Samurai Lamb
Bedroom in Crowley's Mayfair flat
It's been a year since The Almighty replaced Aziraphale's flaming sword with a blue-flaming katana. Aziraphale is attiring himself for an online video kendo practice session before the large flat screen in the lounge. A large mirror on rollers is nearby, to be positioned adjacent to the screen to compare and correct stances and movements.
Crowley was not at all surprised when the angel became a member of a dojo and started katana training. When something caught his fancy he pursued it doggedly despite all odds. Maskelyne's magic classes. Riding velocipedes. And that club where the "young gentlemen" met to entertain themselves by learning the gavotte . . . and some other things. Aziraphale was thrilled with his sword, and wanted to know how to use it.
Crowley had been trying for a good while to encourage Aziraphale to get up to speed on the internet, with limited success, until the angel had discovered YouTube and a dojo that offered virtual kendo instruction as well as in person practice sessions. Aziraphale had since become quite keen on computing - a miracle, that conversion, really and truly. No other word for it. Crowley wondered if it had something to do with being a keen reader, but whatever it was that enabled Aziraphale's computer skills, Crowley was no longer anxious about the angel's online presence and trusted him to set up his little online video training sessions without incident.
Aziraphale is in his boxers, about to don his tailored and completely traditional (he has standards, after all) hakama and kendogi. It generally takes him nearly half an hour, as he is meticulous that all the various knots and belts be correctly and neatly tied and the garments perfectly adjusted, even if this session is only going to be a couple of hours by himself, watching videos and practicing basics before the flat screen. He could simply magic the garments on, of course, but that seems unsporting, and so he only uses magic for a few quick touch-ups as needed. He removes his boxers and reaches for the white cotton juban just as Crowley strolls in from the kitchen with a cognac-laced cappuccino (the espresso machine is the sole kitchen appliance that sees regular use, if by "use" one means putting a cup beneath it expectantly and having it produce excellent coffee sans beans, water, cream, or cleanup).
Whoa. Angel. You don't wear underwear beneath your costume?
Uniform, Crowley.
Hang on. Take that piece off again. Have you taken a good look at yourself lately?
Well, no. I'm always just me. (Thinks a moment and pats himself.) A bit less soft about the middle these days, perhaps.
A tiny smirk appears on Aziraphale's face despite himself. Archangel Gabriel's directive, "Lose the gut, Aziraphale," no longer smarts every time he recalls it.
Crowley puts down his coffee and steers Aziraphale before the mirror.
Look at that, Angel. You actually have some shoulder definition. And nice pecs.
Crowley isn't wearing his jacket, just that sinfully soft Italian pullover and his elegant slacks. Slithers up and hugs Aziraphale from behind. Runs his hands through the angel's chest and belly fuzz. Nuzzles that fluffy lambskin hair, nibbles the nape of his neck.
Crowley, that stone buckle of yours is cold as ice.
Crowley magics his belt onto the floor nearby. Continues caressing and nuzzling Aziraphale.
How about a quickie?
Aziraphale looks anxious for a microsecond. Kendo or Crowley? . . .
Well, Crowley, of course. What a stupid question. He reaches one arm back and grabs a handful of Crowley's russet mane, holds Crowley's wrist with his other hand, achieving a somewhat plumper and less ripped version of Michelangelo's Dying Slave.
Crowley's delightfully warm hand brushes over the angel's penis like a wisp of velvet. Aziraphale feels the demon's not-so-little serpent harden against his backside.
Crowley dislikes mirrors, and darkens it. Sex isn't some fucking movie, for Satan's sake. He wants to enjoy the feel and smell and taste of Aziraphale, not watch him. He's been watching him for 6,000 years.
Recollecting that long, long multi-millennia wait, Crowley pulls Aziraphale around and kisses him passionately, open mouth over Aziraphale's, exploring the angel's cool ice cream lips with his weirdly mobile tongue. Then more hot, almost burning (literally) kisses over Aziraphale's neck and shoulders . . . chest . . . nipples (Aziraphale jerks a bit at those and arches his back) . . . flanks . . . belly . . . loins . . The demon's hands are like heated stones as they grasp and stroke the angel's back and waist as he slowly sinks to his knees before the angel. Clutching Aziraphale's backside with a grip like hot talons, he closes his mouth over the angel's penis, tongue flicking, licking, taut lips massaging . . .
Aziraphale is oozing rapidly into jelly. How he loves it when Crowley touches him. He sinks slowly into a collapse onto his back on the floor, arms outstretched. Fortunately he'd insisted Crowley install a nice, thick, black and gold Tabriz.
Crowley raises a hand and snaps his fingers. His clothing disappears into a heap on the floor. He pushes himself up and slides his body against Aziraphale's chest as his warm and supple not-so-little serpent coils itself around Aziraphale's now rigid cock. Aziraphale's arms fold around him in a tight embrace. The pair simultaneously gasp and stiffen, going rigid in Divine Ecstasy.
Which turns out not to be a quickie after all.
