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“This is A.Z. Fell, how may I help you?”
Oh, stars, but that voice. So prim, so proper, so… condescendingly polite… Crowley put his hand over the mouthpiece to stifle the sound of his breathing. He could listen to that voice for eternity. Oh, fuck, he hadn’t thought this through. He hadn’t--
“Hello? Is someone there?”
Yes, oh yes. The voice was increasingly put out, scolding and scathing and--
“Well, I shall just hang---”
He couldn’t help the strangled note of despair at the thought. No. Don’t. Don’t hang up. Don’t.
“Is this some sort of jape to you?”
The angel truly sounded angry, not just irked, and that was a little too much. He didn’t actually want to upset him. Actually, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. He just knew he wanted to hear the voice, and the realisation that he’d become some sort of lecherous, heavy-breathing imposition… oh, shit. It was… it was selfish of him. It was horrible of him to take this without asking, to put his needs on Aziraphale without even considering if he--
“N-no,” he husked, still muffled as his hand gripped ever tighter on the solid weight of the telephone. “I---”
“Crowley?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Nhhhh….” He should hang up. He should. This was wrong.
“Are you… did you call me to… talk business?”
No I fucking didn’t. I’m clearly not talking business. I want to listen to your voice and I’m so obsessed with you that I’m standing in a filthy telephone box in Central London hoping you won’t hang up on me.
“Or…” And now there was a shift in his tone, one that rarely happened. Rarely, but it was oh so good when it did. “...did you merely wish to… talk?”
How could he make ‘talk’ sound so filthy? Like it was the most indecent and erotic proposition ever? Oh, shit. He made another little bleat of surrender that yes, yes, this was what he wanted. The angel to keep talking to him like that.
The cubicle was… not one of BT’s finer models. All scratched, supposedly shatter-proof glass. The tiny cubes of old, broken glass that crunched underfoot said otherwise. Some was broken bottles, but some had bits of logo there. There were empty wrappers for crisps, chocolates, or cigarette packets. A condom, in one corner. Maybe it had contained drugs, or maybe someone had been having a responsibly fun time. He didn’t know.
Stains on the glass. Handprints. The ink worn out of the metallic buttons, with only position still telling the numbers they meant. Tiny calling cards in lurid fonts and silhouetted images selling only one thing. He eyed them, and they were of no interest to him except by implication. No one on the end of any of those lines - either voice-work or ready for something more physical - would ever tickle his fancy. But the thought of calling an angel - his angel - when surrounded by such lewd thoughts… like a temple to frustrated need and animal longing…
Why did he have to keep his shop in the middle of Soho, of all places? Didn’t he pick up on the energy around him? Or was it there because the angel bled it out into the world in the first place, drawing everyone in with his hunger?
Filthy, filthy angel.
And worse, a demon enraptured by the barest hint of interest in eyes or tone.
He was indecent.
“You sound… restless, my dear boy. Is that so?”
Crowley grunted out an affirmative. Words were too difficult. Words were for the angel. Right now, all Crowley was, was longing. He was supposed to be the tempter, but how could he ever win against this monster?
“How terribly awful that must be. How you must suffer in this world. My poor little serpent, all coiled and cold. You must long for the heat.”
It didn’t even fully make sense, but it did. Just. He needed him to keep going. Oh, shit but he did. Heat. Yes. Coiled. Hungry. In his tight jeans, the other snake was suffering plenty. Crowley dropped his head against the top of the unit, taking care not to touch any buttons, and scratched his nails over a denim-clad thigh, trying to siphon off some of the tension.
“You should come to my shop. Let me take care of you. Wrap you in fluffy blankets and ply you with sweet tea.”
NO. NO. NO. NO. CROWLEY DID NOT WANT. (Could not accept.) HE DID NOT WANT SOFT. HE DID NOT WANT SWEET. HE - HE --
“Oh, but that wouldn’t do for a demon, would it? You can’t let me be kind to you. You have to have your sharp spirits, your black coffee. It has to burn on the way down your throat, doesn’t it? That’s what they told you. That you deserve only to suffer…”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Crowley grabbed over his crotch and squeezed painfully tight. Oh, fuck. Fuck. FUCK. He was panting, and aching, and trembling.
“You’d need me to run capsicum burn over your lips, wouldn’t you, before I could kiss it better? Ice-burns before I can melt you? You’d need to be punished before you could be f---”
“Angel,” he growled, warningly, stopping the word.
“My dear.” Bastard.
Bastard knew how to sound sweet and innocent. He was probably bouncing on clouds right now. Surrounded by decadence and propriety, with the demon huddled between the jagged edges of lust and despair. The difference, the contrast…
“D-don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Just---”
“I promise you, my dear, I want only one thing for you.”
Crowley wanted to hang up. It was too much. Too close to things he could not face. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Angel,” he pleaded, half hard, half… ready to let the beeps demanding more coins take the voice away.
To pine, to want, to need. To deny himself the pleasure of release. To… to… deny he wanted the thing that came after…
“Punish yourself,” the angel insisted. “I shan’t do it for you. You can drink yourself into your hole, or do whatever else it is you need. And when you are quite done, you may then come to the shop and I shall bathe your wounded self, and wrap you in that blanket.”
Crowley couldn’t. Couldn’t. No. He. He.
“Angel!”
“If you’re going to do this to yourself, that’s fine. But then you can do something for me, after. Fetch some of those pink iced buns. I shall put the kettle on.”
His arousal was all but gone, now. Shamed into not being there, embarrassed by how much he wanted both things. Crowley’s eyes stung as he breathed even more raggedly.
But he would. He would go to the angel. He would give him his buns. He would try to pretend he hadn’t done this, hadn’t sought his own confessional in a box open to the world on all sides. He wished he could just shove his hand into his jeans, jerk out the anger and frustration, and then not go see the angel for a month or nineteen thousand or…
“Yes,” he husked, instead. He hurt. A lot. It was the point, but it didn’t make it any easier to deal with.
“If you still want to be punished, after tea I will push you to your knees. I will take my pleasure from your mouth. I will pull your hair and tell you what a naughty demon you are, to call me and expect I will be your dirty call enabler. I will enjoy myself most thoroughly, and then I will tell you that you may only touch yourself in front of me, and with my permission. And I will order you to show me how much you want to please me by stroking your cock in front of me.”
OH. FUCK. Crowley was harder than before, and he squeaked and slammed his fist into his leg to try to control the sudden bolt of lust.
“And when you have made a mess of yourself, I shall clean us both, and you will then allow me to wrap you in the blankets and you will hold me, and I you, for the rest of the night. Do I make myself clear?”
“Y-yes, angel.”
“Now hurry up. I have quite an appetite.”
So did Crowley. He dropped the handset and ran, stiff-leggedly, to the nearest baker’s. And bought every last pink iced bun he could find, wondering if the bastard had picked the most erotically charged penis-pastry on purpose. Probably.
Damn, but he loved him. And he was so, so happy he was loved in return.