Work Text:
Crowley had watched “Little Shop Of Horrors” when he was just a kid.
He had discussed it with his therapists. With all of them, one after the other, over the decades. And the consensus was: that film had been the root of all his problems.
To be precise, it had been the character Orin Scrivello, a sadistic dentist, played by a young, black-haired Steve Martin.
Riding a 1950’s Harley.
Clad in black leather.
Singing while undressing, revealing his white scrubs underneath the leather jacket.
Gripping his own crotch in a Michael-Jackson-esque gesture so typical for the mid 80ies.
Enjoying the power he held over his patients, who lay helpless in their dentist chairs and squirmed.
🦷 🫦🦷
No matter how often he talked about that moment, even when brought back to it in hypnoses, he had never been able to pin down just how old he had actually been. What he did know for sure was, that he was not a kid anymore—after.
That was when he had started to stop going to the dentist. He had embraced a steady regime of otherwise perfect dental hygiene so he would never have to. It had worked until now.
That was when he had started to dress in black; and developed a fascination for classic motorbikes; and only a few months later, bought his first second-hand leather jacket with his saved-up pocket money.
That was when he had started to read everything by Marquis de Sade. And from there, slid down the never-ending system of intricately intersecting rabbit holes that are the different depravities, proclivities, kinks, or whatever people call it, of BDSM. His life was spent free-falling into it ever deeper.
He had tried everything.
But still today, aged 45, he had a masochistic dentist kink as wide as the sea. And here he was now, with his very first badly chipped tooth, reclining in a dentist chair for the first time since before he had seen that film.
Waiting for the master of the place to take care of him.
🦷 🫦🦷
When the door opened, he was relieved to see someone who, at first glance, was as different as the dentist character Scrivello from back then as anyone could be. This dentist was apparently of about the same age as himself, had white-blonde hair, an aura of old fashioned politeness, and looked like an angel.
Crowley relaxed. This would be ok. He would not become a squirming, quivering, debased mess—or make one—in this sterile, gleaming white chair. This dentist was not a sadist, so his own masochistic character would be able to stay dormant for the duration of a session.
It would.
Wouldn’t it?
The Angel said:
“Hello, I am Dr. Aziraphale Fell, this is my practice. I’m always glad to welcome new patients.”
Crowley relaxed some more. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. This dentist seemed really nice and friendly.
🦷 🫦🦷
Suddenly, the earth opened up to swallow Crowley whole, as Dr. Fell laid him flat within his chair at one fell swoop.
Crowley made a noise of protest and surprise, and the dentist, looming over him, looking down at him with a steely gleam in his eyes now, spat out, “Shut up!”
“Yes Sir!” came Crowley’s reply, automatic and rapid.
Then the dentist opened a desk drawer and with relish, took out different tools of his trade, all glinting silver in the bright overhead light, one more horrendous than the other.
And Crowley knew with gut wrenching certainty that he was well and truly fucked.