextension, hands itching to reach out and touch, touch, touch.
“Please,” he gasps as his hips clumsily surge forward of their own accord, looking for some form of relief, “please, can I touch you, fuck, I n-need to touch you, professor—”
“I know you do, my poor darling— that’s why I’m not going to allow you to. Fold your arms behind your back, please.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Crowley hisses through gritted teeth as he fumbles to do as he’s told, limbs not cooperating very well through his haze of need.
“I can tie your wrists, if you’re not able to keep your hands behind you—”
“No, I can do it, I can— I can do it, sir,” Crowley insists as he shifts and finally manages to pin his arms behind him against the wall, each hand grasping the opposite wrist in makeshift cuffs to ensure he maintains his position.
Fell reaches down to cup his hand under Crowley’s chin, and God, that’s fast becoming a favorite thing of Crowley’s.
“Let me know if that changes, my dear,” the professor murmurs, “I’ll not set you up to fail, ever— that’s a hard limit for me, too. So never feel you have to prove yourself by refusing aid, Crowley. It’s not a test; I want to help.”
Crowley holds in a cry as he closes his eyes, completely unused to such reassurance— it’s as jarring as it is wonderful.
“That being said— you are so unbelievably good, Crowley— look how hard you’re working to be good for me,” a calming thumb gently strokes along Crowley’s jawline.
“What’s your color, my dear? You’re trembling terribly— are you alright? Do you need a break?”
“G-green, I’m green, don’t need a break— you’re amazing, Jesus.”
“You’re too kind—”
“Not kind.”
Fell raises a brow.
“No?” he asks, amused as he slips his thumb past Crowley’s lips without warning.
Fucking finally.
The effect is immediate and drastic as Crowley literally melts further into the floor, sucking Professor Fell’s thumb as he moans around it, swirling his tongue around the digit he’s been yearning to taste and worship, licking it with thankful fervor.
“Fuck,” Fell’s tone of voice journeys well below its normal octave again, and it’s gathered more embers along the way as it glows with a heat that’s almost palpable in the air, “that mouth is certainly kind, though, isn’t it, lovely— so very sweet, so eager to be filled, and so beautifully needy.”
Crowley nods his head as he hollows his cheeks even more and takes Fell’s thumb deeper, and he groans, his words wet and muffled as he murmurs around the intrusion, “more, please, p-please, fuck my mouth, sir, I’m—”
Not going to last much longer—
“You’re so close, aren’t you,” Fell’s voice is filled with so much lust that Crowley’s eyes roll back as he kisses his thumb, “and you weren’t lying about your oral fixation, were you, my depraved little darling? What a gift you are— can you hold on long enough for me to properly fuck your throat, sweetheart?”
Crowley’s groan pitches into a strung out cry, and the strain of his arousal against his leggings is a throbbing torment he prays he can control— but he needs Fell in his mouth, and he’ll do most anything to stop himself from coming too fast in order to get what he wants.
He fights to take several deep breaths before answering, and he keeps suckling on the generously offered thumb, its pacifying presence in his mouth a balm to his need as well as a kickstart, but it aids Crowley in his attempt to ground himself enough to stave off his orgasm.
“Y-yes,” he doesn’t sound all that convincing, but he hopes that Fell believes how deeply earnest he is, “yes, sir, I c-can last. Please,” he straightens his back and further pushes his arms back as he perfects his posture, trying to prove himself, “please, use me, professor.”
He opens his mouth and extends his tongue out under the professor’s thumb as he pleadingly looks up at Fell, whose growling groan isn’t helping Crowley’s efforts as he steps forward, bends his leg and angles his knee to press into Crowley’s shoulder, effectively pushing his back even flatter up against the wall and holding him there.
Fell twists his hand and replaces his thumb with three of his fingers, and right away they’re thrust deeply down Crowley’s throat, pressing down on his tongue as they slide in and out. He tries his best to keep his tongue out, and his startled, gasping gagging is loud in the quiet room, his inner thigh is wet with his now steadily pouring precome, and he’s so far gone.
His thighs shake with the tension he’s purposefully engaging in order to halt his climax, and it’s becoming clear that maybe Crowley agreed to what he can’t do— Fell’s already fucking his mouth so perfectly with his fingers, it’s so fucking good he could’ve come already if he was allowed.
Professor Fell’s commentary also isn’t helping.
“Oh my God, your mouth, Anthony, fuck, what a deliriously lewd fever dream you are—”
Every time Fell says ‘fuck’, Crowley’s cock pulses and leaks even more, and if he was wearing cotton leggings, they’d be totally soaked through.
The tears are coming faster now, they’re falling to the floor along with threads of saliva dripping down from Crowley’s chin as his mouth is fucked. He wonders if he should clarify that the crying isn’t a bad thing to Fell, it’s just something he does during sex— really good sex.
From what he can tell, though, Fell isn’t concerned about the crying— he seems to enjoy it, he keeps gathering tears on his thumb as best he can, like he doesn’t want them to fall away from Crowley’s face— there’s something thrillingly possessive about it, and Crowley loves feeling possessed, he loves feeling owned.
The fingers begin to slow, they start to drag over Crowley’s tongue in an almost lazy rhythm as Fell murmurs, “I didn’t think it was possible for you to be even more fetching, Anthony, but I was wrong,” the strain of his syllables increasing by the moment, his words more guttural than ever.
“You’re even lovelier when you cry. The gold of your eyes glowing, the tears highlighting your freckles, the pained desire knitting your brow— fuck, you may be the end of me, my dear.”
His knee delves even deeper into the hollow dip of Crowley’s shoulder, just below his collarbone, and Crowley focuses on holding onto his climax as the feeling of being roughly pinned reverberates through him as Fell deftly unbuttons his trousers one handed. Crowley tries to keep eye contact, but it’s hard not to watch the as professor pulls his cock out, and fucking Hell—
He moans around Fell’s fingertips, which have taken to playing with the tip of his tongue, because Jesus fuck he’s big. Crowley’s jaw falls open further as Fell pumps his hand over himself a few times, spreading a copious amount of shining precome over his cock as he does, the slick sound of it making Crowley’s own cock twitch and throb.
“Open wider,” Fell orders, his tone so very dark now that Crowley’s shivering just gets worse, and he obeys as the three fingers slide to hook onto the inside of his cheek and pull. He prays to any or every God he doesn’t come as Fell guides the thick, deeply flushed head of his dripping cock into his mouth, sliding past Crowley’s glistening lips and gliding onto his tongue.
Crowley’s eyes flutter closed as he whines, and all other external sensations soften— the ache of his back quiets and the strain of keeping his arms restrained by his own doing lessens, because fuck, finally he’s got what he wants, he’s got his professor’s cock in his mouth and it’s fucking perfect— he barely has time to register this when Fell’s hips thrust and he bottoms out, forcing the considerable length of himself all the way down Crowley’s throat to the base.
Crowley’s throat automatically struggles to accommodate him as Fell whispers fiercely, “eyes open,” and he keeps his fingers in their hooked position as his other hand tangles in Crowley’s hair at the back of his head near the top and presses down, completely removing the option of Crowley pulling back.
He obeys and looks up through his tears, coughing as Fell keeps him in place, his nose forced up against a scant scattering of wiry pale curls where he can greedily breathe in the spicy musk of the professor as his throat is mercilessly filled and stretched.
“Mmm, good boy, keep those stunning eyes open for me, lovely.”
The fingers in his hair tense and start to draw him backwards, and Crowley instantly hollows his cheeks to suck along Fell’s silky, heavy cock as he’s slowly pulled further off of it— fuck, it’s fucking perfect, he’s so thick and long and tastes so good that Crowley’s dismayed his mouth is too occupied to thank him.
That’s when the talking starts.
As the professor moves Crowley’s head back and forth, his movements controlled and agonizingly slow at first— God, it’s torturous— he starts speaking, and Crowley’s always loved dirty talk, it always drives him wild, but he’s never experienced anything remotely like this.
It’s like Fell’s composing filthy poems for him that simultaneously flatter and debase, and the paradox of that is devastatingly effective as Crowley’s mouth and throat are deeply ravaged and split open by fingers, cock, and words— it like he’s having mini orgasms as Fell flits between the opposite ends of the praise and degradation spectrum.
“Look at you… you’re so deeply flushed, your poor cheeks are redder than apples, darling…such a debauched little apple blossom on your knees for me, opening up and spreading apart just like a needy spring bloom would, desperate to suck in the sun like you’re so desperate to suck me in.”
Who would’ve thought being compared to a fucking flower while getting his throat fucked would nearly make Crowley come, but here he is. He whimpers as his jaw starts tingling with that glorious ache he loves, as the bone and muscles take on that entrancing, thumping pulse of pain, and Fell’s thighs start to tremble as he starts thrusting with a wider range of motion.
“Is that better, doll, do you feel better being used like the cocksleeve you are? You feel so good, sucking me in deeper and deeper, so wet and hot and velvety; it’s obvious you were designed for this, my dear— any day you’re not on your knees choking on cock is a wasted one.”
Oh God, ffffuck—
Crowley can’t help but attempt to nod as best he can against the iron grip in his hair while he brokenly sobs around Fell’s cock, throat burning, slick cheek stinging from being hooked so harshly for so long, the fingers there prodding deeper and deeper into his mouth— he knows he looks like a total fucking mess with tears streaming and spit dripping as Fell uses him expertly and brutally.
God, it’s fucking everything, getting his face fucked like this; so much of his body is screaming from the stress of his kneel, his shoulders shriek, he’s starting to get cramps in his forearms and wrists, the latter of which he’s nearly clawing at with his hands to make sure he doesn’t let go, and it’s all fucking gorgeous anguish. Every additional nerve that starts to smart and stab and spasm under such duress is one more step closer to an orgasm that Crowley knows will wreck him, and his throat is a pliant, relaxed toy for Fell now as it’s gotten used to the brute force of the fucking it’s receiving, it’s stretched and opened up to ease the way for the nearly impossibly big cock spearing and impaling it, and Crowley’s in Heaven, he’s downright blissful as he lets himself be fucked and ruined and broken; he just wishes he could manage to stay here for hours and hours, he’d love to have the physical ability to take this treatment for so much longer than he’s able so he can keep hearing the slippery, soaking wet sounds of his mouth being used, so that his lips and chin and jaw and neck can be drenched with a mix of his saliva and Fell’s precome that he glosses Crowley’s lips with when he pulls out just enough to do so— he yearns to have the capability of being nothing but a 24/7 cocksleeve, just like his professor called him, fuck, he wants to be fucking chained to his desk so he can be a willing, free use vessel for Fell’s pleasure at any hour of any day for days and days and days—
Glorious as it all is, it’s getting to the point where Crowley won’t be able to hold back any longer as Fell’s pace increases even more; he keeps his hand on the back of Crowley’s head as his fingers let go of his cheek, and they slide down and twist so that Fell can wrap his palm around the front of his throat.
“Such a good little whore throat, taking all of me so well,” the professor’s sounding more breathless as he squeezes the sides of Crowley’s neck just enough to cause a teasing sparkle of darkness over his vision before he lets up, “I’d fuck it nonstop for days on end if I was sure it wouldn’t kill me.”
Please, please, please do just that, Crowley wants to beg, and his fingers are growing numb from keeping them curled around his wrists, there’s sharp pain starting to shoot up his arms from the physical stress but also the insatiable need to grab onto Fell’s thighs and get a hand wrapped around that gorgeous cock, and he’s shakily rocking his hips forward and back now with no discernible rhythm, body helplessly and clumsily searching for some small semblance of relief to ease his delectable torture.
Fell cocks his head as growls, “are you dripping onto the floor yet, those leggings are so ridiculously soaked inside, I’m sure— you’re so wet for me, aren’t you, lovely? How many times have you sat in my class, leaking through your jeans as you fought not to come from my voice?”
If his mouth wasn’t full, Crowley would be wailing so loudly he’s sure anyone within a five mile radius would hear him; Fell’s shoe is so close, he’s so tempted to shift forward so he can grind against it and ignore the professor’s plan of him coming just from his having his mouth thoroughly used.
