Chapter 1: Night 1 - Sir Aziraphale the White
Chapter Text
PART 1
Night 1 - Sir Aziraphale the White
Lying awake as dark flurries of cloud ran roughshod over the new-risen moon, Sir Aziraphale the White - who sat on the round table opposite the king, thank you very much; seven seats from Arthur in one direction, and five in the other - chewed on his lip as he whiled away the depths of the night thinking about his lot in life.
And indeed, in knighthood.
His thoughts were meandering like dry leaves in a stream, gliding lazily for a time around nothing in particular, before taking tumultuous little spins around unanticipated currents. He was currently trying to find inspiration in his unusual epithet. Aziraphale the White… as in noble, he tried. White as in innocent and virtuous. Pure of heart!
Not white as in lily-livered. Feeble. Ashen.
To be honest, it still stung. He’d been at Camelot a whole year by now, having arrived a man of twenty-eight summers already, no pallid youth or untutored fool. Yet somehow the name he’d gained that first fateful day, when all the other knights had emerged from the forest smeared with mud and streaked with sweat and victorious from combat, while Aziraphale’s battle garb gleamed as if fresh from the washerwoman, his clean-shaven face barely sheened with perspiration… somehow that name had clung to him ever since.
The lofty, enormous Sir Escanor had suggested it, a cruel light in his pale blue eyes, inviting the others to laugh as he slapped Aziraphale's shoulder with breezy, bruising familiarity. Aziraphale had staggered and pushed his own laugh up through his throat on obedient reflex. Bonding as a group, Aziraphale supposed. A group of twelve of them, and another group of… him, alone. Harmless fun.
The name had stuck.
Not for him a name like Gwaine the Gallant, Percival the Brave, Elyan the Steadfast. No, apart from Sir Bors the Younger, Aziraphale really felt that The White was the shortest straw drawn from the faggot. The odd one out.
It could almost be said it paled in comparison.
Aziraphale roused a smirk at that, then sighed heartily and flipped his pillow over, trying to find a cool spot for his shaven cheek. The pillows were thin in the knights’ dormitory, and the well-woven blankets light - though the vast bedchamber kept warm enough, with a fire burning in the central hearth at all hours to combat the draughts, and twelve other slumbering bodies, each giving off a heat of their own. Even though his bed was beneath the windows, he usually stayed warm enough.
Aziraphale stretched and yawned, tugging the covers a little more snugly around himself nonetheless. He supposed the name was fair. There was nothing wrong with trying to emulate nobility, purity and goodness. He just hadn’t proven his valour in more traditional areas, yet.
He didn’t usually overtake the other knights on horseback, his sword arm wasn’t quite as nimble, and his archery was middling at best. He was generally more rounded of flank where his comrades were concave or lean.
Off the jousting field, he fared little better. Aziraphale could hold his own at a game of quoits, but the affable, towering Sir Percival took every prize. Challenged to wrestle or race, he would invariably falter before the targeted brute strength and speed of Sir Escanor and his cronies. Aziraphale could hold his drink, certainly, from muddied ale to apple ferments to tankards of golden mead – but that was hardly a feat of valour. And even in that meagre achievement, he couldn’t hold a candle to Sir Kay, whose jocular manner could fill an entire evening with tales of glory days long passed.
Aziraphale attracted some small attentions from the Ladies of the Court, but not nearly as many as Sir Lancelot, whose soft French accent and chiselled jaw were just as arresting up close as in the widespread tales of King Arthur’s right-hand man. The most eligible in the land, after Arthur himself.
Aziraphale supposed he’d get used to his middling position in the scheme of things. Or perhaps, his time would come. A heroic moment after which a new epithet would be bestowed upon him, as marvellous as a favour from one of the most desired Ladies at Court. Or... any of the Ladies, in fact. Aziraphale did not know many.
Perhaps that maid with the tumbling copper tresses, who had watched Aziraphale impassively from her position beside the king’s half-sister. Morgana’s whole entourage had just swept back into town for the upcoming celebration of the harvest, setting the Court aflutter with gossip and sideways glances.
The wary redhead was a nobody, a handmaiden, but a pretty one, who Aziraphale found caught his eye every time she entered the room. Most of the ladies who flocked around Morgana were a dour and secretive bunch, known for keeping themselves to themselves, so Aziraphale didn’t expect to fare well in this distraction. However, after the third such glance, the handmaiden had favoured Aziraphale with the barest knife-edge of a smile, and he had felt an unusual shiver ripple down his back. Perhaps her?
Aziraphale let himself imagine it, though just now neither the favour itself nor the redhead swam into focus in his mind. He simply imagined the feeling of receiving external, unlooked-for favour. The appreciation. The accolade. It must feel like being knighted all over again.
Outside, the wind howled suddenly, and an owl hooted three times.
Aziraphale shivered in earnest, then pressed his lips together. The autumn nights had become piercing cold of late, and now witching hour itself had surely drawn upon them. He darted a nervous glance to check the candle at his bedside was still burning.
Each bed in the knights’ dormitory had a small table next to it, bearing a candle and a crude dagger and a small wooden cup: tokens of familiarity and security and heartswood, though the knights called it a matter of tradition, not ritual. Not superstition, and certainly not fear. Still, they all lit their candles every night, as well as relighting them whenever extinguished by a sudden breeze from one of the high, arrow-slit windows along the external wall.
Aziraphale’s candle gave off a soft, steady light. Resolutely, he closed his eyes.
Of course he was safe in here, surrounded by a dozen knights within King Arthur’s mighty stone-walled castle. Camelot: the safest halls in the land! Aziraphale’s bed was closest to the windows and furthest from the hearth, but that didn’t matter. Despite the encroaching chill of the longer nights, the dormitory's hearth was large and gave off a powerful heat. A dozen beds were arranged in neat sixes on either side of it, and then Aziraphale's bed had been squeezed into a window alcove. Possibly this space had been originally intended for some sort of desk or table. But he didn’t mind being set apart from the others – he didn’t much want to be amongst the throng, frankly, party to boyish pranks and the occasional act of impulsive retribution.
Occasionally, one of the beds would lie conspicuously empty and the younger knights would smother their guffaws in their sleeves, sparring for once with ribald comments instead of lances or spears – a glimpse of the gangly youths they had been so recently, still largely naive in this one regard. Ten-score deaths, they’d each seen, but very little love to speak of. Most honourable maidens remained at a firm distance, as befitting a worthy personage at Court; and while kitchen girls and stablehands might allow more exploration than a kiss on the palm, it wasn’t exactly befitting a knight’s station to seek out such company.
Celibacy is a virtue, the king had repeatedly assured them, after a long and drunken feast, with a rich laugh that did more to beguile than amuse. Makes the body yearn for exercise and the blood cry out for battle. In fact, to increase the bloodlust prior to an important joust, one option—
Merlin had subtly slid the wine jug away from him at that point, and then murmured something into the royal ear. They had departed from the feast soon after.
Aziraphale couldn’t help but suspect that King Arthur himself was not well acquainted with the virtue of celibacy. Though Aziraphale certainly wasn’t given to spurious gossip, he couldn’t help but wonder about it. Muse upon it, even. Ponder. Because Arthur was so dashing - that compelling combination of broad shoulders and regal bearing, offset with a twinkling smile - that it seemed an assault to the natural order of things that he wasn’t already spoken for.
Of course, while publicly Arthur was unwed, for years it had been rumoured he was in regular correspondence with a fair maiden from a distant land. A great beauty, by all accounts. Accomplished and of noble birth. Her letters, purportedly, were pure poetry. But Aziraphale had yet to see anyone fitting her curiously featureless description in Court.
No, in Court the most conspicuous presence by Arthur’s side was his dark-haired, elfin-featured chief advisor.
Merlin.
Of course, their proximity was dictated by the necessities of governance, and there was probably nothing else to it. It felt almost treasonous, in fact, to contemplate otherwise. But Aziraphale did find himself, occasionally - deep into the witching hour and with a hot wash of guilt upon his cheeks - contemplating just that.
He told himself anything after witching hour didn’t count.
Where it counted, Aziraphale remained as chaste as the driven snow. Another aptitude for the name… but one in which he had come to take a certain pride. Until true love swept him off his horse with a well-aimed arrow and an appropriate partner, it would be unwise to pursue any base temptations with the fairer sex. And as for his comrades’ arms… well, that felt even more unwise.
Though he couldn’t help but be aware that the other knights occasionally found comfort in their own hands, or each others’, Aziraphale felt certain that for himself, such indulgences were best avoided. His footing here felt uncertain enough without courting scandal.
His resolute stance on this had occasionally been known to waver. Mostly when he was lying awake, after the others slept, and his roving attention locked on to the hushed sounds of another knight exploring himself. Hearing them find their completion, meeting their own needs under the cover of darkness, biting off harsh breaths and raising their knees to hide the furtive movements beneath their thin blankets. Rarely, letting slip a low noise that sank into Aziraphale’s memory like a spoonful of warm honey melted across his tongue.
Yes, the nights could be a testing time.
But by the cold light of day, Aziraphale would find comfort in his resolution once more. He told himself often that, in the absence of great prowess in other arenas, much of his value as a knight lay in his virtuous nature, his pure heart. And on the whole, such temptations arose few and far between. Most nights, like now, the others would drift into unconsciousness within a few minutes of lying down. Aziraphale would lie awake, listening to their steady breathing, staring out at the night sky through his arrow-slit window.
This positioning of his bed did leave him… close to nature. Witching hour did remind him of that. But any Fae creature, any shadow-beast or wandering spirit, would hardly venture through such thick well-crafted walls, would it? To say nothing of Merlin’s charms, which were rumoured to be sunk into the castle’s very foundations, woven across doorways and around turrets, draped from spire to spire.
Aziraphale didn’t believe in any such superstitions, of course. Tales to frighten children into obedience, was all. Though there was talk of King Arthur’s reign being heavily burnished by Merlin’s pagan spellcraft, Aziraphale hadn’t seen any actual evidence of this per se. Arthur was simply a notoriously charismatic and, at times, exceptionally fortunate ruler.
Even Aziraphale recognised this line of thought was wandering into dangerous, unnecessary territory. For now, he needed to stop turning his thoughts over like a maid churning butter, and seek at least a wink of sleep before daybreak.
He took another deep breath, attempting to blow away some of the energy still twitching restlessly through his muscles, making his ears prick at the slightest sound. He made a concerted effort to hush his mind, to banish all awareness, internal, external, hierarchical, magical. He took a final, deep sigh, pulling the blankets up over his chin as an odd air entered the dormitory, a subtle chill despite the warmth of the hearth, like the first breath of winter frost had been exhaled outside.
Momentarily, the air seemed to glitter.
Aziraphale shut his eyes firmly, and felt himself - his weary body and restless mind, both - at last, succumb.
The first dream was a nightmare.
It started like any other nightmare, of which Aziraphale suffered enough to be familiar: a sense of mounting dread, darkness, a sweaty pulsing heat surrounding him, a faceless threat. He was running through nearby woods, past the lake behind the castle, then through a strange and spiny thicket, ever-pursued by some unseen menace. His breath burned and his limbs slowed, feet skidding and sinking into uneven damp sedge. He could hear it behind him, the thing, the threat; thought he could feel the scratch of something piercing the skin between his shoulder blades, a blast of hot air against the back of his neck, a pain blossoming as if he were being seized from behind by talons, and then—nothing.
Aziraphale came awake all at once, drenched and panting, except that he couldn’t be awake, because he wasn’t—he couldn’t—
He couldn’t move.
He couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t even shift his torso against the damp mattress.
It felt like he was pinned, squashed into the bed like an insect beneath a thumb, his carapace on the brink of splintering.
There was a palpable, tangible pressure on his chest, crushing him.
He managed to prise his eyes open.
And something, something deep and taut and primally terrified, flickered.
This was a dream. A nightmare, yes. But a nocturnal vision, there was no other explanation.
He was pinned to the bed - sat on and towered over - by a large, red demon.
It must have been twice the size of a man at least, but folded on its haunches into a dense weight, straddling Aziraphale’s chest with its massive knees clenched tight at his sides. It was leering down at him with eyes of living flame. Aziraphale couldn’t look into those eyes—his gaze kept travelling without his conscious instruction. Up to thick horns curving back from its temples and then… down.
The demon’s skin was the colour of blown embers in a warm hearth, lustrous shades of orange and red which initially appeared speckled with soot, but which Aziraphale soon realised was a diffuse black-grey pattern of scales, dusting its shoulders, the backs of its arms, its thighs. Its… phallus, huge, hard, ridged. Aziraphale couldn’t look at that either. His mind spiralled on, cataloguing the sensation of the demon’s body now, as well as the sight.
It was a crushing weight, yes, but the massive muscled thighs were tense, as if readying to spring away at a moment’s notice. Every place it was touching him felt smooth as a snake, its skin like polished leather, but warm as well, like the saddle on a horse after a long hard ride.
Aziraphale blinked in slow-motion, every movement like something being pushed through molten amber. The monstrous torso and head swam back into focus. He could see the folded spikes of - wings? Wings - slanting up behind its vast shoulders, and dimly realised they must still be furled against its back.
And that - wings - along with the lizard-like skin, gave the demon a dragonish quality. Some far-flung relative of the fabled dragons King Arthur talked about with such voracious glee—but for all that, its face was more like that of a man. A haughty, otherworldly man, those huge deeply-slanted eyes of fire notwithstanding, with a hooked nose between soot-dusted cheekbones, a vicious snarl of a mouth, a carved-iron jaw.
Its bloodless lips pulled back as Aziraphale stared, to show even, white, triangular teeth. Aziraphale had a lot of time to observe its teeth as the demon craned slowly down over him, eyes blazing with that blank infernal fire, jaw opening to entirely cover Aziraphale's frozen mouth with its own.
Aziraphale half expected the very touch of its skin to hurt, but it was just hot, and for a lurching moment he felt like he was about to startle awake. And then, the demon started to steal the breath right out of his lungs.
It no longer felt like a dream.
It felt like a fight, and he was losing.
Aziraphale reeled, still paralysed, unable to do anything but feel. He couldn’t even squirm against the profound and terrifying suction that seemed to reach into the depths of him and tug. It was unending, pulling the air right out of him, more than that: drawing off his vibrancy like steam off an underfilled pot boiling over, a rapid relentless evaporation. Soon it would scorch, he felt, his body would sizzle dry and burn and spoil, he would be immolated, there would be nothing left but his empty ruined shell.
He made earnest renewed efforts to struggle, to cry out, to scream into the demon’s mouth.
He couldn’t.
He tried to force his eyes closed, to shut it all out—even that was impossible.
The room was turning blue around him, fading, darkening.
He could hear his pulse going thready and rapid in his ears, his lungs screaming soundlessly. But there was also a moment where the dreadful heaviness of its bulk over his chest sparked something deep inside him, and that something awarded him a tiny freedom of movement. A surge of fighting instinct, it seemed, flaring in the certain anticipation of his own last dying gasp.
So he—well. Aziraphale bit it. Hard.
He channelled that final desperate lash of energy and felt his teeth clamp shut on the demon’s lip - like leather, thick and tough like biting into a wrist-guard - and the demon gave a spasm above him, a grunt of pain or pleasure, or shock, Aziraphale didn’t know.
There was a hot flood of wetness into his mouth - spit, not blood, he thought dazedly, though who was he to know - and he found that he could swallow again.
The demon jerked itself back out of the way of his teeth, and Aziraphale found he regained even more of his ability to move, like a rush of blood into a previously tourniquet’d limb.
“You fight me,” the demon scoffed, in a voice that sounded like ancient trees rubbing against each other in a gale. It lifted a clawed hand to rub its lip, revealing those sharp white teeth again, the black gums beneath.
The sight galvanised Aziraphale, made his pulse redouble, and filled him with a wave of inappropriate euphoria that somehow enabled him to speak again.
“I—yes!” Aziraphale said, though now he didn’t know what to say. “I’m a knight. We fight! It’s what we do.”
He kept telling himself: this is nightmarish, yes, but that means it’s only a nightmare. A dream, for all it felt so very real. And in a dream, one could be anyone. Which was likely the only reason he had found this brave kernel inside him that steadfastly refused to shut up and die.
With that same dreamlike certainty, however, he became abruptly convinced that if he died in this dream - if he let this thing kill him, finish what it started - then something very bad would befall him. Befall all of the knights, even. Nothing to say that once it finished with him it wouldn’t hop across to the next bed, and the next, and the next.
So Aziraphale looked the demon in its flaming eyes, dragged in the deepest breath he could manage, and let a year of swallowed taunts and a lifetime of suppressed wrath shine out in the volume of his voice: “Avaunt, foul fiend!”
It sounded so loud he almost expected the rest of the room to startle awake.
None of them stirred.
The demon, meanwhile, laughed and then slapped him across the face. Hard, a blow like a rock from a trebuchet, from a hand large enough to cover Aziraphale's whole face with its palm. The jarring force of it knocked his head sideways, and he felt his own lip split as his ears rang.
“Your struggle,” the demon drawled, “is nothing to me. I seek your last breath, but that doesn’t mean I’m limited to it.”
Aziraphale licked the wound on his lip, tasted the vivid red shock of his own warm blood. Slowly, painstakingly, he turned his head back to face the demon, teeth bared. “You will not have my last breath without a fight. I am a knight of King Arthur’s table!”
The demon shrugged one shoulder. “Fight if you must. It will provide me with sport, and when I have finished, I will take my quota just as if you never tried to stop me.”
Aziraphale stared. “Quota?”
For the first time, the demon looked at Aziraphale as if he were foolish and not merely contemptable. “Twelve knights,” it said, a wave of one thick arm indicating the rest of the bedchamber with a surprisingly elegant gesture. Its voice grew even more mocking: “Of King Arthur’s table, just as you say. A fine prize from the Lady Morgana in exchange for a few trinkets of power.”
“Morgana?!” Aziraphale demanded, the last vestiges of paralysis draining away, his sudden outrage overwhelming the fear and dread entirely. “What does—? Why would—? Anyway, there aren’t twelve knights, there are thirteen!“
The demon’s nose wrinkled. “She said twelve.”
“Well. There are thirteen,” Aziraphale found himself insisting. Was he really so little known that he wasn’t even counted in some vile bedevilled plot? “But why—?”
“Enough,” the demon interrupted, glaring. “Fight me if you wish. I have no aversion to tasting your blood as I overpower you. I will enjoy your torment.” It pinned Aziraphale by both shoulders and leant over him again. “But I tire of this needless delay. Be still.”
The paralysis descended once more. Aziraphale tried to struggle against it, tried to crane away from the wild flaming eyes, the sharp slanted mouth, but it was no use. For all his mind believed he was panting and writhing and fighting, his body lay still as the hot dark facsimile of a kiss claimed his mouth once more. He felt the same dreadful, soul-sucking lurch inside him as the process began again. He tried to ignore the thick drag of its cock against his chest, the heavy swell of its sac sliding over his bare skin. And then he felt the demon’s tongue run over the cut in his lip, searching out the raw edge of it, tasting him, and a warm shudder went through him, bringing all of the disturbing sensations together.
Aziraphale groaned softly into the demon’s mouth, and then found to his amazement that the power of speech was within his grasp once more. “There must be something else,” he blurted, his voice a faint hiss, but grateful to be audible at all. “Something… something else you want…”
He refused to beg, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t improvise.
“That tastes good to you,” Aziraphale said, his voice indistinct because the demon was sucking at his lower lip now, as if distracted. “You could… do it again, hit me again. How would you like that?”
The demon pulled back to look at him, a momentary curious light in its eyes, though its rigid grip didn’t lessen. “You attempt to bargain with me.”
Aziraphale kept its gaze with difficulty. “I suppose so.” Bargaining with a demon didn’t sound very virtuous, but needs must. Needs obviously must.
“You think there is something you could offer me that would supplant the reward of your death.”
“...Yes,” Aziraphale said, despite having thought nothing of the sort.
“You are wrong.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said.
“But that isn’t to say I’m not… tempted,” the demon said slowly, and ran its huge thumb over Aziraphale’s mouth.
Aziraphale immediately felt like his thoughts were stuck in amber again, but agreeing really seemed like his only chip on the gaming table. And the idea of playing along, with whatever this was, for some reason, kindled more than simple outrage. He wet his lips, tongue brushing the heavy press of the demon’s thumb, doing it anyway. “H-how so?”
“Use you,” the demon said, deliberately enough that Aziraphale realised that a contract of sorts was being written, here. Perhaps signed. “As I like, before I discard you – to the Underworld or this one, it isn’t my concern.”
Ah. “Right,” Aziraphale said, lips nerveless now. This wasn’t the sort of meticulous contract with the Fae that Merlin warned them about with tiresome regularity, all bloodlines and complex debt and indentured servitude. This felt a lot more… personal.
“Deal,” the demon said promptly, and smirked at him. “How intriguing. Where to start?”
Its thumb probed between Aziraphale’s lips, prising his mouth open before he could say another word.
“Split your mouth around my cock… it has a nice ring to it.”
“No,” Aziraphale mumbled, “no, that’s not—“ but its other hand was back on his face as well, holding him steady as it shifted closer, bringing that heavy, ridged phallus to bump against Aziraphale’s cheek. It planted its knees either side of Aziraphale’s neck, rubbing its stand leisurely over his face, and then its thumb hooked hard against Aziraphale’s jaw, dragging it open, and Aziraphale felt the demon’s cockhead press into his mouth.
And it was only a dream, Aziraphale told himself furiously, as the unwieldy thickness of it stretched his lips and pushed onward. This hot, rigid, demonic cock invading his mouth—was only a dream.
He still gagged and sputtered and whined. Dream or not, it didn’t fit. Even the demon couldn’t get more than half of it inside, as Aziraphale’s jaw threatened to burst at the hinges, as his throat closed and his eyes watered and he felt a fresh slick of blood pulse out of his stretched lip anew.
At least the paralysis had lessened, though it was difficult to be grateful for that right now, feeling the drag of the oversized cockhead across the back of his virgin tongue, plugging his throat, until he was gasping and squirming beneath its weight, hungry for air, desperate to breathe.
“Ah, you’re—” the demon growled, a sudden vehemence to its tone. It pulled out and shoved in again, harder, making Aziraphale’s whole body curl up in an effort to contain himself. “Yes,” the demon muttered, doing it again.
It was Hell. It was the worst torment, being laid out helpless beneath this beast’s unspeakable demands, and yet the more the demon thrust and grunted, the more Aziraphale found he could move. He could feel the thunder of the demon’s pulse through the thin-skinned length stretching his mouth, and as its assault continued he felt his own blood answering, a throb at the heart of him beginning to swell. His own pounding heat, reaching right to the edges of his skin; it was catching up. This was a torment, but it was also, on some twisted level, sex.
Something he’d never let himself imagine – something he surely couldn’t want like this – and yet. This was a dream, wasn’t it? He wasn’t liable to be judged for his actions here. Rank warmth was pooling in his guts, his body awakening. Aziraphale found he could lift his knees, and did so, getting purchase with his feet on the thin sheets. He found he could shift his head on the crushed pillow, letting the demon's cock slide deeper at an infinitesimally more comfortable angle.
Strength purring back into his arms, Aziraphale ran his hands up the back of the demon’s thighs, mapping the enormous flexing strength of them. So smooth, muscular, powerful. It was kneeling over him, and its hips jerked back against his hands, giving him the briefest reprieve before pressing forward again. That momentary relief allowed Aziraphale to gasp in a breath, a sweet rush of air making his head spin, before it shoved back inside, harder now, further inside, choking him on it.
Aziraphale gagged, moaning until he couldn’t, and then lost his breath and… succumbed. The fight went out of him. It had him, it was using him, it was fucking his mouth and he hadn’t even tried to resist very much in the end—it was going to take its fill of him and then discard him, wasn’t that what it had threatened? To the gutter or the Underworld?
And now he was no longer an innocent. The thought almost made him laugh. That highly held virtue, dashed down in an instant. A hundred visions flashed into his mind of how he’d imagined he might eventually pursue this particular goal – noble quests and courtly favours, featuring highly – and yet the thought also made him squirm deliciously, because it was true. Through no fault of his own, he no longer felt innocent of anything.
The demon spread one gigantic hand around the back of Aziraphale’s head, fingers tangling in his hair as it fucked deeper into his mouth, forcing itself ever further inside. Aziraphale relaxed his jaw as best he could and told himself he was just trying to survive this… even as another part of his mind, the part that had been shamefacedly interested in squandered innocence, pointed out that his own cock was standing proud. Had been, for some time. Hard as a rock, balls starting to ache. Begging to be touched. It was an urge that Aziraphale usually avoided, had trained himself to resist, had taught himself to breathe through—but that seemed utterly pointless now.
Aziraphale swallowed against the demon’s length and felt it twitch and plunge painfully deeper still, even as one of his own hands darted to his cock. He’d hardly realised his hand was moving before he was stroking himself frantically. His own warm, familiar, velvety, human cock filled his grip and he groaned with what little breath he could still gasp, jerking himself in time to the onslaught in his mouth. The musky taste of the demon mingled with the fresh, salty smell of himself, shockingly vivid. It had overpowered him completely, was using him viciously, and yet, and yet—
Aziraphale drew in a sucking breath and then out of nowhere he started to come, an unexpected climax racing through him in a series of shocky spasms.
Splashes of his come hit the backs of the demon’s thighs and it hissed in surprise.
“Filthy human,” it gasped, in a voice now entirely composed of hot ash. “You are debased, and yet you—rejoice—ah, ahh—”
It drove inside, forcing itself down into Aziraphale's now-lax throat, and on the next devastating thrust it found its release. It sawed its hips, growling. Aziraphale felt acrid hot fluid fill his mouth and overflow, felt waves of it keep coming as he spluttered and gasped and tried in vain to swallow. Its cock was still unmanageably enormous though, his jaw splayed impossibly wide, and he couldn’t—he couldn’t contain it, he felt it spilling out of his mouth, dripping down. It burned against his skin.
“Huh,” the demon said; afterward, Aziraphale remembered that much. He couldn’t remember if the look in the demon’s fiery eyes was triumphant or dazed; he couldn't recall if its punishing grip in his hair softened a fraction. But he definitely remembered it saying that one, unmoored syllable: huh.
The rest was lost. Unconsciousness swirled up to claim Aziraphale with the power of whirlpool, a nightmarish darkness sweeping over him, as if the demon had gone ahead and claimed his last breath after all.
Aziraphale woke at daybreak in a strangely good mood.
It took him a moment. Gradually he distinguished the noises usual to the morning: the shift of fabric as the other knights threw back their covers or got dressed; low chuckles and the occasional rising laughter of a good-natured squabble; the more careful conversation of a couple of men washing themselves around the large copper bath set up by the fire.
Aziraphale was alive, and awake. Both fantastic developments.
More than that, he felt… energised.
He licked his lips, and a lightning-bolt of remembered sensation hurtled through him: the memory of that bite, of demonic teeth and forked tongue against the raw wound at the side of his lip, the heat of it. And then everything that came after.
Gingerly, Aziraphale ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, checking for damage. Which was preposterous. It had been a dream—a nightmare, yes, but nothing that would cause lasting damage, unless he’d somehow bitten his tongue in fright. Which he hadn’t.
He didn’t seem to have had an emission in the night, either, luckily. So despite a very vigorous and visceral memory of spending across his stomach and - and over those huge muscled thighs - it seemed the physical effects of the dream had been entirely limited to his imagination.
What a relief!
No lasting physical damage, he amended, after another moment. Some of those unnerving images would likely linger for a long while… But he was still physically pure, he told himself. Despite the memory of giving in to his body’s temptation still tingling across his mind.
Aziraphale was no stranger to nightmares, and in the soothing brightness of the daytime, surrounded by the chatter and bustle of the other knights' early rituals, he felt entirely calm. Nothing but a foolish dream stirred up by some over-fermented cider, no doubt. Deliberately, he drew a veil over the vestiges of disturbing memories still rolling through his mind. He would think no more about it!
He wondered what today would hold for him. Perhaps he’d encounter that redheaded handmaiden again. He could but hope.
For some reason, he felt especially drawn to seek her out, this fine morning.
Chapter 2: Night 2 - Round Two
Chapter Text
The knights spent the day engaged in good, honest horsemanship trials ranging across the countryside that sloped away behind the castle grounds, at which Aziraphale, as usual, performed adequately. He neither fell off his horse nor excelled. Sir Lancelot rode away with four prizes; Sir Percival with three. It was what it was.
Despite coming away empty handed, Aziraphale did find he felt remarkably comfortable in the saddle today, as if he was seated a fraction more securely than usual. In the changeable autumnal sunlight, the adjacent forest was beginning to turn, its wealth of evergreen increasingly interrupted by vibrant plumes of russet and gold. It looked quite marvellous. Returning to the castle afterwards, as occasional red or yellow leaves drifted down to catch in his horse’s mane, Aziraphale was struck that at least he was still here to witness the passing of the seasons, one year later.
No one had been more surprised than him, when he made it through that first winter without catastrophe or collapse. But here he was! Holding his own, albeit largely in the shadows - or somewhat off to the side. Middling, he told himself firmly, was better than nothing. As long as he was here.
Riding together at the head of their procession back to the castle, Lancelot leaned across suddenly to clap Percival on the shoulder; they exchanged a few words and then laughed together, without ever breaking their stride.
It gave Aziraphale a curious feeling. There hadn’t been much laughter in the castle of his youth, and even after all this time he found the sound stirred something in him - a wistful fascination, catching his attention perhaps longer than it should.
Back at the castle, Aziraphale spotted the handmaiden at a distance. It was late afternoon, as the sun split the courtyard into great slanting pools of light and shadow. A returning party had clattered up the driveway a few minutes earlier; now Lady Morgana and her retinue were climbing out of various horse-drawn carriages, brushing down their skirts and adjusting the ribbons on their cloaks.
The glint of red hair caught Aziraphale’s eye immediately, though she wasn’t looking in his direction.
He paused in rubbing down his horse, wishing he wasn’t to be found at quite such a malodorous task when a person of interest was passing. Apparently noticing his distraction, the horse whickered and stamped its foot, drawing attention to him – not the right sort.
“Whoops, sounds like someone’s being rubbed up the wrong way,” Sir Escanor announced, grinning as he approached, looking Aziraphale up and down, not kindly. His voice was teasing, nothing more, and yet fresh sweat erupted at the back of Aziraphale’s neck at the sound of his words. “Kept your nose exceptionally clean as usual, I see…”
“Yes, thank you,” Aziraphale returned tightly, keeping his own voice entirely proper. He resumed brushing the horse a little more vigorously, sending up a small cloud of dust.
Escanor smacked him on the shoulder in passing, shoving him bodily into the horse’s flank. “Some things never change,” he said warmly, strolling on.
Aziraphale opened his mouth to fashion some sort of devastating retort, before realising he had nothing appropriate to say and also no good reason that Escanor’s remark had caused such umbrage inside him. He just had a strong sense that there had been nothing friendly about it.
“Still, at least you didn’t go arse over tit like Baby Bors here,” Escanor continued, sauntering on to his next victim and clapping him on the arm in turn. “How’s the face?”
Sir Bors the Younger, who had taken an awkward corner at breakneck speed - only to be yanked violently off his horse by an overhanging branch - gave a pained laugh.
“I’ll heal.” His skin was a medium chestnut colour – very handsome, in Aziraphale’s opinion – but this afternoon his lovely face was indeed marred by several red scratches, with an impressively dark and swollen bruise blossoming over the angle of his jaw.
“Hmmm.” Escanor cupped Bor’s face in one big hand, tilting it to get a better view, an almost motherly gesture except for how his thumb skated over the purpling edge of his cheek, and then pressed. “Nasty,” he said, and then, when Bors didn’t react, he squeezed harder until Bors winced. “S’pose some boys can’t cut it on horseback. Maybe when you’re older…”
Bors flushed. “I’m nineteen.”
“Yes,” Escanor said, and patted him briskly on the face, making him hiss. The bruise was livid now. “We could all ride at half your age. Most peasants can, here. But there’s no accounting for upbringing…”
A ripple of tension passed through Aziraphale. Bors was, indeed, the youngest of the current crop of the king’s knights, and had arrived at Camelot barely a season ago. His father was a local lord, but his mother was from some faraway island, and Bors carried some of his mother’s complexion, along with her curly black hair and liquid dark eyes.
Escanor, whose father counted half of Somerset as his ancestral home, had been making assorted snide remarks about Bors’ lineage since he arrived. But none to his face, before now. “S’pose there aren’t a lot of tame horses where you’re from…”
One of Escanor’s cronies took up the jeering tone. “Ha! Yeah - what do your kind ride again, some sort of humped cow?”
“Shhh,” Escanor mock-scolded, smirking. “That’s no way to talk about his mother!”
Bors’ cheeks turned briefly as dark as his bruise.
Aziraphale, whose father was a tyrant and whose mother was dead, knew it was pointless to make a scene about such jibes. And yet.
“Funny to hear you cast aspersions on another man’s horsecraft, Escanor,” Aziraphale said loudly, glancing over at them as if he had not a care in the world. “Wasn’t it only last winter when that gelding threw you head-first into the steaming muck heap?”
Escanor’s head whipped around, eyes murderous. “That wasn’t—” Common knowledge. “Me. You’re—you’re misremembering. That was my stablehand. Anyway, that gelding was wrong in the head.”
“Gosh, am I misremembering?” Aziraphale mused, keeping the lightness in his voice with iron control. His pulse was racing in his ears. And yet. “I could have sworn that was you.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” Escanor snapped, and fixed them each with his gaze in turn. “I’ll flog anyone who puts it about that it was me.”
He wheeled and stalked off, lackeys in tow.
Aziraphale met Bors’ eyes solemnly. “Funny,” Aziraphale repeated, his voice mildness itself. “I really could have sworn it was him. The smell, you know. Difficult to shift.”
Bors lifted his chin, then gave him a minute nod.
“Well, well,” came a new voice, behind them, putting Aziraphale instantly in mind of oak-aged mead. “I didn’t have you down as a troublemaker.”
Aziraphale turned on his heel, mouth going dry. Lady Morgana’s handmaiden was suddenly an awful lot closer. Within, in fact, arm’s reach. Not that his arms would be doing any such thing.
“I—ah—hello!” Aziraphale said, suddenly aware again that he smelled of horse and his hands were covered in horse-dust and that he was also, in fact, in charge of a horse, and it was vitally important that he appeared to have it under control.
“Hello,” the handmaiden said.
Up close, she was mesmerising. Unfairly so. Dressed plainly in a black cloak, she was tall and angular, almost boyish, but with a mane of russet-and-copper hair that was currently drawn back into a neat travelling plait. Its imprisonment gave Aziraphale the ability to look past the glorious hair for a moment, and he found himself gazing into slanted hazel-gold eyes that were somehow intensely familiar.
Aziraphale became aware that he was staring, and patted the horse awkwardly. “I’d greet you by the hand,” he said, “but I wouldn’t want to, er, sully your… oh, yes.”
With a faint whisper of a smirk, she had extended her hand. She was wearing – obviously – riding gloves. Also black.
Aziraphale accepted the proffered fingers and gave them a cordial squeeze, then released them with a little bow. Falling back on the courtly manners that had been drummed into him as long as he could remember.
“Charmed,” he said.
She gave him a slow smile that made him feel like the sun was rising behind his breastbone. “Likewise.”
And with that, she was away – rejoining the rest of Lady Morgana’s entourage as they all filed demurely into the castle.
“Charmed,” Aziraphale repeated, to himself, several seconds later, still staring at the great doors after they closed behind her. And realised, several heartbeats after that, that somehow he still hadn’t managed to ask her name.
Various tasks found him every hour of the rest of the day, and by the time Aziraphale slid into his bed he had half-forgotten the strange violent dream of the previous night. His muscles were aching and shivery from the strenuous ride, his head was a little muddled with the evening’s wine, and the warmth of the dormitory compounded both of those feelings into a heady, muggy relaxation.
His head hit the pillow, and he only just remembered to light his candle before he fell fast asleep.
And then, with a sensation as if he had been falling, he jolted awake again.
It was dark.
He was pinned.
It was back.
So much was the same - the hunched weight sitting astride his chest, the tight grip of its thighs, the terror of those flaming eyes - and yet the pulse of fear that went through Aziraphale was already tinged with a wicked edge of arousal.
It was back for more.
Aziraphale wet his lips, acknowledging in that moment that he was getting hard already, his heart pounding. Over the course of the day, he’d somehow forgotten the scale of the thing. Every part of it was so overwhelmingly big.
Aziraphale could barely breathe against its weight, let alone talk, but he managed to gasp out faintly, “Round two?”
The demon gave an angry hiss, eyes flaring, then shook its head. “You’ve had your fun,” it said slowly, as if it hadn’t been the one entirely in control at all times. “But this time, I will have your last breath.”
It leaned closer as it spoke, and a darker, more primal fear overspilled everything else in Aziraphale’s mind. There was the usual fear of pain and torture and mockery, things he was readily familiar with, and then there was this: the fear of annihilation.
“Don’t,” Aziraphale said, abrupt desperation making his voice louder despite the paralysis fusing the rest of his limbs to the mattress. “Don’t, please.”
The teeth. He could see the teeth again, shining as its mouth opened above him, the muscles of its neck bulging as it descended.
“Please,” he heard himself beg, his body shaking inside, wanting to bring his hands up to cover his face, to push it away; unable to lift a finger. “Please…”
Its mouth covered his, and the sensation started, the ravaging breathwork, soft at first but rapidly building. Aziraphale felt the demon’s intention this time, its vicious efficiency. It meant to finish this without delay.
“Please,” Aziraphale tried to whisper, and then in his desperation was struck with an alternative, foolish, last resort of an idea.
He shoved his tongue up into the demon’s mouth.
The devastating breath broke off and the demon drew back a fraction, pausing.
Aziraphale seized his chance, though he couldn’t move much at all. He opened his mouth and craned upward as best he could, pushing his tongue between the demon’s hard lips and making a soft noise of enquiry.
He heard a short puff of demonic laughter, somewhere between an outraged splutter and incredulity. And that seemed, frankly, more promising than anything else he’d heard so far, so he redoubled his efforts, stroking with his tongue, sucking. The demon’s mouth tasted of molten metal, and of something sweetly corrosive.
It didn’t bite him, as he suddenly feared it might. In fact there was no response for a stunned heartbeat. And then Aziraphale felt the demon’s tongue meet his own, and push. The kiss - not that it was really a kiss, not anything resembling how he’d heard a kiss might feel - moved decisively back into Aziraphale’s vicinity, as the demon’s tongue shoved into his mouth, hot and slick and – fuck – forked.
It was the most astonishing sensation. It made him feel hungry. Aziraphale groaned, sucking frantically, welcoming the thick press of it, making helpless little noises as it filled him, the split muscle of it rubbing against the roof of his mouth. He experienced a momentary flash of how it would look to have this tongue wind around his cock, oversized and mobile. His cock swelled painfully at the thought, rearing up from where it lay against his stomach, silently leaking, once more aching to be touched.
The demon nipped him sharply and then pulled back to look scornfully down at him, its mouth shining wet in the candlelight.
Aziraphale lay there panting, staring up. Legs apart, cock smearing his belly, balls drawn up. Terrified, yes, but he’d never felt so alive.
“You… want to make another bargain,” the demon said, the incredulity swamping its voice now, rich and rough at once. “You offer your body to me, your essence - you tolerate my attention in the hope of not losing your life.”
“Depends if you’re going to take my life anyway. Maybe not,” Aziraphale lied.
The demon made a noise that could only be described as exasperated. “It won’t be enough,” it spat. ”I must reap back what I have traded away, or—I simply must. The power from draining your life will be far superior to the power in your suffering.”
For a moment Aziraphale felt like a market trader instead of a knight. He tilted his head. “What if I’m… not suffering?”
“What?”
Aziraphale heard his opportunity and leapt for it. “It isn’t normally like last night, is it?” he demanded, and he was guessing, but some flicker across the demon’s face all but confirmed it. “Last night, when you finished into my mouth while my… essence… ran down the back of your thighs—“ He had to swallow to keep speaking. “That was. Powerful.”
A noise reverberated in the demon’s chest like a predator warning off a rival. “Careful, mortal. You know nothing of which you speak.”
“Lucky guess, then,” Aziraphale said. “Or am I wrong?”
The demon gave a snarl at his impudence.
“Fine,” Aziraphale said. Seeing it all of a sudden, so clearly. “Take my last breath, I won’t give you the satisfaction of fighting. Or… take my mouth, and I will.”
It was just as brutal this time.
More, because he was expecting it, which the demon clearly knew because Aziraphale could not move. He could not breathe. His mouth was forced open by the heavy bluntness of it and the pace was immediately relentless.
The demon fucked his mouth as if it had been looking forward to it. Aziraphale’s chest and stomach spasmed as his body tried in vain to expel the intrusion, but it was fruitless, useless. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t choke, he was utterly powerless as the demon used him, shoving its dick against the back of his mouth. Shoving in.
Aziraphale’s eyes rolled back in his head as he tried to fight a wave of pain so intense it threatened to make him black out. Its cock was so massive, and it was forcing it into his mouth without mercy, holding his head up so it could fuck his throat. Aziraphale’s lips stretched and stung around the thickness of it, the skin impossibly taut, and then as the onslaught continued he felt the edge of his lips break again, blood seeping into his mouth with the next slick thrust.
Again he felt the push-pull between arousal and paralysis - the hotter he burned inside the more movement he seemed to regain - but there was no space for his own pleasure here. There was just the demon’s rapacious hunger being sated, holding him still in both fists and plunging its cock into Aziraphale’s throat. Again and again, until impossibly he felt its balls smack against his chin with every thrust. Aziraphale didn’t have time to dwell upon the strange ridges against his tongue, the leather-musk taste of it, the sounds; there was only this furious invasion.
The pressure on his chest drove his breath out with every withdrawal, and Aziraphale heard almost absently his own sobbing breaths, felt stinging tears ooze from his eyes whenever he could blink. He couldn’t do much more than blink. He certainly couldn’t prevent it, couldn’t control it, couldn’t influence it or contain it in any way—he just had to endure.
No sooner had he accepted that than it was over, hot ropes of the demon’s essence scalding the torn tissues of his throat—and now Aziraphale did choke, curling up and gagging, swallowing helplessly as the demon emptied itself for what felt like an excruciatingly long time.
Its cock was still hard as it pulled out -a slow drag of hot skin over Aziraphale's slippery bloodied lips, his lax tongue - but the energy in its body had changed. It reared up, releasing him from its weight for the first time, rising up on its knees with hands clawed, palms-up, wings unsheathed but not spread.
Aziraphale was still gagging and heaving for breath, but couldn’t tear his gaze away. There was something obscenely majestic about it. The demon’s upturned face was slack with primal pleasure and something else, something ancient and flickering that seemed to build and glow. The power exchange being completed? Was this how it would look if it took Aziraphale's last breath? It was—it was beautiful. Horribly, incomprehensibly beautiful.
But something wasn’t right.
Aziraphale almost laughed, but managed only a wheezy breath from his aching, bruised throat. A lot wasn’t right. But this one thing in particular: he could tell from the demon’s face that whatever had happened last night - whatever had satisfied it to the point that it let him live - had not occurred this time. There was some form of energy transferring between them, meandering from Aziraphale to the demon in a slow golden surge, but there was less of it today.
The demon’s lips pulled back from its teeth. A mounting frustration took over its face, eyes squeezing shut and then flying open again, the flames in them roaring black and gold.
“That’s not all—that’s not enough,” it rasped, as the glow around its soot-speckled cheekbones faded out again. It glowered down at Aziraphale. “You withheld some part of yourself. How? Doesn’t matter,” it interrupted itself, and the vehemence increased in its voice. “Give it all to me.”
“I—I don’t know how,” Aziraphale said, squirming under its febrile gaze like a moth in a sunbeam.
“Give it to me,” the demon commanded, dropping suddenly to all fours above him, nose to nose.
Aziraphale shuddered, fear splintering into unwitting arousal at the sudden sensation of being trapped in a cage of hot red muscled limbs. “I don’t…”
“Now,” the demon snarled, and Aziraphale closed his eyes as its hot breath washed over him.
The darkness of his eyelids made everything simpler. There was only one thing it hadn’t had today that it had had yesterday, one discrepancy to speak of. He just had to dare to offer it up.
No time like the present.
Wordlessly, Aziraphale moved his hand to his own cock and wrapped his fingers around it. He’d gone mostly soft again during the onslaught, but his own touch seemed to reawaken every nerve.
He sneaked a glance at the cage of its limbs enclosing him, the gleaming crimson scales encasing thick hot muscle - its immovable, inarguable capture of him - and felt himself harden fully once more.
Staring down at him, the demon’s nostrils flared. “You—”
Aziraphale’s hand tightened at the sound of its voice, and warmth exploded through him. He squeezed his eyes shut again and rocked up against the simple, perfect pressure of his own fingers—and groaned.
“Oh,” the demon said.
Aziraphale groaned again, wriggling beneath it, thrusting up shamelessly into his own tight grip. That felt—incredible. He moved his hand faster, feeling new sweat break out along already-damp lines.
“Open your eyes,” the demon said.
Aziraphale forced his eyes open. The demon was still on all fours kneeling over him, heavy dick hanging down almost to Aziraphale’s stomach, but its attention was exactly as he had imagined, fixed on Aziraphale’s stroking hand.
Pleasure built inside him at that thought, rolling along newly-forged pathways and coalescing as bright sparks behind his balls.
“Ah,” Aziraphale gasped, eyes almost falling closed again, falling to half-mast as the world turned dark and hazy. “Ah, Go—” Wait, no. “Gosh,” he panted, the momentary slip-up sending hysteria through his veins alongside the heat, the urgency, the need to come.
The demon didn’t seem to have noticed any faltering. “Yes,” it muttered. “That’s it, go on. Give it to me.”
“I’m—ah,” Aziraphale said, moaning almost constantly, “I’m—yes—I’m so close—”
“Yes,” the demon said, and pushed two thick fingers into Aziraphale’s mouth.
Aziraphale’s back arched as he sucked on them frantically, tasting his own sweat and the musky tang of where the demon had rubbed against him, the mingled taste and arousal and the jerking of his own hand bringing on an inescapable conclusion.
“Oh,” Aziraphale moaned, around the demon’s fingers, coming into his working fist. He forced his eyes open again, and secondary waves of pleasure rolled over him at the sight: the demon was entirely flexed and taut above him, bathed in unholy light. The demon was drinking in the sound of him, the smell of him, feasting on the sight of him, as if absorbing it all right through its skin.
Aziraphale kept his hand moving until he was dry and twitching, until the aftershocks were bordering on painful, until there was nothing more to give, and then collapsed, panting.
“Better?” he asked eventually.
The demon was gazing down at him with eyes like a freshly lit hearth. It seemed to be glowing.
“Better,” it agreed roughly, and then to Aziraphale’s amazement it ducked down and licked his hand, a slow hot press of its forked tongue, coaxing his fist to uncurl. And then, greedily, it lapped his cock clean, his belly, his palm.
Aziraphale lay shivering, staring down, frozen but not from paralysis this time. He felt like if he made a single move he might wake up, and he didn’t… want to. He didn’t want to leave.
Eventually the demon looked up at him and blinked, cat-like despite the infernal eyes. “Sleep now,” it said, the command back in its voice, and Azriaphale felt his body immediately try to obey.
“Until… next time,” Aziraphale managed, as unconsciousness swam up to take him.
“There won’t be a next time,” the demon said, and then, as Aziraphale slipped finally into oblivion, he barely perceived a distant mutter, almost a grumble: “Why is he always smiling?”
Chapter 3: Night 3: The Intercept
Summary:
Aziraphale takes quite the pounding, metaphorically speaking. And also, not so metaphorically.
Notes:
*klaxon* DEAD DOVE NON CON. THIS IS AS BAD AS THIS STORY GETS *klaxon*
For real, editing this chapter has made me seriously consider putting together a sanitised version of this fic, so that people who do not enjoy non con can nevertheless enjoy the other 90% of the story. XD
But for now: people who do not enjoy non con must NOT read on. This has been a warning!
Chapter Text
As if in a nightmare, but very unfortunately awake, Aziraphale staggered sideways under the force of the blow and brought his shield up far too slowly.
Hand-to-hand combat with his least favourite weapon, the broadsword, with Escanor - his least favourite opponent - made for a dismal start to any day. He suspected his armour had sustained a comical dent under that last hit. His ego certainly had.
The irony was, he’d felt like he was doing quite well initially.
Up until approximately thirty seconds ago, he’d been matching Escanor blow for blow. He’d dodged and parried and the shoulder of his sword arm had held up against multiple jarring attacks. There had been a moment where King Arthur had stood up in the stands and clapped, before bending his tawny head to Merlin’s dark one and commenting… something.
Aziraphale had even started to wonder if a certain red-headed somebody might also be watching from the stands. Ladies weren’t generally encouraged to spectate simple training bouts like this, but there was nothing preventing someone taking a passing interest, should they be so inclined.
Yes, Aziraphale had made the mistake of almost starting to enjoy the challenge. And then he’d landed a too-clever strike on Escanor, exposed an embarrassing weakness in his stance, and in a charged instant everything had changed. The next blow rang his teeth, and the next, and the next.
Now Escanor pressed his advantage with a few more heavy-yet-efficient swings, forcing Aziraphale backward a dozen humiliating steps before coming in with a decisive downward strike across the chest, over his heart. Again too late, Aziraphale made to deflect, and was rewarded for his efforts by a shove with Escanor’s shield that made his eyes fill with black stars. He was staggering again, this time with the horizon dipping crazily in what was left of his vision.
A final explosion of force across his left shoulder drove him panting to his knees. And not in a good way, an irrepressible corner of his mind added. Strange how the impact of pain in his dreams came with a sort of hot, heady thrill, whereas pain at this brute’s hands just smarted.
“And that,” Escanor called out to the onlooking knights, taking off his helmet and tossing it aside in a display of flagrant unconcern that Aziraphale might manage to manifest any sort of rejoinder at this late stage, “is how a shield feint can confuse and overpower your opponent in one simple manoeuvre.”
The heroic thing to do at this point, Aziraphale knew, would be to surge to his feet, a symbolic act of rebellion that would demonstrate to onlookers his spirit was not cowed. But his legs wouldn’t work. He thought briefly, hysterically, of the wild dreams he’d been having. They were repeating on him more vividly today. But this was an altogether different sort of paralysis, and there was nothing exciting about it.
Escanor tapped his sword point in demonstrative victory against the panel of Aziraphale's armour covering his left breast - at least, the chivalrous word for it was tap. The light in Escanor’s pale eyes and the force behind it left Aziraphale in no doubt that this was an insult. Then he sauntered away without offering his hand. Another insult, but one which Aziraphale minded less.
To his surprise, Bors jogged over. “Unlucky,” he said, extending a gloved hand. “There was a moment there where I thought you had him.”
Aziraphale snorted. “A rather brief one,” he said dryly, allowing himself to be tugged to his feet.
He turned and saw that a small crowd had indeed gathered to witness his defeat. And there was a flash of red hair amongst them.
Brilliant.
Aziraphale righted himself, sheathing his sword and removing his gloves. Now he knew she was there, he fancied he could feel the cool appraisal of the handmaiden’s gaze upon him, and his cheeks felt hot beyond simple exertion.
He’d have preferred she hadn’t seen how that ended, all things considered.
“You’ll get him next time,” Bors said, in a lively display of optimism.
Aziraphale glanced at Bors in mild amazement. Somehow, it seemed he’d made an ally.
Then Bors’ eyes went round.
Someone else was coming up behind Aziraphale, someone with a heavy, assertive tread.
“Bad luck,” King Arthur said, sliding an arm around Aziraphale’s armoured shoulders and giving him a jokey squeeze of commiseration. “Bloody good show, though. You’re getting better on your feet.”
Aziraphale’s hand rose automatically and then floundered against Arthur’s back, which was all warm, solid muscle even through his tunic. He smelled of sweat and leather.
Aziraphale opened his mouth, shut it, then managed a faint, “Thank you, sire. I’ve been practising.”
“I can tell!” Another squeeze which brought Aziraphale’s face far closer to the royal throat than he’d ever imagined being. He had time to marvel that he could see the grain of Arthur’s blond stubble starting to come through, before Arthur was releasing him back onto two feet and looking him dead in the eye.
The confident force of Arthur’s gaze was tangible. “You held up to quite the pounding for much longer than I expected. Keep it up.”
“Y-yes, sire,” Aziraphale said, nodding repeatedly, cheeks burning as his imagination took that image and ran with it. What had become of his previously pristine mind? This was his king.
“Good man.” Arthur gave his arm a final pat and strode off to intercept Gwaine and a group of squires, all brisk purpose again.
Aziraphale swallowed, flushed now with praise instead, then nodded to himself and self-consciously looked around.
The handmaiden was nowhere to be seen.
That night as he got ready for bed, Aziraphale realised he still grew warm at the merest thought of that moment of recognition from Arthur. The thought of Arthur watching him. That approving gaze and eventual judgement as Aziraphale received quite the pounding.
Was that lamentable? Maybe. His skin kept prickling with it, though. The nearness. The casually rough way that Arthur had handled him, as if confident that Aziraphale wouldn’t break—it made him feel restless, energised.
As Aziraphale drew his tunic over his head, he turned towards the window, lest anyone watching see his half-hard stand as he slipped between the cool covers and drew them up to his chest.
The other knights’ activity wound down quickly, as usual, as the evening’s firelight subsided. Presently, a few sighs and snores arose in the gloom. Aziraphale lay naked in the darkness with his knees drawn up, his hand straying lower and lower down his warm belly.
Thinking about no one at all.
And then, as his fingers roamed between his thighs and his arousal soared, admitting it to himself: thinking about Arthur.
The king was… noble, obviously. Dynamic. A decade his senior, at least. And unwed. Betrothed to Camelot, some said. There were also those rumours of a great romance with a mysterious maiden from far away.
But what Aziraphale saw, night after night, was the king and his chief advisor finishing each other's sentences.
Aziraphale’s hand skirted around the base of his cock as he imagined… not himself and Arthur, of course. Even in the privacy of his own mind he felt hot at the very idea of such presumption. But it was all too easy to imagine what might be happening in the king's bedchamber after Merlin led him away after a feast. Deft fingers unlatching buckles and unlacing boots. A knee sliding over a shoulder. Calloused hands in blue-black silky hair.
Aziraphale imagined the king lying back and enjoying Merlin’s clever mouth - not violently, like the demon of Aziraphale's dreams, overpowering, forcing - but slowly, indulgently, an act of devotion from both sides.
Aziraphale turned his head against the pillow, fingers splayed wide. He wanted to touch himself, but he held off, even as his cock twitched against his belly, a tantalising ache.
He lay there a long time, picturing it, circling his thumb around the base of his cock but choosing not to take the thick length of it in hand and stroke. He had a strange inkling that if he spent himself now it might forestall one of those dreadful yet intriguing dreams. And that would be… dull. Whereas lying here hard, thrumming, full to bursting with that golden glow, he felt ready for anything.
He drifted off to sleep with his eyes closed, a shadow of a smile at his lips, waiting for darkness to claim him.
He wasn’t sure what woke him. There was no weight on his chest, no crippling paralysis, no sense of impending doom.
A feeling of disquiet rose through him. Perhaps the dreams wouldn’t be troubling him any longer. Which would be… good, right? A relief. Hm.
Aziraphale opened his eyes and saw that the hearth-light was low but the candles still burned at every bedside.
He saw the demon, crouched and monstrous, over the adjacent bed.
Over Bors’ bed.
On Bors.
The young knight was barely visible beneath its vast, red bulk. The new perspective was staggering. The hugeness of its hunched torso, its quiescent leathery wings folded against its back, its massive limbs—compared with Bors’ unconscious body, the tableau they made looked like nothing so much as a dragon consuming a man.
For a stunned moment Aziraphale could only stare at those enormous hands cradling Bors’ dark tousled head as it fed off him; Bors looked tiny, inconspicuous, spread out beneath it, but shimmering almost, as if a hundred fireflies were lifting sedately off from every part of his body and funnelling into the demon’s mouth.
Aziraphale couldn’t tear his gaze away, but the sight of the coalescing glow roused his mind. That glow – it was something similar to the light he’d watched the demon absorb from his own body the previous night. But there was nothing orgasmic about this, nothing glorious, and nor was there any struggle, any fight, any resistance whatsoever.
He had a strong sense that what he was watching as he lay there stricken - not paralysed, and yet still unable to spur himself to movement - was nearing its peak.
It’s going to kill him.
The thought arrived fully formed and crystalline in its certainty. And the driving horror of that had Aziraphale bursting out of bed and grabbing his dagger and launching himself forwards without another second’s thought.
Aziraphale shouted “Stop,” and “Get off him,” and, on a wild reflex, “Avaunt!” again, and again his words had as much effect on the demon as being pelted with a handful of feathers.
So Aziraphale stabbed it.
Hard. In the side—near the outer edge of one massive shoulder blade, between ribs that rippled beneath the gleaming red-black skin like logs rolling in a stream. He encountered a moment’s intense resistance before the blade pierced the skin, before the dagger was sinking in to the hilt; before the demon screamed.
The next few seconds unravelled very quickly.
The demon reared back and lunged for Aziraphale with a bellow of rage, the dagger whipping out of Aziraphale's grasp with force as its torso twisted toward him. The blade was still buried in its ribcage, and it looked laughable now, how tiny this insult was to its gigantic body; a puny little wooden handle scratched with Aziraphale’s sigil, peeking out of its side, under its arm.
The demon leapt from Bors’ bed and threw Aziraphale backwards onto the floor and for one horrible moment Aziraphale thought it was going to rip his throat out. Forget all that business with his last breath, it was going to spill his blood and rend his windpipe instead.
Aziraphale scrabbled back as fast as humanly possible, and then gasped as the demon’s eyes flared viciously and it simply reached out and backhanded him across the face. A blaze of pain exploded where its knuckles connected with Aziraphale’s jaw, and his whole body was lifted by the force of it. For an unreal second he was sailing backwards, and then he crashed down on the floor even further away, the demon pursuing him in all its fury—good.
“Take—me instead,” Aziraphale ground out, even as he scrambled to his feet and ran, putting as much distance as he could between himself and Bors’ still-sleeping form.
The nightmare quality was back, his limbs obeying his orders but slowly, sluggishly. He stumbled between the other beds, fighting the dreadful inertia to keep making progress towards the hearth.
Away, was all he kept thinking, as if the intensity of his thoughts could make him faster. Away from that bed.
He still had his voice, though. That worked. “Use me… instead,” he called, breath catching with exertion. “I’m here, leave him, come to me—ah!”
The exclamation at the end was a grunt of pain as the demon caught up with him in one great stride and threw him to the floor before the hearth.
Aziraphale was trapped between the warmth of the low-burning embers in the huge grate and the large, empty copper bathtub. He caught sight of his reflection in the shiny copper: his flushed face backlit with smouldering flame, his huge wide eyes glassy with fear, his shoulders heaving.
Aziraphale looked like he’d fled right into Hell.
“Come to you,” the demon snarled, blocking any escape by thudding down onto its knees, and now its warped image joined that of Aziraphale in the copper-reflected hellscape, the firelight glancing off its scales, polishing its skin, dragging his attention to the dagger still buried between two ribs.
It was angry—really, very angry, Aziraphale realised, as his body started shivering uncontrollably despite the heat bathing him from all sides. Aziraphale managed a nod, teeth chattering, tongue frozen before its bared-tooth fury.
This was still… for the greater good. Even if the demon went ahead and destroyed him now, it was still a more heroic way to go than lying there gormlessly watching it happen to someone else. He’d stepped up, defended one weaker than himself—at least there was that.
“You dare interrupt me,” the demon said, forked tongue flickering at the confines of its lips, and it seemed very snakelike all of a sudden. “I was so close, you little worm, you try to stop me, you interfere, with your smell, you defy me—for what? To save your snivelling comrade? To serve your puny king?”
Its words were almost indistinguishable beneath the venomous hiss of its outrage. And now part of Aziraphale wasn’t even listening. As the demon drew closer, crowding him into the hot confined space, his attention was riveted instead to its erection, standing livid against the vast plane of its stomach, better illuminated by the bright glow of firelight than he’d ever seen it before.
The demon’s cock was huge and hard, a darker red now than he’d previously noted. In the steady glow he could see it so clearly, how the head of it was smoothly curved and welling with clear fluid, whereas the shaft was uneven with prominent ridges and bulging veins.
Despite the soul-curdling fear, Aziraphale's mouth watered. He had not not been remembering how that felt. Terrible, brutal. So big.
“—And as I decide your fate, you don’t even listen,” the demon growled, and Aziraphale's gaze jerked back to its face.
“S-sorry,” he said, though he didn’t know why he was apologising. Absurd to do so, really. Still.
“It’s nothing to me,” the demon spat, and reached for him, wings spreading in a dark flare behind its back, the span of them overreaching Aziraphale's vision. “I will simply reap what you have interrupted – and your suffering will make it all the sweeter.”
And it would begin now, Aziraphale thought, licking his lips. It would push that thing back into his mouth and fuck his face and, oh, gosh, how he would endure it—but then it flipped him over instead.
Onto his belly on the hard floor, wrenching his legs apart, holding them spread open as it leaned down over his back.
“Oh!” Aziraphale cried out, which was all there was time for before the demon started working its cock into his arsehole.
The pain almost brought the world to an end. The thick smear of fluid coating the head of the demon’s cock wasn’t enough to make it an easy push, but even if it had been, the scale of it would still have been intolerable.
He’d never—and now this.
The pressure against his hole was brutally efficient, encountering the resistance of his muscles and simply overpowering them.
He was reminded of the dagger he’d thrust into the demon’s chest, except that the blade had been sharp and pointed, and this was blunt and thick, so thick. The shove into the body was the same though, a violence being done, and Aziraphale heard himself yelp involuntarily and repeatedly, as if from a distance.
It was—
Its cock was—
He could feel the—
He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stop it.
His mind couldn’t retreat from the intensity of it, as its cock forced deeper. Once inside, the demon paused for a moment, but it was no reprieve—it was just to adjust its grip on Aziraphale's thighs. Those big hands slid up, wrapping around the tops of his thighs and lifting him bodily, pulling him back on its cock, and it didn’t matter if his legs tried to close now, because they couldn’t. It was in, filling him well beyond the point he thought he could take it. Aziraphale clawed at the floor, kicking uselessly, felt his spine arching, all helpless animal protest at being pinned like this, skewered. Its length felt red hot inside him, searing deeper with every gasp from Aziraphale's lips—stealing his breath again, paralysing him again.
Fully impossibly impaled, Aziraphale was both cradled and manoeuvred by its huge hands, one under his stomach, one at the base of his back; rocking Aziraphale’s body on its cock, as if trying to find the angle it liked best. Aziraphale heard himself sobbing, gasping, and the demon made noises at that, low encouraging noises, almost purring behind him.
“Yes—struggle and whine for me, let me hear it,” it murmured, flexing its thighs in an indolent display of power, before starting idly to pump its hips. “Show me, show me how it feels to get what you asked for.”
The paralysis melted a little, and Aziraphale helplessly gave it what it wanted. He couldn’t have held back the noises anyway, as every breath escaped him with another agonised cry. Loud, as if volume could possibly offset the astonishing pain, matching the sensation rolling through him in an ever increasing tide; as soon as one moan ended another began.
He was making a damned lot of noise, enough to wake the dead, and yet not a soul in the dormitory stirred – confirming once and for all that they were secluded in this nocturnal pocket of time together, and that no one, no matter how much he shouted or begged, would be coming to save him.
He was on his own.
With a demon.
Fucking the life out of him, enjoying his pathetic protests, how weakly he fought. This, this was it, this was his life now, trapped in this repeating inferno of being used and degraded and… chosen.
“Mm,” the demon rumbled, as if Aziraphale had spoken out loud, pulling out further before shoving back inside with a crack of its wings. Again, again. The jolts of it felt like a spear right through his core, but it also made him notice that his hole felt more slippery now, the shaft moving more easily. Aziraphale realised its cock must be leaking inside him, slicking him more with every thrust, and that thought was—awful, yes, but on some warped level it caused a strange flicker of arousal as well.
He couldn’t say why - proving himself in this depraved feat of endurance? - but he couldn’t deny that he was experiencing some cracked mirror of the same dark thrill he’d felt when it sank its cock into his throat. It had selected him, it hungered for him. Its enjoyment of his body was sexual and unapologetic about it, and the pleasure it was taking, in forcing itself upon him, reached in to tug at something unfamiliar deep inside: something sparking hot and unflinching and full of rage.
The paralysis dissipated entirely. Aziraphale grasped for the floor again, trying to brace against it instead of mindlessly flailing, and again caught sight of his reflection in the copper bathtub. And this time the view astounded him.
The curve of the copper gave him the whole scene, distorted with firelight but unmistakable. Aziraphale could see himself – smooth pale limbs splayed, half lifted off the floor by the demon’s great hands – and he could see the demon kneeling behind him, the terrifying glory of its wingspan arching behind it.
The demon’s haughty face was inclined, watching its cock ramming into Aziraphale’s hole, watching the way he was obscenely spread around it—but taking it, having to take it, as its wings beat rhythmically, driving its thrusts. The demon’s hands were wrapped around his waist now, fingers touching, moving him on its cock like a plaything, something to be used and soiled and then discarded.
Aziraphale shuddered at that, a rolling shiver that carried both ice and warmth. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, watching it viciously fuck his arse—undeniably the sight was doing something to him, even as his body clamoured at him to escape.
“Yes, come on,” the demon hissed suddenly, its own gaze snapping to Aziraphale's face in the metallic reflection.
It had felt, or sensed, something – a pulse of heat, maybe, or a fractional reduction in resistance – and was locking onto it with predatory accuracy.
“You want to watch? Watch how hard I can fuck you, watch how your succulent arse takes my full length?” Its voice was ragged, a hot strain running through it, and Aziraphale realised everywhere it was touching him was starting to glow. Inside him felt like it was glowing as well, pain mingling with that dark slick uneasy pulse of want.
The pulsing intensified and so did the glow, seeming to wash through him, lifting him, filling him up with something that felt better than pain, better than resisting - better that anything.
“Come on, give it to me—that, yes, that.” The demon’s voice roughened further, taking up a hypnotic urgent litany, slowing the pace of its hips to match; but making the strokes longer, making him feel how it claimed him each time. “That’s it, that’s what I need. You owe me, you interrupted, you interfered, you are costing me, you are denying me—give me everything.”
Its hand moved against Aziraphale's stomach as it spoke, searching now, finding the shameful hard line of his cock and grinding against it.
“Ah!” The added stimulation was too much, making Aziraphale feel like he’d plunged his face into the hearth.
The demon patently didn’t care, lifting off to lick its hand and then reaching around again, trapping Aziraphale's cock against his stomach so that it felt every slam of its cock inside.
“No, it’s too—too much,” Aziraphale gasped out, but that was—that was a lie. Its wet hand felt incredible. In any case, the demon ignored his protests and started rubbing him, coordinating. It was as if it planned to extract his orgasm by ruthless precision, as if Aziraphale were a puzzle to unlock, a line of black powder forced to ignite. And it wasn’t wrong, because there was something happening, despite everything; it was as if the demon’s very touch set his skin on fire. It stroked his cock with an unfeeling, vigorous determination until at last Aziraphale gave a strangled cry and came.
“Yes,” the demon exclaimed, a noise of pure triumph, and then threw him carelessly down on the floor.
Aziraphale saved his face with his hands, feeling the world pitch and lurch like a ship in a storm. The dizzy pleasure of his orgasm seemed to have melted him, his whole body succumbing, unresisting now, almost… welcoming.
“Yes,” the demon said again, a guttural sound, crushing him the rest of the way into the floor and shoving itself fully back inside. Aziraphale gasped as the demon braced itself on one fist, grabbing Aziraphale's shoulder with the other. Its wings were pounding now, filling the air with the noise of them - dragons, demons, nightmares - and it started driving its hips with unholy force. Pinned beneath it, Aziraphale couldn’t stop squirming, unable to find an angle where the invasion was less intense. Despite how—how terrible this was, his cock kept trying to rise again.
The demon built back to its peak before - quite suddenly, it seemed to Aziraphale - it finished inside him, in a burning liquid rush that seemed to go on a long time.
Aziraphale moaned weakly until it was over, until the demon's great taut bulk subsided on top of him, inside him, with a gutteral sigh of satisfaction.
Aziraphale didn’t see if there was any further power transfer. He buried his face in his arms on the floor, shaking, unable to catch his breath. After a few long seconds he felt it pull out with a low growl, and then—he was alone.
No soothing return to unconsciousness this time, no: he was left without ceremony, collapsed before the hearth with his legs apart, stinging fluid pulsing out of his hot, swollen hole, feeling like he’d barely survived.
The heat from the fire revived him by degrees, a sluggish return of strength to his bruised, exhausted limbs. The dormitory was silent apart from occasional dull pops and crackles from the hearth’s embers. At last Aziraphale pushed up to his feet and staggered back to bed, head spinning.
His bed still bore traces of earlier warmth. Aziraphale lay on his side, pulling the covers up tight around his chin, and shivered like a horse after a tournament. The pain was ebbing, and the memory of the pain already felt indistinct, something he could describe but no longer imagine.
The sweetest amnesia, Merlin called it; once the torment had passed, the mind let go of the sensation. Not the shock of what had happened - that was far more likely to repeat on a person - but the visceral acuity growing diffuse behind memory’s veil.
Of course, Merlin had been talking about battle wounds rather than supernatural assault, but with a note of wild hysteria Aziraphale felt like it fit. Was practically appropriate, given the lengths he’d just gone to in the name of protecting the brotherhood.
Lying there as his breathing settled, he imagined approaching Arthur and Merlin with tales of such self-sacrifice. Imagined their serious, concerned faces at the first mention of the words “sleep” and “demon”, followed by the eyebrows raising ever skyward as he went on to describe what the “sacrifice” had entailed.
No, he thought, closing his eyes at last, succumbing to the depths of genuine sleep once more. Unless he wished to be carted off under suspicion of being some sort of madman or debauchee, this was a matter that needed to stay between him and his conscience.
Luckily, there was no reason that anyone else needed to know.
Chapter 4: Day 4: The Aftermath
Summary:
He drained another mug of wine, imagining how that conversation would go. Yes, m’lady, it emerges I am the true hero of the hour, for I sacrificed my honour to save that young knight! Sacrificed it so thoroughly, again and again and… well yes, quite.
He felt his cheeks heat, and assumed he could pass it off as the flush of wine. Truly, though. It was probably a good thing she wasn’t there to see him.
And yet, rumbling away under his giddy, silly thoughts, he realised, was something else. Something with edges, something heavy; something shaped like a hard truth. Amidst a rising fog of wine, it emerged.
The demon had not stayed in the realm of his dreams.
Notes:
Thank you for sticking with me! It gets more fun from here, as our favourite unreliable narrator flexes his skills…
Chapter Text
“Fetch the apothecary!”
Aziraphale woke with a start, to find a commotion already raging through the dormitory.
Sunlight streamed in through the arrow-slit windows straight on to a disturbing scene: various knights calling to each other in alarm; Lancelot, down on one knee by Bors’ bed, shaking him, blocking Aziraphale’s view; Bors’ arm sliding down to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
Aziraphale jumped out of bed, only belatedly remembering to drag a sheet with him and wrap it around his waist.
“What’s happened?” he demanded, rushing to Lancelot’s side, dropping down next to him.
Bors’ face was dusky, his lips blue. The bruise over his cheek from his riding accident was yellowing, less swollen, and the scratches across his face looked bloodless.
Fuck.
“He’s taken some sort of turn,” Lancelot was saying, leaving off the shaking to press Bors’ eyelids up one by one. Below, the pupils were a glassy swollen black, but they contracted as the bright sunlight fell over them. So… not dead. Not yet. But not rousing either.
“Does anyone know where he spent yesterday evening?” Gwaine was asking, pacing across the other side of the bed, arms folded. The soft brogue of his voice cracked with strain. “Did he slip out? Did he take something?”
“He was with us,” Lamarok said, crowding in next to him, eyes huge. He shook his head in disbelief. “He was… fine, I swear it. We played cards! We all drank from the same jug. He was fine,” he repeated, his stoic voice revealing its own stricken edge.
“Well something has happened overnight,” Lancelot said darkly, one hand still spread over Bors’ chest. “His heart moves but he barely breathes.”
Unbidden, Aziraphale remembered the dreadful cold extraction of air from his own lungs, the feeling of it rushing away. It had almost felt like drowning.
“He needs air,” Aziraphale heard himself say urgently. “He—Sorry—move, please—let me.”
Lancelot frowned as Aziraphale pushed him to one side, then read whatever was in Aziraphale’s face and nodded.
Aziraphale was already leaning down to the unconscious young man, drawing his own breath in as deeply as he could. He angled Bors’ mouth a little open, pinched his nose, formed a seal with his lips, and gently exhaled.
Live, he thought fiercely, feeling a strange and stultified resistance, as if the passage of air within Bors’ chest had been frozen. Bors’ lips were cool and still beneath his own, lifeless. Another meeting of mouths that was nothing like it should be. Aziraphale pulled back and redrew his own breath, and tried again, exhaling heat, and again, until at last he felt something intrinsic thaw—and Bors’ chest rose. He drew back again and felt Bors’ chest sink, as his own warm breath returned softly against his cheek.
The room was absolutely silent around him as he did it again. Again. The air was flowing freely now, Aziraphale’s fingers spread on Bors’ chest, counting out his heartbeats, exhaling into his mouth until he felt his ribs expand.
He imagined replacing all the breath the demon had stolen, replacing it with his own warmth, his vigour.
Lifeforce.
He did it a final time, and then drew back properly, surveyed the young man’s face again.
Bors’ colour was better. He still didn’t wake, but his lips had become pink, and as Aziraphale watched his chest started to rise more fully, unaided.
“Merlin,” Aziraphale said, without knowing he was going to speak. “He needs Merlin.”
He wouldn’t have been able to explain it, but there was no one in the world that Aziraphale would rather have seen right now. The presence of that quick, slight figure, pale and angular beneath a shock of wavy blue-black hair and trim beard - far less physically impressive than any of the knights currently milling around the room - would have felt like that of a holy paladin.
Merlin, who leaned on a gnarled heartswood staff despite surely not being more than forty summers himself, and having known no significant injury of which Aziraphale was aware. Over the past year, Aziraphale had gained an inexplicable impression that Merlin’s staff was not essential to the man’s mobility, but that its constant presence was a great support to him in other ways.
And other ways, Aziraphale was convinced, were what they needed now.
The door opened, but it wasn’t Merlin. The King’s Apothecary burst into the dormitory, a grey-haired woman with steely eyes, accompanied by assistants carrying bowls of steaming water and pungent herbs.
Lancelot had scribbled something on a piece of parchment and folded it twice. He pressed it into the hand of a pageboy. “The king’s advisor,” he said quietly. “Tell Merlin he’s needed in the knights’ dormitory right away.”
Now that aid had arrived, the woman and her entourage bustling around, the other knights scattered gratefully. A few hung back to help or watch, but most escaped the disquieting scene as soon as duty allowed.
Lancelot lingered, while Aziraphale hurriedly flung on his clothes. Then walked out with him, giving Aziraphale a curious look.
Aziraphale shifted uneasily. “What?”
“Where did you learn that?”
Aziraphale shook his head. “Just occurred to me,” he said. Now was not the time to start talking to the most noble Sir Lancelot about the very many books he’d read in secret, while his father raged and his beloved mother ailed. “He looked like he needed… air.”
“Hmm,” Lancelot said, the slow appraisal in his eyes entirely positive. “Well, you were right.”
Aziraphale looked away with a vague shrug. He felt sick to his stomach. If he’d stepped in sooner… If only he’d stepped in sooner…
But another voice, wretchedly practical, whispered in his other ear. What if instead he’d stepped in later?
What if he’d not offered himself to the beast at all?
Bors was taken away to the Infirmary and by breakfast the castle was awash with rumour. A curse, a malady, a grave misstep with too many recreational herbs… were just a few of the accounts that Aziraphale heard between one corridor towards the Great Hall and another.
Inside the Great Hall, with the heavy doors closed behind them, Merlin gathered the knights together around the king’s round table. His vulpine eyes were sombre but held their usual energy; it was rare that he seemed at rest in public.
Now he spread both long-fingered hands on the table, and looked from knight to knight. “Your comrade Sir Bors is living, but only just.”
“At least he is living,” Lancelot said immediately, and Aziraphale was amazed to find himself slapped on the shoulder by a gruffly approving hand.
“We are granted that small mercy,” Merlin agreed. “But it is a most unusual malady that has befallen him.” He paused for a moment, then sighed. “I regret to ask this of men of your calibre, but the situation demands it. Does anyone know of any—weaknesses, this young knight may have suffered?”
Silence. Aziraphale swallowed down the urge to jump to Bors’ defence. Even the suggestion that he might have brought this somehow upon himself was distasteful as bile. And yet, surely to speak now would be to lend weight to such an argument. There was solidarity in the knights’ silence, Aziraphale could feel.
Merlin looked from man to man. “Or… any unusual habits?”
That prompted a few headshakes, but still no forthcoming remarks.
Then Escanor shrugged nonchalantly. “No idea,” he said. “Maybe he brought some exotic tonic with him from his own country, got careless with it.”
Aziraphale felt a frisson of fury light up under his skin, but it was Lancelot – who hailed from France – that spoke, quick as a whip.
“If you’re trying to convince us you poisoned him, Escanor, you’re going about it the right way!” It was said with a laugh, one of his oh-so-handsome smiles, and eyes of darkest iron.
Escanor made a dismissive noise. “Poison? Ha! You should look to the scullery maids for that.” He glanced at the others as if gauging support, but his henchmen weren’t present, and none of the other knights seemed warm to his tone.
Merlin arched an eyebrow at him.
Escanor tucked his chin in, glowered a little, but didn’t speak again.
“He seemed fine yesterday,” Lamarok said eventually, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Will he be all right?”
Unspoken, the fear that they were to lose one of their number to something unknown - instead of the reassuring cause-and-effect of a battle or a duel - was visible in almost every face.
“We’re working on it,” Merlin said firmly, and perhaps unconsciously rested his hand on his walking staff. “As soon as anything changes, we’ll let you know.”
They received word after lunch, from an exuberant youth apparently sent at speed from the Infirmary to the training grounds, that Bors had regained his awareness and was now recuperating at a reasonable pace.
Aziraphale – in full plate mail under humid midday clouds, practising at sabre – almost staggered with relief at the news.
He realised only then that he’d been braced all morning for it to go the other way, for the message to have been tragic, for his guilt to calcify.
The cool dread of his expectation had entirely suffused him in a way that he only fully noticed once it drained away.
Now, he felt almost giddy.
By evening meal, the Court atmosphere had fully recovered – had, in fact, gone quite far the other direction. An impromptu celebration of the harvest was declared. Casks of decent ale were tapped and extra musicians were found. The banqueting hall rang with toasts to the Heartswood and the Hearthstone - to Camelot - and to the king.
At the height of the feast, Lady Morgana presented King Arthur with a beautiful piece of hanging tapestry, depicting a sunrise over a squat grey castle. Shafts of light had been cunningly embroidered in metal threads, leading centrally to a large amber stone. To ward off ill spirits and reflect the ascension of your benevolent power over this land, she smiled.
Aziraphale looked around in vain for the handmaiden, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Arthur gave a speech about the marvels of modern medicine, and how lucky they all were to live in such times, when physicians and other learned men could work together to such impressive results. Merlin looked on tolerantly as Arthur raised a toast in his name, and then laughed and shook his head at Arthur’s invitation to speak next.
“Hmm. So be it!” Arthur declared. His eyes found Aziraphale, and he grinned. “Much was well-done today. Enjoy the night!”
The musicians started up again, and fresh wine was poured.
Aziraphale accepted a full tankard, and then another as the effects started to kick in. Far from having condemned Bors, Aziraphale found himself thinking - he had actually saved him! Albeit by a somewhat unorthodox method.
Of course there was no one, absolutely no one, he could tell about his… method.
He felt a strange urge to celebrate. On a whim, he looked again for the handmaiden, but she still wasn’t in attendance.
Not that he would be able to mention it to her either.
He drained another mug of wine, imagining how that conversation would go. Yes, m’lady, it emerges I am the true hero of the hour, for I sacrificed my honour to save that young knight! Sacrificed it so thoroughly, again and again and… well yes, quite.
He felt his cheeks heat, and assumed he could pass it off as the flush of wine. Truly, though. It was probably a good thing she wasn’t there to see him.
And yet, rumbling away under his giddy, silly thoughts, he realised, was something else. Something with edges, something heavy; something shaped like a hard truth. Amidst a rising fog of wine, it emerged.
The demon had not stayed in the realm of his dreams.
