Snake Hips

Crowley and Aziraphale are sitting on his new black leather couch, watching a documentary on the flat screen about the history of jazz dance. They had a nice light dinner at the one of Mayfair's recent crop of interesting restaurants, and are now working their way through a sumptuous vintage port. Show ends. Crowley clicks the remote.

Absolutely incredible, the things humans get up to, eh, Crowley?

Age does not wither, nor custom stale, their infinite variety.

You came up with that nifty when we were at the Globe, helping out Shakespeare with his Hamlet, didn't you?

"Nifty?"

Shakespeare liked it so much he used it in Cleopatra.

Let's hear it, Aziraphale. What's a "nifty."

Just a bit of slang from (Thinks a moment) . . . early 20th century. Means quick-witted. Stylish. A bon mot. It's a compliment, Crowley, so don't get shirty.

Crowley leans over, puts an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders, gives him a hot peck on the cheek.

Don't mind me. You can spank me later, if you like.

Really my dear.

Crowley leans back and has another sip of port.

They don't dance much in Heaven, do they.

Not at all.

Hell really got into disco. Gruesome. They were all churning about like maniacs on the floor for a couple of decades. Seemed as if I had to dance, or else, every time I checked in. Not as bad as having to sit through The Sound of Music, but damned close.

They sip their way through their port. Crowley's face gradually takes on the expression of a boa constrictor eyeing a plump little monkey. He gulps his last bit of port and magics his glass onto the table. Gets up and kneels astraddle Aziraphale, balancing his backside on Aziraphale's always closed thighs.

Crowley . . .

Crowley speaks while he's undoing Aziraphale's belt and fly. Aziraphale, surprised but willing, leans back on the couch. Looks at the port in his hand and magics it onto the table.

Remember the bit about Snakehips Johnson in the show we just watched? Saw him many times, you know. At the Café De Paris.

Saw his show once myself. An amazingly lithe performer, although I was never into bebop.

Crowley, a man on a mission, gets control of himself before he says anything about "bebop." Reaches into Aziraphale's boxers and extracts the angel's penis. Gives it a light little caress.

Crowley, I could simply undress.

We'll get to that soon enough.

Crowley has undone his snakehead buckle and unzipped his own fly. Aziraphale's erection is almost there . . . Crowley gives it a bit more massage with his wonderfully heated hand and fingers.

Check this out, Angel.

Crowley withdraws his own penis and tilts it toward Aziraphale's. As if it has a life of its own, it coils and snakes around Aziraphales in a gentle spiral. So muscular. So supple. And toasty as a heated stone.

Oh dear lord . . .

Aziraphale only has a moment to laugh before he catapults himself forward, grabbing Crowley around the shoulders and pulling him atop himself as they fall over on the couch.

Then their clothing vanishes.

Divine Ecstasy ensues.