But he finds he can’t— the desire to listen and be good for Professor Fell is stronger than his need for release, and Crowley’s surprised— it wouldn’t be the first time he disobeyed like that, but for some reason he lets himself continue to be awash with building agony as he waits for Fell to make it clear he can come.
“Fuck, I wanted to edge you, I planned to deny you until you were a writhing mess at my feet— and I suppose you are— but here I am, moments away from coming down your sweet throat. You’re far too skilled of a whore, Anthony, you are just so absurdly slutty that I can’t help myself.”
Crowley’s vibrating all over as he shuts his eyes tight, whines verging on panicked now, but he reverses this rapidly, remembering he’s supposed to keep them open, and he’s torn between trying to pull back against Fell’s hand to beg for mercy or to let himself be fucked into oblivion.
Fell moves the hand from his throat to join the other on the back of his head as his rapid thrusts grow even more punishing, slamming against Crowley’s soft palate as he grits out between Crowley’s choking, gasping wet cries, “do you think you can come once I do? Will the taste of me throw you over that edge, my little pet?”
Crowley can’t move his head to nod, so he tries to make a discernible affirmative hum around the professor’s cock as Fell continues, his motions starting to stutter and lose their steadiness, hands shaking against Crowley’s scalp as his nails scratch into the skin there in stinging half moon kisses.
“I think it will— I think as soon as I start spilling down your throat and filling your whore mouth, and as soon as I say ‘come’, you’re going to climax so hard you’ll barely be able to stay on your knees, my needy little thing— fuck, keep looking at me—”
Crowley hadn’t realized how much his eyes were rolling back into his head, so he furrows his brow to focus back onto Fell’s face, more taught than a bowstring and keening loudly with relief as Fell’s hips quiver, jerk, and then shudder to a stop as the first taste of him starts to flow over Crowley’s aching, now blessed tongue.
Professor Fell throws his head back and groans, the deeply growling, pained echo of it an amazingly undone sound as his hands harshly fist more hair into their grasp, and he starts moving again as he keeps emptying his spend into Crowley’s mouth and throat, snarling, “come,” in a primal, viciously aggressive tone that makes Crowley do just that.
He pretty sure he blacks out for a second or two as he lets himself go, the blazing, all encompassing supernova of his orgasm literally knocking him to the floor as it radiates throughout his entire being; his shins slip out from under him as his thighs spasm so wildly he can’t stay up on his knees, and he’s barely cognizant of Fell’s shaking voice as he comes, comes, comes, and comes, rhythmically swallowing down the seemingly endless flow of Fell, whose come continues to shoot from his pulsating, still hard cock in thick ribbons down Crowley’s throat.
“Good boy, such a good boy, fuck, look at that, coming from nothing but my cock splitting your mouth and throat open and my spend filling you to the brim— that’s it, my slutty marvel, come for me, give me that pleasure and let me see how prettily you fall apart for me—”
Fell withdraws from Crowley’s mouth as he desperately swallows the last of his come, having a hard time of it as orgasmic shocks and micronovas keep exploding the nerves all over and within his body, but Crowley’s determined not to waste any of it if he can help it.
A now shaking hand leaves his hair and cups his cheek. “Shhh, sweetheart, you did so well, fuck, you’re so good,” the soothing words floating down to Crowley are accompanied by another hand on his other cheek— thumbs and fingers start tenderly massaging his smarting, throbbing jaw and the muscles surrounding, “such a sweet thing you are, my dear Crowley, and so, so good.”
Fell keeps gently shushing him, and Crowley realizes that he’s sobbing hard— he doesn’t know when that started, and he partially startles as Fell sinks to his knees in front of him, his hands never leaving his face.
He can barely keep his eyes open— they hurt from crying, and he’s as exhausted as he is euphoric, he’s as drained as he is filled, and Crowley is floating and crashing at the same time.
“Crowley,” Fell whispers, and he’s a wreck as well— his hair’s tumbling down into his face in a barrage of messy waves and curls, his cheeks are a florid crimson and his pupils are as blown as Crowley’s sure his own are, nearly eclipsing lapis; God, he’s fucking stunning, “can I hold you, or do you need space? Tell me what you need when you can, my dear.”
Crowley nods weakly, letting his head fall back against the wall with a ‘thump’, chest still violently heaving as he slurs, “mhmm, y’can— yes please. Like being held after.”
It’s true, and he’s thought a lot about this part, too— how aftercare would be with Professor Fell, how he’d go about it. He’s wondered how touchy Fell would be, if he’d dedicate a lot of time to the come down for both of them, and it’s always been Crowley’s inclination that the answer to the latter would be ‘yes’.
His lets his eyes close, and he hums as he feels a soft brush of lips against his— he can both hear and feel Fell shuffle to sit next to him against the wall, and then there’s a gently pulling arm around his waist and another under his tingling, nearly numb knees that gather him into Fell’s lap.
Crowley’s totally boneless as he sinks against a warm, comfortably broad chest, and Fell tucks his head under his chin as he starts rubbing Crowley’s knees and thighs with sure fingers and strong palms, attentively easing away some of the soreness that’s been left behind by all of the extreme tension and pressure of the last few minutes.
He exhales as he lets himself be held, and Crowley’s not at all shy about his desire for physical affection related to sex or not, but he never knows what to expect with a new partner in that regard. It seems Professor Fell likes the intimate proximity too, though— he keeps pulling him closer, he keeps rearranging Crowley’s thighs further up his own and gently squeezes his arms around him after doing so before going back to touching him. It makes Crowley feel genuinely appreciated, it reaffirms the praise Fell showers him with, and it makes him feel safe.
Crowley sighs in fucked out contentment as he melts deeper into the embrace, already dreading that he’s going to have to leave at some point in the very near future. He lays an unsteady hand on Fell’s chest and twirls the bit of chest hair peeking out from under his shirt, enjoying the feel of it between his fingertips as he nuzzles into Fell’s neck, and his scent is wonderfully magnified and concentrated here, its warmed from exertion and misted with clean sweat that only serves to pleasantly enhance its spicy notes.
The professor’s voice rumbles softly in his chest and reverberates throughout Crowley’s as he threads his fingers through tangled red hair, delicately undoing some of the knots there as he murmurs, “you are an absolute wonder, my dear; you were so very good, just utterly sublime.”
Jesus, the praise aspect of aftercare always further flays Crowley with an excruciatingly tender brutality that he never thinks he can survive, but again, this is on another level— unsurprising for a literature professor, but still, it’s hard to bear the awestruck blows of it.
Crowley says nothing as he further buries his head into Fell’s shoulder, breathing in the compelling fragrance of him, wondering what cologne he uses for no reasons relating to getting some for himself so he can replicate part of the professor’s scent when he’s not around.
There’s more rhythmic, carefully pressured caressing all over Crowley’s neck, arms and shoulders, paying special attention to the one he’d been pressing his knee into so deeply (again, Crowley muses he may have a dusky mauve or plum reminder of that particular point of contact, or so he dearly hopes), and when Professor Fell starts in on his palms and fingers, his whimper builds into a higher pitched, fractured whine— he’d been grasping onto each wrist so hard in order to hold his position that his hands feel bruised.
“I’m sorry, lovely; I’ll be be very gentle with these,” Fell whispers as he eases his ministrations to be even lighter, delicately drawing little circles over Crowley’s hands and sliding his fingers over the contours of them with tender concern, “thank you for letting me tend to you— I asked quite a lot of you this first time, and you went above and beyond for me; thank you for allowing me to hold and care for you like this, my dear.”
Crowley usually cries during and just after sex, if it’s really intense. He’s not prone to weeping during aftercare most of the time once he’s come down— he mostly is sleepy and quietly calm— but the appreciation from his professor is bringing tears to his eyes again, along with the confirmation that this was only the first time, and the reasonable implication that there will be more.
“You’re welcome,” Crowley whispers, voice wavering, not sure what else to say.
A finger tips his chin up, and he meets Fell’s eyes— they’re a pale morning sky again and close to unendurably fond as he quietly asks, “color?”
Crowley can’t help but smile a bit as he blinks the few tears away.
“Green-ish,” he mutters, and Fell drops his hand from his chin as his focus on Crowley sharpens even more, “‘m not used to this much praise after— or during. ‘S nice, don’t get me wrong, but— I kinda feel like ‘m cracking into a thousand pieces.”
Fell nods as he kisses Crowley’s forehead, his lips gentle but sure.
“I understand,” he says softly, “forgive me— I have a tendency to overdo such things. Thank you for telling me, Crowley; I’ll ease back on the praise, as I certainly cannot have you breaking into a thousand pieces.”
Crowley nods as he closes his eyes again and lays his head back onto Fell’s shoulder.
“Do you have early classes tomorrow, my dear?” Fell asks a while later after a comfortable silence full of mutual touching and tranquil, lazy kissing, and their tongues are much less frenzied now, their lips tenderly meld together instead of crushing into each other with an unbridled, arduous craving; Crowley’s been stroking Fell’s neck, chest and shoulders with curious fingers and hands, and he vaguely wonders what time it is as he shakes his head.
“No, thank God— just two later on in the afternoon. You?”
“Not very early, no,” Fell answers as he shifts under Crowley a bit, “I don’t have to be here until 10, which is quite late for me.”
There’s another pause that follows that’s not awkward, per se, but maybe a bit loaded.
“D’you live far?” Crowley asks in a manner he hopes sounds offhand.
“Luckily also no— only about twenty minutes.”
Crowley nods as his heart inexplicably speeds up, and he opens his mouth, but is interrupted.
“I know this might sound completely unhinged, Crowley— or maybe not, considering how fast things have progressed within the last 8 hours—”
Crowley can’t totally suppress a snort at that, and Professor Fell chuckles too before he goes on, “but I— I would love for you to stay with me tonight, if you’d like to. Of course I understand if not, there is no pressure— I should have brought this up earlier, and I apologize.”
Crowley can’t believe it, but he’s also fucking thrilled— sleeping alone is something he hates after scenes and/or sex, even though he’s prepared and able to do it.
“I know it’s a risk—”
“I’d like to,” Crowley looks up as he reaches for Fell’s neck and settles his hand over the nape, slipping his fingertips into the silky hair there as he meets blue with his own gold.
Fell swallows as he lifts his hand and blankets Crowley’s with it, his thumb brushing the skin in the back of his hand; his eyes are painfully kind, and Crowley is transfixed by their mutual transition into tenderness.
“Wonderful,” Fell murmurs, “I’m glad— I find myself rather unable to part with you for the night.”
Oh, Crowley is so fucked, because he feels the same way.
“You’re not the only one,” Crowley whispers as he closes his eyes, nerves reignited but also soothed by this development. Fuck, he’s tired, and he fails to hide a yawn.
There’s a kiss placed on the crown of his head, and it’s such an affectionate action that it only furthers the growing swell of Crowley’s heart towards his professor.
“Take your time, my dear, but I’d love to get you home and into bed soon— and you need to drink some water, too,” Fell’s murmur into Crowley’s hair is slightly muffled, and he sounds tired, too.
Crowley nods in agreement as he stretches his legs with a groan and sits up gingerly, soreness making itself known all throughout his torso and limbs, all the way down to his ankles.
“Don’t rush, darling,” Fell whispers, “please, take it slow. No need to hurry.”
Crowley can’t help it— he turns and clasps his professor’s face with both hands and kisses him, utterly captivated and appreciative of his concern, and before Crowley knows it he twists his body and straddles Fell’s thighs, greedily swallowing surprised but pleased sounds.
“You minx,” Fell mutters against Crowley’s mouth before lightly nipping his now very bruised bottom lip, “this is not— God, your mouth is so lovely—” His hands find Crowley’s waist as he dives back into kissing him and slide down to his hips where he slots his thumbs into the dipping canyons of Crowley’s hipbones.
But then Crowley pulls away suddenly, smirks wickedly and hops to his feet in a mostly fluid motion; he wobbles only a very small amount as he stands.
“You were saying?” Crowley asks mildly, dizziness mostly allayed as he runs a hand through his hair and glances down at his very ravished looking professor, who appears quite dazed as he shakes his head with a long suffering sigh.
“Making up for your earlier lack of brattiness, I see,” Fell murmurs as he also gets to his feet.