Every encounter that Aziraphale had had with the demon, no matter what it did - whatever indignities it perpetuated upon him, however damaging, however degrading - no trace of their activities remained by morning. He’d found it surprisingly easy, so far, to relegate it all to the domain of his active imagination, an absurd and fantastical dream.
But this… was suddenly very real.
A chill went though Aziraphale despite the surrounding merriment. The threat, the fear, the pain he’d experienced - the pleasure - all of these now had a tether back to the cold light of day. And with that thought rose the conviction that if the demon had taken his last breath as it planned, it would have been Aziraphale laid out in the Infirmary. Or worse. Probably, worse.
And if the demon was real - and the consequences of its actions were real, and it had a quota - then what further horrors could the next ten nights potentially hold?
Aziraphale’s slightly wine-addled thoughts swept back in vivid detail to the piercing agonies he’d endured, the frenzied possession. He remembered the reflection in the copper bathtub, the sheer size of the demon as it worked its way inside him, used him like a ragdoll. He imagined what it had seen, Aziraphale's pale soft human body face down, lightweight in its hands, his arse spread around its angry red cock, so wide he couldn’t now comprehend it. He remembered the shock as it breached him as easily as splitting a peach.
He couldn’t possibly tolerate that night after night.
Could… could he?
No… no?
He shifted in his seat, realising his pulse was racing.
Of course not.
Surely not.
And yet, what was the alternative? He couldn’t let what had happened to Bors happen to anyone else either. That would be horrific. Diabolical, to know, and not try to step in.
He couldn’t tell anyone. Absolutely not.
Which meant the honourable thing to do - the chivalric thing, even - would be to face it again. Alone.
It was nothing short of his duty to keep the demon occupied.
He shivered, thinking again of his tender body stretched around the demon’s dick as it plunged in and out. The unending torment. There was really nothing he could do to prevent it.
And on the way back to his dormitory, he slipped away to the kitchens.
That night Aziraphale waited ’til everyone slept. And then, picking his way soundlessly around the dormitory - taking care not to misstep or stumble on any strewn clothes or discarded stays - Aziraphale blew out every candle except his own.
Bors’ empty bed opposite his seemed especially dark.
Aziraphale got back into his own bed and slouched down, under the covers, attention darting around the room, listening for any sound out of the steady, slumbering ordinary.
Eventually satisfied that he really was the only one awake, he made some efforts to prepare himself with the grease he'd obtained from the kitchen. Scooping it into his palm and sliding his fingers slowly into his body, trying to stretch himself without making too much noise.
Trying not to dwell on how it felt, that slide of skin, his own fingertips pushing as deep as he could.
Inadequate.
He told himself didn’t want to face that—that thing, again, without some efforts to make it more... bearable. The memory of its vast, hard phallus filled his mind, and he shivered as he pressed a third thickly-greased finger inside. He knew it could fit inside him because the demon had proved that, but if there was anything he could do to make the process less difficult… to reduce the pain as it penetrated him so thickly, so deeply… to make it feel, um, less overwhelming… take it better… take it deeper, all the way in, hard as the demon liked… as long as it liked… uh…
Aziraphale’s own cock nudged against his wrist where it craned beneath his legs. He took hold of it with his other hand, squeezing gently as he worked, gritting his teeth as the sensation flooded him, reminded him, warmed him all over. A few slow squeezes and he found three fingers weren’t enough.
He bit his lip, sliding his little finger in as well, grinding against the stretch of it, pressing his thumb up against the base of his balls as he stroked himself, working his knuckles inside himself, straining his head back and trying to remain entirely silent.
That was—almost—fuck—
His other hand was striping his cock almost viciously. Searching for the brutal rhythm the demon had handled him with last night, that perfunctory selfish stroke. If he could just—wait, no. Aziraphale forced himself to stop, to move both his hands away, to draw a curtain over the visions that had filled his head in that moment, of speckled red skin and arching wings, of infernal heat, of demanding pressure.
He panted softly under his breath, collecting himself. That hadn’t… wasn’t… He swallowed hard. He just wanted this to be as… tolerable, as possible.
He knew what was coming. Hopefully. Hopefully, it would choose his… heroic sacrifice, over taking one of the others. If this didn’t work… Well, that didn’t bear thinking about. It had to work.
Aziraphale lay down on his front, pressing his cock against the mattress but not rubbing, not grinding, just - pushing a little. Getting comfortable.
He arranged the covers so they rode high on his bare thighs.
He closed his eyes.
Chapter 5: Night 4: CROWLEY
Summary:
Time to check in with the demon.
Chapter Text
CROWLEY
Crowley slipped through the flames of the dormitory hearth, pulsing with greed.
Yesterday’s fare had been a drawn out meal, tantalising and feral and briefly quite satisfying, but now—he needed more. Meat, where yesterday now felt like a handful of perfumed air. Blood, or death, to stave off the gnawing hunger that would otherwise turn inward and consume him.
He stepped out of the hearth and shook off the ashes, reorienting easily now to the darkened room. The first night he’d stumbled around, the instability of self-inflicted famine making his footfalls chaotic.
He’d been weakened by the exchange with Morgana, to the point of insensibility – but oh, the promised harvest, he’d been confident it would more than suffice to make up for it. What a wealth of riches awaited him here, unsuspecting, ripe for the plucking. He’d lurched into the room salivating and weaved from bed to bed, inhaling the vapours rising off each slumbering body, until his nose had led him to that one bed in the window alcove – and the trouble had begun.
Crowley had not managed to reap even a fraction of the lifeforce he’d put into Morgana’s trinkets, that first night. He’d managed something, yes, from the blond knight’s interrupted last breath, and then quite a lot more, from what came after—but it didn’t come close to what he needed, in order for it to last.
The second night had been an even more meagre helping, the power he’d syphoned off evaporating like mist off a lake as the sun rose. And then yesterday… well. Yesterday had been better. He’d had most of the young mortal’s breath, before he was interrupted – felt it running into his chest like syrup, like warm blood, felt it shore up his strength and sharpen his teeth. And then he’d had his vengeance on the knight who’d interrupted, and that had also been… something. But it was already starting to wane.
Crowley’s footfalls were deft now, at least, sure-footed as he padded past the copper bath - spiked with memory, that - and on between the silent heaped beds.
The knights lay arranged around the room like baking loaves of bread, neatly ordered, each giving off a waft of temptation that teased Crowley’s nostrils and made his appetites surge.
Crowley scanned the room on reflexive habit, and then wished he hadn’t. It was darker than usual. By design, he realised, feeling his pupils dilate to adjust. Ah. The candle flames had all been extinguished bar one. The only candle still lit, a beacon in this dark hall, waved a greeting from the alcove by the window.
Crowley felt a terrible urge to seek it out. The knight by the window - the ever so tempting one, the one who had provided such exquisite and unwise sport over the last three visits - tonight smelled incomparable, even from a distance. A scent like a liquid golden vapour that electrified Crowley’s airways and made his skin tingle.
This knight’s ongoing existence was both taunt and challenge.
Crowley approached before clearly making the decision to do so. His head was muzzy with hunger—that was the reason. But that was also the reason he shouldn’t come to this bed. Not when he needed a quick, uncomplicated feed.
Not when… oh.
Ohhhh, little mortal, what are you doing?
Crowley stared down, nostrils flaring. The plump, blond knight, who had taken Crowley’s cock with such piteous mewling even as he tried his very best to swallow it down, had tonight foregone subtlety altogether.
Crowley drank in the sight of him, even as the hunger raked his insides with ever-sharper claws. The knight’s body was naked, as Crowley had come to expect, but tonight his blankets had been crumpled down, riding low over the curves of his arse despite barely skimming his thighs. One pale knee was angled sideways, breaching the blanket, creating a well of shadows between his legs.
Crowley was a demon. He had done his time in every circle of Hell’s burned garden; he had witnessed obscenity unimaginable, cruelty insurmountable, and he could be relied upon to stay ready to reap the souls of the innocent throughout. He was ruthless with a quota. Ask anyone.
And yet somehow that unmarked pale thigh, proffered beneath thin blankets, kindled a desire in Crowley that had been unmatched in centuries.
This knight wasn't the first human that had offered up its own flesh as an alternative to their last breath being taken—far from it. The ice descending was clearly a galvanic force. But most humans begged for death as soon as their brains caught up with their eyes; few and far between were those who could look directly upon Crowley’s form and not despair.
It took a certain grit, that was often – when staring into the face of actual hellfire – in short supply. An entrenched sort of courage. It was exceptionally rare that a human had been able to offer any powerful enough sacrifice to offset the intensity of their own life-debt… There had been a dark maiden once a short flight north of here, Crowley dimly remembered, and the local populace still told tales about her. And even she had remained entirely furious until her release.
And now… there was this. This human didn’t just tolerate what Crowley could do.
This human seemed to crave it.
And that was… captivating.
Crowley reached out and stroked a fingertip over the unguarded thigh, alert to any shifting of the fine limbs, any consciousness stirring. The flesh dimpled pleasingly beneath the pressure, and the knight‘s torso rose steadily as any other; there was no dissembling here, no coy secret awareness.
This knight had known what Crowley could do, must have known that Crowley would come, and had laid himself out like this. An offering. Crowley could smell the grease that had been used inside himself, could imagine the gleaming passive welcome of his body, beneath those flimsy blankets.
The gnawing hunger in Crowley’s belly insisted that the next thing to do would be to imprison that beautiful mouth and suck; suck until the knight’s prodigious lifeforce left him in a powerful glittering swirl down Crowley’s throat. That was what he needed. Without it, he would surely grow perilously weak.
The throb behind Crowley’s dick disagreed, arguing instead to rip aside the blankets and sink himself into him, cockhead to balls, pinning him with hips and fists if there was any struggle as he jolted awake. Force him flat and take him, take him, take him. That was what Crowley wanted; instead of feasting on his soul directly, he felt the urge to parcel it out in small drafts of suffering, each less sustaining than a simple death but more immediately vibrant, more intoxicating.
More intoxicating again – but impractical, because he had no idea how long it would last, because no one did this – was the flickery euphoria that had accompanied the knight’s release of pleasure, a foreign sensation that frothed and fizzed over Crowley's skin like effervescent sunlight. Very odd, for a demon of the night. Very… distracting.
Crowley flicked his forked tongue over his lips, letting himself meander gradually up the knight’s smooth back, leaning closer until his nose could nestle in right there where the pale hair curled against the nape of his neck. There, he inhaled again, and the knight’s enticing earthly scent sank into him with a deep shiver.
Crowley acknowledged then—there was something else at play here, as well. He hadn’t named it before, still couldn’t countenance it, but in the secrecy of this moment, entirely unwitnessed, Crowley had to admit: he was fascinated.
Aziraphale.
The name floated to the front of the demon’s mind, from the recesses where the awareness of the daytime - their awareness - lurked at night.
And so it was only Crowley’s fingertips which travelled up that luminous thigh, nudging the edge of the blanket aside as he went.
He had to get closer. That scent.
Crowley pinched the blanket and tugged, and it slid noiselessly away, drawing Crowley’s gaze over the gleaming curved buttocks, the dimples at the base of the knight’s back like twin impressions of Crowley’s thumbs. Crowley fitted his thumbs against them and let his fingers stretch lightly around the knight’s hips. The knight frowned momentarily, nose wrinkling, and Crowley found himself holding his own breath – absurd! – until the knight’s face smoothed out again, and he slept on.
Entirely revealed, this offering was even more tempting. Crowley could almost see the potential energy flowing within the knight’s still form, radiant, untapped. The potential for a hard-fought death. For… more? For fighting, for suffering. For pleasure.
Crowley leaned down close, temporarily lost in the yielding porcelain beneath his fingers, inhaling the knight’s warm clean smell. For just this moment, he found that curiosity was overpowering the other urges.
He sucked another slow, lingering breath, resisting the need to mark him with teeth and scent; listening intently for any sigh escaping the knight’s mouth, any hint that his body was starting to awaken.
He seemed deeply asleep, however.
A taste? Would that kindle the knight’s conscious thought, or. Could it be made subtle enough?
Crowley was aware, of course, that he could simply order the sleeping body to stillness, paralyse it with the warm iron shackles of his will, and yet. He didn’t… quite… want to.
Notwithstanding the strange ability this mortal seemed to have, of slithering out from Crowley’s hypnotic restraint at the most interesting of moments, there was something somehow more intriguing about the potential that he could wake at any moment.
And… realise. Realise who had caught him, realise what they might do. Again. And Crowley could drink in that moment of realisation - the pungent stab of horror, surely; the dread - before the rest of the night’s entertainment would unfold.
And so he didn’t order him to stillness. Instead, Crowley swept his hands slowly up the knight’s supple back, as if gathering the heat of him in both palms. He bent his mouth to the arterial slant of his prey’s neck - of Aziraphale’s neck - and gently, lightly tasted the skin there. The pulse against his tongue was slow and regular, no rabbit kicks or panicky skipped beats.
The knight truly was asleep.
Crowley stirred his tongue against the skin, and for a moment deeply indulged, tasting not only what was there now but also the knight’s chequered history.
This was something he only usually did when in need of fresh, individualised fodder for a mortal’s nightmares. He didn’t examine why he did this now, with no nightmare being designed.
Crowley opened his awareness and sought more, sought other tastes from other years, and then blinked as his mouth flooded. Such a lot of suffering, for one inconsequential mortal. The bitter musk of it spread through Crowley’s mouth, making a pang of sensation ripple through his jaw. So many episodes of rank fear, sweat breaking out under his tousled hairline; and so much loss. Shivery salt tears sliding uncontrolled down his neck, stifled quivers of nervousness and dread. And… very little else, until recently.
Crowley swirled his tongue all the way up to the knight’s ear, expanding his reach into those senses as well, and found some memories of boyish laughter ringing there, some hushed words of encouragement, and then—shouting. Shouting, and again, fear, and again, loss.
Crowley drew back, swiping his tongue back into his mouth and rolling it reflexively as he contemplated the peaceful form in front of him. His fascination deepened. Many mortals were driven mad when they faced so much evidence of the meaningless, brutal reality in which they lived and died.
This one had clung onto something, that much was clear. Some fallen tree in the rushing river of despair.
Crowley’s eyes narrowed, as the daytime awareness convulsed once more, supplying him with a name. King Arthur. The hope that this knight clung to. Morgana’s sworn yet unwitting foe.
It occurred to Crowley that, if he were performing his role correctly, he ought to pull the knight’s past suffering into his next dream, make it fresh and real. He should torture him with it while he decided his fate. He really ought to.
He didn’t.
Crowley was so very, very hard.
He eased his weight onto the bed instead. One great knee planted either side of the knight’s naked hips, feeling the trail of his furled wings brush over those pale, spread thighs. He sucked in a quick breath; again, like last night, like every night that he’d encountered this succulent mortal, his own body was lighting up everywhere they touched.
He hunkered down over the knight’s back, on all fours but sinking low enough to make that interesting connection on several sliding planes, and held, for a moment, seeing if he would wake.
Aziraphale slept.
Hunger lashed through Crowley like a barbed whip. He growled suddenly, ducking further to taste the juncture of his shoulder, where muscle bulged even in sleep beneath a soft layer of fat. Crowley tested his teeth against it, just a scratch, where normally he would puncture, maim; and he reached down and grabbed himself, guiding his cock between those cushioned thighs, letting himself rest there even as he fought the urge to shove in. He wanted to push into him, wanted to shock him into waking up, but it was also so simple having him placid like this: not fighting, not arguing, not reacting at all.
Unguarded… defenceless.
The knight’s pulse was still slow, and steady, as if he were pumping treacle though those blue-green puffed-up veins, not the perilous flutter of his life’s only blood.
The curves of the knight’s arse felt shiny and slick beneath Crowley’s sly, assessing hand. He allowed himself to part the knight’s buttocks—found them warm, with give, unresisting as he explored. He tried to keep his touch light but the hunger was roiling within him now, demanding something of him, some violence, vehemence, action. He rubbed the head of his cock over the knight’s arse, between his cheeks, nudging against his hole. That slickness was so enticing. He imagined the knight’s grim determination as he prepared himself with the grease, anything to stave off further agony—except that didn’t ring true either.
Mouth going dry, Crowley imagined the knight’s anticipation instead. That thought kicked up a shower of sparks right between his eyes.
Ahhh.
The knight stirred, and Crowley realised he’d been gradually pressing harder as his thoughts roved on, one hand sliding down to anchor his soft hip as Crowley rubbed his cock against him, aiming, seeking. Another increase in pressure and the knight would open for him, he was convinced. He could feel the tight muscle twitching against him as he pressed more firmly, nudged again.
“Mm.” The sound was barely audible, but it made Crowley’s cock leak another burst of slickness right across Aziraphale’s hole. “Mmh…”
The warm cushioned thighs rolled slightly further apart, flooding Crowley with another wave of lust. Forget the breath for now—he wanted this, and damn the consequences. He wanted to feel this tight body admit him, wanted to feel the knight wake up to the realisation that Crowley was already taking him again; wanted to feel how he panicked and struggled against the intrusion, taste the sweat of his fear. Then of course, afterward, he’d kill him. Right?
Crowley looked down at the grease-shiny pinkness of his hole, aimed his cock against it, and nudged more firmly. The muscle felt brand new again, supple—obviously not supple enough, but that was no real barrier. Crowley pressed the head of his cock against its resisting tightness until it started inevitably to open, even as the knight, by chaotic increments, became aware.
But the knight did not - to Crowley’s amazement - panic.
His breathing changed first, the long steady rise and fall becoming more shallow, more rapid, before easing out again. The somnolent softness of the knight’s muscles receded, before being replaced by a more deliberate relaxation. The knight’s arms twitched, as if the urge to push up was running through them, those broad shoulders bunching momentarily, though his eyes stayed closed.
The knight, Crowley realised, was trying to stay asleep.
Crowley’s cock twitched hard, and the knight shifted luxuriantly beneath it, twisting his hips a little and—ah, fuck, there. The rigid tension he’d not yet forced himself through, opening a fraction. The hunger roared at that, and Crowley leant harder against him, almost groaning as the head of his cock sank less impeded into that warm, tight grip. Yes. Fuck, yes, that felt incredible. The knight shuddered around him, but didn’t overtly rouse, and certainly didn’t put up a fight. Crowley smelt a salty rising tang of arousal, couldn’t tell if it was his own suddenly pounding heat or emanating from the still body beneath him.
Crowley sank down on top of him, hesitation abandoned, and pushed steadily with his hips to sheath himself fully inside. The grease made it so much easier, as did the knight’s thighs falling open, the only resistance coming from how physically tight he was—no rejection this time, no petty squabbles to get away.
It felt sublime. The golden glow was racing through Crowley already, brighter and more vivid than he had experienced on the other three nights put together. And he wanted more, ugh, yes, more, more. Crowley hunched down to open his mouth against the back of the knight’s neck, sucking mindlessly as he sank deeper, finding his full depth with a near-delirious slow push.
“Mmh,” the knight moaned softly, still without opening his eyes, and Crowley didn’t—he didn’t want him to wake up yet. In a frenzied rush of truth he realised he didn’t want the fight here, not right now: he wanted the compliance.
“Sleep,” Crowley hissed softly, and the knight wriggled beneath him, a brief sinuous flexing of everything before melting obediently back into unconsciousness.
It made the glow fade off slightly, Crowley couldn’t help but notice, but it was worth it for the sudden freedom to move.
His hips shoved against the knight’s arse, forcing the last few inches of his cock inside, and the knight didn’t even flinch. And that was—mm, delicious. Uninhibited, Crowley sucked harder at his lax neck, hands roving now, grasping the soft curves of him, fingers sinking into the knight’s flesh as Crowley’s hips stirred. Pulling his cock out a fraction before pressing back in, feeling the helpless acceptance of the knight’s body, entirely unresisting in this enforced sleep; getting more slippery as Crowley’s cock throbbed out slow pulses of heated slick inside him.
A few harder, experimental thrusts made Crowley groan. He drew back to watch, admiring the obscene stretch of the knight’s abused hole around the uneven width of his cock, the ridged shiny red disappearing into the smooth pink, watching him take it, take it, take all of it, fuck.
“Yes,” Crowley muttered, adjusting his position so he could fuck him harder, deeper. Shock waves went through his soft flesh and dissipated. His waist was so plush, the deep heat of him so enticing. He felt so good, so pliant, taking the full length of Crowley’s cock without even a murmur of protest. Crowley let his claws come out, raked them down the knight’s sides, watched the skin flare with red trails in their wake. No reaction, even as he did it again, scratching lurid stripes across his back, his hips, digging the claws in along his hip bones, getting leverage without any discernible response.
The knight’s body was trembling with the force of his thrusts now, every slam of Crowley’s hips sending passive reverberations up that lovely marked back, those loose limbs sliding without purpose over the bed beneath him.
His face looked serene, almost angelic, as Crowley defiled his sweet, tight arse. And suddenly, as the gathering heat pulsed harder and brighter inside him—Crowley wanted him awake.
He didn’t want to come balls-deep inside him and then slink away, unacknowledged.
He wanted to feel the knight’s response as he used him, mercilessly, wanted to hear him, smell him, watch.
“Awaken.”
It was more a growl than a word, spat out between one deep thrust and the next, but it had the desired effect: in an instant the cloak of sleep swaddling the knight’s awareness was flung aside. Crowley felt his consciousness soar, and braced for violent opposition—and then choked out a gasp when the knight just reached down. Shoved a hand beneath his own pelvis and groaned loudly, arm flexing, muscles vividly outlined as he tugged at his own cock, immediately matching Crowley stroke for stroke.
Crowley’s clawing grasp of his hips faltered momentarily, and he felt the knight’s thighs tighten and strain in response, bracing against the force of his thrusts, but taking it more, steadying himself against it, no hint of trying to escape.
“Mmhh,” the knight moaned, swishing his head back and forth, and Crowley felt the gilded intensity of the knight’s surging arousal slap across him like a physical wave. He felt it in his skin, in his chest, in his cock, how fiercely the knight was capitulating, how much he was taking, how close he already was. Whatever the knight had been dreaming of to tolerate Crowley’s usage of him, this was a continuation, not a riposte. “Oh, oh, oh—”
His deep hoarse voice filled Crowley’s ears, the urgent musky smell of him filled Crowley’s nose, and the sensation of him, rocking his hips in urgent submission, starting to—starting to—the unexpected aggressive pleasure of it found a fracture in Crowley’s armour and twisted.
Crowley was flooded with golden heat, a ferocious ascension that made him snarl and shudder.
“Oh, oh, oh…” The knight’s arm gave a few final shivery pulls, and Crowley felt him clenching around his cock, working himself on it as he started to spend. Crowley felt the drenching rush of it all over his skin again—effervescent sunlight—and found he was being pushed into coming as well, the golden wave of it crashing over both of them at once, a shocking, tidal power.
Crowley moaned blindly, burying himself deep in the soft acceptance of the knight’s body and grinding into him until it was over. Feeling his own scalding essence empty out in rush after rush, fucking him through it, filling him with liquid heat as the knight trembled and groaned. Crowley clung to his hips and kept going, as if his own last breath depended on it, until he was entirely and victoriously spent.
Then he collapsed on top of him, panting, his cock still pulsing deep inside, slowly subsiding. The knight was panting as well—somehow despite Crowley’s weight on his back, he still had the wherewithal to breathe. Crowley didn’t know how that could be, and right now he couldn’t care less. He felt weak, and yet… wonderful. Replenished in no small way.
Crowley’s whole body was glowing, throbbing, satiated. Drained, but not depleted. It was as intense as the afterglow of a fresh kill, and yet Crowley knew, on a strange bone-deep level, that this knight had nothing left to fear from him tonight. He could no sooner rouse the appetite to consume him as he could lift his hips to pull out.
He just wanted to rest. Inside him, on top of him, breathing him in.
Fuck.
AZIRAPHALE
In the dream, there was only blackness.
It wasn’t a nightmare, just an ordinary dream, about nothing much, he was on the brink of waking up, and then he felt—it.
Something straddling his bed, sniffing him, fingers roaming. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it had just begun or if it had been happening for a long time. He was still on his front, the blankets shucked away. His mouth opened soundlessly as the huge fingers explored him, sliding all over his skin. The touch was light, hypnotic, almost relaxing, until they pushed his thighs open. That snapped Aziraphale to attention. Those big hands, sliding up, possessive now, holding his buttocks apart. Appraising him, it felt like. Seeing what Aziraphale had done to make it easier, make it… tolerable.
Aziraphale shivered, his first instinct wanting to close his legs, followed by a rapid temptation to reach back and hold himself open. A brazen, shameless invitation to this powerful creature to do whatever it wanted with him. The urge mounted crazily for a second before he dashed it down - he didn’t want to let on he was aware at all. And then he felt it, the wet head of its cock against his hole, nudging. Almost gentle, as if it was trying not to wake him. Which was preposterous - its cock was nothing short of a battering ram - but the idea of this demon taking any care whatsoever made Aziraphale so hard he almost whimpered.
He kept his eyes closed and stretched a little instead, as if fast asleep. Shifted, as if stirring within a dream that just happened to involve tilting his hips, and the demon made a low noise and pressed. That unreal stretch started to overwhelm him, and Aziraphale’s next breath staggered in as if he’d taken a blow to the chest. The head of its cock slid inside, and Aziraphale gasped, blinding excitement outweighing the inevitable pain as it filled him in a series of slow, smooth pushes, and then, as he cocked his hips back, as he tried desperately to take it without moaning—blackness upsurged once more.
Aziraphale felt like he’d been enclosed in a dark silken bundle and tossed into a warm, restless sea. His senses were muffled, blurred. His body felt like it was melting, losing its form like a wax idol before a flame. He was weightless, and yet sinking, vague flashes of light at the corners of his vision his only landmarks. He was warm, though, and comfortable, drifting in this deep, dark oceanic fog; and then it cracked open.
All at once, he was rushing to the surface, the amorphous warmth draining away. The soothing shifting insubstantial nothing was replaced with hot, violent clarity.
The demon was fucking him, had been fucking him for—he had no idea how long. His body was sweaty and aching and his hips were on fire within its claws, his back was a bright network of interlaced threads of pain, and he’d been right. This felt a lot better with the proper preparation - or maybe the demon was going easier on him? - either way the pain was less explosive tonight, though the driving intensity remained. All other sensations faded into obscurity against the pounding beat of its hips: the stretch he felt, as it filled him, and the slick emptiness each time it withdrew. The rhythm of it built and overwhelmed him. It wasn’t pulling all the way out between strokes; he felt the head of its cock punch past a sweet bright point inside him, again and again, a brutal blaze of pleasure emanating out from the contact each time.
Aziraphale shuddered and delved beneath himself, his own hot smooth cock rearing into his hand.
And it liked that. He felt how much it liked it, as Aziraphale stroked himself, as he angled his hips and braced with his knees and gave in to it. It made noises that sounded like strangled approval and it adjusted its hold on his hips, and then Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was matching its rhythm or it was matching him. He just knew they were synchronising, the push of their bodies, their breath, spiralling upward together.
It felt good, intense, incredible. He had this. The demon was fucking him mercilessly but Aziraphale was taking it, stroking himself, bucking back for more. He stopped swallowing his own cries and let them ring out as his climax built, a shaky peak of pleasure that tore through him in an incendiary rush and seemed to tear the demon down with him.
The noise it made, as Aziraphale came around its cock, was a revelation - as if Aziraphale had done something magnificent, something legendary - and then Aziraphale felt the hot pulsing swell inside him as it pressed his hips flat to the bed and pumped him full of its essence, grinding deep.
The weight of it, as it eventually stopped moving, was otherworldly. It was so much bigger than him, when it collapsed on top its chest was level with his ear, its muscular torso muffling any sounds from the rest of the room. Pinned beneath it, Aziraphale could hardly find the strength to draw breath, and yet he could just about manage it - just as he could wriggle his toes, and shift against its bulk still piercing him, the slick pressure of it almost comforting now. His muscles relaxed, bathed in afterglow, and he drifted mindlessly, tracking the heavy drum of its heartbeat against his ear.
He kept waiting for it to pull out, for the heated wetness to run down the backs of his thighs, for the cool air to rush over him in its wake; but it stayed there, on top of him, inside him, like some sort of post-coital dragon basking on its hoard of gold, for as long as Aziraphale managed to stay awake.
When he woke the next morning, it was gone, of course. No traces remained. Aziraphale’s body felt good as new, and - he opened one eye, greeted by the normal bustle of the knights about their morning routine - it seemed no one else had fallen victim to any mysterious malady.
Well. Well, now. Wasn’t that something?
Aziraphale stretched hugely until his spine crackled. He felt so damned good. He grinned to himself, marvelling at it, before hurrying to jump up and start the day.
Chapter 6: Night 5 - The Monster
Chapter Text
Aziraphale’s insufferable good mood lasted him until jousting practice after lunch, where he was thrown from his horse in full plate mail, landing in a bruised clanking heap like a sack of metal tankards.
He pushed himself up ruefully, sliding his visor back and looking around to see who had been witnessed to his graceless demise this time. Nobody, it seemed. The stalls were empty but for a few stablehands, kicking up dust together. No ladies, no king, and definitely no handmaiden.
“Might want to get that checked,” Lancelot said, nodding at Aziraphale’s wrist, later—it had caught the brunt of his weight awkwardly, the stitching on his wristguard splitting open, and now it was starting to swell.
“Right,” Aziraphale said, frowning as he poked it. “I’ll nip along to see the apothecary. It probably needs a… poultice, or something.”
Lancelot glanced around at where the rest of the knights were still engaged largely in horseplay on horseback, then leaned in closer to Aziraphale's ear. “Right,” he said, low-voiced. The heat of his breath was startlingly intimate. “Or failing that, you could always see what Merlin can offer you.”
Aziraphale drew back to look askance at him. That had sounded almost… covert.
Lancelot gave him a sunny smile. “But start with a poultice,” he said cheerfully, and patted Aziraphale on his uninjured shoulder. “You never know, she might have it good as new in no time.”
He departed, leaving Aziraphale with more questions than answers. Aziraphale watched him go before rubbing the side of his neck, where the skin still felt conspicuously warm. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but that had felt more suggestive than a simple order. He was probably imagining things, though. Lancelot’s nature did not tend towards the suggestive.
Sir Lancelot du Lac had been Arthur’s second-in-command for as long as Aziraphale could remember. He’d been Arthur’s closest friend as Crown Prince, and subsequently the first man of arms to be knighted after Arthur’s coronation. Gwaine and Percival swore their fealty soon after, alongside a brace of other men who had since departed - or perished - or hadn’t stayed the distance for other reasons.
Lancelot, Gwaine and Percival commanded much of the day-to-day business of the younger knights, with Arthur only occasionally called on for approval or oversight. Each modelled a degree of confident nobility that Aziraphale could only aspire towards. They seemed accomplished in the various duties of knighthood, enviably even of temper, with conduct above reproach both on and off the training fields.
That low voice, though. It set Aziraphale’s mind to wondering… Did something dwell beneath Lancelot’s fabled equanimity? Why might he have chosen to show it to Aziraphale now?
On the way through the courtyard towards the Infirmary, Aziraphale passed Morgana and her handmaiden having a hushed, tense-looking conversation under one of the stone arches. Morgana was shaking her head, her glossy black hair catching the light. Aziraphale’s path wouldn’t take him close enough to overhear what they were saying, even if eavesdropping was not the height of rudeness. He prepared a polite smile in case either of them looked up, but neither did, and courtly manners prevented him from calling out. What would he say, anyway? Hello, nice to see you, shame you missed me getting chucked off another horse, I hear it was quite the spectacle!
Perhaps not.
“We’ll start with comfrey and hemlock,” the King’s Apothecary said, after giving his wrist a thorough exploration and making a satisfied noise when Aziraphale only winced.
She selected a few leaves from a seemingly random array of plants and mashed them in a small bowl with a large heavy pestle. She added a few droplets from a tiny bottle that filled the dim stone room with a dank, woodsy smell, and reached for Aziraphale’s wrist again. “The bones are sound. Few days of rest and you’ll be fine. It’s not your sword hand, is it?”
“No,” Aziraphale said, swallowing as he tried to bat away from his mind a lurid, completely inappropriate reflection that it was the hand he preferred for his other sword. He was with a woman twice his age, of the medicinal cloth! He shouldn’t be thinking things like that.
But it seemed the last few nights had removed his ability to repress his thoughts. Previously unthinkable things were now roving merrily across his consciousness as if summoned for a country party. Thoughts about Arthur’s broad shoulders and Merlin’s long fingers, - and now thoughts about Lancelot as well, indulging in the memory of that warm accented voice murmuring close to his ear.
After months of stifling such fleeting notions, Aziraphale’s mind seemed to have been set ablaze with inappropriate flights of fancy. He felt as reactive and excitable as an adolescent after his first glimpse of stays beneath the swish of a maiden’s skirts. Or in Aziraphale’s case, the first stirring in his britches as his riding instructor doused himself in water following a particularly hot, gruelling trek. Barely out of boyhood himself, Aziraphale had watched the fabric grow translucent and tight around the young man’s shoulders, and thought, ah.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said gruffly to the apothecary, once she had finished packing the cold herb sludge around his wrist and wrapping it tightly in muslin. “That’s, uh… very soothing.”
“Keep it raised, keep it cool, come back if the fingers turn blue,” she told him.
Aziraphale repeated that as an obedient little mantra, as he made his way back around the outskirts of the castle. He thought yet again about what Lancelot had said. All lascivious thoughts aside, it had still felt like he’d been offered some sort of key to an inner sanctum, conversationally speaking. His curiosity fluttered warmly. How long should he wait before deciding the conventional healing methods hadn’t worked, and seeking out the intriguing suggestion of the king’s personal advisor? A day? An hour?
He entertained a brief, heady vision of letting himself into the King’s rooms unannounced and finding Merlin and Arthur engaged in some other… unconventional activity. What might Merlin offer him then?
His lips curved, half appalled by his own wicked musings, and half delighted. And so it was that he was smiling as he turned into the narrow alley beside the kitchen garden, which ran along the back of the castle store-rooms and outhouses. The alley opened out into the garden, which was planted on several levels, allowing use of the warmest, most sheltered spots along the old stone walls for fruiting plants and those that preferred more sun.
The smile froze on his face.
The garden was generally deserted at this time of day, in the fallow time between mealtimes and watering, and Aziraphale wouldn’t even have glanced across it if it hadn’t been for that sound.
A whine—high pitched, and uneven.
A scuff of gravel skittering across dry stone, and the muted noises of fabrics struggling against each other. And then – unmistakably – a masculine grunt. The very fact that Aziraphale immediately recognised it as masculine brought the earlier noises into sharp relief.
Aziraphale’s chest filled with fire, and he charged around the corner of the garden wall to find someone – big – wrestling someone else – small, thrashing – against one of the rough-hewn walls. Aziraphale noticed several details in shocky slow motion: the man was well dressed, in fine leather boots and riding gloves; he had an arm wrapped around the maid’s face, the inside of his sleeve muffling her protests; her thin pale fingers were frantic, trying to claw him away.
He saw the man’s gloved hand reach down and hike up her skirts, the dull brown-and-cream skirts of a scullery maid; saw the incongruous white flash of naked thigh as the man stepped in closer, rummaging efficiently at his own waistband, releasing the unmistakable pink line of his dick; and heard his own voice, appalled and shouting, “Unhand her at once.”
Escanor jerked around without letting go, and Aziraphale found himself piling in close, grabbing the larger man’s arm and wrenching it away from the maid’s face, shoving him backwards by the shoulder.
“–Please, no, sir, please–” she was chanting, as if she had been repeating this litany blindly for some time.
Escanor bellowed, turning puce, and launched himself at Aziraphale.
Aziraphale had just the presence of mind to stumble a few steps further away from the maid before the moment of impact, one hard fist closing in the front of his jerkin and another punching him in the gut.
The scullery maid screamed.
“Go,” Aziraphale called, before pitching himself and Escanor sideways across a low brick bed planted up with a dozen types of culinary herb. The edges of the brickwork caught him painfully across one hip, a pain immediately eclipsed by the targeted crash of both Escanor’s fists into his ribs. Aziraphale groaned, winded, his pulse filling his own ears like galloping hooves, and yet… he was interested to note that he didn’t feel scared.
It was extremely unpleasant, granted… but it was hardly the worst physical shock he’d endured recently, was it? One might almost call this exhilarating. At least his limbs worked, at least his responses weren’t slowed like honey or out of his control entirely. Aziraphale felt practically agile. He feinted one way, then the other, and then sank his good fist into Escanor’s belly, causing a pained grunt to explode out of the man’s mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
“You—” Escanor started savagely, fixing Aziraphale with one hand and craning his other fist back, aiming for his face—and then he froze, looking around himself in almost comical urgency, as if emerging all of a sudden from a daze. “Fuck!” he hissed under his breath, his hold on Aziraphale loosening slightly. “She’s gone.”
Aziraphale took the opportunity to scramble back from him, putting the bed of trampled herbs between them before clambering to his feet. His head was spinning, his injured wrist was throbbing, and he had a vague suspicion that Escanor had broken several of his ribs. But he didn’t feel defeated. He tried to stay light on his toes, keeping his arms up between them in vain hope of deflecting any further blow.
As he watched for any hint of Escanor’s next move, he found the corners of his mouth were twitching up. This was absurd. The man’s half-hard cock was still hanging out his open trousers. Pathetic, by Aziraphale's standards.
Escanor scrambled back onto his feet as well, eyes still wild, breathing hard. As Aziraphale watched, the rest of Escanor’s composure rapidly returned.
“You imbecile,” Escanor barked, even as he reached down and tucked himself roughly back into his clothes. “What the hell did you think you were doing, attacking us? You scared her off.”
Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. “I scared her?”
“Course you did.” He shot Aziraphale a bullish sort of smile, mostly teeth. The steely invitation was there to shrug this off and put it behind them. “Lumbering around making a scene – they don’t want that sort of attention!”
They. Aziraphale drew himself up. “I was very much under the impression that that young maid was not here of her own volition.”
Escanor made a derisive noise, brushing down the front of his clothes with his palms, righting himself. “They all say that. They have to—if it gets about that they didn’t put up a fight, they’d be ruined.”
“And what you do to them,” Aziraphale said, with icy inquisitiveness, “doesn’t… ruin…?”
Escanor actually laughed. “You really live up to your name, don’t you, Sir Aziraphale the White? So pure… and pallid… and feeble. Humourless!” He rolled his eyes. “I’m a knight. They’re scullery maids. It’s just a bit of fun. And if it happens to take, that’s God’s will, isn’t it? They should count themselves lucky to get a bastard by me.”
Aziraphale sucked in a furious breath. “Arthur would—“
In a flash Escanor had him by the throat again, shoved up against the wall, ears ringing. “If you even think,” he whispered, “about telling your craven lies about me to our king, I’ll have you sent straight back to your brother’s castle, freshly whipped with your arse still hanging out, do you understand? I’ll have you banished.”
Something very cold and calm happened behind Aziraphale’s eyes. “Understood,” he said.
That night, after everyone slept, after Aziraphale had replayed the scene in his mind a dozen times – each iteration more awful than the last – Aziraphale blew out every candle except the one by Escanor’s bed.
He woke some time later to find the demon already in place, crouched over Escanor, monstrous and silent.
Aziraphale wrapped himself in a sheet and walked closer, as if in a dream.
The demon’s head snapped toward him, and it straightened slightly, lifting its chin. It hadn’t started, then, yet.
Aziraphale raised his palms as if to indicate that he didn’t bring a dagger this time.
The demon’s fiery gaze flicked from Aziraphale’s face to his hands and back.
“Aren’t you going to try and stop me?” it demanded, wings half-unfurling, massive thighs going tense.
“No,” Aziraphale said, and looked down at the sleeping monster. “I’m going to watch.”
Chapter 7: Night 6 - the Accord
Summary:
Aziraphale learns he is the talk of the scullery, receives a present, and at long last manages to have a conversation with the objects of his affections. Yes, both of them.
Notes:
The final chapter of Act One. I’m well aware this story is a departure from my usual, so it has been extra thrilling to see both new and familiar names popping up enjoying it. Thank you to everyone joining me on this wild ride. :D
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next day, Aziraphale woke to shouting.
He jumped to his feet and hissed as pain enveloped him: he was aching from head to toe, a huge bruise across his ribs, a gouged scrape across his hip, and his wrist on fire.
But that wasn’t what the shouting was about.
Escanor’s body had been found.
Aziraphale grimaced as he sat, joining the rest of the remaining knights at the breakfasting table.
The mood was somber… but not exactly grief-stricken.
In fact, though the whole castle atmosphere was shocked and afeared, Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice there were no red-rimmed eyes.
Still, the knights’ normally jovial table was largely low-voiced or silent. The empty spaces were conspicuous. Eleven, they were now, with Bors still recuperating at his father’s castle – and now, this.
Still… a voice in Aziraphale’s head murmured. Twelve living is better than if the demon had taken its fill each night. Then the table would feel a lot more empty.
Wordlessly, Lancelot slid the water jug in Aziraphale’s direction. Aziraphale winced as he lifted it to pour. His ribs hurt, and the use of his muscles sent a spasm of discomfort through his chest. But it clearly wasn’t the time to grouse about such petty irritants. He didn’t want to appear callous if the rest of them were in mourning.
There would be a meeting at noon, with Merlin. There would be investigations into any hint of foul play. There would be questions, and speeches, and resolutions of vigilance. Aziraphale was sure of this.
An uneasy feeling had been swirling inside him since he awoke. As well it might! he thought. But the uneasiness wasn’t quite what he would have predicted, had he somehow had the foresight of this incredibly unusual situation.
He kept expecting to feel… worse. He felt a little nauseous, yes, with this knowledge that he was keeping from his brethren. But he didn’t feel bad. He didn’t feel guilty, or ashamed, or any of the other terrible feelings he had been taught ought to accompany an act of revenge.
Every time his mind tiptoed toward contrition, he flashed to the cruel light in Escanor’s eyes as he said “They all say that” and any remorsefulness simply floated away.
Instead, he was curiously light inside – almost as if he was in another dream. He knew rationally that the conclusion to those investigations wasn’t foregone, and yet… the truth was so impossible as to be its own defence. Just as with Bors, the various lines of questioning could only prove fruitless.
Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised if a mysterious malady was blamed again.
“More bread, sir?”
It was a soft, sweet voice above his left shoulder. Aziraphale twisted his head to look up, and caught the luminous smile of a plump, freckled kitchen maid proffering a generous basket of warm bread.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, and then blinked when she beamed and plonked the entire basket down on the table in front of him. The smell of it was mesmerising.
“Thank you,” the maid replied, all sunshine, and dipped a tiny incongruous curtsy before dashing off back to the kitchens.
Aziraphale stared after her for a moment, then shrugged and reached for one of the fresh warm rolls, his stomach growling.
He wound up eating a hearty breakfast. He hadn’t piled on very much food to begin with – for decorum’s sake – but every time his plate approached empty another maid seemed to appear at his shoulder offering more: a quail’s egg here, a morsel of smoked fish there, tidbit after tidbit of things that seemed unusually delicious for this time of day.
Different maids each time, but all with the same exuberant expression in their darting, sparkling eyes.
It was difficult to worry too much with a fabulously full stomach, but it did slowly dawn on Aziraphale throughout the morning that having had a full-on fistfight with the deceased could possibly lay grounds for further questioning.
Dutifully, he sought Merlin out a few minutes before the lunchtime meeting, drawing him aside under one of the arches in the Great Hall.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
Merlin’s face grew serious. “Tell me.”
“Yesterday afternoon,” Aziraphale said, before he could lose his nerve, “um, mid-afternoon, I suppose – well before sunset – I came across Escanor in the kitchen gardens and—we fought.”
Merlin’s expression barely flickered. “I heard,” he said, and cocked his head to the side, causing a dark lock of hair to slide across one eye. It made his gaze no less piercing. “I also heard he landed a few more blows than you did.”
Aziraphale winced. Said out loud, surely that also sounded suspicious.
“Which did tend to be the usual order of things when Escanor got into unsanctioned scuffles,” Merlin continued smoothly. “What was the, ah, provocation, for the fight, do you recall?”
Aziraphale hesitated.
Merlin’s dark eyebrows rose, and Aziraphale had a sudden and absolute conviction that if he demurred on this, he would regret it. “I interrupted him… forcing himself upon one of the scullery maids.”
Black ice seemed to crystallise in Merlin’s green eyes.
“I pulled him off her before anything - well, anything else - could happen,” Aziraphale rushed on, dropping his voice. “But he was not pleased.”
“Hm,” Merlin said. For a moment he looked every one of his forty years. “And the maid…?”
“Ran away. Largely unscathed, I—I think.”
“Right. Right, good. Well… that was well done,” Merlin said gruffly, and clapped Aziraphale on the arm.
Aziraphale swallowed, bracing himself.
Merlin gave him a curious look. “What?”
Heat flared in Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Aren’t you—sorry, I just thought, aren’t you going to ask me about what happened after that? Given… everything…?”
Merlin gave a tiny, bemused laugh. “Planning to confess an act of foul play, Sir Aziraphale?”
It was so obviously in jest that Aziraphale blushed harder. “No! Of course not.”
Merlin gripped his arm a little more firmly. “It is regrettable that you were hurt, but it’s damned fortunate that you were there. I’ll say no more about it. Come on.”
He nodded and released him, then strode back out into the main room to greet the other knights starting to congregate.
“Gentlemen! A sad day…” Merlin still sounded rather more brisk than sad. “As of yet, we have been unable to divine any affliction which may be held responsible for Sir Escanor’s loss of life.” He paused, then added slowly, “By all accounts he was in hale health yesterday - entirely his usual, vigorous self.”
There was nothing icy in Merlin's voice and yet Aziraphle found himself shivering.
“Given the rash temper and impetuous shifts in mood with which we know Sir Escanor suffered,“ Merlin continued, his tone still absolutely neutral, “clearly the most likely cause of such a sudden death must be a drastic imbalance of the humours.”
This statement elicited general nods and hums of agreement from around the room, and a spot of throat-clearing.
Merlin lifted his finger. “But,” he said, his tone cautioning, “although this is by far the most likely outcome, the physicians and I will of course not rest until satisfied that no other explanation can be found for his untimely demise.”
“Quite right,” Lancelot murmured.
“Of course,” echoed Percival, folding his arms and nodding.
On the edge of the group, two of the younger knights got into a hushed elbow-shoving battle resulting in a squawk of hastily stifled laughter. They both turned crimson as Merlin’s head turned their way, before staring furiously at their feet.
Back home, such flagrant disrespect would be rewarded with a sound beating. Generally Camelot was more permissive, but Aziraphale still wondered what nature of discipline could be expected here, on a sombre day such as this.
To his surprise, Merlin merely gave the young knights a brief reproving frown, then exchanged a glance with Percival that—was Percival biting the inside of his cheek?!
Incredulously, Aziraphale reassessed his impression of the whole bloody lot of them.
They weren’t grieving at all.
Lancelot gave the younger knights an almost paternal smile before spreading his hands and addressing the whole assembly. “It’s been a trying week. The king has sent word to relieve you of your usual duties this afternoon – as a mark of respect. But,” he said, in an altogether brighter tone, “we know that a shock like this can bring on a need to move, to act. So, anyone wishing to improve their mounted archery is welcome to ride out with us this afternoon - we’ve set a course through the woods that should prove sufficiently taxing.”
More murmurs, this time of approval.
“Ah… Will there be jumps?” Tristan asked, with ill-disguised eagerness.
Lancelot gestured at Percival, who clapped his hands together and nodded. “Jumps, sprints, target practice,” he announced, with satisfaction. “Some tricky stuff down in the gorge, too. Should be something for everyone.”
Aziraphale marvelled as the conversation turned wholly and seamlessly to one of tactics and outdoor pursuit.
He glanced back at Merlin to check they weren’t offending him with the return to exuberance, and found him expressionless apart from the barest crease to his bearded cheek, the subtlest edge of a smile.
If anything, Merlin looked relieved.
Aziraphale left the Great Hall not knowing what to think.
He joined the others on their hair-raising ride through the woods – discovering that his horseback skills were absolutely not good enough to gallop through rough terrain clinging to the horse with only his thighs, to allow both hands the occupation of bow and arrow – and found himself laughing wildly along with the rest of them.
It was, as promised, incredibly difficult. And he loved it.
They took a quick swim in the river before heading back, ostensibly to sluice off their leathers and submerge new bruises in the breathtakingly cold water, but it quickly devolved into a chaotic form of aquatic wrestling, splashing each other and sliding in the mud.
Towering above the younger knights, Percival was the first to get thoroughly dunked. He stripped to the waist – ever willing to shuck his clothes at the slightest provocation – and set about gleefully getting his revenge.
Aziraphale found himself in the thick of it, laughing alongside the rest, weakly protecting his ribs with one hand whilst sending up a targeted arc of water with the other. Tristan and Percival took the brunt of it, and retaliated enthusiastically, and the sound of their victorious chuckling followed Aziraphale down until his ears slid underwater. He surfaced, spluttering, and staggered to the riverbank, panting and grinning from ear to ear.
It was everything he had never had with his actual brothers.
All at once, the source of the persistent uneasy feeling became crystal clear.
He wouldn’t change what he’d done. But knights were sworn to uphold a certain code. And the thought of betraying this, the only brotherhood he’d ever felt a part of, was curdling in his stomach like sour milk. He’d done it to protect them, he’d done it in the name of justice, he’d done it to prevent harm coming to others—and yet. What if he’d sullied himself irreparably at the same time?
“Are you all right?” Lancelot asked, appearing at his shoulder. His dark hair was wet, curling up around his face, and despite the season he’d somehow caught the sun, making him look a decade younger than his years.
Aziraphale huffed out a laugh. “Might’ve got dunked one time too many.”
“Ahhh, you’ll dry off soon,” Lancelot said.
His breezy voice jolted Aziraphale out of his strange mood. Somehow, hearing someone else sound as if he had every confidence in Aziraphale, even on such an unimportant matter, was a revelation. The lightweight feeling intensified.
Aziraphale found himself smiling. “I… yes,” he said, slowly. “I actually think I will.”
He was dressed, dry and reviving himself with a hunk of bread and cheese when the most interesting event of the day occurred.
Out of nowhere, the handmaiden approached. She looked, Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice, absolutely radiant.
She was holding a parcel of something wrapped in brown cloth.
“I heard what you did.” Her cool, low voice held a bite of something new.
Aziraphale blinked, a dart of panic going through him despite the fact that it would be impossible for anyone to know about that. “You did?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re the talk of the scullery,” she said, with a pointed smile. “Attack first, ask questions later.”
“Sounds like me,” Aziraphale lied, secretly thrilled.
“Well, I brought you this.” She unwrapped the parcel to reveal a stout glass jar filled with something pale and viscous. “It’s a medicinal salve. Heard you took some damage.”
“Just a scratch,” Aziraphale assured her, accepting the jar with a smile, then glancing at her sideways. A present?! She’d given him a present! “Thank you.”
“Frán.”
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, even more thrilled. “Frán.”
“Mm. Well. See you later, Aziraphale.”
And with a slow, honeyed blink, she was gone.
That night, once everyone else was asleep, Aziraphale sat up in bed and uncorked the jar. He dabbed some salve onto his sore wrist, rubbing it diligently into the bruise before pausing. Looked at how the skin shone in the candlelight. Rubbed his fingertips together. And smirked.
Aziraphale shuffled down under the covers and spent a long while diligently applying the salve to every bruise he could think of, before giving in and acknowledging that that wasn’t where his fingers were planning on going with this stuff. The salve smelled pleasant enough, but the sensation of it between his fingers, slippery and thick, pearlescent almost, was winding up Aziraphale’s arousal faster than he could say mounted archery.
It was far, far superior to kitchen grease.
He let his mind drift back to where it had wanted to linger all day. Back to the crack of leathery wings, the infernal gaze. Luxuriating in the frisson of excitement he felt at his new-found ability to distract, entice, draw attention. The excitement of letting his imagination run wild.
He blushed fiercely as he visualised smearing the salve all over the demon’s dick with both hands, before getting onto all fours and looking back at it to say, “Do your worst.”
He blew out a slow breath, hands gliding up his thighs, as his internal temperature rose and rose. He almost lost himself in the touch of his own fingers, exploring his hole, getting it slick and supple; trying for perfunctory and still struggling to stop.
He did manage to resist touching his own stand, just. But it was a long time before he slept, his mind teasing over images from every previous night, wondering what the hours ahead could possibly have in store.
“You gave me a present.”
Aziraphale startled awake, the room spinning as he struggled to orientate himself. That deep growly oft-imagined drawl of a voice, reaching into his dreams and tugging him out. Purposefully, waking him up.
This was new.
Aziraphale tracked his own position first: he was still arranged as he’d gone to sleep, on his front, legs apart, could feel the melting salve he’d used, its subtle herbal fragrance mixing with the sweat of sleep, the salt of longing. He could feel he was exposed to the dormitory air, the blanket clearly a distant memory. The demon was kneeling behind him, between his legs, and he could feel its weight steeply tilting the mattress.
He clenched his muscles, testing. He didn’t think it had done anything more than look. He didn’t think it had touched him, explored him, breached him while he was asleep.
It gave him a secret, sordid thrill not to know.
Aziraphale swallowed, pressing his face against the sheets. “D-did you like it? Your present.”
“Yes.“ Aziraphale could hear the smirk in its voice so vividly he could almost see it. “That’s the point. Mortal souls. They’re what I’m here for.”
Ideally not. “I thought… you might be here for something else.”
“Ha!” The demon ran its huge hand up the back of Aziraphale’s thigh and then, without warning, pushed its thumb deeply into his arse.
Aziraphale caught his breath, trembling. It was a lot thicker than his own thumb.
“This?” the demon said derisively. “I’ve had this now. You think the repeated offer of your body can in any way measure up to the reward I would take from your soul?”
There was no good answer to that.
Well, nothing he could say…
Biting his lip, Aziraphale started to move on the demon’s thumb, undulating his hips back in a slow greedy demonstration of how ready and willing he was to give it a try.
“Ngk,” the demon said.
Aziraphale craned to look back over his shoulder, saw it was watching the show, and tried to move even more suggestively while his own cock throbbed in needy echo.
“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked, spreading his knees wider, dropping low and then pressing back, curving the base of his spine. “Doesn’t that look… inviting? Doesn’t it remind you of how it felt, taking your frustration out on me, feeling me—“ He wet his lips, his voice having gone appallingly husky. “—open up around your cock, no matter how big and hard it got, no matter how hard you fucked me, didn’t that feel good? Watching me taking it, all of it… uh,” he trailed off, as the demon crooked its thumb inside him and he felt his balls tighten in warning.
“Fuck,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, higher pitch, moving faster, “fuck, yes, that’s it—just talking about it makes me want to spend.”
The demon made a strangled noise and then withdrew its thumb. It flipped Aziraphale over onto his back with easy strength.
“You mock me,” it accused, fire raging higher in its eyes.
The hearth was burning low tonight, barely smouldering; above him, the demon’s eyes were a stronger source of light. Shadows cloaked its lanky, muscular body where it knelt over Aziraphale, making it look more black than red. The dancing flame of Aziraphale’s tiny bedside candle threw pale gold highlights across its gleaming, ruddy skin.
Aziraphale lay on his back dragging in long shivery breaths, sheened with sweat, his hard cock surely every evidence to the contrary - but the demon wasn’t even looking at his cock. It was scowling at his face.
“No, I don’t mock you, of course I don’t mock you,” Aziraphale said, a wild impulse to laugh bubbling up in his throat. “Look at me,” he said, stroking a hand down his chest, over the softness of his belly, at last taking hold of his own cock as if showing it off. Its thick length reared in his hand, standing eagerly above the blond curls at its base. His foreskin was fully back, the head of his cock shiny pink and swollen. “Look at me,” Aziraphale said again, stroking himself slowly, staring up. “It’s obscene. I didn’t used to be like this. You made me like this. Thinking about you.”
He slid his thumb over the pre-come beading at the tip of his cock and then, barely breathing at his own daring, stretched his hand up towards the demon’s face. It didn’t reach far but the gesture was unmistakable.
The demon’s nostrils flared as it looked at Aziraphale’s outstretched hand.
Then all at once it moved, grabbing his wrist and ducking its face down, taking his thumb into its mouth.
Aziraphale froze at the sudden heat of it, the slide of its tongue in a quick tasting swirl. His arousal spiked further, feeling it on a visceral level. “Yes,” he said, encouraging, as the demon’s tongue spiralled serpentine around his thumb. “Fuck, yes – taste it, taste how much I want you.”
The demon’s eyes flared, jagged petals of gold momentarily dividing the orange-red flames – and then it dropped down on top of him and explored. Its heavy body pinned him as it licked and sniffed, lapping at his neck and sucking the muscle of his shoulder, tasting each of his nipples in turn. Biting at the angle of his pectoral muscles with needle-sharp teeth, making Aziraphale hiss and squirm.
It felt like it was tracking the various scents of him, following invisible trails across his skin as it licked his stomach, rubbing its jaw against the angle of his hipbone, finding the thicker curls at the base of his belly and nosing through them. Following these ever-decreasing trajectories, it was going to run its mouth over his cock soon - Aziraphale was sure of it - and yet the seconds throbbed past without any contact being made. His dick couldn’t get harder than this, with the demon’s hot breath bathing it at apparently random intervals. Its claws outlined the creases at the base of his belly, the pale rise of his hip, wandering closer and then swerving away in sharp, searing crescents. The head of Aziraphale’s cock started to ache, obscenely glossy, leaking more fluid with every foray the demon made. And ah, was that the game? One of torment: to toy with how wet and hard it could make his cock, before he became entirely insensible? Aziraphale felt - as the demon exhaled at the base and then slowly inhaled all the way up to the slick tip - that it might be.
“Please,” Aziraphale breathed, nudging his hips up, not daring to thrust toward that sharp-toothed mouth—and yet, if it could be coaxed to come to him, could there be any greater reward right now?
“Hush.” It sank down between his legs, folding one massive arm over Aziraphale’s stomach, pressing down so that his hips couldn’t buck, could barely twitch, and encircled his cock with its fingers. And Aziraphale had never had any concerns in this department, but in the demon’s hand he looked diminutive, the gleaming head of his cock barely visible above the bulging red stack of its knuckles. Its thumb rubbed over him and he moaned, watching another surge of clear fluid dribble onto its fingers.
The demon tilted its head in apparent fascination, leaned closer, and then took another slow, deep inhale.
Aziraphale felt himself throb and flex against the demon’s fingers, leaking more. Please, please—fuck, please.
After an impossibly prolonged moment, the demon's hand uncurled and its mouth closed around his cock instead. Aziraphale cried out, unable to process the molten heat enclosing him, almost too hot to be tolerable—almost. He felt its tongue corkscrew around his shaft, dividing and coming back together, a long set of silken slides that rapidly threatened to overwhelm.
Aziraphale’s hands waved in helpless indecision before coming to settle, tentatively, upon the demon’s head. He found the ridges of horns there, running back from its forehead in parallel sweeping curves, more dragon skin than bone, smooth as a snake, warm and firm.
Aziraphale ran his fingertips along the curvature of the horns and the demon went briefly still. Before looking sharply up at him, the blue-white glimmer of incredulity visible again amongst the usual orange and yellow flames.
It slid its mouth off Aziraphale’s cock to speak, resting its hard chin against Aziraphale’s soft belly. “What are you doing?”
Aziraphale’s hands slid down across its face. The thrill at his own courage vibrated harder. “Nothing?” he suggested, tracing the demon’s cheekbones, where the speckled soot appearance was at its most dense.
The fiery eyes narrowed, turning a deep shifting red that Aziraphale chose to interpret as laughter. “You are playing with—”
“Fire?” Aziraphale supplied.
“Death,” the demon retorted, and Aziraphale’s cock gave a helpful throb at that, catching its attention once more. The demon muttered, “But you may continue.”
Aziraphale slid his hands back up and clung on to the horns for dear life as the demon took him into its mouth to the root, sucking and then swallowing.
"Oh!" Aziraphale moaned, craning his hips up before he could stop himself.
It didn’t object—more, it nuzzled its head against Aziraphale’s hands, without losing its pace on his cock. It was still taking long sucks, still swirling its tongue around the base, up to the crown, back again, again, down, up, everywhere.
The sheer intensity was too much.
“I can’t,” Aziraphale blurted out, digging his nails in at the bases of the demon’s horns, and the demon grunted around his cock, a reverberation Aziraphale felt down to his toes. “Please, wait, I don’t—this isn't how I want to finish, please, wait! I want you to fuck me.”
The incredulous white-blue flicker re-entered its gaze as it pulled off again. “You want?”
Panting, squirming, but slightly more able to speak without its tongue relentlessly massaging his cock, Aziraphale nodded. “Please. I—I want you again, please.”
The demon moved all at once. It prowled up his body, staying low to Aziraphale’s chest, planting its huge hands either side of Aziraphale’s shoulders and then craning down to level its face to Aziraphale’s. This close, Aziraphale could feel the heat of its fiery eyes against his skin. Belatedly, he realised he had expected the flames to be an illusion. He blinked hard, his own eyes starting to water.
“You are reckless - voracious.”
“Sometimes,” Aziraphale whispered, bending his knees, letting them splay apart around the demon’s hips, wishing he could see how close its cock was between his thighs, how hard. “W-why don’t you try me and find out?”
Without looking, the demon reached down between them and fitted his cock against Aziraphale’s hole, and shoved. The sudden jolt of it made Aziraphale cry out despite himself, and he fancied he saw a cruel flicker of satisfaction in the demon’s eyes as it kept pushing. The salve did help, though, as did how aroused the demon clearly was, the head of its cock slipping easily deeper after that first moment’s shocked resistance.
“Too much?” the demon demanded, ducking down to breathe hot against Aziraphale’s ear as it worked itself all the way inside him. “You—regret your—impudence?”
Aziraphale gritted his teeth, nuzzled blindly against its jaw. How could he put into words how this felt, the melody of pain and pleasure, the flickery lightning of arousal that only intensified as he felt himself yield to it, adjust to it, swollen hard as it was. How could he explain that the smooth rub of its hot belly against his cock made his whole body want to purr, that every touch fed into every other, that he’d never felt more alive than this, more victorious, that he felt like his body had found its purpose?
“More,” he managed, and in a flash the demon met him at his word, hands gripping his waist, wings unleashing to fuck him hard and fast.
At first the sounds Aziraphale made were lost beneath the noise of its wings beating the air, the added force of it crushing him flat into the bed, but then, as Aziraphale spread his legs and lifted against the driving of its cock, spilling out moans that sounded more like gratitude than anything else, it slowed.
It withdrew almost entirely.
It watched Aziraphale, as he keened with frustration and wrapped his legs around its hips, trying to find leverage to move himself on its cock, his own stand waving against his stomach, shiny and straining.
It slid back in to the hilt with liquid ease.
“Yesss,” Aziraphale hissed, arching to take it, eyes rolling back as the heated sensation of fullness overswept him.
His lips fell open around a series of mumbled entreaties. The demon gave a guttural growl in reply and started fucking him properly again, as if something crucial was being allowed to unravel.
”Fuck, yes, take me, make me, ah—“ Aziraphale could hear himself babbling, groaning between words, writhing on its cock, laid open, insensible.
He clawed for the back of its neck, clinging, scratching. The demon hissed and seized his hips, pounded him, its own claws digging in; and then it ducked down, impossible spine curving like a snake, and its mouth opened against Aziraphale’s neck. It sucked, teeth scraping possessively, and the starburst of that sensation sent Aziraphale hurtling towards the edge. He wailed, feeling his vocal cords buzz in the demon’s hot mouth, coiling his arms around its shoulders and tipping his head back, baring his neck in defenceless fervour.
This was it, he thought wildly. If it was going to tear his throat out - kill him, fuck him, redeem him, absolve him - it would be now. His body convulsed, muscles tightening around the shaft of its cock as it slammed inside him, again, punishingly deep, again, hammering its hips until, ah.
He felt the molten heat of its climax rushing into him, felt the glow of it fill him, the unholy intimate pressure—and felt himself erupt again in turn. It was an orgasm like he’d never felt before, a crescendo inside him, surging up from his balls, through his belly, through his chest, more and more, right the way down to his splayed fingertips, the helpless curl of his toes. His cock pulsed and splattered them both, untouched, and the demon gave a grunt of pleasure against Aziraphale’s throat that wrenched another jolt from his overstimulated balls. He couldn’t stop coming, something about being held like this, something about the position of its jerking cock inside him, brought new waves of it every time he thought it would subside. It went on and on, as if every ridge of its cock was a whetstone on which his body continued to spark.
Aziraphale turned his head blindly, dislodging its mouth from his neck and using both hands to tug up, up; kissing its mouth instead.
The heady, all encompassing liquid-gold-pleasure-miasma flared. A connection, wrought, a glimmering entrapment binding them together as the demon’s large tongue slid into his mouth, as Aziraphale sucked and moaned. His cock gave a final weak twitch between them, and he felt powerful soporific blackness surge up to claim him, and he—
Fought.
Aziraphale fought the blackness, the surging wave of sleep now, sucked harder, grazed its tongue with his teeth.
He fought the dimming of his consciousness, the nigh-irresistible lure of profound, warm, seductive relaxation.
He forced his eyes open, though there was nothing to see but blurry redness and shadow, and dropped his hands to his own sides, scratching urgently, pinching hard.
And—“Oh, fine,” the demon muttered eventually, pulling back and pulling out and collapsing down on its back next to him, its wings folding tightly away. The movement crushed Aziraphale’s leg, helpfully waking him up even more as he yanked it out of harm’s way. “Why stop there? What don’t you turn on its head?”
The intense, seductive urge to sleep washed away like a retreating tide.
Aziraphale lay blinking in its wake, the taste of the demon’s mouth dancing like lightning on his tongue. He was sweating and panting, as if he’d been in a fierce battle. He supposed he had.
He tried to catch his breath, as his body worked to make sense of what had just happened. He could feel how slippery he was inside, how empty, his deepest muscles still trembling.
Ridden hard and put away wet. He felt melted but glowing, spent but shivery, almost ephemeral… he needed something solid to cling on to.
Well, what was one more act of bravery amongst many? Aziraphale braced himself, then gave a huge, demonstrative yawn and rolled deliberately closer, pushing up on his elbow and plastering himself across the demon’s chest.
The demon made an outraged noise, which turned into a sort of flustered scoffing, and then ultimately subsided - but it didn’t dislodge him. It was still breathing heavily itself, its great chest rising and falling beneath Aziraphale’s cheek. And it was so warm. So smooth. And… tolerating him, apparently, for now. Aziraphale simply enjoyed it for a few slowing breaths before tilting his head, looking up the column of its neck, toward its face.
The demon had one arm thrown over its eyes, as if in dramatic despair.
Despite himself, Aziraphale laughed.
The demon lifted its arm to scowl at him. Aziraphale watched, entranced, as the glowing embers of its eyes reignited into full flame.
The demon’s scowl deepened. “What’s so… whatever this is?”
“Mesmerising,” Aziraphale suggested recklessly. He was full of an uncomplicated happiness. “Your eyes.”
“Oh,” the demon said.
“I could stare into them for hours.”
“Well, don’t.”
Aziraphale tried to control his smile. “But they’re pretty.”
The demon blew out a huge breath. “I should just snap your neck and be done with it.”
A frisson of daring warmed Aziraphale even more. “I would have thought if you were going to, you would have done that already.”
The demon glared. “Do not underestimate my impetuous rage.”
Aziraphale did his best to look solemn and daunted.
“You are not safe with me, mortal.”
“I’m not safe anywhere.”
The demon gave a grumble. “You live in the most heavily warded castle in this land, surrounded by the valiant and rich. You’re safer than most. Especially once my time here has elapsed.”
“Mm,” Aziraphale said, considering that. “But until then, I suppose I’m… very unsafe indeed?” He gave a suggestive little stretch, sliding one knee over the demon’s stomach. His thighs were still wet, and the movement made a faint dart of anticipation flash though him, despite being so thoroughly sated and softened.
The demon snorted, but one of its arms wrapped around Aziraphale, nudging him further onto its chest. A delicious feeling of triumph suffused Aziraphale at that, and he bit his lip, trying to keep calm. It was holding him. Perhaps it hadn’t noticed. Better keep talking.
“Liable to be seized and despoiled as your whimsy dictates,” Aziraphale continued, keeping his voice mild. “Every night, some new act of vile denigration…”
“Look, no, hang on,” the demon protested. “I can’t just come and fuck you every night I have access to this realm.”
Oh. “Why not?”
“I would be… depleted.”
“You don’t look depleted,” Aziraphale said, running his hand over its muscled chest.
“Pah! That’s because yesterday was most restorative. The full consumption of a soul - there's some power leftover, not yet ebbed. And tonight was… also amply replenishing, as it turns out.” For a moment it sounded doubtful. “But I am overall weakened,” it insisted.
Aziraphale reached up to trace the bulging muscle of the arm still stretched over its head. “Ever so weak.”
The demon rumbled with what Aziraphale chose to interpret as a laugh and not a warning. “Even in my most depleted state I would still seem strong to you. But your appraisal is not my concern.”
Aziraphale shifted position, turning onto his back and stretching luxuriantly, thrilled when the demon’s arm shifted with him, flexing to keep him on its chest. Its other hand came down, and Aziraphale almost purred at the sensation of its fingers running idly over his ribs before spreading snug against his skin. He felt disconcertingly small, the base of his belly cupped by its large palm. It felt so good he didn’t think before asking, “Whose appraisal is your concern then?”
Like a drowsy fool he was half-expecting it to say King Arthur. That was the only appraisal Aziraphale cared about. So it was a shock when the reply came, flat, gruff: “The overlords of Hell, of course.”
“Hell?” Aziraphale demanded, twisting back over in its arms to peer up at its face, bracing himself on its chest. “You’re from Hell?!”
The demon made a sour noise. “You thought I was native to Camelot?”
“No! I just…” Aziraphale trailed off. “I hadn’t thought about it,” he admitted. “For the longest time I thought you were a figment of my imagination.”
The demon leered at him, the flames in its eyes dancing. “A rather fevered imagination.”
Aziraphale ignored that. “Or - the realm of dreams, I suppose? Is that a realm?”
“The ether. It’s more like a pathway I have gained access to, these handful of nights,” the demon said. “But your daylight saps my strength. And I exchanged too much of myself—I must now fill my quota. If I return to Hell so depleted, I will become the prey.”
That didn’t sound good. Still. “When must you return to, er…?”
“In six nights.”
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “So for six more nights…”
The demon snorted. “I told you. I need to feed. You are most… tempting… but it’s not enough to build my reserves back up. By sundown tomorrow I would be ravenous again.”
Aziraphale pressed his lips together, tilting his head as if weighing that up. “…Could be interesting.”
The demon made an exasperated noise. “I need blood, mortal! I need souls.”
“I can’t allow that to happen again.”
“I can’t allow you to stop me again,” the demon retorted.
“What if we did it more than once a night?”
“What?”
Aziraphale wriggled again, moving on top of it more deliberately. He could feel the thick line of its cock against his thigh, not exactly hard, but still firm. He felt the pulsing presence of it. “Might that prove sufficient to sate your needs?”
“I… highly doubt it,” the demon said, after a moment.
“I'm awfully keen to experiment,” Aziraphale told it seriously, pressing both hands down on its chest as firmly as he dared. To his delight, it allowed him. The burgeoning anticipation flared. “After all, the more time I can convince you to spend with me, the less likely you are to devour my noble comrades.”
Aziraphale lowered his mouth to its chest - over where a nipple would be, if this creature was more man than dragon - and sucked hard at the curved flesh. He grinned as it reared up beneath him, and felt its cock nudge against the side of his thigh.
“And surely,” he added, voice muffled against its smooth scaled skin, “it’s important for you to know as well. Your… options.”
It didn’t disagree, which Aziraphale took as a roaring endorsement. He rubbed his cheek against its chest, licking it, taking the time to explore it in return: the awesome breadth of its body, the muscular power.
There were insensitive areas, he found, though he couldn’t discern if it was do to with a pattern of scale or a thickness of skin, or if it was random; and there were areas the demon guided him toward with a heavy hand, where he could feel its pulse bounding, feel the sultry heat of its blood quickening beneath his mouth.
Once it was shifting urgently and growling beneath him, he drew back, looked over his shoulder at its cock. Definitely eager again, rearing up off its lean belly. Aziraphale leant over for the jar on the bedside table, scooping out more of the salve, reaching back to slick himself again. He found his hole was still soft and slippery from earlier, fucked open and intensely sensitive, but he thought about its hard red cock, and diligently worked another palmful of salve inside.
Its hands enclosed his waist as he got into position, straddling its hips, knees forced wide.
He hesitated for a second, gazing down upon its stretched out form, feeling for a moment a strange and immense power within himself. It was like the golden glow was already bursting the edges of him, the promise of it hot and thrumming.
“Get on with it,” it snarled – instead of forcing him. Hmm.
“But I was thinking,” Aziraphale said, brushing his arse lightly against the tip of its cock but holding still, lingering, shifting, instead of bearing down, “would it be more… satisfying, or, or powerful, maybe, if I could make you wait?”
“You can’t make me do anything,” the demon said, adjusting its grip demonstrably around Aziraphale's waist. But it didn’t pull him down, nor thrust up into him—it held. It waited. Listening.
“Build it up,” Aziraphale murmured, encouraged. Brushing over it again and again, letting his own anticipation ratchet up in the straining his thighs, the needy throb of his hole.
He enclosed his own cock in a loose fist, gave it a slow, showy stroke, and the demon growled softly, gaze flickering with intent. But still, unbelievably, letting Aziraphale set the pace – or lack, thereof.
He held himself tighter, tried to ease his foreskin up over the head of his cock, squeezing in the cup of his palm, then let it slide back down again, sending a thick clear droplet of fluid sailing down to hit the demon’s stomach. He fancied he heard it sizzle. The demon’s nostrils flared, and it arched up, then exhaled hard as Aziraphale rose higher on his knees, eluding the targeted nudge of its cock. Just.
That slow squeeze of his own cockhead had been addictively good, though, so Aziraphale did it again, feeling his face slacken with pleasure, his eyes falling half-closed. He almost couldn’t believe the demon wasn’t just giving in to the frustration and fucking him – and yet, he seemed to have it in a sort of trance. Aziraphale shifted his hips in a smooth sway, making the head of its cock tease across his hole, almost frictionless with slickness but hot, searing hot. He tilted and slowed the movement further, reducing the tantalising pressure even more.
The demon's eyes flashed white-hot, its grasp of him tightening, forcing the breath out of his lungs. “This is—enraging,” it hissed.
Aziraphale gave a shaky nod, so aroused that for a moment he couldn’t trust his own voice. “But the longer you resist,” he managed, eventually, “the stronger it will be.”
“You can’t possibly know that.”
“I can feel it,” Aziraphale said, and he fancied he could – feel the building swell of energy inside him, charging more with every passing second of frustrated delay. Every fire-bolt of anticipation through his body seemed to collect in the base of his stomach, swirling, pulsating. And it wasn’t just him: the demon’s scales were becoming more lustrous as he watched, the heat rising off it as palpable as steam. If the demon felt in any way similar to Aziraphale, it must know, must detect the promise in eking this out as long as—
“I should leave you bleeding on the floor for this,” the demon growled, but it still wasn’t moving, wasn’t shoving up the requisite few inches it would require to push inside him, slick and achingly ready as he was. “Take my fill until it breaks you, then cast you down for the others to find.”
“W-which others?” Aziraphale asked, catching hold of the idea even as he swayed to press against its cockhead, light as anything, before shifting evasively away once more as its dick flexed hard against his hole. “Other knights?”
“Other demons,” the demon corrected, its voice hoarser than usual. “I should leave you paralysed with your legs apart and chained to an open portal, let anyone else passing through this realm seek you out to take their turn.”
“You’d want to share me like that?” Aziraphale asked.
The demon snarled softly. “I don’t—care—I just—end this! Now.”
The command of it washed over Aziraphale and he sank down in helpless obedience, stretching readily around the head of its cock and giving up a loud, fervent groan.
The demon made an answering noise and dragged him all the way down, filling him with its full length in one swift push.
“Ah,” it gritted out, as Aziraphale smacked against its pelvis, and it felt tremendous, glorious, after all the waiting, felt like an apocalypse dodged, a heavenly gate thrown open. Aziraphale whimpered with it, lifting off to slam immediately down again, finding a rhythm at the edge of his endurance, riding the demon as fast and hard as his body would allow.
At last, at last, at last. He was panting too much to speak, his mind full of heated fog, the driving needs of his body now entirely in control.
The demon reached up one hand to smother Aziraphale's open mouth, and Aziraphale bit down hard, chewing the firm edge of its palm and then gagging as its fingers shoved into his mouth.
“Yes,” the demon muttered, “bite me, fight me,“ but it was almost laughable how inaccurate that narration was; Aziraphale couldn’t be more eager, more lost in sensation, more urgently wanting than this. He drove down onto its cock with all the force he could unleash, swallowing around its broad fingers, his eyes streaming, his cock slapping wet against his belly with every jarring bounce.
Give it to me, he thought furiously, because he couldn’t speak, his tongue trapped beneath its fingers. Fill me up, mark me, come inside me, go on, empty yourself in my arse, I want it, I want to feel it, do it, do it—
He could barely see past the tears in his eyes, could barely breathe past its fingers invading his mouth, was barely able to think past the next blinding blurry second of wantwantwant and nownownow.
And then the demon’s eyes blazed orange, red, gold, before shuttering entirely, and its voice cut through the fog in Aziraphale's mind.
Mine.
Just one word but it was unmistakably the demon’s voice and yet it was inside Aziraphale's head, filling his mind like a roar in a cavern, luscious and rasping at once. It left a hot metallic after-impression ringing through Aziraphale's mind, calling forth his response before he was even aware of it forming.
Yours.
Mine, the demon repeated, an even more clanging intensity reverberating through Aziraphale's mind, and this time he just moaned in answer, faint but guttural around its fingers, transmitting everything, giving up everything, fucked and gagged and desperate, his whole body a shivering plea.
Take it, the demon thought viciously, the words coming harder with every thrust; take it, take it all, you perfect—little—filthy—debauched—angel—
The words undid him. They filled his mind to bursting, even as his body started to quake. Aziraphale threw his head back as his orgasm punched through him like the heavenly smiting that he surely deserved, a lance of divine light skewering him through his centre. It pinned him, squirming on the demon’s cock as he came, white ribbons splashing over its chest, streak after streak.
Yes, Aziraphale thought, letting the lustrous sensation wash over him, and then he felt the demon receive it, felt it push up the crest of its own wave, its dark pleasure exploding back over Aziraphale in a drenching flood.
“Yes,” the demon snarled, its voice and its thoughts hitting Aziraphale simultaneously as it gripped him and pounded out its shuddering release. And it was everywhere - Aziraphale could hear it, feel it, smell it, taste it, drown in it - that now-familiar golden miasma, perfusing everything, lifting and filling him, slowing time.
He stared into the demon’s eyes as the elongated waves of its climax flowed through them both. He watched the play of their flames burning brighter, their depths hotter, hypnotic and compelling, before the demon squeezed its eyelids shut at last and the world dimmed.
Aziraphale drifted back down to Earth after a few or a thousand heartbeats – difficult to say. The demon’s cock was still buried inside him, but Aziraphale was now sprawled across the demon’s torso, and one of its hands was splayed across his back. Aziraphale’s mouth was unstoppered once more, smudged in a half-kiss against the demon’s chest. The glow lingered, blanketing them. They were breathing in unison.
“H-how was that?” Aziraphale ventured, when he felt able to speak once more.
There was a long pause.
Then, in a voice of liquid contentment, the demon said, “Adequate.”
Its mind was shut to him again – so firmly that Aziraphale almost thought he must have dreamt that specific aspect of their interaction this time. Almost.
Aziraphale grinned against its chest. “Oh,” he said, innocently enough. “Good to know.”
The demon grunted.
“Um,” Aziraphale added, a short while later. “That bit about, er, threatening to share me with other passing demons… Do you really—?”
“No,” the demon interrupted, softly emphatic. Then it added quickly, “That is – you are a most galling specimen of mortal. I would not want to subject any of my diabolical brethren to such a pointless vexation as your, ah, company.”
“Right,” Aziraphale said, nodding. “Quite so.”
He dozed, enjoying the casually possessive pressure of the demon’s hand on his back, the gradual softening of its cock inside him, from demand to simple presence. It almost felt like he was floating, or flying, tethered only to the demon’s grounding warm bulk. He took care not to actually drift off to sleep, however, all too certain that when he blinked back awake it would be gone. Every time the darkness came for him, he breathed through it, cataloguing everything he could feel, until it ebbed away once more.
Eventually the demon sighed and reached down, eased itself out, filling Aziraphale with a volley of shivers in its wake. Aziraphale cracked open his eyes and realised in amazement that the first pink smudges of dawn were creeping across the edge of the window.
