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Gabriel looked at the crux of Michael's neck. It was a golden scapula, hardened by combat and tan from Machon sun. They had finished battle - thus always to tyrants - and were obsessively polishing their blades of any demon gore, and his brother's green eyes were lucid in clarity - like Eve's pendulous apples, sweet on Gabriel's tongue.
Gabriel studied his reflection in Michael's broadsword: curly dark hair, clear blue eyes, and olive skin with freckles. There was a mole on his right cheek he had always tried to rub away as a cherub, thinking it a speck of dirt as he frolicked with the Seven: Michael, Raphael, Uriel, Gabriel, Zadkiel, Jophiel, and Samael. And oh, how his seven sisters and brothers had been torn apart... Samael remade Lucifer, Zadkiel wandered so far off adrift into Arcturus out of depression, no one could save him, and Jophiel the Herald of Hell, a fallen angel.
Where there had been Seven, now there were Four: Michael, the glue, Raphael, the laughter, Gabriel, the song, and Uriel, the heart.
"It's your birthday, Gabe," Michael said quietly, dressed in his blue and red toga and leather chest plate.
Gabriel quieted: it was the day the ewes gave milk. It was Spring. It was Annunciation. It was time.
He softly smiled. "Are you expecting me to be happy?" Gabriel said tenderly, a glimmer in his eye. "Say, Michael, never expect an expecting Virgin. That doesn't make sense, and cents aren't needed in Heaven - with bricks of gold, we can barter our way to Michael's boat for free."
Michael smirked. "Feeling playful, brother?" He set his sword down and gently sat by Gabriel's side, undoing his back plate in their shared tent.
Gabriel softened, his tight muscles from sparring with Asmodeus - whose cane saber had drawn lacerations all over - making him feel like a hot mess. "Just trying to deal with the itch after our broken bones heal. Say, why do you think Father makes us recreate these battles every day? It's Cold War - our economies, Heaven and Hell, are intertwined - we're partying with Samael in Hell by night, then by day, clocking in the Medieval Times jousting 9 to 5.
We all know it's only for maintaining "balance" - what if we let the world just hang askew?"
"Can't do that," Michael murmured, massaging Gabriel's shoulder. His top was off - Michael always eased his top off without him even noticing. "Mother wouldn't be happy either. She wants her sons and daughters to be warriors."
"Well," Gabriel said pointedly, "FUCK Mom and Dad."
"Hmph," Michael laughed, bemused. He set holy water from his elven palms to work their way into Gabriel's wounds and sores, ease his grinding bones, and bring Baptismal pleasure to a battle-weary warrior. "Buttercream frosting is calling your name. Uriel made us cupcakes. She figured we'd want to take them alone... as we always do on your birthday."
Gabriel's dick tightened, his balls quivered with heat. "Are you my birthday present again, brother?" he said in excitement, his tiresome ways forgotten.
They had camped on a million battlefields - in highland and desert, on island and plain, in snow and in rain. This was a nebulous Black Forest - Samiel's domain - and they had to chain Gabriel's hounds to guard the perimeter of headquarters, their barracks camp.
The hounds bayed as they celebrated Saphael's moon. Michael lowered Gabriel onto his back, Gabriel's brown breeches and leather sandals stained with blood. Michael contemplatively ran his waterbending hands over Gabriel's chest - his nipples plucked to attention, begging to be devoured.
"I'm always your birthday present," Michael winked, his flaming orange hair and emerald eyes bemused. He reached under the cabinet and took out a box of Uriel's perfectly decorated buttercream pumpkin cupcakes with gold foil in the shape of angel wings on them.
Delicately, Michael popped the lid open, then set them on Gabriel's nipples frosting side down.
Gabriel moaned as his hot, hot nipples were coated in cool, soft, buttery textured frosting, the foil melting on his skin.
"Well, that's good, at least my birthdays are predictable," Gabriel sighed, looking at Michael in longing.
Michael's cock twitched under his tunica, poking skyward - the great golden equine rod. Gabriel's own brown cock stirred, and Michael used each hand to minister to them, unzipping their flys, and set to nibbling at the cupcakes, his beautiful berry lips stained with buttercream and pumpkin pie filling.
Gabriel groaned as Michael's tender hand - strong as cables - knit his dick and balls together in serpentine torture. Stroke, caress, lick - his nipples, taint, and family jewels were hot and bothered, and he was thrusting carelessly with abandon into his lover's familiar hand. If Gabriel was the sword, Michael was the sheath. The Messenger Angel always was one to charge recklessly forward as Michael's offensive general, with Raphael running the spies and Uriel on the defense.
Where there had been Seven, fighting the Aberrations of the Void, now... there were four, and Samael and Jophiel and Zadkiel had surrendered to the darkness - so lost. no, it was not
time to mourn.
It was Gabriel's birthday.
Cupcakes finished, they met as lovers with sweet buttercream kisses. Gabriel danced his tongue across the ridge of Michael's burning mouth. He tasted of candied violets, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Uriel's famous cupcakes.
The gold foil wings Uriel had delicately pressed in the kitchen of edible sugar were caught in Micahel's ginger stubble - like little pricklings of fire - and Gabriel laughed, hugging his brother close, and licked them off to crunch the little pearls of wisdom.
"Happy birthday, brother," Michael said sinfully kindly - as if he was hot chocolate. Gabriel shuddered as Michael gently laid him down on their buckskin bed with golden silk sheets and a deerskin hide comforter from Michael hunting Artor's harts. Michael winked, stripping them of their underwear and belts and shoes. "I'm still hungry."
He licked the precum off Gabriel's brown cock and deepthroated, the sphincter of his mouth coiling around the base of his dick. Then, Michael swallowed his balls in a tea bag, shuffling them around and spitting them out.
Gabriel howled in pleasure, burying his hands in his brother lover's copper coils. He shoved Michael's head back on his dick and facefucked him. Michael moaned, rubbing his rod with one hand and groaning - all hard muscle, like Hercules. So tall, even sitting, he dwarfed Gabriel like a blazing star.
Gabriel pounded, pounded, and then came in fructations of bliss. Oh, if only they were free to wander - to elope - to get married. Angels could never marry - they were married to the Throne. He often envied the demons and Adam and Eve for their marriages.
So they had these quiet, feral moments as Gabriel's hounds bayed.
Michael spent himself on Gabriel's feet. Then, with manna at his tongue, Michael licked the fixings of their genitals up, love in his eye for his brother, as if the cum
was like buttercream.