“Maybe,” Crowley admits as Fell straightens his jacket and buttons his shirt, and he really is so bloody handsome that it’s not right— this untidy (well, slightly untidier— he’s remarkably put together considering recent events) version of him is as alluring as his typically impeccable orderly self is, the evidence of their whirlwind of a tryst coloring his cheeks and eyes and wrinkling in his pressed wool suit.
Crowley swallows as he turns to grab his own jacket, needing to look away lest he pounce on Fell again, but he yelps as a strong arm snakes around his waist and yanks him back against solid warmth.
“Good,” Fell’s teeth graze over Crowley’s neck before they sink in deeper, and he starts sucking another bruise into the skin as Crowley leans back against him, whimpering, “as I said earlier— I do love a brat, and I so look forward to taming you, my fiendish little pet.”
“Ngk—”
There’s one last lick and kiss along his neck before sturdy hands slide down his arms as Fell steps away, and Crowley whines in protest as the professor whispers, “you were saying?”
Fell declared Crowley dangerous a few hours ago, but it’s crystal clear that goes both ways.
After he drinks enough water to satisfy Fell (“I drank a lot before I came here,” “that may be so, and I’m delighted to hear it, but just a bit more for my peace of mind—” “You’re lucky I like listening to you, professor,” “yes, I do believe I am, Crowley”) they leave the office.
Fell walks to the end of the corridor to make sure no one is around, and he waves Crowley to follow him once he’s sure that’s the case.
It would be a lie to say needing to be discreet is totally unenjoyable— the forbidden thrill is more delicious than Crowley wants to admit, it’s an additional decadent shot of an incredibly strong spirit to the entire situation that only serves to increase its inebriating properties.
It’s not especially late, it’s just after midnight, so it’s not like it would be completely out of the ordinary for a student and professor to be seen around right now— but the star map of marks on Crowley’s neck and their collective wild hair begs to differ.
Better safe than sorry.
“I’m so sorry I have nothing for you to change into here, my dear,” Fell whispers as they walk down the hall, “I’m sure you’re uncomfortable, but thankfully I’m not too far.”
Crowley smiles; he’s even barely noticed the growing predicament relating to his recent massive orgasm.
“Honestly? Didn’t even think about it til now. Thankfully the endorphins seem to be canceling out any discomfort,” he whispers back, and he’s a little mortified by how clingy he feels, even though it makes sense and isn’t a new sensation— this is a novel scenario in many ways.
Once they’re out in the chilly, slightly damp air, Crowley looks over at Professor Fell, wondering what to do next, and his glance is returned with a gentle smile.
“I usually walk when the weather is agreeable, but since it rained this morning, I drove— maybe follow just a bit behind me?”
He looks regretful, and Crowley nods, wanting to dispel that as quickly as possible; he’s not at all offended.
“Definitely— I understand,” he murmurs lowly, and Fell’s brow furrows— he looks like he’s going to say something, but thinks better of it.
Crowley smiles reassuringly as he whispers, “don’t worry.”
Fell’s eyes crinkle at the corners in a not quite smile as he says, “impossible, my dear, but thank you. See you in a few.”
He starts walking off, and Crowley takes a minute to try and begin to process the last few hours, but his brain is too blissed out to compute that much.
He follows a safe distance behind, legs feeling jelly-like, his head drifting into a combination of replaying all that’s happened and a fight to stay awake. He keeps his eyes trained on Fell and smirks as he takes in the state of his hair, so obviously mussed even from behind.
They pass a few lone people on the way, but they don’t even spare them a look, Crowley’s glad to find. They round a corner and he sees Professor Fell stop in front of what looks like a much older car of some sort— he can’t see this far away, but he didn’t expect that. Interesting.
It’s starting to mist, and Crowley shivers as he pulls his jacket more tightly around himself, eyes squinting to get a better look at the sleek black vehicle through the very light rain.
He looks all around him and, when he sees no one else, keeps leisurely walking.
He can’t stop his jaw from slightly dropping as he steps in front of an immaculate vintage Bentley— he’s not sure what year it is, but it’s gorgeous, and he lowly whistles as he takes it in.
“Jesus, professor, what else are you hiding?!” he exclaims as he studies the car closely.
Fell murmurs, “I’ll never tell,” prompting Crowley to whip his head to the side to look at him, and there’s that smirk that makes Crowley want to pin him up against the car and devour him all over again.
“I’ll find out,” he quips confidently as Fell opens the door for him— a sweetly chivalrous gesture, really.
Crowley slides into the seat in what he fervently hopes is a mostly graceful manner, and when he settles back against the leather, Fell bends down, kisses his cheek and whispers, “oh, I’m sure you will, dear boy.”
A kiss on the cheek shouldn’t make Crowley whine like it just did, but it does.
The door is shut carefully with a click, and Crowley exhales a breath he wasn’t totally aware of holding in as he waits for Fell to join him, and when he does, they both look at each other with what could be shyness despite all they’ve just shared. Crowley’s weirdly not sure what to do with his hands as he waits.
He has a crazy thought that maybe he should get out of the car, that he’s being a terrible imposition, or that perhaps he’s just generally doing something that won’t end well eventually and will come back to bite him, but then Fell leans over and captures his lips, and all goes quiet.
The qualities of the professor's varying kisses are starkly contrasting, and Crowley’s been carefully cataloging the details of each of them— this one is nearly tremulous in its delicacy, like Fell is kissing something made of spun sugar and he’s terribly concerned that too much force will shatter or dissolve it, and it’s breathtaking in its airiness.
As Professor Fell pulls away, he slides a hand under Crowley’s to lace their fingers together, and it’s a reassuring thing to be so openly wanted, to be so confidently touched, even if it’s just a hand hold. Fell’s not stingy with affection, and Crowley is secretly deeply relieved as he continues to collect the overflowing evidence of this.
They start driving, and neither of them say anything at first, but it’s comfortable— of course Crowley’s nervous system has been well and thoroughly fucked in more ways than one, but the silence doesn’t aggravate any hints of understandable anxiety. He’s really very calm as Fell murmurs, “rest your eyes, Crowley— you must be so tired.”
So he does, and Fell starts to serenely hum, the sound resonant and low— he often does in class, too, when he’s not lecturing, and Crowley smiles, completely out of his mind and also deliriously pleased at the day’s surreal turn of events, mouth magnificently sore and heart beautifully content as they drive into whatever journey it is they’re embarking on.
Chapter 2: Chapter 2
Notes:
Holy fuck, the response to this fic has been so AMAZING. I cannot thank you all enough for your incredible reception of this story and for all of your encouragement to continue. It means so SO much that you enjoy this AU and this version of these characters...they have become so very dear to me, and although this fic itself will be the 2 chapters, this universe is far from done! You can expect eventual one shots of this universe and possibly a longer multi chapter fic in the future once Vine Slips of a Strange God is completed.
Thank you all again for your love, generosity, and kindness. I have been dealing with a lot of heart wrenching life things this past month, but I can say without any hesitation that the support and love of this community has made it so much easier to bear. I thank you all from the bottom of your heart for sharing your thoughts with me and letting me know that you enjoy my writing. Sharing these stories with you has been and continues to be one of the greatest joys of my life <3
Chapter Text
When Crowley next opens his eyes, it’s to a gentle kiss on the back of his hand and a softly whispered, “we’re here, my dear,” from Professor Fell.
He blinks a few times and stifles a yawn despite the twinge of pain it wrings from his jaw— he knows they’ve only been driving for twenty or so minutes, but it feels like he slept for hours, and when he looks over at Fell, Crowley can’t help but smile sleepily.
The surrealism of the entire night is only enhanced by the foggy mist outside of the Bentley, which makes the street lamps gleam— their warm glow filters into the car and backlights the professor in a way that makes his snowy blonde curls even brighter, almost luminescent, and the word angelic pops into Crowley’s mind as he drinks in the ethereal effect.
They’re still holding hands, and for some reason that steals away Crowley’s ability to coherently answer the other man with any words.
The professor returns his smile before exiting the Bentley, and Crowley takes a moment before moving to do the same. He’s barely managed to grasp the fact that he finally got his wish of Fell ravaging him, let alone that he’s just been in his car and is about to spend the night with him.
It’s a lot, to be sure, and Crowley’s pretty good with taking most things in stride— he’s an adaptable sort with a pretty easy going nature in general— but fuck if this isn’t all nearly impossible to gracefully accept without sweating and blushing and losing consciousness. It’s been a truly unprecedented 8 hours from the conversation on the bench till now, and he sucks in a deep breath to try and reorient himself a bit when his door clicks, then opens.
Well, so far for being cool about it all as Fell pulls the door back for him, and it’s truly a wild juxtaposition to see the older man as he is now compared to how he was only a few minutes ago— composed, elegant, and the perfect gentleman, certainly not someone you’d think would wax poetic about you being a whore while he brutally fucks your throat.
He’s fast on his way to having Crowley wrapped around his little finger.
Crowley can’t say he minds that in the least.
He steps out of the car, his legs still unsteady as Professor Fell shuts the door behind him carefully; his hand gently comes up to rest between Crowley’s shoulder blades as they start walking, and he looks around with interest as they go. They’re on a secluded street with what looks like mostly historic row houses, and they only walk a few steps before Fell stops in front of a pretty red brick facade as he murmurs, “I’m just here.” He unlocks the ornate wooden door before stepping back to let Crowley walk past the threshold, still smiling, and Crowley’s own grows as he walks into Fell’s home.
It’s a lovely place, he can see as Fell starts turning on lights— predictably, there are more full to bursting bookshelves than visible walls as far as Crowley can see, and any space on the painted yellow surface not taken up by shelving is covered with art and random little trinkets. There are several patterned rugs laying on the hardwood flooring, and the comfortable looking vintage furniture is artfully mismatched. The entire space has an antiques-for-sale-in-a-bookshop vibe; it’s even cozier than Fell’s office, and, to Crowley’s delight, coming out from around the corner of a deep maroon velvet couch is a rather large, fluffy pale ginger cat, its pale green eyes fixing on them as it chirps brightly.
“Oh, that’s Lady Bracknell, more commonly known as Nellie,” Fell says as he takes Crowley’s coat from his shoulders for the second time that evening and hangs it on a hook by the door— still it makes Crowley shiver— and he chuckles under his breath at the chosen name for the cat, “bit on the nose, I know— I’m nothing if not a walking cliché, but she is very proper when she’s not being completely unhinged— she can be a bit standoffish with new people, I’m actually surprised she’s come out—” he trails off as Crowley immediately sits on his heels and the feline starts bumping against his knees and purring, rubbing her sleek head against Crowley’s offered hand voraciously, voluminous tail twitching wildly not unlike a squirrel’s.
“Bit of a cat whisperer, me,” Crowley says as he scoops up Nellie once it seems like she wouldn’t completely detest such an idea, and she instantly climbs onto Crowley’s shoulders, her front paws kneading into them in pleasantly prickly motions, her purr fast and loud.
He turns to grin at Professor Fell, whose eyes are bright with something that makes Crowley’s heart expand and trip over itself.
“I can see that,” he murmurs with a warm smile, and Nellie hops to the floor after a moment of Crowley and Fell holding eye contact. Crowley’s blushing again as blue veils over with a sparkle of twilight, and as his professor steps closer to him, his aching knees threaten him with their unsteadiness.
“Would you prefer a shower or bath, darling,” Fell asks as he gathers Crowley’s hands in his, “I can see to your leggings as well, and I have clothes you can wear to bed, if you like.” His thumbs graze over the backs of Crowley’s hands as he waits for a reply, and he really is so incredibly caring, Professor Fell. Crowley shouldn’t be shocked based on his character and how he’s been the entire evening— so easily demonstrating very deep levels of concern, kindness and consideration— but it’s still a little breathtaking to be so outwardly cared for in such a manner. He’s not been with a dominant quite like this, and especially nothing close to it lately.
Crowley’s worried he likes it a little too much.