His eyes flew open as he was summarily tipped back onto the bed. “Wait,” he said quickly.
The demon rolled on its side to peer down at him, visibly bemused. “You’re still awake.”
“Er… yes,” Aziraphale admitted, uncertain suddenly. “I was dozing.”
“Dozing,” it repeated, flatly. “That’s not—never mind. It’s dawn. I must go.”
Aziraphale suddenly wondered if it had done this before, stayed on while Aziraphale slept, oblivious. It seemed impossible.
He opened his mouth, then shut it again. The thing he wanted to say – don’t go – was also impossible. “Do you have a name?” he blurted instead.
The demon scoffed. “Of course I have a name. Impossible to summon a demon without knowing the right name.”
Aziraphale’s mouth went dry. “I could… summon you? In future, I mean. After this.”
A haughty purple flash went through the flames in its eyes. “I would not expect so. You seem very unmagical.”
“Hm,” Aziraphale said.
“And the price,” the demon reminded him, ominous weight to its voice. “The price of the summons is no small thing.”
Aziraphale couldn’t help it; he glanced down at its cock, quiescent again against its belly.
“That isn’t what I meant.” It was probably as frosty as its purring, growly, flame-licked voice could sound.
“Understood,” Aziraphale said quickly, trying to make his face behave. “So… what’s your name?”
There was a long pause. Then the demon blew out a long breath. “Crowley,” he said, and his eyes flared the deepest gold. “Now sleep.”
And this time, there was no fighting it.
Notes:
END OF ACT ONE
*cough* Sooooo… does anyone ship them yet?
Chapter 8: Night 7 - A Conspicuous Lack
Summary:
Aziraphale’s mind wanders into scandalous territory as he and Lancelot ride out on an errand for the king; by nightfall, there’s only one thing on his mind.
Notes:
Act Two: we regret to inform that your regularly scheduled demon/knight smut has been interrupted by The Plot, but please be assured that the knight in question will do everything in his power to ensure normal service is soon resumed.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale slept deeply, and later than usual, only rousing a few minutes before breakfast time when Tristan clattered back into the dormitory. He was looking for Gareth, to complain that the day’s tournament practice had been postponed. Apparently some horses had gone missing during the night, and all those remaining were needed for the search.
Aziraphale lay, eyes adjusting to the brightness of the morning as he scanned himself. His ribs felt nigh miraculously better. His body felt soft and supple, the aches and pains of the day before all but resolved. He was warm, and comfortable, and - now he’d finally woken up - positively bursting with energy.
Either his nocturnal adventures had been even more beneficial than expected, or that was a downright magical ‘medicinal salve’.
Aziraphale smirked as he checked the jar was properly corked before stashing it beside his bed. A little pearly residue was smeared around the lid, and he wiped it off with his thumb. The scent was mild and yet stunningly evocative. He reeled under memories of his night with the—with Crowley. The name slithered through his mind with a sinuous affectation to it. Crowley, Crowley, Crowley…
His cock started to thicken against his thigh.
Had that last part been a dream, where Crowley had lain with him, under him and inside him, warm and silent and content for several hours? He squirmed in pleasure. He could quite happily lie here for another several hours re-living that remembered sensation. Not to mention the encounter itself—
“Aziraphale, are you coming?” Tristan called from the doorway. “Or are you sick?”
Whoops. “No, no, I’m on my way,” Aziraphale called back, shaking free of the temptation that had been gripping him and jumping out of bed with a strategic wrap of the blanket. “You go on.”
He quickly washed and dressed, and made fairly good time joining the others in the breakfast room. He’d expected to slip in quietly, but he needn’t have bothered. An excited uproar awaited him.
It wasn’t just a few horses that had gone missing.
Lady Morgana - and her entire entourage - had vanished as well.
They were summoned to the Great Hall, where it seemed that Arthur and Lancelot had been poring over a large map spread across the round table for quite some time.
Arthur looked like he hadn’t much slept.
“We have no reason to suspect foul play or witchcraft,” Arthur said firmly, but he looked pale and strained around the eyes as he spoke, to a degree that made Aziraphale bump foul play and witchcraft right up to the top of his own suspicions.
Merlin, by contrast, did not look any paler than usual. “It’s not unlike Morgana to take umbrage at some imagined slight and change her plans without warning,” he mused. Then smirked at Arthur. “She wouldn’t usually pinch your best horses though.”
Arthur managed a wan smile for the whole assembly. “Please let it not be circulated that any member of my household is levelling such accusations at my dear half-sister.”
“Of course not, my liege,” Merlin said dryly. “Surely this is all a coincidence.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Just – find her, please?” His voice was as tense as his expression. “Find out where she’s gone and what’s the matter, and – and ideally, fix it. Before word gets around Camelot that our hospitality leaves so much to be desired that our honoured guests steal out in the middle of the night!”
“I don’t know,” the stablehand said, scrubbing a hand through the inelegant crop of his hair and giving Aziraphale a crumpled sort of smile. “I really don’t.”
The other knights had been dispatched in pairs according to their strengths: the most diplomatic to the nearby villages to make inquiries, while the fastest riders were attempting to track the missing parties further afield.
Aziraphale had been tasked with talking to the servants.
The stablehand had little useful to say, having only a blurry memory of being too tired to keep his eyes open.
“…and I woke up right where the horses should’ve been sleeping, sir,” he told Aziraphale, wide eyed. “No clue how I got there or why or—no clear hunch about it at all.”
“And now?”
“Right as rain,” the stablehand said miserably. It was clearly starting to dawn on him that he’d made a tremendous error. “Uh… do you think… King Arthur…”
Aziraphale put a soothing hand on his arm. “I’m quite convinced you’re telling me exactly as you remember it,” he said. “And I’ll be sure to put that in my report for the king.”
He hadn't actually been asked to write a report, per se, but the young man looked so thoroughly relieved to hear this that Aziraphale wondered if perhaps he ought to do so.
No one else he questioned was any more helpful, although they all seemed to appreciate his benevolent assurance that he was convinced they had nothing to do with anything.
Several of the chambermaids came back for a second or third interview.
“Enjoying yourself?” Lancelot laughed, discovering Aziraphale in the courtyard after lunch, talking emphatically with a small crowd of maids.
Lancelot was on horseback and looked every inch his reputation. Aziraphale's companions became a flustered huddle of curtsying and hasty retreats.
“Not at all,” Aziraphale said, feeling a little flustered himself. “Just trying to encourage them not to, er, panic.”
“I daresay,” Lancelot drawled, then stabbed his thumb over his shoulder towards the stable. “But you’re not going to solve any actual mysteries hanging around here looking winsome! Come on, there’s a horse free if you’re up for it.”
Instead of the historic dread he’d felt at being singled out for any physical activity whatsoever, Aziraphale was blindsided by a swell of pride. “Really? Me?”
“Yes.” Lancelot nudged his horse with one heel and it swerved gracefully around to walk beside Aziraphale. “Go fetch your platemail. I’ll let the stablehands know.”
Blessedly, it was a horse that Aziraphale had ridden before, a lean white charger who accepted him on its back without protest. They rode out together at a civil pace initially, but on clearing the castle grounds they broke into a gallop.
Previously, Aziraphale would have tensed up at this pace, especially as their path took them headlong into the woods, the air twinkling with falling autumnal leaves. But now Aziraphale found himself grinning and leaning into it, adjusting his posture to give the horse the freedom to really pick up speed.
The paired thundering of hooves rang out through the quiet forest as they passed along narrower tracts of dirt road, sending up flurries of wildfowl and assorted corvids. The pace felt incredible, filling Aziraphale with a sensation like wonder, making him take huge breaths and focus only on the horse beneath him. He melted into the rhythm of it; he felt like they were flying beneath the outstretched boughs. Like the horse was equipped with great smooth angelic wings, creating a cushion of air underneath, allowing them to glide along below the bronze and copper canopy with breathtaking ease.
The first two villages had Arthur’s standard planted in the dirt outside – the agreed signal that they’d already been interrogated in this matter. The third gate was bare, but the village itself looked tiny and dingy. Aziraphale privately thought it unlikely that the elegant Lady Morgana would have sought shelter there.
Lancelot nodded at the dusty path ahead. “I reckon we could make one more before dusk if we go hard, what do you think? Can you take it? I know you don’t tend to ride out often.”
Aziraphale thought about the challenges his body had risen to within the past week, and grinned. “Let’s go!”
The fourth village was larger, and Aziraphale felt a tingle of grandeur as they rode up to it. Every head turned toward them as Lancelot planted the king’s standard and hailed the look-out, who jumped down hurriedly from his post to haul open the gate.
They rode into the main square and dismounted, Aziraphale trying to disguise the rush of blood through his overused thigh muscles as a bit of knightly strutting. Following Lancelot’s lead, Aziraphale removed his helmet and tucked it under one arm. A friendly visit from two of King Arthur’s trusted men, with their faces bare – nothing threatening.
Lancelot clapped him on the shoulder. “Alert me if you notice anything suspicious,” he said, striding ahead, then halted briefly and grinned back at him. “My hope is to uncover gold with every strike of a new rock-face. But if it seems barren to you, please alert me to that as well.”
“Right - yes!” Aziraphale said, trying to decipher Lancelot’s unique wrestling of the English language whilst simultaneously sounding like a reliable sort for the job.
As it turned out, the village was indeed barren of useful information about missing half-sisters or horses or indeed, handmaidens. But it was an enjoyable couple of hours for Aziraphale witnessing Lancelot work: watching him segue from mild flattery to religious fervour to casual intimidation and back, depending on his audience. Aziraphale formed the overriding impression that Lancelot was very, very good at extracting information without the informant being necessarily any the wiser. His face was its own masterclass in charming concern.
“I fear this rockface is entirely devoid of precious ores,” Lancelot said eventually, under his breath. “Continuing to attempt to mine it may make fools of us both.”
Aziraphale nodded. “Yes. Fairly convinced no one has any idea what we’re talking about.” There had also, though he kept this thought to himself, not been a single glimpse of any personage with shining red hair.
They retrieved their horses and waved farewell, smiling and squinting against the setting sun, then replaced their helmets and rode off to effusive well-wishes.
This, he slowly realised, was in large part attributable to the discreet pouches of copper coins that Lancelot had pressed upon all who had assisted in their investigations.
“You have to strike a balance,” he told Aziraphale as they picked up speed in a homeward direction. “Too much coin and you sow dissent, too little and you trigger an uprising…”
“I see,” Aziraphale said, feeling in all earnestness like he was glimpsing something important here; and then as they charged past the tiny, grubby village they’d overlooked on their way out, they were knocked clean off their horses.
In the winded seconds that followed Aziraphale tried to piece it together – some sort of silvery chain had been thrown across their path, strung between two trees and pulled viciously tight – and even as Aziraphale had tried to duck, it caught him across the chest, arresting his movement as the horse charged on out from under him. He tumbled to the ground with a bellow of pain, echoed by a similar sound from Lancelot a few paces away.
“Ambush,” Aziraphale yelped, still winded, slamming his visor down and surging to his feet, feeling frantically for the grips of his shield and sword in time to see a dozen figures charging out of the trees, faces swathed in rags.
In the gathering shadows they looked daunting and innumerable, sending a whip-crack of alarm through Aziraphale's chest.
Fuck, he thought urgently. He and Lancelot were outnumbered and off-balance, they were on unfamiliar terrain, and they had no idea who they were fighting or why. Aziraphale raised his shield as blows started to fall around him – from rough-hewn clubs and sticks, not fighting blades – and had a sudden bleak thought: this might be the end. An ignominious, uncelebrated death at the hands of an unknown assailant, for the crime of – what? Flying Arthur’s standard? Some local villager’s misplaced crusade?
Someone smacked him across the back of the head, causing a metallic ringing to fill his ears even more than the shouts and cries around him, and someone else narrowly missed the centre of his chest with their wicked-looking flail. As Aziraphale evaded it, a third person swiped with heavy force at the back of his knees.
And that was simply dishonourable.
NO.
A red-gold haze descended. Aziraphale dragged in a huge breath as his limbs were imbued with a fierce, compelling energy, his blood rushing hot and primal—and suddenly it felt good to defend himself. He felt strong and quick and capable, shifting from his customary defensive stance into one of smooth, sleek attack.
The shouts and groans of the crowd changed timbre as Aziraphale pressed forward, not just holding ground but taking it. And he was usually reasonably good at fighting hand-to-hand – not the best, yet still perfectly respectable – but somehow now this felt easy.
Probably it was because these opponents were peasants, Aziraphale told himself, gritting his teeth as he dispatched them one after another, sending them staggering or cowering backward from every swing of his sword. Maybe against trained fighters he would be struggling more. He was aware of Lancelot fighting next to him now, shoulder to shoulder. He was matching Aziraphale’s aim to overpower, not kill or maim, and was confidently repelling their assailants with his usual mixture of technical skill and brute force—and yet even his sword arm now seemed to be moving just fractionally slower than Aziraphale’s.
Soon there were seven left facing them, then five; the others having fallen back groaning or entirely fled from view.
“Hold!” Lancelot called out, and Aziraphale responded before he registered the command, snapping into a defensive posture that neither attacked nor gave way.
Their five remaining assailants turned on their heels and scattered.
For a moment, the only sounds were the thuds of their retreating footfalls through the scrub of the forest and the fast-tapping pulse in Aziraphale’s ears.
Then Lancelot pushed back his visor and whistled, shrill and loud, and the welcome sound of their returning horses drowned out most else.
“Well that was… unexpected,” Aziraphale said once they were both safely mounted again. His body was thrumming, that strange excess red-gold energy not yet fully dissipated. He felt like he’d been knocked about, rattled as a tin full of dice, but curiously couldn’t locate any new or bothersome sites of pain.
He could have kept going.
He could start something else.
He could fuck – oh, yes, that was exactly what his body wanted to do right now, explore his newfound physical abilities. He was getting hard just at the thought of it. He wanted to wrap his hands around heated flesh and bury his face in leathery-smooth skin.
He wanted the demon. His demon. He wanted Crowley.
“It was certainly unexpected,” Lancelot was agreeing, sliding up his visor and giving Aziraphale a brief once-over before riding forwards. “You held your own, though,” he called back, as if an afterthought. “Well done.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, buoyed even more by that fleeting hot rush of approval in his gaze.
Would Lancelot… ever…?
No, he thought quickly, laughing at himself. Lancelot was a pinnacle of nobility; he wouldn’t want to push Aziraphale up against a tree just to work off some flare of combative energy, no, absolutely not. This man was more like a mentor than his peer. His blood probably didn’t even run hot at the hostility. He’d be… amused, most likely, if he saw how affected Aziraphale was, how ready to grope and grind and feel.
Unbidden, Aziraphale’s mind raced through all the rest of the knights - no, no, if only, of course not, no!, no, almost certainly not, oh good lord no - and then before he knew it he was imagining Arthur pushing him against a tree, blond stubble scraping his jaw, broad chest pressing heavily against his own.
He had to readjust his grip on the reins, his palms abruptly damp. That image was… potent.
Inappropriate! Aziraphale thought immediately, his mind quick to demonstrate the years of practice he’d had in dispelling prurient thoughts. He dashed the picture from his mind like a fleck of dust from his sleeve, berating himself: How dare he even conjure such an indecorous image? Unbefitting of his station! Entirely improper!
He had a few more stern words with himself, before another thought sidled in. Come on. If Arthur is pushing anyone up against a tree, it is surely going to be Merlin.
Another potent thought.
Merlin, tipping his head back, dark hair falling across his eyes as Arthur drew his wrists above his head…
Aziraphale quickly shook his own head, trying again to clear it, but the energy for berating himself seemed to be fading as quickly as it had arrived. And the other energy made his mind want to wander, unafraid of indulging in scandalous thoughts of these older, more dignified, eminently unavailable men.
Doing it anyway.
Merlin, turning to brace his palms against the rough bark, looking back at Arthur over one shoulder… Arthur, stepping close behind him, nudging his legs apart, reaching down…
Aziraphale spurred his horse a little faster as his mind raced on with reckless enthusiasm, the wind cool on his flushed cheeks. He didn’t know precisely where it had come from, this licentious energy, this wellspring of defiance, inextricably wound together with the sound of Crowley’s commanding voice in his ear. All he knew was that his mind felt open to it, warmed through and chaotic with uncontrollable thoughts.
The sounds Merlin would make, deep in the forest where no one else could hear them, as Arthur held him against that tree and fucked him as hard as they so clearly both wanted—Aziraphale broke the thought off again, swallowing, but not before his whole body responded with an eager tremor of sensation.
How dearly Aziraphale wanted to be fucked right now. Right here, dragged off his horse and into the ditch by the side of the road and—good lord, his body was alive with how much he wanted it. From Crowley, from Arthur, even from Lancelot if his inclination could be coaxed that way—and even as the red-gold haze gradually dissipated, Aziraphale was still left with a craving to yield to another’s desires, to hold and be held, a yearning so strong he could almost taste it.
He closed his eyes for a long moment, readjusted his grip yet again on the reins, and resolved to breathe through it.
He’d tarried, though, or else his horse had dropped the pace while Aziraphale’s focus was elsewhere; Lancelot twisted in the saddle to look back at him.
“Home, with all haste?”
Aziraphale nodded quickly, attempting not to dwell on those long-lashed dark eyes in all their watchful regard, that arresting look of composed entreaty.
In another life, he would almost have thought in that moment that Lancelot desired him. But that was probably just how Lancelot looked at everyone. In fact, wasn’t that true? The bards even sang about it - the king’s most eligible first knight, whose gaze could enrapture a maiden at sixty paces. Of course this charged moment wasn’t about Aziraphale.
“Is there a problem?” Lancelot asked, seeming entirely oblivious of Aziraphale’s internal distraction.
“Home. Please,” Aziraphale said.
Lancelot grinned. “At once.”
They rode back to towards Camelot at speed. The path vanished beneath their hooves, Aziraphale’s latent arousal gradually fading as his body was made to perform in more mundane ways.
Back at the castle, he groaned as he dismounted, gratefully removing his helmet as the unaccustomed combination of riding in platemail and being randomly attacked at last came back to haunt him.
Lancelot, already on the ground, glanced over. He took Aziraphale’s reins and handed them to the stablehand before steering Aziraphale away with a guiding hand between his shoulder blades.
“All is well?” he asked in a low voice, without looking at him.
There was no hint of suggestion in it, and yet Aziraphale still felt a small charge at being the recipient of such understated, subtle concern. “Er, yes. Fine. Nothing a good meal won’t fix.”
Lancelot laughed. “That’s the spirit,” he said, and Aziraphale thought he detected a slight tinge of relief in his voice.
Lancelot paused, then added, almost offhand, “You seem stronger, lately. Quicker. Have you been working on your endurance?”
Entirely inappropriate images swam again through Aziraphale’s mind, a relentless barrage of Crowley and his many, varied demands. He cleared his throat. “Ah—yes, I suppose I’ve been a bit more active recently. Trying out some new routines. Outside of trials, other… exercises.”
“Great!” Lancelot said. “It’s clearly paying off. That’s key, you know. Once you find something you enjoy, keep at it, really push yourself – that’s when you’ll see results.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, pressing his lips together hard and nodding. “I plan to.”
Unlike the Arthur of Aziraphale’s fantasies - who looked strong and robust and like he could fuck indefatigably for hours - the Arthur to whom they reported their troubles still didn’t look like he’d had any rest.
That said, the king didn’t seem more perturbed when they updated his high council on the afternoon’s events.
“Well, trouble’s been brewing in that district all summer,” Arthur said, as he looked over the map with narrowed eyes. “Local malcontents, most likely. They must have seen you ride out and seized the initiative. Any reports of similar attacks nearby?”
Gwaine shook his head. “I’ll ask around, but no other alarms have been raised.”
Arthur rubbed a knuckle against his temple then glanced at Merlin. Exhausted lines framed his eyes, made the set of his jaw seem all the firmer. “Add it to the list of grievances for – hmm – next week’s meeting with the Northern quarter? Best to nip it in the bud.”
“Already added,” Merlin said, underlining a note on a piece of parchment.
Arthur gave him a brief smile, then glanced at Aziraphale. “These things do tend to fester if you don’t address them before winter sets in,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “What might have been a few petty grievances while the harvest was being gathered can root deeply during the lean times.”
“Before you know it,” Merlin said cheerfully, “you’ve uprisings to quell all over the place. All for want of a polite word in the right ear and a few bushels of turnips.”
“Not turnips,” Arthur said in disgust, with a touch of overdone outrage. “Turnips never solve anything.”
“Those of us not brought up on biscuits and cream in a royal nursery would have to disagree,” Merlin shot back, sounding a picture of cool outrage but his eyes were sparkling with amusement.
Aziraphale watched avidly as they discussed further, exchanging notes. He knew of course, from hearing Gabriel complain about it, that the king held meetings with various invited dignitaries throughout his realm on a regular basis; every local dissident or disaffected baron would have a chance to make their case, and all would be dealt with – one way or another. It was the individualised diplomacy that Lancelot had demonstrated in the village, but on a grander scale.
Witnessing such a meeting being planned in advance gave Aziraphale a curious sensation of peeping behind the curtain of governance. All those grievances, all those fates, being weighed and measured like so many bolts of cloth and sacks of flour. Which issues would matter to the king or his people in the coming months, which could be safely set aside, and which needed more attention.
These two men held it all, shared it all, between them and their closest confidants. And now, it seemed, Aziraphale was also being drawn into their inner circle.
Aziraphale swallowed against a silent lump in his throat. He had been brought up in a castle devoted to the pursuit of power; feeling like he didn’t belong anywhere, with the insidious suspicion that this fact lay entwined with some fault inside himself. It had been drummed into him, no less. Yet now, here, he suddenly understood it differently. All that came before had been a furnace, a crucible, firing him like moulded clay into someone who took ground instead of merely defending it; who defended others. He wasn’t meant to waste away in that cold, hard, power-hungry place. He was meant to be here, amongst the warmth and bustle and noise and nuance. It seemed impossible, and yet – here he was. Not just listening at the door, but invited to sit at their table.
By nightfall Aziraphale was so restlessly aroused he could barely string a sentence together.
It was as if his body had been lying in wait for something all day, and as darkness fell he became overwhelmed. The urgent need to spread himself out beneath Crowley’s ravaging attention was all he could think about. Even the most casual brush of his own fingers created a tantalising fire across his skin.
Aziraphale made himself wait, cautious not to touch himself before the others slept, aware that the preternatural privacy apparently afforded by Crowley’s presence would not extend to the stretch of nighttime before his arrival. He mustn’t make a sound… He shouldn’t tease himself, touch himself…
Fizzing with anticipation and warm all over, Aziraphale made himself wait, and wait, and wait.
He woke up some time later, flat on his back, with a start; gripped by a disquieting sense that he was late for something important.
His eyes opened. He pushed up on his elbows, peered around, and—nothing. The dormitory was entirely as he’d left it, what must have been a few hours ago now. The darkness was thicker, though. Most of the bedside candle flames had fluttered out and the hearth itself was a mere subdued glow.
There was a conspicuous lack of big red demon straddling him.
Aziraphale let his elbows go out from under him and flopped back against the mattress. Where was Crowley? His skin felt tacky with the sweat of sleep, and his own desires were smouldering brighter than the ashes in the hearth. He cupped his erection, already hard and needy, closing his eyes tight and wishing with all his strength.
Crowley. Crowley! Come find me.
For a heartbeat he thought he felt a flicker of response, but it ebbed before he could catch hold of it. And then there was nothing, a deep and profound blackness, a sense of utter solitude despite the snoring of the other knights nearby.
Aziraphale shifted restlessly, moving his hand over his cock. He imagined Crowley watching from afar, waiting for his moment. It could be a tease, a plot. A new torment. He’d let Aziraphale get close. He’d let Aziraphale attend to himself until he was panting and helpless, desperate for Crowley’s touch. Desperate to be invaded. And then…
Aziraphale slipped his other hand down, plunged two fingers into himself.
…And then Crowley would throw him around like he weighed nothing, before shoving him to his knees on the floor; he’d bend Aziraphale forcefully over the bed and push his cock into his arse from behind, working it impatiently inside, making up for lost time. He’d…
Aziraphale shoved in a third finger and stroked himself feverishly, hips lifting off the mattress.
…He’d hold Aziraphale still as he impaled him, clasp his hips, careless with those talons, ignoring any whines and pleas Aziraphale might like to try. Crowley would take him at his own pace, brutal and bruising as he liked, and Aziraphale would give up stroking himself, spread his arms and legs in helpless welcome, and accept being used. Fucked raw by his demon lover, with that hot dragon breath on the back of his neck, those claws digging into his hips; helplessly succumbing to that ridged cock, that powerful grind. Fucked and taken and claimed, plundered, ruined, for as long as Crowley wanted, whatever Crowley wanted, forever, and—
“Ah,” Aziraphale gasped, as his orgasm washed over him, a pleasing hypnotic sensation that faded all too soon. The warm splash of his own come hit his chest, and he stifled a moan on the back of his hand, suddenly aware again that without Crowley’s presence there was no reason to imagine he wouldn’t be overheard.
It was… nice. Certainly better than the absence of climaxes that he’d restricted himself to every previous year since the urge began.
But…
For some reason, he could imagine Crowley having a problem with it just being ‘nice’. He felt like Crowley could get quite agitated about it.
He opened his eyes again, hoping against hope that there would be a scornful demon looking down at the mess he’d made of himself, shaking his head, telling him there would be no escape and that just because he was sated now didn’t mean Crowley would go any easier on him. Stroking his huge dick as he loomed over Aziraphale, deciding whether to start with his arse or his mouth, the choice entirely out of Aziraphale’s control.
But there was nothing.
Chapter 9: Night 8 - The Vigil
Summary:
With Morgana and her handmaiden nowhere to be found, Aziraphale finds himself revealing more than he intended.
Notes:
The Plot thickens. Thanks for sticking with me. This is where the pining-while-fucking tag really starts to come into its own…
Additional TW: off-screen historical trauma including bereavement; illness and conflict.
Chapter Text
Aziraphale woke the next morning already scowling. His thighs complained that they were unused to such maltreatment in yesterday’s saddle. His body ached. He felt sluggish and parched. And worst still, Crowley hadn’t shown up at all.
Aziraphale had thought he’d have six more nights but apparently, no. Crowley hadn’t come back. There might be no more nights, for all Aziraphale knew.
It stung more than he’d expected.
And there was still no news of Morgana.
Or the handmaiden.
Or the horses.
By the afternoon, some of the riders who’d been sent further afield were starting to return. There were no reports of success; no horses retrieved, and no one had seen Morgana’s party riding through either.
“How far North did the riders go?” Arthur demanded.
He looked positively sallow now, in shirtsleeves and loose britches, with damp patches darkening the hollows between his shoulder blades. He kept pushing his hand through his hair as he paced.
Aziraphale couldn’t quite believe his king was standing in front of him in such a state of casual, agitated disarray. The inner circle indeed.
Lancelot shook his head. “They made it as far as the sixteenth bridge,” he said. “At full speed. But there was no sign.” He frowned, gesturing at the map. “It’s simply not possible that Morgana’s entire retinue could travel beyond that distance, even with a few hours head-start – the terrain gets far too rough.”
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, as if a particularly severe headache was gathering behind his brows.
He’d brought together just four of them – Merlin, Lancelot, Percival, Aziraphale – in his sanctum, a small room off one corner of his chambers. It was a quiet space, the thick stone walls further insulated by floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, their faded leather bindings glinting with gold leaf. It was a place of regal contemplation, of lawmaking, of quiet confidences being exchanged.
And right now, of increasingly heated discussion.
“It’s like they’ve been taken,” Arthur said darkly. He tugged restlessly at the laces holding his shirt closed at the throat, as if he needed more air. His throat was a mottled red, spreading down under the loosened laces. “I don’t like it.”
Merlin glanced at the reassuringly closed door, then touched Arthur’s bare forearm, stilling him. “I know it feels… familiar,” he said, his voice even and careful. “But there’s no reason to believe that this is the work of the Fae.”
Arthur glared at him. “No reason?” he demanded. “Who else descends during the witching hour and has a taste for prize horses? Who else whisks away an entire retinue of courtly ladies without raising the attention of a single guard?”
Percival winced. “It wasn’t just horses, though, last time, was it?”
Arthur swung around to glare at him, too. “Don’t remind me! What’s next, the rest of the livestock? The whole harvest? I thought we had wards against that sort of thing!”
That was directed at Merlin, who glared right back at him. “We do,” Merlin retorted. “They’re undisturbed. That’s why I’m positive it’s not the Fae!”
Aziraphale felt like he had woken up during the final act of a long and complex play. “Um,” he said, partially in case they had forgotten he was there. “When was… last time?”
Merlin sighed. “Ten years ago. Midwinter storms flooded a nearby village and we offered shelter to the villagers. We inadvertently invited some of the Fae to rest within the walls of the castle, and that night they took, er… full advantage.”
“Next thing you know,” Percival said, ticking them off on his fingers, “we had no pigs, no sheep, no horses, no chickens…”
“It had been snowing,” Merlin said, “but the animals left no tracks.”
“Like now,” Arthur put in dourly. “No one’s detected any tracks.”
“And none of the staff had seen a thing,” Lancelot said, nodding in memory. “Half of them just fell asleep.”
“Like now!”
“And after we’d cleared all that up,” Merlin said loudly, “and retrieved what livestock we could, and dissolved all the handfasts, and unpicked all the stupid fool contracts that your knights had wantonly blundered into—”
“Hey,” Lancelot protested.
“—I spent at least three months imbuing the grounds with every historical charm known to be effective against the Fae, and a dozen more I invented myself!”
Arthur blinked at Merlin, the paranoid haze in his eyes clearing. Then he gave him a rakish grin, and mused, “I dunno, I’m still wondering if it’s the Fae…”
“It’s not the Fae,” Merlin snapped.
Arthur, Lancelot and Percival all burst out laughing, and the tension briefly diffused.
“What if it’s a demon?” Aziraphale blurted.
The laughter died away as they all four turned to look at him.
Merlin recovered first. “Why do you say that?”
The quadruple weight of their appraisal was too much. “I don’t know!” Aziraphale backtracked hastily. “Or witches? You’ve just told me the Fae are real! What other legends have I been pleasantly oblivious of until now?”
“Of course the Fae are real,” Merlin said, frowning. “How is that even in question—?”
“Upbringings vary,” Lancelot said loudly, waving to get Merlin’s attention with a meaningful look. It sounded like the resurgence of an old argument. “Just because you have had many dealings with them does not mean that the average knight,” he acknowledged Aziraphale with a brief, apologetic glance, “will know them as anything more than a parlour tale.”
“Still,” Merlin said, “we should really revisit the post-knighthood education, if—”
“The ends of the world are come,” Arthur declared, his voice ragged. He was sweating heavily now; as they all turned to look at him, his eyes turned glassy and rolled back.
“Arthur,” Merlin called in dismay, rushing to him.
Arthur collapsed, slipping through the grasping cradle of Merlin’s hands and slumping in a terribly still, crumpled heap upon the flagstones.
“Fuck,” Lancelot muttered, dropping to his knees.
Between them they got him laid out on his side, Lancelot feeling for the pulse at his neck, Merlin peering close to his face.
“He lives,” Merlin said shortly. “Sound the alarm and secure the castle,” he said to Percival. His voice turned ragged. “Nobody enters or leaves.”
Percival nodded, already striding for the door.
“Help me get him to his rooms,” Merlin said to Lancelot, and then addressed Aziraphale. “Fetch the apothecary,” he said, eyes widening as Arthur started groaning. “With all haste.”
Aziraphale ran.
The great bells were clanging across the courtyard and down the corridors, but in the king’s large, lavish bedchamber the urgent peals were slightly muffled. Aziraphale was grateful for this as he carried a stack of physicians’ tomes to a table where Merlin was already sitting. His head was ringing as well.
The room was dominated by a canopied bed in the very centre, its curtains tied back with velvet ropes. The walls were draped with tapestries, the flagstone floor a patchwork of opulent rugs. A multitude of arrow-slit windows were arranged across one wall, allowing shafts of daylight into the bedchamber without any reduction in defence.
In pride of place above Arthur’s hearth, between an ornate silver sword and a battered silver shield, was spread an intricate tapestry of the castle at dawn. It was a magnificent piece of work, the rising sun represented by a large golden gemstone, the rays lancing across grey stonework picked out in golden thread. Aziraphale stared at it, reminded of something ephemeral, something uncertain—before Arthur gave a great choking moan and the feeling was lost.
The apothecary, having made her laborious examination as Merlin paced, feared it was not a physical illness.
“No indeed,” Merlin snapped, and then covered his eyes and shook his head. “My apologies,” he said stiffly. “I never seem to manage this part very well.”
He was silent for a moment, then turned to Aziraphale. “Look, can you liaise with Lancelot on my behalf? Check everyone has reported to their stations, and the walls are manned, and if all is stable then please can you silence the bells?”
“Of course,” Aziraphale said, hastily taking his leave.
When he returned, it was sunset and Arthur seemed worse: barely coherent, clutching at his head and groaning. They’d stripped him of his shirt, but still he was shiny with sweat and shivering. His candle, cup and dagger were all scattered across the bedside table, as if an erratic hand had swung into them.
The apothecary was still entirely focused on her patient. “I fear leeches will not help,” she was saying quietly to Merlin. “He is not bilious. He is plethoric but his breathing is shallow – bloodletting may weaken him further. We can give a tincture of feverfew leaf, but if it is an otherworldly affliction that may not make any difference.”
Aziraphale watched her administer the tincture – Arthur, blearily, roused enough to accept the spoonful before flailing at his own face as if to claw the taste from his tongue – before she left again. As the door closed behind her, Aziraphale stared down at the writhing, sweat-slick, grimacing form of the king, dwarfed in his huge bed, with a sense of great foreboding.
It didn’t look like Crowley’s handiwork – to the extent that he could say that, with a mere week’s experience, but it didn’t feel like Crowley either – and yet, what else could it be?
Merlin stalked around the room, leaning heavily on his staff, glaring as he thumbed through book after book before pushing them irritably aside.
The sun’s last golden rays faded from the bedchamber to be replaced by blue-grey shadow. Even as the light changed, Arthur groaned, flinging his head from side to side, then arched horribly.
Merlin snapped his latest book shut and crossed to his bedside, before visibly catching himself and wheeling away again.
“I should go,” Aziraphale offered.
“No,” Merlin said.
There was a pause.
“No?” Aziraphale ventured.
Merlin met his gaze full on, his eyes glinting opaque in the new evening light. “We need to talk.”
”Lancelot told me what you did.”
Noiseless panic filled Aziraphale's ears, and he felt a guilty flush stain his cheeks.
This was it: nothing to do with the king’s affliction. Somehow Merlin had found out about Escanor, and now Aziraphale was going to be punished – banished – and everything he’d worked for here, everything he’d come to care about, his entire life in Camelot, would be lost.
But even as his thoughts spiralled, another voice pointed out: how could Lancelot possibly know?
“What?” Aziraphale asked warily, all too conscious of how closely he was being observed.
“For Bors,” Merlin said. “He said you breathed the life back into him.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale said. Oh. It was about the king. Of course it was! “Y-yes, I suppose I—”
“He said you didn’t hesitate, you just looked at him and knew,” Merlin continued, a bright blazing intensity in his eyes, and then he was drawing Aziraphale to the bedside with him, speaking low and pressured. “Whatever you did, whatever you used – I won’t ask questions – but I need you to do it again now, for Arthur, please.”
He looked like he was unravelling. And he seemed to think Aziraphale might have some arcane power to help. For what felt like the hundredth time this week, Aziraphale reevaluated what he understood about forces beyond the natural realm.
“I don’t—” Aziraphale started, then realised that what he’d been about to say - I don’t have any power, I was just lucky - wasn’t what Merlin needed right now. He needed hope.
“Right,” Aziraphale said instead, staring down at Arthur as he tossed and turned, eyes almost but not quite closed, unseeing, flushed.
He knew himself not to have any of the magical skill that Merlin seemed to be hinting at… but he did have a painful wealth of experience in this domain.
He was, for want of a better term, widely read.
Aziraphale wet his lips. “Bors needed air,” he said slowly, as a place to start. “In the morning, he looked drowned, his lips were blue – Arthur doesn’t look like that. He looks…” Possessed. “…febrile.”
“The apothecary has already given feverfew,” Merlin said. “It has not had any effect.”
Aziraphale lay a cautious hand over Arthur’s brow; he felt preternaturally hot, and Arthur whipped his head away as if Aziraphale's touch burnt him. Aziraphale's palm came away wet. The sensation of it brought back a memory, sweet and sharp, of his mother in a similar state, some years ago: her eyes clouded with fever, her body racked with chills. Another memory, of an old man holding an even older book, its ink faded, with messages scrawled in the margins, came to him immediately after.
“Willowbark,” Aziraphale said. “Have we tried that yet?”
A spark of hope fired in Merlin’s expression. “Not yet!” He strode to the door, gave instructions to whoever stood guard outside, then returned to Arthur’s side with renewed vigour in his step. “Go on. What else?”
Aziraphale searched his memory. “Whatever rages through him, I fear it may be in the blood. We must support his body to fight its own battle.” He recalled how soothing it had been, as a worry-stricken youth, to be given a role instead of standing back and wringing his hands. “Can you sit him up?”
Merlin immediately climbed onto the bed next to Arthur, with the familiarity of one who had no compunction about physical closeness with this man.
Aziraphale's suspicions firmed into certainty as Merlin slid an arm around Arthur, guiding him to sit up against him. Unlike the cringing away from Aziraphale's touch, Arthur nuzzled blindly against Merlin’s chest, one hand seizing the front of Merlin’s tunic and gripping tight, hauling him closer.
Merlin’s face twitched, alarm filling his gaze as it flicked back to Aziraphale. As if belatedly checking if it were at all feasible for Aziraphale not to have noticed. As if Merlin might even now be forming an explanation, an excuse for this behaviour.
”Good,” Aziraphale said briskly, electing not to comment further. “We must give him water, replace his losses. He may take it better from you, if he, er, trusts you. He dashed the cup away when I tried.”
Aziraphale leaned across the bed, and together they encouraged Arthur to drink; in Merlin’s careful hands just a little spilled. When they set the cup aside Merlin’s hand returned to Arthur’s shoulder, stroking slow circles.
Presently a knock came at the door; the apothecary’s maid had brought the concentrated draft of willowbark. Aziraphale took it from her, ensuring his body blocked the view of the bed, and closed the door again behind him as he brought the little bottle to Merlin.
“Half now, and the other half if there is no improvement within an hour,” Aziraphale said, the old physician’s instructions returning to him as vividly as if it was only yesterday. “And keep giving the water.”
The next couple of hours passed fitfully, with no striking resolution, but Arthur seemed to thrash less in Merlin’s quietly confident hold. Eventually Arthur subsided into another restless sleep, his face tucked into the hollow of Merlin’s neck, and Merlin’s fingers fanned through the back of his damp hair.
Aziraphale was trying to think of a way to acknowledge the unspoken thing he had inadvertently become witness to, when Merlin spoke.
“The fever seems to have broken. Thank you.”
Aziraphale squirmed. “Anyone with a little knowledge would gladly do the same.” He hesitated, then made himself add quietly, “And I’m sorry to say, he has yet to make it through the night.”
The corners of Merlin’s eyes tensed.
Aziraphale swallowed. “I can stay, for what it’s worth. If you like.”
“That would be. Good of you,” Merlin said gruffly.
Aziraphale busied himself around the room for as long as he could, lighting candle lanterns, refreshing the bedside jug of water, filling a copper pail at the hearthside to rinse out cool compresses, shaking out crumpled linens - anything to avoid his gaze lingering on the entwined pair on the bed.
Eventually he wore himself out. The castle had fallen silent apart from Arthur’s laboured breathing, the low murmur as Merlin tended to him, and the occasional hiss or pop from the glowing embers of the hearth fire.
Outside, distant owls hooted. The candlelight filled the room with warm, steady shadows. It made the heavy gleaming brocade and quilted silks of the bed look all the more sumptuous, despite the pitiful huddled shapes in its centre.
Aziraphale ventured at last to take a comfortable chair near Arthur’s bedside, searching his mind for safe and alternative topics—and then his thoughts ground to a halt, and he shook his head. What was the point of avoiding this?! It was a cowardly way to approach things. Surely if anything, the acknowledgement might help.
“Does he settle?” he asked, looking at Arthur’s dewy brow, his square jaw tucked against Merlin’s sweat-darkened chest, lips parted around hoarse breaths.
“A little,” Merlin said, pushing his hair back from his eyes in a slow sweep. Despite his dark beard, the lack of sleep made his features look even more elfin than usual. He had a weary and yet resolute air - like someone shouldering a heavy weight, with no clear idea of when he would be able to lay it down again.
“Speaking plainly,” Aziraphale said, which was all the warning shot he could allow himself, lest he lose his nerve, “if this is a curse, and not a malady, then have you considered it may be broken by, er, true love’s kiss?”
There was a dreadful silence, in which Aziraphale’s heart charged into his throat like a pounding drum.
Then Merlin lifted his chin. “Speaking plainly,” he said, his words quiet but crisp, clear, “yes, I tried that earlier.”
Aziraphale's stomach flipped. “Did it help?”
Merlin enclosed Arthur’s limp hand with his own, swiped his thumb over the knuckles, and gave Aziraphale a small, bleak smile. “It did not.”
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, and then rushed on, “but um, thank you. For telling me.”
Merlin’s smile became a shrewd look. “Don’t now tell me you hadn’t suspected before this night,” he said, with a little more sharpness. “We run a kingdom together.“
“No I… I had suspected.” Aziraphale looked from one to the other, Merlin’s dark head angled toward Arthur’s ruffled blond one. Aziraphale tried for a rakish smile, though he could feel his face was falling short. “Does that make you the, er, the fair maiden from a distant land?“
Thankfully, that caused Merlin to give a short laugh. “Am I Guinevere? No… Bit of a long story, that.”
Aziraphale cocked his head. Inside, the thrill of being confided in was mixed with the enormity of what Merlin had revealed. “Might pass the time?”
Merlin’s green eyes flashed. “Fancy yourself a secret keeper to the crown?”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “Yes? If—if you like.”
Merlin regarded him for another long moment. Then readjusted Arthur against his chest; Arthur mumbled and shivered, then nestled closer, throwing a knee over Merlin’s long legs.
Once Arthur had settled again, Merlin shrugged and said simply, “Guinevere loves Lancelot.”
“Oh!”
“She is amply compensated for her loyalty in maintaining the ruse otherwise,” Merlin added, as Aziraphale felt his eyes grow rounder still. “They have an estate in the south of Wales, and another in France. And Lancelot is of course scrupulous about who is in attendance there.”
“That’s why Lancelot carries the King’s correspondence for Wales,” Aziraphale said, realisation dawning, and Merlin nodded.
“Yes. As well as leading any quests in the region on the king’s behalf. They spend a good portion of the year together, but piecemeal. And in utmost secrecy, for now.”
“And so all that famed correspondence…?”
“Ha! Yes.” Merlin’s voice warmed, and Aziraphale realised this was an unburdening for him as much as an act of confidence in Aziraphale. “Her letters are all penned by my hand. She has allowed me the privilege of her private seal, but the words...” Colour briefly blossomed in Merlin’s cheeks, and he glanced away. “The words are my own.”
“So for ten years…”
“Twenty-two,” Merlin said, absently stroking the back of Arthur’s neck.
Aziraphale blinked. “Wait—that long before the coronation?” This was unbelievable. He’d had his suspicions, but never dreamed they might have such a significant arrangement between them.
“Long before,” Merlin said, nodding. He rubbed a knuckle against the edge of his beard, and his lips gained a brief rueful quirk. “The risks seemed different back then. But no alternative was worth it. So here you find us, still hiding in plain sight. But, ah… fairly well hidden, except to a chosen few.”
He looked pensive for long enough that Aziraphale started to wonder if the conversation was over, then gave his head a little shake and changed his tone. “What about you? Any secret trysts, brewing scandals?”
“No!” Aziraphale said, with a slightly too-wild laugh as his mind filled with red-orange scales and flaming eyes. He tried to cover it, adding dryly, “Um, ha, but of course I’m most dismayed to hear that Lancelot is spoken for.”
Merlin snorted. “You and half of Camelot.”
Aziraphale wanted to pinch himself. Not only was Merlin revealing long-guarded secrets to him, but he was apparently treating this strange night as his own confessional? “But apart from… um, idle daydreams… no. There’s no one.”
Merlin gave a faint, puzzled frown. “No one ever? Not even back home?”
Aziraphale felt the clouds sweeping over his own face like a midwinter storm, his good humour evaporating. “No one.”
“...My apologies,” Merlin said, and belatedly Aziraphale realised he’d set his jaw. “You needn’t say more.”
He tried to wave it away. “No, no, it’s fine.” Maybe this was the right time to talk about it. He was sitting a strange, overnight vigil for his mysteriously afflicted king, trading tales with the king’s secret consort, while his own truth burned in vivid solitude at the back of his mind. Would there ever be a better time?
He opened his mouth, then thought better and shut it again. He winced in apology, aware that his manners were sorely lacking, but Merlin just shook his head. He seemed content to let the silence stretch.
Eventually, Aziraphale found his own words were lining up. He sighed. Out with it, then. “Before I came to Camelot, I knew only difficulty. There was pain and grief and – little else.”
Merlin didn’t look like he was being told anything new. “You hail from Castle Empyrean – what was Castle Morningstar, before your father left.”
“Before he was cast out,” Aziraphale corrected. He’d had to live through that time of scandal and fury; his mother had never regained her strength after his departure, as if during their many battles she had suffered one too many internal wounds. Both her health and her spirit had deteriorated soon after. The least history could do, Aziraphale felt, would be to remember that she had uprooted his father from their home on purpose. “Yes, Gabriel upheld our mother’s name, if not her values,” he said, unnerving himself with his own raw honesty. “My mother—I, I don’t know if you’re aware—”
“I knew of your mother,” Merlin said quietly. He paused, watching Aziraphale’s face. “I was truly sorry to hear of her passing.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered, because that was the thing he had trained himself to say, and it still came readily, though his voice was dusty and faint, like a cobweb across an abandoned trunk of precious things.
“I knew she was a formidable leader, a great energy in her own right, her wealth exceeded only by her beneficence.”
Aziraphale’s throat ached fiercely. He nodded.
“And,” Merlin said, dropping his voice, “I heard of her youngest son, barely yet a man, who all but became a recluse when she started to withdraw from society. Who – while his older siblings squabbled amongst each other – locked himself in the library, writing to physicians all across the land for their advice.”
“For all the good it did,” Aziraphale said, with a bitterness that surprised even him. He swallowed, blinking hard, remembering Gabriel’s mockery, Uriel’s dismissive sneer. He stared at his fingertips, and they suddenly blurred. “I thought—I was convinced if I… if I just read more, knew more, I might be able to help sustain her, bring her back… Foolish of me, really. As they never tired of telling me.”
From all sides, it had felt. The mockery of his siblings who had reclaimed the Empyrean estates as their own, and the threatened violence of those who had sided with his father.
“She languished for several years,” Aziraphale whispered. “As she diminished, retreated… I read everything I could get my hands on, in the hope of finding a reversal for our fate, but it was not to be. Meanwhile my father gained in power, my siblings chose their sides. Many craved the future he had painted for them. The raw power. Our neighbours’ lands. There was a lot of… internal conflict. Needless suffering.” He swallowed hard. “She finally succumbed two years ago, after which I discovered I was no longer welcome.“
“I’m sorry you had to leave your home.”
“It was not my home any more,” Aziraphale said, his voice growing thick. “It no longer resembled hers either.” He tried to arrange a smile across his lips but they quivered, defying him. “I honour her memory better here in Camelot, by trying to uphold virtues of a knight, even though I’m—I don’t excel here either.“
“Aziraphale,” Merlin said sternly. “Look at me.”
Stupid, stupid. Showing a dark glimpse into the deep old well of emotion at a time like this. This was where Merlin would explain they pitied him or ask him to leave. Aziraphale sniffed hard, steeled himself, and then met that exacting gaze head-on.
Merlin just gave him a crooked smile. “Do you know how many fourth and fifth sons come trotting across our drawbridge every year, hoping to become a knight of Arthur’s round table?”
Aziraphale sniffed again. “…No.”
“Dozens and dozens,” Merlin said. “And most, we send away. Some of them, we have no choice but to take – when their families are so powerful it’s apolitic not to. But some,” he said, and tapped his own temple briskly, then pointed at Aziraphale, “we choose for ourselves.”
“Oh.”
“Your reputation preceded you,” Merlin said. “We needed a man of books far more than yet another swordsman. And just because you didn’t succeed in your first quest doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth your trying. I’m certain she was proud of what you did for her.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale repeated, lamely.
“There is also a reason,” Merlin said, warming to his theme, “that Lancelot is known as Sir Lancelot, and not as Sir Du Lac – and it’s not just because that would be an even more hearty mouthful for the bards. It’s because it’s his name, not his father’s. Every single one of you is here on your own merits, writing your own story. Your epitaphs are yours, not your father’s. Not even your mother’s. Yours.”
Aziraphale felt like the room was reeling around him, listing. “Thank you,” he said, eventually. “That’s… good. And,” he stammered, suddenly worried he’d said too much, painted too dark a picture, “here I’ve found the—the brotherhood I never had before, the… well… that is…”
Merlin gave him a sharp smile. “You don’t have to like everything about a place to belong there,” he said, but before Aziraphale could reply, his expression changed to one of concern. Arthur was growing unnaturally tense in his arms, and the pained moaning started up again. “Arthur? Arthur.”
It was no use. Arthur broke free of Merlin’s grasp and rolled away, curling around himself, cradling his head as if struck.
Aziraphale looked around, noting how dark the bedchamber had become; he had been almost unaware of time passing. Were they through the witching hour? He looked back at Arthur’s agitated form, now giving off a noise not unlike a dry, shivery sob.
“It still doesn’t look like what happened to the others, at least,” Aziraphale said, more to reassure himself than anything. This did not feel like Crowley’s work at all.
Merlin’s eyes narrowed. “The others?”
“The… malady,” Aziraphale said, wrong-footed. He waved his hand. “Struck at night, but not like this. They weren’t writhing or moaning – they were peaceful.”
“How do you know they were peaceful?”
“Er,” Aziraphale said quickly, a flustered heat rising into his cheeks. “Well they… would have woken us, wouldn’t they? If they were like this. Making noise, thrashing around - in a room full of knights. Someone would have woken.”
As if on cue, Arthur gave another awful rumbling groan and his arms flailed.
”Aziraphale,” Merlin said, his voice very even. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Aziraphale looked into Merlin’s sharp green eyes and was lost. After all they’d just shared… after everything Merlin had said… it was beyond him to dissemble now. He couldn’t tell if he was being compelled by some arcane power that Merlin was using, or simply lured by the prospect of setting aside his own secret burden.
“I… The night Bors fell ill,” he said, feeling like his voice was coming from far away. “I dreamt there was a demon stealing his breath, and I charged it – I distracted it – and in the morning, Bors was… He needed air. But he hadn’t died.”
He searched Merlin’s face for the ridicule or disbelief he would have anticipated if he were saying this to anyone else, at any other time. Finding none, he took a deep breath and continued.
“Then—I had the same dream, three nights ago, except this time the demon was on Escanor, and I. I didn’t. Do anything.”
There was more he could say - explanations, embellishments, half-truths - but there was something clean in leaving it there. Condemning himself with brevity.
“I see,” Merlin said, still sounding wary. “Well obviously, the mind can play tricks. But what you saw, they didn’t look like this? They were—peaceful, you said?”
Or… was he not condemned after all? A rush of helpfulness overtook him. “Uh, yes – no! Nothing like this. No fever, no agitation, completely quiet – they looked like they were sleeping.”
“Hm. Something entirely different then.” A flash of bleak humour. “Trust Arthur to have two different curses put on us at once.”
The warmth in Merlin’s voice made Aziraphale ache. “That does sound unlikely.”
“And this demon,” Merlin demanded, jumping up from the bed, fetching a side of parchment and beginning to sketch. “What was it like? Goblin, dragon or wraith?”
Aziraphale stared at him. “What?”
Merlin looked impatient. “Lots of demons in these parts. Historically. Not to mention avenging spirits, fiends, and of course the Fae. But most of them can’t enter Camelot any more, and none of them should be able to rampage freely through our castle.” He spared a brief smile for Aziraphale’s widened eyes. “My apologies, if I’m going too fast. This land is wildly tribal, and barely human. Half my job for the last twenty years has been appeasing this sort of thing. The other half has been maintaining wards against it.”
“…Right,” Aziraphale said. His mind was starting to spin again. Merlin believed him. “Then I suppose… dragon? Fiery eyes. Um, wings.”
“Paralysis? Or could you interact with it?
“Ah… both?”
“Right, right, you said – you charged it.” Merlin, looking down at his drawing and sketching with a hasty hand, didn’t see Aziraphale blush.
“I stabbed it. With my bedside dagger.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow at him. “Good for you! What did it do?”
“Er… It attacked me.”
“But you didn’t die.“
“No.”
“Good!” Then, with sudden mounting focus, Merlin demanded: “Did you get the dagger back?”
Aziraphale hadn’t thought of that. “...Also no.”
“Ah.” The colour drained from Merlin’s face.
Aziraphale frowned. “What?”
Merlin set his sketch aside, heading for the door, Aziraphale hurrying after him. Merlin’s lips were a thin line. “A dagger was found. Last night. By one of the maids.”
“What? Where?”
“In Morgana’s rooms.”
There was no doubt that it was his dagger.
Aziraphale knew it as soon as it was fetched to them by a yawning pageboy in a rumpled bundle of dark cloth. Aziraphale’s bedside dagger, familiar as his own palm, with its hand-carved hilt and iron studs, the scratch of Aziraphale’s sigil faintly discernible along one side of the wood.
The crude blade was stained a dark rust-red all the way to the hilt, and the surface looked irregular where before it had been smooth. Demon blood? Or had the iron itself been corroded by its touch?
Aziraphale’s mind had been churning as they waited for the pageboy’s return. Morgana was gone and the demon was also gone. The dagger Aziraphale had buried in the demon’s side had appeared in Morgana’s rooms. Could… the demon… by any possibility… be the Lady Morgana?!
—but faced with the dagger now he just knew, intrinsically, no. They were entirely distinct from each other. Morgana’s cool elegance was worlds apart from Crowley’s fierce heat. There was something linking them, he could feel it: something important, something vital. But they were not the same entity.
“It is mine,” Aziraphale told Merlin, reaching for the small blade, and then his fingertips touched the dark, crumbly red stain and he was seized by a strange flash of Crowley.
In a heady rush Aziraphale remembered the first night - what Crowley had said - and then, the nothing. The blackness that had obliterated him afterwards. He’d barely reacted to Crowley’s words at the time, and hadn’t retained a single crucial detail, so swept up had he been in the blood-smeared chaos of that first encounter. The memories had gone from him by the next morning, rolling away like raindrops down waxed leather.
“Twelve knights of King Arthur’s table, just as you say. A fine prize from the Lady Morgana in exchange for a few trinkets of power.”
Fuck.
“Aziraphale? Aziraphale! Wake up!”
Aziraphale opened his eyes to find he was lying flat on the floor, fingertips smarting, blinking up at Merlin’s aghast expression in the wavering candlelight.
A new, wan light was filtering in from the slit windows as well: dawn was approaching.
Aziraphale accepted Merlin’s proffered arm, pulled himself heavily back to his feet, and realised the dagger had fallen to the floor between them. His fingertips tingled anew.
“What happened?” Merlin’s voice was harsh now. “Your eyes turned fully golden, and you collapsed. What did you see?”
“It’s—Lady Morgana,” Aziraphale croaked, still dazed, his voice feeling as rusty as the metal of the dagger’s blade. “She’s not the demon but she’s the key – she brought him here - she traded… something… us?” He tried to get his head to clear. “I think she traded us for his power, she took his power and granted access to a—to a quota of us in return.”
Arthur groaned loudly, a new gasping note of anguish filling his voice, and writhed so hard he almost threw himself off the bed.
“And this as well? Is it here now?” Merlin demanded, lifting his staff, and a raw livid power crackled around the room. “Is that demon here for Arthur?”
Panic filled Aziraphale's chest. “No, no,” he said, shaking his head feverishly against a sudden conviction that Merlin was about to smite Crowley down from a place of sheer fury. “No! Wait, I don’t think – I can’t feel him here – please, wait – I don’t think it’s my demon that’s doing this, it’s something else, it’s—”
Aziraphale's gaze fell on the tapestry above the hearth: sunrise was upon them now, and a shaft of dawning light from the window was making the egg-sized gemstone in its centre sparkle with an uncanny glow.
A demonic eye.
A gift from Morgana.
A trinket.
“—It’s that,” Aziraphale said, abruptly certain, lunging for it and ripping it off the wall.
Even out of the sunbeam, the gem at the tapestry’s centre seemed lustrous. There was a swirling beauty to it, a near hypnotic golden glow.
Aziraphale spread the tapestry flat on the flagstone before the hearth, grabbed his dagger again, and brought its handle down hard into the gemstone’s centre. Sparks flew as he felt it crunch slightly; he did it again, and again, pounding, until the iron stud of the dagger’s hilt was making a fine golden dust of the stone, and there was nothing left to crack. Then he threw the whole tapestry into Arthur’s fire.
A roar of unnatural red-black flame filled the hearth, and for a moment the disparate threads of the tapestry seemed to writhe. Plumes of stinking oily smoke burst out of the hearth like a nest of tentacles, swiping across the room, grasping for them.
They clamped their sleeves across their mouths. Merlin tugged the blanket over Arthur’s face while Aziraphale lurched for the copper pail of water by the hearth and summarily doused the fire.
With a sizzle that sounded more like a screech, the heavy oily plumes dispersed, tendrils thinning into a veil of smoke that swirled in chaos and then gradually cleared.
A spluttering noise came from beneath the blanket.
And then, blessedly robust in outrage, a haughty complaining voice followed: “What are you trying to do, finish me off?!”
The blanket snatched away and Arthur’s tousled head appeared, rumpled and scowling, still flushed, but coherent, and then he was being kissed—Merlin’s hands on his face, one knee on the bed, leaning over him, squashing Arthur flat again in his fervency. Unrecognisable from the tight-lipped man of measured countenance that he was most of the time.
“You’re back,” Merlin muttered against Arthur’s mouth, pressing their foreheads together, and Arthur gave a weak laugh, kissed him again. “Ah, fuck, Arthur - that felt like a close one.”
“I’m back,” Arthur agreed, sliding his bare arm around Merlin’s shoulders.
Aziraphale stared at them through the thinning smoke, cheeks burning, gripped with an unsettling need to flee. This was too—intimate, this was private.
This was how kisses were supposed to be.
He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be watching this. Even if a part of him hungered to stay and stare, the rest of him knew he had to steal away. He silently moved backward, stepping in blind haste until—of course, of course! His heel scuffed a discarded book on the floor, sending it loudly skittering across the stones, and they both looked around.
Arthur’s face flushed, and he whipped back his arm. “Ah… Merlin?! Either we’re not alone or I’m still seeing things that aren’t there.”
Merlin laughed a little wildly. “It’s fine. He knows.”
“He knows?!” A royal squeak. ”Since when?! Is that—? Are you going to, you know… find an appropriate potion?”
“Don’t need to,” Merlin said. Despite the awkwardness racing up and down Aziraphale’s body, he had to admit the warm certainty in Merlin’s voice was wonderful. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been spoken about like that before, with wholehearted trust. The feeling filled Aziraphale like syrup, like biting into a mead-glazed cake, like… like the feeling he got when Crowley purred against his ear…
“I’m—my apologies, sire,” Aziraphale said, wrenching his mind to the matter at hand and falling back on formality. He didn’t know where to look. Away, or head on?
He was ringing with the unnerving realisation that Arthur was still afraid to be caught. Vulnerability knew no rank; not when something precious was at stake. Aziraphale chose the spot on the wall above the hearth where the tapestry had been, between the ornate sword and shield. “You have my loyalty, I assure you.”
There was a pause. Aziraphale felt like his soul was being weighed against a bushel of so many black, white and grey feathers.
“I… have no doubt,” Arthur said eventually. “But for his own safety,” he said to Merlin, “you should offer him the choice to forget. It is a perilous position to hold such a secret, not to be taken lightly.“
“He has his own secrets,” Merlin said.
Now Aziraphale looked at him. Belatedly realised what an awful lot he had given away over the long hours they’d kept vigil together. Merlin had heard everything, of course he had. It was right there in his piercing eyes.
“Isn’t that right, Aziraphale? Your demon didn’t do this, your demon isn’t in the room right now?”
Aziraphale felt himself colour. No secrets in this room at all, apparently. “N-no, he isn’t,” he said. “And I—no, I don’t think he did this directly. But I do think his power was used. And… you know who I think was involved.”
“Huh,” Arthur said, and in his deepening gaze Aziraphale had the strangest feeling that he was being relegated from hapless ally to asset. “I’d better get dressed. Sounds like I need to be caught up on a few things.”
Chapter 10: Night 9 - Llyn Nhywell
Summary:
Aziraphale resolves to find out what's happened to his demon, whatever it takes.
Notes:
CW for this more-spooky-than-average chapter:
- sorcery
- pining
- gothic horror
- tentacles (just a glimpse)and
- a particularly filthy fantasy of Aziraphale's is born out of necessity
- did I mention pining?
Chapter Text
“So you did for Escanor,” Arthur mused.
Aziraphale was so tired he felt nauseous. Day had well and truly broken, but he still hadn’t slept; his head was pounding, his stomach was aching, and this remark from Arthur sent a spike of worry through him with such force that he had to close his eyes for a moment.
Really it was a good thing he hadn’t yet had breakfast – which was a sentiment he was entirely unused to.
“Um,” he said. All other words deserted him.
They were back in the sanctum adjacent to the royal bedchamber, which Merlin had shown Aziraphale into before returning to assist as Arthur washed and dressed.
It seemed to be taking… a while.
Left to his own devices, Aziraphale had become aware that the room seemed to tilt beneath him every time he blinked.
When Arthur and Merlin rejoined him in the small, close space, Aziraphale felt painfully aware of his own rumpled clothes and heavy eyelids.
By contrast, Arthur had the temerity to look well rested. He was pristine again, and as ruddy-cheeked in health as he’d been flushed whilst under the infernal influence.
Merlin also wore the signs of a sleepless night well; his dark hair kept falling over his eyes in a way that made Aziraphale's fingers itch to brush it back, and his lips were a chapped red. It looked as if he’d been worrying them with his teeth—or kissing, Aziraphale's filterless brain supplied. That hue definitely suggested more kissing.
The creases around Merlin’s eyes were etched more deeply too, emphasising the soft smile that jumped to his face when Arthur strode to the desk and leant his hip against it.
Aziraphale became aware that Arthur was still waiting for an answer, a faint air of amusement giving his lips a distracting tilt.
“What?” Aziraphale tried.
“I was asking,” Arthur said, his voice rich with a pointed sort of patience, “about what happened to Escanor.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened, as his tired brain finally deciphered the question. “Oh! No, yes, indeed,” he hastened, the words spilling out automatically. “Of course I didn’t… do for him. For Escanor. The very idea!“
Except, that wasn’t true, was it? And if ever, now had to be the time to admit that, to come clean. Didn’t it? Or was that his exhaustion-addled guilty conscience talking?
Aziraphale made his decision before Arthur could open his mouth to reply. “But I… was involved.”
Orchestrated it, no less. Showed the demon exactly who to devour, and watched it unfold.
“I saw how it happened, I was there, and…" This was it, then: throwing himself upon their mercy. "I could have prevented it. But instead, I let it happen.” Steeling himself, Aziraphale put his shoulders back, drew himself up to his full height. “I must take responsibility for Escanor’s death, the death of a fellow knight, and for that I… I await your judgement.”
There. It was said. As close to the truth as he dared to voice – now it was known. For all that he knew his intention had been to protect the vulnerable, he’d still done something ignoble, something bad, and it was right that Arthur knew. As the king, Arthur was the arbiter of justice in his land; as a man, there was none Aziraphale knew to be fairer. And now Aziraphale’s fitness to be a knight would be measured and if he were to be banished, at least he could tell himself that—
“You couldn’t have prevented it,” Arthur said.
Aziraphale squirmed. “Ah, but what if I could have, er, distracted—“
“You couldn’t have prevented his death,” Arthur said, with an air of clarification that confused Aziraphale as much as anything. “I will not absolve you from the guilt that you seem to carry,” Arthur continued, “but I will tell you that, without a doubt, this action you fear you should have taken – it wouldn’t have made a blind bit of difference.”
“That’s just it, though,” Aziraphale insisted, feeling his face crumple a little. “It might have.”
“Even if you somehow did manage to exert a merciful power over this dragon-featured demon of yours,” Arthur said calmly, sounding like he very much doubted it, ”then Escanor would have perished quietly at Lancelot’s hand instead.”
What?
“...Lancelot?” Aziraphale couldn’t have heard that right. His exhausted mind was inventing things.
Arthur’s lips twitched. “You remember Lancelot.” His tone was exceedingly dry. How much detail had Merlin filled him in on, exactly? “Tall chap. French.”
“I—yes, I—” Aziraphale spluttered.
“Escanor was trouble,” Merlin said, swooping in and saving him.
Arthur nodded. “That man caused the worst sort of trouble in his father’s kingdom before he was dispatched here a couple of years ago – a poisoned chalice of a peace treaty, in retrospect.” Arthur’s voice grew briefly exasperated. “But I had no power to discipline him.”
“Any hint of a firm hand went straight back to his father,” Merlin said.
“Who to save face for his son’s maltreatment,” Arthur said, icily aggrieved now, “would press on our borders, send in pillagers and looters, some quite big raids at times – it was difficult to contain.”
“Politics,” Merlin said, as if that summed it all up.
“But I've heard rumours that he’s started terrorising the women here. No one stepped forward to report against him – understandably,” Arthur said, shadows entering his eyes. “But I had enough to go on,” he added darkly. “The cards were drawn, and his sentence was already decided.”
Aziraphale’s mind was swirling. “So…?”
Solemnly, Merlin met Aziraphale's eye and drew a line across his own throat, then stuck his tongue out at one corner. The absurdity startled Aziraphale into laughter, which he cut off hastily before it could tip into abject sleep-deprived hysterics.
“So,” Arthur said loudly, giving Merlin a tolerant smirk, “while I personally feel your sense of responsibility is misplaced here, if it’s any comfort – you would have been saving a wolf from a natural death so it could have its neck broken by a ranger.”
Aziraphale balked at the thought of a demon stealing a man’s last breath being deemed a natural death. “I see,” he said, buying time as his tired mind tried to restructure everything he thought he knew. Again. “So even if I’d prayed for him…”
“Ha! Save your prayers for the worthy and the weak.” Arthur looked at him for a long time, then inclined his head. “There is no salve for a guilty conscience, Sir Aziraphale. But sometimes we must tolerate these personal discomforts for the greater good.”
We.
“And I’m not… banished?”
“Far from it,” Merlin said, and lifted his eyebrows in a way that – had Aziraphale not been quite so tired – he would have felt sure was significant. “You’re here. Needless to say, this information is not to spread beyond these walls.”
Aziraphale nodded quickly. “I daresay,” he said, and then, as those same walls seemed to sway around him, “I – gosh – I feel like I’m about to wake up!”
“Well you look like you’re about to pass out,” Arthur said cheerfully, and jerked his head at the door. “Go on. Get some rest. I just thought you might sleep a little easier knowing that.”
“Er, yes,” Aziraphale hazarded. “But… Lancelot?”
Arthur laughed. ”Of course Lancelot, he’s my most loyal—“ he started, then paused as Merlin’s attention whipped to him. “—knight,” he finished, with an innocent smile.
“Hmm,” Merlin grumbled.
“We’ll talk more,” Arthur said, and gripped Aziraphale's upper arm—warm, solid. He looked into Aziraphale's eyes. “But I am in your debt, Aziraphale. Leaving aside all else, I thank you.” He glanced at Merlin, then back. “We thank you. It will not be forgotten.”
Aziraphale stumbled back toward the dormitory, the imprint of Arthur’s hand lingering on his arm.
He paused only at the kitchens to beg a piece of bread before he retired.
The rosy-cheeked, grey-haired scullery maid was a familiar one. She looked his forlorn figure up and down and then bid him wait a moment, and disappeared. She returned what seemed like seconds later with a laden breakfast tray and a smile.
“Oh! Thank you,” Aziraphale said, momentarily quite overwhelmed, and her smile turned almost maternal.
“Any time, sir.”
Aziraphale nibbled a few morsels as he weaved his way back through the castle corridors, and finally clambered into his bed with a great sigh. He was fully clothed, but it mattered not. He didn’t have the energy to undress.
The morning light streamed in oblique lozenges through the arrow-slit windows, but it did not disturb him. He had reckoned that he would surely lie awake a while with his thoughts racing—Lancelot! The king’s assassin?! His confession, barely raising an eyebrow?!—but sleep embraced him within seconds of closing his eyes.
And he did not dream.
The light was altered when Aziraphale awoke again, a richer hue with a nevertheless leaden quality. It was mid-afternoon, and it had started to rain quite heavily outside.
The wind was whistling in the rafters above, like a hushed voice calling. Was that what had woken him?
Aziraphale’s overriding impression as his eyes snapped open was an intense, nameless worry—about Crowley.
Aziraphale stared at the ceiling, rubbing a hand over his face and trying to pinpoint where this deep, uneasy sensation had sprung from. Had there been a dream? No. A message? No.
—Wait. There had been a message, it hadn’t only been the noise of the wind. Just a single phrase, faint, as he’d drifted toward wakefulness; barely discernible, as transient as a few dust motes dancing in a sunbeam.
Find me.
“We need to find the demon before it’s too late,” Aziraphale said, when he’d located Merlin in the deepening gloom of the castle library.
Merlin had an air of someone who had been reading long enough that it had gone dark around them. He blinked hard, then looked up from his book with a wry expression. “I was coming to that conclusion myself.”
Aziraphale paused, taken aback despite himself. He’d half hoped Merlin would have written off the whole far-fetched story as a fever dream. “Really?”
“Yes. The demon is surely the key. But I think the only way to find it might require… quite a lot of you.”
Merlin didn’t immediately elaborate, instead gathering up his book and staff, and gesturing for Aziraphale to precede him back to the Great Hall.
Lancelot and Percival were already there, heads bent together, deep in low-voiced conversation as they sorted through an array of freshly polished gauntlets and wrist-guards.
“I just don’t see why we’re going to all this trouble, given she so clearly despises us,” Percival was saying, pushing five fingers into a shining black gauntlet and flexing them experimentally.
His shoulders were looking particularly broad today, Aziraphale thought, watching him angle towards Lancelot’s more compact figure. They both had exceptionally well-worked physiques, of course, but Percival’s greater brawn gave an air of pure, easy strength, whereas Lancelot’s perfect proportions suggested a life of routine and discipline.
“Morgana’s feelings for us are not the point,” Lancelot was saying, stripping off his own gauntlets and reaching for another pair. “Either she’s been taken by the same force that endangered Arthur’s life, or she’s responsible for it herself. Either way – I’d like a word. Ah! Merlin.”
“Gentlemen,” Merlin said warmly. “What news?”
Percival shook his head, turning his mouth down. “Not much,” he said. “Though the armoury’s sent up some new leathers – they’re quite fine.”
Despite himself, Aziraphale eyed the pile on the table with renewed interest. Percival saw him looking and wordlessly chucked him a pair of white calfskin gauntlets with silver fixings.
“Thanks,” Aziraphale mouthed, catching them mid-air with a sense of delight. He tried them on, marvelling at the soft, supple leather; shielding his skin without diminishing his dexterity. And they looked so marvellous!
“I meant, news of Lady Morgana,” Merlin said, clearly seeing their shared enthusiasm and electing not to remark upon it.
Lancelot at least was pure business. “No one matching her description has been spotted by any of our scouts, in any direction,” he said. “And it’s surely beyond the capacity of any local outfit to have concealed them for at least three days.”
A stab of worry went through Aziraphale. Three days, presumably without being… replenished. Unless Crowley could consume the souls of Morgana’s retinue? Or the horses? Aziraphale was fairly certain the quota had only allowed for the consumption of Arthur’s knights, though. It would be foolhardy of Morgana to take the risk that he’d attack her or her own. And he couldn't imagine any of her ladies taking it upon herself to satisfy Crowley in… another way.
That really didn’t bear thinking about.
Aziraphale sucked on his lower lip, stroking it uneasily between his teeth. There was no telling what sort of state Crowley would be in by now. He remembered that distant, plaintive, yet unmistakable command to find him. It would be reckless of Morgana to take a starving demon away from its only food source, unless she was convinced she had Crowley under her absolute control… or if starving him was somehow part of her plan.
“I was just saying, though,” Percival said to Merlin, pragmatic now, reaching up to hold the back of his own neck. His arm looked like a couple of bronzed hams hinged together, and Aziraphale noticed Lancelot’s focus drifting suddenly. “What’s the point, if she doesn’t want to be found? Why don’t we just cut our losses?”
“The… hm,” Lancelot said, transferring his gaze back to his gauntlets. “The point…”
“The point,” Arthur interjected, appearing in the main doorway in a gleaming expanse of chainmail, with his helm tucked under his arm, “is that we’re under attack. It might not feel like it, since there has only been one death, but make no mistake – our company has not yet been victorious in this matter, at all.”
He strode over to them, head held high, speaking as if to fill the entire room. At the rich timbre of his voice, the hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck stood up.
“We have reason to believe my sister has enlisted the help – or commanded the servitude – of a vicious demon with the power to kill us while we sleep. The illness that befell me last night seems to have drawn from the same power. She made a gift of that cursed item, circumnavigating our wards, and she yet may have other attacks planned. I will not rest until I have answers for her actions—as well as the guarantee that when we do sleep, it’s not within a demon’s clutches! For Camelot!”
A cheer went up, none the less rousing for there being only four of them.
Aziraphale carefully kept all thoughts about a certain demon’s clutches from altering his expression.
“So the question remaining,” Arthur said briskly, striding across to Merlin and resting a hand briefly between his shoulder blades, addressing him with full confidence, “is – how?”
Merlin made a point of looking around the otherwise-deserted Great Hall, the closed doors and curtained windows, then looked at Aziraphale.
“He means magic,” he said to Aziraphale, with relish. “You may not be aware, being new to our inner circle, but it is often the case that when one has exhausted all the mundane solutions—” Merlin gave an elegant wave towards their small cluster of knights, with a winning smile. “—what remains is the arcane.” He gestured equally elegantly to himself.
“Hey,” Percival said, with an indignant laugh. “I am not exhausted!”
Merlin seemed to ignore him, though his eyes were sparkling as if he really enjoyed this part. He smoothed a hand over his staff, then nodded. “What I’d suggest,” he said to Arthur, “would be to induce a waking trance to establish our quarry’s location at midnight, and then conjure a water-road first thing tomorrow morning. We could ride at dawn – give or take a few necessary provisions.”
“…What?” Aziraphale asked faintly.
“Get their location with a magic vision and then go there through the lake,” Percival translated, and then raise a triumphant eyebrow at Merlin. “Arcane enough for you?”
“Through the lake?” Aziraphale was trying to take this one perplexing statement at a time.
Merlin grinned at him. “Yes. Directly through. Once you’ve shown us where to go.”
“Me?”
“You’re the one with the connection to the demon.”
“Ah. Well.” They’d got him there. “A… waking trance, you say?”
Arthur departed to address the Court, in a physical demonstration of how hale, robust and not at all diminished he was, leaving the others to talk Aziraphale through the finer details.
A waking trance, Merlin explained, would involve entering the dreamscape of another’s mind, enabling Aziraphale to explore their surroundings and – hopefully – pinpoint where on Earth they’d gone.
“But you should have more control than in a normal dream,” Merlin said, in what he probably thought was an encouraging manner. “Not over what happens, necessarily, but over whether you want it to continue or end. You should retain some awareness of yourself, and that you are sleeping.” A wry glimmer entered his eyes. “Usually.”
“Right.” Not especially reassuring, that glimmer.
“My hope is that you will find yourself in the settlement where they’re hidden,” Merlin said, all determination. “And you will take note of everything you see, any clues to their whereabouts. The appearance of the people, the demon, Morgana’s proximity, the skyline… this sort of detail is vital. You must bring me back some physical token – perhaps a local flag, that would be most useful, or a coin, a piece of pottery even – something that seems to belong there. And if your concentration is strong as you wake, it should return with you.”
“I see. Ideally a flag,” Aziraphale said dryly. He felt like Merlin might be downplaying a few important aspects of this. “So I will actually be in their settlement? Can others see me?” His mind raced on before Merlin could answer. “Can they… hurt me, in this dream? Can I die?!”
Merlin hesitated for just long enough to make a cold sensation sidle down Aziraphale's back. “No,” he said, carefully. “Your body can’t die. Your mind can be… shocked, is probably the best way to put it. If you feel that starting to happen it is imperative that you wake yourself up.”
Aziraphale felt his eyes were like saucers. His voice was a little faint: “How would I know that was starting to happen?”
“It would be quite apparent,” Merlin said, which didn’t help much.
“Right,” Aziraphale said, and told himself to get a grip. This felt like it had the power to go terribly wrong, but it was just another quest. Wasn’t it? “And can they see me?”
“Yes… but only inasmuch as we can all encounter people in our dreams. It doesn’t lead us to believe they are actually there.”
“I see.” Aziraphale took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Well, I’ll do my best. Though I’m a bit worried the demon will sense I’m in its dream and… react, you know? Throw me out again. Or worse.”
Or… better. That would also bring chaos into the exercise, if the moment Crowley saw him he pounced. Manhandled. Took his fill—
“Oh! No, my mistake, you’ve got entirely the wrong idea,” Merlin said quickly, laughing in a soft way that invited Aziraphale to laugh with him; as if Aziraphale had been fretting for no reason at all. “Even I don't have the power to put you into the dream of a demon.”
And then, in the same breath, before Aziraphale could decide if he was relieved or disappointed, Merlin added, “It’ll have to be the dream of Morgana.”
They decided they’d better eat first.
“Can’t embark on a mystifying nocturnal quest with an empty stomach,” Percival declared, and Aziraphale decided that he was his favourite knight, actually.
Merlin had gone to join Arthur in some sort of pre-magical arrangements – though Lancelot and Percival exchanged a glance when this was announced, which made Aziraphale wonder how many other glances he’d missed over the past year, honestly – leaving the three of them to have a private supper in one of the king’s drawing rooms.
The kitchen staff brought up a small pie each, and a hearty stew to share, some bread and fruit, a couple of wheels of cheese; and ensured the curtains were drawn, the armchairs angled close to the hearth, and the door securely shut behind them.
Candles on the wall cast soft warm plumes of light as they ate and talked about carefully unimportant things.
“What I don’t get,” Percival mused eventually, breaking off a heel of bread and smearing it through the leftover stew in his bowl, “is why she took it with her. This demon. Why not leave it to… you know.” He moved his bread around like a puppet, marching from one side of the bowl to the other, then swooped in and grabbed it with his teeth, making a show of biting its head off and chewing manically.
Lancelot laughed, wrinkling his nose. “I wondered that myself. But my vision was less graphic.”
Aziraphale laughed as well, albeit uneasily. “I don’t know. Maybe Merlin knows.”
“Or maybe it’s what Arthur said,” Percival mused, with a shrug. “Only one death. And that couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. Maybe it wasn’t being demonic enough. Morgana didn’t trust it to finish the job.”
Aziraphale felt his face start to heat, and made a valiant effort to remain calm. “What I was wondering,” he said carefully, “was why – if the target was Arthur all along – didn’t she just send it after Arthur? Why bother with our dormitory at all?”
Lancelot and Percival shared a knowing smile.
“Merlin has put rather a lot of work into ensuring that can’t happen,” Lancelot said dryly. “For every strand of warding running through this place in general, you’ll find ten more woven around Arthur.”
“Curses tend to rebound right off him,” Percival said, bouncing his fist off the flat of his palm. “And more often than not, they smack back onto the caster. A demon attempting a direct approach… it might get messy. Quickly. For the demon.”
“Wasn’t always like that, of course,” Lancelot said. “Over the years… ah, you weren’t here after the coronation, it was relentless. Weekly attacks, or more! Sometimes it looked like we’d lose the castle altogether and have to go live in the hills.”
