Melting

[deerna]

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: Good Omens
Relationship: Aziraphale/Crowley
Tags: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Impact Play, Body Horror, Broken Bones, Dom/sub, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Burns, Masochism, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
Wordcount: 640
Notes: Partecipa alla quarta settimana del COW-T per il prompt "Non pronunciare falsa testimonianza" (M3)

Summary:

Excerpt:

The fourth mark is Aziraphale’s limit. “It’s enough,” he says, taking away the letter opener.

Crowley opens his mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. He lowers his head, feeling ashamed. Ungrateful. A voice swells inside his mind, loud like a crying child and as grating as his nerves. He doesn’t want to stop; he deserves the pain, he needs more, he wants—

“Thank you, angel.”

Demons don't cry: their tears had been burned off with their wings and their haloes and their feelings. But Crowley’s throat feels tight, full of molten gold, pouring between the cracks.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

The slap hits. Crowley's head snaps to the side. The vertebrae in his neck creak, his skin splits where the gold ring impacts against the cheekbone. Blood in his mouth, around his teeth, on Aziraphale's carefully waxed hardwood floor. The pain throbs and stings, it makes him shake, it makes him afraid, it makes it difficult to breathe. He wants to stop, he wants to stop, he wants to stop—

“Again,” he croaks, squeezing his eyes closed. “Hit me again.”

“It's not your place to tell me what to do,” Aziraphale says. A firm, gentle reminder. “Look at me.”

Every fiber in Crowley's corporation is screaming at him. Run, it says. Coil, coil, coil and then strike— Not a snake; he has limbs. He locks his elbows, digs fingers and fangs in his ruined sense of self and holds on. His neck is broken. He still turns his head, willpower as strong as petrol. When he opens his eyes, Aziraphale is reading him, calm and intent. There’s a stain on his cheek and Crowley wants to vomit.

“I think no more hitting, for today. Maybe we should sto—”

“Please,” Crowley spits out, interrupts. Before fear can make him weak.

“Crowley. You have to listen to me. I said, no more hitting.” Aziraphale sounds cross and Crowley takes a shaky breath. Aziraphale wants to— they can— it’s over— “I can give you something else, if you insist.”

“Please,” Crowley whispers, almost a whimper. He doesn't bite his tongue off. He can't stop. He can't. It’s too soon.

For a split second Aziraphale looks tired, looks like he’s on the verge of just ignoring him, but then he sighs, walks to his desk and grabs a letter opener. Crowley watches the metal grow white-hot in the angel’s hand as Aziraphale walks back towards him.

“Hands out. Palms up,” Aziraphale instructs.

Crowley obeys. His shoulders scrape in their sockets as he brings his hands in front. Deep crescents bleed sluggishly where he dug his nails in. He glances at them, stomach knotting.

Aziraphale doesn’t notice, or maybe he does but says nothing.

“I want you to count them. Out loud.”

He brings the knife closer. His hand is soft against Crowley’s wrists as he undoes the buttons at the cuffs, as he sloppily rolls Crowley's shirt sleeves out of the way.

“Thank you,” Crowley says. A ghost of a flinch on Aziraphale's brow.

The flat of the blade touches inside his elbow. A scream lodges in Crowley’s throat, a fish bone as long as his arm strangling him. He inhales the smell of burnt flesh without a sound, the sizzling inaudible under his labored breathing.

Aziraphale doesn’t move until Crowley coughs up a number, then he lifts the knife. It left a mark, blackened and cracked, flakes of skin missing where they stuck to the scorching metal. Aziraphale presses the brand to the other arm; Crowley is quicker this time, and it only gets red and white and full of boils. He closes his eyes and he forces himself to count to five before speaking, when the third mark is burned in.

The fourth mark is Aziraphale’s limit. “It’s enough,” he says, taking away the letter opener.

Crowley opens his mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. He lowers his head, feeling ashamed. Ungrateful. A voice swells inside his mind, loud like a crying child and as grating as his nerves. He doesn’t want to stop; he deserves the pain, he needs more, he wants—

“Thank you, angel.”

Demons don't cry: their tears had been burned off with their wings and their haloes and their feelings. But Crowley’s throat feels tight, full of molten gold, pouring between the cracks.

Aziraphale smiles at him, oblivious and kind and too bright. “You’re very welcome dear. Are you alright?”

Crowley smiles, sharp and broken, and lies.