“Shower, I think,” he replies, and his voice is slightly raspy from his throat’s earlier ravaging, “and yeah, that would be great to borrow something. Thank you.” The level of hesitant comfort Crowley feels standing in his literature professor’s home for the first time is likely highly strange and unusual, but it’s hard not to feel a little at ease after sharing such a fiery yet profoundly intimate experience like the one they just had, where all of the flags have been beautiful shades of green and the respect has added a tangibly sweet gilded edge to it all. He’s still feeling a bit shy and nervous, of course, but overall, Crowley mostly just feels good.
Fell smiles. “Lovely— right this way.” Crowley follows him, and Nellie’s close behind them, a tiny brrrrpt from her catching his ear.
They walk up the staircase just inside the landing which leads to a short hallway, and Fell inclines his head to the left just in front of a doorway. “The bathroom’s just here— I’ll find you something to sleep in, shall I? Just a moment, my dear.” He turns to meet Crowley’s eyes, and for some reason the his shyness skyrockets as the older man’s smile glimmers into something even warmer than it had been before he resumes walking, the sandy orange cat trotting after him as he goes.
The bathroom is as charming as the rest of the place, and Crowley’s in love with the massive, antique claw foot bathtub that’s got a brass shower head above it and a robin’s egg blue and ecru tartan curtain. A healthy, rather large potted spider plant sits on a little wooden table by the edge of the tub along with a scented candle and a book, and there’s an old gold framed mirror above the vintage looking sink, next to which is an ornate cast iron radiator— Crowley doesn’t know a ton about certain aesthetics, but there’s a whole sort of what he would guess is a Victorian vibe going on in Fell’s home, and it suits the man quite well.
It’s also a nice, temporary distraction from the rapidly setting in reality of oh my God I’m in my fucking professor’s bathroom; Fell showers in here, he shaves here, he looks in that mirror and fuck, I’m going to be in his bed, too—
Crowley takes a breath, trying to steady his growing nerves as he takes a quick look at himself in said mirror where Fell presumably also does the same, and goddamn— he looks pretty fucked out still. His hair is in total disarray, his cheeks are still quite pink (as they always seem to be within any short distance to the professor), his neck is covered in the plum and scarlet evidence of his professor’s hungry mouth and, more heat rushing to the surface of his skin as he realizes, the draped neck of his shirt is damp, the fabric bearing the signs of his throat being used, still slightly wet from threads of saliva and precome that had fallen from his aching mouth.
When he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it off, it’s without thinking— it’s one of those instinctual actions you do when you realize something you’re wearing is dirty or torn or something of the like, and within that second of a mindless reflex, Crowley forgets he’s in his fucking professor’s bathroom, in his fucking home, but he’s fucking hastily reminded of this when said fucking professor rounds the corner of the open doorway and stops dead, shoes scuffing against the floor with a sharp squeak. He’s holding what Crowley figures are folded up pajama pants and a shirt for him to change into, and he watches the knuckles of the clenching fingers that dig into fabric turn white.
“I—” Fell starts, and then falls silent as he looks at Crowley and oh, he’s really looking at Crowley.
He’s still wearing his boots and leggings, but Crowley’s stripped completely naked beneath his professor’s observance— the potency of his gaze as his mouth parts and the tip of a tongue flicks out to slide along his bottom lip is zealous, it’s blazing—
Crowley’s just had his mouth fucked into oblivion by this man not an hour ago, yet he’s overcome with almost virginal shyness coupled with blistering butterflies flitting around in his stomach as flashing cerulean roves over his bare chest and shoulders.
“Forgive me,” Fell murmurs, fuck, that roughened gravel tone is back, “I should have knocked, Crowley…”
He trails off as Crowley lowers his elbows— he’d involuntarily been holding the shirt this way, covering his stomach, having been stuck like that after taking his shirt off and freezing once Fell came into view, but now Crowley lets his arms fall and the shirt dangle from his fingers as he exposes the rest of his torso to his professor in a silent invitation to do whatever the fuck he wants.
Fell sucks air in through his teeth as his jawline flexes and tenses, the vein in his temple more pronounced for a split second.
Crowley can almost see the dilemma in him, so he does what he hopes is an even more obvious invite— he tips his head back and to side a bit, his eyes not breaking away from blue ones, exposing the column of his neck, baring more of himself and hoping the professor can read Crowley’s inner begging of look at me, touch me, do what you want with me— please.
There’s another hiss of breath and then the click of heels colliding with tile as Fell walks over and stands right in front of him, and there’s only a few inches between them again, but still far too much space for Crowley’s liking.
“You’re exquisite,” Fell murmurs, and Crowley’s trembling again from the praise and the close proximity of the professor, who goes on to whisper in that same, lowly simmering tone, its authority strong despite its softness, “take off your boots.”
Crowley swallows as he holds Fell’s gaze, which has intensified to its previous state that he saw in the office— flaring, piercing, starving.
There’s something tantalizingly vulnerable that’s kissed with the barest hint of something deliciously adjacent to humiliating to be watched when you’re undressing in this manner— Crowley needs to bend over right in front of someone watching his every move with the focus of a predator stalking his prey, he’s willingly making himself literally smaller at the request of another, he’s inclining his head and showing the back of his neck to Fell as he does what he’s told— it’s inherently another power play that shoots flames through Crowley’s veins as he loosens the laces on his boots more than they already were and steps out of them as gracefully as he can manage under such heart pounding circumstances.
He’s now just about Fell’s height due to the other man still wearing his own shoes, and his shuddering huff echoes throughout the room as Fell reaches up and traces along Crowley’s clavicle with the tip of his middle finger, his burning eyes following its trail, mouth slightly parting between those granite jaw sets.
He takes his time with his delicate exploration of Crowley’s torso; he’s only using one hand, the other is folded behind his back as his fingers journey over Crowley’s collarbones, the curve of each shoulder and his upper arms before sliding back to lay flat in the center of his chest along with a warm palm, and Crowley’s back to attempting to wrangle his whimpers from escaping.
Fell’s fingers then slide down over the swell of his chest and ghost over Crowley’s left nipple, prompting him to gasp and bite his lip, the electric jolt of the touch spreading over his chest and cascading down to settle between his thighs as a breathy moan escapes him.
“Of course you’d have them pierced, you slutty little tart; and look how responsive—” the professor’s growling, debasing purr wraps around Crowley’s neck and caresses his throat as if it were his own fingers doing so, and his pulse jumps in response, “—are you very sensitive here, my dear?”
Fell circles his thumb around the disc as he asks, dusky pink skin pebbling under his touch as it hardens, and Crowley nods helplessly as he whimpers, “y-yes, sir—”
He has to choke down a strangled groan as Fell scrapes the edge of his manicured thumbnail across his nipple, and his eyes fall shut as his body reacts, the explosive electricity of the touch prickling and sparking all over him; ‘sensitive’ is sort of an understatement.
“Look at me,” Fell orders, voice dropping even lower, and Crowley whimpers as he forces his eyes open, “good boy.”
“Y-you’re big on eye contact, aren’t you, professor,” Crowley pants as he stares into those glittering pools of lapis, biting his lip as Fell continues playing with his left nipple before starting in on his right, failing to hold back strangled whines any longer; they tumble free and fill the bathroom with their fractured, pitching-higher neediness.
“Yes,” Fell whispers as he calmly holds Crowley’s gaze with what seems to be complete ease, and the professor wrenches a broken yelp from Crowley as he pinches and rolls the hardened bud along with the silver bar piercing it between his fingers, causing Crowley to actually flex up onto his tiptoes and nearly stumble from the brightly stinging pleasure, “especially with you— you have no idea how many times I have had to wrestle my desire into submission during my class when you look into my eyes, how I’ve had to become so very skilled at stopping myself from getting hard as you go on and on with some perfectly laid out argument while these golden irises flash and tease and tempt—” he breaks off as he sharply flicks the now bruised nipple he’d just been pinching a few times, and Crowley cries out in earnest, his cock now painfully full and throbbing as he involuntarily thrusts his hips against Fell’s, finding his matching arousal there just as prominent as his own, fuck, “— so now I want the luxury of looking into those eyes without needing to restrain myself; I want to see how they react to my touch, how your pupils dilate as I play with this beautiful body that’s just made to be touched.”
Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—
“Are you even aware of the fact that whenever I happen to glance at you during my lectures, you spread your legs?” Fell asks as his fingers trail down the center of Crowley’s quivering stomach now, and his other hand joins in on the perusal of Crowley’s body, its thumb slotting into the dip of his hipbone and pressing down, nail digging into the skin until Crowley gasps and moans; he actually didn’t know that, Jesus, he didn’t fucking realize, “that is, if they’re not already open— a slut like you is almost always ready and willing, it seems, because these lovely thighs are, more often than not, already spread as widely as possible in my classroom, just begging to be forced apart even more while you get pinned down and fucked—”
“Fffuck, sir, God, fuck, please—” he’s not totally sure what he’s begging for— for Fell to go on with his viciously gorgeous degradation that’s got Crowley leaking again, for him to cease his monologue because it’s going to make him come right in his leggings, or if he’s pleading for Fell to keep touching him, to make him orgasm from his hand, to pump his fist over his cock until Crowley starts sobbing from his impending release and to keep going until he’s an overstimulated, writhing mess begging for mercy.
Fell hums but says nothing more as his hands continue to skate over Crowley, his path precise and calculating; God, the texture of his palms over Crowley’s naked skin is electrifying, it’s terribly wonderful and it’s nearly agonizing— it has him almost floating.
He’s so lost in the sensation of his professor’s touch that Crowley’s caught off guard when fingertips hook under the waistband of his leggings and pull, and his breath catches— he thinks Fell’s going to ease them down off of his hips, he’s going to touch him even more—
But it’s all over as soon as it started.
Fell lets go of the leggings, takes half a step back from Crowley and growls, his own cheeks flushed and eyes as hungry as ever as he surveys Crowley, “absolutely stunning, my darling.”
“F-fuck, fuck—” Crowley’s dizzy again as his legs shake and his toes curl, and he barely stops himself from reaching out to Fell, “p-please, professor, please—”
Perhaps Fell senses what Crowley was trying not to do, because he actually does it himself—he steps close again and reaches for Crowley, he pulls him into his arms and wraps them around his body firmly, and Crowley heaves a grateful sigh as he sags against the older man, the increased contact between them driving his need so much higher, but also helping to soothe its vibrating energy.
“Deep breaths, pet— that’s it. Good boy, shhh,” Fell murmurs as he he cups the back of Crowley’s head with his hand and presses a kiss to his temple; Crowley whimpers and grabs onto the back of his shirt, “you’re doing so well, you are so very good for me, Anthony— do you think you can manage to take a shower, my dear, can you do that for me?”
Crowley closes his eyes and inhales again— he’s been taking a lot of deep breaths tonight, maybe more than he ever has— and he nods weakly, trying his best to ignore his arousal and the desire to start kissing and licking Fell’s neck.
“That’s it, sweetheart, so good. You may leave your clothes in the hamper— I’ll see to them early in the morning, I usually wake up quite early. And take your time, Crowley— make sure you let that hot water soothe all of those tense, stressed muscles you employed for me so fiercely earlier, alright?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Crowley whispers into Fell’s neck, enjoying that captivating scent of him and feeling a little more grounded than he was a minute ago despite the fact his cock is straining against cotton and he’s dying to touch his professor more, but he can tell that won’t be happening at the moment, no matter what he says. It’s beautifully warm and comforting and safe in Fell’s strong arms, against the solid plane of his chest, and he’d happily stay here all night.
“Very good. The bedroom is down the hall, last door on the left. Feel free to make yourself comfortable there; I’ll just be closing up downstairs and taking care of a few things, and then I’ll come find you.”
He presses a kiss to Crowley’s forehead as he drops his arms and pulls away, and his needy, lightheaded haze definitely isn’t helped by that as the professor turns to go with another one of his smiles.
“And Anthony?” Fell asks as he stops in the doorway, his hand curling around the frame as he looks back over his shoulder; again his eyes greedily slide over Crowley— there’s no attempt to disguise that he’s thoroughly eye fucking him, and it takes Crowley a second before he can gather a response behind this teeth that isn’t please fuck me till I cry, sir.
“Yes, professor?”
Nailed it.
“Refrain from touching yourself while you shower, please.”
Oh, Jesus.
“Y-yes, sir.”