“Got through a lot of salt,” Percival said, and snorted. “Fat lot of good it did. Do you remember, all those gritty circles…”
Lancelot smiled and took a sip of ale, his eyes crinkling above the rim of his tankard. “We knew no better,” he said, leaning back in his chair as if settling in for the night. “That winter, though! With Uther’s death it felt like the whole underworld came for a piece of the new king. Arthur hadn’t been crowned a year and everything was falling apart. Treaties that we thought had been set in stone, were set asunder. Morgana stormed off making more of her vile threats, Arthur went after her - achieving nothing! - and all the while the attacks on Camelot increased, the weather was dreadful, morale was low—"
“Morale,” Percival mocked, and nudged Aziraphale. “He means, knights were deserting as fast as they signed up. We got through forty in a year!”
Aziraphale paused halfway through lifting his tankard to his mouth, mouthing, “Forty?” Unthinkable!
“—and,” Lancelot said, “in the midst of all that, you couldn’t tear Merlin away from the library. All hours, day and night, no matter what war was waging outside – he was so convinced the true power lay within."
Aziraphale sipped and swallowed at last. “Within what?”
Lancelot gave a particularly elaborate shrug. “Ehh,” he said. “Within Arthur, within Camelot, within the foundation stones of the castle… that sort of thing.“
“Wasn’t wrong, though, was he?” Percival said.
“No,” Lancelot allowed. “By Midwinter, we were exhausted, the horses were starving – the local peasants quite honestly thought we were cursed – and even we,” he gestured ruefully to himself, to Percival, “were thinking we’ve got to give ground, we’ve got to admit defeat, no? There’s skeletons wading out of the lake, ghouls at the window, dragons stealing cattle, local militia revolting… And then one night Merlin bursts into the Great Hall - it looks like he’s not slept for a week - but he’s forged the staff.”
“The staff,” Percival echoed, describing its shape in the air with both hands, all overdone reverence that had Aziraphale grinning even as he hung onto Lancelot’s every word.
Lancelot grinned back. “And now Merlin looks wild, the staff is glowing, he grabs Arthur’s hand, Arthur’s crown starts glowing, and then he recites some arcane poetry and strikes the staff against the floor and the whole castle starts glowing…”
“Looked like it was on fire,” Percival remarked, tearing off another piece of bread. “Like a fortress-shaped hot ember in a hearth. And then – whoosh – dark again.”
“… and overnight, the attacks stopped,” Lancelot finished, with an authoritative little nod. “Within a week, we had our first treaty signed. By the end of the month, bellies stopped grumbling and so did the militia. You have to hand it to Merlin,” he said to Percival, as if it were a debate they returned to again and again, “that is when our fortunes changed, that moment.”
“And he’s not stopped being smug about it ever since,” Percival said, in a sing-song complaining voice that did little to disguise the warmth in his eyes.
“Gosh,” Aziraphale said. “What a splendid tale. I had no idea!”
Percival topped up their tankards, then raised a toast. “To the Heartswood and the Hearthstone.”
Aziraphale echoed the familiar words as the three clinked their tankards together, then took another sip. Then another. And then, screwing up his nerve, he asked casually, “So is it widely known, then?”
“Is what widely known?”
Aziraphale gestured helplessly at the darkened, curtained window. “Ghouls, dragons, demons,” he said. “Am I the last to know?”
Percival shook his head. “Far from it. These last ten years have been much less wild. Those of us who were around back then - just us, and Kay and Gwaine, and Arthur of course, and Merlin - we’ve lived through it. But the newer recruits, no. They don't suspect there’s anything out there more than wild tales and superstition. Apart from you, obviously.”
Lancelot looked like he was choosing his words with care. “Merlin would have all the knights study a broader curriculum,” he said, “but I’m more of the opinion that… some of these boys are very young. I’d rather we hone their valour first.”
Percival nodded. “I mostly let them get on with it,” he said, and shrugged. “Knights aren’t just soldiers. But you’ve got to be a decent soldier first, is how I see it. So let’s focus on that before we start making things more complicated.”
Lancelot gave a hum of agreement. “Face the trials of the day before tackling the witching hour.”
They lapsed into a thoughtful quiet, which Aziraphale tolerated for all of two seconds before he found himself hurling out the question, “And have either of you two… ever… fought one?”
Lancelot’s eyebrows shot up, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “A demon?”
Aziraphale nodded. He felt like he was edging onto a precipice. But all this talk… these tales of valour… he couldn’t help but wonder. “Yes, um… personally, I mean.”
“Mm, well. We’ve both, erm, held our own in a tight corner, haven’t we?” Percival said. Was it the candlelight or did he look a little pink in the face? “From time to time. Especially in those early days,” he added, with a hasty laugh.
“Back then? Oh, for sure, absolutely,” Lancelot said, roundabout. He gave a lazy shrug. “Certainly, there have been times. Strange times… After all, we were desperate back then. Not uncommon to find yourself in all sorts of, ah, unusual forms of conflict. But that sort of thing doesn’t come up any more, on the whole.”
Aziraphale looked between them, uncertain whether or not he was being given a straight answer. Were they talking at face value or hinting at something else, something a lot more relevant to his situation?
He took a deep breath, steadying his voice. “But have you—” Fucked one? “—Fought one, you know, yourself, alone?”
Percival took a gulp of ale before shaking his head. “Nah. Always more of a melee.”
Lancelot gazed at the ceiling before clearing his throat. “Not in a very long time. I try to keep out of that sort of harm’s way now that I - now, you know about Guinevere, correct? - yes, so these days I try to keep any mortal peril as mundane as possible.” He winked. “More’s the pity.”
What sort of an answer was that?! Aziraphale wanted to bite his own fist in frustration. For all he increasingly suspected otherwise, they could be still talking about literal combat. Just knights being knights, and all the bloodlust dressed up in nobility that entailed.
Should he just… openly ask?
“That said,” Lancelot was continuing mildly, “I am certain that, if necessary, if needs must, any one of us… would. Step up. To that challenge.”
“Right.”
“For the glory.”
“Right,” Aziraphale repeated, searching Lancelot’s handsome face for any hint of prurient undertone, any flex in his studiously appropriate manner. “The glory, of course.”
“Anything to protect the realm,” Percival agreed, similarly straight-faced. Then he dropped his voice, with a flash of roguish drawl. “So… How was it?”
“What?”
“This fight you had.” Percival's eyelids lowered. “From what I recall about fighting demons, it could be… exhilarating. Intense. Especially at close quarters.”
“Oh! Um, yes,” Aziraphale said, heating up as predictably as if he’d moved closer to a fire. “Intense. That's one way of putting it.” He drew his fingertip around the rim of his tankard, careful not to meet anyone’s eye. “Uh, definitely intense. Brutal, to be honest. And I was not—” His gaze flicked up despite himself, caught Percival’s, who was watching him intently. “—the victor. I didn’t really stand a chance. But at least engaging it in combat distracted it from pursuing anyone else.”
Percival gave a slow approving nod.
“And, um, luckily,” Aziraphale said, “any physical damage I sustained was resolved by the following morning.”
“Very lucky,” Lancelot said. His eyes were definitely gleaming, but perhaps it was only the candlelight. “And we are lucky to have you, comrade, so willing to endure that experience! Putting yourself in harm’s way for the greater good.”
“Hear, hear,” Percival said, and raised his tankard again for Aziraphale to knock against.
They knew. They had to know. They were teasing him. Or were they?
He could just ask. Come clean. He should—in a perfect world Aziraphale would just ask. But even as he opened his mouth, a hundred remembered taunts about how different he was, how strange, flickered through his ears, and even now, here, he didn’t quite have the courage to make himself that vulnerable again.
“Well,” Aziraphale said, with a tiny shrug. “Only when needs must.”
Merlin’s eyes seemed a very bright green. “Are you sure you want to do this? It is normal to have doubts before an important quest, but if your spirit truly quails you must let me know.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale said, with rather more energy than he felt. “I’m fine.”
They were kneeling together on a thick rug before the main hearth in Arthur’s quarters, setting up the stage, as Merlin called it. Merlin had laid a circle of white cloth down on the ash-speckled hearthstone, then taken several small candles and wooden cups, and arranged them in some particular pattern on the cloth. There were a few pinches of salt, also.
“There,” Merlin said with satisfaction, laying Aziraphale’s dagger at the heart of this constellation of items.
Percival had gone off to discuss the running of the castle in their absence with Gwaine – “Someone needs to hold the reins if we’re buggering off at dawn,” he'd said cheerfully – but Lancelot and Arthur were still conferring by the door, voices soft and earnest.
Leaving Aziraphale - here. Kneeling next to Merlin.
Merlin had arranged all his pieces of kit, and was now outlining in great detail various aspects of magical law that Aziraphale had absolutely no hope of absorbing at present.
“You can think of hearths as doorways,” Merlin was saying. “Places that are permeable to arcane forces, as well as charged with all the power that has accumulated in the stones over the years.”
Aziraphale gave an uncertain nod.
“And those doorways lead into the ether – an overlap between realms - a space of infinite possibility, of fantasy, and of nightmare. It’s mostly inaccessible to us, but in certain places and at certain times, it can be possible to slip through the barriers and into that dreamscape.”
Aziraphale stared, wishing he could do more than break the surface of understanding what Merlin was talking about. “...Like at witching hour?”
“Yes. At the fringes of the night and day, and at the midpoints—midnight, midday.”
“And the other places?”
“Lakes, waterfalls, forked paths in the forest… with the correct help, of course,” Merlin said, with a casual gesture that took in the ritualistic set-up around them. “But it is not without risk. You share the landscape not only with whomever is dreaming, but also with any demon passing through that realm. So you must be aware, your foe may be able to maim or wound you, or even overpower you entirely.”
Aziraphale brightened. “Gosh, right, I see,” he said, with an eager nod, before belatedly schooling his expression. “I mean—understood, yes! Frightful. I will take utmost care.”
Merlin looked at him oddly.
Aziraphale sucked his lip between his teeth, fearing he shouldn’t say more - but what better time could there be to learn more about how to reach Crowley? “This does all sound… familiar. When I was dreaming, it seemed as if I was awake in our dormitory, the room entirely ordinary, but I was trapped with the demon, just the two of us. However loudly I, er, screamed, no one else could hear me.”
“That sounds like the place.” Merlin’s expression turned thoughtful. “But it’s interesting - most people can’t access it without magical assistance, certainly not enough to retain their agency. Do you have Fae blood?“
Aziraphale blinked, startled. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Hm. Or are you magical in any other way?”
“If only!” Aziraphale looked doubtfully at his own fingers. “…Not that I’m aware,” he said again.
“Maybe it transferred something of itself to you, before you woke up.”
Aziraphale swallowed. Well, now. “Maybe.”
“You fought, that first night, didn’t you? And you wounded it with your dagger – did its blood get on you?” Merlin’s eyes suddenly darkened, as if Aziraphale had donned an unexpectedly resplendent outfit and Merlin was taking in every rich detail. “Blood is a very powerful token.”
“…No,” Aziraphale said carefully, pretending he had no recollection of the demon’s cock pumping him repeatedly full of its essence, night after night, nor of Crowley’s thumb smearing Aziraphale’s blood across his mouth, nor of the shimmering gold force transferring back and forth between them. “Well, or maybe, I don’t know. Would that do it, er, if it did… get some on me?”
“Mayhaps,” Merlin said. “There’s so much we don’t know.” He sounded almost pleased about it. “There aren’t many books, and those we do have tend to contradict each other. But piece by piece, I’m putting it together.” Now he gave Aziraphale a slanted glance. “You could help, if you wanted.”
“Me?”
“Ah—but of course I know you’re a knight first and foremost,” Merlin hastened, then frowned and busied himself with the final arrangements of bits and pieces around the hearth. His voice became quiet, off-hand. “Yet, should the day come… between quests… that you find yourself burdened with some interest in becoming a scholar… you must let me know.”
Aziraphale felt almost akin to a maiden receiving a proposal. “I—I’d love—”
Merlin raised one finger. “Stay that thought,” he interrupted, and he looked almost apologetic, as if the last thing he’d intended to start right now was this conversation. “After all! What we are about to do might put you off entirely.”
Aziraphale’s excitement dwindled as fast as it had arisen, amidst a rising fog of dread. Merlin’s words were flippant but there was no doubt that he was telling the truth. Aziraphale wanted to be excited for this on so many different levels, but he couldn’t shake the insidious feeling that something was about to go sorely wrong.
“At the midnight bell, I want you to take the dagger and bring it quickly up to touch this point on my staff,” Merlin said, indicating a central carving that looked like a flame being pierced by a sword. “Then, and only then, close your eyes.”
That sounded important. “Why only then?”
Merlin looked momentarily amused. “You’re swinging for me with a blade covered in demon’s blood,” he said. “I really don’t want you to miss.”
Arthur strolled over, then raised his eyebrows at whatever he saw in Aziraphale’s face. “Hm. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I already asked him that,” Merlin protested.
“Yes, but knowing you, you will have said something like ‘Are you sure you want to partake in this fascinating and essential ritual I’ve devised, oh by the way I’ll be ever so disappointed if you don’t’,” Arthur said, mimicking Merlin’s voice with uncanny accuracy.
Merlin threw a small wooden cup at him, then stood up with a sniff. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s down there of his own free will. Aren’t you, Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale’s brain wasn’t so full of dread that he failed to notice that Merlin standing up changed the dynamic, somewhat. Before, he and Merlin had been working on something together, and the kneeling seemed almost incidental.
Now, he was kneeling alone before Merlin and Arthur in their bedroom.
Best not think about that. Best not think about that. Best—
Aziraphale kept his expression perfectly neutral as he met Arthur’s gaze and said, “I want to do this.”
For a charged moment – so brief he could have imagined it – mischief sparked through Arthur’s face. Was Arthur thinking about that?!
Then it was gone, and Arthur was nodding gravely. “Very well.”
Merlin shot Arthur a testy look. “Shall we proceed, sire? Or are there innumerable more concerns that need raising and deliberating before we attend to this incredibly time-sensitive task?”
Arthur grinned at him. “Proceed, by all means.” He turned back to Aziraphale. “I have every confidence in your abilities,” he said warmly. “It is imperative that we establish my sister’s whereabouts, for once we’ve found her I am certain everything else will fall into place.”
“Right!” Aziraphale said. No pressure, then. “Yes. Good!“
As the midnight bell struck, Merlin nodded and Aziraphale brought the tip of his dagger to press against the carving on Merlin’s staff. His eyes closed—and the ground crumbled beneath him.
He experienced a rushing, swooping drop that filled him with terror. The air turned chilled against every part of his skin that was bare – face, neck, wrists, hands, a draft at both ankles – the coldness becoming more and more intense until it seemed to bore right through to his bones.
He became aware, with a jolt, that he had not actually fallen. Nor was he kneeling now. His feet were planted against some solid surface. He was upright. He was freezing.
Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open—but he found himself none the wiser as to his location. It was pitch-black around him. It felt like when he’d ridden due North a few hours on horseback, one winter’s night a decade ago, to meet a man about a charm that might possibly help his mother; it had been noticeably chillier the further they rode into that unyielding night.
The air in the dream was so cold it made his teeth ache.
“It’s a variant on a simple scrying spell,” was one of the many enthused things that Merlin had said to him earlier. “You should appear in Morgana’s vicinity, as an actor in her dream. And with any luck, you will be able to sense the demon nearby.”
Aziraphale blinked hard, hoping for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Unless Morgana wasn’t dreaming at all? Was there a further space between dreamscapes? Was Merlin capable of sending him into a senseless void?
Good way to terrify a man, thoughts like that.
Aziraphale closed his eyes for a few more seconds as dread threatened to envelop him entirely, then opened them again. This time he had a sense of shapes shifting around him. He stepped forward and encountered something irregular, something sharp - branches, he realised, the scrubby brittle spikes of sun-deprived undergrowth - and then felt the damp shift of a forest floor beneath his feet.
He put his arms out, blindly feeling his way, picking a route between an unknown density of trees and grimacing as tiny leaves whipped across his face. His fingers stung and his eyes watered. Scents started filling his lungs: the sharp bite of frost amidst a rising dank smell of long-undisturbed leaves.
He looked behind him, once, and experienced a vertiginous sense of nothing.
Eventually he broke through into a clearing.
It was still dark, but the darkness was suddenly less absolute. The irregular softness of rotten mulch underfoot turned to something smooth, gritty, nodular. Sand; sharp and black and sinking beneath his feet, and then – a freshness to the frigid air.
He could just make out a glossy void ahead. Then, as he squinted, it flashed an eerie molten silver. The moon came out, and just like that, Aziraphale could see everything.
He was not in a settlement. Far from it. There were no flags, no coins, no samples of local pottery. Wishful thinking there, Merlin.
Aziraphale was standing at the edge of a vast, glinting black lake beneath a freezing star-strewn sky. Far across the lake he could distinguish the silhouette of a strange castle, bracketed by some enormous, angular rock formations that extended up above the horizon. The array of hulking boulders could have been two sleeping giants, sprawled protectively around the castle; elbows raised, knees slumping sideways.
The castle itself was in darkness, as if abandoned… and yet.
Aziraphale could feel him. Crowley. Crowley was in that castle.
He was seized with an abrupt fear of waking. His body was already too cold, too confused, and the seductive draw of just wake up was beginning to clamour at the edges of his mind—but if he left now, he was suddenly terrified the path to Crowley might be muddied forever. They were far from Camelot, this much was clear. The weight of that thought vied with the building urge to flee.
He tried to fix the place in his mind so that he could recount its angles and strangeness later, and then found himself drawing up his sleeve. A quick sketch with his fingernail over the inside of his arm—it hurt, but the lines across his pale skin stayed lurid in the moonlight. As he formed the silhouette of the castle’s peculiar turrets amid the landscape’s uneven rocks, the scratchy pain transmuted into clarity. A calm settled over him. If nothing else, he could show them the skyline. If this were indeed a real place, that had to be worth something.
“Wait… what’s this?”
Aziraphale froze. Calm: extinguished.
Lady Morgana’s voice - disembodied, clear, seeming to come from every direction at once - sounded again, a silvery tone that matched the cold of the air precisely. “Is someone there?”
The question was a perfectly pitched ambivalence. Aziraphale had no idea whether it was a polite enquiry or icy hostility, but he found himself answering just the same.
“Just a lost traveller seeking shelter, m’lady.”
She laughed, incontestably hostile. “A likely story. No man comes here except by design.”
“I mean no harm,” Aziraphale tried, looking about himself as if to locate the source of the voice. There was nothing. It was if she spoke from the sky itself - or the lake.
“You’ll do no harm.” Now her voice was flat, almost threatening.
“No, of course,” Aziraphale said. If he could get closer to that castle, he found himself thinking, he might be able to reach Crowley with his mind. And this surely had to be the route. “Please. Let me in.”
“You are welcome to try our gates—” Morgana’s clear voice cut louder across the night sky. “—if you can just… cross… the lake…”
She was gone.
Aziraphale shivered. He felt so small, a solitary unarmed figure within this immense unfeeling landscape. He looked around for any means to cross the lake, and saw – surely it hadn’t been there a moment ago – the grey-white shine of a battered tin boat bobbing nearby in the shallows.
He stepped closer, trying to make out its details in the moonlight. It looked to be a two-man rowing boat, all tarnished pale metal instead of the usual wood. There were an unnerving number of dents and scratches adorning its hull. It didn’t – Aziraphale reassured himself – seem to have been beached beyond repair, but rather was entangled in these desolate shallows. Innumerable straggly dark weeds curled around the base of it, floating like the tentacles of something dark and restless under the surface.
Cross the lake.
His hands and feet were going numb. He tried to cast his mind back to what Merlin had talked about before all this, sifting it for advice. It all seemed positively useless now. A settlement? A flag? Hardly!
“You’ll be there and yet not there. A night shadow, but real enough to follow them about their day, observe their whereabouts…”
Yes. Thanks, Merlin. Aziraphale reckoned he would have felt quite at home in a dream-like settlement, actually. Preferably somewhere with lanterns and spiced mead. With a community to infiltrate and clues to collect and interesting materials to purloin – that sounded frankly desirable! Anything but this bleak, hostile landscape with this cursed-looking boat and endless black water!
Yet… This was Morgana’s dream, presumably of where she’d taken Crowley.
So be it.
Merlin had wanted a token. Aziraphale knelt and scooped up a fistful of black sand. He stowed it in a cloth pouch hanging from his belt, its cold dampness immediately seeping along his thigh. Then he gingerly drew closer to the boat, as if he were approaching a wild horse. It didn’t appear to be roped to anything, but it had oars—one lying abandoned in the bottom of the boat, the other rigged but nestled haphazardly in the weeds.
He grasped the metal edge of the prow and pulled it clear of the tangled tendrils. And then, before he quite knew what he was doing – but what was the alternative? – he scrambled into it. The metal was freezing. The boat lurched beneath him, bumping against the black shore, listing dramatically until he found the midline and hunched down there. Cold seemed to radiate out of the metal all around him.
“Go on then,” Morgana’s voice drawled, out of nowhere. “Have a taste.”
The boat jolted forwards into the lake and pitched from side to side, making Aziraphale yelp and grab for any handhold. He fumbled quickly to fit the second oar, the sky quaking above him as water sluiced over the side, splashing him, astonishingly cold. There was salt in the air now, stinging his lips. He leant low against the yaw of the boat, praying for it to stabilise, as more water slopped in from unseen, unexpected waves.
And then – suddenly, wonderfully – the little boat righted. He was kneeling at the midpoint with an oar in each hand and his mind filling up with a long-distant memory of childhood summers, rowing endlessly in the fishing lake beyond the grounds of Castle Empyrean. The hours he’d spent in that tiny wooden boat, under the searing sun, his soft hands growing calloused. Hearing the echo of Gabriel’s scornful laughter - until Aziraphale got the hang of the rhythm - at which point his eldest brother had scowled and declared Aziraphale's form was still the poorest he’d ever seen.
There was a sense of freedom ingrained in this posture.
Aziraphale remembered how exhilarating it had felt, as a small child, to propel himself alone into the centre of the fishing lake and just… stop. No amount of shouting from the shore would reach him. In his tiny boat - albeit a lot finer than this one - he’d been gloriously insulated from the rest of his life by both water and space. He’d been free.
The memory warmed the core of him, gave his arms a little more power. He pulled on the oars, finding his adult strength could move a boat much faster, and reached out with his mind. If he was in Morgana’s dream, and Morgana was with Crowley, and Crowley could access this realm… surely there was a chance they could reach each other.
Crowley, he tried, but there was nothing.
He tried again. Crowley?
Nothing.
Aziraphale rowed harder. Putting his back into it, his shoulders, hearing little grunts come from his own chest as he built up the exertion. The sound of the water rippling away around the prow was almost musical now, a rhythm of sloshing and creaking, and the heat of the exercise was mounting in his gut. He felt briefly elated that his body could do this. He pushed himself harder, until his shoulders were burning and his chest was heaving; dragging in breaths that felt pleasantly cooling now rather than a laceration of cold. He tipped his head back to the impossibly starry sky. He tried again, panting, opening his mind as much as he dared.
“Crowley!” he shouted, letting his voice carry into the limitless darkness.
Still nothing.
He dropped the rhythm, let the oars go lax, let the boat glide silently onwards as he caught his breath. Sweat cooled rapidly across his brow. Maybe there was no hope of reaching him.
Maybe Crowley was already too weak to reply.
He was far out into the lake now, although the silhouette of the strange castle seemed as distant as ever. But he’d definitely made some progress; when he glanced over his shoulder, he could no longer see the shore behind. Just blackness - unfathomable, enormous - rippling like molten mercury in the moonlight.
And then the boat collided with… something. Something huge, rising.
His first thought was: Crowley? Somehow?!
But it wasn’t Crowley.
The boat lurched frantically, almost tipping Aziraphale out as it rebounded back off the solid mass rapidly emerging from the water. He’d collided with something as smooth and hulking as a breaching whale, rising from the depths as the air filled with hissing wetness. The force of it sent the boat skittering backwards like a discarded toy.
Aziraphale craned to see, gripping the oars in a desperate facsimile of control, barely perceiving a dark gelatinous bulk streaked with weeds, looming ever-higher above his head. Moonlight shone off the curves of it. The lake seemed to boil around its rising base, frothing silver in the moonlight, and then he became aware that the water all around his boat had become a seething mass of glossy black rearing shapes.
Fuck.
Tentacles start to crawl over the side of his boat: some thick as his arm, others more like tendrils, coiling and sliding over the dented metal. Some of them fit perfectly into the dents.
Terror gripped him as he tried to move away without causing the boat to capsize—but there were more behind him, more coming from all around him, pulling the boat low in the water and causing icy waves to slop over the sides.
One of the wet black lengths brushed against the bare skin of Aziraphale’s ankle and he felt a jolt of otherworldly shock, a sense of pure temperament. In that moment Aziraphale felt like he was inside Morgana’s head, feeling her feelings: an astonishingly callous, uncompromising fury.
He realised then that he’d still on some level thought this vast dark creature was linked to Crowley—but it patently wasn’t. It was something different, something far more awful. He’d fought Crowley before and this wasn’t Crowley, this was horrible and vindictive and cold; Crowley had been hot, even at his most vicious, every decision unfolding with a tempestuous heat, never this icy indifferent cruelty.
“Wait,” Aziraphale whispered through numb lips, as the wet slide increased, something slippery and strong enclosing his ankle—and then it tugged. Aziraphale crashed into the base of the boat, the oars jerking free of his frozen grasp, his landing cushioned by yet more cold, squirming lengths. They immediately began roaming over him, seizing his limbs and wrapping around his chest.
He struggled, gasping, mind flooded with blank alarm at the seething chill of Morgana’s intention. Whatever was to happen now, it would serve him right for daring to venture into her territory. The creature would do what it liked with him, whatever that was - consume him? Drown him? Tear him apart as absently as a maid filleting a fish? - and she would watch. Or maybe she was the creature, maybe it was the living embodiment of her hostility, the full figure of her anger given impossible tactile power.
Aziraphale struggled harder, even as he began to realise there was no way he could win this. A sideways wrench had the boat leaning alarmingly. Water poured in, soaking him as he kicked and gasped. He felt the boat filling up around him, so cold it took his breath away, so cold it burned, and then with a curious sense of weightlessness—the boat sank. Slipped out from under him, currents dragging him down in its wake, his descent stayed only by the creature’s tightening grasp. Panic screamed through him as he found himself suspended, entirely defenceless, in a writhing nest of tentacles. They were sliding up his legs now, pushing beneath his sodden clothes, and, no.
No! Aziraphale felt a weak pulse of golden heat deep in his chilled centre. He gritted his teeth and kicked hard for the surface of his consciousness: holding his breath and blocking his mind to the squirming sensations, the onslaught, the fear.
Wake up. Wake up, now!
For a moment there was absolutely nothing, and then the bleak darkness vanished and rosy light flooded in.
Aziraphale awoke gasping, encountering the solid softness of the king’s ornate hearthrug beneath his hands and knees, his vision filling with rolling pink and silver clouds.
At first he couldn’t catch his breath. His throat felt raw, as if he’d been screaming. His skin felt rubbery. Ghostly sensations were still sliding over him, tightening around his ankles, pulling at his clothes. He grimaced, wanting nothing so much as water from a blistering hot bath to pour over himself, to scour the sensations from his skin’s memory.
But his skin wasn’t even wet. Slightly clammy with fear, trembling all over, nothing more.
“Good lord,” he heard distantly, murmured almost. A voice as familiar as the back of his own hand, which he was staring at blankly, knuckles white, fingertips sunk into the deep hearth-rug pile like claws. A soothing, noble voice, filling Aziraphale with a sense of warmed wine. “Is he all right?”
“Give him a moment.” Another voice, equally familiar, equally hushed. Not quite as deep as the first; a semitone more silvery, more musical. It seemed, in this strange state, a perfect counterbalance to the first. Aziraphale wanted to do whatever the first voice said, and could listen to the second voice all day. “The experience can be disorienting.”
Slowly his breathing came under his control. Aziraphale made himself sit back on his heels, looking around as his vision gradually cleared. Merlin and Arthur were standing together, arms folded, watching him with matching guarded expressions.
“Are you all right?” asked Arthur, extending a hand as soon as Aziraphale’s eyes focused.
What a question. Aziraphale collected himself for a moment, then nodded and gripped Arthur’s forearm, allowing Arthur to help him to his feet. He swayed only slightly. The heat of Arthur’s hand on his wrist was intense, dispelling some of the ghostly residues of fear.
“Thanks,” Aziraphale muttered, and resisted a foolish urge to tighten his grip instead of letting go.
“Don’t mention it. You look like you’ve seen a spirit,” Arthur said, then crossed to the door and spoke in a low voice to someone standing guard outside it.
Merlin was still watching Aziraphale closely. “Take your time,” he said. “It can last a few moments before you fully reorientate. Especially if it was a… shocking experience.” His voice gentled further. “Was it?”
Aziraphale opened his mouth, shut it again, then pulled a face as a ghastly sense-memory thundered through him. “Somewhat."
Merlin had the grace to look apologetic. “I’m sorry. It did seem to last longer than expected.”
Aziraphale shook his head. “No, it’s… I should have woken myself up sooner. You did say. But I… I couldn’t help the feeling that he was there.”
Merlin’s eyes brightened. Ah yes, the point of the exercise. “Where?”
Aziraphale hesitated. “Look, this might sound absurd," he said cautiously, "but do you know of any castle Morgana might have reached, on some sort of… ominous black lake?"
Merlin’s intent look only sharpened. “Do you mean Conwy? She can't have made it that far. But it does stand on Llyn Nhywell—the Black Lake.”
Arthur turned, frowning. “Conwy's an impossible ride from here," he said, but his tone was more factual than dismissive. "It's a fortress built into a rocky outcrop on the Northern coast - it was bequeathed to Morgana from her mother's side. That's where she goes when she tires of Camelot, or so she’s always led us to believe.”
“But it’s deep in Fae territory,” Merlin interjected. “So we don’t really… We have no reason to go there. And she likes it that way. Isolated and inhospitable.”
“Sounds about right,” Aziraphale said, with another involuntary shudder.
Merlin's frown deepened. “Did you actually see Llyn Nhywell?”
“Saw it, crossed it, half drowned in it,” Aziraphale quipped, feeling for the pouch on his belt to proffer a handful of damp black sand. “That’s all I got.”
“Oh,” Merlin said, receiving it in his cupped palms with a pained expression. "Thank you."
“And this,” Aziraphale said, dusting off his palms and rolling up his sleeve to diffidently show Merlin his arm. “By the position of the stars, we were quite far North.”
Merlin’s eyebrows slid up as he saw what Aziraphale had done. He touched the tender skin of Aziraphale’s forearm, tracing the pink scratched silhouette, the sensitive raised lines with swollen white edges. “Yes, this could be the Conwy fortress—but it’s so far! Impossible for them to have made it all that way without magic.”
Aziraphale tugged his sleeve back down. “She’s definitely got magic,” he said darkly.
“My father didn’t like to believe it,” Arthur said, returning from the door with Lancelot and Percival behind him.
"Here," Lancelot said, proffering a laden tray to Aziraphale—bearing a large, steaming mug. "We had the kitchen run this up for you when we heard it was taking longer than expected. It's not much, but it may help."
"It should make you feel more yourself,” Percival added, encouraging.
Soup. Aziraphale's stomach abruptly ached with emptiness. How long had he been in that formidable cold place? No wonder he still felt so shivery.
“Oh! Thank you.” Aziraphale closed his hands gratefully around the mug, taking in the deep, savoury scent of it. A warming gulp tasted so, so good.
He made a low noise of appreciation as the bone-deep chill inside him finally started to recede. Yes, this was what he needed, exactly!
He drained the mug in a few delicious swallows, tipping his head back to chase the last few drops with his tongue, then wiped his mouth with a soft, almost involuntary sigh of satisfaction.
Gosh. That was so much better.
When he glanced up again they were all four watching him with expressions that he couldn’t quite place. Not amusement exactly; disbelief, perhaps? Incredulity?
Whatever it was made his skin prickle, and his face flushed warm - not just from the heat of the soup.
Merlin cleared his throat. “Right… Llyn Nhywell,” he said firmly, turning back to Arthur. “From our lake that’s straightforward at least, for a small party - for the five of us, certainly. I just need to check our maps first, and the star chart, get everything ready and—”
“Get some sleep?” suggested Lancelot mildly.
Merlin scowled at him. “I don't need sleep.”
Arthur laughed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible,” he said, and it sounded despairing but the light in his eyes was so earnest Aziraphale felt something in his chest squeeze hard. “We must all rest first - I decree it. Aim for first light?”
“…Fine. First light,” Merlin said, with a begrudging smile, and Aziraphale could see the momentum building between them as they backed each other up, urged each other onwards; and it was admirable, it was, but all of a sudden he could see them charging forth, headstrong in their shared confidence, and an icy chill swept through him. To encounter what? That thing?!
“Wait,” Aziraphale croaked, and they all glanced back at him, curious at first and then, as they took in his expression, his fingertips blanching white around the empty mug, more concerned.
“What?”
“The dream," Aziraphale said, wincing. "It was… I just don’t think we should go in blindly. If what I saw is waiting for us there, it might be dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Percival's look shifted into one of tolerant amusement. "That's usually a given!"
"Quite," Lancelot agreed, sharing a brief knowing grin with Percival. "It's good practice to put us through our paces, once in a while."
Arthur clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. "I'm sure it's nothing we can't handle," he said heartily, and nodded at Merlin. "You must remember, we also have magic on our side."
Aziraphale felt like his wince had calcified on his face. "No, I know, but…" He wanted to cringe away from his own words now, the innate betrayal of voicing his uncertainty, his fear. He wanted to share in their courageous enthusiasm, of course he did! And yet.
"Aziraphale," Merlin said, no louder than the others but immediately securing his attention. "Perhaps you'd better tell me exactly what you saw."
“…and then the boat just sank,” Aziraphale finished, feeling his mouth turn down despite his resolution to recount it all as neutrally as possible. “Leaving me, um, entirely at its mercy, at which point I—I woke myself up.”
“Bloody hell,” said Percival, in a vehement undertone that warmed Aziraphale almost as much as the soup had.
Merlin looked less appalled. “Manifestation of unbridled fury,” he mused, tapping the nib of his quill against his parchment. He'd been sketching the beast as Aziraphale spoke, all long swirling curves and rearing tentacles that almost seemed to be shifting on the page itself. “There’s no reason it couldn’t be done, if someone were powerful enough - and angry enough - and ingratiated themselves with the right Fae.”
Arthur’s voice took on an accusative note. “You sound almost impressed!”
“Not at all,” Merlin demurred, though that sounded less convincing. “Though you have to admit… fascinating to know what that contract looked like, if she drew it up properly.”
Arthur did not look fascinated. He started to pace. “But this is appalling! How long has it been there? She’s already got a demon under her command – why does she need some godawful creature of the deep as well?!"
Aziraphale tried to formulate a reply, but Arthur ran on, barely pausing for breath. “And what the blazes level of power does my sister have, anyway – stowing this beast away in some blighted coastal cove? I thought she had an isolated fortress, not an occult outpost! And what is she feeding it? Don’t tell me we’ve been oblivious to yet another mysterious disappearing peasant crisis! Or if it’s not sustained on peasants—is that why she's nicked my prize warhorses?”
“Mm,” Merlin nodded, not seeming fazed by this outburst. He was scribbling on his parchment again. “Good questions.”
“I can’t imagine a horse would sustain a demon for very long,” Lancelot said, though whether this was meant to be soothing or ominous wasn’t clear.
“No,” Percival said, smothering a yawn behind his fist, then winked at Arthur. “There’s hope for them yet.”
“I should bloody hope so,” Arthur muttered. He seemed to have said his piece, subsiding into a baleful silence.
“I think it feeds on anger,” Aziraphale said, remembering the shocking depth of fury as its skin brushed against him.
Arthur rounded on him. “Then what’s making her so angry?”
Aziraphale met him face-on. “That is what I want to find out.”
Frustration rose in Arthur’s expression—and then melted into a resigned sigh. “All right,” he said simply. “What do you want to know?”
Even as Aziraphale’s hopes soared, Lancelot cleared his throat meaningfully. “Tomorrow.”
They all scowled at him.
Lancelot laughed and folded his arms. “Your complexions resemble soured goats’ milk and your eyes are twitching without your notice. Soon the birds will be up! Go to bed.”
“I beg your—” Arthur protested, and Lancelot modified his tone to one of utmost deference.
“Go to bed, sire,” Lancelot amended, inclining at the waist like a most proper courtier. “If you wish to have the wherewithal to lead anyone anywhere at all tomorrow.”
Merlin opened his mouth to protest and Lancelot glared at him. To Aziraphale’s amazement, there was a small pause, and then Merlin closed his mouth again.
“Right,” Arthur said, after a moment. “Well, you heard the man.”
And Aziraphale found himself being politely, yet firmly, shown out into the corridor.
Aziraphale trailed back to the knights’ quarters. Now that Lancelot had mentioned it, he did feel like his skin was buzzing, the long hours of wakefulness taking their toll, the stale tang of panic lingering in his throat.
The dormitory was dark and quiet when he arrived, warm with the steady glow of undisturbed candlelight and banked coals. As he picked his way carefully between the knights' beds, he caught a reflection glancing off the copper bathtub and was rocked by the memory of Crowley fucking him in front of it. The images slammed into his mind’s eye with the unkempt power of a falling tree. It felt like it had only just happened and yet seemed simultaneously a lifetime ago.
That furnace blast of that heat—recalling it stirred a restlessness in him that had nowhere to go. Right now it seemed like exactly what was needed to overpower this latest's dream's unnerving, lingering chill.
Aziraphale reached his bed, stripped off, and slid between the sheets, misery warring with latent arousal. What he wouldn’t give to close his eyes and feel that familiar, hot, heavy weight settle on his chest. It was crazy, foolhardy, unimaginably reckless – and true. Things were so simple with Crowley. Yes, he could be terrifying, and yes, he was a literal agent of Hell – but he wasn’t evil. Aziraphale was certain of it. He wasn’t malicious, or cruel, or icily venomous.
Crowley didn’t care a jot for any of the other knights, but he did - Aziraphale believed - care about Aziraphale. A little. It seemed. More than Crowley had expected to, in any case.
Crowley definitely wanted Aziraphale. Fuck, that want, the power of his appetite, smothering him, bending him to his will—Aziraphale whined softly in his throat, craving Crowley’s presence with an intensity that burned inside him. His cock was getting hard beneath the covers, even as his throat thickened with unshed tears. Fuck!
He was a mess.
And he really, really missed him.
In that instant, Aziraphale was gripped with a wild urge to tell Merlin and Arthur everything. He felt sure they would commiserate on some level - they were in love, weren’t they? In full sight of everyone but having to hide it, suffering high stakes and even higher emotions. Surely they would understand.
Within his next heartbeat, a voice that sounded worryingly like Gabriel’s jeered into his mind. You compare your pathetic, week-long sordid fling with a twenty-year partnership between the greatest noblemen in the land? You think they’d appreciate the comparison, or welcome you as one of their own? Or would they see this for the base corruption that it is, a weakness, an embarrassment, just as you’ve always been an embarrassment to your whole household your whole life, even to your precious mother—
No.
Aziraphale sat up abruptly. Gabriel’s voice had evaporated, replaced by Crowley’s harsh growl in Aziraphale's mind. It was as if Crowley had interrupted Gabriel mid-lecture with a clawed slap across the face. It felt glorious - no, wicked - and all the more invigorating for it.
There wasn’t, though Aziraphale frantically searched, any trace of Crowley’s active presence in their connection. It must be a memory, however vivid. Sure enough, the intensity of Crowley’s voice ebbed away again as soon as it had sounded—but the warm, exhilarating aftereffects lingered on. And within that warmth, as Aziraphale lay back in the darkness, his thoughts rolled along down another hill entirely.
Back to Arthur, and Merlin, and that opulent hearthrug of theirs. His knees tingled with the memory of kneeling there, hot on one side from the flames, on the other from Arthur’s gaze. Arthur had looked so boyish, rakish even, despite being a decade Aziraphale's senior and his literal sovereign lord. And beside him, Merlin’s casual assertion – “he’s down there willingly” – had he chosen those words on purpose? Were they for Aziraphale's ears, or Arthur’s?
His thoughts gathered momentum as he imagined them closing in on him, giving shape to whatever indistinct energy had been simmering in the room between them. He imagined Merlin’s cool hands cupping his face, tracing his lips, looking deeply into his eyes. Assessing his willingness just like Merlin assessed everything else, with an exacting attention that flirted on the edge of arrogance.
“Yes,” Merlin would say, releasing him again and turning back to Arthur, like always, a dark wildflower always seeking the sun; “yes, he does want us, it’s very apparent.”
And then - but of course they wouldn't, ever - they were too decent, too noble, too kind (but what if they weren’t?), too proper (but what if they let go?), there was absolutely no prospect of…
…Of Arthur ordering him to his knees and telling him to open his mouth.
…Of both of them crowding against him, one each side, sandwiching him between them.
…Of Merlin fucking him while Arthur watched, occasionally voicing his approval.
Fuck, Aziraphale thought, heat rushing to his face despite a reflexive paroxysm of shame.
But why shame? demanded the hot airy voice inside him, the voice that Crowley used. Aziraphale was no demon, with his fluffy hair and neat white tabard. He was no monster, no bully committing crimes against people who’d rather he stayed away. He was simply entertaining a few harmless, playful thoughts about good men he knew and respected. Imagining inviting them to do whatever they wanted with his soft, willing body.
Crowley’s voice was right: who did that hurt?
Heat stole over him again, but this time the shame melted to the barest trace. This time there was a smoky, smouldering quality that he didn’t dare focus on lest it burn off like morning mist. His mouth fell open and his tongue slid along his dry lips.
He raised his hand, licked it, enjoying the musky taste of his own skin, the debauched sensation of his tongue sliding between his fingers. Sucking them, getting them wet. And then—
And then Arthur would sit back in his chair and – wait, why not his throne? – fine, Aziraphale thought, with a delicious shiver of scandal as he reached down and encircled his cock with his wet fingers, let this happen in the throne room, why not?
He felt like Crowley might like the idea, the sacrilegious scandal of it, and a bloom of especially golden warmth flourished in his chest. So he let himself picture it with impunity, Arthur in dress robes, sitting on his throne with his legs sprawled lazily open, receiving Aziraphale on his knees. Merlin standing next to him, watching closely as Aziraphale bowed his head and asked for this one, specific royal favour.
Please, sire… might I humbly offer my… my mouth… for your use… both of you, if it should please you… please…
Aziraphale bit his lip to keep from making a noise, stroking himself now, rapid little jerks over the head of his cock that felt so, so good. Fuck, the thought of it, even just saying those words in his mind, let alone picturing doing it, Arthur’s broad tanned hands opening his britches, getting himself out—fuck, what would it look like?
Yes, Aziraphale heard, as a heated pulse of wetness coated his palm. What does it look like? Tell me so I can picture you choking on it.
Aziraphale made a pained noise in his throat, pushing up. Was that actually Crowley’s voice or just his own fervid imagination of what Crowley would have to say about this?
He didn’t know. It felt like Crowley. His hand was still moving. He tried to imagine Arthur’s cock, but couldn’t. His mind was filled up with Crowley, with Crowley’s cock, with how it felt to choke on him. It wouldn’t be so different with a man, he thought. Less overwhelming but still… probably quite overwhelming. What if Merlin held Arthur’s cock for him, what if Merlin was the one to guide it into Aziraphale’s mouth, what if Merlin was the one to push his head firmly down…?
Yes, Aziraphale thought weakly, turning his head back and forth against his pillow, stroking himself harder. He could come from that image alone. But if he did, would he be able to look them in the eye tomorrow? Would they take one look at him and know?
Did he want them to?
A sparkly, dangerous sensation went through his gut, his balls tightening at the thought of Merlin reading him like one of his books. Telling Arthur—real, actual Arthur, ah, fuck, fuck. Discussing what to do about him (whatever they wanted); what they might want him to do first, what they might want him to do next.
If he’d had such fantasies even a mere week ago, he might have contemplated immolating himself in shame. But now… he felt curiously inured. And he couldn’t have been the only one to have thought such things. In fact, unless he was very much mistaken, half the castle had ensnared themselves with dark forces at one stage or another, and the other half were in each other's beds—or wished they were. And as for Merlin and Arthur… Aziraphale felt like he had mounting evidence that they shared more harmless, playful thoughts than the rest of them combined.
Excepting Crowley - but he was neither harmless, nor playful.
Aziraphale shivered and hunkered lower in his bed, as his thoughts came a reliable full circle back to the initiator of his sinful awakening. Crowley radiated by far the most captivating, devouring energy that Aziraphale had ever encountered, and lying here touching himself he was fizzing with the desire to encounter it again.
Crowley’s cock, which Aziraphale had no difficulty in remembering in exacting detail, was the thing Aziraphale craved most in the world right now.
You want it, he heard. To taste it, handle it, sit on it…
Ohh. He still wasn’t sure if that was actually Crowley or just his own wistful desire to be joined in this, but regardless: a dam burst in Aziraphale’s brain, unleashing a deluge of images. The days upon days of becoming reluctantly attuned to his own desires, of having the object of those desires put cruelly beyond reach, of becoming uncomfortably aware of his comrades’ attributes - from Percival’s massive shoulders to Merlin’s deft fingers, from Arthur’s commanding tone to Lancelot’s sideways smile - all coalesced in another sparkling rush of overwhelming need. He wanted everything, everyone.
So be it.
An image appeared in his mind of the royal bedchamber, Crowley sprawled back on that massive sumptuous bed, Aziraphale astride him, riding his glistening cock while the others watched. All four of them.
Aziraphale held his breath, trying not to whimper as he imagined it in full and feverish detail: the men surrounding him, watching him writhe as Crowley fucked up into him, jerking themselves as they drew closer. He imagined the pleasure in Crowley’s fiery eyes as he dragged Aziraphale down onto his erection, stretching him brutally, displaying him for everyone to see. Crowley’s big hands dwarfing his hips, grasping him firmly, possessive while still allowing the others to look their fill.
And the others would fondle him maybe, pinching and stroking his skin, admiring the plump curves of his arse, his stomach, his long unblemished limbs. My mouth, Aziraphale thought hazily, biting his lip again, imagining them clambering onto the bed as well, his eyes falling closed as unseen fingers guided someone’s hard cock to brush over his lips. The others would put his hands to work, their hands closing over his fingers, encouraging him to grasp them, fucking his fists.
“Fuck,” Aziraphale whispered as he stroked himself with both hands now, wriggling urgently as the images overtook him—they felt so real, he was almost glowing with arousal. With Crowley buried to the hilt inside him, he’d be so full, so stretched already, he couldn’t possibly take a cock in his mouth as well, or keep the wherewithal about him to coordinate both hands. No, he’d have to close his eyes and move on instinct, or better yet, let Crowley move him, bounce him like a ragdoll on his cock as the others tried desperately to keep pace. Or they’d give up and stroke themselves instead, aiming at his chest, his face, the top of his arse where it dimpled and splayed; would Crowley like that, to watch the other four men come all over him, splashing obscenely across his sweaty skin as Crowley fucked him, the only one allowed to come inside?
Aziraphale would be moaning as they did it, as they spent over him, and after, feeling wetness drip hot down his face, his chest, over his own erection, pooling around his arse and thighs. It would feel so filthy, giving himself up to it, slick with their come and unable to touch his own cock, saving himself until he felt Crowley’s climax start to build. But it would be a powerful one, he was sure, Crowley feeding off the depravity of it, pounding Aziraphale harder and harder as each successive man came on his face and body.
When Crowley finally erupted inside him there would be waves of it, streaming up inside him, jet after jet of liquid fire. He’d pump Aziraphale full to bursting and then he’d plug him with his still-hard cock, grinding his hips, until Aziraphale cried out, joining him in helpless spasms of pleasure; and then Crowley would slowly withdraw, letting them all watch, Aziraphale’s abused hole throbbing as the demon’s spend gushed out in slow pulses, mingling with rest of the wetness coating his arse and thighs. And then whoever wanted could push him flat across Crowley’s stomach and take him again. They could each - while Crowley held him open - each one of them in turn could—
Yes, Aziraphale thought, pounding into his fist, gritting his teeth and digging his heels in against the bed as his orgasm surged through him, an earthly charge with a heady lick of infernal fire.
Fuck, yes, that thought was enough, pleasure spreading through him as he splashed his belly, coated his still-moving fist—and then he stiffened in a secondary ecstatic jolt as all at once, impossibly distant, a familiar voice rang in his ears.
More, he heard Crowley say, inside his head.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh, yes, yes, yes.
“What?” Aziraphale panted into the darkness, forgetting everything else in his eagerness. “Is that you? Where—where are you?”
Far. Already, the power was less, but it was his real voice. Crowley’s. Thready and faint but unmistakable. The sound of it made Aziraphale want to growl with happiness.
He kept his own voice to a covert whisper with difficulty. “Are you… hurt?”
Starving.
“But you can feel this? Use this? Me, doing this, it serves you?” Aziraphale breathed.
There was a low dragonish purr of a noise that Aziraphale couldn’t have dreamt up if he’d tried.
Yes.
“…Which part?” The thought that Crowley might have somehow witnessed what he’d just fantasied about was… arresting.
What?
“What? Nothing,” Aziraphale said quickly.
Hmm, Crowley said, and it was fainter still, whisper-thin, fading.
“Wait,” Aziraphale said. “Stay.”
Crowley made an even fainter, slightly exasperated noise. Can’t, he muttered, and was gone.
Aziraphale lay there in his sticky sheets, fresh agitation spiking against the slow soporific lull of his exhausted, temporarily sated body. He told himself that it was a relief at least to know that Crowley was alive, that despite the horrors of the black lake and the unimaginable distance between them there was still some way to reach him… but it was no good. That brief taste had made the yearning sharper, stronger. He had to find him again, at any cost.
And if they were going to ride into that strange, hostile territory, first he had to prepare.
Chapter 11: Night 9: LANCELOT
Summary:
Do not be afeared: Lancelot has this all under control. All of it.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Lancelot lay in the darkness with his eyes serenely closed, his breathing slow, his nostrils not even flaring a little bit.
He was above this.
The younger knights, of course, they could be expected to be susceptible to various difficult-to-manage urges – Lancelot himself had, historically, thrown caution to this wind often enough to be well aware – but at the age of three-and-forty summers Lancelot was known as a paragon of self-control. The prickle of provocation drew no blood from his skin; nor could the drumbeat of misplaced lust be coaxed into his chest.
No, he was unmoveable.
Not even displays such as this… moved him.
The air seemed to tremble with the soft, breathy noises that Aziraphale was making, carrying across the quiet dormitory like sparks rolling off a campfire.
Aziraphale must have quite forgotten that Lancelot had been the one to usher him to bed; if not, he surely would have realised it was unlikely that Lancelot could have fallen asleep before this nocturnal occupation began.
Aziraphale was apparently making some effort not to be heard, but to be frank it was paltry at best. He seemed to keep catching himself, quieting, letting a lull descend for long enough that Lancelot would reason that his endeavours must now be complete, before with a quivering inhalation the soft noises would begin again.
Look, now. It was understandable. Hardly unusual. Seeking the release of the night, la petite mort, after a particularly arduous evening – there was nothing scandalous or unexpected about that. In Lancelot’s experience it took far less peril than Aziraphale had endured today to drive most youths towards the time-honoured tradition of finding peace in their own palm. Even leaving aside the nature of the particular demonic influences that Aziraphale had apparently been exposed to – and Lancelot certainly had his suspicions about those.
The sight of Aziraphale drawing his fingertip delicately around the lip of his tankard while confiding, “And I was not the victor,” his cheeks flushed, eyes starry—would not leave Lancelot’s memory in a long time.
Neither, he had to admit, would this moment.
Lancelot pressed his lips together, recalling other, long passed occasions in this very dormitory. There had been a time when he would have let such a raw demonstration of desire drive him to insensibility; perhaps even start to breathe hard himself, deliberate deep sighs, to draw the restless knight’s attention and see where that led them. Oftentimes he had found it might lead into one of the dark corridors or arrow-rooms adjacent to the dormitory, for a sweet and rough exchange of views before dawn’s first light stole over their interlocked forms.
Nothing like that had occurred in recent years, of course.
Lancelot swallowed silently, shaking himself free of those memories before they could rouse a tantalising warmth inside him. Not that there wasn’t already… some warmth. Aziraphale’s plaintive little hitches of breath had seen to that.
Aziraphale sounded so lost in it, so wholeheartedly overtaken by pleasure. Seemingly oblivious that his endeavours might be shared at all. Lancelot had a suspicion that there was no risk of Aziraphale noticing if he were joined from afar, in silence, by another engaged in the same pursuit. Another torrid shivering set of breaths echoing Aziraphale's own as he sought his release; another hand, moving with practised haste in the darkness, within the privacy of other blankets, between other updrawn knees—these would all go entirely unnoticed, unremarked upon this evening.
…But of course, Aziraphale would not be being joined by any such onlooker.
Even contemplating it was out of the question - tonight or any other night, for that matter. Aziraphale was far too naive, too eager to impress, for any such dalliance to be harmless. Even had Lancelot been available for dalliances with the knights he helped command, which he most assuredly was not.
It would take more than a few helpless whimpering noises to make Lancelot du Lac regret the celibacy he preferred when away from his beloved’s side. Despite knowing that he did not begrudge Guinevere her own dalliances - one of her ladies-in-waiting, in particular, sprung to mind - he still felt that given the intensity of the comradery in Camelot it was simpler and safer to maintain his own distance.
No, even if Aziraphale were to throw back those shaking covers and demand satisfaction, Lancelot’s purity of intention would prevail.
Almost certainly.
Merlin and Arthur… now there, Lancelot was less sure. Until recently he would have said they shared his view; but now, he had to admit, the matter seemed less clear-cut.
Initially, when Arthur asked him to start actively drawing out Aziraphale’s merits, Lancelot had supposed those merits largely intellectual. Worthy of their inner circle, certainly – Aziraphale was nothing if not pure of heart, a veritable pillar of virtuousness – and in those areas where he was weaker, Lancelot had been confident that he could be trained up.
Aziraphale's eagerness to please had its place; in Lancelot’s opinion that place was on the training ground. He’d thought Merlin and Arthur shared his view.
But in the last few days, something had changed. Not just in Aziraphale’s manner - quicker, ever more confident, as if driven from within by a new galvanic force - but in how Merlin and Arthur were regarding him.
Something about Aziraphale was catching their attention, like rangy youths stopping before an apple tree laden with ripe, forbidden fruit.
Well, lying here in the dark Lancelot had a fairly good idea of what it was they’d detected. Aziraphale sounded wanton, lost in a delirium of pleasure. And this was no quick, furtive indulgence. Whatever drama was playing out in that mysterious fair head was something of a five-act play, if sheer duration was anything to go by.
“Fuck,” Aziraphale gasped suddenly, and it almost sounded like he was thrashing in his bed; Lancelot closed his eyes tighter.
Slow, deep breaths. He was above this. He was not going to roll on his side and search out the vision of this lustful young man in the gloom. If Lancelot could resist the lure of watching Percival, stripped to the waist and splashing about in a stream, late-afternoon sunlight gilding the wet planes of his shoulders, as droplets of water trickled down his throat, his chest—then he could resist this as well.
Lancelot was going to sleep, damn it all to Hell.
At last – at last! – the exercise ended, and to give Aziraphale all due respect, he didn’t shout out. Only moaned a little under his breath, so quietly that one not resignedly listening for it might have mistaken it for a sigh.
Silence rang out in the absence of all noise. What a relief!
Well, at least now sleep might come for everyone - for a few hours, at least. All Lancelot wanted was darkness and quiet. He adjusted his own breathing again, assuring his body it was time to settle, to subside once more.
And then—“What? Is that you? Where… where are you? …Are you hurt?”
Lancelot’s eyes snapped open. Despite himself, now he did shift to peer across the darkened room—and found that Aziraphale’s bed was no longer in darkness. A peculiar glow lit upon the lines and curves of Aziraphale’s form amidst his crumpled sheets, making his hair the colour of sunlit cotton-grass, his dewy skin bathed in a soft, flushed gold.
There was a pause, and then Aziraphale said something that Lancelot couldn’t decipher, before waiting – apparently – for a reply.
Then—
“What? Nothing,” Aziraphale said quickly. Even as he spoke, the glow was fading, shadows thickening around him. “Wait. Stay.”
Lancelot’s eyes widened. He knew that tone. Aziraphale’s voice held the same desperate pleading note that Lancelot recognised from his own wistful entreaties, whenever he and Guinevere were forced by circumstance to part.
It was not a mild or meaningless tone.
Lancelot had plighted his troth to Guinevere in secret, some eight years ago now, earnest and yet without fanfare. Without disturbing the convenient ruse that Guinevere and Arthur had set their intentions upon each other. Arthur had given their engagement his blessing, and had been exceedingly fair to them, all told - though Lancelot did spend much of his time in Camelot, Arthur ensured they were regularly reunited, and granted them privacy and wealth amongst innumerable other boons.
It was, after all, heavily in Arthur's favour that the ruse of his mysterious entanglement with the daughter of a French duke be maintained in perpetuity. The common knowledge of Arthur and Guinevere's prolonged, impassioned and entirely spurious courtship allowed Merlin and Arthur to conduct themselves as they did; a few elaborate letters ‘misplaced’ had ensured the rumours about Arthur’s strangely protracted affair with Guinevere quite outweighed the rumours of his actual forbidden love.
The ruse could surely not continue forever - as Guinevere was wont to remind them - but at present Lancelot felt his immense good luck outweighed any misfortune of the situation. Lancelot was used to a cold bed at night and grateful for it; there’d been plenty of time when he was young, before he came to Camelot, that such security could not be taken for granted. He slept well, these days, untroubled by roving thoughts, and although it pained him to spend such a lot of time apart from Guinevere, it had not diminished their devotion in the slightest.
No, Lancelot did not want or need to complicate matters. It was his life’s proudest work to serve Arthur in every way, and in his arrangement with Guinevere he had everything that his heart and mind could reasonably desire.
His body… well, those desires could be curtailed. He had extensive practice in this area. Whatever distractions his life threw at him - certain aforementioned shoulders notwithstanding - Lancelot was accomplished at allowing the urges to pass through him without catching hold of them, without dwelling upon them, without acting.
Such as at this very moment, he need only curtail or endure the signals from his restless body until that gathered heat subsided. A simple example of mind over matter. There.
The glow had entirely faded now, and Lancelot couldn’t see Aziraphale’s face any more. There were no more cues from his voice either, as he lapsed into silence.
At last it was dark and still. Lancelot could sleep undisturbed.
He did not sleep for a long, long while.
Notes:
Bit of a rogue's gallery here, if you're curious about what sort of shoulders are being contemplated: knights in shiny armour
Chapter 12: Day 10 - The Disguise
Summary:
Things Aziraphale manages to do: search for clues, stand his ground, and don a most marvellous disguise
Thing Aziraphale does not manage to do: leave Camelot
Notes:
If you’re made it this far, I’m going to assume you’ll be okay if I go ahead and add GENDER to the mix. ;)
CW/TW: gender / sex / pronouns
Spoiler details for if this may be a sensitive topic for you
- in this chapter Aziraphale is given a magical device to changes him into a female form of the character.
- Aziraphale’s pronouns also change.
- Aziraphale remains female for an extended portion of the remaining story, for both plot and smut reasons
- definitely not my intention to upset anyone with this, but please do reach out if any questions or uneasy feelings might be allayed with a conversation 💖
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
AZIRAPHALE
Dawn came and went with no riding of any kind, more was the pity.
Somewhat crestfallen, Aziraphale joined the other knights in the weakly sunlit breakfast room. Still, he reasoned, if they weren’t galloping away immediately, this would at least be a good opportunity to gather clues to Morgana’s history.
He brightened as he took in the spread awaiting them. Along one wall stretched a table laden with a tureen of porridge, dishes of slow-stewed fruit, shallow plates of fresh apples, boiled eggs in their shells, buttered kippers, bread rolls, and cheese.
Well. To not partake would look most suspicious.
At the head of the table, Merlin and Arthur were already eating absent-mindedly whilst poring over a map of the Northern coast together.
Aziraphale left them to it, instead attempting to make some enquiries of the other knights first.
It emerged that Tristan, Galahad, Gaheris and Lamorak were all too young to remember Morgana before her most recent visits to Court; they had experienced only the cold, indifferent presence she maintained these days, sweeping in with her entourage unannounced, displaying the bare minimum of courtly decency.
Sir Kay, the oldest of their cohort and usually brimming with entertaining tales from his chivalric history, visibly clouded over when Aziraphale asked about Morgana. He paused in spooning honey onto his steaming bowl of porridge to shake his head, his creased face sagging with melancholy. “Such a shame,” he said, regarding Aziraphale seriously from beneath bushy eyebrows. “The blame lies with the mother, of course. Abandoning that child when she was needed most.”
“I thought Morgana’s mother was imprisoned for treason,” Aziraphale said, delicately. So few years after Arthur’s mother had died of a wasting illness… Such seemed to be the way of King Uther’s consorts…
Kay harrumphed. “Even worse. She should have come to Court and married Uther when she had the chance! And renounced those silly beliefs, for the good of the girl. ‘S no wonder Morgana turned out like she did.”
Aziraphale nodded, trying not to let his dissatisfaction show on his face. No one was telling him anything he hadn’t already heard whispered at another time.
Gareth and Gwaine shared a grimace when Aziraphale approached them, before Gwaine leaned in and said in a quiet voice that he’d rather not speak ill of the king’s sister.
Aziraphale rose to fetch a second helping, then reseated himself next to Merlin - opposite Lancelot and Percival - to continue his inquiries.
“Morgana was a difficult and unpleasant demoiselle who grew into a difficult, unpleasant mademoiselle,” Lancelot said curtly, the rancour in his usually modulated tones making Aziraphale blink.
Lancelot, apparently, felt no chagrin at all at speaking ill of the king’s sister.
“He’s right,” Percival said, though he looked a tad more uneasy about saying it. “She’s never been, you know, charming to know. Never had much time for the Court - or much respect for Arthur, for that matter.”
Arthur snorted, overhearing. “That’s putting it lightly,” he remarked, his voice dry. He’d left the map to Merlin now and was sitting back in his chair, peeling an apple with his knife. The blade was like an extension of his thumb, moving deftly, paring off the skin in long bright speckled strips revealing shining white flesh beneath.
Aziraphale chose his words with care, making his tone formal, deferential. He was very aware of the servers and cupbearers dotted around, the scullery maids crossing back and forth with dishes, not to mention the wider circle of knights up and down the table. Now was no time to grow lax on formality. “How so, sire?”
“Oh, come now,” Arthur said, smirking at him. “You needn’t stand on ceremony here. The facts are plain enough. My sister is the one who has chosen to feud with me - I would sooner leave her well alone!”
The others nodded, affirming his answer. Together they formed a wall of affable solidarity.
Aziraphale looked from man to man. “But what made her so difficult in the first place?”
“You have to understand,” Arthur said reasonably, slicing the apple into pieces now, the blade quick and neat. “Morgana was brought to Camelot as little more than a beggar’s child, after her mother was imprisoned. My father was gracious enough to recognise her – luckily for her, given the alternative of starving in the gutter - but she remained sullen at all times. Ungrateful for everything that was done for her. And though she has learned to perform courtly manners when it suits her, she has never settled to Court.” He gave a helpless laugh, gestured at Aziraphale with a slice of apple, all charming appeal. “And frankly, I would feel more charitable towards her difficulties if she didn’t keep trying to kill me!”
It was lightly said, and the other knights took Arthur’s cue, laughing in agreement.
And - still, he didn’t feel anyone had answered his question.
Aziraphale turned to Merlin, who hadn’t yet spoken. “Anything else I should know?”
Merlin stole a piece of apple from Arthur’s plate. He nibbled it thoughtfully before tilting his head. “It can’t have been easy for her,” he allowed.
Arthur rolled his eyes.
“It can’t!” Merlin protested, as if this too was an old argument being revisited. He turned deliberately back to Aziraphale, putting his shoulder between their conversation and Arthur’s scornful attention.
Merlin was almost certainly the only man in the kingdom who could get away with such a move—but Arthur just laughed. “The cheek of it,” he complained, to no one in particular.
“It can’t have been easy,” Merlin said again, conversationally to Aziraphale, as if settling into a tale of confidence. “They were children when she arrived here. Arthur was four years older and - you can imagine - the golden prince, the rising star. The heir apparent! He had his clashes with Uther but he was obviously the favourite.”
Arthur appeared to busy himself with his apple again.
“Oh…?” Aziraphale said, a burgeoning excitement in his stomach. This was something he’d never heard before.
Merlin sighed. “Well, Morgana was clever, and, indeed, sullen - and who could blame her? They wouldn’t even have educated her if she hadn’t pushed for it. But she shared my lessons sometimes. She was… bright.”
Lancelot made a disparaging noise, but didn’t interrupt.
Merlin shot Aziraphale a wry glance. “Sorry, but she was,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. Then his expression grew more solemn. “She didn’t seem dangerous until later. Something happened a few years ago. I never did find out what. She had been supposed to marry… er… Baron… hm.”
He looked at Arthur, who gave up pretending he wasn’t listening and raised his eyebrows in courteous attention. “Hm?”
“Who was the baron your father wanted Morgana to wed? His name’s quite slipped my mind.”
Arthur’s eyes flicked sidewards for a long moment, then snapped back. “Baron Dorin.”
Merlin clicked his fingers. “Right! Dorin, yes.” He glanced back at Aziraphale. “Political choice, obviously. Uther made the match, the son of a conquered rival - but that was the year that Uther died. Then they were supposed to marry after Arthur’s coronation. And then… they didn’t. The wedding was postponed and postponed.” Merlin frowned, his keen eyes unfocused as if trying to dredge memories that would not release to him. “She… spent some time away, and when she came back she was different. After that it seemed… personal. She didn’t just resent Arthur, she loathed him.”
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at the vehemence in the word and glanced around the room.
Arthur was looking resignedly at Merlin, his partially-dissected apple abandoned.
Percival and Lancelot’s expressions suggested Merlin was tossing a loaded crossbow from hand to hand. This was clearly a charged topic.
Kay had the knights further down the table involved in some other conversation, the jovial boom of his voice overshadowing Merlin’s hypnotic words. It wasn’t clear if this was deliberate.
And standing by the serving table, the familiar ruby-cheeked, grey-haired scullery maid had frozen, gaze locked on Merlin.
“And since then,” Merlin was saying, apparently oblivious to the broader attention in the room, “she only comes to Camelot a handful of times a year – the bare minimum of political decency. Brings her own retinue. Mostly she keeps to herself in that castle of hers, as far as we know. Isolated.”
Aziraphale found his voice. “What happened to Dorin?”
Merlin’s brow creased again. “I… don’t remember. I suppose he’s around somewhere. I don’t really concern myself with his whereabouts. He isn’t important.”
Aziraphale stared at him. “…What?”
That didn’t sound at all like Merlin.
Merlin visibly scoured his memory. “I don’t know,” he said eventually, and then, scowl deepening, eyes darkening, “I really don’t know. But I should. There’s a gap there, it’s just… empty. Arthur,” he said quickly, gaze darting to him, “do you remember what happened to Dorin?”
“Oh yes, of course!” Arthur said, nodding quickly. “He’s… I’m sure he’s… around somewhere? I think he’s fine. I don’t really think about him. His whereabouts don’t concern me. He isn’t important.”
Aziraphale's eyebrows rose even higher. “Well now,” he said, glancing from one to the other as their eyes met in dawning suspicion. “Fascinating.”
Merlin looked almost accusingly at Lancelot, then Gwaine. “Do you remember?”
With matched bemusement, the two men slowly shook their heads.
“Don’t, er… don’t really think about him,” Percival offered, rubbing his jaw with one knuckle. “Never seemed that important?”
Merlin stood up abruptly, splaying his fingertips on the tabletop. “Does anyone,” he ground out, loud enough that the whole room turned to look at him, “recall what happened to Baron Dorin, twelve years ago - after the coronation?”
A bewildered muttering broke out further down the table.
Aziraphale looked around and found himself eye to eye with the scullery maid across the room. She looked like she’d taken breath to speak and then caught herself. As he watched, she pressed her lips together and averted her gaze to the flagstones.
“None of you?!” Merlin’s voice was growing more agitated with every passing second.
Arthur laid an arm on Merlin’s hand. “There must be someone who remembers,” he said, taking a more soothing tone. “The old priest—or my man of books, the master of the library, he’ll have the records of what happened, surely—”
“Then we need to speak to him!” Merlin snapped, and Arthur’s eyes narrowed. Belatedly, Merlin seemed to recall they were in public. “…Sire.”
Arthur bared his teeth at him. “Then let’s speak to him,” he said in a voice of infinite patience.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin muttered as Arthur pushed to his feet as well. “You know how I feel about Fae influence inside our walls.”
“We don’t know it’s the Fae—” Arthur started, but Merlin cut him off.
“No,” he said grimly. “This time, we do.”
Aziraphale lingered back as the other knights filed out of the breakfast room, hanging around the serving table and trying to give off the air of someone contemplating a third course of warm, currant-studded custard. He felt he was rather convincing.
“Don’t mind me,” Percival said, pausing at the table to split open a bread roll and stuff it carefully with kippers, then grinned at Aziraphale. “Quarrelling makes me hungry.” He took a huge bite and then strode on after the others.
Aziraphale hoped he wouldn’t be missed in the general fray; Merlin and Lancelot were going in search of relevant records in the castle library and would probably have appreciated his assistance. But they hadn’t explicitly asked, and he had a hunch, here…
“So…” Aziraphale said, as soon as Tristan and Lamarok - the stragglers of the knights - had taken their leave. “What really happened back then?”
The grey-haired scullery maid paused in stacking used dishes and looked at him warily. “Don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“Don’t you?” Aziraphale kept his tone light. “That’s a shame.”
He watched her pick up the stack, surely far too many dishes for one person to carry.
“Can I help you with those?”
She hesitated, gaze darting back and forth. The tower of plates in her grasp looked even more precarious to Aziraphale, and he put a hand out as if to steady them—but she swivelled away, side-stepping his assistance with the smoothness of long practice.
Aziraphale blinked, feeling like he’d been rebuffed somehow.
Then one of the younger maids re-entered the room carrying an armful of cloths and a bucket, setting them down in the middle of the floor, and the tension in the woman’s face eased a little.
Aziraphale felt his eyes widen. “Gracious,” he said, realising all at once: he’d cornered her alone, and she’d feared… well who knew what she’d feared? His voice burst out again, horrified. “I do hope you didn’t think I was being improper.”
She hesitated again, then shook her head with a flicker of a smile. “No, sir. I… not you. Just - old habits.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Aziraphale blustered, heedless of the younger maid’s owl-like expression. He realised he was twisting his fingers together and dropped his hands to his sides. “I would hate to make anyone uncomfortable in the slightest!”
“No, I… I know,” she said, handing the plates off to the younger woman. Then she wrung out a cloth and started to rub down the denuded breakfast table with a splash of water.
Abruptly fired up, Aziraphale grabbed a cloth and copied her.
“…What are you doing?”
“Helping?”
“You’re a knight,” she said, as the younger maid burst into peals of laughter. “You can’t help!”
“Can too,” Aziraphale countered, encouraged by the sound. That was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a noise of fear. He found a spot of grease on the wood and worked at it with gusto. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Elaine.”
“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale said, and Elaine gave him a bemused look.
“I know.”
“Well, Elaine,” Aziraphale said, diligently focusing on cleaning the tabletop. “I hope you don’t mind my trying to assist. Do let me know if I’m making a hash of it!”
They cleaned the table briskly together while the other woman stacked more dishes on a tray. Then she left, and Aziraphale held his breath.
“They’re not wrong,” Elaine said eventually. “She was… is… difficult.”
Aziraphale made a non-committal noise, as if his heart hadn’t just leapt into his throat, and kept scrubbing. His shoulder started to heat as surely as if he were on the training grounds. He hadn’t quite realised what efforts went into cleaning a room in their party’s wake.
“She was awfully bright,” Elaine said, echoing Merlin’s word for Morgana but putting a strange, dull weight on it. “Didn’t do her any favours, thinking about it all so much.”
Aziraphale wracked his brain for what young noble girls were supposed to do instead of think. “Didn’t enjoy… needlework?”
Elaine gave him a sharp look, as if he were being deliberately obtuse. “No,” she said eventually.
“Did she have any sisters?” Aziraphale asked, dimly aware that Arthur had younger brothers who’d been married off and sent to govern far-away places beneath Arthur’s rule; maybe it was the same for Morgana.
Elaine shook her head. “Uther had no other daughters. And Morgana’s mother was half-wild, you know.”
“So she had no one except Arthur?” Aziraphale pressed, with a fleeting thought of his own sisters. They had grown up terribly remote to him, but as children he remembered their giggling solidarity, their multitudes of secrets and schemes.
Elaine seemed to hesitate, then relented. “The daughters of the ladies-in-waiting,” she said. “She grew close to some of them. And the daughters of the scullery, the nursery. Nina - her personal guard, now - they knew each other as children. And Maggie, her apothecary—”
Aziraphale boggled. “Morgana has a female guard?”
Elaine paused, searching his face as if he might be hiding something. Then dunked her cloth into the bucket, wrung it out, and said, “No man works for Morgana.”
“Since when?”
“Since—after the coronation,” Elaine said, and then dropped her gaze. “I’d best make a start on the floor.”
“I’ll help,” Aziraphale said, not quite knowing what he was doing but the startled amusement in her face spurred him onwards. He rinsed his cloth with a flourish, gestured to the floor. “Where do I start?”
“Oh—no, sir,” Elaine protested, though her eyes held a twinkle of something that looked suspiciously like delight. “If someone sees…”
“Who else will use this room before dawn tomorrow?” Aziraphale asked; it was a guess but she shook her head and he knew he was right.
They cleaned the flagstones in silence together, the warm water rapidly cooling and growing cloudy. Aziraphale found himself thinking uncharitable thoughts about knights and their crumb-scattering table manners and outdoor footwear. Then realised he himself was leaving dusty footprints whenever he crossed the floor to wring his cloth, and changed his route accordingly.
His knees were aching by the time Elaine took a deep breath and said, “King Claudius held land to the East of here. He was vanquished by Uther and his lands fell into disarray. Difficult to rule, I—I gather,” she said, though it sounded like she knew exactly what she was talking about. “So Uther made the match between Claudius’ son and Morgana to bring loyalty back to the conquered region.”
She paused, then clearly made the decision that she’d said this much - might as well keep going. Aziraphale felt a frisson of anticipation. Surely this was the meat of the matter.
“Claudius’ son Dorin was… ill-tempered. When the betrothal was announced, Morgana took to her rooms for a week—so says them that was there, anyway. But Uther made it clear they were still to marry.”
Aziraphale ensured he kept cleaning the flagstones as he listened, acutely aware that this candid exchange may be on borrowed time. He focused on the scuffed grey stone surface growing glossy under the careful swirls of his cloth.
“And after Uther died,” Elaine continued, sluicing fresh water across a new patch of floor for Aziraphale to wipe up, “we thought the marriage might be called off entirely - but King Arthur said it still had to go ahead, lest those lands become impossible to rule.”
Aziraphale felt like he’d swallowed a stone that was gradually sinking into his stomach, growing heavier with every passing second.
“And then Dorin started putting the pressure on Lady Morgana, before they were to be wed,” Elaine said, lowering her voice. “He meant to bed her, thought it was his right, like so many of them do… but she refused, and they rowed, and she… she said some things. Dark things, wild things - things that put him off. And it worked so well we thought she’d managed to put off the whole wedding—we thought that was the end of it. But… then Dorin sent for her handmaiden instead.”
The stone turned to ice, deadly cold pooling in Aziraphale's gut. “No,” he said softly.
“And the maid was… Lady Morgana didn’t know ‘til after. She was very angry about it all. She took her leave, took half the girls with her, back to the ruin at Llyn Nhywell, saying that tumbledown castle was safer than Camelot. King Arthur could’ve sent riders after her but… he didn’t.” She sighed. “I heard that the maid did not survive the year – she died before the baby could arrive - but ever since then she’s been different. Lady Morgana… she blamed the king.”
Aziraphale realised he was staring unseeing at his cloth, rubbing over the same piece of shiny flagstone, again and again. He blinked and stilled his hand, cleared his throat, and then looked up to meet her eye. “That’s terrible.”
Elaine acknowledged whatever was crossing Aziraphale’s face with a sad smile. “Long time ago. And… not such an uncommon story.”
“What happened to the—to Dorin?”
“I don’t rightly know,” Elaine said, in a brisker tone again. “But I do know you won’t find him living peacefully in Camelot, or anywhere else. And there’s none in the Court that remembers him either, not without digging for it.” She lowered her voice, and Aziraphale found himself leaning in. “I don’t know how, but it’s like she scratched him out the book of history.”
“How could she do that?“
“Well, no person could. But there’s them that can. Other folk.“
“Fae folk.“
Elaine gave a small nod.
“And this was all… about ten years ago? When that village was flooded?”
“Roundabouts then. Couple of years before.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, looking deeply into her eyes, awash with gratitude. “This is so, so good of you. I mean it. You will not regret this. Thank you.”
Elaine looked genuinely touched for a moment, then frowned and nodded. “Well. Thank you for making a start on the floor.”
Aziraphale cocked his head. “I could carry on…”
“…if I knew someone who remembered the rest a bit better?” Elaine guessed, and laughed under her breath. “Look, if you want to save my back for a few threads of old gossip, you’re more than welcome!”
Manfully, Aziraphale wrung his cloth and started on another flagstone. “It shall be done,” he said gravely, for the pleasure of watching suppressed laughter cross her face once more.
She was gone long enough that Aziraphale had finished the floor to his satisfaction, and was standing midway through a huge spine-cracking stretch when two new scullery maids burst into the room, wide-eyed and perspiring, with Elaine sweeping along behind them.
“Go on,” Elaine said gruffly. She had the air of a collie who had been rounding up sheep. “Tell him what you told me.”
The first maid - about Aziraphale’s age, with bright eyes and wispy hair - gave a little curtsy. “I heard it all from my elder sister, sir,” she said. “She was close to Lady Morgana at the time, and went with her to the castle after.”
“I see,” Aziraphale said, doing his best to look enquiring, non-threatening.
She fixed her gaze on the wall behind Aziraphale’s head and recited in a cool clear voice: “Before the old king died, he promised Morgana to that baron. And after, Morgana begged Arthur to let her out of the match. But Arthur didn’t. Said it was important for… something to do with land? And Morgana was angry with him after that.”
Her eyes flickered to Aziraphale, as if to gauge if she’d said something that would get her in trouble.
Aziraphale nodded encouragingly. “But what happened to Dorin?”
The maid winced. “That’s really for Lady Morgana to tell you herself.”
Aziraphale took a breath to persuade, but Elaine spoke up first. “Lady Morgana may be in danger. He needs to know what happened back then.”
The maid squirmed. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I don’t want to get Maggie into trouble.”
So this must be the apothecary’s little sister. “Please,” Aziraphale tried.
The other maid stepped forwards. “Well,” she said, “I heard he walked into the lake at witching hour.”
“What?” Aziraphale demanded. “Which lake? The lake behind the castle?”
The first maid was nodding eagerly now, apparently emboldened by someone else having taken the plunge. “Fully clothed,” she said, as if imparting a morsel of marvellous gossip, “with his eyes wide open. Walked straight in and didn’t slow down.”
Aziraphale looked from one to the other. “But why?”
The second maid shrugged. “I heard she told him to.”
The first maid could do better than that. “I heard,” she said proudly, “that Lady Morgana bid him scour the bottom of the lake for his honour, and only once he could fill a cup with it could he return to her.” Her hushed voice nevertheless rang with her evident satisfaction at the narrative. “And that night he walked into the freezing water and was never seen again.”
Back in the king’s sanctum, with Arthur and Merlin and Lancelot and Percival all sat restlessly in attendance, Aziraphale braced himself before telling the story. They weren’t going to like it.
Sure enough, Merlin’s expression grew stormy as Aziraphale recounted what he’d heard, carefully omitting any incriminating details of whom he’d heard it from.
Aziraphale let an apology slide into his voice. “I mean – I don’t know, perhaps they misremembered. It could be all under-stairs gossip. From ten years ago.”
Merlin shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice grim. “They wouldn’t have come up with wording that sounds exactly like a Fae bargain by chance, now, would they?”
“And it fits,” Arthur said, frowning. “I still can’t keep his name in my head unless I concentrate - it slips away, it’s unnatural.”
“It’s Fae magic hollowing out our memories,” Merlin said darkly. “What was Morgana thinking?”
Aziraphale chose his words with care. “It sounds like she was thinking… no one else would do it.”
“No one else would restart a land war on behalf of a handmaiden’s honour?” Merlin shot back. “No, they wouldn’t. Of course they wouldn’t!”
Aziraphale folded his arms, heart running a little quicker. “Perhaps they should have.”