God, what is it about a command like that? Crowley’s blindsided with how it reaches down inside of him and makes everything pulsate and bloom and burst within him, with how it coaxes his throat to relax and open with the desire to be filled again and his chest swell with the need to please and serve.
“Good boy. See you soon, lovely thing.”
And with that, he’s gone, and Crowley has to shove his palm against the base of his cock and inhale deeply through the nose so as not to whine pitifully as the echo of Fell’s footsteps down the hallway fades into silence.
He keeps breathing as he peels his leggings off, wincing at the texture of the now mostly-dry-except-for-some-precome fabric as he goes; he pops them along with his shirt and socks into the wicker hamper by what he presumes is a tiny linen closet, and now he’s fully naked in his professor’s bathroom, hard and dripping and panting and stumbling a bit as he steps into the claw foot tub and turns on the shower, fingers fumbling with the taps as he tries to get a fucking hold of himself.
It is truly insane the amount of power Fell has over him with just a few words after a couple of hours, Crowley muses as clouds of steam rise around him rapidly—well, it’s been a lot longer than that, if he’s being honest with himself— but still he’s nearly shocked at himself that he obeys the professor and doesn’t touch himself at all. The hot water’s a gorgeous balm of relief all over his overstimulated, sore body, and his arousal barely flags, but he bites his lip and does his best not to hurry through the task. The desire— no, the need to please Fell is so immense that he forces himself to take things slowly, he lets the heat of the water help loosen his muscles and relax him as much as is possible in his current situation.
As he uses Fell’s soap and shampoo (Crowley’s heart somersaults knowing he’s about to both smell like his professor and wear his clothes) he tries to discern what is so different about the man’s dominance than what he’s used to— because it is different, it’s so far like nothing Crowley’s encountered thus far, and he’s young, it’s true, but he’s been active in the scene for almost three years, and he’s experienced enough to know that Fell is a rarity.
For starters, there’s zero performance about the professor's dominant nature— it’s so genuine, so real, it’s so natural that it’s mesmerizing in its authenticity. Crowley can tell Fell is confident and comfortable with this side of himself, and that he’s probably been in touch with it for a long time. He’s completely unlike other dominants he’s played with that overcompensate, that are insecure with what they like and want. It’s evident that Fell knows what he wants and goes for it without shying away, and Crowley’s very much the same about his own desires in that regard.
Professor Fell also doesn’t bully you for control— he’s not fighting or wrestling for it at all, because he makes you want to give it to him, he inspires a yearning to submit with only a look, and nothing about it comes across as manipulative, either. All he has to do is outstretch one of those strong, sturdy hands and you offer him the reins to your bridle without a second thought and pray he’ll pull them as harshly as he wants while he has his way with you.
Finally he can’t wait any longer to be close to his professor again, so Crowley dries himself off and threads his fingers through his wet hair, doing his best to detangle it before he slips on the clothes Fell left for him—pajama pants that are some of the softest, thinnest cotton he’s ever felt against his skin in a subtle tartan pattern (what’s up with Fell and tartan— Crowley will have to ask at some point) and a white v neck t-shirt that’s nearly translucent, it’s so thin. Both clothing items nearly hang off of his slender frame, especially the shirt, and his still half hard cock pulses as the size difference between him and Fell is once again made so clear.
He peeks his head out of the hallway before stepping out into it, barefoot but carrying his boots as he walks down to the bedroom, legs shaky, and heart pounding again with nervousness.
It’s a lot like the rest of the house— inviting, cozy, and warm. The wall behind the antique brass bed frame is that same sunflower yellow as the walls downstairs, but the others are painted cream; there are less books in here, but not by much. They’re in smaller stacks on little shelves peppered over the walls that make them look like they’re floating, and they seem to be older, too— many of them have leather spines with what looks like gold titles. There’s a beautiful prayer plant on the windowsill in an elaborately glazed ceramic pot as well as a small, shocking pink African violet in a terracotta pot, and there’s a glass vase of dried flowers next to it— Fell seems to like plants, and Crowley smiles at that, since he’s very much the same.
He has one of those moments where he has absolutely no idea where to sit– there’s a plush, deep reddish brown leather armchair against the wall in front of the foot of the bed with a little table next to it, and of course there are a few books stacked there next to an old brass lamp, but it is so obviously where Fell sits— there’s an open book with a pair of glasses resting on the page and a fawn cable knit cardigan draped over the arm— that Crowley actually opts to climb onto bed instead.
Said bed is covered with a very pale, sky blue comforter and has a lot of fluffy pillows, too, some of them covered in velvet that same goldenrod yellow as the wall, and it’s not massive, but as Crowley hesitantly sits cross legged on the foot of it, he sighs as he sinks into what’s clearly a very comfortable mattress. Within seconds, Nellie the cat hops up, light on her feet as she immediately walks onto Crowley’s lap, her tail twitching again as he smiles and strokes her back from head to tail.
“Hi, Nellie,” he whispers, “you’re a sweet thing, aren’t you? Wish I had a cat of my own,” she starts kneading her paws into his thighs as an almost nasally, fast paced purr starts, “but I feed the strays around my place—”
There’s a gentle knock at the door frame, and Crowley looks up from Nellie to see Professor Fell standing there, his expression very soft as he leans against the doorframe and says, tone amused, “I see the lady of the house approves of you.”
Crowley grins at him, but he averts his eyes back down to Nellie, lost for words as his heart rate continues to climb along with the intermittent sparks of intimacy that continue to ignite between the two of them. He scratches her chin as she continues to mash her feet against him.
Fell clears his throat softly after a few quiet seconds, and Crowley’s delighted to see he’s still blushing, just as he had been in the bathroom. He steps closer to the bed and stands between it and the armchair behind him as he gazes down at Crowley, who can practically feel the heat of him, can nearly track the path of his eyes as they journey over his body.
“You are nothing short of breathtaking,” Fell murmurs, both his cheeks and eyes deepening in hue even further, “and seeing you in my clothes, in my bed— it’s surreal.”
There’s a beat of silence between them, and Nellie hops off of the bed as they gaze at the other; Crowley thinks Fell actually might look a little shy, actually, which is incredibly endearing in so many ways.
The professor takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as he mutters, “I’m very much trying to hold back my praise, lovely— it’s quite difficult with you sitting there, looking like that, but I’ll do my very best to rein it in.”
“You— you don’t have to stop completely,” Crowley stammers, not wanting Fell to feel badly about his penchant for compliments, “it’s just—“ he stops, unable to really pinpoint what it is about so much lavish praise that makes him feel like his skin is the only thing keeping him from flying in a thousand directions at once, but Fell shakes his head.
“You don’t need to explain, darling, even though I appreciate you doing so,” he says gently as he settles down into the armchair gracefully, “you have every right to feel the way you do, and I will do all that I can to make you feel as comfortable as you deserve.” He states this like it’s the simplest thing in the world, and Crowley’s a tad annoyed at how it makes his throat thicken, how he has to bat away some pesky emotions that threaten his eyes with a hint of tears.
“Thank you,” he whispers, not trusting himself to say more as he smoothes the fabric of the pajama pants over his knees.
“You are more than welcome, Crowley,” Fell replies as he smiles and continues to survey Crowley with eyes that are a paradoxically burning balm, and then there’s a lull between them as they look at the other, only a few feet separating them once more.
It’s become very clear that neither of them want to sleep just yet. The tenderly calm atmosphere of the aftercare and drive to Fell’s home has mostly changed— it’s shifted into heated, shimmering waves of lustful desire, it’s built itself up from quiet sweetness back into ravenous, dripping-with-want carnality aided by the bathroom encounter and rather otherworldly chemistry between them that cannot seem to do anything but spark and glow and simmer.
“Are you tired, my dear? It’s getting quite late.” Fell looks as much the opposite of tired as Crowley feels— his eyes are brightly alert and concentrated as he poses his query.
Crowley swallows as he shakes his head, sleep literal continents away now, “no, not at all— kind of got a second wind.”
Fell chuckles softly as he nods, “I understand— I’m feeling quite similarly at the moment. It’s impossible not to be exhilarated and enthralled by you and your presence in my home, not to mention by the way your bare skin came alive beneath my hands mere moments ago.”
Fuck.
Crowley opens his mouth and scrambles to find an answer that isn’t a whimpering plea for Fell to please, do it again, touch me more, but very unfortunately he’s unable to withhold a tiny “ngk,” as he shifts on the bed, and his kindling arousal catches into renewed flames as Fell’s smile morphs into a wicked smirk.
The professor’s sitting serenely in the armchair at the foot of his bed, and Crowley can so easily picture him reading there before he goes to sleep, drowsily trying to pay attention to the words on the page but nodding off as the hours tick by, but right now, he is laser focused on Crowley. His posture is relaxed; he’s leaning back, his ankle is crossed over his other knee as his fingers drift along the seam of his mouth thoughtfully, but his eyes are a pair of glittering azure stars that are almost too intense to look at.
“How often do you think of me when you touch yourself, Anthony?” Fell asks after a minute or so, breaking the sweetly tension laced solitude between them, and he’s back to using the same tone of voice he used earlier when he was inquiring after Crowley’s likes in his office and his sensitivity in the bathroom— low and warmly seductive and soft, but so fucking alluring.
Crowley swallows as he runs a hand through his still damp hair, cheeks once again aflame as he looks at his professor, very flustered indeed in contrast to Fell’s elegantly composed demeanor. It’s the bench conversation all over again, and Crowley’s feeling the need to try and get a footing, but it’s difficult when he’s draped in the soft cotton of his professor’s clothing and as the verdant, citrusy spice of his soap— Crowley thinks it could be a combination of lemongrass and cinnamon or pepper, but he’s not sure— clings to his skin as he sits on the end of his bed.
Everything right now is marking Crowley as something that belongs to Professor Fell, and it’s hard not to fucking literally swoon about it— and now being asked this question?
He’s floundering just a smidge; not enough to panic, but enough to grasp at some straws that have saved him in the past when he’s feeling so untethered, so he grabs at something that tends to reorient him in times like these.
“Oh, I’m sure you’d just love to know that, wouldn’t you, professor?” he asks, aiming for teasing sensuality, but he’s dismayed his voice shakes a little and likely betrays his thin bratty veneer. He tries to play it off by arranging his own mouth into an impish smile, but it falters, it crumbles far too quickly to be convincing, and Crowley knows it.
Professor Fell says nothing for a moment— he just keeps smirking and lightly chuckles as he uncrosses his leg from its perch on his other knee and plants his foot on the ground. He leans forward slowly and rests an elbow on each knee as he laces his hands save for both index fingers, the pads of which come together to settle just in front of his now— there’s no other way to put it— fiendish grin, and he stares at Crowley with those eyes that are the opposite of sweet— they’re leaning towards what Crowley may describe as feral.
“Yes,” he murmurs, and oh fuck, that fucking purr is back, and Fell isn’t close to Crowley at all, yet that vibration resonates in his own chest, “I would love to know— and you are going to tell me, darling. Your attempt at bratting is admirable, but you and I both know—” he cocks his head and lets his fingers drag up along his cheek as he rests his chin on his thumbs, his devilish, confident smirk much easier to see now, “it’s just an act, in this moment at least, because right now, in this space and time, Anthony, you are aching to be handled, you are yearning to be controlled, and you are dying to be so good for me—” Crowley whimpers as he closes his eyes and bites his lower lip, attempting to deal with that flaying sensation of being very accurately pegged and seen, “—so yes. I would love to know just how often you’re a desperate slut for me even in your head as you fuck your pretty fist, cry into your pillow, and come with my name on your lips as my face flashes in your mind’s eye.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Crowley might’ve mumbled that out loud and not just internally, he’s not sure— but Professor Fell is right on almost every single count, he’s got Crowley nailed down to an extent that’s a tad unnerving but even more thrilling, and he keeps his eyes closed as he licks his now very dry lips and mutters his reply.
“All the time.”
The three words are accompanied by an nearly painfully burning flush that’s creeping down Crowley’s neck— he’s concerned he’ll have second degree burns at this point on his face and neck by tomorrow— and his shaky exhale follows the confession as a delicious lick of shame slithers down his spine and settles between his thighs to tease his aching arousal.
“I think we’ve established by now that I like specifics, my dear. What does ‘all the time’ mean— once or twice every few weeks? More?”
“More,” Crowley whispers, now playing with the drawstring of Fell’s pajama pants, needing to do something with his hands, “God, yeah, so much more, Jesus.”
“How much more?”
The purr’s gone down what Crowley has learned is it’s natural path— it’s traveled into a growl, and it’s no longer only honeyed— it’s fiery and rough and primal, and it makes Crowley’s cock twitch helplessly against impossibly soft fabric as he fights to form a coherent answer.
“I— f-fuck. A f-few times a week— at least. Some days if I— if I do it more than once— sometimes you’re all I can think about and picture.” His furrowed brow is almost painful as he keeps his eyes tightly shut, and he’s very glad that he’s sitting as dizziness floods through his system alongside desire tinged with embarrassment.
“Open your eyes.”
Crowley whines helplessly as he obeys the growled command, unable to resist its compelling pull; he’s fucking powerless, and he fucking loves it.
“Good boy— how I love to see that captivating gold shimmer as you struggle for me,” Fell murmurs, and good God, that sentence, and Jesus, the professor is definitely not composed anymore— Crowley thinks he’s about to fucking pounce on him, there’s a predatory energy emanating from the man that’s got Crowley whimpering every few breaths, “you’re so good for me— and so much more than I ever dared to hope, Crowley. Thinking of me so often, paying tribute to me with climax after climax wrung from that beautifully obscene body…I said it once and I will say it again, pet— you spoil me.”
There’s something insanely hot about that concept— that it’s Crowley spoiling the Dom, not the other way around. He whines as he keeps his eyes trained on the pewter swirl of Fell’s— they only drop for a moment to see that the professor is very obviously aroused again, and Crowley’s mouth waters— a perhaps predictably Pavlovian response, but the fact it’s happened so immediately after getting his mouth fucked once by that glorious cock fans the flames of his humiliation kink.
Fell’s jaw sets in that telltale gesture as he continues, the sensuous roughness of his pitch making Crowley squirm, “I never could have dreamed you’d be such an insatiable slut for me, lovely. I’m rather jealous that I didn’t get to witness any of those orgasms, since they were for me.”
Crowley’s fractured moan echoes in the bedroom— there’s no way he can hold it back as his hips buck, seeking some sort of relief for his now excruciatingly hard cock as Fell’s words unravel him just like they did in his office and bathroom earlier, but what he says next completely blindsides Crowley even though it really shouldn’t have, in hindsight.
“Make it up to me,” Fell whispers as he looks at Crowley, his eyes sliding down from his face to between his legs, where there’s a growing wet spot of precome on the front of the cotton of the borrowed sleep pants, “show me how you do it— show me how you touch yourself when you think of me, darling.”
“R-right now?” Crowley asks, voice small and tremulous, disbelieving and unbearably turned on by the notion.
“Right now, my dear boy,” Fell confirms, “I want to see how you come for me when I am not around— I want to watch how you touch that absurdly lovely body, I want to witness you taking yourself apart like you do when you’re alone, writhing in your bed and biting your lip to stop yourself from moaning like the wanton whore you are.”
“God, fuck,” Crowley groans as the expertly degrading endearments shower him in boiling need, and Fell’s nearly got Crowley figured out to scary degrees of accuracy, but he is wrong about one important detail, and the professor is about to find that out momentarily.
He has to remind himself to breathe as he twists his body and stretches his torso so that he can reach a pillow from the top of the bed, and Fell’s sharp intake of breath goes straight between his legs as Crowley turns back around, cock jumping and thighs clenching as he watches Fell’s expression turn from surprise to delight and then to all out ravenous hunger.
“I— I usually straddle and— g-grind on a pillow while on my hands and knees, when I— when I think of you,” Crowley whispers as he breaks their eye contact, needing a second, needing a sliver of distance to get himself together before he comes untouched just from the way his professor is looking at him like he’s going to eat him.
“My God, you beautiful, needy little harlot,” the growl has tumbled down to new depths now, it’s giving oceanic trenches a run for their money, “you just continue to surprise and delight at every turn, my dear— fuck, you perfectly filthy minx.”
The praise is hovering near that space of being too much again, but luckily it’s peppered with so much soothing degradation that Crowley’s still able to handle it, but fuck— he wonders if he’ll be able to withstand much more of it. He wonders if he’ll even survive this— he knows human hearts aren’t meant to beat this rapidly and this hard for this long, anyway.
He can’t really think of a better way to die, though.
“Do you— d’you want to see my face,” Crowley’s question is a shivering, weak thing as he peers at Fell through a haze of need and nervousness, the fact that he’s about to do this, that he’s about to perform something for his professor that he’s never done in front of anyone else setting in deeper with every booming beat of his frantic heart, “or do you want to see me from— from behind.”
The strangled groan from his professor is a sound Crowley wants recorded on his phone so he can use it as his fucking text tone.
“You debauched, remarkable creature,” Fell breathes as he shakes his head slightly, something that could be awe painting his now very flushed face, his round cheeks twin spots of scarlet now, “so polite— and an impossible question, I fear— but this time, I want to see your face,” he breaks his pose to run a hand through his hair that still bears the wildly curled evidence of their earlier office rendezvous, “I want to see those cheeks flush even darker— I want to watch the claret tones bloom there and travel down your beautiful neck, staining it crimson with the evidence of your licentiousness— and I want to watch your features contort in pained pleasure, I want to see excruciating ecstasy write itself over your face as you fuck yourself for me.”
“God,” Crowley groans as he involuntarily pitches his hips forward, and he settles the plush pillow between his thighs as he shakily pulls Fell’s shirt off, shuddering as the cool air touches his heated skin along with Fell’s labored exhale. He lets the fabric drop to the bed, but keeps the pajama bottoms on—Fell’s asked to see how he does this exactly, and he won’t share this explicitly, but it’s easier for some reason to change into clean and dry sleep pants than switching out a pillowcase when you’re fucked out and in the throes of your afterglow.
Crowley’s just about to ask permission to start, he’s oddly frozen and hovering over that point of no return when Fell murmurs, “go on, darling— show me,” so Crowley does.
He shifts a little and gets situated on the bed, spreading his knees wider and leaning forward to prop his torso up by his wrists as he spreads his hands flat on the comforter, and he gradually starts rocking his hips forward and backward, hissing from the instantly incredible friction sliding over his cock as he does, biting his lip and closing his eyes as he tries to breathe, breathe, breathe— the last thing he needs is to actually faint in his professor’s bed as he gets off in front of him.
He continues for maybe about 10 seconds until he starts whining helplessly, it feels so fucking good, and being watched by his professor is so fucking good; God, he really is a fucking slut, and Crowley knows it, and now the object of his countless hours of fantasy knows it, too— and said object is staring at Crowley with such ferocious want as he rides the pillow and snaps his hips and imagines those hands sliding over his overly sensitive body, bruising him as they dig into muscles, spanking him as he’s forced open by Fell’s cock and fucked so hard he can’t even see straight—
“What are you envisioning,” Fell’s voice joins the atmosphere of Crowley’s noises and drips with luxurious chocolate, but it’s got so much naked hunger in it that it’s almost sharp, like it’s covering tangy, tartly sweet sugared lemon peel, and Crowley wants so much more of it, he needs so much more.
His movements falter as he inhales, and Crowley meets his professor’s eyes through his lashes as he whispers, “you fucking me.” Tremors already wrack his body as he presses down towards the bulk of the pillow, and every thrust of his hips makes the old brass bed frame creak along with the springs of the mattress; it’s a steady rhythmic beat that’s as obscene as the breathy moans falling from his lips and the steady flow of precome that’s pretty much gushing from his cock at this point.
A jaw sets as a growl slips out from a plush mouth, and thick, wool clad thighs spread wider as Fell asks, breathless himself now but still decadent with a zing of something even sharper, brighter— candied ginger dipped in dark chocolate, perhaps, with a piquant bite to it that complements its smoothness and only serves to make it more addicting to Crowley’s palate— “how?”
“From— from behind,” Crowley pants as he opens his knees wider and arches his back more, redistributing his weight just so and God, the angle’s just right, and he tirelessly thrusts down harder, faster as his respiration follows the same pattern.
“Am I rough with you?”
Crowley has to steady his hips in order not to come, because the way Fell growls that combined with the answer being yes, that Fell got yet another thing right, is almost too much to bear, it’s too much to handle, and he stutters to a stop as he pants, “y-yes— yes.”
“Good; keep going.”
Crowley’s shuddering, gasping whimpers fill the room again and echo off the walls as he diligently resumes grinding, and Fell gazes at him with such intensity it’s like his eyes are burning into his skin, they’re leaving blistering kisses of their regard all over his body as the professor observes him take his pleasure with surging movements that only grow more frenzied and uneven as the seconds go by.
Fuck, it feels far too good— it feels too good to be watched by the center of Crowley’s frequent, ardent desire, and the slippery, dragging slide of saturated fabric against his oversensitive cock is too much, it’s too good, fuck, it’ll be over soon, he can tell. Crowley pants helplessly as he ruts into the pillow, spreading his thighs even wider as his elbows begin to shake and sting with the stress of supporting his weight, their overextension a burst of pain that snakes down his forearms and wraps around his wrists like cuffs.
“H-hnng, f-fuck, God,” he whines, picking up the pace, his hips undulating faster and with more depth of motion, chasing the friction of the bunched up softness he’s grinding against, and all the while, Fell watches and talks to him. The professor groans and grits his teeth, his sharp intakes of air mingle with Crowley’s shattered exhales, and the words he mutters under his breath only serve to glide over Crowley in a form of electric stimulation that ignites his nerve endings on and below the surface of his feverish skin.
“Look at you,” Fell whispers at one point, and Crowley’s really trying his best to hold eye contact, but they keep fluttering closed, and when he forces himself to open them again, sometimes he turns his face to the side or bows his head, needing to take a break from meeting the night sky eyes of his professor, “such desperate, untamed neediness screaming from every muscle of yours…it’s so voluminous that I can feel it from here.” Another twinge of shame weaves itself with the ecstatic tendrils slithering through Crowley’s being, and he whines brokenly, keeping his head bent, wildly disheveled hair shielding his face as Fell continues, “I think I could touch you for hours at a time, every day for decades, and still that slutty body could never get enough— am I right, Crowley?”
A choked sob squeezes itself through Crowley’s gritted teeth as he nods, “y-yes, f-fuck, it’s never enough, God, please, sir, please—”
He doesn’t exactly know why, but there seems to be a deliciously unspoken rule between them that Crowley won’t come until he’s given permission, just like earlier in the office, and Crowley loves it— he likes being told when he can and cannot climax, and he supposes that maybe he’s got a little more experience with orgasm control than he realized— and that it sets his entire being on fire.
“Please what, my dear boy— use your words.”
It’s amazing what even a small taste of condescension does to Crowley, and he sobs again as his hands claw into the down comforter on the bed and his thighs spasm, “c-can I— fuck, may I c-come, sir, please, I’m c-close—”
“I do so appreciate the grammar correction, darling— what a conscientious slut you are—” Crowley bites his lip until he tastes blood as the degradation wraps around his cock like a warm, slippery hand would and strokes him from base to tip, “and no, you may not come yet, Crowley. You’ve spent so much time, you have spent hours pleasuring yourself to thoughts of me— don’t you think I deserve some time to actually luxuriate in such a thing, lovely?”
Crowley can’t help his tears from spilling down his cheeks as he tenses his legs to halt his orgasm, desperate to please Professor Fell and nodding as he tearfully agrees, “y-yes, professor.”
“Don’t mistake me, darling— I adore how needy you are,” Fell murmurs and oh fuck, Jesus, he’s standing up from his chair, he’s walking over to stand next to the bed, “ and God, how you tempt me to do the most sinful things to you, Anthony—”
“Do them,” Crowley rasps as his body vibrates with the strain of staving off his climax, but the fragrance of Fell filling his lungs is not helping, nor is his new proximity, “please, sir, do them, do what you want to me, you can do anything you want, professor—”
“It is a perilously dangerous thing, my easy little tempter—” Crowley gasps as Fell’s left hand wraps around the front of his throat and his right lands on the shoulder closest to the professor, his skin smooth and warm and galvanizing, “to offer a man like me everything he could possibly want with such… conviction.”