Now Arthur’s eyes darkened, the muscle of his jaw bunching tight. “Easy to say,” he gritted out. “It’s a horrifying tale. No doubt he deserved his fate! But you don’t know what it was like back then.” His voice was low, brusque, compelling. “Every single misstep cost us legions of men, and land, and for every inch of territory we lost—well, you can just imagine what happened to the powerless there. This,” he said, gesturing to the silent castle around them, “is the closest we’ve come to peace in our time. Merlin and I built this kingdom, treaty by treaty, year by year - and we have striven to do what is right - but there are times when individual justice must bow before the fate of the many.”
Aziraphale swallowed, feeling hot in the face; Arthur’s glare was like the midsummer sun, making him want to duck away into the shadows. Nevertheless. “She didn’t, though, did she?”
“What?!”
“Restart a land war.”
“She—” Arthur started heatedly, and then exhaled hard. “No, I suppose she didn’t. From what I do recall, Claudius eventually allied with us the old-fashioned way. But it took years,” he added, frustration arcing through his voice again.
“She may not have restarted a war,” Merlin put in, shoulder-to-shoulder with Arthur, “but she made us so damned vulnerable. After the flood I learnt how to better protect us from the Fae, but back then… I had next to nothing. And she let them in, she brought their magic inside our walls - and then turned it against us!”
“But she knew—” Aziraphale pressed doggedly, spreading his hands under the pressure of their dual ire, “she knew the walls were under your protection. She knew about everything you’d sworn to protect. And she knew the… limits of that protection. Her unwanted marriage, the dark fate of her handmaiden—these things were beneath your concern.”
A short, horrified silence followed, as both Merlin and Arthur stared at him with mounting outrage.
Aziraphale swallowed against a blank fear that he’d just estranged himself from his only allies in this world. And then Elaine’s sad smile flashed back through his mind, and defiance overtook him. Let them judge him! He was right.
A moment later, a sickly resignation took its place. Whatever came next, he’d well and truly earned it.
Help came from an unexpected quarter.
“Personal revenge is not justice, nor justified,” Lancelot said smoothly to Arthur, “but for Lady Morgana to resort to such desperate measures, sire, she must have had no faith in you at all.”
Merlin and Arthur’s outrage swung towards Lancelot instead, and Aziraphale felt almost faint with relief.
Arthur was staring daggers at Lancelot. “Don’t tell me you’re taking her side!”
Lancelot gave an expansive shrug. “You know where my loyalty lies,” he said, with an affected unconcern that Aziraphale felt like he could learn from. “But the fact remains - how long have I been your blade in the dark? No more than five years? And before that,” he said, without pausing for an answer, sweeping them all along with his mild, lilting tone, “when times were wild, what happened to men like Dorin? Like Escanor? Who trespassed against the powerless, but were themselves so powerful as to be above reproach?“
He let the questions hang in the room between them.
Arthur was silent for a long moment. Then—“Those men walked free,” he admitted. “Not by my will, but by necessity - for the greater good. And Morgana did see that.”
There was another silence, then Lancelot shrugged again. “So there it is. She cannot forgive you and you cannot forgive her… now both sides must duel to the death.”
Aziraphale took a breath to protest but Arthur was already laughing and covering his eyes with his hand, and Aziraphale realised belatedly that Lancelot was being sardonic.
“No, I know,” Arthur groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, as if they were all of an understanding once more - and all despaired equally at what they faced. “There must be another way. Amends must be made, because the alternative cannot stand. She’s my only sister.”
“That’s the spirit,” Lancelot said. “You can rage against her ancient actions—“
“And recent,” Percival pointed out.
“—all her actions,” Lancelot amended, “or you can - hm - we can ride forth armed with this new knowledge. You never know,” he added, with a disarming smile, “maybe we have this all wrong, she had no knowledge of the tapestry’s dark power. Perhaps she will be delighted to see you alive and well.”
Arthur barked a laugh at that, and even Merlin cracked a smile.
“And my prize horses will have their tails brushed and braided,” Arthur agreed. “All ready to be returned to me in perfect health!”
“Y’never know,” Percival said. “Stranger things have happened.”
“He’s been responsible for many of them,” Lancelot said, nodding at Merlin, who gave him a good-natured glare, mouth quirked up at one corner.
Aziraphale realised with a peculiar jolt that they were all on amicable terms once more—more than amicable. Relaxed, teasing. There wasn’t a hint of a grudge to any of their voices, no sense of aggression being tamped down and stored for a later feud. They’d openly sounded their displeasure and now, apparently, it had dissipated. It felt… straightforward.
Aziraphale told himself this was probably the normal way of doing things. But it was still an unusual feeling for him—compared with Gabriel’s monumental sulks, his father’s furious ranting, his mother’s tired withdrawal. Aziraphale was not used to a disagreement passing over without the rot setting in; had rarely known a fracture between two people to genuinely mend. He had to wonder how many times this small group had banded together against enmity - from elsewhere, seemingly from every quarter - or dealt with it rearing within their own ranks.
Even the suggestion of their displeasure aimed at Aziraphale had made his skin crawl, and yet these four jousted with words as reflexively as with blades. And laid them down again just as easily.
Percival made a thoughtful noise. “So do we think Dorin was fed to this beast in the black lake, or did he become it?”
Aziraphale jolted back to the here and now. “Surely not,” he said, appalled.
“Probably neither,” Merlin said, in a thoughtful tone. “Those words, it sounds more like she sacrificed him than, er, kept him. And Aziraphale, didn’t you say that she didn’t seem affected by the beast at all? If it was her cursed tormentor, you would expect it to be more…” He waggled his hand, grimacing.
“…anguished?” Aziraphale suggested.
“Exactly,” Merlin said.
“I shouldn’t think it’s him,” said Arthur. “With that story, I can’t imagine she’d tolerate him inside her territory in any form – unless it was to suffer.”
Aziraphale thought about Arthur’s hands as he peeled the apple, the movements of the sharp knife entirely controlled by his competent fingers. “The beast was more like an extension of her will.”
Merlin nodded, all enthusiasm now. “Yes - so Dorin was more likely to be an offering to the Fae, a life swapped in return for a measure of power. Perhaps she sacrificed him to our lake and received the power to Llyn Nhywell in return - the Fae relish in that sort of duality.”
He rubbed a thoughtful knuckle against the grain of his beard. “And maybe it’s confined to her lake,” he said, before anyone else could speak again. “Shoring up her defences there, but no use anywhere else. Which would explain why she needed to enlist a demon to enact the unpleasantness here, no?” He looked quite pleased with himself. Then his gaze zeroed in on Aziraphale. “Speaking of this demon, can you give us a little more detail to go on?”
Aziraphale’s mouth went dry. He flashed his tongue over his lips. “Umm, big, red…”
“Not the demon form,” Merlin interrupted. “The human. What does he look like?”
Oh. “I never saw a human form,” Aziraphale said, eyes widening. “I… I didn’t know there could be a human form.”
Merlin gave him an amused yet withering look. “How exactly would he pass unnoticed by day if his form was—” He mimed checking his parchment. “—‘massive winged demon with flaming eyes’?”
“Morgana doesn’t exactly surround herself with manservants,” Lancelot said, ignoring Merlin’s jest. “And hasn’t taken a male companion, that I can recall. What of her ladies’ maids? Do you recall, were any new to Camelot or peculiar in some way—?”
Aziraphale had been trying to formulate a reply to Merlin – trying to argue that he’d thought Crowley might be invisible by day, just as their interactions at night had not disturbed the others asleep in the room, without revealing the nature of that interaction – but this utterance from Lancelot brought him up short.
Because—oh.
Ohhh.
Fuck.
“There was one,” Aziraphale said, feeling like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach, a strange floating feeling setting up behind his eyes. “There… she… oh, goodness me.”
How could he have been so blind?
How could he have not seen it before?
A handmaiden.
An aloof, compelling handmaiden, with a thirst for revenge.
Frán.
“Are you all right?” Lancelot asked, and Aziraphale realised he was steadying himself against the table.
“Quite all right,” Aziraphale said, though his voice sounded faint. “But I have a dreadful suspicion she’s been staring us in the face all along.”
Merlin’s eyes glinted. “She?”
“Morgana’s handmaiden. Frán—I can’t be certain,” Aziraphale hastened, although he was, in fact, now as certain as he ever could imagine being.
Those eyes. The sideways glances she used to give him, the curt slant of her jaw. The rich glossy hair in the colours of a dramatic sunrise; the colours of Crowley’s fierce flaming gaze. Oh, good lord - the healing salve!
He blushed, a flare of remembered sensations sweeping through his whole body with jarring intensity.
Merlin was still watching closely. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Aziraphale nodded, quite unable to speak for a moment. He felt like he was radiating heat, like the temperature in the small crowded sanctum was noticeably rising as he remembered how gloriously hale and hearty Frán had looked - practically glowing! - the morning after Escanor’s demise.
After she ate him, he corrected himself, head spinning. Fuck.
“I can’t be certain,” he said again, barely more than a whisper.
“Well,” Arthur said, pushing back his chair and giving them all a familiar rakish grin as he stood. “There’s only one way to find out.”
They rose as one in a clamour of chair legs scraping against flagstones, and Aziraphale’s lightheadedness redoubled. They were going? At last, now?!
“Have the stewards pack light, but for a few days,” Arthur was saying, ticking things off on his fingers. “Rations, water, sleeping rolls…”
“Armour?” Lancelot asked. “Or will we ride out in it?”
“She won’t take kindly to that,” Percival said, with a short laugh. “Bunch of knights riding on her isolated castle, dressed for battle? Asking for trouble.”
“But we can’t go unarmed,” Lancelot countered. “If the stories are true, arrows dipped in Llyn Nhywell never miss.”
“We’re not expecting open hostility,” Arthur said. “She doesn’t know what we know.”
“What we suspect,” Merlin said; Arthur accepted the correction with a wordless nod.
“Mm, true,” Lancelot said. “She has no reason to think we suspect she has bound a rogue demon to her cause. As far as she’s concerned, her party simply stole out in the night - an act of high insult, but hardly one of aggression.”
“Taking my horses is somewhat aggressive,” Arthur said peevishly.
“And leaving you to perish in the grips of a wasting spell,” Merlin reminded Arthur. “That wasn’t exactly charitable.”
“But we have no proof of that,” Lancelot said.
“The tapestry—”
“Was burned,” Lancelot said, glancing at Aziraphale. “Thankfully! But it’s an inconvenience that only our accounts of that night stand in evidence.”
“My account should suffice,” Merlin said grimly, moving a little closer to Arthur. “Recalling those events in exacting detail will not be difficult.”
Arthur put a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, gave it a brief squeeze. Then he nodded at Lancelot. “Dress to ride, but pack light chainmail,” he said. “In any case, if it looks like we’ll be met by a hail of arrows, we’ll dearly need to rethink our strategy.”
Aziraphale’s head was starting to clear. “I doubt she’ll take kindly to a company of men demanding an audience no matter how they’re dressed,” he ventured. “Do you have any able, trusted women who could join the mission?”
A long pause told him all he needed to know.
“...No? Right, no,” Aziraphale said, trying to keep his disbelief out of his voice. “What about, um, someone from the staff? Elaine, I think she’s called - she seems competent.”
Merlin winced. “Morgana has an unsettling habit of poaching our best staff,” he said. “Every year she leaves with a larger retinue.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Aziraphale said, before he’d thought better of it; Arthur’s eyebrows inched skywards and Aziraphale felt himself flush again. “Sorry, sire! I just…” He initially floundered as they all stared at him, then gathered his courage and lifted his chin. “I do have some experience of a castle in schism. I recall how readily people chose sides.”
Merlin drew himself up. “Camelot is not in schism.”
“No! No,” Aziraphale agreed quickly, feeling like he’d told someone their baby’s head was the wrong shape. This was hardly the time! “Of course not.”
“But I take your point,” Arthur said, surprising him. “It would be useful to have a woman in our midst, for diplomacy’s sake. This is no ordinary quest where a knight charges in to rescue a fair lady.”
“Well, she’s not a lady,” said Percival.
“Nor fair,” said Merlin.
“Nor,” Aziraphale hazarded, “particularly interested in being rescued by a knight.”
Even as he spoke, he remembered Crowley’s soft imploring growl: Find me.
“Not a problem,” Lancelot said, an edge to his voice that made Aziraphale sit up and take notice once more. “Our aim is to establish the truth and serve justice - if that includes taking a demon into martial custody, so be it.”
“Or banishing it back to Hell,” Merlin said, apparently oblivious as Aziraphale went still next to him.
Lancelot inclined his head as if acknowledging Merlin’s greater expertise in such matters. “Whatever it takes to ensure Morgana cannot wreak yet more destruction in our realm.”
“Whatever it takes,” Arthur agreed, and Aziraphale caught his gaze sliding over him, heavy with some unspoken speculation.
It quite disconcerted him, to the point that he hurriedly spoke without thinking. “Of course, sire, um - anything.”
“Actually,” Merlin said, and he’d come closer on Aziraphale’s other side than he’d realised; for a moment Aziraphale felt entirely hemmed in by them, and his body didn’t know whether to savour it or panic. “If that’s true… I’ve just had a rather brilliant idea.”
Lancelot and Percival went to ready the remaining decent horses, whilst Merlin and Arthur took Aziraphale back to the royal bedchamber. Now there was something that Aziraphale wouldn’t have even dreamt of happening two weeks ago - and now it had happened thrice in two days! It felt almost commonplace to be there with them now.
As long as Aziraphale studiously avoided recalling the fantasy he’d envisaged on that very bed… just there, against the lavish sheets, their warm bodies closing in on him, with Crowley stretched out beneath… their hands roving, guiding, curious and strong….
“You can say no,” Merlin said, in a slightly hushed voice which didn’t feel out of place for Aziraphale’s erstwhile fantasy. “If it’s too… strange, for you. We can think of something else.”
Aziraphale tried very hard to concentrate – and not on how attentively Merlin was looking at him. He raised his eyebrows. “Does it involve being accosted by another petrifying tentacle beast?”
“No,” Merlin said, “I can say that much for it – no tentacles involved. But it is another spell.” He looked curiously apprehensive, and Aziraphale realised for the first time that Merlin perhaps didn’t do this very often; talk about these aspects of his craft, the particulars and the subtleties of his life’s work. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to risk it again.”
Aziraphale felt his face soften. “Try me.”
“It’s an amulet,” Merlin said, displaying a thin coil of metal heaped in his palm. In the centre, a smooth locket gleamed. “It encloses a single dragon scale, salvaged from Arthur’s shield after he – well – after a green dragon tried really quite hard to eat him.”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up. “Gosh.”
Arthur had been collecting various items around the room and stowing them about his person. Now he rose from tucking a dagger into his boot, and waved a dismissive hand. “Long time ago,” he said, as if that somehow made the story any less fantastical.
“But the point is,” Merlin said, “we learned that dragons are not fixed to one innate form. They may be male, or female, or neither, or - um - any combination,” he said, and two spots of colour appeared on his cheeks, visible even beneath the shadow of his beard. “And the amulet can give you that power to change.”
Aziraphale looked at him curiously. “What a… specific item.”
“Mm. Well.”
“Would not an amulet imbuing another power of dragons be more useful? Flight, surely…”
To his credit, Merlin met his eye again. “We don’t need to fly,” he said, a touch sheepishly. “But we might, one day, need to – well – it might be useful, for us. For Arthur and myself. When everything with Guinevere is done. If we wanted, um, an heir.” On that word he glanced sideways, looking anywhere but Aziraphale's face, which more than anything else told Aziraphale this was a true secret.
“Or to live publicly,” Arthur said, coming back over to them, sliding an arm around Merlin’s shoulders and swaying against him, nuzzling his tawny head against Merlin’s dark one. His expression was impish, not at all regal, and Aziraphale was struck yet again by how unconscionably handsome he was when he really smiled, the creased dimples softening his strong jaw.
“Not now,” Merlin said hastily. “One day. Maybe. In the distant—the very distant future.”
“Doesn’t have to be that distant,” Arthur said, under his breath.
Merlin darted an accusing glance at him, one that very clearly shut down the entire conversation.
“Right!” Arthur said firmly, and winked at Aziraphale. “So, do you want to try it? It certainly would make things easier at Morgana’s gate. And you’re the only one of us that she hasn’t known for years.”
Aziraphale worked to grasp the significance of that. It was very distracting, being winked at by Arthur. Even more distracting watching Arthur’s fingers skate up and down the side of Merlin’s arm.
“You'll still be recognisable to those who know you well,” Merlin was explaining. “Arthur and I, and the other knights, we wouldn’t have any difficulty recognising you in female form. But someone less familiar should simply see a woman with a face that reminds them dimly of someone else. A cousin, not a twin.”
It was an undeniable pleasure to hear himself described as someone they knew well. Someone familiar.
“I see,” Aziraphale said, feeling more eager by the second. “Well yes, if it makes sense tactically.” Frankly, if a disguise would allow him to get closer to Crowley without rousing suspicion, he was all for it. Already, he was wondering what Crowley would make of the idea, warmth starting to steal over him. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Really?” Merlin’s surprise was altogether charming. “But you must know, it will change everything, right down to the humours - it’s not just an illusory mask.”
It sounded more and more intriguing. Aziraphale eyed the handful of finely-worked gold in Merlin’s palm. “Tell me.”
“It doesn’t just… conceal,” Merlin said. “It finds an entire path your body might have taken had you been born in another form. It can be quite disconcerting—but you get used to it. There are intrinsic physical differences of course, but your mind and memories should be the same. You shouldn’t forget anything or lose any skill. And when you take it off you should be fully restored to your – to how you are now.“
“But you can’t keep going back and forth,” Arthur added. “Take it off and you’ll change back, but then it won’t work for a few days.”
And… how did they know that? Aziraphale felt slightly lightheaded again at the thought of the things this amulet might have seen. “Why not?”
Merlin gave a soft laugh. “I have no idea. It’s less than convenient. But I suppose it makes one take it all less… whimsically.”
Again: what had they been doing? Aziraphale didn’t dare imagine it in company. Had they taken turns? How many different ways had they experimented?
“Can I see?” He held out his hand and Merlin dropped the amulet into his palm. It was warm from Merlin’s skin, felt smooth and shiny as Aziraphale turned it over.
Aziraphale looked down at himself, clad simply in a soft dark jerkin and belted britches. Would it really make that much of a difference—?
“Of course, you can think about it first,” Merlin was saying now, extending his hand as if to take the amulet back again. “There’s really no need if you’re not sure. We can—”
“I’m sure,” Aziraphale said. He spread the fine chain with his fingers and carefully drew it over his head.
“Oh,” Arthur breathed, a moment later.
Between one blink and the next, Aziraphale felt the change. There was a softening, a swelling, an alteration in the very air of the room. The leather belt that had wrapped neatly around Aziraphale’s hips was now far too tight, but with a shifting motion it slid upwards to crown her hips, where they dove inwards towards her navel, and there it rested perfectly.
Aziraphale opened her eyes.
The marvel of her new figure was writ across Merlin and Arthur’s faces, though they hastily tried to conceal this when they saw her looking.
“Very…” Arthur said faintly, taking a few steps backwards as if their close proximity was now something radically indecent, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand and averting his gaze to the ceiling. “Very, er, plausible. Yes. Of course.”
Merlin coughed. “It might be best to change into some attire which is more… befitting. Of your new... Form.”
Aziraphale looked down at herself, saw the sweeps and curves of the soft trousers and jerkin were now pulling askew with every breath. The belt’s journey had rucked the beleaguered jerkin up over her waist, exposing a long furrow of bare skin above one full hip. The rest of her body was enclosed in stretched fabric, cinching here, straining there. The amulet nestled against her breasts, which weren’t exposed so much as extremely vividly outlined by the newly ill-fitting jerkin. Aziraphale looked from side to side and caught a faceful of white-blonde ringlets as they swung around her shoulders. Brushed them hurriedly back and then caught her hand midair—it looked like marble sculpture, elegant and pale with neat knuckles and a dimpled wrist.
“This is so peculiar,” Aziraphale started, and jumped at her own voice, husky but higher now, sitting differently in her chest as she spoke. She took a deep steadying breath and the—the bosom—tightly bound in the hapless jerkin—rose alarmingly towards her chin, causing the amulet to skitter sideways and the fabric around her shoulders to strain tighter than ever.
“Well!” Arthur said, who’d looked back when she’d spoken; now his eyes widened a fraction before he turned nobly away. “Merlin! Can’t you fetch some—something decent for her to wear, forthwith?”
“Yes, my lord,” Merlin said, and usually that would’ve sounded sarcastic but right now it seemed mindlessly spoken.
He hastened away and then brought Aziraphale a folded bundle that felt like sturdy, sensible cloth.
“In here,” he said, directing Aziraphale behind a generous gilt-embossed standing screen. “Do you need, ah, a lady’s maid?”
“No!” Aziraphale said indignantly. The very idea! Of course she didn’t need assistance to dress!
And then she shook out the heavy bundle of fabric and laces and layers—and squinted.
“...Hmm. On the other hand… Merlin? Are you still there?”
“Still here.”
“Perhaps… if someone happens to be passing? They might like to step in.”
The woman who attended was the sweet-voiced, plump scullery maid that had been favouring Aziraphale with extra baskets of bread ever since Escanor’s demise. She introduced herself blithely – “Juliet, m’lady” – with a small curtsy.
Aziraphale stammered out her thanks, uncomfortably aware that she’d never learned any of their names before.
Juliet had then taken one look at the clothes Merlin had provided, shaken her head, and promptly disappeared again.
Leaving Aziraphale alone… sort of.
Merlin and Arthur were still in the room, but presumably busying themselves with whatever important things remained to be sorted before the king and his closest council headed off on some perilous quest.
Presumably.
Aziraphale undid the belt and then loosened all the fastenings on her ill-fitting clothes, relieving some of the tension in the fabric. And then, with clothing bound less tightly against her skin, her curiosity built. Her body had really changed! And there was no one watching. No one immediately to hand. She probably had a few moments to herself, at least.
Behind the tentative privacy of the standing screen, cautiously, and then more confidently, she let her hands explore. There was so much of her, it was sublime. She marvelled at the soft luscious weight of this body, the curves that seemed to call out to be cupped and stroked.
She felt as strong as ever, but the muscles that had given her bulk before now seemed to shape her into long smooth lines. This waist! Like the supple clay of her body had been softly pinched in the middle.
She imagined Crowley’s hands enclosing her on both sides, and felt faint. He’d like it, she was sure; and he’d like the swell of her hips beneath, widening gloriously into her large, opulent behind. And then the thighs! All that horseriding, she supposed. Paid off in every lifetime. And her skin, oh—Aziraphale had always been blond, the hair on his throat and chest not as coarse and dark as most men, but now her skin felt impossibly smooth, a light coating of downy pale hair on her arms, her throat and chest entirely bare. Her breasts felt shockingly, thrillingly naked beneath the soft jerkin that shifted with every breath.
She imagined Crowley’s claws running over her flesh, pink lines flaring in their wake, and shivered.
Yes, this had been an excellent idea.
Now, where was Juliet? She wanted to get dressed! There was no time to lose!
Then Aziraphale heard a soft guffaw of Merlin’s laughter, quickly curtailed, across the other side of the room - and paused. Instinctively, she adjusted her gaze behind the screen to see if she could locate him. Between two gilt panels, if she held very still, there was a small space. A viewpoint. And—oh.
Maybe she didn’t want Juliet to reappear yet after all.
Arthur and Merlin did not appear to be getting anything important sorted.
They were standing by the hearth, close together, in a casual stance. Merlin’s eyes were still sparkling with laughter, and Arthur had one hand over Merlin’s mouth in playful admonishment.
As Aziraphale watched, Merlin covered Arthur’s fingers with his own, smirked broadly, then bit him.
“Hm,” Arthur said, visibly stifling all sorts of other reactions.
There was a pause where some communication passed between their eyes.
“So!” Arthur said, projecting; quite obviously intending for this part to be overheard, even as he swayed closer into Merlin’s space. “We ride at noon?”
Merlin said something behind Arthur’s fingers that Aziraphale didn’t catch; a wicked little remark, if his expression was anything to go by.
Arthur gave a fraction of a laugh which sounded ever so knowing. “Is that so?” he murmured, barely audible again.
Aziraphale swallowed. That teasing tone did something wonderful to her, reaching in and stirring up a flush of heat. And it wasn’t even directed at her! Imagine if it was, imagine being teased by them…
Her body responded with a sweet, intense ache deep inside. Her hand slid down her stomach, moving instinctively to press at the front of her britches; she felt a searing jolt of sensation, her breath catching in response, and almost swayed. Almost leant on the screen and then remembered in time that it would likely buckle at the slightest pressure. She took a deep breath, quiet as she could, and forced her hands to her sides. She was tingling.
She watched hungrily, unmoving, hardly daring to breathe. And perhaps she shouldn’t be watching – but they certainly knew she was there. They’d put her there! If they really objected to her hearing this, seeing this, wouldn’t they just… not behave like this in the same damned room?
Which led Aziraphale irresistibly to wonder… what if they wanted her to watch?
Gosh. That jolt again, at the mere thought. That was… powerful. The sensations in this body were a mirror to all the urgency Aziraphale was used to feeling as a man—but different, too. The frenzy of it was more far-reaching, taking over all of her, awareness building at a sweeping pace until she felt like every inch of her skin was begging for attention.
What if they discovered her watching? What if she made a sound, and they came over to check on her, found her flushed and restless in this loosened clothing? Could the invitation to ride at noon be extended?
She bit the inside of her cheek hard, determined not to make a sound, and then Merlin leaned in and kissed Arthur, slow and silent and oh so deliberate, and a tiny squeak emitted from her throat after all.
Because that was—fuck. Was this for her? Could it be? Or were they so wrapped up in each other that they’d quite forgotten anyone else was in the vicinity?
Arthur’s hands cupped Merlin’s face and he tilted his head the other way, kissed him again. Deeper, but still silent; there was something almost devout about it.
And if it had felt special and privileged to witness them being playful with each other, then witnessing this was just flat-out arousing. Merlin stepped closer, pushing their hips together, closing one hand in Arthur’s ruffled blond hair, and Arthur’s shoulders rose in response. They were definitely making an effort to keep quiet, their breathing silent even as it visibly became heavier, which suggested that they were fully aware of Aziraphale’s presence – and doing this anyway.
Aziraphale lifted her fist to her mouth and bit down on one knuckle, hard. The urge to touch herself was near maddening, and the tiny pain from her teeth just made her mind call out for Crowley, which did absolutely nothing to calm the rising storm. Imagine if he was here, at her back, his claws sinking into her rounded hips, bending her over and pushing into her from behind, taking her roughly while she watched them—
There was a knock at the door and Merlin and Arthur sprang apart, Arthur turning on his heel and running a hand through his hair, Merlin hurriedly tugging his own clothes back into order.
Aziraphale's heartbeat thudded in her throat, her fingertips, between her legs.
“Come in,” Arthur called after a moment. His voice had a rasp to it.
Juliet entered, bringing a new bundle of fabric straight to Aziraphale behind the standing screen. If she noticed Arthur’s mussed hair or Merlin’s too-innocent expression, she said nothing. And if Aziraphale's rapid pulse and flushed face caught her attention, well, she didn’t mention that either.
Trying to put all prurient thoughts aside, Aziraphale submitted meekly to Juliet’s manoeuvring, accepting her far greater expertise in this area. She was dimly aware of Arthur and Merlin taking their leave, but was too busy trying to follow instructions to really focus on where they’d gone.
“Just lift your leg… the other leg… yes… thank you. Now hold still.”
Juliet’s fingers were brisk and clever, fitting Aziraphale wordlessly with fresh stockings, chemise, cream linen working dress, and soft, white laced bodice. A pale apron was layered on top, with deep pockets and sturdy straps, cinched with a broad leather belt. A woollen cloak with a hood was arranged around her shoulders, immediately warming her through.
“There,” said Juliet with satisfaction, standing back and looking Aziraphale up and down with a gleam in her eye. “Much better. Look.”
Aziraphale turned as directed, and then stilled as Juliet brought an ornate full-length mirror to her attention, angling it so that Aziraphale could see herself in full at last.
Her form was indeed… impressive. Her eye was drawn to the slant of her own throat, the bare peek of collarbones above a criss-cross lacing of lusciously constrained bosom. She curved in somewhat, and then out again significantly, the flare of hips drawing her eye with hypnotic power. But even more striking than the form was her face.
Since he’d come of age, Aziraphale had known himself to have a girlish mouth, a fair complexion. But this! Now! The mouth was soft and bright as a plum, the familiar features subtly fuller, blue-grey eyes wide and winsome behind an outrageous tumble of unconstrained white-blonde curls. She looked like the sort of princess in disguise that bards sang about, just aching to be rescued from a dragon.
Or… not rescued.
In the reflection, whilst Juliet busied herself with another set of laces on the cloak, Aziraphale saw her own cheeks tinge a pretty, gentle pink as her mind filled once more with the thought of Crowley encountering her like this. She imagined him testing his teeth on her new, heavy, unmarked flesh - grabbing hold of her, drawing her close, smelling her, large hands delving beneath all the layers so painstakingly arranged - and her body responded with a flush of warmth so rapid it felt like molten liquid was pouring down the insides of her.
Her thighs shifted against each other, pressing warmly together, invisible beneath the generous skirts. The distracting hot throb redoubled between her legs, familiar and unfamiliar at once. Oh, it was so—enticing.
Her hand almost moved again but she stayed it. “Much better,” she echoed, finding Juliet’s eyes in the mirror. She was still getting used to her new voice, as well.
“Merlin said you were to be assuming the garb of the junior apothecary,” Juliet said, bringing forth a leather pouch of small tools that she tucked into one of Aziraphale’s apron pockets, alongside a few slim vials that clinked together until she wrapped them in a fold of cloth.
“Just the basics,” she explained, when Aziraphale raised her eyebrows. “Concentrated tinctures and oils, if anyone asks. And then this.” She proffered a polished smelling-apple on a chain, tying it onto Aziraphale’s belt against her hip. The aroma of the perfumed paste inside drifted up, unfamiliar and interesting.
“Marvellous,” Aziraphale said, delighted.
“You can also – at any new dwelling, take a handful of this and burn it,” Juliet said, giving her a bouquet of dried herbs, a few spikes of rosemary amongst pale powdery sprigs of sage, and something else that Aziraphale didn’t recognise. The tie that bound the bouquet was tucked into a loop on her belt. “Rids the place of malign spirits and foul odours.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, making a mental note to avoid doing that. “So useful.” She was getting used to the clothes, the stance. It was strange not having a sword belt, but all these other bits and pieces did balance things quite nicely.
“Um, and – will you be travelling alone with the king’s party?”
Aziraphale blinked at the change in tone. “Yes.”
Juliet’s merry expression turned briefly solemn. “Who will be going?”
A tiny chill went through Aziraphale’s chest, chased by a new sensation. It was oddly touching to be the object of such concern. She had thought Juliet must know the details of the amulet, from her familiar manner, but perhaps she didn’t - or perhaps she’d already forgotten. Perhaps this was a due diligence the maids undertook for every woman they encountered, regardless of providence.
“The king and Merlin, Lancelot and Percival,” Aziraphale said. “Just five of us.”
Juliet’s eyes narrowed for a few seconds, then cleared again and she gave a small nod. “That’s lucky. Not heard anything untoward about any of them,” she said, and handed Aziraphale a new pair of riding boots. “But just so you know, there’s a knife in the tool pouch. And another could fit in each boot if you wanted.”
“Ah—good to know,” Aziraphale said again, nodding meaningfully. “And… good of you to tell me.”
Juliet gave a slightly awkward shrug. “Forewarned is forearmed,” she said, the words slipping out easily, like a mantra. “We all share any particulars when we can, and hope that others will share back to us.”
Aziraphale nodded harder, feeling like she was glimpsing a previously unseen thread that ran through the tapestry of the castle. “Of course. Thank you.”
“They’re all right, though, your party,” Juliet said, and then suddenly grinned again. “Especially Sir Lancelot. There are those who’ll be jealous that you're riding out in such company!”
“Ah, hm, well,” Aziraphale said quickly, with a hasty laugh. “Don’t start any rumours on my account!”
Juliet laughed, apparently in good spirits once more. Aziraphale busied herself trying on the boots. She worked her feet into the fine new leather, pointing her toes this way and that, and tried not to let her mind wander back to that hot, aching place. There was no time for that right now.
It was nearly noon.
Time to ride.
Notes:
My kingdom to any artist who fancies depicting fem!apothecary!Aziraphale in all her garb (or out of it!), seriously, I am just too enraptured with her 💗
Chapter 13: Day 10 - Riding Forth
Summary:
The quest is underway! And Aziraphale is absolutely, one hundred per cent, keeping her mind on the mission.
Notes:
Let’s get this show on the road! But thank you for sticking with all the knights politic, I promise you these Crowley-lean times have a narrative purpose. ;D
Chapter Text
Aziraphale could feel all eyes on her as she descended the castle steps just before midday, heavy skirts swishing around her boots. They couldn’t not swish. They had been cut, it felt, to swish.
“M’lady,” Percival said, looming politely next to her with a respectful incline at the waist before straightening again. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if she was very slightly shorter than before, or if this body just preferred to lilt to one side or the other. Or perhaps Percival was standing up especially tall, arranging himself with his chin up, those massive shoulders back. Whatever it was, Aziraphale had the strange sensation of being dwarfed—something she’d only previously experienced with Crowley. It fired something interesting inside her.
“Percival,” Aziraphale replied, and noted that Percival, too, blinked at the sound of her voice.
Percival escorted… yes, that was exactly what he was doing, he escorted her over to the rest of their party, grouped around the waiting horses. There were a couple of staff in attendance, but the horses were already loaded and most of the stablehands had been dismissed.
“Good day,” said Arthur, a studiously proper greeting accompanied by a nod. He and Merlin had assured Aziraphale that they wouldn’t treat her any differently. That had apparently lasted… all of three seconds.
Aziraphale nodded back at Arthur, intrigued by the growing sense of being watched from all directions. Nobody was saying anything inappropriate, but their gazes were all similar: sweeping over her with unselfconscious fascination. Only Lancelot had redirected his gaze to a neutral point somewhere behind Aziraphale’s left shoulder.
It would have been sorely discomforting if she didn’t trust them; as it was, being the subject of so much silent interest left her feeling decidedly warm inside. As unobtrusively as she could, she returned their attention, noting their travelling cloaks, riding leathers, and what looked like casual worsted cotton beneath. Clearly Arthur’s concern about riding out looking ready for battle had been heeded, and the chainmail had been bundled away out of sight.
There was a pause.
A long pause.
Aziraphale glanced at Merlin, who gave her an encouraging look. Percival did likewise, eyebrows lifting in a wordless prompt that Aziraphale was failing to decipher right now.
Then Aziraphale looked back at Arthur, and almost jumped when Arthur moved smoothly in, one hand gently grasping her elbow. He leaned in close, flooding her senses with his nearness.
“It’s entirely up to you,” Arthur said quietly, lips brushing her ear, “if you don’t want to curtsy to me, but it’s worth mentioning that in general it would be less conspicuous if you did.”
The burr of his voice, the shocking heat of it so close up, made Aziraphale quite lose her place in the world for a moment. “Oh dear,” she whispered, a moment later. “Sorry!”
“As I said,” Arthur said, drawing back to speak at normal volume, eyes twinkling, and good gracious, that knowing look did things to her, unsuitable inappropriate things; “it really doesn’t matter to me.”
Aziraphale attempted a belated, clumsy curtsy. And it was ridiculous, because everyone here knew who she was, who Aziraphale was, that this was a disguise for a quest and nothing more – and yet as soon as she’d done it they all seemed to relax.
They probably hadn’t even noticed their responses. So much for ‘we won’t treat you any differently’, Aziraphale thought, as a stablehand bowed low to her and then indicated towards a mounting block set up beside her familiar white horse.
And - come on! Aziraphale wasn’t the best rider in Camelot, but she hadn’t needed assistance to mount her steed in years!
“Thank you,” she said to the stablehand, and then went ahead and swung up onto the horse exactly as she usually would, with both hands, stepping up easily into the stirrup and sliding her leg over in one smooth movement. The skirts got in the way a bit, but it was nothing she couldn’t adjust once in place—they were easily full enough that she could ride astride sitting on them, and were in fact, perfectly comfortable.
When she looked up, everyone was staring.
Aziraphale lifted her chin and raised her eyebrows slightly, as if to say, Objection?
Arthur recovered first. “Good,” he said, giving Aziraphale a small decisive nod, and then signalled for the rest of them to mount as well. “Ready? Merlin will take us from here.” He gave them a sunny smile. “Follow his lead and I’m sure we won’t all wind up in a watery grave before sundown.”
“Ha ha, very droll,” Merlin retorted, and spurred his horse, leading a brisk procession around the castle grounds and then down through the trees towards the water.
The lake behind the castle was a lucid deep blue under the midday autumn sun, fringed with dark green-and-gold undergrowth and plenty of saplings. The water’s edge was studded with rocks and pebbles sunk into deep golden sand.
Merlin walked them on along the lake’s edge, his horse slowing to pick its way through increasingly dense undergrowth, until they found a secluded spot where a broad curvature of sand had been scooped out of the undergrowth as if swept aside by a giant palm.
Here, Merlin waved for them to halt, which Aziraphale was somewhat gladdened by as it gave her a chance to surreptitiously shift the arrangement of bunched skirts between her bare skin and the warm saddle beneath. The uneven ground had delivered a reverberation of soft jolts through her thighs and arse which were… markedly distracting.
She tried to concentrate on their surroundings instead. She could see now that the borders of the bare sand were outlined with deliberate rows of small rocks. The sand itself had been raked into even grooves, now crisply imprinted by the hooves of Merlin's horse. This stopping point had not been selected by chance.
Merlin sucked his finger and raised it aloft, checking the direction of the breeze, then scattered a handful of something dark that fluttered down in slow spirals. Feathers? Dried flower petals? Aziraphale couldn’t clearly see. Then Merlin jumped down from his horse and approached the water’s edge, threw back his cloak, and bowed deeply.
Aziraphale felt her eyebrows lift again. She glanced at the others, but they appeared entirely uncurious. Just Merlin doing Merlin things; now he was tracing out some sweeping scrollwork with the end of his staff in the sand; now he was scattering the handful of black sand that Aziraphale had brought him, into the water. Arthur was watching with a slightly fond expression, Lancelot seemed impassive, whilst Percival was scanning the horizon with the idle watchfulness of a seasoned sentry.
Ahead, the lake stretched out clear and still. It was difficult at first glance to imagine this sunny vista was the same place Baron Dorin had disappeared all those years ago, and yet the longer Aziraphale looked the more she picked up on the vastness of it, this implacable ancient water. There was a sense that the lake was… waiting.
“…And if you would accept us, reveal the pass to Llyn Nhywell,” Merlin intoned, sinking his staff into the dark golden sand and then dragging the tip into the water, stirring up a cloudy whirlpool in the shallows.
Then, while the water still swirled, he drew a knife and made a quick cut against the base of his palm. Aziraphale flinched, but the others didn’t even blink as his blood spilled freely into the water, turning the whirlpool crimson.
The water seemed to boil in response. It churned into an opaque red froth that shone in the sun. Then all at once the water recoiled, turning translucent as a growing expanse of bare sand became visible at the base of the staff. A line drew forwards into the lake, initially shallow but as the water got deeper the walls grew higher. The water was rearing back on both sides, still churning, the bare ribbon of earth widening until it was wide as a man… a horse… then two horses abreast.
Merlin bowed again, and turned back to face them. His eyes were glowing a bright, inhuman golden colour, as if his irises had been burnished by the sun. As Aziraphale stared Merlin licked his thumb and then pressed it against the cut in his hand; the bleeding stopped immediately.
“You may proceed,” he said to Arthur, his familiar voice musical with an odd resonance, somehow reminiscent of a heavy springtime rainstorm.
“Ever in your debt,” Arthur replied, with the easy fluidity of old words being repeated. He urged his horse onwards and rode, as if without a care in the world, onto the sandy path carved between pulsatile walls of blue water. The unshakeable faith he had in Merlin’s powers was breathtaking.
Percival nudged his horse gently and followed.
“My lady,” Lancelot said to Aziraphale, following after Percival, passing her with the sort of gallant smile that would have been most distracting if they weren’t about to ride through a lake. Aziraphale supposed that was exactly what had been mentioned, multiple times, but at no point had she really visualised what that might look like.
She followed in single file behind Lancelot’s horse, with Merlin hopping back into the saddle and closing off the procession behind them.
Aziraphale's horse fell into a loping rhythm with the others, his hooves sinking slightly in the wet sand beneath them. Glinting weeds and shells lay strewn across their path, amid subsiding bubbles of foam. The horse didn’t seem spooked, exactly, but he certainly was walking dead centre of the sandy pathway, ears flicking back as the water rose on either side.
On leaving the secluded treeline the sun overhead seemed to brighten, but within a few seconds the slope of the lake’s bed steepened sharply. As they descended a cool shade enveloped them, the sky narrowing overhead to a thin strip of cloudy blue. It was like riding between two waterfalls, perilously close together. Aziraphale could feel spray on her face, dampening her clothes, making the hairs on her neck stand on end.
Deeper and deeper they rode. No one spoke, though Aziraphale didn’t know if that was because Merlin’s concentration needed to be preserved or if the others were equally struck silent by the strange hissing hush of the water all around. She had a sense that the others had done this before, it was only new to her; and yet she also couldn’t imagine ever getting used to this feeling.
What if it all collapsed? Would that be the end of them, crushed beneath an unstoppable deluge, as lost as that awful baron—for that matter, was he down here somewhere? Were his bones? And how many others might there have been, drowned and unmourned, had anyone thought about that?
She felt her throat close a little, and had to take some deep breaths to resettle her mind. She needed some of Arthur’s unshakeable faith, some of Lancelot’s nonchalance, Percival’s unflappability. Just another quest!
It grew markedly colder, more gloomy, as if storm clouds were blanketing the distant sunshine above. A splash of water hit her horse’s face and he flinched, muscles bunching beneath her as if contemplating launching into a gallop. Aziraphale adjusted her reins and leaned forwards, patted him soothingly on the neck, and he shook his head irritably - unsettled more than panicking, as far as she could tell. That made two of them. Right?
The horse gave an uneasy snort, and Lancelot twisted in his saddle to look back at her. “Are you all right?”
The horse’s muscles tensed again, a sharp movement that made Aziraphale feel like she was using every ounce of her riding skill to prevent it from wheeling off headfirst into the churning water.
“Yes,” she said quickly, willing it to be true, and risked a glance at Lancelot’s face. Against the backdrop of tumultuous blue, his eyes were a deep, steady brown. “It’s just the horse.”
Lancelot looked at her for a long moment, then nodded and turned frontwards again, apparently satisfied that Aziraphale had it all under control.
That was a rather wonderful feeling.
“Not long now,” Merlin said from behind her, a few seconds later.
Aziraphale twisted around in her own saddle to look at him. Merlin’s eyes were still glowing luminous gold, brighter in the gloom down here. As unnerving as it was, Aziraphale found the sheer evidence of his power a huge reassurance.
“We’ve crossed into the other lake,” Merlin said, his lips barely moving. “That’s why it’s colder. You may recognise the sand.”
Aziraphale glanced down and saw the wet glitter of black sand snaking beneath them, strewn with coiled weeds. The light dipped even more, and a creeping sensation stole over her as the memories of that dark dream reared.
“I—I see,” she said, looking up instead, trying to find the sky above them—it seemed infinitely far away, a wan stripe above towering dark cliffs of water. Currents swirled in the walls, weeds spiralling. Was that a tentacle? A looming shadow? She cast around uselessly trying to see into the water, to detect any approaching vast bulk, any living tendrils.
“Aziraphale,” Merlin said sharply, and Aziraphale looked back at his face. She could feel sweat prickling down her back, and she was starting to shiver uncontrollably, as if the clammy chill of the air down here had made it under her clothes.
“What?”
“Stay with me.”
She tried, but the cold had her in its grip now. She felt her breath hitching, fingers tingling, heart pounding in her throat. She tried to force herself to be calm, and then when that failed she tried to dig in to the red-gold reserves of warmth that she now associated with Crowley. She came up empty again - he felt so far away - and she started to lose focus, flinching as the walls seemed to close in on her.
“Aziraphale,” Merlin repeated, the odd resonance filling his voice once more, “fear not.” His gold glowing eyes flared momentarily so bright that the dark water all around them sparkled.
Aziraphale felt a curious unlatching of terror. It rose out of her body like a spirit exorcised from one possessed, and for a moment pure euphoria blossomed in its place. She almost laughed at how preposterously frightened she’d felt, when there was nothing to be afraid of here, everything was perfectly fine—and then Merlin’s eyes narrowed, and the effect dimmed slightly, and Aziraphale swooped back somewhere close to her normal mindset, alert and unafraid but in control once more.
She stared at Merlin for a long moment, then blew out an incredulous breath. “I didn’t know you could do that. Instruct someone’s mind.”
Merlin flashed her a crooked smile, eyes crinkling, looking momentarily more like himself. “Normally I can’t. This is a… special circumstance.”
Normally, given a smirk like that, Aziraphale would bite her tongue. Normally, she wouldn’t feel quite this supremely safe. “How fascinating,” she purred. “Do let me know if you ever wanted to conduct some… research.”
Merlin’s otherworldly glowing eyes widened infinitesimally, but the crease of his smile only deepened. “Always.”
The chill vanished. For a moment Aziraphale's body seemed to be built of liquid flame. “Tell me—” what to do, she was halfway through recklessly saying, but a shout from up ahead cut her off, and Merlin’s focus jumped instantly over her shoulder.
“Merlin!” Lancelot was calling back, over his shoulder. “Anything wrong? It’s getting—”
Wet, Aziraphale thought, Crowley’s voice filling her head as she registered how shockingly aroused she’d become, and so quickly—and then she snapped out of it, because this was the wrong type of wet, this was the sound of hooves splashing through water, the spray thickening in the air, the pathway ahead narrowing before their eyes.
“No,” Merlin called back in his normal voice, and then a slightly hysterical laugh creeping in, “no, ha, it shouldn’t be doing that—but we’re nearly there, so—”
“Charge?” Lancelot interrupted curtly.
“Charge,” Merlin agreed, and all five of them responded at once. The horses sprang forwards eagerly, clearly as sick of this strange place as Aziraphale had become, galloping at breakneck speed up the black incline of the sand ahead as water started to flow around their hooves.
The noise was incredible, deafening, as great torrents started falling away from the walls like boulders, splashing down around them. Aziraphale sank her hands into the horse’s sodden mane and hung on grimly as they charged for the diminishing space ahead.
She watched in slow motion as the path in front of them started to dissolve, sheet water collapsing in on them from all sides.
“Jump,” Percival yelled, and for one horrifying moment Aziraphale thought she could see a swipe of tentacles coming for him out of the dark collapsing wall—and then the horse was gathering beneath her in a great coiled spring of energy before propelling her forwards through the air, clear of the crashing water.
They landed still in motion, thundering up the black sandy beach, drenched and freezing but the sky was there, finally, bright and huge around them—they had made it to dry land. Gasping and shivering, with horses snorting in outrage, but they had made it.
“What on Earth happened?” Arthur demanded, wheeling around on his horse as soon as he was past the water’s edge and closing the gap between himself and Merlin, grasping him by the elbow and drawing in close. “Are you all right?”
Merlin laughed and then made a show of wringing out his sleeves and grimacing. “Fine!” he grouched. His eyes, Aziraphale noted, looked normal again. “Don’t think this lake takes kindly to strangers.”
“Thought it was going to take a bit too kindly to us for a minute there,” Percival said cheerfully. “Tried to swallow us whole!”
“But—all is well?” Arthur repeated, turning Merlin’s chin to face him and giving him a searching look.
Merlin dropped the performance at once. “All is well,” he said quietly, “The spell didn’t go wrong, I’m truly fine. It was something… else. I felt it. Something in this lake does not want us here.”
Aziraphale took a deep calming breath, hoping to calm her hammering heart. A malign entity in a strange lake overpowering Merlin’s spell was one thing… Her own wild lapse in composure causing a catastrophic distraction would be quite another.
They all turned to survey the water, which had settled into a menacing flat slate-grey stillness once more, beneath a bright grey sky. The wind was brisker and colder here, making Aziraphale horribly aware of her clothes beneath her cloak - wet through to the skin - but barely stirring the surface of the lake.
The landscape was recognisably that stark place from Aziraphale's dream, but daylight at least painted it in colour. Llyn Nhywell was bordered by verdant, largely-evergreen forest, stretching in ragged flurries around rocky outcrops as far as the eye could see. On the other side of the glassy dark water, the angular rock formations were larger than she remembered, dwarfing the castle they sheltered.
The castle. Squat and strange, tucked away in this rugged landscape like an egg in a nest.
Was Crowley actually in that castle? How could that be?
“It’s a couple of hours' ride around the lake, I’d say,” Lancelot was remarking to Arthur. Both were eyeing the castle with suspicion. “Unless there’s a way across the water—?”
“Believe me,” Aziraphale interjected. “Let’s not.”
Merlin retrieved a map from the leather travelling sacks slung on either side of his horse; mercifully, while the outside of the bag was soaked dark and shiny, the inside of the leather was still pale and dry.
“There should be a track,” Merlin said, joining Arthur at his elbow, showing him. “If we cut through the woods here - there’s some sort of village not too far, with an inn, where the road curves around. Then there’s supposed to be a single bridge across the narrowest part of the lake.“
“I don’t have high hopes for our welcome at a village this far North,” Arthur said dryly. “But at least we’ll make our approach by daylight.”
“Agreed,” Lancelot said, scanning the horizon with a wary scowl. “Peculiar place.”
Arthur snorted. “Fitting for my sister.”
By contrast Merlin’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “Positively steeped in untapped power,” he said, rubbing a leaf from a nearby tree between his fingertips, then sniffing them. “Fascinating.”
“Hold up - is that a boat?” Percival asked suddenly, already turning his horse to meander back into the shallow water.
At the sight of an innocuous, battered tin boat bobbing in the weedy shallows, badly rusted and missing an oar, panic stuttered in Aziraphale's chest.
It—it couldn’t be—
“Such an odd little thing…” Percival approached the boat on horseback, hooves splashing through the shallows, and the water seemed to seethe with dark tendrils; Aziraphale saw a surge of ominous shadows groping for his horse’s fetlocks.
“Get out of the water!”
To his credit, Percival immediately brought the horse up in a swift about-turn and bounded back up the slope. “What is it?!”
Aziraphale was still staring at the water, trying to perceive what she'd seen—what she’d thought she’d seen. Was she so rattled she could no longer trust her own eyes?
“Ah… sorry,” she said, flushing. “I thought I saw something… else. But it’s just the weeds. Sorry!”
She braced for the inevitable mockery; if this had been three years ago, back at Empyrean, her siblings would have made a marvellous jaunt out of this foolish mistake. As well as the immediate jeering - which would have been resounding and inventive - she would have woken to pondweed in her bed for a week.
“Oh - thanks,” Percival said, giving the water a dubious glare. “Can’t be too careful! Anyway, who’s got a rag to dry off with? Riding like this is going to chafe!”
He was vaulting down from his horse as he spoke, stripping off his sodden cloak and jerkin in one fluid movement. An impressive expanse of wet skin was revealed.
Lancelot gave him a reproving look.
Percival was draping his wet garments over his horse’s rump. “What?” he demanded, grinning. “You just said we’re two hours away. Plenty of time to dry off.”
“There’s a lady present,” Lancelot said, voice stern though his cheek was twitching. “It’s unseemly.”
“I’ll cope,” Aziraphale said, and to her delight Percival flashed a devilish smile at her and then gave a showy stretch, twisting so that the muscles of his abdomen slanted taut, his shoulders shining in the weak sunlight.
“I daresay you will,” Merlin said to Aziraphale, with a smirk that was knowing enough to remind Aziraphale of that moment in the lake, when he’d locked eyes with her and set everything else on fire.
Aziraphale wet her lips. She could suddenly think of a few ways they might warm up.
“Right,” Arthur cut in, “absolutely not, no! I’m not riding through the woods half-dressed and neither will you lot! What if we’re ambushed?”
Lancelot looked around their small damp assembly. “So be it,” he sighed, and started unfastening his belt. “I must remind myself she isn’t a lady all the time.”
“That’s the spirit,” Percival enthused.
“But nothing will dry in this chill,” Lancelot said, and turned his resigned look on Merlin. “Care to assist?”
Merlin smiled, flexed his fingers, then turned his hands up. Small, flickery arrays of flame kindled in the cups of his palms. “My pleasure,” he said, and his eyes were sheeted gold again. “Where do you want it?”
As singular moments went, Aziraphale thought she’d probably remember this one for the rest of her life.
The horses had been tied off to one side whilst Merlin made his inferno out of thin air: bringing forth a large sphere of flame between his hands, and then kneeling and encouraging it to permeate a heap of wet black sand. There was a great deal of smoke and a smell like charred seaweed, but within a few seconds the sand took. It burned pale blue at the base beneath towering yellow flames, like the blossoming of some enormous unholy flower.
It reminded her irresistibly of Crowley’s eyes.
They had strung their array of wet riding clothes around the fire on various sticks that Percival and Lancelot had cut down. They had all gamely stripped off, Aziraphale down to the damp chemise which lay weighty against her bare skin, slightly translucent in the broad daylight. Nobody – at all – was looking at her. Everyone was studiously staring into the flames, had been for some time. They were clustered close but evenly spread, gladly taking up the unusual warmth into their chilled bodies as well.
The collective focus on the fire had given Aziraphale freedom to let her own gaze meander - discreetly, of course - over the others, as cloaks and riding clothes were shrugged off and peeled away. As shining limbs were dried with lengths of raw linen. As those same pieces of linen were slung around trim waists, tucked against hipbones or in Percival’s case barely held together, one large hand resting splayed to keep the two corners in place. The pale arrowhead of his skin revealed from hipbone to ankle kept catching her eye.
She’d seen Lancelot and Percival mostly naked before, of course, in the shared male dormitory, or bathing, or during quick-changes between jousts. But the humming awareness that Arthur was standing right there, arms crossed over his chest, absently rubbing his thumb across his bicep in the chill wind—that was different. The sight of him at ease, shoulders down, chin up, dressed now in nothing but soft britches, was maddening. The heat rising off the fire made the air wavy, but she could make out his nipples peaked to tiny, hard spots of pink on his tawny chest.
Before she could stop herself, she imagined lowering her head and sucking them. What would that feel like? Crowley’s chest had been smooth and broad beneath Aziraphale's mouth, but he hadn’t had nipples, nor any chest hair. Because draconian demons didn’t, presumably. There had been fine scales stretched over devilish curves of muscle that had jumped beneath Aziraphale's tongue, and remembering that caused a tidal heat to wash down though her body. But this, now, would feel so different. Surely. She’d never felt any person’s nipples—well, she’d felt her own, when male, and right now, in this form, she was aware of them jutting hard and dark beneath the cool, damp chemise. Hers were bigger now, and more sensitive than she remembered, or maybe that was the relentless cold wind. She wanted to cup her breasts and rub her thumbs over them, to pinch them, twist, see how that made the warmth inside of her body tighten and flutter. Feel it deepen. But she - obviously! - couldn’t.
Aziraphale shifted her weight casually from one foot to the other. She remained secretly amazed at how the simple pressure of her thighs sliding against each other caused her lower body to light up with faint darts of pleasure. Was this the same for all women? Was it just the perfect thickness of her thighs, closing tightly enough that delicious force sparked and danced within her? She didn’t know what the sensations would become, exactly, as they built in heady pulses, but she knew enough to be certain that she wanted more.
“That’s probably enough,” Merlin said suddenly, to Arthur, startling Aziraphale out of her reverie.
“Do you think?” Arthur replied. “I would have thought you could get it hotter than this.”
Aziraphale realised the yellow flames of the fire had started to dwindle down. The heap of black sand was blazing an infernal deep red now, and the heat coming off it made the whole front of Aziraphale's body feel flushed.
“I could,” Merlin retorted, “but I would have thought that’s been quite sufficient.”
Arthur’s gaze flickered around the group, and it took Aziraphale far too long to realise that his prompting look was an instruction to check their clothes.
“Good enough,” Lancelot said, shrugging his own shirt and britches immediately back on and then tugging the stick out of the sand, tossing it as an idle javelin into the forest. “It’s best we leave no trace.”
“Naturally.” Merlin waved a hand and the flames subsided.
Aziraphale wrestled her way back into her warm, smoke-scented layers with a slightly more practised air than earlier - Juliet had been diligent in teaching her the basics, and Aziraphale wanted to ride in comfort not style.
Percival gave her a hand with the laces at the back, tugging in quick jerks that pulled her inwards and upwards, until she was laughing and batting him away.
Strong, she found herself thinking. Not as powerful as Crowley, of course, but for a man… he was impressively robust.
Just before they got back on their horses, her awareness prickled again. Arthur and Merlin were kicking out the remainder of the embers together, stubbing the toes of their riding boots into its unnatural glow and stirring in fresh wet sand. She glanced up to see Arthur inclining his head to smile against Merlin’s ear and say… something. Merlin grinned, turning to look up at him so that their mouths almost brushed together, and replied in a voice far too low to carry.
Then they both glanced at Aziraphale—and away, immediately, as soon as they realised she was already watching them, their gazes skipping onwards as if in sleek detachment, their conversation wholly curtailed.
Well, Aziraphale thought, as she climbed back onto her horse. She didn’t dare hope what a look like that meant, from her king and his sorcerous paramour. And if it did mean what she suspected, she wasn’t sure what Crowley would make of it, or where any of this might lead.
But… a little contemplation couldn’t hurt.
She shifted in the saddle as they got going, finding again that the spread of her thighs and the thick folds of her skirts created a most interesting set of pressures as the pace increased. And if – as they picked their way through the forest, weaving to duck the spindly branches that had blighted her face in the dark of her dream – her thoughts drifted to Arthur’s strong bare arms, Merlin’s low commanding voice, an amorphous idea forming of being held by one and instructed by the other, who could blame her?
Would Crowley?
Aziraphale glanced around, conscious that she hadn’t had time to allow her thoughts to unspool on this particular possibility before, and she wasn't sure where it might lead.
The others were riding ahead, none behind her now, filing carefully through the dense trees, following some bearing on Merlin’s map rather than any path to speak of. The uneven ground had them lurching from side to side; to go faster than a walk would be asking a lot of the horses.
Certainly no one was sparing a thought to look back at her. So…
Aziraphale drew her lower lip in between her teeth, worrying it gently. Crowley had awakened certain physical appetites in Aziraphale and then left her simmering alone—albeit, she was positive, not by choice. Would Crowley object if she allowed those appetites to broaden? Would it still - she shifted in the saddle, biting her lip now, just the sharper side of thoughtful - serve him?
She recalled the golden glow that they had shared, now several times, blazing brighter the more intense the connection became between them, replenishing Crowley’s energies to ever-greater degrees. Would other… experiences… have a similar effect?
She thought back to her salacious vision of riding Crowley’s cock in the king’s bed, surrounded and defiled by these very men. That would serve Crowley, she was sure, were it ever to happen—which of course it would not! But if it could, she thought to herself, unable to resist toying with the idea. If somehow that was an option, Crowley would enjoy it.
But while Crowley was still so very distant, could Aziraphale’s pleasure serve him regardless? What if things had gone differently around that fire on the beach—what if, instead of enduring each other’s nudity in stoic silence, nature had been allowed to take its course?
She swallowed again, as the intriguing area between her legs started to command more of her attention. She had gained a furtive, dim grasp of female anatomy from those few books of physique which dealt with the fairer sex, but had never personally known the touch of a maid, nor had ever had the freedom to explore… before.
She certainly hadn’t expected the whole area to throb like this. Especially that central nub—goodness, how that tiny point dominated her attention. There was a twist of skirts between her bare skin and the leather saddle; a firm, irregular, rhythmically-rocking tension that it felt tantalising to press against.
She shifted more deliberately as the heated river of her thoughts began flowing.
Imagining if Merlin and Arthur had started it, subtly enough, by turning to each other, the sideways glances they always shared firming to intention. She imagined them swaying closer, their visages wavering through the heated air, sinking into a kiss as deep and hungry as the one they’d shared when she was hidden behind the standing screen. What then?
Lancelot might pretend nothing was happening, of course. Might pretend not to notice them, might stare ever more determinedly into the fire.
Percival… hmm. Percival would be an easier target, Aziraphale suspected, with his irreverent attitude and roguish ways. She remembered the jarring strength in his grip as he pulled the laces in her bodice tight; imagine if those big hands were keen to explore her instead. Yes, Percival might grow most enthusiastic if she signalled to him that she found his charm, his casual strength - the sheer bulk of him - extremely distracting. His size was nothing compared with Crowley but as a man he was impressive, and once inflamed and encouraged… might he even use a little force? Pull her to him, at least; grab her waist, her arse; what was his cock like, she wondered, starting to subtly grind in the saddle as she rode. Was it proportional to the rest of him? Could she fit it in her mouth? Half of it? A third?
She imagined it in slow and lurid detail, kneeling before him as he rubbed his cock over her lips; imagined Crowley watching from afar, frustrated and impatient. Not understanding what Percival was waiting for, why he was holding back, why not just force her head down on it, split her lip, thrust deep. But Percival’s gallantry wouldn’t allow that, Aziraphale was certain. He’d stroke her hair and grit his teeth as she mouthed him, tantalising and tentative, feeling his cockhead swell against her tongue, letting her draw it out into a long torturous exploration until Lancelot – the most stoic of all of them, the least susceptible – also gave in.
And then could—Aziraphale realised she was taking quiet shuddery breaths now, as the pulse between her legs turned into a wet aching throb. Could Percival sink his cock into her mouth, filling it at last, one big hand encouraging at the back of her head - the pressure of him commanding her full attention - only for her to feel Lancelot’s lips slide across the back of her neck? Lancelot, giving in at last, pushing her heavy coils of hair off one shoulder to lower his mouth to her throat. Kneeling behind her, pushing between her legs just as she was kneeling before Percival. Lancelot’s broad controlled heat behind her, his hands closing on hers as they grasped Percival’s huge thighs. Could he be persuaded to muscle in close, line himself up, start to fuck her from behind while she moaned around Percival’s cock?
She didn’t know how it worked, exactly, fucking in this body, but she could very much feel what it wanted. She had that same intense yearning to be filled, felt slick and hot and tremulous, her breath becoming shallow, as on they rode.
She closed her eyes for a moment, trusting the horse to follow the others as her thoughts surged elsewhere. Picturing all of them, Arthur and Merlin joining as well, intrigued and ravenous as they all sprawled out together on cloaks pressed into fire-warmed black sand. She pictured the chaos of trying to share herself between them all, the breathless clamour, all mindless kisses and entangled limbs, groping hands guiding their cocks between her legs, one, two—how much could she handle? How many hands on her, how many mouths? How much hunger? Of course she didn’t yet know what this body’s limits were, how much it could endure, but it stood to reason—if when male, Aziraphale could satisfy a demon more than twice his size, surely this female form wouldn’t be troubled by a few ordinary mortal men.
Even if all four of them seized her, heavy-handed and greedy, she couldn’t imagine it would come close to a single swipe of Crowley’s clawed hand.
She groaned under her breath at a sudden crisp vision of Crowley’s hands, taking hold of her shoulders and throwing her back against a wall, crushing her against it until she thought her bones might break in his fingers. And then, as soft noises escaped her, low and longing, the Crowley in her mind ducked his sharp hot mouth against her ear and commanded, “Keep going.”
It felt so real that Aziraphale’s breath caught, heat racing through her blood in sudden dizzying pulses.
Her mind responded with an image of herself lying back pinned with Merlin on top of her, buried inside her, panting and gasping against her neck as Arthur fucked him from behind, while Percival and Lancelot knelt either side of her face, kissing each other as they took turns with her mouth and—and fuck, was she about to climax right here in broad daylight on her own? Could this body do that, without a hand or mouth or prick involved?!
Aziraphale clung with her thighs as the jolting motion of the saddle slammed up exactly where she needed it, the backs of her eyelids filling with golden sparks. She was, it was building, she could feel a sweet chiming surge inside her, an inexorable rise of pleasure that wanted to spread though her body in tantalising waves. She—
“Halt,” she heard Lancelot bark, up ahead, and her eyes snapped open, reality reasserting itself, numb fingers tightening on the reins, fuck, fuck.
Aziraphale sat straight and then swayed as her horse filed in neatly behind the others. Her whole body was blazing.
The Crowley in her mind had faded away as swiftly as he’d arrived.
“This way looks clearer,” Lancelot was saying, redirecting them into a lighter-looking density of forest. “It’s an established deer trail - should be easier going, less uneven underfoot.”
“Sounds good,” Percival said. “My teeth felt like they were going to be jarred right out of my head.”
“Mm-hm,” Aziraphale echoed, her own voice somewhat squeaky. Her ribcage felt full of her pounding heart. “W-what a relief.”
Was she sweating? Obtrusively? Fuck. Fuck! That was… Well!
If nothing else, she felt like - had she managed to reach it - that climax would have served Crowley. She felt like the rising swell of sensation would have rushed across the black water and poured into him, lighting him up from the inside as readily as it had been about to devastate her own core.
She rode on, dry-mouthed, tensing her thighs now to hold herself safely above the treacherous saddle, out of the way of any more tempting pressure. She could not afford to lose focus to that degree again. Especially not now they were finding wider tracks, as deer trails intersected with trodden paths, finally broadening into the sort of weaving dust road that could have borne a horse and carriage, albeit not comfortably.
The group leaned into a brisk canter and Aziraphale clung on, striving to keep her mind on the task at hand as her body continued to run just a little hotter than before.
Eventually she gave up, relapsing into her earlier musings. And in answer: yes. She wasn’t sure if that interrupting encouragement had been Crowley, but she felt like it could have been. And that seemed to fit: the more vivid her fantasies, the more she seemed to ascend to that place where Crowley could find her. The fiercer the stoked heat of her imagination, and the closer their proximity, the easier she seemed to be found. And if he caught her on the brink of an explosion, he must be able to use it; why else would he be goading her towards ever-more depraved ideas? It must feed their connection, the fantasies and the intriguing inner workings of this new body, both.
But what about the real thing?
Not exactly what she’d just pictured, obviously. Such a thing seemed impossible, knowing what she knew of the others’ competing cautions. But any of it? What if one of these men approached her in a dark corner, would that be something Crowley could enjoy? What if one of them were sat in a shadowy corner and allowed her to hop onto his lap with her skirts spread wide,? If he released his cock, allowed her to seat herself deeply upon it—what then?
She felt like she might implode directly at the thought. She knew of course that human men were famed for their rivalry. But Crowley… she was less convinced. She vividly remembered his idle threats – I should leave you paralysed with your legs apart and chained to an open portal, let anyone else passing through this realm take their turn – but also the possessive heated snarl of his voice in Aziraphale’s mind, overriding all else: Mine.
And so she wondered, now, over and over, as the tempestuous heat abated to a mere sultry echo, deep inside: would Crowley’s possessiveness extend to menfolk in general? To the other knights, in particular? Or most specifically, to Merlin and Arthur?
For the latter half of the ride, Aziraphale’s attention shifted to more mundane appetites. Namely, she became largely occupied with thoughts about the no-doubt crude sustenance they could probably expect to find at this village.
Her hopes were not heightened. It would be a far cry from the kitchens of Camelot, she was sure. But, even the most modest peasant fare would hopefully still fill her belly and see off the lingering chill in the air. And one never knew - there was always the possibility that some local wit had dedicated their life to the art of brewing or baking, wasn’t there?
These thoughts kept her spirits up as their progress took them ever closer to the way across the lake. The castle itself was shrouded in fog, but there was an exposed bridge leading across the dark water directly between two huge rocky prominences.
Before they could reach the bridge, Merlin led them on a sharp turn up a worn road, through the trees and away from the water. Their hooves clattered on some half-subsided flagstones, prematurely announcing their arrival.
“Better hope we’re not met by the wrong sort of welcome party,” Lancelot remarked to Aziraphale, as a flock of outraged birds took screeching flight ahead of them.
Percival, riding close behind, gave a low laugh. “Worried you won’t be found as charming this far North?”
Lancelot turned in his saddle to flash a smile at him. “That is not something I worry about.”
Percival hooted softly. “That’s me told,” he whispered, exchanging a grin with Aziraphale—and then they rounded the final corner of the road through the woods and Aziraphale’s heart sank.
The village, such as it was - a paltry handful of cottages and an inn, with a couple of hunting lodges and what looked like a run-down smithy off to one side - had clearly been abandoned long enough that the forest was starting to reclaim it from all sides.
“Ah,” said Merlin, bringing his horse to a halt before the first building in the clearing, overgrown with towering brambles that still held the height of whatever walls had eroded out beneath them. “Drat.”
“No welcome party,” Lancelot agreed.
“No… anyone at all,” Aziraphale said, looking around.
Arranged across little more than a dirt track, the line of ramshackle houses looked like the grin of a snaggle-toothed crone, some walls crumbling back to mud or partially blown down, some entirely missing. Vines were flourishing in bright bursts in every direction, pushing through holes in eroded thatch, creating vibrant archways out of broken doorways that could have been illustrations from a book about the Fae.
“Rotten luck,” Percival said, dismounting and then wandering forwards beneath the arching vegetation, sword raised, looking for all the world like an inquisitive knight about to get whisked away into a fairytale.
“It’s only to be expected,” Arthur said, waving a dismissive hand back the way they’d come. “It’s right in the gaze of that cursed-looking castle. The villagers probably heard tell of the vile beast in the lake and fled.”
“The inn might be viable,” Lancelot said, signalling for the rest of them to dismount and follow Percival into the clearing. “We’re not going to find any better shelter between here and the castle, and I’d rather have an alternative to sleeping in the open air that isn’t throwing ourselves upon Morgana’s hospitality.”
Despite herself Aziraphale held her breath as she passed under the archway of curling vines. But they weren’t whisked anywhere.
The inn was little more than a two-story sprawling thatched cottage, built of sturdy enough stonework to have avoided the fates of the other buildings. Its door wasn’t latched, and juddered open easily enough under a gentle shove of Percival’s shoulder.
Inside, the main room was gloomy, but enough daylight permeated to determine that there would not be an ambush. It was absolutely still, with a thick unbroken coating of dust across uneven flagstones.
The room had a bar at one end, cluttered with dust-swaddled barrels, and a hearth surrounded by high-backed chairs at the other. The space between bore a few plank tables flanked by benches, studded with candles in crude dishes; more half-burned pillar candles stood in wall sconces behind the bar, and a cartwheel had been strung from the dark roof beams as an erstwhile chandelier.
The air of the place seemed largely undisturbed for years – by people, at least. Every piece of furniture was slung with pale skeins of cobwebs and, as the five of them padded further into the gloom, occasional tiny skeletons and carapaces crunched underfoot.
Lancelot had swept ahead. “The hearth looks sound,” he called back, his tone of voice more decisive. He turned on his heel, looking to Arthur. “This is as good as we’re going to get.”
“So be it,” Arthur replied, using his fist to clear cobwebs from an internal doorway, behind which Aziraphale glimpsed a stairway leading up into darkness. “Oh—urgh!”
“A corpse?” Lancelot asked immediately, starting towards him.
“Worse,” Arthur said, laughing now at his own reaction. “Spiders.”
“Oh,” Lancelot said, visibly losing interest again.
Arthur was scrubbing cobwebs from his hair with both hands, nose wrinkled. “All right, everyone grab a broom,” he declared. “Let’s see what we can do to make this place habitable - and then Merlin might be able to assist with the, ah, finishing touches.”
“Sounds good to me,” Percival said, already rummaging behind the bar. “Doesn’t look like they left in a hurry, at least. There’s nothing obviously spoiled or broken.” He tested the weight of one of the barrels stood on the floor, rocking it idly onto its rim with one hand. “Empty.”
“Priorities, as ever,” Lancelot said dryly, and Aziraphale smothered a laugh behind her fist. Lancelot glanced at her. “Want to help me get the hearth in order?”
"Oh," Aziraphale said, watching him roll up his sleeves. "Very much."
It was hot, grimy work but undeniably satisfying, rolling up her own sleeves to scrape out old ashes while Lancelot swept the hearthstone and nearby floor and wiped everything down. She was burning aware of the physicality of the work, the way he leaned into each task, moving beside her without touching her but definitely—definitely close.
The others were all making themselves useful elsewhere in the room, with a minimum of fuss or instruction. Occasional clanks and thuds overhead tracked Arthur’s explorations upstairs.
It gave Aziraphale a peculiar pleasure to realise that - when push came to shove - this small group was actually quite capable without servants. Aziraphale had a growing sense that they did this a lot, fending for themselves, or at least making do—certainly none of them were shirking away from the labour that would ordinarily be done by unseen hands.
Eventually Percival arrived behind them with a huge armful of logs. “Where do you want these?”
The detritus had been largely cleared and Lancelot was in the middle of unhooking a couple of large, black rounded pots from hooks above the hearth, hefting one handle onto each shoulder. He looked around as Percival approached, his usually pristine face sooty and sweat-tracked.
Percival beamed. “Oh I’m sorry, Blacksmith’s boy – I mistook you for a knight of the realm.”
“Be off with you,” Lancelot shot back, all lazy outrage. “Just here will do. Did you find the well?”
Percival nodded, setting down his burden of logs and hefting another of the large black rounded pots on one arm. “Out back.”
They left together to find fresh water, a few more mutters of good-natured jibing echoing after them.
Aziraphale set up the logs in the fireplace, then stood, wiping her hands on her apron, as Merlin approached carrying a large rolled-up straw mat. She felt a bit sweaty and sooty herself.
“Ready?” Merlin asked, as Aziraphale stepped backwards out the way so he could unroll the mat before the hearthstone. Instantly the place felt civilised.
“I think so.”
Merlin’s eyes flashed the now-familiar gold as he kindled the fire, and then they both looked skywards at a flurry of muffled scuffling noises; clearly whatever birds had been utilising the chimney were taking their leave. Smoke started pouring into the room, and Merlin’s eyes flashed again: he held up both hands and the smoke recoiled back into the chimney, as if meeting an invisible wall.
“Useful chap to have around, isn’t he?” Arthur remarked, coming up behind Merlin and sliding his arms around his unguarded waist. He had a smear of grime across his cheek, and - despite his earlier efforts - yet more cobwebs in his hair.
“Very,” Aziraphale said. She wanted to say so much more: about how captivating it was to see Merlin using magic freely now they were far away from prying eyes; or about how witnessing casual moments between them made something glow behind her breastbone. But she wasn’t certain, even now, even here, that such honesty was safe to reveal. She asked only, “Do you do this a lot?”
“Every chance we get,” Merlin said, sounding flippant as he wriggled out of Arthur’s hold and twisted back to address him. “If your hands are idle, why not see if you can rustle up something for us to eat?”
It wasn’t an order, exactly, but it also wasn’t a manner in which Aziraphale had ever before heard someone address their king.
Arthur’s eyes gleamed, but his voice was mild. “Percival’s saddlebags are probably the best bet?”
“That’s where I’d start,” Merlin agreed, and then cemented this astonishing display of insolence by making a shooing motion at Arthur with both hands.
Arthur strode off amicably enough in the direction of the horses, without another word.
Merlin glanced at Aziraphale, no doubt reading the hundred questions she could feel crowding her expression.
“It’s… different, away from Court,” Merlin said, which was more acknowledgement than Aziraphale had dared hope for.
“It’s…” She veered away from the word nice. “...sweet.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Merlin joked, but his eyes were still soft. “Come on, let’s sort out this abomination of a table.”
Aziraphale went to wring out another rag, but Merlin had other ideas. He pressed all his fingertips against the rough wood of the table closest to the hearth and muttered under his breath. The wood darkened noticeably, the scuffed surface polishing in an instant, and one of the legs righted itself. A moment later, Merlin was setting out bowls and serving platters that looked suspiciously fine to have survived a journey by horseback, onto an array of pale woven mats that Aziraphale definitely didn’t recall seeing before.
When Merlin had finished, it wasn’t a table fit for Camelot by any means, but it no longer looked like it was about to surrender to woodworm if anyone sat down.
“Ohhh, so now he helps,” Percival called, carrying a water-filled pot so large that an ordinary man might stagger beneath its weight. His gaze raked the table, amused. “And I s’pose you couldn’t have done that for the whole room - or does it entertain you to watch us crawl about in the muck?”
“Why should I, when the labour keeps you honest?” Merlin retorted, ducking as Percival reached into his pot and flicked water at him as he passed.
Arthur reappeared with a hemp sack and started unloading it onto the table without further ado: bread and ale first, then a selection of dried meat, a pat of butter, a couple of cheeses and some hard, dubious looking root vegetables.
Percival fitted the pot above the now-blazing hearth to heat, and threw himself down at the table. “At least all that honest labour makes the food taste better,” he muttered, pouring a round of ale and then cutting thick slices of cheese and bread, and dividing them between five bowls.
Aziraphale’s stomach grumbled piteously.
Arthur sliced off a piece of dried meat and popped it in his mouth, then chewed.
He kept chewing for a long time.
“Delicious,” he said eventually, reaching for his ale to try and wash it down. His voice was as dry as the meat. “Nothing like life on the road.”
Aziraphale helped herself to a bowl and was tucking in, making the best of the salty tough fare, when Lancelot returned.
“Oh,” Lancelot said, surveying them at the table with amused pity. “Oh dear, no. We can do better than this.”
Lancelot set Percival cleaning another pot while he sharpened a knife, then sliced onions and carrots and some of the other unidentified vegetables into small pieces. Then, once the pot had been pronounced clean enough, Lancelot melted the butter and cooked all the pieces slowly, over the fire, for long enough that the whole inn started smelling of tangy, buttery sweet steam. He added boiled water, and salt, and some of the meat cut into thin slices, and some dried leaves from a pouch on his belt. Then he broke some bread and warmed it, scalding the edges slightly in the fire.
Aziraphale's stomach started growling in earnest.
The smell got better and better, rich and herbal and ever-more savoury. By the time Lancelot’s efforts reached the table - a huge soft dark stew with pieces of cheese melting on top and a heap of toasted bread on the side - Aziraphale's mouth was watering. From the others’ expressions, he wasn’t the only one.
“There,” Lancelot said, smirking as he ladled it out into their waiting bowls. “A little better than some horseback picnic, I hope.”
Muffled grunts of approval were his only reply.
Aziraphale ate until she was full and then, glancing around for permission and receiving it in Lancelot’s amused nod, availed herself of a second helping.
“Lancelot likes to feed us up,” Percival said. “Not that I’m complaining.”
Lancelot snorted. “I fear that left to your own devices you’d wear your teeth down on dry bread and sinew.”
“Can’t have that,” Arthur said cheerfully. “I need my teeth for rousing speeches.”
“And for charming all the rich ladies visiting Court from far away,” Percival added.
Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’ll delegate that to our handsome chef here, if no one minds…”
“Well,” Lancelot said, with a tiny smile, “if you insist.”
Merlin was wolfing down his own second plate of stew; he paused long enough to throw a grin at Arthur. “An excellent decision, my liege,” he drawled, shifting in a way that very obviously allowed him to slide his foot against Arthur’s calf under the table.
Aziraphale glanced from man to man, wondering anew that she’d been granted access to this tiny group and their easy, open camaraderie—more than that, had been welcomed through the door.
They’d hardly be welcoming you if they knew everything.
It was, out of nowhere, Gabriel’s sneering voice. And this time, no sense of Crowley at her shoulder or even in the pit of her stomach.
Aziraphale tried to defend herself, or at least tell the voice to be reasonable. They knew half of it, didn’t they? More than half! Surely they wouldn’t yet throw her out for a few… small omissions.
Small omissions? the voice demanded. You really think that’s how King Arthur would describe sacrificing another knight to your demon paramour?
Aziraphale swallowed. Perhaps not exactly, she thought. But Arthur knows me now – they all do! They know I’m loyal… and dutiful… and…
The voice cut in: Honest?
Aziraphale pressed her lips together, hoping no one around the table had noticed her expression falter. “So!” she exclaimed brightly, turning to Merlin. “That lake spell, that really was something.”
Merlin was cutting himself another wedge of cheese. “You rather caught the brunt of it,” he said, with a self-deprecating twist to his mouth. “Usually it’s… less of a deluge.”
Aziraphale refused to be daunted. “Even so! It was absolutely spectacular. And I could certainly see what it was meant to do, had it not, er….”
“Half-drowned us,” Percival suggested, and Merlin shot him a wounded look.
“Now now,” Arthur said, putting a soothing hand on Merlin’s arm, “just because occasionally that spell lands us all in cold water doesn’t mean—”
“One other time!” Merlin protested. “One single other time, in all the—”
“Exactly!” Arthur agreed, grinning and patting Merlin’s hand as he expertly stoked the fires of his outrage. “It’s almost always a great success and almost never a near catastrophe!”
Merlin huffed and turned back to Aziraphale. “They don’t appreciate me,” he said, as the others guffawed with laughter.
Aziraphale leaned closer, speaking under the laughter. “So how did you do it, exactly?”
As ever, Merlin looked delighted to be asked. “Well. It’s the latest iteration of something I’ve been working on for years - the roads are bad as soon as you leave Camelot, you see. And horses tire. But lakes,” he said, eyes sparkling as he warmed to his theme, “in many ways, you see, the whole kingdom is a network of lakes – so if you can get the water on your side, the possibilities are endless.”
Aziraphale hesitated. “But the… you know, the blood,” she said, dropping her voice.
“Really aids the spell,” Merlin said, absently rubbing the heel of his hand, as if the healed cut still stung. “You make a pact with the ancient water, giving it a taste of you. If it accepts you, your power may be doubled - or more!”
“But… isn’t that dark magic?”
“Depends who’s doing it,” Percival said, sounding for all the world like an authority, then undercut himself by checking in with Merlin again. “Right?”
Merlin nodded encouragingly. “Right! No magic is innately dark or light, just as no blade is good or evil - it is the one who wields it who determines how ‘dark’ it is.”
“In the wrong hands,” Lancelot said, leaning thoughtfully back in his chair, the dust-speckled light from the window painting his handsome profile in high-contrast strokes, “both a broadsword and a dagger can do terrible damage. And in the right hands, each can uphold justice.”
A vision flashed across Aziraphale’s mind of Crowley silently lowering himself over Escanor’s bed.
She tried to dash it away again, frowning. “I see. And is that also true of Fae magic?”
There was a pause as everyone looked at Merlin.
Merlin slid his thumb against the edge of his beard, then sighed. “Look,” he said, with a half-smile. “It’s no secret that I don’t get on with the Fae. But I admit that doesn’t make them evil. They’re just… not good either.”
“Neutral?” Aziraphale suggested.
“I suppose… yes,” Merlin said. “They are truly neutral in the affairs of men. Their only concern is their own interests, which we may struggle even to comprehend. It makes them very dangerous, especially if we are careless with our words, or blunder into their territory… or invite them into ours.”
Percival snorted. “Learned that the hard way.”
Ah yes. Ten years ago, wasn’t it? After the storms…
“But it is a mistake to interpret their indifference towards us as a passive disinterest,” Merlin continued, as if lapsing into a familiar lecture. “They do not care for our kind, but they care a great deal for what they can extract from us - promises, oaths, debts. Even the poorest man has the purity of his own lifeforce to offer, and if he can command others, well. The Fae can make him wealthy indeed - at a price.”
Aziraphale swallowed. “Purity… has value?” She saw Merlin and Arthur exchange a fleeting glance, and hurried on: “Er, magically speaking, I mean.”
“To some,” Merlin said mildly. “Not to the Fae, as far as I’m aware. But some demons rather… value it.”
Aziraphale felt her eyes widen. “Which demons?”
Merlin’s look sharpened and Aziraphale realised that may have been a conspicuous mistake. “Most demons.”
Mercifully, Lancelot cleared his throat. “Whereas the Fae seem to delight in the impure, if I recall correctly,” he mused, with a faraway expression that broke Percival’s composure into boyish hoots of laughter. “Not that I remember much of that night, I hasten to add.”
“You wouldn’t,” Merlin shot back, but he was laughing now as well behind his stern voice. “You were so deep in thrall we could barely tear you away.”
Lancelot gave an eloquent shrug. “They made some compelling arguments.”
Percival leaned in and waved to get Aziraphale’s attention. “They argued for three nights straight, is what I heard,” he said, stabbing his thumb at Lancelot and raising his eyebrows, and the others fell about in delighted jeering.
Lancelot looked supremely at ease with being teased, and at everything that was being implied. It made Aziraphale wonder again if confessing those last few secrets might just be—fine, here, in this company. Away from Court.
“What the Fae want,” Merlin said, loftily picking up the thread of his earlier conversation, “is raw power in all its forms.” He shrugged, spearing a piece of cheese with his knife, then gestured with it. “Any deal they offer you will benefit themselves ten times over.”
Aziraphale found herself staring at the shape of Merlin’s lips as he spoke, and blinked away. “What deal did they offer Morgana?”
“I still don’t know,” Merlin admitted. “But they are bound by rules. They can’t just enter a threshold without being granted a way in. They can’t take unless an offer is made… and they like to bargain. Morgana wanted rid of Dorin, and they took him off her hands. But what did they want in return?”
He ate the piece of cheese at last.
Lancelot made a doubtful noise. “Rumour has it, they wanted a guardian for their sacred lake.”
Despite the warm room, Aziraphale shivered.
“It sounds like they got one,” Arthur said, watching her.
Merlin swallowed, nodded. “That’s what I fear,” he said. “Which only leads to more questions. If they granted Morgana enough power to take vengeance on those who wronged her, did they bind her to their cause in the process?“
“What cause is that?” Aziraphale asked.
Now all focus swung to Arthur, who gave a rueful smile. “Ah… yes. Well, the Fae have long memories. Apparently they preferred the land before my father came to power - when it was wild and ungovernable, basically. Ancient magic flourishes in the shadows, at the edges of things. Bringing order to a province does rather upset that balance. My father's rule - and now mine, by extension - has forced magic users of all kinds into hiding. Civilisation fosters secrecy, separation, resentment.”
Aziraphale glanced at Merlin. “Er…”
“Oh, I know,” Merlin told her. “And here I am sitting on the arm of the throne! Believe me, I'm painfully aware. I’d drag it all out into the open. Educate the masses, probably find ten-score promising magicians in the process! Teach the common man the perils of the Fae while bringing them into full view… But apparently that’s…” He winked. “Too much.”
“We’d have ten-score peasant revolts,” Lancelot returned, not unkindly. “The masses, as you so charitably refer to them, are not ready for such revelations.”
“But they’ll never be ready if we don’t start somewhere—”
“You greatly overestimate the—”
“All right,” Arthur said loudly, across both of them. “Enough.”
Lancelot and Merlin smirked at each other, putting Aziraphale in mind of two archers slowly lowering their bows.
“What I want to know,” Arthur said briskly, clearly opting to move this on, “is where does the demon come into it? What’s Morgana's next move? And,” he said, standing, starting to stack their bowls, “can we get my horses back?”
Merlin opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Yes, fine, ideally, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” he said, as if placing this goal at a much lower priority than the others. He handed over his empty bowl. Then cinched it by muttering, “They’re just horses.”
“Just—? They’re warhorses!” Arthur exclaimed. “Incredibly well trained and at peak strength! Do you have any idea how long it takes to—” He broke off as Merlin and Aziraphale exchanged a look. “Oh, come on! Lancelot, help me out.”
“Sixteen months,” Lancelot said, also standing. “Gelding to battle-ready.”
“Exactly,” Arthur grumbled. “And she took all my favourite ones.”
“I know,” Lancelot said supportively, with a brief clasp of Arthur’s arm, before helping him clear the table; abruptly, Aziraphale realised she was sitting back while the king and his first knight wandered off together to do the dishes.
Percival seemed oblivious, having found an extra morsel of bread from somewhere, and the last of the cheese.
Aziraphale looked at Merlin instead, who was watching Arthur with a sort of narrow-eyed fondness as he messed around with Lancelot at the other end of the bar. She kept her voice cautious. “Do you actually think she’s done something to the horses?”
Merlin took a thoughtful swig of his ale. “Nah,” he said, after swallowing. “I doubt it, anyway. She’s always been angry, but never cruel – not to the blameless, at least.”
“Like horses,” Aziraphale said.
“Exactly.”
“As opposed to… us,” Aziraphale said, tilting her head. “In her eyes, I mean.”
She was expecting a knee-jerk of defensiveness, or downright denial, but Merlin just inclined his chin in a subtle, acknowledging nod. “Guess there’s only one way to find out,” he said, and dusted his hands against his knees before standing.
Then he turned in a mimicry of courtly manners, extending his hand, palm up, to assist her in rising from the table. “Shall we?”
“What, ride into certain peril?” Aziraphale said, placing her hand in his and feeling her heart speed a little as his warm fingers squeezed closed. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“You don’t think she’ll order for us to be shot on sight?” Percival asked, as they readied the horses for departure. “Or to be eaten by the lake beast?”
“Ha. No,” Arthur replied. “An ignominious arrow through my sleeve, maybe. A scare. But I suspect overall she will be walking the line of politics… as will I.”
Percival looked unconvinced. “But if she hates us enough to set a demon in our dormitory and lay a curse upon your bedchamber, why should she even suffer our approach? All the way out here, no one would know…”
“I would know,” Merlin said, an edge to his voice like a shard of black ice, his fingers wrapping white-knuckled around his staff. A glimmer of gold encircled his irises. “And she knows that.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have a lake beast,” Percival muttered, his voice comically dark and yet there was a grim set to his eyes that Aziraphale had rarely seen before.
Merlin laughed, breaking the tension. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But if any harm looked as if it were about to befall any one of you, not just Arthur, I would use every trick in the book to whisk you out of harm’s way.”
“Whisk?” Percival asked, starting to smile again.
Merlin nodded solemnly. “Whisk.”
“Well in that case, bring on the lake beast!” Percival now looked enormously pleased. “I can’t wait to be whisked off by your sorcerous fingers.” He made it sound filthy.
Merlin grinned. “Now, now,” he said, as if cautioning. “There will surely be no need. They are both well-versed in the art of politics, remember?”
“Jousting with neither a sword drawn nor a staff raised,” Lancelot said.
Arthur barked a laugh. “That’s the principle. My sister may have other ideas…”
They made it on horseback as far as the approach to the dark bridge before Percival cleared his throat again. “There has long been a rumour,” he said slowly, looking around for confirmation, “that she made a deal with the Fae to protect their sacred lake.”
Lancelot made a dismissive noise. “And in exchange, arrows dipped in the water never miss," he recited, and shook his head. "It's surely an exaggeration. A fantastic tale told of a castle so remote it’s likely never even been besieged.”
“Yes, but it’s not been ransacked either,” Percival pointed out. “And that’s not for the legions of burly men stationed here, is it? There’s no army, no reinforcements to speak of, and yet...”
“Oh, come on,” Lancelot scoffed. “You can’t hold a fort with only archers.”
Percival waggled his eyebrows, mimed aiming a bow at him. “You can if they never miss.”
Lancelot laughed. “You’re making me wish we’d brought platemail!”
They had debated this at length; in the end, apart from Aziraphale, they had each added a silvery layer of chainmail over their riding leathers, with helms set aside. At a distance, the light glanced off their torsos like scales.
Aziraphale had foregone any armour at all, in deference to her role as their assistant apothecary; as they rode onto the bridge stretching across the lake to the distant castle walls, she wondered if this had been a foolish notion.
The bridge was narrow, with low walls on either side. There was something very exposing about riding across it, single-file, above the black glint of these sinister waters.
Aziraphale was at least wearing her heavy cloak, but with the hood up her peripheral vision was obscured. She wasn’t sure if this was an advantage or not. Would she rather see if something ominous and uncanny was rising from the water alongside them?
Aziraphale re-settled her shoulders a few times, missing the reassuring weight of her chainmail. She tried to take comfort in the fact that Arthur, ahead of her, seemed confident they weren’t riding into a skirmish.
And at least she wasn’t at the front. Lancelot formed the forwards guard, then Arthur, Merlin, Aziraphale, with Percival bringing up the rear behind her. Aziraphale didn’t even have a sword, just a dagger in her boot and a slender carved apothecary’s knife at her belt; the knights’ weapons were less ornamental, but even so she felt their party was lightly armed for such a daunting mission. Tentacle beasts and sorceresses ought to merit heavy armour, no? Despite Merlin’s reassuring vows of protection.
But possibly they were just riding through a dramatic landscape to visit the king’s sister following an awkward misunderstanding.
Right.
Three-quarters of the way across the bridge it widened into a circular stone enclosure, with a gate barring the way forwards. They were close to the castle now, but still too far to see inside its squat grey exterior; the gateposts towered above them, stacks of stone the breadth of three men.
The gates themselves, Aziraphale noted, were heavily armoured. The intention could not be writ clearer: only the welcome would pass this point.
Lancelot rode right up to the gate and tugged on an ornate bell-pull; there was an answering clang of metal on metal, some distance hence, that gradually faded off.
After a few moments he went to ring again, but Arthur stayed him with a raised hand and Lancelot rejoined their group instead, flanking Arthur at the front.
A few moments after that, the unmistakable sound of horses' hooves could be heard beyond the gate, approaching.
Next to Aziraphale and Merlin, a couple of feet behind the other two, Percival visibly tensed. Lancelot and Merlin were also sitting bolt upright, hands close to pommel and staff respectively.
Only Arthur did not seem at all wary; his stance was a picture of regal composure, his shoulders straight but settled.
Aziraphale was trying her best to emulate him when a small doorway within the larger gate opened, and an armoured female figure rode through on a splendid black horse.
She was dressed in polished silver plate mail, her face obscured by a closed helm, with a sheathed gold sword at her belt, its hilt bearing a large glinting gemstone. Her hands were bare of gauntlets, and her fingers on the reins looked weighty with silver rings.
As she rode through the gate towards them, time seemed to slow. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was the sunlight off her armour or some sorcerous glow, but she seemed to shine brighter the closer she came.
The figure stopped in front of them and took in their party with one haughty glance. Then, as if she had concluded that they posed no threat whatsoever, she removed her helmet. Coils of black, gleaming hair fell below her shoulders, whipping back in the wind.
Morgana did not look like a courtier – or politician. She looked like a warrior queen.
“Arthur,” she said, by way of greeting. The lack of honorific was conspicuous. There was certainly no suggestion that she might plan to curtsy.
“Morgana,” Arthur replied, matching her curt tone. “Thank you for your prompt appearance.”
Aziraphale realised she was holding herself and her horse very still; she didn’t want to draw Morgana’s attention, and lurking stationary with her hood raised felt safest.
She needn’t have worried. All of Morgana’s attention was on Arthur.
“My scouts alerted me to your approach some hours ago,” Morgana was saying, gaze fixed on her brother. “I was going to ask how you made it here so soon, but then I saw you’ve brought your tamed frán with you. Knows all the short-cuts, doesn’t he?”
Under the cover of the other two, Aziraphale looked wide-eyed at Merlin and mouthed, “Frán?”
Merlin rolled his eyes. “She is insulting me,” he murmured. “It means crow in the local tongue – she’s implying I’m Arthur’s pet bird. A childish insult. More fool her, as they are very intelligent.“
Another piece fell into place. Crowley. Aziraphale nearly swooned with impatience to get past the huge barred gates.
Arthur lifted his chin. “My dear sister,” he said, as if rising above some tiresome taunt. “Why the armour?”
Morgana’s dark eyebrows arched. “Why the armour?” she replied, in lieu of answering, gaze sweeping up and down their small assembly.
Arthur gave a charming smile. “We didn’t know what sort of welcome we hoped to receive.”
“You doubted my hospitality?” Morgana asked, sweetly.
“You fled mine in the night!”
“Hm. True,” Morgana said. “I sensed an ill wind was blowing. Dangers, amassing. Better to get my people out of there.”
“Out of Camelot,” Arthur said, his voice turning flat in an instant, bristling with disbelief.
Morgana nodded, all innocence. “Yes. To a place of safety.”
“Camelot is a—”
“Not for all,” she cut him off, and Aziraphale found a tiny part of herself, deep down, subtle, secret – cheering.
“Balderdash!” Arthur exclaimed. She had successfully exasperated him, as only a sibling could. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! The very idea that this bleak place could be safer than—”
“It’s not an idea for us – it’s history.”
“Oh, come on,” Arthur said. “Safer all the way out here? So what happened to that blighted village? They appear to have withered on your vine. Did you strike some pact with a local devil, trading their souls to line your coffers and finesse your witchcraft?”
Her eyes widened in defiance. “Nothing happened to it! Most of the men went off to seek their fortune in the south, leaving the womenfolk and infirm to rot. So I gave them shelter within my walls - sound buildings, fresh pastures for their livestock. A roof, in some cases. The weather up here can be cruel.”
“...Oh,” Arthur said, momentarily taken aback. “Well. That’s actually quite decent of you.”
Now it was Morgana’s turn to scoff. “You needn’t look like that. There are so few of us up here – why stand on the ceremony of serf and lord, vassal and liege?” She went on before he had taken a breath. “Not everything left behind is lost, you know. Sometimes - like a snake shedding its skin - what you wring your hands over is the extraneous parts.”
“I’m not wringing my hands,” Arthur said. “But without standing on ceremony, there can be no Court. Would you rather entrust yourself to the wilds, the barbarians? The snakes?”
“Than prettied-up words from venomous noblemen? Yes.”
Arthur balked at that, and Lancelot stepped smoothly in. “My Lady. Regrettable though it is that you feel this way, the chief concern that drew us here is in fact a matter of law.”
Morgana regarded him coolly. “Oh?”
Lancelot regarded her right back, implacable in the face of her displeasure, then gestured to Arthur. “Does it not surprise you to see my Lord looking so well?”
Morgana didn’t even glance in Arthur’s direction. “Should it?”
“The tapestry you gave me bore a curse,” Arthur said, as if confiding in her – or revealing a shared embarrassment.
Now Morgana looked at him. “Oh no,” she said, bland to the edge of insult. “Really? How shocking and unfortunate.”
“It laid me quite low,” Arthur admitted. “Luckily the finest minds in Camelot were able to find a cure.”
Despite everything, Aziraphale found herself concealing a small smile at that.
“What a relief,” Morgana said, giving no ground at all.
“Morgana,” Arthur said, frustration beginning to lance through his voice. “The last thing I want to do is arrest you for treason but if I have to—”
“Arrest me?! Whatever for? I had no idea about the… tapestry, did you say?” Too, too innocent.
“A likely story.”
“It wasn’t my tapestry,” Morgana said, spreading the fingers of one hand in emphatic unconcern, the rings on her fingers flashing in the sunlight as brightly as her armour. “It was nothing but a pretty trinket as far as I was concerned. Some handmaiden’s talent of embroidery. I think it was my handmaiden, actually, who found it for me – if there’s anyone you need to question, it’s probably her.”
Aziraphale bit the inside of her cheek at that easy, fluid betrayal. Her eyes swept over the golden sword on Morgana’s belt, the glinting amber gemstone in its hilt, the power seeming to radiate off her; the insouciance. Trinkets.
“Then we’ll question your handmaiden instead,” Lancelot said, as if it was all the same to him.
Morgana gave him a disdainful look. “I’m afraid that can’t possibly happen. She herself has taken most unwell.”
“She has?”
“Now there’s a thought - maybe a fiendish contact poison is to blame,” Morgana mused, eyes brightening. “Arthur… my handmaiden… maybe somebody dipped the tapestry in some vile liquor before poor Frán even picked it up! Where is it now? I can take a look, try to divine its foul origins – wearing gloves, of course. It’s the least I can do for you, under the circumstances.”
“It burned,” Arthur said shortly.
“How unfortunate,” she said, again without bothering to sound surprised. “I suppose then we’ll never know what caused you such terrible – if temporary – suffering.” She tilted her head. “You did suffer, I suppose?”
“Terribly,” Arthur confirmed, as if giving her a small gift, and Morgana lowered her lashes momentarily, as if accepting it.
Aziraphale looked between the two of them, marvelling that they almost seemed to be enjoying themselves. What cauldron of upbringing resulted in this capricious shared manner? Their conversation was like two snakes sliding through a labyrinth of brambles, catching on innumerous subterranean barbs but silken enough to wriggle free.
Lancelot did not sound affected. “It’s your handmaiden, then, that we’ll need to take into custody,” he repeated, and Morgana rounded on him, eyes flashing.
“Absolutely not. She is too sick to be moved. She looks almost to be on her deathbed.”
A cold kindling of dread fluttered in the pit of Aziraphale’s stomach, as Crowley’s voice echoed in her ears. Depleted.
“Can Merlin see her?” Arthur suggested. “He may be able to help.”
Morgana’s eyes narrowed, and she shook her head. “Out of the question. I won’t have a strange man in the castle.”
Arthur opened his mouth, stung, but Lancelot intervened again, his tone placating now, eminently reasonable. “My Lady, I’m most sorry to hear there is sickness within your walls. It’s doubtless a challenging, worrisome time. Perhaps our apothecary can assist instead?”
Morgana frowned. “Gertrude? You brought Gertrude through the lake?”
“No, no,” Lancelot said quickly, and beckoned at Aziraphale to bring her horse forwards and draw back her hood. “No, Gertrude does indeed prefer not to travel these days. But her latest apprentice is a lot more able.”
Aziraphale eased her horse into the space between Lancelot and Arthur, lifting herself up tall without squaring her shoulders in a knight’s posture, and shaking her own hair free.
She resisted the urge to squirm in the saddle as she became the immediate subject of Morgana’s focus.
“Who are you?” Morgana asked, clipped. “You look familiar.”
“You might recognise her from Camelot,” Lancelot said; he was using his most diplomatic voice again, the one that invited the listener to be lulled into dreamy acceptance. “She helped nurse the king back to health after his recent incapacity. She only accompanies us now in case he should take ill once more.”
“Angeline,” Aziraphale said politely. She felt like she could barely trust herself to breathe. “M’lady.”
Morgana wrinkled her nose, as if her meek tone was itself an irritant. “No. I thought I knew all the women at Court. That name is not familiar. But you are familiar.”
“One of the knights is my cousin,” Aziraphale ventured. Hopefully the nerves jangling in her voice could be written off as intimidation.
Recognition flared in Morgana's eyes. “Oh. Yes, that one – I see it. Is he here also? I fancy I saw him more recently.” A flutter of a frown tightened her forehead. “In a dream?”
Arthur laughed. “Dreaming of my knights, are you?”
Morgana gave him a withering look without dignifying that with an answer, and the transfer of her focus allowed something in Aziraphale’s chest to untwist.
“No,” Arthur said, resolutely unconcerned, “Sir Aziraphale is back in Camelot with the others. Means well, but he’s still a little too fresh-faced for this sort of thing. Wouldn’t want to give him nightmares.”
Aziraphale felt a tingle of alertness at being spoken about so carelessly, as if she was hearing what Arthur really thought of her. A fresh-faced innocent! Well… certainly once.
To her amazement, Arthur finished by throwing her a charming grin and then telling Morgana, “Angeline has mettle, though. I would think you’d like her.”
Again, the feeling of being talked about - this time in front of her! - sent a sparkling feeling through her belly. It must be a diversionary tactic, she thought, waiting for Morgana to dig in, to expose the lie—but Morgana had already moved on, almost insulting in her lack of interest in Arthur’s absent knight.
“Fine,” Morgana was saying, with an air of regal declaration. “She can come in. But the rest of you will leave now. There should be adequate shelter in that abandoned village, and I’ll have some provisions sent out. But while you are making such accusations I will not suffer your company inside my castle – and if I catch any of you attempting to scale the walls, it will not end well for you.”
“Ha! Indeed,” Arthur said, apparently unperturbed, while Lancelot visibly worked to accept this abrupt dismissal with good grace. “We did hear tell of your preternaturally fine archers.”
Morgana flashed him a white-toothed smile that did not reach her eyes. “If your men attempt to breach my defences,” she said silkily, “the archers will be the least of your concerns.”
From this angle, Aziraphale had a perfect view as a muscle jumped in Arthur’s jaw. But his voice was as charming as ever as he said, “What a scandalous idea! Very well. We will take our leave. Angeline—?”
Aziraphale’s head snapped up as Arthur wheeled around to draw his horse close to hers, and briefly clasped her arm beneath her cloak. “Yes?”
“I trust you we’ll see you shortly,” Arthur said to her quietly, his blue eyes intense with something unspoken. “But if you should feel truly threatened, break this.” He pressed something small and irregular shaped into her palm, closed her fingers around it, and leaned in, lowering his voice further. “Merlin carved it for me. If it’s damaged he will know it and we will come back for you, regardless of archers, lake guardians, or anything else she cares to throw at us. Do you understand?”
Aziraphale blinked. “Yes,” she said hoarsely, a deep warmth kindling at both his words and the voice in which he was murmuring them, close to her ear. She glanced down to confirm that she was holding a tiny wooden carving of a crown, and slipped it into the pocket of her apron. “Thank you, sire. I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“Even so,” Arthur said, pulling back with a small nod, giving her arm a final squeeze before letting go. At normal volume, he added cheerfully, “If you’re not back by nightfall, we will return.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said again, and took a deep breath, settling her shoulders for approximately the hundredth time today. She looked up to find Morgana watching her with an unreadable expression, which smoothed into a courtier’s artful smile when she caught Aziraphale’s eye.
“Don’t worry,” she said to Arthur, her tone bordering now on overt condescension, “you’ll have her back by sundown. Unless of course,” she added lightly, “she finds that actually, she prefers to stay.”
Beyond the gate, Aziraphale found her horse fell into step behind Morgana’s quite instinctively. Their hooves rang out in unison, clear and steady. She watched the sway of Morgana’s black hair, reaching halfway down the gleaming expanse of her armoured back, and wondered where else her instinctive reactions might take her.
At the end of the bridge loomed the castle gates proper. A female groom waited there, accepting their horses and leading them away, ducking a brisk bow to Morgana and receiving a nod in return.
Aziraphale felt a twist of dread in her stomach as she adjusted her skirts, feeling the blood race through her stiff thighs. She had a strange feeling a bow would give her away, and yet curtsying still felt as awkward as being asked to take her clothes off. Or worse, to put them back on.
She was led through another set of gates into a courtyard—well, what should have been a courtyard. Instead the huge space was bristling with wizened apple trees, sheltered from the worst of the wind, arranged around a black marble well. Beside the well stood a boulder with a hole piercing its top—empty.
Morgana was unbuckling her plate mail, piece by piece, giving it to a vaguely familiar woman who stacked it in a basket.
“Thanks, Nina,” Morgana said, rubbing the back of her neck as the last of the armour was removed, then accepting the tankard Nina proffered and draining it. “Ah. That’s better.”
“How was it?” Nina asked, with a brief glance at Aziraphale that telegraphed more disinterest than anything.
“As expected,” Morgana said, and waved at Aziraphale. “This is Angeline, one of Arthur’s… group. Angeline, Nina – my personal guard and the castle steward.”
Nina nodded at her, without smiling. She was dressed entirely in supple black leather, with her dark hair braided and drawn back from her face. She seemed like the sort of person who might withhold their judgement indefinitely. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, unconvincingly.
“Angeline is the king’s new loyal apothecary,” Morgana said.
“‘Loyal’ and ‘new’ so oft go hand in hand,” Nina said, smirking. “Where are you from?”
This was a risk. But it would be riskier still to start weaving a fresh web of lies. Aziraphale wet her lips nervously. “Castle Empyrean, originally. But I haven’t stayed there since… in a long time.”
Morgana’s eyes narrowed. “Lucius Morningstar’s seat.”
Aziraphale bristled. “Lucius Morningstar was cast out years ago.”
“Good,” Morgana said crisply. “But then that odious man took over… what was his name?”
“Gabriel?” Aziraphale suggested, a thrill zipping under her skin at this boldness.
“Yes, him,” Morgana said, eyes brightening with contempt. “No better than Morningstar, except at hiding it.”
“I… yes,” Aziraphale said, feeling as if the world was rushing hot in her ears. “That’s about the sum of it.”
“And where do you fit in?”
“I… don’t,” Aziraphale heard herself say. “That’s rather the point.” She steeled herself sharply. This was an indulgence! This was not the point of the quest! “I’m a distant cousin to Gabriel,” she hedged, trying to find her thread again. “I don’t fit in there at all. And my… my other cousin, he’s in Camelot,” she said. “He’s a knight. We were always of a similar mind. In his letters, he suggested there might be a place for me at Court. And it looks like he was right.”
“She saw off the king’s recent malady,” Morgana said to Nina, who raised her eyebrows but said nothing. “Must be somewhat accomplished.”
“Just lucky,” Aziraphale said, backtracking now. “I suppose I’m quite widely read. And Merlin—”
Morgana made a dismissive noise. “The traitor.”
“Oh, no! He’s no traitor,” Aziraphale asserted, before she could stop herself, as her mind filled with a hundred moments of Merlin’s loyalty to Arthur, to Camelot, even to herself.
“He’s a traitor to the wild,” Morgana corrected. “Using his power to uphold… that.”
Aziraphale was already emphatically shaking her head. “Merlin is a good man - he and Arthur are both good men - and—” Mercifully the expression on Morgana’s face cut her off before she could finish with, and I will not stand to hear otherwise!
Belatedly it occurred to her that she was addressing the head of this household, as a serving visitor – she could be flogged for this outburst! For far less than this!
If anything, though, the light in Morgana’s eyes was approving. “I suppose you and I have different interpretations of what it means to betray,” she said, handing the tankard back to Nina and lifting a palm as if in farewell.
Nina lightly touched her own bare palm to Morgana’s, nodded at Aziraphale, and left.
“This way,” Morgana said, beckoning her onwards down a network of corridors and then up a spiral flight of stairs.
The castle felt fairly empty, but it was not obviously in disrepair. The steps were even; there were none missing or badly cracked. The stairwell opened out into another broad corridor above, this one furnished with thick rugs. The windows had shutters, and every few paces there were a half-dozen bedrolls, tightly bound and stacked on their ends.
Morgana saw her curious look. “For the winter,” she said. “When it gets especially harsh, it is easier to heat one part of the castle and have everybody stay together, if they wish.“
Aziraphale felt her cheeks grow warm, though she wasn’t sure why. She slept in a dormitory, how was this different? But the thought of it, somehow, all those unfurled bedrolls side by side, overlapping even, no delineation of individual space or rank, huddling for warmth…
Morgana smirked at whatever Aziraphale’s expression was showing. “But this time of year, the preference is still for individual bedchambers.”
“Right! Of course.”
“Of course,” Morgana echoed, giving Aziraphale a strong sense that she was being teased again.
As they walked on, she became aware that Morgana was giving her sideways glances. “What’ve you got there?” Morgana asked eventually, nodding at Aziraphale’s neckline.
Aziraphale touched her throat nervously, fingertips encountering the smooth metal of Merlin’s amulet. “Um,” she said. “A pendant – a gift. I have a few such things,” she said quickly, lifting the smelling apple at her belt as a distraction. “This one protects against maladies and suchlike.”
Morgana laughed. “Don’t look so terrified. I’m not about to accuse you of stealing. Staff are allowed to own nice things. Or at least – the staff in my household are.”
Aziraphale swallowed. “Right,” she said, “Good.”
“Anyway,” Morgana said, nodding at a wooden door as they drew level with it. “She’s in here. Frán?” she called, through the door, rapping briskly with two knuckles. “Wake up. The king has sent you a visitor.”
Aziraphale hesitated, beset by a thousand questions that she suddenly felt she should have asked herself earlier. How much did Morgana know? Why was she even allowing this visit - as part of a greater ruse, or did she truly care about the handmaiden’s wellbeing? What did Arthur actually want Aziraphale to do here - interrogate the demon, or arrest it? And what would Crowley make of this, of her form, of her actions—would Crowley even know her like this, depleted as he was?
“But don’t take too long with your appraisal – I have to get you back to your lord before sundown, remember?” Morgana drawled, unbolting the door before pushing it open, and Aziraphale squirmed inside. Did Morgana think she and Arthur were…?
The room was grander than she had expected, with a broad four-poster bed set against one wood-panelled wall, cloaked in deep red curtains. Dotted around the room were plush chairs and tapestries - faded with age but still richer than any servants’ quarters Aziraphale had ever seen. A large copper bathtub stood by a barely-flickering hearth, the shine of it provoking in Aziraphale a distracting set of memories.
Aziraphale slowed as she walked into the room, then glanced back at Morgana to check she had the right bedchamber.
Morgana nodded.
Gingerly, Aziraphale drew back the heavy, plush curtain.
Stared.
It was the handmaiden, and she looked so unwell. Eyes sunken, skin almost translucent over a blue-grey tracery of veins, lips cracked, red hair snaggled. Cheekbones slanted so sharply above the hollows of her cheeks that her face was almost unrecognisable.
“Frán?” Aziraphale asked quietly, and in this voice the name came softer than ever, barely more than a whisper.
Nevertheless, the handmaiden stirred. Her eyelids twitched as she grimaced, drawing a painful-sounding hoarse breath, before her eyes eventually opened.
And – the eyes, those strange cat-like amber eyes. Instantly, any lingering doubt evaporated. It was Crowley; the handmaiden was Crowley. Fuck.
Aziraphale saw burgeoning recognition in Frán’s face, and let her own eyes flash a warning. Don’t use my name.
“A—” Frán started, sounding weak, confused, and then broke off. “Angel?”
Perfect filthy debauched angel.
Aziraphale swallowed against a flash of confused heat, nodding. “I’m here as the king’s apothecary. How… how are you? You do not look well.”
Frán made a faint but unmistakably exasperated noise. “I am grossly depleted,” she whispered. “Obviously. This… malady,” she added bitterly. “Strikes me harder every day.”
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said. “Can I help?” Let me help.
Frán stared for a moment, then sank back, closing her eyes. For a moment Aziraphale thought the conversation was over. And then she heard, in her mind, excruciatingly fragile, the demon’s voice, Crowley’s voice: It is too late.
Aziraphale’s pulse drummed in her ears. “Surely I can help,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard anything.
Outwardly, Frán made no movement. I am too weak to hunt.
I want to help, Aziraphale thought fiercely. She moved closer, making a show of fussing at the bedside, ensuring there was water there, smoothing a pillow. “I could return with, um, a tincture. Of herbs. And spices.”
“I think she’s sleeping again,” Morgana said helpfully.
“Mmm, yes, or worse,” Aziraphale improvised. She rummaged in the bedclothes and picked up the thin, cold, pale wrist, felt for a pulse. “No… yes. She’s wasting away. This looks, er, very similar to what happened to the king,” she lied. “Except he had a fever.” Aziraphale leant forward, laid her palm over Frán’s forehead, then nodded sagely. “No fever. Good! We may still have some time.”
With her body blocking Morgana’s line of sight, Aziraphale stroked her thumb over the concave, paper-thin skin of Frán’s temple, over the faint blue-grey throb of blood beneath.
With all her might, she thought: I will save you.
Foolish mortal, came the reply, tinny and weak, barely a scratch upon the door of Aziraphale’s mind. It is too late.
“It’s not too late,” Aziraphale said loudly, and whirled towards Morgana. “Can you fetch me honey, sage and—”
Morgana’s eyebrows shot up.
“—and actually I will fetch those things myself, of course, your Ladyship,” Aziraphale said hastily, stricken. She could feel the colour glowing in her cheeks again. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
At Castle Empyrean, a servant speaking like that to the head of the household would have been beaten if not summarily banished. Even in Camelot’s more permissive environment, the perpetrator would receive some swift form of discipline.
Yet again Morgana just looked amused. “Very well,” she said. “I will escort you to our Apothecary and you can make your attempt.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, still mortified, ducking her head to stare at her feet.
She followed Morgana out of the room, keeping a respectful few paces behind with her head still bowed. Her own words echoed in her mind. She’d slipped up badly! Even as a knight, Morgana was not her equal, but a certain informality could be seen as mild impudence rather than a punishable crime. But a servant, speaking to a Lady like that…?!
Her panic was compounded when all at once Morgana stopped her in the corridor. “Who are you?”
“What?”
“She knew you. She didn’t know many.” It sounded like Frán had already departed this life, the way Morgana phrased it. “I have not heard my handmaiden talk so freely with any other.”
They’d barely exchanged three words.
“We… got to know each other at Camelot, passing through the castle, the kitchens, you know,” Aziraphale said, waving her hand vaguely. “A bit, I suppose. Not well.”
“I see,” Morgana said, her gaze steady. Then, shrewd, “So you were a scullery maid?”
Whoops. “I started in the scullery,” Aziraphale said. “But I was keen to, er, find another occupation.”
That fired a familiar twitch in Morgana’s fine brow. “Of course,” she said. “Healing is a more respected… more protected trade. Especially in that castle, full of knights,” she added, voice cooling with disdain, “and rich men of honour. You would need all the protection you could get.”
Aziraphale gave an uneasy shrug. “I… never suffered any trouble, myself, thankfully.”
Morgana stared at her. “But I’m sure you know plenty who did.”
“Er, yes,” Aziraphale said, feeling as if she was scratching the dark underbelly of a sleeping beast. “Unfortunately. Trouble is commonplace.”
“Not here, it’s not,” Morgana said, squaring her shoulders. “I have taken great pains to eradicate that sort of trouble from my domain.”
Aziraphale squared her own shoulders. “As has King Arthur.”
Scorn flashed across Morgana’s face. “You really believe that? You worked in those kitchens. And if you’re training to be the apothecary, you’ll have seen the wounds those girls sustain. You’ll know how many discreet tinctures you have to dispense. How can you possibly say—”
“He’s better than most,” Aziraphale insisted, even as she felt like the floor was falling out from under her. “He’s noble, and kind, and—”
Morgana gave a bitter laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with him too!” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly! Do they put something in the water in that castle?! Why is every third servant so bastard loyal to my feckless brother?”
Aziraphale felt her eyes widen, and bit her tongue.
Morgana made no attempt to take back the outburst. She looked at Aziraphale’s expression, then shook her head. “Well, let me know if you change your mind,” she said. “Or mark my words – sooner or later something will happen, and you’ll be left wishing you’d escaped when you had the chance.”
“I—thank you, but I feel safe with A—with King Arthur,” Aziraphale said, folding her arms around herself. She shifted from foot to foot, desperate to get away from Morgana’s sharp, knowing gaze. “In fact, I really think I should be getting back to them.”
Morgana’s eyes narrowed. “What about your tincture?”
“Merlin,” Aziraphale said desperately. “I have a question I need to ask of him first. About—about the tincture.”
“That scheming crow,” Morgana muttered. “Fine. Off you go, hurry back to them, I’ll have your horse brought round. But Angeline,” she said, cool fingers taking up Aziraphale’s hand, pressing the knuckles in a brief moment of emphasis as Morgana looked directly into her eyes, “if your loyalty turns out to be misplaced, you know where to find me.”
Chapter 14: Day 10: ARTHUR
Summary:
For those of you wondering what Arthur and Merlin get up to behind all those closed doors.
TW: CNC (loving, devoted)
Notes:
Some plot-laced smut to tide you over while Aziraphale is grappling with the logistics of delivering what Crowley needs.
Chapter Text
No sooner had they returned to the inn, leaving Aziraphale beyond those forboding gates, than Arthur found he was extracating himself from the others' company and escaping upstairs.
He didn’t want to engage in conversation right now - not about tactics, or politics, or demons. He didn't want to lead. His mind was restless, his body twitchy and tense. He wanted… something else.
The bedchambers were still in various states of abandoned disarray - but private, a place one would not be observed.
Once certain that no one was following him upstairs, Arthur opened the parcel he’d retrieved from his own saddlebag.
He almost hadn’t brought the device with him, and then—he had. Tucked away deep in a secure leather pouch, wrapped in a soft clean cloth, with a small vial of salve to enable ease of use.
The device, as Arthur thought of it, was a solid gold teardrop that weighed heavily in the cupped palm of his hand; wide enough to make him bite his lip as it pushed inside, not quite as wide as Merlin’s cock but a dull fat pressure nonetheless. Its handle, if it could be called that, was a thick, snub golden disc that prevented the thing from slipping inside him altogether. It was fiddly, but short of asking Merlin to magically alter it there was little he could do.
Arthur had commissioned the piece years ago from an elderly goldsmith who seemed oblivious that it may be anything other than a curious ornament of wealth. Arthur had then nevertheless bribed the bemused man to secrecy with a pouch of coin that easily outweighed the device itself.
And it was, if Arthur said so himself, a thing of beauty.
They’d used it as a dare, initially, back when Arthur was still Crown Prince; a reminder of Merlin’s presence when Arthur was in dreary long council meetings with his father’s dreary old friends. It was amazing how much easier he found it to sit up straight and appear attentive to their droning when every time he shifted in his seat the stretch intensified.
But after his coronation, everything changed. The stakes rose exponentially. As the meetings Arthur sat in grew more important, and his ability to navigate them with a clear head became crucial, he and Merlin had reluctantly drawn a line between pleasure and duty. Any bruises, bite marks or rope burn were duly magicked away instead of carried beneath his clothes like secret pieces of forbidden jewellery. Gone went the polished dog’s collar worn occasionally beneath Arthur’s robes as a treat, replaced by the heavily embroidered gowns of state. Now all such activities were confined to the bedroom, and those rare other spaces where Arthur could lay the crown safely aside. Away from Court.
Well, they were away from Court now. And after that disquieting encounter with Morgana, Arthur’s mind was churning. He had a sense of history overflowing its banks, flooding the present. He needed to sift through it all for what was real, what was presumed, what was irreversibly damaged, what might be mended; the thorny intersections of malice and righteousness and fear; but right now he couldn’t think his way across a lowered drawbridge.
So much of his response to her had become instinctive reflex over the years; other feelings had ossified. In a world where Arthur was known for his level-headed discourse with all and sundry, with Morgana alone he invariably snapped. He didn’t know how she did it to him. In truth, if he really examined it, which he preferred not to do these days—Arthur didn’t like the person he became in Morgana’s presence.
He could admit that that discomfort might be why he needed this in particular. Not just the pleasure of getting Merlin on his own for once, but something a little… grittier. Something cleansing.
He would, of course, have to come back to the thoughts about Morgana, the uneasy mixture of guilt, irritation and dread that she stirred up in him. But he didn’t want to think about it right now.
He didn’t want to think about anything right now.
And so, yes, he had stolen away as soon as they returned and was now hurriedly going through his own private ritual: of sinking the device into a jar of freshly boiled water, preparing himself with the salve until it was cool enough to touch, then inserting it carefully. It was an indescribable sensation, feeling his muscles yield to rigid smooth metal and then close tightly once the bulb of the thing had been admitted. He found its heavy, sleek presence arousing and soothing in equal measure. Already, the storm of his mind was less oppressive, the turbulent clouds parting around a single shaft of light: his urgent desire for Merlin to pull the device out again with his teeth and replace it with his cock.
For when the clamour of the warring world was in Arthur’s ears, the only one who could cut through the noise was—
“Merlin,” Arthur called, walking gingerly back downstairs whilst aiming for his usual confident tread.
The ground floor was quiet; Merlin was sketching something, and looked up at his approach, while Percival and Lancelot remained engrossed in playing some simple tactical game.
“Are you free to come help sort out the bedchambers? The day’s light is fading already.”
He didn’t look at Lancelot and Percival. The flash of amusement through Merlin’s eyes was enough to illustrate his lack of subtlety.
Well, sometimes it was good to be king.
“Of course,” Merlin said, rising and following him obediently upstairs.
Arthur wet his lips, feeling the sleek pressure inside him shift with every step. Its shape ensured it remained very much at his entrance, and its widest angle sat at a tantalising depth - infuriating, even - that ensured he felt full without any risk of fulfilment.
By mutual accord they picked the largest bedroom. Again - no one would challenge this.
“Finally,” Arthur said with satisfaction, crowding into Merlin as soon as they were inside, closing the door and pressing him back against it, nuzzling his ear. “Alone.”
“Ummmm,” Merlin said, a noise of more pleasure than hesitation, then looked around the unkempt, dust-laden bedchamber in mock concern. “Aren’t we supposed to be making right the rooms?”
“Ummm,” Arthur said, matching his tone precisely. He worked his way quickly down the scratchy-glossy warmth of Merlin’s bearded jaw to the clean-shaven skin of his neck beneath. “I thought you could do that while I… do this.”
He felt the amused huff of Merlin’s breath rather than heard it.
“Good point, let’s play to our strengths,” Merlin said, spreading his fingers against the door behind him and murmuring under his breath. He used the staff much less when away from Court, Arthur had noticed, instead painting complex patterns of light with both hands. Arthur didn’t entirely understand the whys and wherefores of staff versus empty-handed magic but he was aware there were many considerations that went into it. Personally, he found the shapes and gestures of Merlin’s long fingers a lot more bewitching.
“Mmm,” Arthur hummed, opening his mouth and sucking. The taste of Merlin’s skin subtly changed as the magic ran through him, gaining a metallic edge as if the flaring gold in his eyes flashed through the rest of him as well. It left a tingling charge on Arthur’s tongue, like licking a copper penny or taking a deep breath just before a thunderstorm broke over their heads.
Arthur spared little attention for the changes in the room around them as cobwebs burned away, rugs thickened and wooden furniture began to gleam. He trusted Merlin to know what he was doing. The bed, especially.
Merlin paused, the magic stuttering like a guttering candle flame, when Arthur’s teeth grazed his neck.
“Ow,” Merlin murmured, and his hands closed on Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur was bigger but right now Merlin could lift him like a dry leaf in a breeze. Arthur shivered, wriggling closer, smiling wider.
“I won’t bruise you,” he promised, adjusting his hips in a slow sway that made the device shift deliciously inside him. “I’m just excited to get you alone…”
He tipped his head to the other side of Merlin’s neck instead, lowering his mouth again with the softest kisses this time, designed only to tease.
Sure enough, Merlin shivered and shoved closer, fitting their hips together. “I thought you… wanted to get me alone… to talk,” he said, ingenuous now, as hitches of breath broke up his words. “You looked most… concerned.”
“Nope,” Arthur said, feeling like the device was glowing inside him. He wanted Merlin’s hands on him, exploring him, finding it. He wanted to watch the moment Merlin realised what Arthur really wanted.
“Aziraphale hasn’t encountered any trouble, at least – not enough to break the crown you gave her.”
“Good,” Arthur said, increasing his efforts to get Merlin to grind against him.
Infuriatingly, Merlin swayed away from him. Teasing, Arthur realised. “What do you think she’s doing?” Merlin mused. “Do you think Morgana’s trying to win her over?”
“Don’t know,” Arthur muttered, pressing him back against the door and dipping his mouth lower, taking a collarbone gently beneath his teeth. “Don’t want to think about that right now,” he said, and gave it a suggestive suck.
“I wish I knew,” Merlin said, drawing the words out thoughtfully. “She was so eager to go investigate this demon of hers. At this rate, I’ll almost be more concerned if she hasn’t pair-bonded with it—going to these great lengths out of mere duty seems selfless even for one of your loyal recruits.”
“I’m sure Lancelot would have something to say about that,” Arthur said, muffled against Merlin’s skin. He was working his way back up Merlin’s throat, enjoying how Merlin tilted his jaw now to give him easier access.
“I daresay he could muster a whole speech.”
“You could just ask her,” Arthur reminded him, finding Merlin’s earlobe and giving it a playful tug with his teeth.
“Mmm, yes,” Merlin hummed, gratifyingly responsive now, and then, a moment later, as if remembering himself, “no! No, I don’t want to ask, I want her to tell me. You know what she’s like. If I ask her directly she’ll panic and dig herself deeper.”
Fuck, Arthur was so aroused now, he felt like he might explode. And Merlin was still musing about Aziraphale and the blasted demon! Arthur needed to bring him closer to his own state of mind. He drew back to give Merlin a sly grin. “Unless we made sure to be especially… persuasive.”
“Ha! As diplomatic strategies go, sire, this sounds unwise. Reckless, even.”
“Lucky I have my chief advisor to set me right…”
He felt Merlin’s fingers close into a fist in his hair and yank backwards, exposing his neck. Getting tired of his toying, perhaps. Hopefully.
“My lord,” Merlin said pointedly, trailing the words along Arthur’s jaw as Arthur panted and squirmed. “Allow me to caution against letting this rule your head in this matter.” His other hand closed around Arthur’s cock through his trousers and gave it a knowing squeeze.
“Very… wise… counsel,” Arthur muttered, as the simple touch flared heat along the same pathways the device was pressing, making him ache. He dropped his voice further, feeling half-wild with pent up eagerness. “Why not hurry up and make the bed so you can fuck me on it?”
“Hush,” Merlin laughed, but he was restlessly grinding against him now. “It’s getting dark - no doubt Aziraphale will be back soon. And that bed is creaky and flimsy. Do you really want to set the cartwheel swinging downstairs?”
“Mm, why not,” Arthur said, letting his words turn as husky as they wanted. He judged the pause. “What better time to get caught in the act?”
Merlin made an appreciative noise. Years of conducting themselves under strict secrecy had given them a shared weakness for the idea of being caught - which absolutely could not be indulged, on pain of immediate scandal - but teasing each other with it held a familiar piquancy.
Arthur imagined Aziraphale’s keen eyes growing round as she took in the sight of them, and groaned softly.
He’d been expecting to feel less attracted to Aziraphale’s female counterpart, but she was proving still to be a distraction indeed; fearsome and luscious, with those same enthralling eyes. He’d seen her looking at Merlin, felt her turn the same heavy-lidded expression in his direction, and in Lancelot’s, and Percival’s for that matter. She gave an air of a hungry knave trying to choose between several laden plates of food, trying to calculate how many they could consume at once and if they could return for second helpings.
He… didn’t blame her.
Now, he let himself imagine her stumbling upon them, perhaps as Merlin bent him over the bed and breached him fully from behind, one palm clamped across his mouth to muffle his moans. How flushed she’d surely become, how flustered—or maybe her eyes would darken, maybe she’d silently step forwards and close the door behind her, lean her ample hip against the doorframe, watch. He was fairly certain she’d been watching them from behind her dressing screen. She’d definitely been watching them across the fire.
“I can’t help but think she might enjoy that,” Merlin said hoarsely, proving yet again how their thoughts ran quicksilver with each other.
Arthur leaned in. “Go on…”
“The way she looks at you,” Merlin said, turning so that his lips lingered against Arthur’s without quite turning into a kiss. “It’s quite something. If she caught us in bed, how long before she joined us on it?”
Arthur grinned at him, then darted in to press their mouths together. “Mere moments,” he said, when he drew back, “if the way she looks at you is any measure.”
“And then she’d bang the floor to summon the others,” Merlin said, smirking now, leaning in to trace Arthur’s lower lip with his tongue.
Fuck, Arthur needed him so badly, wanted that warm wet drag of Merlin’s pointed tongue over even more sensitive areas. He found his voice with difficulty. “There are worse ways to spend an evening.”
“Just like old times.” Merlin sounded unmoved but their next kiss was deeper, more lewd, a ferocity lapping at the edges as their winding discussion sighted its summit.
A cavalcade of images slid through Arthur’s mind, of the headlong insensible debauchery they used to - used to! - indulge in, before matters of the heart and the state highlighted the recklessness of such pursuits.
“Might be an excellent exercise to build loyalty and d-devotion,” Arthur said, struggling now to string the words together. “I can lead by—example.”
“With your legs apart.”
“Yes,” Arthur hissed, shoving closer again.
Merlin’s next breath shuddered out, but his voice was still deceptively light. “I don’t know if Lancelot would participate without Guinevere.”
“He could just watch,” Arthur said, though privately he thought Guinevere was unlikely to mind. She was an unconventional sort. Which was the only way the whole arrangement could have had any hope of working. “Provide… direction.”
“Good point well made,” Merlin quipped, catching Arthur’s wrist and drawing his hand down to the front of his britches. The promising broad bulge there, familiar as it was enticing, made Arthur’s mouth water. “But you’ve got me so hard don’t think I can wait for Aziraphale’s return.”
“Pity,” Arthur said, squeezing and enjoying the flashing darkness in Merlin’s eyes, then gave in to temptation, catching Merlin’s wrist in turn and drawing it around behind him. “You wouldn’t need to go slow…”
Merlin smoothed his hand appreciatively over the curve of Arthur’s buttock, smiling, and then his eyes narrowed as Arthur encouraged him to delve further, to stroke down the crease of his arse through his britches.
“Oh,” Merlin purred, as his fingertips encountered the hard edge of gold. “I didn’t know you brought this.”
Arthur nodded, answering the unspoken questions with his eyes. Yes, he had brought it. Yes, he wanted this badly enough to have taken that risk. Yes, please.
“But I don’t think bending you over that creaky bed would be subtle at all.”
“Fuck subtle,” Arthur whispered, just for the thrill of being corrected, and he saw that now Merlin heard his true meaning loud and clear.
“No, Arthur,” Merlin said, his voice immediately taking on the velvety mantle of command. Arthur shivered again, getting almost painfully hard. Almost nobody used his name these days, it was all sire this and my liege that. And absolutely nobody else spoke his name in this tone. “You will kneel for me instead.”
Anything. Arthur scrambled to his knees, dropping hasty kisses onto Merlin’s hipbones and furred belly on the way down, pulse racing now. Merlin’s hands were already at his own waistband, easing himself out, the thick length of his cock red and gleaming.
Arthur squeezed down on the device inside himself, feeling it twitch inside him with the force of his excitement as he lowered his mouth onto Merlin’s cock. The taste of it still thrilled him, after years, after thousands of moments like this—the salt-sweet burst of anticipation across his tongue.
Merlin’s hand smoothed over the back of his head, nudging himself into Arthur’s mouth, and starbursts exploded behind Arthur’s eyes. Yes, yes, yes. What mattered now was this - doing whatever Merlin wanted - showing him how much he wanted it. Down on his knees and grateful for it, nothing and nobody else demanding his attention.
Arthur made soft eager noises as he explored Merlin’s cock, licking every inch he could reach before sucking as much of it inside as he could. Straining his jaw, and, again, yes. He couldn’t get enough of this, it was a feast for him, the size of it challenging even as he did his best to provide satisfaction.
It amused him now that he hadn’t realised how well-equipped Merlin was until they started having occasional encounters with other men. Maybe Merlin was indeed, as the rumours would have it, part Fae himself. Though—he denied it, and Arthur believed him. So maybe at some point early in their acquaintance there had been a golden flash in Merlin’s eyes as he adjusted his proportions to perfectly match Arthur’s requirements. Or maybe every inch of him was raw, natural, unenhanced magician. Whatever it was, Arthur loved Merlin's cock almost as much as he loved the man himself.
He was letting it show in his face, closing his eyes and bobbing his head, building a rhythm of suction until he could feel the answering slide in Merlin’s hips—when Merlin yanked him backwards by his hair.
Arthur made a wounded noise, opening his eyes and panting up through parted wet lips.
“I can’t concentrate, knowing you have that device inside you,” Merlin told him quietly, with an expression of faint admiration. “Well played.”
Arthur could feel his own eyes darkening, tried to keep his voice even. “I thought you didn’t want to make the bed squeak.”
“I’ll have you on the bare floorboards instead,” Merlin said, and Arthur swallowed against a rush of arousal so dark it made his head spin. He was already kneeling; he turned away from Merlin and went down on all fours, pushing down his britches with one hasty hand, exposing himself fully before he could second-guess himself. He wanted Merlin to see it.
Exposed from waist to mid-thigh, his head started to whirl.
His knees were slightly cushioned by the rug. His palms were braced against the hard, bare floorboards. He stared at the rings on his fingers, those symbols of wealth and power, shining against the dusty grey floor. This was perfect. He was throbbing all over, his cock straining between his legs, his arse clenching around the warm, hard metal.
“Irresistible,” Merlin said, tracing one fingertip around the rim of the golden base, then tapping it sharply.
Arthur groaned.
“Hush,” Merlin said, kicking Arthur’s knees apart and then reaching forwards and pressing his face against the floor. Holding him there, he said, “Take it out for me.”
Arthur whined in his chest, cock starting to leak. He reached back blindly, fingers unsteady on the flat, wide gold button that formed the base of the device. He managed to ease it out, shuddering at the keening hollow sensation that followed. He couldn’t explain it but he felt like the world might end if he was forced to tolerate, for even five more seconds, this excruciating emptiness.
“Good,” Merlin said shortly, crowding over him, and pressed the crown of his cock against Arthur’s twitching hole.
Arthur groaned again, stuffed his fist against his mouth, mumbled, “Please,” around his own knuckles.
Merlin also knew when not to tease. “Yes,” he whispered, pushing his cock inside, making Arther stretch around the full length of it in one silken stroke. The toy had been as warm as his body but this was hot, a pulsing, living demand. Arthur bit down on his knuckles hard enough to cry out, and rocked back against it, a flush of pleasure filling his body, powerful enough to wipe out any discomfort of the body and mind both. There was just this fullness, this submission, his face pressed against the dusty hard floor as Merlin fucked him, holding his hips steady and giving it to him in short ruthless strokes.
“I’ll finish you off afterwards,” Merlin said, though they both knew this was unlikely to be necessary. “Right now I—just need to—use you.”
“Like a…” Arthur panted, prompting.
“Stablehand,” Merlin said, with a particularly brutal thrust that filled him to the brim. He pulled out with excruciating slowness, slow enough that Arthur could imagine every thick inch reappearing as his hole tightened helplessly around it, fighting the empty sensation again. “That I caught—stealing the king’s coin.”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur gasped, slipping readily into the story, his whole body tingling with anticipation. “Please, stop, I’m sorry—”
“You can work it off in trade,” Merlin said, fucking him with just the tip, in and out, making his anticipation soar. “Warm my bed for a week and I won’t report you.”
“Ah, no, fuck, stop, don’t do this—”
“No.”
“Please, I beg you—”
“You can beg all you like,” Merlin snarled, his own voice starting to show its strain, “just make sure no one hears you.”
“Or…”
“Or I’ll have to get one of the knights to plug you at the other end,” Merlin said, and Arthur experienced a full-body shudder of pleasure that almost made him abandon the role entirely.
“No, please,” he managed, voice breaking, “don’t,” and Merlin gave in and shoved in deep, fucking him hard and fast, rougher now, crushing his hips back against Merlin’s body with every stroke.
“Shut up and take it,” he growled, and then, as the force of his thrusts increased, “ah, fuck, Arthur—”
The certain knowledge that Merlin was nearing the brink, was going to finish in his arse, was going to use him mercilessly until he swelled harder and filled him with his come—worked its usual magic. Arthur cocked his hips more and almost wept with how good it felt, being taken roughly, nothing withheld, and then he felt one of Merlin’s hands plunge between the sweaty planes of his stomach and thighs. Merlin grasped Arthur’s cock in his firm hot wonderful fingers, stroking it for the few velvet-coated seconds Arthur needed before his whole world erupted. He groaned against his knuckles and shoved back against Merlin’s hips, and Merlin met him, sheathing himself fully, his cock flexing hard in Arthur’s arse as he came.
Arthur squeezed himself tighter around the sensation of it, loving the low moan that elicited, wringing every last shudder out of him, until Merlin collapsed over his back, hands flailing now.
“Fuck,” Merlin whispered, with a sweaty nuzzle of the back of Arthur’s neck, stroking his sides, his shoulders. “All is well?”
This was a phrase they used that meant, oh, so much more.
“All is well.” Arthur mumbled the customary reply, and lapsed back into soft panting.
His head was gloriously empty of words, of politics, of problems.
After a while he became vaguely aware of Merlin pulling out of him, steering him to standing, and murmuring a few familiar words. A soothing magic enveloped him, one that cleansed the skin and healed the body, clearing teeth marks and scratches alike, removing any telltale signs of swollen lips or beard burn.
“Hm,” Arthur said, smiling, as he felt a split inside his lip heal. “I wish you didn’t have to.”
Merlin raised one eyebrow, his eyes still flickering golden. “Hasn’t Lancelot suffered enough? You know he has excellent hearing. Would you torture him with the vision of your bruised mouth too?”
Arthur laughed softly, pushed a hand through his hair. “True.”
Merlin leaned up and brushed his lips ever so softly against the freshly healed spot. “Besides,” he whispered. “Some sights are only for me.”
A pleasant, heady feeling shuddered through Arthur at that, at Merlin’s unmistakably possessive tone. For all their games, their teasing words, their history of shared bedchambers, the particulars of this dark charge lay only between the two of them.
They righted their clothing, then once fully dressed Merlin swayed closer to him again, taking his face in both hands and kissing him properly this time. “That was… unexpected.”
“Mm. I needed it though. Thank you.”
“Any time,” Merlin said, with another slow kiss. Then, inevitably: “Want to tell me what tumult needed clearing from your head?”
Arthur winced as he sat on the freshly-made bed, then cracked a smile as it creaked in loud protest beneath him. “Three guesses.“
“Hm,” Merlin said, wandering over to him and ticking off his fingers. His eyes were their usual piercing green once more. “It’s either Aziraphale, Morgana or your father.”
Arthur laughed out loud. “Or all three.”
“Well, you can leave Aziraphale to me,” Merlin said. “I have no doubt she’s still hiding something, but I’ll impress upon her the gravity of the situation—I’m sure she will show us with her actions, if not her words.”
Arthur looked at him in open gratitude. “Thank you.” Ceding that tangle of mixed messages to Merlin did help.
Merlin looked at him expectantly. “And…?”
Arthur gave an uneasy shrug. “I’m not sure you can take on the rest of it for me, unfortunately. It…” He sighed, feeling the truth well up. “It brings it all back. Seeing her, arguing with her. I remember how she was with my father, and… now she’s exactly the same with me.”
He wasn’t sure why it unsettled him so much, but it felt like an ugly bruise being struck. It had seemed so straightforward when they were growing up, with Uther wearing the crown: their father’s manner was gruff, his approval simply won or lost depending on obedience. When his orders displeased Morgana she raged against him, and from the sidelines Arthur could easily see how fruitless this was. Their disagreements were over things too huge to be changed: Uther’s loathing of magic, his sentencing of Morgana’s mother, the way he ruled his kingdom and chose his allies.
If only she would pick smaller battles, Arthur remembered thinking, then their father might be more reasonable…
But then he came to the crown himself, and suddenly found he was the unreasonable one. And when it was his own orders and ideas she was undermining, it felt different.
Personal, bitter; her words would strike a fierce vein of defensiveness that overtook his tongue before he could prepare his reply. Was it because they were siblings? Some curious alchemy that obliterated his ability to craft a measured response? Or was it something about her nature, the scorn she’d heaped upon him for as long as he could remember, the fact that she seemed to be the only person in the kingdom incapable of trusting his judgement?
He found his voice again. “I just remember we seemed never to agree, even when I thought our values were not opposed. She wanted me to make sweeping changes to the Court – things that were absurd, or simply unaffordable. And she wanted me to snub half our powerful allies because of rumours they had behaved dishonourably to their wives or servants. She didn’t accept that I was trying to build a Court where nobody behaved dishonourably, and for that to succeed we needed allies.” She had looked at him like he was a monster when he said this.
Merlin sighed. “I recall it was a challenging time.”
“Putting it lightly. And then… everything with the Baron. We were fighting on five fronts, and she came and demanded her betrothal - which my father had made a political priority! - be set asunder. Not just postponed again, but abandoned in its entirety.”
Merlin winced. “She does have a gift for picking the worst possible moment.”
“Well, there could never have been a good time for that request,” Arthur said grimly—but even as the words left his mouth he could hear how obstinate he sounded. He rushed on, unsure of who he was trying to convince: “It was simply impossible! To shake the foundations of every allegiance we had left, by proving myself to be so changeable, so false - undermining my own father’s will – it was unthinkable.”
Merlin said nothing.
Arthur cringed. “Look, I wish people could marry whoever they want - of course I do! More than she could ever know.” For a moment he couldn’t meet Merlin’s eye. “But the truth of it is, few do. And for the good of the kingdom…”
He blew out a frustrated breath, then lapsed into silence. With the cruel details he knew now, in the calm sobriety of hindsight, a deep regret in this matter was blossoming.
He chose his words carefully. “I understand now why she took matters into her own hands. But at the time, I had no idea why she left, because—” Despite himself, his voice went thin with incredulity. “—she’d given the Baron to the Fae and wiped him from the mind of the Court. I even went after her, do you remember? At a time when I could hardly be spared, I rode to her stronghold, and yet… my mind was not my own. I don’t remember anything about this place. She must have done it again.”
Merlin’s brow crinkled with long-undisturbed memory. “You came back… with a sword.”
“I—yes,” Arthur said, an image of ornate silver steel flashing through his mind before turning to mist. “There was a sword, wasn't there? But I don’t… recall. Anything more. Except that she was so angry, she refused to come back with me. And then the next winter – the floods.”
“And then the Fae inside our walls,” Merlin said, his eyes narrowing.
“And then more war,” Arthur said helplessly. Merlin’s hand slipped onto his forearm, squeezing. “It was interminable. And even after you—” He looked up, covered Merlin’s hand with his own. “—Did what you did, and the hostilities settled down, we still had so much rebuilding to do. And everything with Morgana somehow turned into… history.”
Merlin pressed his lips together. “You were immersed in the problems in front of you,” he said, matter-of-fact, “and she, well, she wasn’t in front of you. She was here.”
It sounded like absolution, but from the wrong source, and Arthur abruptly realised that that was what he was seeking. Just, not from Merlin. From Morgana.
Well that was certainly going to be an uphill battle.
He groaned softly, massaging his brow. “I do want to make amends, but I don’t want to lose anything we’ve built. And I can’t just… change everything. I can’t adopt her way of doing things, it’s not practical.”
“You don’t want to fill the lakes around Camelot with a variety of vengeful sea creatures?” Merlin asked innocently. “How very uninspired.”
Arthur managed a wan chuckle. “I know, I’m growing dreadfully dull in my old age.”
Merlin flashed him a smile. “I’m sure we can keep things interesting. But seriously,” he added, swaying against him, pressing their shoulders together, “you’re the king. You did what you thought was right, because that’s what you always do. And if your sister wants to debate with you, fine, we can welcome that. But if it’s just about sabotaging your rule…” He shook his head. “Then there’s nothing to discuss.”
There was a noise downstairs, a muffled scraping of chair legs.
Merlin cocked his head, listening. “Sounds like our apothecary is back. Want to, you know, assume the position…?” He nodded at the floor, quirking an eyebrow, and Arthur recalled with a flush of warmth everything they had just done.
“Oh, absolutely,” he drawled, playing along. “Where do you want me? Can you go again so soon?”
Merlin swatted him on the arm. “The cheek of it,” he crowed, then smirked and leant in to speak low into Arthur’s ear. “Never doubt how much the thought of fucking you turns me on, my lord. If you want me to go again, I will be more than ready.”
A telltale pulse of heat dived into the base of Arthur’s stomach, and he jumped to his feet before it could get out of hand. “We should go downstairs!”
Merlin’s smile gleamed again. “At once, sire. Whatever you say.”
Chapter 15: Night 10 - The Reckoning
Summary:
Aziraphale will do anything if it means Crowley will survive the night. Even that.
CW: tentacle porn
Notes:
In view of this potentially not being everyone’s cup of tea, I am making this chapter Entirely Skippable. XD
I do suggest reading the first 2 scenes as highly plot relevant (I’ll put some 🖤🖤🖤 to remind you to jump away). Or, skip to the end notes for a spoiler summary of the plot-relevant content. I’ve also put the next chapter straight up.
For those game to continue, this is the tentacle porn chapter you thought you were getting earlier.
Full CW
TW: sadist tendencies, masochistic tendencies, minor blade play, marking / branding, non con tentacle bondage & porn, forced orgasm, general creeping sense of dread
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
AZIRAPHALE
Dusk was falling as Aziraphale rode back to the village. A dull orange glow of firelight escaped around the inn’s window shutters, throwing the surrounding overgrowth into fantastical relief. The sense of entering a fairy tale only heightened as Aziraphale tapped at the door with her knuckle, and it swung slowly open.
Percival and Lancelot were sitting at a small table playing some game involving, it seemed, a handful of small coloured stones and a wooden stick; Percival was winning, if his triumphant little chuckles were anything to go by.
Lancelot looked up as Aziraphale approached. “Ah,” he called. “Just in time to witness my ignominious defeat.” He saw Aziraphale glancing around for the others, and nodded at the ceiling. “They’re upstairs.”
“Enter at your own risk,” Percival said, grinning and waggling his eyebrows, though his eyes were still focused on the arrangement of pieces on the table, calculating.
“Umm, I’ll wait,” Aziraphale said, drawing up a chair next to Percival’s and studiously not allowing herself to imagine what might be unfolding upstairs. “Go on then, teach me.”
Over the next few moves, they outlined the rules; in full sentences at first, then more distractedly, then trailing off entirely.
Percival threw down a handful of stones, decisively moved the stick, and beamed.
Lancelot groaned and pushed up from the table. “I yield,” he declared, clutching his chest as if wounded.
Percival nudged Aziraphale with his elbow as he started collecting the various pieces into small heaps. “So dramatic! He should have been a bard.”
“But then we’d have to listen to his poetry,” Merlin said, from the doorway, walking into the room with Arthur on his heels. “Surely you wouldn’t wish such a grievous fate upon us all.”
They didn’t look conspicuously dishevelled, though both had slightly tousled hair. The chainmail was long gone and their undershirts looked soft, unlaced at the throat, but there was no obvious sign that they’d recently been undressed or… otherwise occupied. No bruises, red marks or scratches, or—Aziraphale realised she was scanning all their exposed skin and made herself stop.
“Aziraphale, you’re back,” Arthur said warmly, drawing up a chair. He sat, crossing his long legs at the ankle. “What news from within the witch’s lair?”
Merlin shot him a reproving look.
“What?” Arthur demanded cheerfully. “She left me for dead! Again!” Despite these words, he seemed to be in a particularly good mood.
“I don’t protest her innocence,” Merlin said, his reply containing a delicate touch of admonishment, “but I’d sooner you took issue with her abject villainy than her witchcraft.”
Aziraphale half-expected an eye-roll from Arthur at Merlin’s lecturing tone, but instead Arthur gave a rueful little groan. “Ah, I forget myself,” he said, grabbing Merlin’s hand and kissing the back of it, looking up at him with his lips still brushing his knuckles. “My apologies.”
Merlin stared down at him, visibly suppressing a smile. “It’s just a matter of—” he began.
“No, no, you are absolutely right,” Arthur declared, enjoying himself now. He grinned and then in one quick movement dragged Merlin down onto his lap. “I am in your debt - without your counsel I’d surely turn into my hide-bound father.”
“Oi!” Merlin’s protesting squawk was uneven with laughter.
“Aziraphale,” Arthur continued solemnly, as if he weren’t now holding a lapful of vigorously struggling magician, “What news from the villainess’ lair?”
A pang of something sharp stole Aziraphale's breath—she had to take a moment to collect herself. Even if she managed to free Crowley from his current predicament, it was impossible that they would ever have something like this, something that might eventually be revealed to trusted companions. Wasn’t it? She was deluding herself! A demon and a knight - preposterous.
And yet, a tiny voice insisted, Frán had passed unnoticed through the Court for weeks, hadn’t she? If she agreed… and could be freed from Morgana’s hold over her… and if it was possible to sustain her here… and if she didn’t get sucked back into Hell after the twelve nights had passed… or if Aziraphale could summon her again… then maybe? Was it really more far-fetched than a sorcerer and his king?
Altogether too many ifs for optimism.
Merlin had used her hesitation to wrench free of Arthur’s embrace and perch himself on his own chair, making a show of straightening out his jerkin, as if every flick and tug of fabric restored another lost scrap of dignity.
Aziraphale made a similar internal effort to pull herself together. “I saw it,” she said to Arthur. “The demon - its daytime appearance, anyway - it is the handmaiden, as we suspected.” Her voice threatened to waver as she recalled exactly what she had seen. “And she did look… moribund.”
Merlin nodded, his eyes sober again. “Hardly surprising, if she hasn’t fed since leaving Camelot.”
“She seems to be being cared for well enough, though,” Aziraphale ventured, lest they get the idea Morgana had her handmaiden trussed up in a dungeon somewhere. It had all felt much subtler than that. Her own feelings, more complicated. Aziraphale shuddered, feeling two ideas collide inside herself: during their conversations together, Morgana had seemed so reasonable, and Arthur the dangerous one. And yet now all Aziraphale could recall was that translucent skin, those emaciated cheeks. “She was held in comfort, being tended to - seemingly without cruelty.”
Arthur looked unconvinced. “Yet starved and captive,” he said bluntly. “A songbird in a polished cage is no less a prisoner.”
Aziraphale thought again of Frán’s hollow-eyed expression - too weak to hunt - and all at once the strange ambivalence she’d felt towards Morgana crystallised. “Yes,” she said vehemently. “We mustn’t forget that.”
From the expressions around the room, no one else had.
“Absolutely not,” Arthur agreed. “And we’re sure there’ve been no deaths since Escanor?”
“None reported,” Merlin said.
“So it must be at least… five nights starved?” Arthur said, frowning as he counted.
Aziraphale pretended to consider that as well, as if she hadn’t been counting the days since they had been parted. The last time that Crowley had definitely been replenished, in the flesh - quite literally - had been four nights ago, with Aziraphale writhing on top of him. He’d been fully impaled, Crowley’s hands encircling his waist and gripping tight as he pounded his release deeply into Aziraphale's arse. Fuck, that felt like an extraordinarily long time ago.
“At least five nights,” Aziraphale said hoarsely, wondering privately if her subsequent imaginative efforts had provided any substantial difference. A snack, surely, if not a full meal. And there would have been more a few mere hours ago, if she hadn’t been so rudely interrupted this afternoon! “Since she… fed.”
“Demons would usually return to Hell rather than endure starvation in this realm,” Merlin said. “Morgana must have her bound to this form by some exacting Fae contract.”
Aziraphale thought of Crowley’s sweeping generalisations, the impulsive heat governing his actions, how tempestuous he could be, following his temptations wherever they led. She couldn’t imagine Crowley diligently combing through a clever contract’s verbose wording. The temptation of the proffered quota – so generous, twelve souls for him to reap night after night, for the fraction of power that Morgana had wanted him to bleed into her magical items – overpowering all logic.
Any bargain with the Fae will benefit their interests over yours ten-fold.
“What happens if she starves to death?” Arthur asked.
“Presumably she’ll go back to Hell,” Aziraphale said, trying to conceal how miserable that thought made her, before realising Arthur had been addressing Merlin instead.
“Ah, no. She will become a wraith,” Merlin said, with a pointed glance at Aziraphale. “Undead demon – all the power, none of the free will. Wraiths don’t need to be replenished, nor can their hunger ever be sated. They are at the beck and call of their master, to reap indiscriminately at their command.”
Aziraphale felt her own gaze turn steely. “What?”
“Few of us have the power to hold a demon against its will long enough to starve it, but from everything you’ve said, and Morgana’s obvious vigour today - that’s surely her plan. There’s probably some hidden stipulation in their contract, designed to be missed.”
“We can’t let this happen,” Arthur said immediately, and Aziraphale felt a surge of hope before he continued, “unless you have enough power to wrest the wraith away from Morgana afterwards?”
“I doubt it,” Merlin was saying, while Aziraphale stared at Arthur in unfolding horror. “But I could banish it back to Hell and bar it from ever making its return.”
Arthur nodded grimly. “That may be the safest option.”
Aziraphale felt as dully stunned as if she’d taken a blow to the chest. And yet… on some level this moment had been inevitable. Part of her had always known that Arthur saw Crowley as, at best, a potential asset - and at worst, a weapon too powerful for Morgana to be allowed to keep - but hearing it put so plainly was somehow a percussive shock through her breastbone.
“Unless there’s some aspect we’re overlooking,” Merlin was saying, looking at Aziraphale, the intensity of his gaze suddenly intolerable.
Aziraphale’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. She felt too bruised to reply; words deserted her as her thoughts flew. She wanted to say, yes, damn it, there are so many aspects you’re overlooking! She wanted to make some cutting remark about how Morgana was just as convinced as Arthur that she was doing the right thing, that her justice was correcting a deep wrong - for the greater good. That Morgana was just as charismatic and compelling as Arthur, that they were two sides of the same royal coin, brought up on lofty speeches and watching maps getting redrawn without considering the real cost whenever a line was erased or struck through.
She wanted to say, the aspect you’re overlooking is that this demon is more dear to me than you could understand.
“What if I can prevent it becoming a wraith?” was all she said.
Arthur’s attention snapped back to her. “How?”
Aziraphale refrained from answering specifically. “I have an idea—I’ll need to go back tonight.”
Merlin and Arthur exchanged a glance; Arthur shook his head. “Out of the question, I’m afraid. Because,” he added quickly, when Aziraphale drew herself up in outrage, “Morgana won’t allow overnight visitors, no matter who it is. The gate will have been locked and barred at sundown.”
“She might let me back in, though,” Aziraphale said, remembering Morgana’s words at their parting, the unmistakable sly note of invitation.
Merlin’s expression was grave. “No. Arthur’s right,” he said bluntly. “Since she doesn’t actually want to save the demon, she has no incentive to let you back in now it’s finally weakening. And we have no legitimate reason to demand it.”
“But—but she has to let me come back,” Aziraphale said, her sense of horror growing rapidly. She couldn’t have come all this way only to lose Crowley for want of a few measly hours! “There must be a way to convince her!”
Arthur and Merlin shared an apologetic grimace. “I doubt it.”
“If it were just my word,” Arthur said, spreading his hands, “I’d let you lead the charge.”
“But it would be a charge in the dark against an iron-barred gate,” Merlin finished, his hands a mirrored entreaty to Arthur’s, and for a moment looked like he was going to say more.
Aziraphale set her jaw. “Then there’s nothing else for it. You’re going to have to send me back into Morgana’s dream.”
As the evening crept towards the awaited witching hour, Percival and Lancelot went to bed. “Best that someone be alert for first light, just in case,” Lancelot had said, before heading upstairs.
Percival popped back down again moments later, jovially aggrieved. “Oi, Merlin! There are at least half a dozen rooms up there, and you’ve done three. You couldn’t have stretched to separate beds?”
“Ah, sorry,” Merlin said, straight-faced. “Got distracted. Will it be a problem?”
Percival shot an expectant look at Arthur, who raised his eyebrows very slightly and said nothing.
Percival transferred his gaze to Aziraphale. Glad of a distraction, she tilted her head as if considering. “There’s just a single narrow bed in my room, so unless you think we should swap…”
“That won’t be necessary,” Lancelot called down, out of sight but clearly within hearing distance.
“I’m not an inexhaustible font of power, you know,” Merlin said, his voice bland. “We almost wound up with two rooms between us… Then what a quandary we’d be in.”
Aziraphale blinked, picturing it.
Percival’s eyes also momentarily widened. “Ah! Yes… fair enough, good point. In that case - Lance, I’m having the pillow!”
“I’ll wrestle you for it,” Lancelot’s voice came, bone dry.
Percival made a noise in his throat somewhere between a growl and a laugh, and bounded off back upstairs. “Oh no you don’t!”
The door clattered closed behind him. Arthur, Merlin and Aziraphale shared a contemplative silence as the sounds of a tussle broke out, heavy footfalls and thuds migrating across the distant ceiling.
Then Aziraphale looked curiously at Merlin. “Is that true?”
Merlin favoured her with a crooked grin. “That I’m not inexhaustible? Definitely true.”
“And… the other part?”
Merlin declined to elaborate.
Upstairs, the thuds died away. “Oh good,” Arthur said mildly. “They’ve come to an agreement.
Merlin smirked. “Or an impasse.”
Aziraphale pressed her lips together, and said nothing.
Outside, the wind howled suddenly, and an owl hooted three times.
Merlin was looking dubious again. “Just to be clear,” he said. “You’re absolutely positive you want to go back into the ‘bleak, inhospitable nightmare of a rage-infested lake’?”
Aziraphale winced as her own words brought up a deep ripple of dread. Nevertheless. The image of Frán huddled down in the big bed had been clawing at the insides of her eyelids all evening. She couldn’t imagine a minute’s rest if she didn’t try something. “Yes.”
It felt different, preparing the spell in the rustic spaces of the inn, Merlin and Aziraphale kneeling on the straw mat before the hearth; it was significantly less comfortable than on the plush hearth rug of a royal bedchamber. Still, somehow Merlin still seemed to have all the relevant bits and pieces to arrange just so.
“These represent the heartswood,” Merlin was explaining, placing the small cups, “the hearthstone,” placing the pebbles, “and the whetted blade.” The dagger went into its place at the centre of everything.
“Like the toast,” Aziraphale said, and then jumped when Arthur, sitting reading nearby, close enough to overhear but very much not part of the spell, cleared his throat.
“Heartswood, hearthstone,
The yield of the whetted blade
Bonded shalt prosper
Lest the union unmade.”
Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was hearing the familiar words in Arthur’s resonant voice, the smouldering flicker of the firelight, or the uncertainty of what lay ahead, but her eyes filled with a sudden sting of tears.
She blinked them away, confused, fighting an overwhelming urge to jump to her feet.
Merlin pressed his lips together. “You don’t have to do this,” he said gently.
Aziraphale shook her head, swallowing hard. “I’m fine.”
Courteously, Merlin didn’t point out any evidence to the contrary.
“But these words,” Aziraphale said, waving a demonstrative hand as if grasping for an explanation, “carry a different meaning now I know you. Both. And the commitment you made.”
Now Merlin was watching her extremely closely. “Commitment?”