A heated, broad palm starts roaming over the curves of his shoulders, it dances between their blades and travels down his spine, and it’s nothing short of sublime torture— Crowley’s never been more stimulated in his life, he’s never been as tense as this, as drawn taut and ready to snap and splinter at any moment— the closest sensation that had come to this had occurred hours earlier on his knees while he begged for his mouth to be taken and had gotten his wish. The professor’s fingertips emit hundreds of thousands of miniscule meteors that travel through the atmosphere of Crowley’s skin and burn once they melt through the barrier of the epidermis, sparking and smoldering as they fill his veins with a searing euphoria that waltzes along the edge of being unbearable.
Crowley doesn’t even realize how violently he’s shaking until Fell speaks, his syllables still colored with lust, but his tone steadying and grounding, “darling— what’s your color?” The hand holding Crowley’s throat loosens and the one journeying over his body stills as the professor waits for an answer, and Crowley’s grateful for that, as it’s pretty much an impossibility to think straight when Fell’s touching him.
“G-green,” he whimpers through clenched teeth, his thrusts more uneven by the second as he fights to keep them slow, “p-please, don’t s-stop touching me, professor, it feels so good, fuck, thank you for touching me, sir, it’s s-so—” he can’t hold his neck up anymore, he lets his head fall so he can focus the tension he’s got left in his body on not climaxing, and the hand cradling his neck tightens again, “‘m too close, s-sir, please—”
“Shhh, you’re doing so well, Crowley,” Fell bends down to murmur in Crowley’s ear and press a delicate kiss to the shell of it, “if I play with your mouth a bit, sweet thing, can you hold back from coming for a few more minutes? You’re doing beautifully, my dear, you are so, so very good, but I’m greedy, and I want more, just for a little longer. Can you do that for me, lovely?”
Crowley’s brow knits as his chest heaves, and he’s barely grinding now, he’s so close to tumbling over the edge that he’s worried it’ll happen if he moves even an inch, but the temptation of Fell’s fingers isn’t one he can refuse— he is simply incapable of that— so he nods jerkily as he opens his sore jaw, the whine in the back of his throat muffling into a choked moan as two fingers slip past his lips and caress his tongue. He starts sucking immediately, and his hips follow the rhythm of his suction, keeping time with it as his Fell explores his mouth.
“Good boy, so very obedient for me, aren’t you, Anthony,” ffffuck, the slide of those thick fingers over Crowley’s tongue is something he knows he will never get enough of— he has the wild thought of asking Fell to get his hand cast in silicone so he can suck on his fingers whenever he touches himself and thinks of the professor, “and such a good whore mouth, too, fuck me—”
The comfort of sucking Fell’s fingers blooms into an anguished torment as Crowley does his best to continue fucking the pillow without going over the edge, and that torment turns into unendurable torture as the professor withdraws the soaking digits, walks them down and over the small of his back, and Crowley’s vision blurs as Fell starts touching him where he really fucking needs to be touched, where he needs to be filled and stretched and then wrecked into a sobbing ruin. His hand snakes under the waistband of the pajamas, and warm, wet fingers teasingly glide over Crowley’s entrance, prompting him to pitifully yelp and frantically thrust backwards, breaking his rhythm to try and impale himself on them, on anything as he moans, “oh fucking Hell, sir, please, fuck, I need—”
“What do you need, love? You want my fingers inside you?” Fell whispers as his other hand continues to cup Crowley’s neck, his thumb stroking his jaw as his fingers keep a delicate pressure on the throat they’re clasping; whenever Crowley swallows, its against Fell’s palm, his Adam’s apple glides against his hand, and it’s like Fell owns his ability to even speak, to breathe—
“Yes, yes, fuck, please, I need it, s-so badly, p-please, professor—” he pleads as he pushes back against Fell’s hand, delirious with need now, it’s agony at this point, and more tears have started streaming down his face as he barely keeps from breaking down.
“Keep grinding, Anthony, don’t stop— good boy— and I as badly as I’m craving to feel that velvety heat, as much as I’m dying to make you come on my fingers— I’m going to make you wait for that, sweetheart—”
The dam splinters, and Crowley starts sobbing in frustrated protest as the slick fingertips drag over him again, teasing and ever so slightly dipping into where he needs it most before the pressure disappears, and the deft fingers trail over his shuddering hips and thighs as he brokenly cries, devastated from the denial but closer than ever to coming despite the loss.
“Oh f-fuck, fffuck, please, p-please, c-close, s-s-so close—” Crowley’s line of sight keeps fading in and out in time with his heartbeat he resumes grinding, all grace and coordination gone as his urgency for release climbs and climbs, and it only escalates as Fell murmurs, his words embers that lay themselves in a pattern over Crowley’s lower spine and between his thighs, “that’s it, doll, oh you’re so close, aren’t you, so very close— you are a vision, my dear, truly a whore of the most stunning proportions—”
Fell then steps around to the foot of the bed again so he’s facing Crowley, squeezing the sides of his throat just enough to make his already dimming vision sparkle as the professor reaches his other hand up to thread it through Crowley’s hair, wrapping it around his fist as he roughly growls, impossibly hypnotic and sensual and filthy as he stares into Crowley’s eyes, “that’s it, sweetheart, just like that— soon you’ll know what it’s like, Anthony, soon I’ll be sliding into you from behind, just like you’ve imagined and exactly how you need it— and you’ll be so thankful, won’t you, dearest? You’ll be the most relieved little cockslut, finally being used, finally having all of these slutty holes used like the depraved fleshlight you are—”
Crowley cries out loudly as he screws his eyes shut, hips convulsing and shuddering as Fell kisses him deeply with a groan, licking into Crowley’s pliant mouth between the indecent tapestry of filth he’s weaving with his tongue, “and what a relief for you, darling, what a blessed fucking relief to not be so empty anymore— eyes open, dove—” the pained, raspy sob that escapes Crowley’s confined throat burns as he listens to his professor, barely seeing him through the blurry haze of tears and impending, scorching bliss, the new endearment sending sizzling shockwaves of delight through him, “there you go, good boy, so good for me—now come, come for me, you wild, gorgeous little pet of mine—”
Crowley’s wailing again like he was as he came earlier that night with Fell filling his mouth and throat, but it’s hoarse and breathy, and his incoherently begged words are hindered from the fingers still pressing into his neck and the earth shattering pleasure that’s about to hit previously unscaled heights, “c-can I, p-please, p-professor, fffffuck—”
Fell nods as his fingers tangle harder in Crowley’s hair and his grasp on his neck constricts, and he kisses Crowey again as he growls, “yes, go on, darling, show me how you come while you’re imagining my cock splitting you apart and stretching you so wide—”
“Oh God, sir, fuckkkk—”
Fuckfuckfuckfuckkkkk—
“Come for me, my pretty, desperate little fuckdoll— God, look at that body, look at how fucking sublime you are, Crowley, fuck, I want you to come for me—”
His smarting wrists give out along with his elbows, but Crowley doesn’t fall onto to the bed— Fell reaches down and catches him at the waist and pulls him close, he holds Crowley up against his own waist as he comes so hard he’s unable to anything else but let his orgasm wrack through his body helplessly, keening and crying into the crisp pale cotton shirt as he shakes, his legs joining his arms in losing their battle to stay engaged in their position. He’s clenching his teeth between sobs so hard his jaw screams, and the shower of stars from Fell’s touch that suffused through his skin have flared again— they’re all going supernova, they’re radiating the most explosively bright energy that brutally fucks through his every cell.
“Good boy, darling, just like that— you just take it, take all of that ecstasy you earned, and let me watch and hold you through it— you’re taking it so well, fuck, you are so wondrous, you marvelous thing,” Fell murmurs as Crowley sobs against him, thighs quaking so forcefully that the frame of the bed rattles almost as loud as it was when he was fucking into the pillow, throat hoarse from the ferocity of his cries.
His gasping, hiccuping sobs last forever along with his release— he feels his come drench his inner thighs and drip down to his knees as it thoroughly soaks the pajamas, and his cock just keeps pulsing and throbbing until it hurts— only after what feels like an eternity of rapture does Crowley feel like he can actually take a viable breath, like he’s able to get some much needed oxygen into his utterly fucked out system.
All the while, Fell murmurs to him as he keeps a steady, unflinching grasp around his torso— he tells him how beautiful he is, that he’s a darling little slut, he whispers that he’s never seen anything as obscenely breathtaking as him. Crowley weakly claws at the back of his professor’s shirt, he nuzzles his head against his chest as he inhales the warm, spiced citrus musk of him, and his tachycardic heart skips all the more as Fell’s insistent arousal presses against his chest, hot and hard and so fucking tempting even though Crowley thinks he’s likely seconds away from passing out.
“I’ve got you, little bird,” Fell whispers, his hands rubbing small circles on Crowley’s quavering back, and oh, that’s another new one, and it makes his poor ravaged heart flutter even more, “take your time, my dear boy. You did so well for me; I’m so very proud of you.”
Crowley chokes back a pained cry at that, soaking in the praise and assurance as well as shying away from it, and he clumsily starts mouthing at his professor’s hardness beneath his trousers, he kisses over the contour of him with lips that tremble as the need to make Fell feel even half as good as Crowley does immense.
“Shh, darling,” Fell’s voice is still so soft, but a little shakier now, and the hard length of him twitches under Crowley’s tongue, “relax, don’t worry about me; this is about you, my dear—”
But Crowley shakes his head insistently as he continues to nuzzle the professor, muttering, “please, I— I want to make you to come, I want you to use me, please, sir, I need you to use me—”
And he really does; it feels like he’ll die if Fell won’t take his pleasure from Crowley right now, and he wishes he could find the strength and the words to express that, but all he can manage with his mouth is its clumsy worship of his professor through thin wool.
“Sweetheart,” Fell murmurs, a strung out groan leaving him as Crowley whines and sucks him through the fabric, “you should rest, I— I don’t want to overdo it, lovely thing…” he starts surging his hips forward to meet Crowley’s hungry attentions, though, and the hand in his hair fists, “fuck, your mouth, Anthony, it’s just— fuck—”
“Please, professor,” Crowley begs as he gazes up at Fell, bestowing tiny licks over now sodden wool, “fuck my thighs— I’ll b-be laying down, I promise it’s not too m-much— I can take it, p-please, sir, I’m so wet for you, I n-need you to use what’s yours, sir, fuck—”
A gentle finger hooks under his chin as Fell asks, his tone serious as his other arm still holds Crowley’s waist, “you’re sure you don’t feel obligated, my dear? Because you owe me nothing— you’ve given me so much, Crowley, and I don’t want you to feel you need to earn the pleasure you just experienced. You inherently deserve it, and to allow me to witness it is a gift.”
“I promise, professor,” Crowley whispers, really very touched again at the older man’s respectful consideration, because although this isn’t one of those instances, he has felt like he’s needed to reciprocate in similar situations, and he’s never really minded, but it’s lovely to be reassured that Fell expects nothing like that, “I want you to feel so good, not because I think you expect it— but because I want you, in so many ways, and I— I love being used, I want to be something that makes you feel as good as you m-make me f-feel, f-fuck, please, sir, please…”
Fell dives into his eyes as he’s quiet for a moment, and Crowley can tell he’s reading him, he’s searching through him, but he must be satisfied with what he finds as he nods once, because he kisses Crowley’s forehead as he concedes, “such a sweetly darling thing you are, Crowley— and also simply impossible to resist. If you’re absolutely certain, my rapacious, wanton vixen, and if you promise to sleep after— I’ll fuck those beautiful ivory thighs until I get them even wetter.”
“I p-promise— t-thank you, sir, thank you,” Crowley slurs as Fell walks to the side of the bed again and lays him down onto its surface with sure hands, and Crowley clumsily starts trying to push his pajama bottoms down, fingers numb and fumbling, but Fell lays his hand over Crowley’s to stop him.
“Let me, doll,” he growls as he swings a knee onto the bed and climbs up, his hands taking over the task Crowley’s struggling with and removing the soaked cotton pants, revealing Crowley’s shaking legs and wet thighs with a groan so primal it makes Crowley’s softening cock throb again.