“If I’m understanding correctly,” Aziraphale said hastily. “During the war? That desperate ceremony of yours… you wed Arthur to the land.”
“Yes,” Merlin said slowly.
“And you wed Arthur - yourself.”
Merlin hesitated.
“Yes,” Arthur said, from his chair in the shadows.
Encouraged, Aziraphale hurried on. “And your union… tends the land, I think? You unlocked the power in the foundation stones, or the ley lines or whatever old magic runs beneath Camelot – but you made a promise to replenish it, too.” Aziraphale forced a nervous smile. “Didn’t you? Or have I grasped entirely the wrong end of the staff?”
Merlin gave her a wondering look. “That’s exactly what I did. But I’m not sure anyone else realises.”
“But surely they must,” Aziraphale protested, surprised now. “They might not know the full meaning but it’s right there in the toast - the heartswood and the hearthstone - that is you and Arthur, isn’t it? I… I thought it was quite lovely, when I realised.”
There were two spots of colour high on Merlin’s cheeks. “To everyone else, they’re just words. No one listened at the time, they were just relieved when the wards of protection went up, and then, well—say something enough times and people will reliably neglect to interrogate its meaning.”
Arthur gave a low laugh. “Have them recite it and they stop listening altogether.”
“But you’re right,” Merlin said, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Spoken plainly, it’s a claim and a promise, between us and the land. It goes into the roots and through the rocks. It makes Arthur the cornerstone of my power and links us both, irrevocably, to the fate of Camelot.”
“It’s where you belong,” Aziraphale said eagerly, hearing her own voice crack with earnestness and continuing anyway. “And I… I was lost before, but I feel like now… I too… if it’s not too much to presume…”
“‘Course you belong with us,” Arthur said, as if it was plain as day.
Aziraphale closed her eyes for a moment as another storm of emotion rode roughshod over her. Thank you, she thought, and then made herself say it out loud as well, past an ungainly lump filling her throat. “Thank you.”
Now Merlin looked shrewd again. “Of course, you know you have nothing to prove. Take this evening. It’s decent of you, to try so hard to help solve this problem, but you mustn’t feel you have to if it’s too—”
“I want to,” Aziraphale interrupted.
“Why?”
“What?”
Merlin’s expression was intent. “Why?” he repeated. “When it was so… gruelling, before.”
The truth was on the tip of her tongue - “I need to save him.” - but she couldn’t say that, even now, even in this warm quiet room already thrumming with disclosure.
“I don’t want Morgana to have a wraith,” she said. Well, it was true. “And if there’s anything in my power that I can do to prevent that, I have to try.”
Arthur blew out a breath that sounded half-amused, half-exasperated. “She’s determined, I’ll give her that,” he said to Merlin.
Merlin’s eyes half closed, as if acknowledging. “Then we will begin.”
🖤🖤🖤
In an instant, Aziraphale was back in the dream, back on the cold dark shore of the lake, stark naked and—something was wrong. Different. Her weight, the strange hollow prickle of her skin. She touched her neck, found it bare, found the jut of his throat. No amulet. No breasts, no heavy sumptuous curves, no sense of coiled power in her core. For now at least, Aziraphale was back in his male body, the tingling nerves of it piteously disorientated.
Gosh.
He took a few deep breaths, adjusting to how differently his chest expanded now. The glorious breasts, that supple waist, those marvellous hips—all whittled away like the work of an unkind woodsmith, leaving brash flat planes beneath. He felt unmoored, as if he’d stood up suddenly and left half of himself behind on the floor.
On the other hand… he had missed his cock.
Aziraphale stroked one hand down his front, relearning the rougher texture of the hair across his belly, the graspable flesh of his hip, and then diving in with no further preamble, to gather up the familiar silky weight of his cock. It was soft, heavy, but thickening even at the slightest touch. He let himself hold still for a moment, enjoy it filling and swelling. This was a simple, progressive pleasure.
He spared a smile for his own boldness. Exciting himself obviously wasn’t the purpose of the dream—or maybe it was. Maybe this was exactly how to get Crowley’s attention.
There was a thought.
He spread his other hand across his thigh, kneading slowly upwards, and felt the sensations inside him start to mingle and grow. The dreamscape was as frigid as ever but this, this felt good. His own tiny territory of heat. Every stroke felt like burgeoning power, insubstantial but persistent; warm waves lapping on an icy shore, fighting the chill for his flesh. He bit his lip, breath catching as he squeezed both hands harder.
And then, when he felt like he’d built as much heat inside him as he could, Aziraphale strode forwards into the freezing black water.
“Crowley,” he shouted, a deep bellow into the sky. Gosh, that was exhilarating. “Are you there? Answer me!”
The vastness of the sky swallowed his voice. He told himself he felt a tiny flicker of gold, but it was gone before he could catch hold of it.
Come on, he thought, as loud as he could. Now it’s your turn to find me!
He stroked himself, making it efficient but provocative, a display. It felt good despite the cold—it felt delicious, in fact, knowing exactly how to touch himself, exactly what this body responded to, and how swiftly. He knew exactly how to handle himself, there was no mystery here, no false starts or elusive tremors. He could catch onto a rhythm that seemed to pound through him without end, ever intensifying, each stroke throwing new bright fuel onto a roaring fire. He felt like his body was glowing, and the glow was reaching out beyond his form, reaching out towards Crowley; that swarm of fireflies already rising off his bare skin. He felt brighter and lighter and hotter and—and then the cold stones shifted beneath his feet.
He felt a slithering in the water around his ankle. Something looped around it, rising.
Aziraphale gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to kick it away, and redoubled his strokes, cupping his other hand over the head of his cock and massaging roughly.
Stay with it. Still, the growing pleasure stuttered inside him like the flame of a torch in a draft, as another black glossy tentacle found his other ankle. Aziraphale breathed harder, fighting the need to recoil from that creeping, sidling touch.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale bellowed again, voice huskier now, and this time there was a more vibrant flicker in reply, a more substantial warmth. It was Crowley, it had to be.
And then—
“You.” It was Morgana’s voice. It filled the sky, and the burgeoning connection to Crowley winked out, the misty golden warmth extinguished as it was swamped by an endless, surging blue-black chill.
Aziraphale let go of his cock and it bounced up against his belly, smearing his skin. Belated mortification that Morgana was witness to his display - but what had he expected? - warred with fury that his intended audience had been snapped out of reach once more.
Anger won. He set his jaw and growled: “My Lady.”
She made a warning noise in her throat. “I’m nobody’s lady. But you are trespassing.” She didn’t seem shocked by his nudity, only amused. “Men,” she sneered. “Always so physical.”
Aziraphale drew in a large steadying breath. “Are maidens not physical?” he threw out, and then, daring himself, letting himself provoke, because what else was his purpose here? If he couldn’t reach Crowley directly, at least he could stir up some heat. “Are you not?”
“I am powerful,” she corrected. “You’re a slave to every whim of your pathetic body. I am in control.”
“Not all the time,” Aziraphale said, thinking of the many dizzying moments of uncontrolled physicality his female form had provided in just a single day. “Surely.”
“Every time it matters,” Morgana said, and clicked her fingers.
Aziraphale gasped as he found himself all at once back in the cursed metal boat. Naked and shivering, the last vestiges of his erection shrank away. It was impossible to feel any sort of excitement at finding himself suddenly in the middle of this lake, the boat rocking in unsteady eddies while water like a shining black desert stretched in every direction.
And being stuck in the middle of the lake meant that at any moment, that thing could come back for him. Rise to meet him again. Engulf him.
Fear gripped him, lashing through his gut, and Aziraphale grasped both oars and rowed as hard as he could. He didn’t know where he was going, he just had to go. He forced out long powerful strokes, bracing his legs, clenching his stomach, dragging through the water with all his might. Fleeing though he knew it was useless, because his body wouldn’t allow him to stop.
The boat shot forwards, almost skidding across the shining black glaze. He kept up the pace, digging the oars in with controlled force and hauling back on them, making it rhythmic as his mind started to clear. He steeled his muscles against the water’s recoil. His shoulders started to burn but he kept it up, aiming for that perfect efficient pace where everything synchronised.
Morgana’s voice echoed around him again, just as close but now almost bored. “Tell me, then, knight of the realm. Why have you returned?”
Aziraphale kept rowing. He had prepared his answer this time. “I fear you tried to kill the king. I want answers.”
“You must want them desperately, to come back here. I suppose this is Merlin’s doing? He must have sent you. I don’t know otherwise why I’d dream about you twice.” She sounded amused. “Unless it’s because I met your intriguing cousin today…?”
Aziraphale felt a peculiar flash of protectiveness towards his fictional cousin, overlaid by an even more confusing blush of delight on hearing Morgana describe their interaction as intriguing.
“Leave her alone!” That was how protective cousins spoke, correct?
“Mmm. She’ll come find me when she’s ready,” Morgana said, with languid unconcern.
“I should hope not,” Aziraphale said hotly, and then paused, catching himself. “But I—I don’t know her as well as I should.” It was a twisted sort of honesty that he could almost hear striking its mark.
“Your kind never does.”
He didn’t have an answer to that, but he wanted to keep her talking. He was breathing hard, his skin growing wet with sweat despite the bitter breeze, and the physicality of it made him feel connected. He imagined the power of his exertion was prising open the conduit to Crowley, and rowed harder. “You might be right. And you’re right about Merlin sending me.” No point in lying about that. “We want answers.”
“Strange sort of justice that trusts answers gathered in a dream,” Morgana said sweetly. “He must be desperate.”
“Believe me, I know,” Aziraphale said, letting it sound self-deprecating, and took a risk. “Between you and me, the king isn’t looking to convict so much as… understand.”
“A likely story,” Morgana said. Well, it had been worth a stab. “But if that’s the case, you’ll have to work harder than this.”
Aziraphale’s shoulders were starting to tire. He pushed himself onwards, though the lake was still enormous around him. Despite his determination, the dread in his stomach felt like a dead weight—there was nothing to transmit to Crowley here, nothing golden or warm. What was the point? This icy indifferent blackness was the antithesis of what Crowley needed. Crowley fed on fire, anger and lust. What chance did he have of inspiring these energies in this unfeeling void? Morgana would sooner kill him than—wait.
He remembered Morgana saying to Arthur, “Did you suffer?”
That dip of the eyelashes when he answered, yes.
He remembered Crowley saying, “I get just as much from your torment.”
There was no way Morgana was going to allow him any pleasure, here, on her watch or under this sky, but perhaps she could be tempted to inflict… something else? And would that—?
A tiny spark went through Aziraphale's gut, a dart of something too ugly to be anticipation.
He stopped rowing and threw his head back to address the sky, but he was breathing so hard his voice was more gasp than bellow. “I know I’m dreaming,” he managed. “If you drown me or rip me apart I’ll just wake up…”
“But?” Morgana said, as unmoved as ever.
“…but I wonder if there might be something else you’d like to do to me?”
There was a silence, in which Aziraphale wondered if he’d entirely misjudged this. If she’d left.
Then, in a voice of condemnation—“How dare you presume to know my mind?”
“No,” Aziraphale said hastily, flinching back in the boat as his body clamoured to redouble his attempts to flee, “no, I don’t presume, I just - I know what I want, and I’m trying to work out if there’s any way you might give it to me.”
“Oh? Then what do you want?” She sounded cruelly amused now, a spider flicking an already trussed fly to watch it spin.
“I want to know what I saw. The demon you sent to the knights’ dormitory,” Aziraphale said, starting to get his breath back. “I saw it, I fought it, I need to know more.”
He had an unreal sense of a hand of cards being lowered.
“You saw it?” Now her voice was fringed with doubt.
“Yes. I saw it kill, once, and maim, once, and I fought it off myself,” Aziraphale said, playing with the truth as with a lump of potter’s clay.
“How did you—? Never mind.”
That was a chink in the platemail, surely. “And I’ll do anything to get answers,” Aziraphale blurted. “I’ll endure… anything. Merlin doesn’t know about this,” he added, which was technically true. Merlin didn’t know the lengths that Aziraphale would go to, to find out more about Crowley. That was between Morgana and himself. “Whatever you want to do to me…”
“Why would I want to do anything to you?”
Her armour was impenetrable once more. Aziraphale tried another option, the one he’d barely dared voice before, even in the depths of his own mind. “I… don’t know if you do,” he said, the words coming out strangled past his tightening throat, “but the truth is I wish you’d… punish me.”
Embarrassment flickered somewhere deep as he spoke, and he leaned into its discomforting warmth, spreading his quaking hand over the base of his stomach. Can you feel this? he thought to Crowley, imagining it as a single spark in a dark cave. Can this reach you?
It took him a moment to realise that Morgana had not yet responded. When she spoke again, it was in a deadened tone: “What do you need to be punished for?”
A wild idea of fabricating some crime welled up, but what came out was: “Nothing! I’ve done nothing. And—that’s just it,” he whispered, words spilling out before he could phrase them, tactics becoming a trickle of honest guilt, then a torrent. “I’ve done nothing, I’ve saved no one, I’ve kept my silence, I’ve been oblivious, blind—I call myself a knight, but what am I really protecting?”
“A fist closing around the magical heart of Avalon,” Morgana spat back, and Aziraphale felt a shiver of real fear at how readily she’d taken up his suggestion. Her amorphous anger now had a focus: him. “Pillaged land and stolen gold and the conceited wastage of our blade.”
Aziraphale blinked, out of his depth in so many ways. “Right, er, yes,” he said, hesitating for a moment before pushing on. “And no one else sees it. You’re the only one who knows what I truly deserve.”
There was a momentary pause.
Then Morgana said “Ohhhh,” a soft crow of realisation that took Aziraphale by the throat and squeezed. “Now I see. You crave this - so that’s how you escaped. You didn’t best the demon in battle after all – you satisfied its bloodlust another way.”
Fuck. He hadn’t thought he’d given that much away, but she was more incisive than he’d expected. Nevertheless, he could use this, the sharp thrilling edge of talking about it. It made his pulse bound. He nodded shakily. “Yes.”
“Does Arthur know?”
“No.”
“Fascinating,” Morgana drawled, sounding altogether more drawn in. “You tolerated the depraved attentions of some minor demon and so you think you can tolerate mine. Arrogant little thing, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know if I can,” Aziraphale said, “but—” and now he brought out the final card in his hand, a wiry truth that had the power to slice him in two, “it ruined me, what it did to me, it made me do unspeakable things and yet afterwards… I wanted more. And now I don’t know who I am, and I need – more than anything else – answers.”
“You liked it,” Morgana said, as succinct as it was corrosive. “It left you with a taste for being defiled.”
“Yes.”
“And now you want, what—information? To be made to do more unspeakable things?”
Aziraphale swallowed hard. “I don’t…”
“Or do you simply wish to atone for your sins before my merciless judgement?”
“Um,” Aziraphale said, stricken. That did… hold… a certain appeal. “Anything,” he said instead, trying to focus. “I don’t want to want it,” he added, mumbling now around the first falsehood he was slipping in alongside the squirming raw truths, “but I can’t help myself, I need to know more, I’ll do anything if you’ll just tell me where the demon’s gone.”
“He’s in my keeping,” Morgana said, and Aziraphale’s focus snapped back to her. “He’s bound to my service and maybe after this, if you’re good, I’ll feed you to him. Let him play with you one last time. A little treat for you both, to celebrate him being enslaved forever.”
“As a wraith?” Aziraphale asked, even as her words thundered over him. He didn’t know it was possible to feel this anguished and rapidly aroused at once, his body responding with a confused flurry of urgent signals at the thought of Crowley seizing him while Morgana watched.
“Yes,” she said. “He will soon become a wraith. It’s taking longer than expected… but I can wait. Meanwhile, what am I going to do with you?”
Another click. The boat flipped, dropping Aziraphale into ice-cold black water.
He submerged completely, head going under. The shock of it almost woke him; he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, thrashing in vain for the surface, and then he felt—them, again. Tentacles, sliding up through the depths and enfolding his bare limbs, looping around his stomach. They dragged him through the endless waters as he struggled, ineffectual as a hooked fish.
They weren’t tugging him into the deep this time; instead he was towed an uncertain distance and flung unceremoniously onto a black shingled beach, monochrome in the icy moonlight.
He sprawled back on the shore, coughing up water, lungs burning, eyes streaming, wiping his face with both hands—until his wrists were enclosed in sliding black coils and drawn apart. His ankles, too. The tentacles were lifting him, maneuvering him. He was tugged up briskly onto his knees.
Aziraphale stared up, panting in earnest and blinking the remaining traces of water from his eyes. And… Oh dear Lord.
A shimmering, translucent vision of Morgana was standing in front of him, the golden point of her sword levelled under his chin. The armour was gone, and she wore a dark gown instead, cinched and flowing with gracefully trailing sleeves. And yet the expression in her eyes was somehow even more threatening than when she’d met them at the gate.
“Yield.”
Aziraphale wet his lips. “To you? No.” His voice was almost normal.
The translucent sword point felt no less sharp as it nudged against the soft underside of his chin, making him tilt his head back. “I want to hear you declaim him.”
Aziraphale’s eyes briefly closed as a dull throb of confused arousal went through him. There was something stimulating about being entirely at her mercy, and he felt like they both knew it. It was as if he was bound by wet black rope; he was held tight enough that he couldn’t even crane away from her weapon.
“Declaim my king?” he scoffed, ensuring the rasp of his voice was overlaid with incredulity. “No.”
The sword point trailed down his neck, a thin burning line. It was so cold he couldn’t tell if it was piercing him, but his heart raced as if he was being cut. The trail of pain blazed down his chest to linger over his heart, and there it gave a cruel little flick.
Crowley? Aziraphale tried, instead of crying out.
He felt a faint confused chime of a reply, but nothing clear or substantive.
He looked down, saw that the translucent blade was scouring red lines onto his skin, like a mark of ownership. Branding him. He wasn’t bleeding, but the lines were lurid. Humiliating; he burned with it.
Good.
Encouraged by the new creep of warmth inside him, he seized on the most inflammatory thing he could think of.
“You want me,” he said to Morgana, jaw clenched against showing how much it hurt.
She laughed, all disdain. “Not at all. I’d sooner feed you to the fish.”
“Then why mark me?”
“A message for your demon,” she said. “Everything he once laid claim to is mine.”
Aziraphale felt a surge of power at that, a lightning crack of furious attention as wherever Crowley was, whatever he was doing, he became angry.
“I don’t think he’ll like that,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, the mark pulsing hot on his chest, thinking—this might be your first mistake. Thinking, fuck, that hurts. Thinking, Crowley, do you see what she’s done?
“What he likes is not my concern.”
Aziraphale felt impossibly bare, wounded and yet unable to protect himself, all on display. The tendrils were moving again, inching across his legs, brushing over the subdued soft lie of his cock and nudging it against his waxen thigh.
“What you like is not my concern,” Morgana said, with a small smile as Aziraphale shuddered from head to toe. She swiped the sword slowly down over his undefended belly and let the tip bite into the crease at the top of Aziraphale’s thigh.
“So many ways to kill a naked man,” she mused. “So many places where the blood rushes thick and hot. If I pressed even a little harder—” Aziraphale yelped as pain arced across the hammering pulse at the apex of his thigh, but yet again the sensation of the translucent blade felt much deeper than the cut it left behind. “—I could empty out your heart in mere moments.”
“Then I’d wake up,” Aziraphale gasped, in case she was actually planning to do that. There was a curious rushing noise in his ears, his own hot pulse and panicked breath and something else, he realised; the wet hiss of skin moving over skin. A tentacle had found its way over his chest and was winding around his shoulders. Another, stroking up behind his ear, pushing through his hair. Another, encircling his neck like a collar of melting ice.
He looked down and - fuck - they were everywhere now, striping across his torso and his limbs, like a living enclosure of iron bars but heavy, muscular, slick. It looked obscene, the pale bulges of his wet skin between the monster’s squeezing restraint. And yet more were coming, shifting his legs apart, securing his ankles behind him.
Aziraphale struggled in vain, unsure which would be worse - for Crowley to be seeing this, or for Crowley to be so far away that it didn’t even benefit him.
Crowley, he thought, against the sudden violent urge to wake himself up. Crowley, please. Make this worth it.
Morgana’s face didn’t change, so at least she mustn’t be able to hear his thoughts, hear the desperation in his internal voice as he tried his best not to cry out loud.
Once more, Crowley’s reply was a glancing warmth that quickly dissipated. He just couldn’t reach him.
“But why,” Aziraphale ground out, to distract from his disappointment, “would you want to kill the king?”
“Why does Camelot cut off poachers’ hands?” Morgana retorted, and then paused, lifting the sword off him, as if this were in fact an interesting question that merited her full attention. “I’d sooner Arthur wounded than dead,” she said at last, before glaring, as if Aziraphale had had this admission out of her by trickery or force. “But I’d sooner him dead than cede the rest of the wild lands.”
Privately Aziraphale doubted Arthur wanted this blighted land, but he thought better of saying it. “What about Merlin?”
Her eyes seemed to glow with disdain. “I thought you wanted to know about the demon.”
“Isn’t all of this about the demon?”
Her lips twisted. “It should have been,” she said, and lowered the gleaming tip of the sword to Aziraphale’s other thigh, idly circling as he tried to shrink back. She seemed to have entirely forgotten that he was here to gather information, or possibly she considered him so far beneath her contempt that whatever he learned was inconsequential. “It should have all been over by now.”
For the first time, Aziraphale considered what it would have looked like, if he hadn’t managed to intervene ten nights ago. Near a dozen of Arthur’s closest companions perishing night after night to an invisible killer, while Arthur himself succumbed to some violent fever; Merlin, blinded with grief, patently and publicly unable to wrench back control. Faith would have been shattered. Desertion would have been inevitable. “It would have been the end of Camelot.”
“It would have been chaos,” Morgana agreed, and sighed. “But of all the demons in all the underworld, somehow the one I summoned can’t finish a single job.” Her voice became pure scorn. “I never knew I needed to specifically request an infernal servant that wouldn’t get distracted.”
Aziraphale thought of the distractions Crowley had been susceptible to - of what Crowley would make of finding him restrained like this, naked and shivering and wholly helpless - and found a wild flicker of a smile crossing his face. They had done some good. “You must be so disappointed.”
“Frustrated,” Morgana bit off, and jerked the blade sideways, feigning a castrating blow.
“Fuck!” Aziraphale yelped, the searing breath of the strange metal passing over the most sensitive parts of him. What if that’s the example she makes of me, cutting off my—and then he detected an incensed glimmer of red-gold through the inky oceanic void.
Aziraphale.
Crowley!
Yes. Crowley’s voice in his mind was almost imperceptible, a handful of hot ash thrown into the vastness of a winter storm.
Still, Aziraphale grinned wildly. Thank goodness! You’re not a—a wraith?
A whining dark noise echoed in his ears. Soon. I am powerless to prevent it.
Morgana’s blade needled back up Aziraphale’s chest, and he kept the threadbare connection with difficulty as he grimaced and flinched.
But what about me?
What about you?
Aziraphale tried to convey a sense of throwing his arms out wide. Me! This! Can you use this? If I withstand her mistreatment, can my suffering sate your hunger?
It ought to, Crowley complained, still so faint. It should, I should be able to feed on your torment - but this is not enough. I’m so famished, it’s devouring me faster than you can possibly replenish.
Aziraphale felt his dismay show on his face. Morgana had marked him! How was that not the gravest insult to Crowley?
You feel nothing?
No. Crowley sounded desultory.
Desperate times.
Not even if I…
Covertly, Aziraphale ran his fingertip over an undulating tentacle.
It froze, and he did it again.
He shifted, stretching his legs against their constriction, feeling them shift in liquid tension against his skin. He tried to relax into their hold of him, become more yielding, placid. An odd pulse went through him, something secret, bright, hot.
...do this?
The flash of Crowley’s suspicion felt like a flicker of sheet lightning across the sky. Wait, I—I did feel that. What are you doing?
Deliberately, Aziraphale squeezed one of the tentacles in his palm as best he could, rubbing his thumb against a thick fleshy nodule. It reared against his fist, a confused spasm.
Trying to sustain you.
You can’t—
Trying to entice you… Entice it…
He felt Crowley’s jealous growl as a reverberation through the ground itself, rumbling into his body and leaving an afterglow.
And then, grudging: Go on.
In truth Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to do. He had very little movement, and Morgana was right there, and his skin was smarting from the many and varied lines she’d carved into him, seemingly without end. He wasn’t bleeding - because he was so cold? Or did she simply not wish his blood to spill, and it chose to obey? But it hurt.
The constriction of the tentacles increased, spreading him out. He felt multiple wet, roving, soft points slide against his skin, exploring and exposing, and shivered hard. It felt different, knowing Crowley was here, to some extent. The shivers went right up the back of his neck.
“Giving up already?” Morgana said, and Aziraphale realised he’d closed his eyes to better concentrate on Crowley’s voice.
Slumped in the beast’s overpowering grasp, he must look abjectly defeated.
He forced his eyes open again and found the sword point was back under his chin, above a swirling black coil.
“No,” he said doggedly, swallowing hard, making an effort to struggle again. He tried to become furious about the stinging insult of the marks on his skin, the outrage of it, but instead he found he was more distracted by the steady compression of every part of him, the way he was caught like an insect for her haughty, exacting regard. It was… a unique torment, certainly.
“You must realise that your fight is futile.”
“No,” Aziraphale countered, for the sake of doing so; if nothing else, he could try to prove himself obstinate. Covertly, he squeezed the tentacle again, running his thumb in suggestive circles, finding secret crevices beneath swollen suckers and rubbing them with his fingertips. Other tentacles responded with flutters of movement, before tightening, making him gasp. “No, I - I won’t give up. It’s just… hard. Difficult, I mean. To bear.”
Morgana’s dark brows lifted, and her gaze dropped to where Aziraphale’s cock was responding, independent of his will; reacting to the dumb hope of Crowley’s renewed presence, rallying and filling to an uneasy half-hardness despite the prickling humiliation. It was probably just the compression of the sliding lengths enfolding him. Individual suckers, plucking at him. The way his thighs were hauled apart, knees dragged against shingle. The way he was utterly defenceless before the dripping scorn of Morgana’s expression. A physical response to the extremes of the situation. He wasn’t actually aroused, was he?
No, no - embarrassed. He was embarrassed. Frightened. Enduring this monumental insult.
But he was getting harder.
And she would attribute it entirely to her presence, Aziraphale thought. Her actions. His submission. Another wave of embarrassment poured over him, this one laced with heat: an excruciatingly potent mixture of discomfiture and urgency.
He should abandon this. It was too complex to keep clear in his head, too difficult, too exposing. A raw instinct to escape swamped him - wake up wake up wake up - and he shoved it away. For Crowley! And rising in its place he found—
“You weren’t lying when you said you crave punishment,” Morgana drawled, and moved her fingers in a deliberate flourish.
Another brace of tentacles surged in response, encircling the base of Aziraphale’s cock, his balls. The fluttering coldness there shot through Aziraphale with a flash of alarm, edged with - yes, well - to his utter chagrin, that did feel fearfully enticing.
Hmmmm, Crowley sighed, a little louder now, as if closer to Aziraphale’s ear. That… that delicious turmoil… keep going.
“What?” Aziraphale gasped out loud. The tentacle his thumb was circling had started to encircle his thumb in return, its black tip winding against the webs of his fingers, pushing between.
Mmm, yes. Fight it. Let me feel you try to escape… and fail.
“Ah, wait,” Aziraphale said, and the tendrils sliding around his cock tightened, drawing his attention to the inescapable fact that he was entirely erect once more. And that—there was too much happening all at once. The breathless panic in his voice was not for show. “Please, wait, this isn’t what I—”
“Not what you meant when you begged me to punish you?” Morgana said archly, and hearing his own words - knowing that now Crowley could hear them as well - felt like a hot slap across his face.
Aziraphale’s cheeks burned and he closed his eyes and squirmed, nodding as it all washed over him - the intensity, the discomfort, the shame - mingling in his belly and pulsing up, hot, hot, hot.
Yessss. Your struggle is enchanting.
Well at least Crowley seemed to be getting something out of it, however measly.
“Perhaps you expected me to sully my hands by touching you myself,” Morgana said, blunt and scathing. “That holds no interest for me. Watching you succumb to my familiar, however… has a certain appeal.”
“This beast is a familiar?” Aziraphale asked weakly; in stories, familiars might be fantastical creatures but they tended towards the subtle and the small. His fingers closed around the tentacle exploring his hand, and he thought he felt it throb in response.
“A legacy of old pain made obedient flesh,” Morgana said, almost fondly.
He thought of the knife in Arthur’s hands, peeling the apple in neat concise strokes. “Do you feel what it feels?”
“No,” Morgana said quickly, as if snatching something back from him. “But I watch to ensure it enacts my commands.”
Something about that phrasing tugged at Aziraphale’s hazy over-stimulated consciousness. So the beast was not in its entirety under her control.
Aziraphale didn’t have time to think further about that before yet more tentacles slithered like snakes between his buttocks, sliding an astonishingly intimate route. His breath caught, confused signals warring through him, his skin reacting to that wet, muscular movement beginning to explore the skin around his hole.
“There’s no point trying to shut it out,” Morgana added. “It knows how to deliver exactly the punishment you crave.”
Crave, Aziraphale felt, was putting it strongly. But then Crowley gave an encouraging purr in Aziraphale’s ear, lighting him up from the inside as Morgana’s beast investigated the most sensitive boundaries of his tender, undefended skin, and he had to admit there was far more at play here than simple suffering.
“Please, stop,” Aziraphale croaked, over the hammering of his own pulse.
To his surprise, the tentacle in his fist gave a wriggle at that, then stroked up and down his thumb in an almost calming gesture—even as something else, chilling and slippery and pointed, nudged against Aziraphale’s hole.
“S-stop,” Aziraphale said again, even more confused. Morgana definitely wished to punish him, and the beast was her willing accomplice, so why did he also feel strangely held right now?
The nudge at his arse came again, purposeful now. It was wet and inhuman and he was powerless to move away. He shuddered as its tip pushed abruptly inside him, smooth and thick and nothing like Crowley, his rim stretching helplessly as it forced him open. It was a smooth, cold invasion, dipping in and out, perfunctory and callous as it tried several slow angles in turn. Not seeking to satisfy itself; exploring only what thickness and depth made Aziraphale struggle and moan. Moan in distress, of course. In… despair. The tendrils sliding around his cock and balls were tightening and and releasing, a rhythmic snakelike constriction that under other circumstances would be… would be… intensely pleasurable.
But this—this—
Mmm, Crowley breathed, the intermittent connection flaring briefly vivid. Oh, that’s even better, yes—whatever you are doing now, keep going.
He sounded so much stronger, Aziraphale worried suddenly that Morgana might hear him too. But there was no visible reaction in her face, only the glittering impassive contempt as she watched the beast defile him while he wriggled and strained.
“Stop,” Aziraphale said again, louder, clenching down and then hearing himself whimper as this last pointless effort of resistance was ignored. The beast was so strong. Another tentacle - or two more, or a bifurcated entity, he wasn’t sure - entered him together.
Aziraphale groaned, sensation overwhelming all else, as the stretch built and built. More came, more, jostling against each other. This wasn’t like his own fingers, or the simple heated assault of being fucked; there were multiple writhing lengths all seeking entry, pushing into his arse alongside each other, forcing him open, seething together inside him. More, and more, or perhaps those that were there were getting thicker. He couldn’t tell. Only that the deep pressure was building to an unbearable intensity, bright and searing.
His cock ached in its slick, shifting constriction. The cold was profound but the sliding tightness of it was—something else. Something mounting, something seismic, something he wasn’t going to be able to return from.
“Please, let me—” Aziraphale begged, straining against his restraints, as a tell-tale warmth welled up inside him. He couldn’t complete the sentence. Let him go? Let him move, let him come? He was reminded of an early night with Crowley, stroking him off with brutal efficiency, the demon’s sole purpose to extract Aziraphale’s climax in a simple heartless blending of pleasure and pain. And yet, Crowley had done that because he wanted something of Aziraphale, something connecting, something real.
Did this beast want something from him?
Aziraphale didn’t feel he could ask, under Morgana’s inscrutable gaze. And so instead he let his voice deepen, become more heartfelt. “I beg you, I implore you, have mercy.”
“It is impervious to your pleas,” Morgana said. “You might as well save your breath.”
And yet—the tentacle in Aziraphale’s fist gave a sudden tug and drew his hand down to the small of his back. Coaxed him onwards, down. Until his fingers brushed something—brushed them, the cold writhing lengths invading him. There were so many of them, delving between his legs and wrapping around his thighs, and then, ah, fuck. His fingertips brushed the edge of his own hole, stretched wide and intensely sensitive, feeling the multitude of disparate tentacles sliding inside him there, and he groaned out loud.
That, Crowley growled, a roaring echo through Aziraphale’s mind. Give me that.
Aziraphale’s fingertips twitched and he whimpered again, starting to lose his mind, unable to keep track of the many different ways he was being overpowered; but he could feel the energy flowing to Crowley now as well, messy sluggish pulses of power, giving him the strength to continue. He pictured the flames of Crowley’s eyes brightening, his muscles bulging, Frán’s face growing radiant once more.
Abruptly, he knew what he had to do.
He groped with his hand, wrapping his fingers around the thickest length he could find and—started to stroke it. Fondling it, rubbing at its nodules, encouraging it to push inside him in a deliberate rhythm, matching the constriction around his cock; moaning as it all coalesced inside.
Oh, angel, that’s it…
Does—does this serve you?
Yes. More.
Oh, Crowley, Crowley—
He pumped his handful of tentacle harder, squeezing and guiding, showing it how he liked it and then crying out as it took up the rhythm itself. The crescendo built, the beast rapidly adjusting its hold on every part of him until it all synchronised, Aziraphale’s body arching helplessly as it was massaged and squeezed and plundered. His mind flared bright white, his body convulsing as his cock and balls ran hot with strangled jerks of pleasure. Aziraphale’s eyes were closed and his teeth were clenched as he came, an almost mechanical sensation, feeling like the beast was wringing the climax out of him.
Yesss…
Crowley’s voice dwindled as fast as it had built. The golden glow of Aziraphale’s pleasure dimmed much more rapidly than usual, like a candle flame extinguished under a bell jar, and when he opened his eyes it was to a burgeoning flare of humiliation.
He’d—with the vision of Lady Morgana right there.
He was still trussed up and shivering on display, though the assault on his arse had retreated, and the tentacles around his cock were no longer squeezing. Aziraphale felt limp as a rag, wanting nothing more than to peel himself away and curl up, sleep off the rank humours of everything he’d been through. But he couldn’t.
Mortified, he met Morgana’s gaze.
Morgana looked… perturbed. But she recovered her composure rapidly, drawing an expression of pure contempt across her fine features. “I always underestimate the depravity of men.”
That was a bit rich, Aziraphale thought hazily. He was fairly certain that most men would not respond in such a way. “I… sorry,” he said, and found himself casting about for an explanation that wasn’t, My demon lover needed me to enjoy it. “My dreams are… often… I think perhaps due to my abstaining from such things in my waking hours.”
Morgana threw up her hand. “Do not speak to me of this,” she snapped.
“Sorry,” Aziraphale said, and wondered if he should wake himself up to avoid this sheer awkwardness.
He tried to reach Crowley again. Was that enough? Can I go?
There was no answer.
Strange, Aziraphale thought, with a tingle of worry. He had thought that, with the efforts he had made, Crowley would at least be replenished enough to talk to him.
Crowley, he tried again. Crowley, can you hear me, can you let me know—
And then Morgana waved one finger, and the beast came for him again.
“No,” Aziraphale objected, with renewed vigour, as the tentacles swarmed back into place. No, no, this should be over. “No! Stop! I can’t take anything else.”
“I thought you wanted this,” Morgana replied, her voice cool and unmoved once more. “Tolerate whatever I wanted, wasn’t that the idea? For as long as I liked?”
Seething pressures spread him again, pushed inside him again, and Aziraphale gave a protesting groan.
“I can see now how you managed to satisfy the demon,” Morgana continued, her composure entirely recovered. “You are astonishingly receptive. You’ve taken so much without breaking, and you’ve even managed to enjoy yourself.” She made it sound distasteful. “But the nature of this,” she said, and the tentacles gave an abrupt throb inside him, around him, making him cry out, “is that your efforts will never be enough. There is no end to what it will do to you, if I will it. This creature, you cannot distract or satisfy.”
“Please, stop,” Aziraphale said again, as the agonising throb came again, and with it returned the powerful temptation to just wake up.
Crowley, he thought desperately, Crowley, please, is that enough? I need—I can’t keep going much longer—
Not enough.
Crowley’s voice was back to its usual resonant growl, Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice. Surely that must mean he’d received a sufficiency of this dark energy, enough at least to last the night.
A chill went through Aziraphale at the thought that Crowley might now be sitting back and enjoying his suffering just because he could. Rapid on the heels of that thought came another, worse: maybe Morgana and Crowley were working together, had been all along.
Aziraphale tried to banish that idea, tried to reach him again. But was that not enough to ensure you will survive the night?
I don’t just want to survive the night.
Aziraphale cringed as a tentacle swept over his mouth and then paused to investigate, its shiny length nuzzling between his lips. No, no, I understand, you want as much as I can give you, but I’m—mmph, oh fuck—I’m not going to last much longer, I can’t—
As if emboldened, the tentacle thrust into his mouth, the taste of it flooding his senses: freezing, slick, with a briny edge that seemed to mingle freshwater and ocean. It was pulseless but felt alive, an unearthly power running through it; he must feel so hot by comparison, squirming, heart pounding, tongue flattening against its underside in vain effort to prevent it sinking deeper.
I know, Crowley’s voice came, for a moment almost gentle. But I need enough to strike.
…What?!
The rush in Aziraphale’s ear was becoming a roar, as the beast came for his mouth in earnest, two or three tentacles plunging inside, forcing his mouth wide. Too much, too much, fuck. The slippery cool textures on his tongue, the watery explosion through his senses, the occasional sharp pieces of grit and sand that were carried in by the momentum of all that slick black skin—it was all too much. He was bound and writhing as every hole was overfilled. His mind went black with panic and his whole body trembled. He had to wake up, but even that reflex felt sluggish and frozen.
As if detecting his efforts to distance himself, the beast surged inside him with renewed intensity. He could feel individual smooth suckers moving against his tongue, pumping in and out of his arse, swelling as if they were going to erupt inside him, and his mind clamoured for release, for escape, to be anywhere but here and—
No.
Three things happened at once: Morgana gasped, an unnerving sound in its own right; there was a rumble in the earth that set the water shaking; and the sky flared red from horizon to horizon. It was so bright it made Aziraphale’s eyes fly open as if there had been a volcanic eruption.
“What?” the translucent vision of Morgana was demanding, looking around furiously, fingers flexing in mid-air. “What’s happening—How? Is Merlin here?!”
“Give him to me.”
Aziraphale spasmed at the familiar voice filling the air, stiffening in the tentacles’ grasp and trying to look around, locate the source. It looked like the sky was raining fire, the black waters reflecting glistening flames, and there - there, Aziraphale saw, eyes widening - was Crowley.
Colossal, twenty times his usual size and outlined in flame, rising up from between the rock formations around the castle and stepping down into the lake. The black water only came up to his ankles, then his knees, as he took enormous strides towards them, steam billowing up wherever the water touched his skin, his huge blazing eyes like two deadly caves of fire.
The tentacles wrapped around Aziraphale's body stiffened, its surging assault slowing, and for a moment Aziraphale feared being torn limb from limb.
“You! How? What is happening?” Morgana demanded.
“It is a ssssimple matter for me,” Crowley hissed, raising one massive hand as if to sweep their tableau into the lake like so many child’s toys, “to turn any mortal’s dream into a night terror. Even yoursss.”
The vision of Morgana, now wide-eyed and aghast, took one long look at Crowley’s brandished hand, and abruptly vanished.
“No,” came a sound, all around them—as if her voice had been mixed with a rush of crashing waves.
“He is mine. You will give him to me. Now.”
“No!” came Morgana’s voice again, bewilderment mixing with fury. “How are you doing this? You have no power here!”
“Oh,” Crowley snarled, the sky flashing as if ruptured with lightning, reaching down with one huge hand and plunging it into the water, enclosing the murky bulk of the beast in his vast fingers as clouds of steam pumped into the air, “but I do.”
“But you’re bound—!”
Crowley didn’t answer, but his hand started to squeeze, muscle and sinew bulging in his arm until Aziraphale felt all the tentacles grow lax all at once. They slunk rapidly back from him, easing out of his body and whipping away, leaving Aziraphale collapsed on the dark beach, shaking uncontrollably. Stars seemed to wheel above his head, and he wondered if he was about to wake up despite himself, jolted into consciousness by the shock of being spared.
But Crowley was here. Crowley was here!
Aziraphale clenched his hands around a few cold pieces of the shingle beneath him, quite literally maintaining a grasp upon this bleak and hostile world.
A thrashing sounded in the water behind him, followed by a slippery noise like the rustling of a fisherman’s net, and then Crowley grunted and a loud splash echoed across the breadth of Llyn Nhywell.
Morgana howled, a wild injured sound that trailed off suddenly. And then, silence.
“She’s retreated from the dreamscape,” Crowley said, in a softer voice.
Aziraphale barely had time to lift his head and verify that Morgana was gone before he was being scooped up in Crowley’s enormous palm and brought up at dizzying speed, level with his face. “Within minutes, this place will fade away.”
Aziraphale craned up to see over the ridge of Crowley’s palm, saw the height he was at - the castle looked like a toy beneath them, set in a pool of ink, within soft black clouds of forest; and there beyond Aziraphale could see the rough edge of the Northern coastline, the glint of moonlight on the ocean beyond this small gnarled knot of land.
The air was even colder up here but Aziraphale wasn’t cold, because Crowley’s palm was like a stone warmed in the sun, and the heat of the crackling fire in his eyes was as strong as most castles’ great hearths.
Aziraphale opened his mouth, shut it again. He had no words. For a moment he gazed awestruck and stunned into the inferno of Crowley’s gaze and let it bake every trace of coldness right out of him. His body was a weak, wet, aching thing and yet he also felt, just faintly, lit from within.
Eventually he found his tongue. “H-how have you done this?”
Crowley held his palm a little further away from his face. His eyes were burning a merry orange-red with flickers of arrogant purple.
“Ehhh,” Crowley said, and gave a lazy lopsided shrug, one massive shoulder blocking out the moon. “You needed saving. You gave me just enough power to save you. Besides, I felt like making a scene. She insulted me!”
“But you were supposed to save that power!” Aziraphale countered, bewildered now. “Not use it on becoming a—a—a giant! I had a plan, I was going to wake up, no matter what she did, as soon as you—”
“I made my own plan,” Crowley said, and then scowled at him. “Have you been mortally wounded?”
Gosh. Now there was a question.
Aziraphale smiled weakly. “Nnnno, no, not, er, mortally. I’ll live. Just a bit bruised.”
“Soul and arse,” Crowley pronounced with satisfaction, startling a laugh out of Aziraphale.
“Something like that.”
“And this,” Crowley said, lifting the forefinger of his other hand and running a fingertip the size of a cannonball down Aziraphale’s chest. The flames gave a violent flicker, ice-blue rising at their centres. “This mark has been left.”
Aziraphale shivered despite the furnace heat. “I think that was designed to, um, irritate you.”
“It succeeded,” Crowley said dryly. “She should know better than to use a sword imbued with my power to draw a sigil on my playfellow.”
“Playfellow!” Aziraphale exclaimed, startled anew, feeling renewed heat rush to his cheeks. He started to grin. “Is that, um, the proper term…?”
Crowley gave a soft noise that was probably a laugh. “There is no proper term for you,” he said, and then a whisper murmured through Aziraphale’s brain, plain as speech. My angelic reprobate.
Aziraphale blushed harder.
“The sigil will be gone when you wake,” Crowley said quickly. “Especially if you are inhabiting that other form again, the maiden.” Crowley tilted his head, as if considering. “The one begging to be ravished.”
“Ah! Yes, well that was part of the wider plan,” Aziraphale said, then hastily backtracked. “The form, I mean, not the… being ravished.”
“Pity,” Crowley said. “I am now contemplating a full and forceful exploration of that form.”
Aziraphale smiled. “I’ll come to find you tomorrow,” he said, “with exactly that in mind. If, that is, you haven’t overspent your power again? You still have enough to last the night?”
“Are you trying to induce me to state that I am in your debt?”
“No, no,” Aziraphale murmured, trying to refrain from smiling even wider. “Never.”
“Well, it is true that I will last the night,” Crowley said, as if this was the last line in an argument. “But it will not last. Tomorrow you must come and submit to me again. Or else.”
Of course Crowley would phrase it like that. Catch Crowley saying, Save me.
“I think I’d better,” Aziraphale said, letting his voice turn the tiniest bit sly. He stared up into the enormous banks of living flame. “Um… thank you for saving me, Crowley. That was – deep down, I mean – awfully good of you.”
Crowley made a dismissive noise. “Entirely part of my plan to escape demonic enslavement and wreak yet more havoc on this dreadful world. Any benefit to you is, pffff, quite beside the point.”
“Oh, well, yes, of course,” Aziraphale agreed, stretching out in his enormous palm, thinking that if Crowley would just curl his fingers closed it would be the safest he’d felt in his life. “Diabolical.”
“Exactly,” Crowley said, and then, a rumble that was almost a whisper, “hush,” and blackness descended.
Notes:
...and breathe. ;D
Summary of Night 10 for those who did not wish to read the above but still want to know the relevant plot points:
Night 10 spoilers
- Az learns from Merlin that a demon who starves on Earth becomes a "wraith", an endlessly hungry slave to the one who has bound them. He is horrified to realise this could happen to Crowley - potentially this very night! He is equally horrified when the others, talking tactics, suggest banishing Crowley back to Hell. Unfortunately there is no option to return to the castle immediately as Morgana has no reason to let Az in.
- Az resolves to go back into Morgana's dream and try to reach/replenish Crowley that way.
- During preparation for putting Az back into the dreamscape, Az remarks on the ritual items Merlin uses in his spellcraft. During the subsequent conversation he learns the significance of the "heartswood" and "hearthstone" in Camelot's toasts, and it is revealled that the desperate warding spell Merlin performed 10 years ago "wed Arthur to the land"... and himself to Arthur.
“But you’re right,” Merlin said, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Spoken plainly, it’s a claim and a promise, between us and the land. It goes into the roots and through the rocks. It makes Arthur the cornerstone of my power and links us both, irrevocably, to the fate of Camelot.”
- Merlin gives Az yet another chance to come clean about what the demon means to him, which Az sails past
- Az is put back into Morgana’s dream, in male form. NB: this is partially for fun purposes, partially to match the physicality of the previous tentacle dream, and partially in line with my narrative choice to not show any gratuitous on-screen violence against female characters (sorry, male!Az, you're fair game!)
- Az tries to find out from Morgana where Crowley is and establishes she is planning to turn him into wraith via starvation (which is taking longer than she expected). He keeps her talking, trying to work out how he can transmit some rejuvenating lifeforce to Crowley. He surmises that although he has very little chance of sexual pleasure here, she might like to torment / punish him and that might in turn feed Crowley
- although Az is manipulating Morgana, the conversation with her forces Az to examine some of his own guilty feelings and he experiences a genuine desire to confess/atone. This muddies the water somewhat. They agree he needs to be punished; it isn’t clear if Morgana thinks all men deserve punishment or if it’s Arthur’s comrades in particular
- Morgana opts to have her tentacular lake beast deliver the punishment. In true Az style, he is initially horrified and then finds he’s getting into it. As his experience intensifies, the conduit to Crowley opens and Crowley offers some choice commentary on proceedings. The combined physical and mental overstimulation, with the tentacle beast helping him along, results in an orgasm that definitely serves Crowley
- Az asks Crowley if he can leave as he's had enough; Crowley doesn’t immediately answer and Az spirals as the tentacle beast resumes tormenting him. He almost nopes right out of there and then, unexpectedly, Crowley appears as a rampaging giant and saves him; the reason he didn’t let Az leave was so Crowley could use loads of power in this absurdly overdone way. Crowley scares Morgana away and throws the hapless beast across the lake. Az is appalled that Crowley would waste the power, but is also very pleased to be rescued.
- Before the dream ends, Crowley tells him he’d better come find him tomorrow, or else.
Chapter 16: Day 11 - The Reunion
Summary:
The finale of Act 2.
Aziraphale recovers from the night before, rides forth AGAIN, and robustly rejeuvinates that demon.
Notes:
AT LONG LAST. THEY. ARE. IN THE SAME ROOM.
it only took 100k+
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Aziraphale woke from a sleep so deep it was almost profound. She felt like some furred beast rousing at the end of a long winter, blinking slowly as she came around.
She squinted at the window above her bed - she was back in the little bedroom in the inn, then. Somehow unscathed and supremely relaxed. Last night’s dream already felt unreal; the high contrasts of fire and ice, terror and desperation, had already become muted in memory. Although she was still aware of the horrors she’d endured, there was something detached about it now, as if—well. As if it had been only a dream.
She drank in the lucid brightness of the window filtered through green leaves, reorientating. The dawn chorus of the encroaching forest was in full swing outside the inn’s walls. Inside the room however… stillness.
There was something almost unnerving about the quiet of a room where no one else was sleeping. In recent months, this would suggest she’d somehow slept late and the rest of the knights had already roused and left. Before that, she wouldn’t have had the chance; Gabriel considered slovenliness as opposed to godliness, and would embrace any opportunity to berate Aziraphale accordingly. Sometimes with an entire flagon of cold water.
She did not want to think about Gabriel right now.
Her gaze swept slowly from window to door, taking in the rounded heaps of bedclothes tangled around her. Her own bare shoulders. She stretched then, one palm idling across her throat to reassure herself with what she already knew: that the amulet was there, and her body was hers again.
Aziraphale's fingertips meandered lower, satisfying themselves that the skin was again unmarked, no soreness or stinging cuts remaining. Particular that sigil, which Crowley had taken such umbrage against, if that had still been scratched across her chest… it didn’t bear thinking about. Such a relief to encounter only smooth, warm skin, stirring into sensitivity as her fingertips skated exploratory circles.
Despite finding herself physically unharmed, her mind still prickled with outrage at the thought of everything Morgana had put her through. Put him through, rather. For all Morgana’s icy dispassion, the very viciousness of the attack betrayed her composure. She had reckoned without Aziraphale’s well-honed ability to endure, and then just watched as he did so, as it shifted from taunting to torture, from the lilting promise of punishment to something inescapably cruel. Throughout it all, Morgana had not seemed moved, had never once seemed to question her own actions. Aziraphale - or whomever Aziraphale represented to Morgana - deserved it.
Recalling her impassive coolness now left Aziraphale feeling angry, hot, restless. How dare she! A growing urge to reclaim every inch of herself was building inside. This body, which could take so much, give so much, feel so much.
The one begging to be ravished.
Yes. Exactly. Her body. Deserved to be cherished, rewarded.
Aziraphale’s fingers stubbed against a nipple and she shivered as it crinkled into hardness, the surrounding skin markedly sensitive. Her thumb stayed there, playing with it, while the rest of her fingers curved around the side of her breast, marvelling at its soft weight, how she felt inside when she squeezed. Increasingly aware of every inch of herself beneath the rumpled sheets.
She wondered then at how she’d come to be back in bed with no memory of it. The last thing she remembered - before the dream - was kneeling with Merlin before the fire.
Had he and Arthur carried her up to bed? Undressed her? Or had she made her own way, stumbling in the darkness, foggy with the after-effects of the spell?
She had enough wherewithal to recognise that the thought of their guidance filled her with intrigue, rather than uneasiness. There weren’t many men in the kingdom she’d trust with her unconscious form, but these two apparently qualified. She wondered if they had awoken yet, in the big bedroom. Did they sleep entwined, or restless, alert to danger in every realm? Were they already awake, listening to this same birdsong, or perhaps occupied with other - more pressing - engagements?
Now there was a thought.
All at once, Aziraphale remembered the night she’d woken to find Crowley already inside—him. The night he’d prepared himself before sleeping, but without knowing what he was letting himself in for. Laying himself out as an invitation for Crowley to look, smell, taste his fill. To touch him, arrange him. Possess him.
Aziraphale remembered that sizzle of realisation, teetering against the edge of consciousness, awareness jolting as his body was invaded by slow, inexorable, shockingly exquisite degrees.
A flush of warmth rose through her at the memory, her hands creeping below the covers before she’d even realised she’d moved.
Had Merlin ever woken to find Arthur already on top of him, already—hm. Wait. Something clanged dimly in her brain at that, some unnerving sense that that… wasn’t… quite it. She couldn’t quite picture Arthur taking advantage of someone in their sleep, no matter how willing they might have declared themselves beforehand. Something about him didn’t lend itself to that vision; the upright nobility, perhaps, or the resolute chivalry of his bearing.
She hesitated. Arthur wouldn’t. But… Merlin might.
And oh, that felt much more right. Sweat broke over Aziraphale’s skin, the flush intensifying across her chest, between her breasts, reaching amorphous warm tendrils down between her thighs, as she let herself imagine that. Merlin’s quick hands and the wicked gleam that he brought to so many otherwise innocent topics, his inherent mastery of the oblique and the dark… Yes, she had a sudden sense, he was the one that might see the potential in that warm confusion between sleep and wake, might turn the situation to his advantage. He might run his fingers over Arthur’s sleeping form, coaxing him to a standing hardness with a dreamy, barely-there touch. He might watch in hunger as Arthur stirred and then settled again… And then what else might he do?
Aziraphale sucked on her lower lip, rubbing her tongue against it, letting her teeth sink in as the images blurred into several enticing overlaid ideas. She didn’t know exactly what she wanted the Merlin in her mind to do to the peacefully sleeping Arthur, only that even the suggestion of it was making her own body come alive.
Her hands closed on her breasts, squeezing and shaping, and her mind jumped tracks again. What would Crowley make of these, she wondered, clutching her breasts as hard as she could and imaging claws, talons, before releasing and soothing them with slow apologetic strokes. Her nipples firmed eagerly against her palms, intriguing little nubs that felt just right between thumb and forefinger; so small to command such a storm of sensation when she pinched them. Small and powerful. Was that one of the fabled secrets of the female body? Vast planes of arousal just waiting to be connected with a simple, targeted twist?
She thought of other rumoured secrets. That their forms were aloof, difficult to please, distant and distracted. Well… that really wasn’t her experience. Her skin was goose flesh beneath her fingertips, every downy hair raised in hopeful salute. Her body thrummed with possibility, a choir aching for a conductor. She wanted direction.
The image of Merlin and Arthur returned to the forefront of her mind, Merlin wearing the expression she’d witnessed yesterday, a forceful yearning belied by his calculating smile. She imagined that smile against her nipples, beard scratching, lips plucking, his clever tongue circling—ah, just like that, one of her hands was on the move again.
Stroking downwards, hurrying almost, to cup the intriguing valley between her legs. The rub of her palm made her focus sharpen, every part of her attention drawn to this central gathering heat.
Tentatively she uncurled her fingers, exploring the landscape of herself. Between her legs, up, in. She found heated, slick seams and curving lines, rewarding even her most hesitant touches with burgeoning hints of pleasure. She ran her fingertips slowly over herself, trying to recall the names from her book—populating her map of her body with a hushed litany of anatomical syllables. Mons, labia, introitus… The heat seemed to dance and swell beneath her fingertips as they delved.
All at once Aziraphale recalled a long-ago conversation overheard, another fabled secret of the fairer sex; about how shy and evasive the sources of female pleasure could be, how it was all too possible for an eager young fellow to bring himself off without arousing his accomplice’s ardour at all.
Well, Aziraphale really wasn’t finding that to be the case! The area in question was positively calling to her fingertips, begging their pressure, their movement. And rewarding, goodness, the sweet and fulsome rewards for even the slightest bit of attention!
Aziraphale toyed there, exploring, this clitoral appendage with its mysterious hood - what a lot of syllables that was, quite the mouthful - and then she had to close her eyes for a moment, going altogether faint, imagining Merlin filling his mouth with all those syllables and sucking. Her fingers closed tightly and she rubbed, pleasure zinging through the whole area, imaging Merlin’s clever tongue teasing it, worrying it with a hint of teeth. Liquid heat surged between her legs at that, lower, inside. So many dimensions to this place! The raging yearn of one tiny pinnacle, undercut by throbbing slickness below. She was going to need both hands.
She shuffled down the bed a little, lifting her knees and marvelling at how easily her fingers slipped into the soaking hot clench of her cunt. No stretching or salve required here, no—she felt like Crowley himself could crawl top of her in demon form, push the full magnitude of his cock inside her, without preamble, and she would just make encouraging noises. She recalled the stretch of taking him in the dream, the impossible width, and licked her lips. Two fingers became three, four. Oh! How she wanted him here. She stroked her inner walls, pressing at the pounding satin heat of them, and writhed in the tiny bed, gasping.
She was so wet. She could only imagine how it must feel to sink a cock into this sumptuous soft tightness. That thought made her moan anew, feeling a frustrated kinship with her male form like never before. She knew the precise angle and girth and steadfast bulk that she commanded as a man—how welcome that stand would be right now! Sliding inside her, thick and solid.
Her wrist was starting to tire, knuckles cramping as she fucked herself with her fingers, straining to reach deeper inside, to curve against just the right place. Could that be achieved—was there a world where she might fuck her male counterpart, was there a dream where she might access him? To experience being both at once, the hunter and his quarry, one who gave and one who took, together?
It would surely be no more complex for Merlin than putting her into the dream of a sorceress. It seemed to Aziraphale to be a far fetched but eminently desirable goal. Or she could just, hmm, oh, mmm, just keep doing this. She worked her fingers harder, angling her hips against her own grip, pressing up against every part that wanted to be pressed.
She felt alone and surrounded at once, her mind filling in the cadences of the others’ voices. She fancied she could feel Crowley’s resonance just beyond discernible reach. She heard Merlin saying yes and Arthur saying do it and even the breathless grunts of Lancelot and Percival scuffling last night; how had that ended, how would any of this end?
Aziraphale was gritting her teeth now, scowling and gasping and—oh! Fuck, yes, all at once, her mind’s desires and her body’s urges collided. In an instant, the propelling energy to seek, search, quest—imploded. She rubbed her clit hard, shoving her fingers deeply, and lost her footing in the world for a moment as pleasure took her.
A faint echo, yes, filled her mind, but she couldn’t be sure if it was wishfulness or really, truly Crowley.
Yes, she thought back, anyway, throwing her head back and exhaling hard. Yes, yes, yesss.
Then, there was stillness.
Slowly, the world righted itself around her, her focus expanding once more. She scanned the room as her awareness grew outwards. The room itself was unchanged, the only alteration being her body: a molten puddle in the centre of the twisted sheets, gently cooling.
She wondered instead how Frán fared this bright morning, if she too were opening her eyes to a hush of privacy in that big, warm, curtained bed. If she had felt Aziraphale’s efforts; if she had also indulged. To what degree she was now restored—or were the intervening hours already taking their toll?
Had Morgana gone to find her, to demand answers for Crowley’s behaviour last night?
Another thought struck her: would Morgana recognise Aziraphale when she went back to the castle today?
She swallowed, a knot forming in her stomach. Surely there were sufficient differences between Aziraphale's clothed and collected female form and last night’s naked male anguish. If not… well, the conversation might take a dramatic turn. Potentially becoming something she couldn’t talk her way out of.
What on Earth had Crowley been thinking, striding in to rescue Aziraphale with all the subtlety of a rampaging dragon?
Crowley. She couldn’t quite believe him. Faced with what Crowley could have done and should have done… what he had actually gone and done was absurd! And… foolhardy. And… wonderful.
You needed saving.
Well! Now it was time to save him right back.
It turned out that, technically true to her word, Morgana had sent out a rider with provisions - an ostensibly generous selection that on closer inspection was almost entirely comprised of items requiring some degree of expertise to yield actual food. So breakfast was a strange combination of porridge and apples, followed by eggs and a sort of chewy, unleavened flat bread that Percival cooked in twists over the fire.
“I won’t be distraught to return to Camelot and her kitchens, I must admit,” Lancelot mused, though he ate easily as much as the rest of them.
“Ah, this is all right,” Percival said cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder.
Lancelot glanced down where Percival’s hand was entirely enclosing the top of his arm, and his mouth twitched. “I suppose a few days of rustic living can be endured.”
“That’s the spirit,” Percival beamed, dropping his hand to break off another lump of the strange bread. “Couple of days away from court never hurt anybody.”
Aziraphale had been glancing at Merlin anyway to see if there was any sign on his face that he’d carried her upstairs last night - perhaps enlisted Arthur to assist? To assiduously peel away her clothes? - so she caught it as he quickly suppressed a smile.
“Could be good for you, even,” Merlin remarked innocently. “An occasional break from all that routine.”
“One doesn’t need a break from a well-run establishment,” Lancelot retorted, standing, and then perhaps unconsciously gave his arm a quick rub. “Right! I can’t imagine it would be prudent for us all to go back. Shall I provide the escort, today?”
Despite Aziraphale feeling she’d made every effort to hurry things along, the sun was still over the mid-point by the time they rode back across the bridge. Horses, it turned out, did not groom and outfit themselves.
Nina’s face was entirely neutral when she welcomed Aziraphale back through the gate, then turned a look on Lancelot of pure dismissal. Aziraphale didn’t think she’d ever seen a woman less interested in the king’s first knight, herself included, but Nina seemed as unaffected as if Aziraphale had been escorted by a lumpen sack of wet sand.
Lancelot made a courteous bow without dismounting. “I trust she will be afforded every hospitality,” he said to Nina.
“She will,” Nina said, already closing the gate on him, to Lancelot’s bemused expression.
“Is, um, Morgana around?” Aziraphale asked her, once they were safely inside, then wondered if that sounded presumptuous. Why was she asking? Did she even want to see Morgana? What if Morgana took one look at Aziraphale and realised she was one and the same as the man she’d half-destroyed last night?
“Around,” Nina repeated, looking Aziraphale up and down. Then she appeared to make a decision. “Wait a moment.”
She made a small, curt gesture in the air with one hand, and her eyes flared gold. She didn’t speak, but her lips moved. She was entirely still for a few seconds, then blinked and locked eyes with Aziraphale again. They were dark brown once more, just a linger of glowing amber remaining.
“She isn’t to be disturbed,” Nina said, ever succinct. “Slept badly.”
Aziraphale felt herself brimming with questions. “That’s amazing! Did you just… somehow - magically, I suppose, or internally - speak to her?”
Nina watched her bluster for a moment, then with a small smile inclined her head to one side, allowing a couple of braids to slide over her shoulder. “There are forty of us in this castle built for five hundred,” she said dryly. “How else would you suggest we communicate - by pigeon?”
“No! I… that’s not… oh, you’re teasing,” Aziraphale said, too excited and impressed to be embarrassed. “But that’s incredible! Did Morgana teach you, or, or how did you learn? Have you always—?”
Something in Nina’s gaze shuttered. “Are you asking for yourself, or for the king?”
For a moment Aziraphale teetered perilously on the edge of dishonesty. It would be remarkably easy, she sensed, to renounce Arthur to this mysterious woman and glean all sorts of fascinating secrets from her. But the last thing Aziraphale wanted right now was to betray another person’s trust.
“Um - both,” she said, with an apologetic note in her voice. “I would very much love to know more, but I would also… I am loyal to the king.”
“Then I’ll leave it to Morgana to decide how much to tell you,” Nina said, brisk but not unkind. “I heard you’re to be shown to our apothecary first - something about a tincture.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right,” Aziraphale said meekly, crestfallen despite her resolve. She had the strangest sense that a very grand door had closed in her face. “Thank you.”
Morgana’s apothecary was a kindly woman called Maggie who fussed and nodded as Aziraphale explained a highly modified version of the situation.
“Weakness… oh dear… and pallor… indeed… Well, she’s not looked well all week. The voyage really took it out of her - she’s taken to her bed ever since. We’ve already tried various remedies to build the blood and soothe a fever. Perhaps—”
“I fear it is no physical ailment,” Aziraphale interrupted, then winced. “Sorry. It probably sounds downright fanciful. But do you have anything to, ah, shore up the spirit?”
She hadn’t seen any evidence that Maggie was a sorceress except that, well, she lived here, didn’t she? And after Nina’s demonstration…
Maggie’s face settled into pensive lines. “What exactly are you hoping for, my dear?”
Aziraphale chose her words carefully. “I fear that Frán is subject to a wasting disease that depletes her from the inside,” she said, and then lowered her voice. “The ailment that afflicted Arthur had a demonic quality.”
“King Arthur,” Maggie said, raising her eyebrows.
Ah, yes. Maggie whose little sister still worked the Camelot kitchens; she would be exceedingly familiar with the proper way to address the king.
Aziraphale wasn’t sure which was the greater outrage - her careless lack of formality, again, or her use of the word demonic - but once more she felt she’d been clumsy in her words. She waded on, improvising now. “But when the demon’s influence was expelled from the king, it nearly killed him - I fear, because he had grown so weak. So if you have something that might slow down a body’s wasting, perhaps, that might be… good.”
“Soup,” Maggie said, watching her closely. “Have you tried soup?”
“I… have not.”
“We did try soup,” Nina called, from the doorway. She wasn’t lurking per se. Just… hanging around. Guarding Aziraphale, probably. “Soup did very little. As usual.”
Maggie shot Nina a look, her eyes momentary glimmering gold. Or maybe that was a trick of the light as she turned back to her workbench. “Maybe it wasn’t very good soup,” she said archly. Then she glanced again at Aziraphale and appeared to take pity on her. “Why do I get the feeling that’s nothing close to what you mean?”
Aziraphale’s mouth worked for a moment, and then she gave up. Maggie’s niceness was undoing her. “I’m not entirely sure what I mean,” she said miserably.
Maggie’s regard grew keener, but not unkind. “Did you know her, then, back in Camelot?”
“Not as well as I’d have liked,” Aziraphale admitted, and perhaps Maggie could hear the truth of it because her expression softened further.
“Mmm, we’ve all been there,” Maggie said, her eyes a touch rueful now. Then she drew out a small glass bottle from a string around her neck. “Sometimes it feels like hope’s in short supply, but this might do the trick.”
“Oh! Thank you,” Aziraphale said, watching closely. The last thing she wanted to do was accidentally poison Crowley. “It’s not, um, blessed water, or anything similar – is it?”
Maggie chuckled. “We’re not really a ‘blessed water’ sort of castle.”
”Don’t even have a chapel,” Nina remarked, from the door. “Use the old one to store the apples. Nice and cool.”
“Everywhere’s nice and cool in this climate,” Maggie retorted, and Aziraphale wondered what on Earth was passing between them.
She kept her attention on Maggie’s hands though, as her fingers worked. A few drops from the tiny bottle went into a bowl with a handful of dark green leaves that she crushed to a paste. She poured on some astringent-smelling liquid, stirred carefully, and then strained the whole grass-green lot through a piece of muslin into a small vial.
“For the spirit,” Maggie said eventually, handing the vial to Aziraphale with a small nod. “To preserve and revive, nothing more dramatic. Mind, it won’t taste very good.”
Aziraphale clutched it like a talisman as she was escorted back to Frán’s bedchamber. She had no hope that giving it would help Frán in any way whatsoever, but that was not of great concern. The tiny bottle was Aziraphale’s excuse to return to the bedchamber, and that was all that mattered right now.
Halfway down one of the many dim corridors Nina received some internal message and was called away, so Aziraphale was palmed off to a different escort, Muriel, who boasted big brown eyes and an air of delighted bafflement.
At no point was Aziraphale left to wander on her own.
“Here we are,” Muriel said eventually, checking up and down the corridor before laying a palm on the chamber door. “She’s in.”
Obviously, Aziraphale thought, watching her unlatch the heavy bolt affixed to the top of the door.
Muriel waved for Aziraphale to step inside, then stood uneasily back as Aziraphale approached the bed. Clearly some in the castle feared the malady gripping the handmaiden was catching.
Frán was still a pitiful shape huddled up in a too-big bed, but her eyes blinked open as Aziraphale approached and they—oh, now they positively glinted.
Recognition fired Frán’s features immediately this time, and she sat up a bit.
Aziraphale probably approached a tad too eagerly, but she didn’t care. She waved the vial in her hand as a distraction. “I brought you this,” she said, tilting it back and forth in a shaft of light from the half-shuttered windows. “A remedy.”
The bed’s heavy curtains were drawn back on the side near the door, but fell to the floor on the other three sides. Despite this, the air around the bedside felt cold.
Frán cracked a smile between dry lips. “How optimistic of you,” she said. Her voice was lower than Aziraphale remembered, and sounded raw.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Aziraphale said brightly.
Frán accepted a spoonful of the bright green liquid and then made a face. “Vile human,” she muttered, with a small shudder. “Are you trying to hasten my demise?”
“No!” Aziraphale laughed, and then hushed, because Muriel was still right there. She seemed innocent enough, dressed in pale vestments more suited to a church acolyte than a wild witch, but one could never tell. “What would help, then?”
Frán just shook her head, all flashes of humour vanishing. She looked like a leaf at the turn of autumn, brittle and dessicated, its vibrancy lost. Aziraphale sobered in turn. Ahead of them loomed another day, another notch of famine.
“Nothing you can safely give me in front of witnesses.”
Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. Just watch her! She reached under the covers to clasp Frán’s cool dry hand, even as she twisted around to address Muriel once more.
“She’s very weak,” she declared, testing the response.
“Yes,” Muriel said, nodding authoritatively. “Weaker by the day!”
It wasn’t clear if that was an observation or a celebration.
Aziraphale gave a haughty sniff. “The cold is hastening her demise,” she said, shamelessly borrowing Frán’s grandiose words. “There is only one thing for it. She must bathe in the hottest water she can stand.”
“Bathe?!” Muriel repeated, eyes widening. She fiddled with the one silver ring on her thumb, twisting it awkwardly. “I’m not… that is… I’m not sure I’m trained to do that?”
Trained? What did training have to do with drawing a bath? Aziraphale just wanted Muriel out of here for a few minutes; fetching and carrying water was not a quick task, and nor was retrieving the wood to heat it. The hearth in this room had burnt out. Even if Muriel enlisted help, it should take her several slow trips.
Aziraphale made a show of looking back at Frán’s forlorn figure, the tangled red hair, then shook her head. “But it is vitally important,” she said gravely. “It is the surest possible way to revive her strength.”
This was, of course, nonsense, but a stirring speech never made a person less convincing, did it? She just had to hope that Muriel had little to no knowledge of the physical workings of the body.
Muriel surprised her with an urgent nod. “Very well! If that’s the case, I’ll try at once!”
And then, to Aziraphale’s amazement, she strode with an air of importance to the copper tub beside the dark hearth, and laid both hands upon it.
There was a pause, where all three of them held their silence.
Then Muriel took a deep breath and started to hum a sweet, haunting note. It seemed to take more breath than her small form could possibly hold.
Gradually the whites of Muriel’s eyes turned fully golden, her knuckles blanched and straining. As the note continued, water rose in a slow swell—even as the colour drained from Muriel’s face, leaving only the gold blaze of her eyes. The water deepened and she kept humming, interrupted now by uneven jerks of breath; she was panting and grimacing by the time the bath was filled. At last, the note was allowed to drift into silence. Then she tipped her face back and whispered something complicated-sounding, and a light seemed to flash through the copper itself. There was a sizzling noise; steam started to drift above the surface of the water.
“Oh… there,” Muriel said faintly, both hands now clutching the thick copper rim like claws. “Oh, goodness me, that… gosh…”
Aziraphale was staring at her agape. Then, as Muriel staggered, Aziraphale leapt into action, slipping her arm under the slight swaying figure and guiding her towards a large chair standing sentry by the bedchamber door.
“Thank you,” Muriel whispered, stumbling along next to her, and for a moment rested her head against Aziraphale's shoulder.
A pang of guilt speared Aziraphale's chest. “No, er, thank you,” she said awkwardly. “I wasn’t expecting… that.”
She met Frán’s gaze over the top of Muriel’s head; the catlike eyes were unsympathetic. As well she might be, Aziraphale supposed. For Crowley this was all very simple.
“Do you need a… should I fetch someone?”
Muriel made a weak flapping motion with her hand as she sank into the armchair. The solitary ring on her thumb flashed in the light. “It’s… fine… I’ll just… close my eyes for a moment.”
Her head rocked against the padded back of the chair and then slumped to one side, her face smoothing out. Her shoulders rose and fell more steadily. She seemed deeply asleep.
Aziraphale shot Frán an accusing look. “Did you do that?”
Frán made a weak scoffing noise. “I lack any strength to influence this realm,” she rasped, and then tilted her head. “And if I had the strength, that isn’t what I’d use it on.”
Aziraphale took a step back from Muriel, then another, tentative, ready to dart closer again if she looked about to slump to the floor. But she seemed comfortable enough, the colour returning to her pallid cheeks even as Aziraphale watched.
“We… hmm, we might not have long,” Aziraphale hazarded, turning to find that Frán was sitting on the edge of the bed now, wearing a blocky black nightgown and looking like a stiff breeze might knock her to the ground. “Oh! Yes, let me help you up—”
Frán glared and made spluttering noises of outrage as she was assisted across the room towards the steaming bath, before digging her heels in and giving Aziraphale a most dubious look.
“You actually want me to get into that?”
“I want you to be doing exactly what we said we’d be doing,” Aziraphale said sternly, trying not to dwell on the featherweight scrawniness of her form with too much pity. She jerked her head at the sleeping Muriel. “If she wakes up and discovers we’re in bed together—well, even I can’t explain that away as an old apothecary’s trick!”
Frán brightened, cocked her head to the side. “Welllll. You could try?”
“Get. In.”
Aziraphale shifted so that her form was blocking the line of sight between Frán’s body and the door, folded her arms, and waited.
After a long moment, Frán shrugged and stripped off the nightdress - almost ungainly, certainly not trying to be seductive - before lowering a pale foot into the water, and hissing softly.
Aziraphale was so busy trying not to stare, trying not to run her gaze up and down that bare leg, trying to quieten the breathless clamour in her mind - she is naked! Frán is naked! Right in front of me! - that it took her a moment to realise that the hiss had sounded almost like pain.
“Ah!” she said belatedly. “I hope it’s not too hot?”
“It’s very hot,” Frán agreed, through her teeth, but she was still climbing in, despite her leading foot turning pink below the surface of the water. “I am surprised that Morgana found this such a pleasant occupation.”
Aziraphale went to rest her hand on the side of the metal bath and then snatched back her fingers lest they scald.
“Morgana probably doesn’t take it hot enough to boil her alive,” Aziraphale said, though she felt over-warm herself at the implication that Frán might have given Morgana a bath. An enjoyable one, no less.
Frán was lowering herself steadily into the water, a little sigh escaping. “Hmm.” She stretched out once she was fully submerged, one rosy foot breaking the surface of the water, toes pointed. Aziraphale resisted the urge to grab hold of the foot. Too hot to touch right now.
“This actually looks like it might be helping,” Aziraphale said, after a moment of not knowing where to look. Maybe it was the wavering steam but Frán’s skin seemed less sallow, her face less gaunt. “Even though I made all that up. Unless it’s that apothecary’s potion…?!”
“Makes… sense…” Frán murmured, eyes closing, fingers spreading against the sides of the bath, a mesmeric sight, almost beatific; the waves of her red hair rippling out around her, her slender body suspended in the scalding water. “Wellspring of… infernal heat. I always did have an affinity with copper.”
Aziraphale was blindsided then by a well-worn vision of being fucked by Crowley that first time, the reflection of Aziraphale’s body emblazoned across the copper bath. Taking it, all that power, the astonishing violence and how he still had craved more. Craved any touch that Crowley might spare him, no matter how perfunctory, how brutal. How badly he had wanted to be chosen, taken, known.
A flash-flood of arousal took Aziraphale’s form now, and she shifted awkwardly, pressing her thighs together beneath her skirts and biting her lower lip. Freed from Frán’s attention by those closed eyelids, Aziraphale’s gaze travelled without her permission, sweeping down over Frán’s long limbs and rounded breasts, her slanted waist, the sharp peaks of her hipbones, the intriguing auburn smudge of hair between her legs.
“Are you,” Aziraphale started huskily, and cleared her throat, “um, falling asleep?”
Frán’s eyes snapped open. “No.”
Without another word, she submerged herself entirely in the water, eyes closing again as they sank below the surface. Her pale face looked briefly distorted, hair waving in a dark red cloud of silken strands. She swished her head down, a few scant bubbles erupting to the surface like pearls, and then she rose again, sitting up, steaming water streaming down her face.
Frán’s hair was slicked back, then floating around her sharp shoulders where it met the water. Everything was gleaming - her wet eyelashes, her freckled cheekbones, her clavicles just skimming the waterline, her smirking pink mouth - and for a moment Aziraphale's breath caught at how beautiful she was, even like this. Gaunt but defiant, pinking up all over, gilded with steam, the jut of her lips as captivating as ever.
Frán saw her looking and gave her a crooked smile, a flash of sharp teeth. “Get in with me?” She bent one knee as she spoke, creating an interesting space that Aziraphale could just imagine settling into.
“That would not, er, be easy to explain either,” Aziraphale said haltingly, though her hand lifted to trace her fingers across the edge of the bath. The metal was a tolerable temperature now, either cooling rapidly in the cold room or Frán had actually absorbed some heat into her own body.
“Pffff,” Frán said, sly now, eyes glittering. “I heard it was an old apothecary’s trick.”
Frán ran her fingertips under the water, up and down the proffered slope of her inner thigh, drawing Aziraphale’s attention to the wavering shapes beneath the glossy water: the expanse of milky skin flushed pink, darker at the apex of her thighs, floating auburn curls crowning the tempting glimpse of her cunt.
She was so bewitching. Aziraphale sank to her knees with a soft groan, leaning over the edge of the bath so their faces were level. Her hand hovered, barely cupping Frán’s jaw for a trembling moment, and then Aziraphale pushed her fingers into the shining heavy mass of Frán’s wet hair and drew her closer. Water seeped into the cuff of her sleeve and she didn’t care. “I can’t—I just—You.”
She floundered to say more, but Frán gave her razor-edged smirk and then darted forwards, kissed her.
Light exploded behind Aziraphale's eyelids, at which point she realised her eyes had fallen closed. Her fingers spasmed in Frán’s sodden hair, squeezing tight. Frán’s mouth was extraordinarily hot and soft, so soft, the damp press of her lips as intoxicating as the burn of sweet wine. Aziraphale heard herself whimper, kissing her again and again, desperate already, rubbing her thumb down the side of Frán’s throat. And then the tender curve of Frán’s lips split in a wicked grin, and Aziraphale's breath wavered as a graze of those neat sharp teeth set her mouth ablaze.
Frán nudged their foreheads together, her dripping wet hands rising to clasp Aziraphale's face, and she was hot, so hot, as hot as the steam rising from the water all around them; the heat was making Aziraphale lightheaded. She felt Frán’s tongue slide along her lower lip, setting up a molten keening inside her, and then she heard a groaning - not her own - from the doorway, and, whoops.
Aziraphale pulled back sharply, immediately aware of her rapid breathing, her flushed face, her damp clothes. The bodice felt tighter than before as she sucked in unsteady lungfuls of cooler air. She blotted her cheek against her sleeve, hastily righting her appearance again.
“Ughhh,” came the low groan from the door, again.
“Ah! Good,” Aziraphale said valiantly, pitching her voice to carry across the room, even as she stared into Frán’s amused eyes, all pupil with a golden rim. “Muriel, you’re awake again. Great! Are you quite well?”
Aziraphale clambered to her feet and turned around, bracing the backs of her legs against the side of the bathtub and taking deep breaths to keep from swaying.
Muriel was staring at her own hands, still clutching the arms of her chair. “Um, yes,” she said uncertainly, easing herself back to her feet. She rubbed her palms together, then examined her fingers, twisting the ring on her thumb. “Hmm. I think so. Sorry! Not sure what happened.”
“A minor overexertion,” Aziraphale said, nodding as if that would make it sound more true. “Nothing to worry about.”
Behind her, Frán did something that made the water splash against the side of the bath.
Aziraphale tried to ignore her.
“What time is it?” Muriel asked, looking at the curtained window.
Aziraphale had absolutely no idea. “It’s definitely, er, pushing on,” she hazarded. “Um, but if you’re feeling better, I wonder if you could assist me in fetching some fresh sprigs of sage? And some honey. And, ah, if they have it, oil of clove?”
“Planning to eat me?” Frán muttered behind her.
“Not at all! Haha,” Aziraphale said, giving Muriel a smile that felt more like baring her teeth. “But the medicinal steam will revive the internal parts which have become, er, sallow and twisted. Especially the sage. It’s key, in fact. Very, very important to include the sage.”
She blinked her beseeching eyes at Muriel, who winced.