“God,” Fell sounds overcome as he settles onto his side behind Crowley, spooning him, guiding one arm under his shoulders, and his body is so fucking warm and solid as Crowley feels him unbutton his trousers, “these legs, I swear— you will be the death of me, Crowley, you unearthly beauty.” His free hand starts trailing over Crowley’s hip and down his thigh, the fingertips kneading into muscle as they skate over the dip of his knee and the swell of his calf, and fuck, it’s nearly reverent, the way his professor’s touching him, it’s almost worshipful.
He starts weakly thrusting his hips back to collide with Fell’s pelvis, trying to grind against his cock with a whine, needing to feel him, needing to please him, and Fell chuckles as he hooks a hand under Crowley’s thigh in order to lift it, his touch secure and sure, “so impatient, sweetheart; I’ll have to go about teaching you the virtues of such things at some point, my dear boy.”
He drives his hips forward and finally, the rigid sear of his cock melds with Crowley’s slick, sensitive skin, and Fell lowers the knee he’s holding up down to bury himself between Crowley’s legs and starts to move, his pinned forearm shifting so his hand can hold onto Crowley’s shoulder with a bruising grip, his fingertips excavating into bone and muscle with an iron strength.
“Ffffuck,” Fell hisses lowly as Crowley does his best to tighten his slippery thighs around his professor’s cock, his muscles blissfully weak from all they’ve gone through, “fuck, darling, your skin, your come, the velvet of your thighs around me— I know I’ve said it already, Crowley, but you’re a dream, dove, such a dream—”
Fell trails off as he starts snapping his hips forward and fucking Crowley’s thighs in a steady rhythm as his right hand roams all over his body, its pressure changing from impossibly light to punishingly rough, making Crowley whine and whimper and cry out at the contrast of the sensations as he’s finally, finally fucking used the way he’s meant to be by the person made to do so— and it feels like he’s climaxing all over again as euphoria continues to grow and crest and ebb all over as he sobs his relief at being made into the thing he’s been aching to be— Professor Fell’s personal fucktoy, for his use and his gratification only.
“To finally be touching you and feeling you like this after longing to do so, it’s—” Fell’s voice is as strained as Crowley’s ever heard it, even more so than earlier this evening, and his left hand’s grasp on Crowley’s shoulder a constant bruising pressure, “—indescribable— I won’t last long, I fear, you’re too good, fuck, you’re so good, Anthony, such a good fucking boy for me—”
Crowley shivers and gasps as Fell’s fingers tweak each of his nipples before they journey down to slip between his thighs and gather some of his come, and he’s not at all prepared for the indulgent, growling moan from the professor as he presumably licks his fingertips and tastes him, his rhythm not faltering in the slightest as he continues to use him.
“Of course you taste as sweet as you feel, my dewy little honeysuckle,” Fell growls as he lewdly sucks his fingers, the obscene sound of it so close to Crowley’s ear, and it mingles with the wet, slippery slide of his cock gliding between Crowley’s soaked thighs; the profane symphony of it makes him mewl loudly and with abandon between shallow sobs, “how dearly I wish I could rim all of my glasses and teacups with your spend, my decadent darling; I want to taste it with my morning cup of tea, I want to end my nights savoring you on the lip of my cordial of sherry—”
“Oh, Jesus,” Crowley knows if he hadn’t just had an explosive orgasm that those words would make him come again— Fell is so fucking dirty, it’s such an elegant depravity, but it is filth nonetheless, and he cant get enough of it. He wishes that could be a reality, too— he wants his professor tasting him like that, he wants him to have as much of Crowley as he desires, whenever he desires.
Fell whispers against his neck, his teeth grazing over his wildly pounding jugular, “do you want me to mark you up even more, pretty thing? Want this unblemished, perfect marble skin speckled with splashes of violet from my fingers delving into you?”
“Fuck, yes, please, mark me, bruise me, sir—”
He barely finishes his sentence before he yelps from Fell’s fingertips savagely sinking into his quadriceps before doing the same over the curve of his hip, and Crowley is seconds away from begging Fell to fuck him or finger him or do something to quell the hollow, starving emptiness inside him. The professor must pick up on this as Crowley desperately thrusts back towards him and grinds as if he didn’t just have an explosive orgasm a few minutes earlier.
“I know you’re simply dying to have my cock split you open,” Fell pants, and Crowley wails his agreement, “maybe I’ll just make you wait for that for quite awhile— for weeks and weeks. I’ll tease that pretty little pink hole, but I won’t ever slide inside. You’ll be a sobbing mess, you’ll beg until you lose your voice and still, I’ll just fuck your gorgeous thighs until they’re bruised, over and over and over—”
“Oh fuck, professor, p-please—” That might kill Crowley, actually, but God, that denial, it’s really taking root inside of him and revising some of his needs, and he finds he wants that as much as he doesn’t.
“Mmm, I will,” Fell assures Crowley as he picks up his pace, and the slapping sound of his his pelvis colliding with Crowley’s ass is amazing, the vibration traveling through his bliss ridden body from the force of the hips slamming into him is insane, and Crowley actually wonders if he’s going to come again, “I’ll have you so desperate for my cock inside you that you’ll be writhing and crying and delirious with need—”
The pillow under his cheek is wet from his tears, but Crowley doesn't mind at all— he’s in Heaven, he’s experiencing excruciating nirvana as Fell mercilessly dismantles him with every word and groan that leaves his mouth, and it’s perfect, as is Fell’s next question:
“Do you want me to come, my insatiable little whore? Do you want me to spill between these drenched, wanton thighs, do you want to be covered in me—”
“Please, sir, yes, I want you t-to c-come, please, I n-need it, n-need to be covered in you—”
“You’re a delightfully filthy cumslut, aren’t you? Say it, Anthony, tell me what a desperate cumslut you are for me—”
“Fuck, ’m a cumslut, s-sir, I’m a f-filthy, d-desperate cumslut for you, please give me your come, professor, I—” he breaks off into a sharp yelp as Fell harshly bites down on his bare shoulder with a snarl and buries his fingers into Crowley’s hipbone so viciously he knows they’ll be left with plum reminders of them in the morning to match the ones on his neck, and thank fuck for that.
“Good boy, such a good, slutty boy for me,” Crowley’s chin is suddenly clasped between a strong thumb and forefinger and angled back so he’s looking at Fell, who is undone, his eyes are almost obsidian as he orders, tight and gravelly and fierce as he replaces his hand back onto Crowley’s hip, “let me see your face while I come, pet, that’s it, good— oh, fuckkkk—”
The hand gripping his shoulder and the one hooked into his hipbone both contract so hard that Crowley yelps from the vivid pain of it, and the wet, blooming warmth of Fell’s second orgasm of the night floods between Crowley’s trembling thighs as his professor comes with a deep, pained moan he wishes he had a recording of to replay over and over and over. Their locked eyes don’t wander from each other as Fell keeps dragging his still hard cock through the wetness between Crowley’s legs until he starts jerking and twitching from over sensitivity; only then does he bury his face into Crowley’s neck, and immediately Crowley misses the veritable hurricane of his twilight storm eyes darkened by the throes of ecstasy.
After a minute or two, once his groaning gasps ebb into shallow panting, his heaving chest hot against Crowley’s back, Fell’s hand reaches down between Crowley’s legs again and gathers his own spend; he raises unsteady, glistening fingers to Crowley’s mouth, who eagerly sucks them through quiet, breathy sobs, overwhelmed as he tastes the pleasantly subtle salinity of his professor and does his best to meticulously lick his fingers clean. The older man repeats this sequence again and again, feeding most of his come to Crowley as he tremulously whispers in his ear what a perfect, eager little cumslut he is with a shaking, thready voice.
“Shhh, come here, darling,” Fell’s arms squeeze around Crowley’s waist as he buries his face back into Crowley’s shoulder, kissing and nuzzling the skin there, chest still rising and falling heavily as he pants, “oh, Crowley, good boy, so, so good—”
Crowley’s cries quickly gentle as Fell gathers him close, his cock still nestled Crowley’s aching thighs as his own fuse with them; their ankles combine, too, and Fell’s softly whispering sweet things that Crowley can barely even comprehend at this point, exhaustion settling into his bones as he melts into his professor’s embrace and lets himself sink into the bed, completely fucked out to the point of his thoughts turning off.
He must drift off at one point, because he startles as he feels a breeze against his bare back, but he hums in contentment when something soft and warm blankets his naked body as he hears, “I’ll be right back, dearest,” before dozing off again.
“May I clean you up a bit, darling?” Fell asks presumably a few minutes later, and Crowley realizes through a sleepy daze he’s standing in front of him; he opens his eyes and sees the professor wrapped in a tartan robe in the low light of the bedroom, and he smiles before closing his eyes again.
“Mhmm,” Crowley hums as he nods, and whatever’s covering him is shifted off his legs; he sighs in contentment as a warm, slightly damp flannel gently glides between his legs, conscientiously cleaning his skin before it’s followed by a dry one. He’d probably feel ridiculous about this if he were more awake, but right now, it just feels nice, it feels good to be taken care of so thoroughly by someone who clearly wants to do it.
His legs are carefully directed into another pair of soft sleep pants, without any semblance of hurry— he lifts each of Crowley’s feet and calves one at a time with intention as he guides them through the fabric before Fell pulls them up around his hips, his hands strong and measured and careful, and Crowley thinks he maybe could get used to his— he could get used to the effortless extension of care from Professor Fell, even if it's almost too much, even if it hurts to be so thoroughly looked after in a manner he's not known before.
“Just one more thing, sweetheart, and then you can sleep— I promise,” Fell’s hand threads through Crowley’s hair and then cups his cheek, “can you try to drink some water for me, my dear? Just a little bit, right here.”
He cracks an eye open to see Fell holding a glass of water just in front of him, and there’s a glass straw in it with a bend that he’s holding at a downward angle for Crowley to easily drink from.
He nods as he leans forward and wraps his lips around the straw, dutifully drinking the pleasantly cool water as his eyes close, and again, the surrealism of this entire evening is blinking in neon lights from the bend of a fucking blown glass straw held steady by his dominant english lit professor who he just fucked himself for and was used by, and he cant help but smile a little as he drinks, feeling a tad punchy about it all and more than a little giddy amidst his tiredness.
“Good boy, that’s it— thank you, Crowley, very good,” Fell murmurs encouragingly, and everything’s so fuzzy in his sleepy state, but the praise still makes Crowley shiver as he sinks back down into the bed.
“Thank you,” Crowley croaks, and his voice cracks attractively— but again, he’s too tired to care.
“Of course, sweet thing.” The hand’s back on his face, petting Crowley like he’s some precious thing to the professor, his touch tender in a way that pulls at his heartstrings; God, that affection, that freely given, genuinely lethal affection from Professor Fell might truly be Crowley’s undoing eventually— he still thinks he'll never get used to that, but he finds he's more and more willing to try with each passing moment between the two of them.
There’s a click, and from behind closed eyes Crowley can sense the light in the room disappearing as Fell turns off the lamp that had been on. Moments later, the mattress bends and shifts as he climbs onto the bed and positions himself behind Crowley again, spooning him and draping an arm over his waist as he pulls what Crowley thinks is a lightweight, knit throw blanket up over the both of them.
“Let me know if you need anything at all, my dear,” Fell quietly murmurs as he nuzzles the back of Crowley’s neck, and fuck, if that isn’t so fucking wonderful, that sensation coupled with his pleasantly warm solidity cradling the back of Crowley’s body, “I hope you sleep well, but do not hesitate to wake me should you need something.”
“Mmm, thank you…g’night, professor,” Crowley manages to drowsily mutter, and the pillow beneath his head is so comfortable it must be illegal, everything here just feels so good, he really didn't think all of this would be even close to this good, “sweet dreams.”
“Goodnight, Crowley,” Fell places a gentle kiss on Crowley’s bare shoulder where he’d bitten earlier as he continues to run his hand slowly over his hip and thigh, tenderly lulling him into a deep slumber, and the last thing he hears before sleep fully takes him is his professor’s tender murmur, “dream beautifully, dove.”
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