“I’m so sorry,” Muriel said, twisting the ring on her thumb again. “I would, but my power is quite exhausted. As you saw!”
Aziraphale gave an encouraging nod. “No indeed, I can only imagine,” she said, her voice full of sympathy. “But I wonder if you might… just… walk? To the kitchen garden, I mean. A place like this must have a kitchen garden, mustn’t it? Of course if I were to strike out for it on my own, I’d get quite lost.” She turned her mouth down. “And Frán would suffer terribly if the water got cold.”
Muriel looked from one to the other. “She does look… a little better,” she said doubtfully. “Well. I suppose. If you’re sure?”
Aziraphale widened her eyes and nodded. “I’m sure.”
She didn’t believe it had worked until the heavy door closed behind Muriel and she heard, almost like an aftershock, the external bolt slide shut with a metallic grinding noise. And that, more than anything, convinced her: Muriel didn’t know Frán was a demon. There was no way that earnest, helpful Muriel had knowingly locked a mortal in with a demon. Maybe Nina knew, maybe Maggie, definitely Morgana—but not Muriel.
Aziraphale turned back, ready to pick up exactly where they’d left off, but as their gazes met an unrecognisable light in Frán’s eyes made her hesitate. Maybe the sound of the bolt had been even more unnerving to her.
Aziraphale gave them both a moment, busying herself drawing a footstool close to the bath and perching upon it, then carefully rolled her sleeves up above the elbow.
“So…” she said, tilting her head, looking up at last. “I suppose we have a few minutes before she returns, to… speak freely.”
She’d meant it playfully, but something shuttered further in Frán’s eyes, and her voice became wary. “What do you want to speak about?”
Hm. That was not the tone she’d expected. But… Arthur had wanted information. And there likely wouldn’t be another chance to get her alone.
Aziraphale felt the familiar warring inside her, the tug of duty to Arthur against the pull of this magnetism, this perfection, this scalding rightness. Righteousness versus rightness—and yet wasn’t Arthur and everything he stood for also right for Aziraphale? Even now?
Maybe there was a middle road that would serve them both.
Aziraphale traced her fingertips over the glossy surface of the water, steam dancing through her fingers. “Tell me,” she said, looking Frán in the eye, leaning in and lowering her voice again, “what happened to you?”
Frán’s face was still guarded. “There is little to tell. I was bewitched by sorcery. Now I am caught.”
Aziraphale pouted, just a little. “How could a mortal bewitch you?” Did everything come back to Morgana?
Frán gave her a long look. A thin hand rose from the water, wet thumb brushing Aziraphale's chin before slumping back down again. “Not that sort of bewitched,” she said softly. “I was blinded by the extravagant promises she made. The run of Camelot’s finest, for what seemed like such a small exchange of power. Three trinkets for a score of prized souls.” She smiled wryly, lashes flicking down, then up. “You know, no demon has been able to enter that castle for years.“
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, feeling like she was starting to understand. “Because of Merlin.”
Frán shrugged, setting the water shimmering around her shoulders, her hair shining. “That’s what Morgana thinks. To me, it feels like more than the power of a single man.”
Aziraphale wanted to launch into an explanation, what Merlin had done, her own theories—and bit all of that back. “What were the three items?”
Frán’s voice became even cooler. “A tapestry, an elixir, and a sword.”
“Where are they now?”
“I felt you burn the tapestry,” Frán said sharply, then lapsed back into her muted tone. “Morgana poured the elixir into the lake to make it part for her - there was no other path back to this isolated place - so that’s gone too. But the sword… what does she say? ‘I wear my fury on my belt’. She had it last night.” She blinked slowly, like a cat, and just as expressionless. “I felt it when she used it on you.”
Aziraphale shivered, remembering the golden sword’s bite even through the dream. She recalled the debilitating power of the tapestry, too. “What does the sword do?”
“I don’t know all it could do,” Frán snapped. ”What it does, currently, is keep me bound here, hungry and alone—I cannot devour a single soul in this blighted castle.” Her gaze ran down Aziraphale's throat, a ravenous expression crossing her face before it creased again into sullen shadows.
“So if I managed to take the sword from her…?”
Aziraphale had been hoping for a flicker of optimism at this wild plan. Instead, Frán’s gaze flattened even more. “Then I would be yours to command instead.”
Aziraphale heard ‘I would be yours’ and brightened, before plateauing in confusion at the deadened tone in which Frán continued.
“You could parade me in front of your king, captive – or let me starve and become your wild shackled creature – or send me back to Hell.”
Aziraphale stared in confusion, waiting for the rest of the options which surely must follow. After everything they’d shared - after that kiss! - how could she possibly think anything of the sort?
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, when no further options were forthcoming. “But… that’s not what I want.”
Something bleak infused every line of Frán’s face. “What do you want?” she asked, and she looked so dour now, so resigned, as if reconciled to a predictable inevitability, that Aziraphale became furious.
Her voice was a vehement whisper. “To restore you, you oblivious bastard!”
Frán went very still. “What?”
“I want to restore you,” Aziraphale repeated, clear and loud.
After another moment, a tiny dimple creased the middle of Frán’s cheek. “You do?”
Aziraphale felt her own eyes burn. “Of course I do.”
“That… isn’t something that anyone else has ever wanted.”
Just like that, Aziraphale’s fury evaporated. She lifted Frán’s wet hand and kissed her fingertips. Tracing them with her tongue, watching Frán’s eyes darken. Then, with Frán’s fingers resting against her lips, she said, “I don’t just want it. I’m going to make it happen.”
Frán’s eyelids slid half-closed. “How?”
Aziraphale plunged her own hand into the hot water, finding the side of Frán’s starkly outlined ribs, gliding down the tense slope of her waist, onto her angled hip. Everything about Frán was neat and sharp—and tense, almost vibrating with tension. Aziraphale ran her nails over the base of her lean belly, and Frán wriggled in the water, realigning herself to be easier for Aziraphale to reach, to handle. Her lips parted as well, her face tipping up, as if challenging Aziraphale to do something about it.
It was all so different from being with Crowley and yet the gnawing hunger was the same. Aziraphale knew not to mistake slightness for fragility, and yet her hand felt comparatively big as it wandered, broad and strong, and she couldn’t help but quite enjoy that. The muscles in her arm were bulging, gleaming wet, veins engorged in the hot water - it was her sword arm, after all - and she watched Frán’s attention register that as she stroked lower.
"I'm going to make you feel better," she said, lowering her head until she was speaking almost against Frán’s lips. "I'm going to make you feel so good."
Her fingers carded through the hair at Frán’s groin, pausing and gently tugging.
Frán hissed softly, parting her legs again. Her expression was a daring smoulder, hardly welcoming, but her thighs smoothly opening around Aziraphale's touch—that was a welcome. Delving, finding her way by touch alone, Aziraphale stared into Frán’s eyes as her fingertips drifted along intimate curves. Up and up, her own breath catching as she reached her goal.
She stroked up between soft folds, tantalisingly easy to part, to find the swollen, succulent opening between them. Frán’s hand covered hers, urging her to press inside, but Aziraphale resisted. She traced around and around instead, the entrance to Frán’s body as hot as the surrounding water, silken-slick and irresistible. It gave Aziraphale a sense of power, stroking there and seeing the sensation of it tremble up through Frán’s taut body.
Aziraphale crooked her other arm around Frán’s neck and breathed against her mouth, a surge of words pouring out of her. “You asked me what I want, and it’s this—I want to serve you. I want to give you everything. These days apart have been unbearably long, but seeing you again, nothing else matters. I’m yours.”
Aziraphale finished the sentence with a kiss, unable to bear waiting for a reply, but reply came anyway, in the fierce kiss that Frán returned, in the deliberate nudge of Frán’s cunt against her questing fingers.
A single word like a searing net of silk, spun in a flash and flung across her mind: Yes.
Aziraphale pushed a finger inside her, marvelling at how good it felt as Frán exhaled shakily and then sucked on her tongue, getting frantic and focused at once. Aziraphale had thought about this. She’d presumed that one benefit to being a woman with another woman would be the innate knowledge of how they liked to be touched—but really, what did she know? She couldn’t exactly treat Frán like the saddle had treated her yesterday, a relentless smack against all those parts that seemed to crave it—could she?
Well, not without splashing an awful lot of water all over the place.
She tried a subtler movement instead, twisting two fingers into the slick muscular warmth of Frán’s body as deep as they would go and then pressing, rocking, letting her remaining knuckles perform their own intimate massage. Frán’s head fell back into the crook of Aziraphale's arm, becoming breathless as Aziraphale's confidence grew. Inside felt swollen with subtle curves, ridged with sensitive seams, more slippery as Frán clenched repeatedly around the base of her fingers, rolling her hips.
It seemed she shouldn’t have worried. Aziraphale let herself relax and explore, her thumb stroked lightly upwards, brushing suggestively over Frán’s clit and then away, trying to judge what that did to her.
Frán started to pant, the edge of a snarl beneath her words. “More. More.”
It was delicious to hear.
“Please?” Aziraphale suggested, smiling tightly down at her, and now Frán did snarl, a rumbling rush of a noise that thrilled Aziraphale all over.
“Now!”
“Now what?” Aziraphale asked, her own voice turning to a breathless whisper. “Tell me what to do to you.”
“Your—move your hand, do that thing with your thumb, harder, do ittttt, properly, stop teasing!” Frán’s voice was getting harsher. “More, come on, more, more.”
Aziraphale gave a swipe of her thumb that promised so much more than it delivered.
“Ah!” Frán growled, bucking up against her hand and sending a wave of water cascading out of the bath. Aziraphale relented and did it again, staring down at this thrashing luminous creature reacting to each deeper jolt of her fingers, clutching at the sides of the bath and moaning freely. Her eyes were almost closed but the slits between her eyelids were glowing. Every circle of Aziraphale’s thumb made her cry out, and when Aziraphale stopped circling and just rubbed, rapid and deliberate, the noises Frán made inflamed her more than she would have thought possible.
Urgency was reaching for Aziraphale's body now as well, pawing at her with unseen hands and coaxing her to lean in, making her aware of her own body in all its heated strenuous glory. Aziraphale craned over the side of the bath, her rolled-up sleeve getting soaked, and worked her fingers harder. Trying, without upending the bath completely, to meet the pressure Frán was seeming to demand of her; trying to crook her fingers at that perfect angle that made Frán throw her head back and shudder.
“Yes,” Frán hissed, almost accusatory, one hand wrapping around Aziraphale's bicep and urging her onwards, squeezing, nails digging in as her whole body arched and spasmed. Aziraphale could almost hear her chanting: there, there, there—like that.
“Like this?” Aziraphale murmured, gratified when Frán nodded furiously.
“Yes, angel, yes, yes, yes.”
Frán’s thighs locked around her wrist as pleasure rolled over her, her body quaking around Aziraphale's fingers as her breath ebbed out in guttural groan. Aziraphale felt it in her own body, a soaking rush of arousal—but nothing satisfying or fulfilling or final. No, instead this felt like it had illuminated her from the inside, like gilt paint from some regal marginalia had been swiped along every curve of her form.
She withdrew her fingers, resting them on Frán’s thigh under the water for a moment, marvelling at how dazzling and vibrant she looked now. Her eyes were closed and she was floating serenely, still slender but no longer gaunt. It was as if she’d been fed for a day after being starved for a week. She looked blissful, languid in the crook of Aziraphale's arm, as if drifting on the border of sleep. Aziraphale wanted to ravish her.
“Get up,” Aziraphale rasped, and Frán’s eyes blinked slowly back open. Still catlike, but no longer expressionless; still washed with gold like the lustre of a gemstone in a sunrise. Her lips curved.
“That was adequate, I suppose,” she said.
Aziraphale huffed a laugh, but it was almost too breathless to convey humour. “Come on,” she said, lifting her arm to urge Frán to sit up, her vision going starry as arousal thudded between her legs. “Get up, I—I need you out of this now.”
Frán took one look at her face, then rose like some fairytale creature of the water, steam rising around her, cascades of water streaming down her pale body. Aziraphale gazed up at her, her shining breasts, water dripping off her peaked dark nipples, spilling down her waist.
Aziraphale’s mouth went dry and she surged to her own feet, hauling Frán out of the bath with both hands. The footstool clattered backwards and water flew everywhere but it didn’t matter—nothing else mattered. Aziraphale had both hands on her at last, this sleek slippery creature, and she was kissing her and pushing her backwards, stumbling towards the bed.
“Want you,” Aziraphale mumbled, as Frán’s hands sought out her breasts, squeezing greedily through the bodice, fingertips running over the strained lacing.
“Prove it,” Frán said, a provocative glint in her golden eyes, and that—oh, how could she inflame her so with a single look?
She hadn’t really noticed that Frán’s ribs looked less pronounced now, but she could feel that her form was stronger, her core filling out, muscles bunching and flexing beneath her palms. Frán was able to resist as Aziraphale pushed her, able to push back hard, and so it wasn’t easy to spin her around and pin her down face-first, bend her over the side of the bed whilst reaching around to cup between her legs - three fingers shoving inside, heel of her hand grinding against her clit - it wasn’t easy but it was satisfying. Fuck, it was satisfying, crushing Frán naked into the bedclothes while she was fully dressed herself, rutting and rocking, shoving her hips against that smooth damp bare arse, biting the flushed freckled skin of Frán’s shoulder.
“Like this?” Aziraphale demanded, fucking her fingers deeper, squeezing hard, until Frán tipped back her hips back and shuddered and howled. Loud enough that Aziraphale clamped a hand over her mouth until she subsided; and then Frán bit into her palm, hard, and a blast of heat shot down Aziraphale's body like a pail of steaming water.
“Curse you,” Aziraphale gasped, letting go and rolling her over, and Frán gazed up at her in showy defiance. And yet—grudgingly impressed. The pinpricks of firefly light were rising off her skin again, and she was showing her teeth, a hint of predatory fangs about them. Frán shifted back on the bed and stretched out her legs, beckoning Aziraphale between them, and Aziraphale groaned and crawled on top of her, shoving her skirts up out of the way.
The sensation of Frán’s hot, damp thigh sliding up between her legs to grind against her cunt was captivating. Frán’s other leg locked around her hips, and her hands roved reverently up the backs of Aziraphale's thighs, encouraging her attention inwards to that single sparking hot point of pressure.
“Go on,” Frán murmured beneath her, her slender fingers clutching at Aziraphale's arse, digging in, urging her to rut, to grind. “Chase it, chase it for me, I want to feel you get what you want now.” She rocked up as she spoke, undulating, a dirty deliberate rhythm that made Aziraphale’s skin sing.
“Fuck, yes, yes,” Aziraphale panted. Her own wetness slicked the hot surface of Frán’s thigh, making the friction simultaneously more and less satisfying. She was flying and crawling at once, dragging herself closer to nirvana with every shove of her hips, and she was going to explode, surely, the sweet pleasure-pressure building, sweaty and pounding, surely it couldn’t peak any higher—and then Frán’s hot, sharp mouth closed on her neck and bit down, as her thigh ground up between her legs, and in a blurry haze of sensation Aziraphale came. Waves of it took her, shuddering through her, blurry curls of pleasure that seemed to link every part of her to every part of Frán. She could feel Frán’s body beneath her was getting stronger still, thickening out, thriving off the heat pumping out of Aziraphale's body.
“Yesss,” Frán breathed, wriggling out from under her and shifting back to sprawl out closer to the head of the bed.
Aziraphale looked up after her, finding she’d slumped to her own knees at the base of the bed, skirts crumpled around her legs, in flagrant disarray. If someone burst in now there would be absolutely no way to talk her way out of it—if she could muster the words at all. She should really put herself to rights and go, now. Skirts smoothed down again, hide her swollen sex, her flushed thighs. She should.
She stared up to see Frán equally dishevelled, damp hair curling around her shoulders, skin marked here and there but healthy, rosy pink. Beckoning. Every part of her was an invitation, a feast to bury her face in and indulge. That mouth, that neck, those breasts, those thighs… as Aziraphale watched, Frán drew one knee up and dropped her hand between her legs. Keeping Aziraphale's gaze, she started fingering herself, slow and showy. Mouthwatering.
Belatedly, Aziraphale tugged the canopy of curtains closed, shutting out the rest of the room. She didn’t quite dare divest herself of her own clothes, but right now she felt like Morgana herself could burst into the room and Aziraphale would still be found with her face between Frán’s thighs.
She crawled towards her, the steady beat of her own heart in her ears, and lowered her head to mouth the inside of Frán’s angled knee.
“Oh,” Frán exhaled sharply, and sank her free hand into Aziraphale's hair. “No, no, there’s no time for that.”
She wrapped a length of Aziraphale's blonde curls around her wrist and then grasped close to the roots and tugged; pain tingled over Aziraphale's scalp as Frán dragged her head between her legs, pushing her cunt up against Aziraphale's lips. Aziraphale moaned and opened her mouth, plunging her tongue inside, relishing the hot slickness of her, the way Frán instantly started panting. The taste was sharp and sweet, split ripe fruit dipped in seawater. She licked deeply, hands sliding up Frán’s thighs, and then under her arse, encouraging her to thrust, to take.
“Oh, yes,” Frán breathed, spreading her thighs wider, grinding against Aziraphale's face as she worked her tongue deeper. “I want—yes, that. Mmm, keep going. More.”
Aziraphale slid one finger inside her again, then two, trying to find the angle that had worked before, even as her mouth kept sucking, licking. She could taste the fresh arousal as it rose, feel how wet she was as Frán growled and thrashed beneath her, demanding that Aziraphale devour her. She licked over her clit and fastened onto it when Frán’s hips bucked, swirling across it, plucking with her tongue as she moved her hand.
To her surprise Frán started keening softly at once, her grip tightening on Aziraphale's hair - was she getting close again? Already? That seemed soon - but it sounded inescapable, the hitch in Frán’s voice as she writhed and moaned, so Aziraphale devoted herself to sucking in the rhythm that seemed to be helping, sucking and rubbing and crooking her fingers inside her and…
This time the glowing wave washed through Frán and directly took Aziraphale with her, sensation surging through her out of nowhere, like a curious echo of an orgasm she was yet to have. The force of it re-ignited her own internal hunger and—ha.
Aziraphale gave a strangled laugh, as Frán’s grip on her hair loosened once more, allowing her up. “We could do this for hours, couldn’t we,” Aziraphale said, resting her wet chin in the shallow divot next to the rise of Frán’s hipbone.
Frán didn’t reply, just waved vaguely at the air. Her eyes were closed again, chest heaving. She wasn’t glowing so much as incendiary, her skin lush and gleaming. “Tha’s… the idea.”
Aziraphale ran her open mouth slowly across Frán's hip, an indiscriminate salty path that wandered past her navel, up over the hollow beneath her ribs, up and up. She trailed her mouth over Frán's breasts, finding the dark pink nipples - something the demon hadn’t had - and sucking on them deliberately in turn, scraping with her teeth, making Frán squirm.
Frán’s hands rose to grasp her, her legs entwining around the backs of Aziraphale’s thighs, clamping her skirts to the back of her legs, and Aziraphale took her weight as the whole of Frán’s torso arched up beneath her.
“Ohh,” Frán breathed, as Aziraphale kissed slowly up the sleek rounded line of her breast to nuzzle her collarbone, her throat. Her own breasts were in danger of spilling out the bodice at this angle, and allowing that, splitting the lacing and dragging their heavy curves over Frán's dewy skin, was extremely tempting.
“Ohh,” Aziraphale echoed, licking all the way up to her earlobe, then taking it between her teeth. Her whole body was thrumming again, savagely pulsing everywhere they were entwined. She really could do this all day. “Do you have any more specific ideas?”
“I want to taste you,” Frán said, neither a command nor a request, but her hands were stroking over Aziraphale’s hips, wrenching up her skirts, guiding her to keep sliding over Frán's body, urging her to sit on her face.
Aziraphale felt ungainly at first, precarious, until she braced her hands against the headboard and felt Frán's hands spread her open from underneath. After that, the only thing that felt precarious was her sanity.
“Are you sure—?” Aziraphale gasped, cutting off when Frán's tongue ran over her, licking deeply, messy and eager.
“Mm,” Frán said, which was enough response, she supposed, when twinned with Frán's mouth opening wider, her hands clamping Aziraphale in place. Aziraphale clung to the headboard and arched her spine, panting at the ceiling as Frán's tongue explored her. Sensations radiated out through her body, making some parts tingle and others thrum. This was surely stronger than an ordinary tongue, broader and more velvety soft, licking up into her with a hunger that made Aziraphale shiver and shudder above her.
“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped, “more, p—please, more—“
With a satisfied noise Frán shifted beneath her, adjusting Aziraphale's hips with preternaturally strong hands and then replacing her tongue with her fingers.
Aziraphale jerked as the firm blunt penetration sent an additional flurry of sparks through her mind, and then Frán was finding her clit and sucking on it, hard, and she ceased thinking altogether. There was only this heat, this tremulous pleasure that built and built. Frán’s tongue commanded wicked spirals and forays of suction, until Aziraphale was besieged with sensation, her hips moving without her control. She felt like she couldn’t breathe quickly enough - almost wondered if she was going to pass out - and then Frán withdrew her wet fingers to the tips before easing them back in, one slick finger pushing bluntly into the tight shivering grip of her arse as well, and that—oh, fuck. Not going to pass out, fuck, no; Aziraphale was going to come again, harder, stronger, could feel it pummelling through her like an oncoming storm. Everything growing wetter and hotter as the edges to her vision turned silver-shot. She rocked furiously against Frán’s mouth, squeezing down, losing herself as splendour took over.
“Fuck,” she whimpered eventually, when she regained the ability to speak, and then sensitivity tipped over into discomfort and she flopped sideways onto the bed.
Frán followed her, settling back between her legs and trailing her tongue in obscene circles, here and there with mischievous little bites and scratches as Aziraphale's reality returned.
“Ah,” Aziraphale gasped, as teeth sank into her inner thigh more earnestly. She stared down at the tousled red head roving over the base of her belly, sinking lower between her legs. Following the sheer power of that last climax, she’d expected Frán to stop for a moment, regroup perhaps, like knights between tactical excursions.
But Frán wasn’t stopping. Her eyes glinted wickedly as Aziraphale shivered and shifted in her grasp; and she was strong, now, still thin but with a grip that bespoke revitalised power. She had Aziraphale arranged exactly as she wanted her, thighs splayed open as her tongue meandered lower, lower. Sliding across the raw sensitivity of her clit and then down, dipping inside her, before rolling thoughtfully onwards as Aziraphale bit her lip and squirmed.
She had the point of her tongue against Aziraphale's arse now and started licking, probing, sending a whole different array of shivers swirling inside her. A different sort of hunger, mounting; a different loss of control, threatening to build. Her cunt gave a needy hot throb, belatedly realising it was being overlooked, ignored.
“Oh, oh,” Aziraphale whispered, twisting her head against the pillow as Frán spread her cheeks in strong hands and pierced her with her tongue. Aziraphale's head filled with sparks and she had to bite her wrist in order not to wail. The silken pressure of Frán’s tongue slipped easily inside, working her open and licking deep, a lavish fulfillment of a very specific desire, even as other, nearby, clamouring desires were denied.
Aziraphale could feel herself getting wetter, hot pulses of it, begging to be touched. She rolled her hips, a helpless invitation for Frán’s fingers to push into her cunt, and her arse as well, both, please, do it—and then there was a brisk knock at the door.
Knock-knock-knock, it came, followed with horrible inevitability by the grinding sound of the bolt drawing back.
Aziraphale froze, head whipping round as Frán continued tonguing her arse.
“No,” Aziraphale moaned, as quietly as she could, wrenching her body away, rolling for the side of the bed and scrambling to the floor. Unspent pleasure fluttered beneath her skin but there was no time to dwell on that frustration, because she could hear the door swinging open.
“Wha–? Frán asked dazedly, mouth wet; her eyes, Aziraphale saw, were dazzling again with gold light. She was soaking in it, in the gathering storm of Aziraphale's energy, and the desire to throw caution to the four winds and jump back in was immeasurable.
She made herself fix her clothes instead, tugging her sleeves down over numerous bite marks and scratched lines.
There was a pause, followed by neat footsteps sounding, crossing the room toward the bed’s enclosing curtains.
“Oh,” Frán said darkly, and darted back up the bed. One of her hands slid smoothly up under the pillow, and withdrew—
“Hey!” Aziraphale hissed, catching sight of a knife glinting in Frán's fist. “No, don’t!”
Frán paused in a movement which was quite clearly going to be a subtle, fatal attack; a deft throw through the curtains to end the days of the unwitting maiden encroaching on their time. She glared at Aziraphale and mouthed, “What?”
“Stop it,” Aziraphale growled, glaring back, and Frán’s expression flared with unbrage—but she slid the blade back under the pillow, then smiled.
“Don’t know what you’re worried about,” she purred.
“Are you all right in there?” came Muriel’s voice, much closer than before. “Has she taken a turn for the worse? I brought the sage, and the oil. Goodness, it’s got a very strong scent. No honey unfortunately. I did try! I do hope that wasn’t, er, a crucial component of your plan.”
“Ah, no, actually,” Aziraphale called loudly, over the sounds of herself tossing a blanket over Frán’s naked body and hurrying to finish righting her own clothes. “Not a crucial component, it’s fine. Gosh, she’s… She’s really rallied.”
The curtain swished back.
Aziraphale was sitting on the far side of the bed, arms folded.
Frán was sprawled out, blanket pulled up to her nose. Her eyelashes, framing eyes that were gold-rimmed with huge black pupils, beat at Muriel in a few quick flutters.
“I think my fever broke,” she said. Even her voice sounded plump and polished.
Muriel laid a huge sprig of pale green leaves on a bedside table, then turned back to take a closer look at Frán’s face. She seemed oblivious to even the idea of danger from this quarter. The thought gave Aziraphale a strange feeling.
“Oh good!” Muriel beamed. “Wonderful news!”
“The bath really helped,” Frán said, with a slow blink. “And the… physical manipulation.”
“Old apothecary trick,” Aziraphale assured Muriel, straight-faced. “Balances the humours. Very reliable. Very thorough.”
Muriel nodded and clapped her hands together. “Marvellous! Lady Morgana will be so delighted to hear it.”
“Yes!” Aziraphale said, though her stomach swooped at the thought. Her thighs were still sticky and wet, her cunt aching. “You should, ah, go tell her at once?”
“Oh yes, good idea. I’ll go as soon as I’ve seen you out.”
“You don’t have to see me out,“ Aziraphale tried.
“I do. Lady Morgana’s orders.” Muriel smiled earnestly. “Which I follow,” she added. “To the letter.”
Aziraphale glanced at Frán, whose glittering eyes and serene, smoothed-out brow spelled nothing but trouble.
“Right,” Aziraphale said, drawing herself up. “But I follow the king’s orders, and he wants her taken into custody.”
Muriel’s face creased with apology. “Oh, yes - I see - but no,” she said, and shook her head. “That won’t be happening.” The certainty in her voice was mild yet absolute.
Aziraphale rallied. “Regardless!” she said. “There were also questions he wanted answered, as soon as the… therapy… had worked. Important questions. Ah, vital.”
“I’m sure that they are very important,” Muriel said in a soothing voice. “And you will be welcome to come back and ask them - tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Aziraphale demanded, aghast. Another night apart? That would surely undo all they had just done!
“Tomorrow,” Muriel said evenly. “I have no doubt about it. But we cannot have guests here unaccompanied. That’s a rule.” There was a brief warring in her eyes as the words clearly contradicted what she had just - somehow - allowed to happen. She gave her head a little shake and forged on. “It’s simply forbidden. And I cannot allow you to take her into custody without Morgana’s permission, even if she’s much better. So. Tomorrow it is!”
With a vision of being swept out of the room without a chance to look back, Aziraphale lurched to her feet. “Well, before I go, I will make a final assessment of her pulse and, ah, interrogate the fever.”
She leant down over Frán, again blocking Muriel’s line of sight with the bulk of her body, before putting her mouth close to her ear. “I can still feel your tongue,” she said, extremely quietly. “If I go back and… continue, will that serve you? Will you feel it?”
Frán made a soft approving noise. “You must. I’m stronger with every effort you make.”
“Or should I wait? Can you meet me in my dreams and finish what you started?”
“...Perhaps not that strong,” the demon admitted, peering up at her through her lashes. “Not while I’m still bound to that trinket.”
Aziraphale pulled back. “Her pulse is still very weak,” she declared. She reached beneath the covers and threaded her fingers through Frán’s, clasped her hand tight. She whispered, “I won’t leave you here. One way or another, I will free you. Whatever it takes.”
Frán gave her a slow look, a hint of a smile creasing the renewed dewy flush of her cheeks. “Do you know,” she said eventually, “I actually believe you might.”
Notes:
END ACT TWO
Chapter 17: Night 11 - The Triumvirate
Summary:
Act 3. Aziraphale gives it all up to Merlin and Arthur.
Notes:
Let’s start Act 3 as we mean to go on b/c it’s time for some secrets to come OUT.
CW: F/M/M(/D); the long-awaited threesome; the queerest het you’ll ever read; multiple orgasms; double penetration; sex magic; demon voyeur (I guess?); a damned good time had by all
Chapter Text
“Can I see Morgana?” Aziraphale asked Muriel, as they strode back through the draughty castle corridors. “Before I go, I mean.” She was trying very hard to focus on the matter at hand, and not the matters that had been so unfairly curtailed. “As planned.”
Muriel glanced at her. “Nobody has seen her today.”
“I don’t mind being the first,” Aziraphale said. It would be preferable not to seem to be stealing in and out beneath Morgana's notice. Then she added with a nervous laugh, “Unless you think she’s so unwilling to be disturbed that she’d throw me in the lake.”
Muriel seemed to seriously consider that. “I don’t think she would,” she said eventually. “She hadn’t had anyone thrown in the lake for a long time.”
“Right,” Aziraphale said, eyes widening. “Er, good.”
Silence fell again, as Muriel led her back across the courtyard full of rustling apple trees, past the well and the stone and—
“Tell me about this place,” Aziraphale tried. “It’s so… different.”
Muriel opened her mouth to speak, then paused and looked troubled instead. “We’re not supposed to speak about it to outsiders,” she said. “It's a rule.”
“There seem to be a lot of rules for somewhere that prides itself on being ‘wild’,” Aziraphale said, keeping an edge of frustration from her voice with difficulty.
“Well, it’s like Morgana always says, isn’t it,” Muriel said, shrugging. “We have to keep the walls up, keep separate, stay vigilant, watchful. Don’t let them take anything else. Or the history of our misfortune will repeat again.”
Aziraphale held her tongue, willing her to continue. When Muriel didn’t, she said in a cautious voice, absolutely casual: “Ah yes, the history of misfortune. That. Back when they took…?”
She trailed off meaningfully.
Muriel frowned. “What?”
“What?” Aziraphale replied, using every ounce of patience she had not to grab Muriel by the shoulders and growl, Tell me. Using her most polite voice, she prompted, “What was it that was taken back then—remind me? It’s completely gone out of my head!”
Muriel’s brow cleared. “Ah,” she said, with a knowing look. “That’ll be because it’s a funny word. Tricky to say, tricky to remember. You’re thinking of Excalibur.”
Nina met them at the gate, holding Aziraphale's horse, alongside another woman who was already astride a sleek grey stallion. She had rich brown skin and braided hair gathered in coils at the nape of her neck, and was wearing supple dark riding gear with a thick blue-black cloak on top. Her hands looked heavy with jewellery, though she held the reins with delicate precision.
“We sent your bodyguard home,” Nina said. “No point him lurking about here all day. But don’t worry about the bridge—Nimue here will escort you back to the village.”
“Um, pleasure to meet you,” Aziraphale said, ducking her head in lieu of a curtsy. She felt unaccountably flustered. Again. “I wasn’t actually worried about the bridge.”
Nina flashed her white teeth. “No? Ha. You should be.”
“She’s teasing,” said Nimue, in a voice like the strum of an ancient lute. “You’re quite safe at present. But it is drawing to dusk soon, so that won’t remain the case indefinitely.”
Aziraphale blinked. How could it be drawing to dusk? She’d barely… well, yes. She supposed she had had quite a busy afternoon.
She accepted her own reins and mounted her horse, keeping her face neutral despite the reminder between her legs of everything else that had transpired today. The saddle felt broad, spreading her thighs to the precise angle at which Frán had held her while her tongue—
Nimue looked directly at her with a quizzical expression, and Aziraphale tried not to swallow her own tongue. The last thing she needed to do was rouse the curiosity of another powerful sorceress. What if this one could read minds?
“Right!” Aziraphale said, gently spurring her horse to a loping walk. “Best be off then, shouldn’t we - what with, er, dusk on the way?”
Nimue inclined her head, but not before Aziraphale had a sense of being seen to a great and terrible degree.
Her face burned as if Nimue had asked her if she had a penchant for fucking prisoners or if she’d made an exception for theirs; but Nimue asked nothing of the sort. Her elegant bejewelled hand gestured for Nina to open the gate, and then she led Aziraphale through and picked up the pace.
Aziraphale urged her own horse to keep up, leaning forwards as the crisp sounds of drumming hooves echoed out across the black water. Nothing emerged from the lake, though Aziraphale ensured she kept to the centre of the bridge for good measure.
Riding at speed provided its own distractions; it quickly became another pleasurable torment, driving her back towards tingling heights, the thump of leather smacking her arse as she rose and fell in the saddle. If only Frán had had a few more minutes…
Aziraphale schooled herself sternly, refusing to let her focus drift. Just because Frán had brought her within spitting distance of that final climax before they were forced to break off, didn’t mean this irrepressible body got to sabotage her now.
Nimue escorted her as far as the path to the abandoned village, then turned her horse around without disembarking. “I leave you here,” she said, and then added, almost a throwaway joke, but not quite, “Unless you fear what lurks within that village is a greater threat to your safety?”
“Not at all,” Aziraphale said, sitting up straighter. She tried to laugh. “I’m more at ease in the company of the king than I was in the castle where I was born.”
Nimue did not look impressed by this show of solidarity. “I shouldn’t wonder,” she said. “Castle Empyrean could fill a grimoire with its dark tales. But I see you have made your bed; I shan’t prevent you from lying in it. Fare thee well, Angeline.”
Again Aziraphale had a feeling that if she’d answered differently, this interaction may have imparted a wealth of understanding. Instead, she left with a strange unsettled feeling, like a pail of river water that had been swirled, sending its sediment into whirling spirals. It would have felt good to converse with that woman.
But she couldn’t run in two directions at once, let alone three.
And for all that this strange castle and its intrigue and occupants tugged at her attention, there was only one path that she wanted with all her heart to pursue: Crowley.
I want to restore you, you oblivious bastard.
She remembered the resignation in Frán’s face ripening into hope at that moment, and her determination repointed. She would not be swayed, no matter how many attractive enchantresses they waved in front of her. The rest could wait.
The most useful thing she could do for Crowley right now was go back to her tiny secluded bedroom at the inn and finish what Frán had started…
She rode swiftly through the overgrown path into the village to the makeshift stables they’d acquisitioned, then forced herself to spend an appropriate duration brushing down her horse, attending to its leathers, ensuring it had straw and water. There were only two other horses present, whickering softly as she moved around them; it seemed Percival and Lancelot were elsewhere.
Which meant Arthur and Merlin were inside, alone, together.
She tried not to dwell on that thought, but the kiss she’d witnessed yesterday - only yesterday! - swam into the centre of her mind. Arthur’s hands on Merlin’s face, eminently familiar with this gesture; the tender hunger visible as their mouths crushed together. The memory of it kicked the smouldering coals of her arousal again, all those tendrils of curtailed sensation rising anew.
Darkness was falling fast by the time she headed out from the stables, and she could see a wavering, indistinct gleam around the downstairs shuttered windows of the inn as she approached.
The heavy main door eased open with a faint, soft noise of two scuffed surfaces brushing.
Aziraphale slipped inside and then came to an immediate standstill, catching herself, encountering a scene that she’d never dreamed of witnessing back in Camelot. Or frankly, anywhere.
In front of the flickering hearth, Merlin and Arthur were sat on the floor together, fully clothed but intensely intimate, Merlin sprawled and relaxed in Arthur’s lap. Arthur’s shoulders were resting against the seat of a heavy high-backed armchair, and he had a knee drawn up, Merlin snug between his thighs with one of Arthur’s arms slung around him.
The paltry straw fireside mat, Aziraphale noted, had been replaced by a thick hearthrug that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the king’s quarters, and there was a fine-looking mead jug on the floor by one of the chair legs, half full. The air was gently spiced with woodsmoke and fermented honey.
In another life, did they have this? An existence that was simple, rustic and private.
They glanced up and nodded as the door closed behind her, but barely stirred - let alone jumped to their feet or made excuses - and Aziraphale was struck again by what an unlooked-for privilege it was to see them in this way.
“...So I wouldn’t be unduly concerned,” Merlin was saying in an undertone to Arthur, with a small shrug that shifted his narrow shoulders against Arthur’s broad chest, and Arthur nodded with a small smile.
It was an honour to be party to this secret, Aziraphale decided. Which didn’t prevent decidedly dishonourable thoughts occurring to her about the casual lie of Arthur’s hand atop Merlin’s thigh. Arthur had strong hands with broad fingers, and the way they curved over the side of Merlin’s leg was most distracting.
Aziraphale jerked her gaze back to Arthur’s face to find he was watching her now, a rakish curiosity in his eyes. Fuck, this was like something out of a tale of scandal, his handsome face brightening as she approached.
She wondered how full that mead jug had been to begin with, that he would look so gleeful to see her—gleeful with a touch of mischief. She was doomed.
“Aziraphale,” Arthur said, a slow drawl of a greeting that warmed her all over. “How goes it? Will the demon survive the night?”
Aziraphale nodded, then self-consciously cleared her throat. It was dawning on her that they may well ask about her methods. Whoops, she was drawing a blank. “I believe so.”
Arthur laughed. “Will you?”
Aziraphale's eyes widened. “Er… me? Yes?”
Arthur raised an eyebrow at her, and Aziraphale felt the warmth in her face spread rapidly down. She was being teased again, she realised. And—
“What makes you say that?” she asked.
“Looking a little flushed there,” Arthur said, his voice all seriousness. He sipped his mead, eyes gleaming in the firelight. “I suppose you must have engaged your vile foe in the fiercest of battles.”
“Um, yes,” Aziraphale started, breaking off again when Arthur’s grin only broadened.
“A terribly vigorous encounter,” Arthur said, his voice still deadpan despite the dimples now etching his cheeks. “I daresay you barely survived.”
Merlin came to Aziraphale's rescue by elbowing Arthur in the ribs. Arthur giggled, and Merlin shot Aziraphale an apologetic look.
“The currencies of magic are blood, death and sex,” Merlin said, almost using his lecturing voice, but softer. “But it hasn’t killed you, and you do not seem injured, and you didn’t use the crown trinket to summon us for aid, so…”
Blessedly, Merlin allowed the mortifying words to trail off with a meaningful look.
“So logic dictates you’re fucking it,” Arthur said, with a bright bluntness that packed even more of a punch than the words themselves.
Aziraphale froze, feeling like her face had been scorched by an errant dragon’s untimely guffaw.
Merlin visibly schooled his features into a wince of dignified apology, then ruined it a moment later by tilting his head and adding thoughtfully, “Or… it’s fucking you?”
The whole fortnight of secrecy and sorcery collapsed in Aziraphale’s mind, and from the rubble rose a recklessness, a devil-may-care energy that raced through her veins and took command of her tongue.
“Or both,” Aziraphale said, folding her arms.
The intensity of Arthur’s gaze deepened. Then he shrugged. “Well,” he said, a tiny smirk tugging his lips. “Needs must.”
“This kingdom is run on ‘needs must’,” Merlin complained, and Arthur looked down at him in indignant amusement.
“Look,” Arthur protested, openly grinning now but keeping his voice to a reasonable tone, “when the options involve something quite bad or something truly terrible, the wisdom oft lies in keeping a sense of perspective.”
Aziraphale felt her eyes narrow. “Hold on a minute. How many… demons… have you two… lain with?”
They both burst out laughing.
“Only when needs must,” Merlin murmured.
Aziraphale’s heart started beating faster. The heat inside her was not dissipating, far from it. She felt like she’d drained a jug of their mead as well, and its honeyed burn was working its way through her. She wet her lips. “Where, um – where are Lancelot and Percival?”
“We sent them out for more firewood,” Arthur said, and gave a theatrical shiver. “Lots and lots of firewood. It’s chilly this far North.”
Merlin snorted. “Someone is more used to the comforts of a castle than a cottage.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Arthur drawled, “cottages have their advantages.” He looped his arm around Merlin, pulled him more securely back against his chest.
“That’s true,” Merlin said, shuffling back against him, his eyes half-closing as he gave Aziraphale a lazy grin. “Nice to have a little privacy once in a while.”
Aziraphale realised she was staring, heart pounding in her ears. “Oh! Should I… give you some privacy?“
There was a pause.
Then—“You don’t have to,” Merlin said slowly, and Aziraphale’s hunger roared.
“I…” she started.
“Where would you go, anyway?” Arthur asked, his voice soft now as well, knowing. “Straight to bed?”
“Probably.” She wanted to squirm, to duck away from their dual attention. More than that, she wanted to reach between her legs and press against the bright blazing point that had refused to settle down all afternoon.
Arthur’s hand stroked idly down the front of Merlin’s chest. “Don’t hide away on our account,” he said, fixing her with that mischievous grin that made the heat between her legs start to drum.
“What, um,” Aziraphale started, and had to wet her lips again. It was difficult to speak louder than a whisper. “What do you know about… this form? I’m finding it so… heated.”
Merlin gave her a slow nod. “I know. I - we - are familiar with this amulet.”
“It’s a good amulet,” Arthur agreed, smirking more broadly.
“I wouldn’t risk trying something on you that I hadn’t tried myself,” Merlin said, and he was probably trying to sound academic but his eyes were giving him away, luminously dark.
Aziraphale swallowed. “What sort of woman do you make?”
“A ravenous one,” Arthur laughed, and dropped a kiss onto the side of Merlin’s neck.
Merlin elbowed him – without putting any space between them at all – whilst keeping his eyes on Aziraphale. “What sort do you make?“
“Quite… ravenous,” Aziraphale admitted.
Merlin tilted his head. “Can we help?”
Aziraphale had to shut her eyes for a moment. The clothes felt too tight again, and the heat at her centre was becoming a red-gold clawing thing, taking over her thoughts, tearing down her hesitations; and yet she was paralysed, still, in a new way. “I…” she said, and trailed off.
“She might not want our help.” It was Arthur’s voice, sly with teasing, and the rich warmth of it made her skin tingle.
She kept her eyes closed, almost swaying as she whispered, “I… think I do.”
Someone made a pleased noise, and then Aziraphale heard the unmistakable wet sound of a mouth against skin, and opened her eyes. Arthur was kissing Merlin’s neck again, beneath the line of his beard, keeping his gaze fixed on Aziraphale, and Merlin was shifting in his lap, tilting his head to give Arthur’s mouth the space to roam.
Merlin saw her looking and raised his eyebrows, as if to say, “Yes?”
The red-gold heat flared, spurring her into movement. She didn’t know if it was Crowley’s will rising inside her or the part of her which hungered on Crowley’s behalf, or something innate to herself, her own unlocked desires roving and demanding—only that she ached with it. Her skirts tangled around her legs as she crossed towards them, her heart tapping louder in her ears as she stared wordlessly down: at Merlin still maintaining a likeness of relaxation in Arthur’s lap, at Arthur’s hand spread over the base of Merlin’s stomach.
“What do you want me to do?” Aziraphale asked, gripped by a sudden spasm of uncertainty, halting once she was within arm’s reach. This was—she didn’t know—
“Whatever you want,” Arthur said, his voice husky now, but still holding that note of amusement. “We wouldn’t presume.”
“What I…” Aziraphale repeated faintly, the pounding in her ears echoing the throbbing between her legs. Words fundamentally deserted her. Was this actually happening? Or had she somehow committed some monumental misunderstanding and was about to make a colossal fool of herself, creating a story the likes of which would be told round raucous firesides for years to come?
Arthur’s fingertips slid slowly below the line of Merlin’s waistband, and Merlin inhaled sharply. “Perhaps you want me to get him out for you.”
Fuck. This was definitely happening. Aziraphale managed a nod.
“With pleasure,” Arthur said, and it was his eternally gallant voice that melted the paralysis at last, allowing Aziraphale’s limbs the freedom to bend beneath her, sinking to her knees beside them in a crumple of layered skirts. “Do you trust us?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said immediately, before she’d even thought about the answer, leaning closer.
“Enough,“ Arthur said, “to be honest with us? Really honest.”
Aziraphale went still. “What?”
“You don’t owe us your secrets, but you can choose to share. Just as I can choose,” he added, voice dropping, slowly mapping the bulge of Merlin’s cock beneath the fabric, as Merlin’s breath hitched, as Aziraphale stared, “to share with you.”
Hot fresh anticipation fought with the old gnarled fear, and won. She was so hungry. “What do you want to know?”
“This demon,” Merlin said immediately, even though his voice had roughened with whatever pressure Arthur was applying. “Does it possess you or are you in thrall to it?”
“It—ah—“
“Ah,” Merlin interrupted, arching up against Arthur’s hand, and all of Arthur’s focus tightened to Merlin, eyes growing dark.
“Are you sure you want to have this conversation now?” Arthur muttered.
Merin gritted his teeth, turning up to face him. “The only thing I want more than your mouth on my cock right now—is the truth.”
Arthur grinned and gave his handful a slow, lingering squeeze that had Merlin arching up again, then looked up at Aziraphale. “You heard him,” he said. “He wants your honest answers more than my mouth. Will you join in the spirit of the thing?”
Those words in that regal voice were astonishing. Honest answers suddenly seemed a very cheap trade. “Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Ask me.”
“Does it possess you or are you in thrall to it?” Merlin asked again, breathing more quickly.
Before Aziraphale could find her voice to answer, Arthur found an unlaced slit in the front of Merlin’s britches and pushed his thumb inside.
Aziraphale wet her lips, staring at the dark crease where the knuckle of Arthur’s thumb disappeared from view. So much more compelling to stare at that, at his half-buried knuckle, than at either of their faces right now. “It doesn’t control me. I… of those two options, I am in thrall to it, I suppose.”
Merlin exhaled sharply, though it wasn’t clear if it was a gasp or a laugh. “How would you put it?”
“I… we seem to have formed an… arrangement?”
“And…?” Arthur pressed, starting up a hypnotic movement of his thumb.
Aziraphale's body throbbed in time to that movement. “And I want to save him, not banish him.”
“And…?”
Aziraphale was getting breathless as well. “And I don’t think he’s truly evil, I think he’s—it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“Ah. So is he in thrall to you?”
Aziraphale closed her eyelids and a host of images flashed behind them: Crowley curled protectively around him overnight, all night; Crowley throwing inordinate amounts of power around in the name of saving Aziraphale’s skin; Crowley’s voice inside his head purring, my angelic reprobate. “Somewhat?”
“Bonded, you might say?” Arthur said lightly, and Aziraphale felt a peculiar tingle of how right that sounded.
“Y-yes.”
“Can you make him kill?” Merlin asked.
“Make is a strong way to put it.”
Arthur’s hand did something that made Merlin steal another shuddery breath, but he kept going. “Can you choose where he directs his wrath?”
“...Yes, I think so. Yes.”
Arthur’s hand stilled, and his face grew stern. “Did you choose?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. She’d walked into this; he’d led her here with her eyes wide open. There was no ambiguity whatsoever in his face. Arthur was asking about Escanor and she still didn’t want to answer him. Her raw instinct to preserve herself was always to first deflect, parry, dodge. But right now, wholeheartedly, even more than wanting not to answer, she wanted not to lie.
“Yes.”
“More than once?” Merlin asked sharply.
“No!” Even to her own ears Aziraphale sounded appalled. “No, only once and I—” She stared into Arthur’s eyes, everything else fading out. “I need you to know, I regret it so much. Not that he’s dead but that I - it wasn’t my place - I didn’t know that you’d - I didn’t trust that - I - I’m sorry,” she finished, breaking off and fighting the urge to cover her face with her hands.
If possible, Arthur’s gaze grew even more intense. “Would you do it again?”
“No! No of course not - because I do know now - and I do trust - and I want,” she forged on desperately, “so much, for you to believe that.”
The light in Arthur’s eyes changed. Some tiny muscles in his stern face shifted, becoming sly. “Well you certainly look very earnest,” he remarked, and his tone, too, had shifted. “Frankly, it's quite difficult not to believe.”
Aziraphale slammed back into an awareness of herself, on her knees, flushed and shivering with tension. She didn’t know what she looked like.
“You—you don’t seem surprised,” she said, her voice still thin as a tightly-strung cord.
“We made an educated guess,” Merlin said. “After Arthur’s illness. There were only so many ways that all the pieces could fit.”
Aziraphale felt herself blush harder. They’d known since then? “Ah.”
“And then you were so… penitent,” Arthur murmured. “Even after I pardoned you, you kept protesting. It was almost as if you yearned to be punished.”
He was teasing her again, Aziraphale realised, in a series of hot little shocks that ricocheted through her, more with every subsequent sentence. Arthur was teasing her and his hand was still in Merlin’s lap and this would all surely only be appropriate under one very specific circumstance.
“Wait,” Aziraphale said, making her voice as clear and calm as she could, “just - before you say anything else - does this mean I am forgiven?”
Arthur’s face grew serious again, and Aziraphale was painfully grateful for it. She could believe whatever he said now, with no hint of a tease.
“For your past actions, yes,” Arthur said, and the relief that flooded through her was cool and sweet as fresh water. “But… never again.” His tone grew sincere once more. “I am the arbiter of justice in Camelot, and as such my judgement must not be evaded nor overruled. To move past this you must assure me that you accept this, and that you will never again take a matter of great justice - or personal vengeance - into your own hands.”
“Never,” Aziraphale said, staring into Arthur’s eyes, and in that moment realised it wasn’t merely an assurance she was giving Arthur; it was a vow.
Merlin tolerated their solemn, intense eye contact for a couple of slow seconds and then cleared his throat. “If you’ve quite finished with the interrogation, sire,” he said to Arthur, gently mocking now, “I do believe there was something else important at hand.”
Arthur turned to look at him. “Important,” he repeated, deadpan.
Merlin raised his eyebrows and nodded, containing his own smile. “Dreadfully important,” he said, covering Arthur’s hand.
The solemnity drained from Arthur’s face at once. “You were the one who wanted to ask questions!” Arthur retorted, with an exasperated laugh. “If it was up to me, this whole conversation could have waited until afterwards.”
The realisation that they’d clearly discussed every aspect of this between them blindsided her. And—
”After what?” she asked faintly.
With his free hand, Merlin grasped Aziraphale’s fingers and lifted them to his lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. It seemed to reverberate right through her.
“After we show you what your new form can do,” Merlin said.
“Unless you want to take off the amulet,” Arthur added, watching with close attention. “Then we could show you what your old form can do.”
“She can’t take off the amulet,” Merlin protested. “That would undermine our entire plan!”
“Suppose there is that,” Arthur said easily, his gaze swinging back to Aziraphale. “Maybe another time…”
“Maybe,” Aziraphale whispered, unable to contemplate the enormity of this. They were adopting their usual bantering tones and yet, they knew. There was nothing else to tell. They knew everything she had hidden and she was still forgiven and they still wanted her—and they even, it seemed, wanted him. Every single part of this deserved its own sleepless night to be chewed over, interrogated internally. But… not right now.
Right now she was being regarded like the last tankard of ale on a knight’s table. Merlin’s dark head and Arthur’s fairer one both turned towards her.
She swallowed and directed her question at Arthur. “So… you do choose to share?”
Arthur pretended to think about it. “I suppose it’s the least I can do, after you’ve been so forthcoming.”
“At long last,” Merlin added, under his breath.
The reckless energy took her tongue again. “Well I wasn’t to know you’d react like this, was I? I might have come forwards sooner…”
In lieu of further retort, Arthur’s big, efficient hand reached into Merlin’s britches and withdrew his cock, wrapping around it and stroking a few times before pausing and letting go again. Framing it with his thumb and fingers. Displaying it, Aziraphale realised, mouth going dry. To her.
And it was very fine indeed. For a human, extraordinary. Aziraphale wet her lips, meeting Arthur’s gaze as the flames inside her licked higher.
“Arthur, keep going,” Merlin muttered, and Arthur chuckled and started stroking him again, all leisurely confidence as Merlin tipped his head back on Arthur’s shoulder and groaned.
The sight and sound of him filled her with golden anticipation, spurred her to act. She knew of the mechanics of seducing a man - the rumours of how it ideally went in the stables and pantries, at least - and she suspected most maidens would indeed restrict themselves to slow steps, back-and-forth, revealing their charms piece by piece. All acquiescence, never making demands. She knew the ideals of how it might progress - a kiss, the squeeze of a wandering hand, ground ceded breathlessly, a blushing invitation to advance - but the pulsing warmth inside Aziraphale was making its own demands. Strong, loud, hot demands. Not least, that she skip a few steps. Lest she lose her actual mind.
“May—um, may I?”
Arthur flashed her his most charming grin, his hand still moving. He seemed to be enjoying the exaggerated formality of this moment very much. “Be my guest.”
That cinched it. “With pleasure,” Aziraphale said tightly, and swung a knee over Merlin’s lap, skirts enveloping them all.
Merlin exhaled hard, a soundless laugh that evaporated into a low groan, resting back against Arthur’s chest as Aziraphale straddled Merlin, knees sinking into the hearthrug, thighs spread wide.
Aziraphale wondered if she’d need to coordinate herself enough to hold the fabric up so Arthur could see where to aim, but luckily Arthur seemed to know what he was doing. His arm disappeared beneath the skirts and he was watching Aziraphale's face as his fingers slid up between her legs. Unerringly, he brushed the wet, thrumming edge of her and smiled as she made a soft sound.
“This is what you want?” he breathed, stroking a single fingertip into her, the certainty in his eyes bordering on sheer arrogance.
And yet—he was right. Words had deserted her at a single touch. All she could manage was an unsteady nod, and then his fingers were guiding Merlin’s cock into place, pumping it a couple of times for good measure before letting go.
“All yours,” Arthur said, and now he looked almost envious as Aziraphale sank down with a louder groan.
“Fuck,” Merlin whispered, echoing the only word reverberating around Aziraphale's mind.
Fuck. Yes. Fuck. Fuck!
There was a fiery burst of sensation as she shoved down to the base, and she gasped, halting in Merlin’s lap, the shape of him vividly outlined inside her; he was big. Not to a demonic extent but larger than she’d imagined, when she’d dared imagine this, and the challenging new stretch of it was ridiculously exciting. It seemed to press against every trigger point inside her at once, and when she moved they all lit up.
“Oh,” she said faintly, closing her eyes and just feeling it, rising and falling in his lap, relishing the indescribable silky stimulation of taking him to the root. He felt so hard, so hot, so smooth, and as she increased the pace the liquid friction of it built and built. She moved faster, bracing her hands on her thighs and screwing up handfuls of skirts, her body starting to feel molten already.
Chase it. Chase it for me.
She wasn’t sure if it was Crowley’s actual voice now or a living memory of Frán’s harsh whisper but it made her move more urgently, grinding down harder, fists tightening on her thighs. The embers that Frán had left smouldering were now ablaze, sparks rising through the whole of her body as she slammed down, again, again. Their hands weren’t on her, didn’t need to be, and Merlin wasn’t moving either, was just arching back against Arthur and letting her ride him as hard and fast as she needed.
She felt her eyes screw tighter, face contorting as the peak hit, Merlin’s cock so thick and hard inside her, so wet—and then her body was contorting as well, buckling under an explosion of pleasure, that bright needy point expanding and taking up the whole of her, oh, fuck.
Yes, angel...
That. That was Crowley.
She collapsed forwards against Merlin’s chest, pinning him down against Arthur, dimly aware that Merlin was still hard as a rock inside her. He hadn’t… Neither of them had… No one else had even lifted a finger!
The pressure of Merlin’s cock at this new angle was its own intriguing distraction, but instead of following that thought anywhere else, she forced herself to concentrate on opening her eyes.
She groaned softly and looked up.
Merlin and Arthur were both regarding her with a look that hung somewhere between arousal and amazement.
It was not, she realised with a jolt, a particularly unfamiliar expression.
She flushed with dawning embarrassment. It wasn’t supposed to be that quick, was it?
“Um,” she rasped, unsure of the etiquette—did she rise off him now? Did she keep going? “Sorry, er, that was… hm. Didn’t take long.”
Arthur recovered himself first. “Believe me,” he drawled, “there’s nothing to apologise for.”
“It’s one of the exceptionally fine things about the female form,” Merlin said tightly; he was holding still under her, and now she could feel his stomach muscles trembling. “With the right encouragement, it can reward you again and again.”
“Unless you’d rather stop,” Arthur said, his tone entirely civil while his roguish eyes said Don’t you dare.
Aziraphale was abjectly reminded, in that look, that Arthur was accustomed to being the highest authority in every room. He was giving her leave to retreat yet truly didn’t expect her to withdraw.
More fool him; Aziraphale didn’t even want to pause.
“No,” she said quickly, arousal swinging extremely fucking fast back to a rising simmer. “No, I don’t want to stop.”
“Good,” Arthur said, leaning up over Merlin’s shoulder, and kissed her. The dual sensation of it - Arthur’s mouth brushing hers, Merlin shifting rigid between her legs - made her head spin. It was a strain of an angle but so very worth it, the smoke-and-honey taste of Arthur’s lips filling her senses, one of his hands feathering across the back of her head as the other—ohhh. As with his other hand, he worked open the laces at the front of her bodice.
Her lips parted around a tremulous noise as the tight fabric enclosing her breasts loosened, as Arthur’s tongue brushed into her mouth before tantalisingly retreating.
Aziraphale couldn’t help but contrast it with how Frán had kissed her. Arthur’s clean-shaved jaw was nevertheless rough compared with Frán’s impossibly soft mouth, and he was gentle and cautious where Frán had been impatient and fierce. His big palm was warm against the underside of her breast, moulding to the curve of it, lifting but not squeezing or mindlessly groping.
Arthur was being careful with her, Aziraphale realised, as he ran his thumb lightly over her peaked nipple, his other hand cupping her jaw, his tongue teasing her mouth open. And that—really wasn’t necessary.
She was going to pull back to say as much, but then Merlin craned up and started kissing her neck on the other side - the scrape of his beard all the more interesting for being softly dragged against her bare skin - and she thought better of it. Two of them being careful with her was definitely interesting. Especially because every movement Merlin made shifted his cock inside her, deeply-seated nudges that stimulated an answering urge to move.
“Mmm,” Aziraphale said, sucking Arthur’s tongue and rocking gently in Merlin’s lap, subtle shifts around all the points where they were anchored together.
Arthur made a strangled noise and pulled back.
“Shall we move this upstairs?” he suggested forcefully, as Merlin abandoned his foray on her neck to clamp his hands around Aziraphale’s waist. She could feel the heat of Merlin’s palms through her dress, the tightness of his grasp as he started fucking her with slow-rolling strokes.
“Could do,” Aziraphale agreed breathlessly, starting to rise and fall in time with the lovely new prompts of Merlin’s hips. “Don’t - ah! - have to.”
Merlin’s fingers dug in every time he thrust up, harder, and Aziraphale moaned happily, watching as Arthur’s attention snagged on her cleavage behind the partially-loosened bodice lacing. Freed from the tightness of their confinement, her breasts were jolting with every bounce, the movements of them magnificent, obscene.
Trusting Merlin's grasp to keep her steady, Aziraphale raised her hands, squeezing greedily at her own breasts, harder than Arthur had done—squeezing like Crowley might, her nails digging in. Arthur made a low appreciative noise, and renewed desire glittered in Merlin’s gaze; he fucked up into her harder, dragging her abruptly down onto his cock, watching the shock waves ripple up her flesh, her nipples becoming rock-hard beneath her palms. His movements were rougher, his grip tighter, everything less gentle, and fuck, and there it was again, elusive but coalescing, getting closer, that was it, there, that felt so fucking good, yes, almost as good as—
“Arguments in favour of moving upstairs,” Arthur said, in the voice of someone who realises they are not about to win any such argument. “A large bed. Space to take our clothes off. Considerably less chance of being caught in a compromising position by our comrades.”
“She’s not—bothered—about being caught,” Merlin gritted out, bracing himself against Arthur now and hammering up. “Look at her, she’s—ah, fuck.”
Aziraphale had jerked forwards again, their foreheads almost colliding, as the targeted rhythm of Merlin’s cock drove her into that shuddery delirious plane of pleasure once more. “Oh, oh,” she bleated softly, as the increasingly-familiar golden eruption hove into view. “Ohhh-hhh.”
Yes, give it to me…
“No,” Arthur said dryly. “No, I can see that.”
It was staggering, this time, like a sunburst of energy right through her centre. Aziraphale tried not to collapse, did her best to sit upright, leaning back even, but that - that angle, fuck - she could feel it rubbing against something magnificent inside her, every slide of Merlin’s cock a fresh burst of sensation. And she couldn’t—could she? Again? If she just… kept going… leaned into it, worked at it. She craned back further, greedily pulsing her hips, grasping Merlin’s shins behind her and chasing this other barrage of feeling instead. She found a rhythm that served her, a perfect angle, worked it, mercilessly, Arthur’s hand rising again to grip her breast through her open bodice in her stead, pinching the nipple deliberately, twisting as she started to ascend again. Fuck, yes, she could, she could, she—
Yesss.
“Fu-uck,” Merlin chimed in, a tight waver to his voice as she shuddered vigorously on his cock once more, and this time Aziraphale felt him jerking inside her in unison, hot spurting pulses as he also succumbed.
It was gratifying to see him falling apart as well, that composure splintering at last. Merlin’s chest was heaving, his head falling back against Arthur’s shoulder; sweat gleamed on his neck, stippling the thin fabric of his jerkin. His hips slowed, grinding to a halt, and his breathlessness segued gradually back into soft, appreciative laughter.
Arthur looked down at him and closed the space between their mouths, catching Merlin’s laugh in a kiss. Aziraphale watched their lips pressing together, Arthur growing hungrier, Merlin ever more luxurious. The kiss deepened and then broke off again, Arthur dragging in a deep unsteady breath, Merlin mumbling something inaudible with his eyes closed.
Aziraphale met Arthur’s eye. He looked wild.
“Clothes off, you suggested,” she mused, rising on her knees enough that Merlin’s cock could slide out of her, unbuckling her belt. “Excellent idea.”
Her body was a curious mixture of satisfied - as if her blood was suffused with that golden glow - and energised, already wanting more. It was similar to how she’d felt with Frán, like they could pass the arousal back and forth between them indefinitely, each time scaling a higher peak.
She had an image of Crowley siphoning off the blissful satisfaction as it arose; keeping her restless and ravenous, eager for more, as he grew progressively strong and powerful from her service. Maybe he would never let her rest now. She shivered. Or… maybe it was actually all just Aziraphale: now she knew this body could feel this way, she wanted to feel it again and again.
Fuck, she was so wet, from her own excitement and Merlin’s wordless tribute. She imagined, if he wished to oblige her, that Arthur’s cock would slide straight inside, filling her up again, effortless and so, so welcome.
“I was suggesting that we move upstairs,” Arthur said, but his gaze was fixed on Aziraphale's working fingers. “Might I offer any assistance?”
“I’m actually getting quite good at this,” Aziraphale told him, grinning as the remaining few laces undid obediently between her fingers, everything loosening, tightly-bound fabric giving in the most delightful way. She reached behind herself, starting on the secondary laces that cinched the back of her ribs.
Arthur returned the grin. “Practising with your demon…”
“No need. She…” Aziraphale trailed off, belatedly uncertain if this were something she was supposed not to talk about, but Arthur’s attention, if anything, sharpened.
Merlin’s eyes opened again, lazily slitted. “The handmaiden,” he said, prompting. His voice was a husky, disused relic of its former polished timbre.
Aziraphale nodded, finishing with the laces behind her and reaching down to gather up handfuls of her skirts. “Well—we had no time to remove my clothes.”
Arthur looked indignant. “You were there all afternoon!”
“Yes, but… I wasn’t doing that all afternoon,” Aziraphale said primly, prompting both their laughter.
It seemed to wake Merlin up again. In one surging movement he sat up and helped Aziraphale to lift the unwieldy bulk of her dress and underskirts smoothly over her head. She shivered at being suddenly naked, despite the fire, becoming evermore aware of the weight of her breasts, her peaked nipples tightening against emptiness, her ribcage expanding unsteadily with every breath. Merlin’s arms felt very warm against her bare skin.
“What else were you doing?” Arthur asked, as Merlin nuzzled along her neck.
“Talking, and being shown around, you know, apothecary stuff,” Aziraphale said, tingling inside at the contrast of Merlin’s hot mouth compared with the cooler air, “and um, getting information. For you.”
Arthur’s eyes gleamed. “For me? I’m flattered. What did—”
“Arthur,” Merlin growled, muffled against her throat, edging lower as his hands slid over her breasts, firm and reverent. Squeezing, lifting, teasing her nipples with lazy pinches that made her shift and shiver. “Not - the - time.”
Arthur barked a laugh of breathless outrage. “You can talk! All your probing questions were hardly—”
“Arthur,” Merlin said, not loudly or sharply but there was something in it, the lick of a whip, that made Aziraphale rapidly reassess this man whose arms were around her.
Oh, that was interesting. It made her tingle even more. And then Merlin shifted, guiding Aziraphale to lie on her side next to them, as Merlin turned onto his hands and knees above Arthur, pushed his fingers into his hair and kissed him senseless.
Aziraphale propped her head on her hand and watched, enthralled, as Arthur responded immediately, arching up to meet every aspect of Merlin’s touch. For a moment she felt quite forgotten. They were fully clothed and yet the way they moved suggested nothing between them, neither fabric nor hesitation. Merlin knew exactly how to hold him, how to kiss him, and Aziraphale was starting to feel like she should leave them to it when Merlin drew back, threw her a quick smile, and then addressed Arthur again, hushed but emphatic.
“Instead. Take your clothes off. Sire.”
Arthur’s pupils were huge and dark as he hurried to obey, taut expanses of golden skin unveiled as he stripped off his garments and dropped them aside.
Merlin was undressing as well, but sedately, taking his time.
Nothing to prove, Aziraphale thought, whereas Arthur had an urgent neediness to him that Aziraphale recognised from her own experience. Something that chimed with the need to submit, to be ordered around or maybe pushed against something unyielding.
She licked her lips, daring herself to put this feeling into words. “Do you want to fuck me, my lord? Or would you prefer to be fucked by him?”
Arthur went still, eyes narrowing. Whoops. Possibly a misstep. Then he smiled.
“Oh, Aziraphale, I very much want to fuck you,” Arthur said evenly, shifting to fill the space between Aziraphale and Merlin. His voice was still gallant, but now with an edge. He stretched out against her and skimmed a heavy hand up her side, making every downy hair rise to prickling attention. “I’ve wanted to fuck you since you arrived in my Court begging a place at my table, and the intervening year has done nothing to take the edge off that.”
Fuck. Right. Not submissive at all to her.
“Oh,” she squeaked.
“I’ve especially wanted to fuck you,” he added, almost conversational but low, against her ear, as Aziraphale blushed to the roots of her hair, “since watching you climax three times in as many minutes on my husband’s cock. He’s good but he’s not that good,” he finished, pushing her flat on her back and crawling on top of her, his cock glancing thick and hard between her bare legs. “Surely?”
“I might be,” Merlin said, unperturbed, as Arthur ran the head of his cock through the wetness leaking across her thighs, the slippery heat of Merlin’s spend, to fit his own cock against the aching slit of her cunt.
Pressed flat on her back beneath him, Aziraphale made a noise that was dangerously close to a whimper.
That was all the permission she needed to give, apparently. Arthur eased himself into her, slow enough that it was frictionless, just a slippery stretch and then the heat of him, filling her, crushing her into the floor.
Ohhhh.
“Oh, fuck, yes, Arthur,” Aziraphale heard herself babble, curling up in encouragement, using his name as a curse, a plea. For a ridiculous moment she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to touch him, her fingers curling tentatively against the back of his neck. “Oh, yes, that’s—ah—that’s—”
“Is it, indeed?” He almost sounded sarcastic. He reached up lazily and disentangled her arms from around his neck, then pinned her wrists above her head with one hand and gave her a look as if daring her to disagree.
Aziraphale could not agree more. She wriggled beneath him in delirious arousal, testing the brute strength of his hold, and then Arthur bottomed out inside her and gave a deliberate hard nudge with his hips, and there was nothing to do but gasp and whine. It felt so wet, so obscene, feeling his cock ride the same path that Merlin’s had taken, causing the same sweet nerves to ignite. The thought of it was driving her higher, as was the sheer weight of Arthur’s body on top of her, the power in his hips as he started to move.
“Fuck,” she muttered, bending her legs and wrapping them around the breadth of him, trying to capture him within her thighs. “Oh…”
“Mm,” Arthur grunted, enclosing her wrists in his grasp as he fucked her in sleek, efficient strokes, driving her against the hearthrug, filling her awareness with friction and pressure. She could only just breathe and the air was heated, musky, making her mouth water. “You feel so good.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, trying to clench down on him, relishing how open and slick she was, his hips smacking hard between her thighs. This was a spanking in itself, her arse heating as he hammered into her.
Arthur adjusted his grip on her wrists and rubbed his mouth against her ear. “You’re so wet,” he murmured, slowing down as if to demonstrate for her, and the blazing pleasure tipped into frustration once more. “And you don’t want to go upstairs, do you? You like being down here by the fire, down in the open. You want the others to get back. See you like this. Watch you, with us. And then take their turn.”
Yes, came Crowley’s voice again in her head, even though she hadn’t come this time, just experienced a pulse of arousal so bright it could illuminate the midnight sky. I like this one.
“Fuck,” Aziraphale bit off, trying to move herself on Arthur’s cock. The thought that Crowley was watching all of this, hearing it and judging it, powered her from within. “Please, more.”
“More of this?” Arthur asked, sliding the full length of his cock in and then out again, infuriatingly slowly, whilst maintaining his vice-like grip on her wrists. “Or more of what I was saying?”
Aziraphale tried to writhe away the frustration, couldn’t move enough to achieve anything. “Fuck me, tell me more, everything, just more,” she groaned.
Arthur gave a short laugh and withdrew again, stroking just the tip of his cock against her, spreading her and teasing her at once. “What do you think, Merlin, should we be offended? Are we not enough for her?”
Aziraphale groaned again, arousal cut with plaintive desperation. “Please!”
“Now you’re being cruel,” Merlin said, reproachfully. “How would you like it?”
“Fair point,” Arthur said, and drove back inside, resuming his earlier pace and—that—fuck. It hadn’t been long but it felt like an aching eternity. Aziraphale melted into it, babbling gratitude, ascending along a wild heated arc, and then Arthur’s murmur against her ear pushed her over the edge: “That’s it, good girl, let me feel you give in.”
Her body arched taut and then sweetly exploded, and for a moment she could feel Crowley at the periphery of her awareness. Not just his voice, more, an entire red-gold presence beside her, thrumming with power. Not for long, though—and the wave of yearning that came after his inexorable fade took her breath away.
She collapsed back against the floor, sweat-slicked and almost sobbing.
Arthur released her at once, pulling out and sitting back on his heels, and fresh air rushed back into her chest. “Need a break?”
“No,” Aziraphale insisted, scrambling to push up on her elbows, looking from Arthur to Merlin and back with a sudden inexplicable fear that this might be about to be over. She made her voice imploring. “Keep going, please, more. Please, sire.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Arthur said, though the corner of his mouth had twitched up when she used his title in earnest. Just another courtier begging for his royal attention.
Aziraphale licked her lips, still panting. “Believe me, you won’t. Sire,” she added again, making it deliberately filthy this time, a slurred obscenity on her lips.
“She’s been fucking a sleep demon,” Merlin said helpfully. “By the look of her eyes, she’s serving him right now. Honestly, my love - do your worst.”
“Is that right?” Arthur asked. Aziraphale, feeling her eyes go round, just nodded. “Then turn over.”
This is most advantageous, Aziraphale heard, like a volcanic breeze gusting around her mind. You have done well, enticing this pair. I expected less of them.
Somehow the cloak of his praise was almost as warming as Arthur’s curt, uncompromising voice.
Aziraphale rolled onto her stomach, then groaned anew as Arthur’s weight settled on top of her, his knee angling her legs apart as he pushed his cock back inside from behind. This angle definitely enabled him to give her more. And it was… a lot. His strength was not demonic but he was still Arthur, king of knights, broad and muscular, lean, heavy. Aziraphale pushed back, arching between the scratch of his chest hair behind her and the harsher fibres of the hearthrug against her breasts, rubbing her nipples against its rough hardness. She panted as Arthur’s weight pinned her, his warm skin heating against her back as Arthur fixed one hand onto the meat of her hip and encircled her throat with the other, and fucked her, hard.
“Ahh,” Aziraphale moaned, the immediate pinned-and-fucked sensation causing a familiar bursting pleasure through her mind, and Arthur grunted and shoved faster, deeper. The sheer force he could employ was staggering. And yes, that, that intensity, fuck, that took her straight back toward that elusive red-gold place, closer to Crowley, closer—
Yes, angel. Yes, keep going, give it to me.
—closer than ever, losing her mind until Arthur slid one hand beneath her, his warm palm pressing against her clit as he pounded into her from behind. That was enough; it built in delicious, rapidfire bursts. She felt hot all over, as if her skin were emitting a blast of light as she came again, crying out, grinding against Arthur’s hand. Arthur fucked her through it without relenting, her moans modulating around the length of his thrusts as he drove the breath right out of her.
Mmm, she heard, a filthy purr of approval. This one is more than adequate.
“Don’t finish,” Merlin said, which was a bit late, surely; Aziraphale tried to collect her thoughts to respond before realising he was in fact talking to Arthur.
Giving Arthur an order, no less.
The thought of it - that Arthur might be close, that he might lose himself inside her at any moment - made her want to speed up, push back. But Arthur gave a frustrated hiss and withdrew, leaving Aziraphale reeling and gripping internally on nothing.
No…! Don’t stop.
Aziraphale made a noise of protest, looking around wildly. Arthur was sitting back on his knees, flushed and panting, eyes closed and teeth gritted as he brought himself under control. Merlin was watching him with satisfaction. This was one of their games, Aziraphale realised belatedly. This was something else, and it wasn’t for her to blunder around trying to guess again.
So be it.
She turned to Merlin instead, trying to keep the desperation from her voice. Nevertheless, she felt like there might be a flicker of Crowley’s fire in her gaze. “Are you… recovered?”
Merlin’s lips twitched. “Amply. Would you now like to move upstairs?”
To their bed. To their big, luxurious, complicated bed. “Not especially,” Aziraphale said, hazarding this new habit of honest answers. “Is that… allowed?”
“Of course. As long as you accept the risk of staying down here by the fire,” Merlin said, all mock seriousness. His voice was designed to inflame. He prowled towards her on hands and knees. “Anyone could interrupt…”
Mmm.
“I know,” Aziraphale said, shivering a little as he stared down at her.
“Lancelot and Percival might return at any minute…”
“A terrible risk,” Aziraphale agreed breathlessly.
Merlin took hold of her by the shoulders and applied a neat, debilitating pressure; her elbows went out from under her, and Aziraphale found herself abruptly flat on her back, arms smarting with fading discomfort. Pinned, and then Merlin’s hands were roaming over her, his mouth lowering to the line of her jaw and softly biting.
Certainly has merit, Crowley said, while Aziraphale wriggled into a more provocative angle.
“I wonder who’d have you first,” Merlin mused, as Aziraphale sought the heavy drag of his cock against her thigh. Trying to get him back into place. “Lancelot or Percival? Or would you strive to have them both together, keep things fair?”
A dark thrill went through Aziraphale. “All at once,” she whispered, and was bathed immediately in the infernal light of Crowley’s approval. “All of you, I want—“
Merlin groaned softly, the first indication she’d had that he was more aroused than simply academically curious. “Fuck,” he muttered, reaching down to hurriedly guide himself between her legs; she could feel how wet he was as well, slick smeared across the broad head of his cock. “What have we unleashed?”
”Nothing you can’t handle,” Aziraphale said, though she wasn’t entirely sure that was true, and Merlin laughed against her neck as he pushed back inside.
Aziraphale grunted as she readjusted to his size, the velvet punch of it.
Though Arthur’s body was overall bigger and heavier - whilst Merlin was Aziraphale’s height, and narrow of form - it was somehow just as overwhelming to have Merlin on top of her. Because Merlin was fiercely attentive, sucking her nipples, scraping his teeth against them as his cock stretched her deeply, scratching down her sides as she threw a leg over his thighs and squeezed. He wasn’t attempting to fuck her like Arthur, that relentless onslaught, no—instead he was keeping her focus divided between his thick cock and his clever mouth and his hands, oh, his hands.
Merlin’s fingers danced over her skin; now like claws, now like feathers. It felt like a living spell, coaxing her to shudder and sigh, driving her skin to insanity: sensation prickling hot, then cold, then fiery-freezing, currents and eddies flooding her, colours bursting behind her eyelids. Now black-silver, now silver-purple, now red, red, red.
“Ahh,” Aziraphale gasped, trying to come again, but Merlin must have felt it in her because he redirected his focus, and the mounting urge melted back into nothing. Teasing, withholding.
I now like this one less, Crowley grumbled.
Aziraphale gave a strangled laugh, rolling her head against the rug, and Merlin looked up sharply.
“Is he here?”
If there was nothing else Aziraphale had learnt this evening, it was that honesty came easily on the brink of pleasure. “Yes.”
“In the room?”
“In the… around,” Aziraphale hedged, trying to describe with her barely-functioning fingertips the amorphous realm that existed alongside their own, becoming permeable to her at the extremes of sensation.
“The ether,” Merlin said, and rolled them abruptly over, so that he was the one lying on his back.
Aziraphale almost swooned, legs falling apart as she picked up the pace on top of him, bracing her hands on his shoulders for leverage.
“And do we anger him?” Merlin asked, gripping her broad hips and stabbing upwards. His tousled hair fanned around his head like black silk, a dark halo that momentarily seemed to shimmer.
Somewhat, Crowley said, and then, slightly mollified …but less if you keep doing that. Like that.
Aziraphale shook her head, struggling to keep the different lines of conversation straight when this new angle made her feel faint. “Not… anger,” she managed, flopping down on Merlin’s chest and cocking her hips back. “Not… more than… most mortals, anyway.”
Merlin smoothed a hand over her hair, pushing a weight of blonde ringlets off her bare shoulder and nudging his mouth there instead, his words buzzing beneath her ear. “What does he want?”
More.
“Um, more,” Aziraphale whispered with slight trepidation, as Arthur’s earlier words came back to her – are we not enough? – but Merlin seemed to take this without being stung.
“There isn’t much more I can give you,” he said slowly, alongside a teasing thrust that took her breath away, “...alone. But I’m not alone. Arthur.”
The whip was back in his voice, though his hands were still gentle as they wandered down Aziraphale’s back. A slow stroke that ended—ah. Merlin’s hands slid over her arse, spreading her leisurely. A moment later, she felt Arthur’s hands join Merlin’s, less leisurely, more direct.
She felt suddenly exposed, could only imagine how it looked, Merlin’s flushed cock glistening as it pumped into her, stretching her; and then Arthur licked a firm, wet stripe over her arsehole, right down to where Merlin’s cock was buried inside her and back. A wave of heat went through Aziraphale so intense that she cried out.
Ahhh, Crowley said approvingly. Perhaps together they have merit.
“Y-yes,” Aziraphale echoed, and Merlin made a wicked little approving noise.
“Arthur,” he said softly, “do that again.”
She felt Arthur smile against her skin as he licked her again, slower and more deliberate, his tongue rocking back and forth over her arse as Merlin pushed himself fully into her cunt. She felt drenched around Merlin’s cock, so wet, throbbing brighter still as Arthur’s tongue pushed into her from behind.
Oh, angel, how you revel in that. Crowley sounded awfully pleased with himself. I can feel how much it excites you, your king licking you open. And you know what this means - he’s going to fuck your arse as well - and he won’t wait for the other one to finish first.
“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered. Arthur’s mouth was such an intense liquid pleasure, reminding her of Frán’s earlier attention, and she almost lost herself entirely. She rocked against Merlin, blindly nuzzling his collarbone, pushing her fingers through his silky hair and moaning as a trance-like pleasure built. “Don’t stop,” she gasped, clenching hard around Merlin’s cock, pressing back against Arthur’s mouth, harder as he introduced his fingers as well. Stretching, massaging, holding her open for the renewed assault of his tongue.
“Fuck, keep going, keep—hey,” she protested, as Arthur’s attentions melted entirely away.
She heard Merlin’s low laugh. “Arthur. Go on.”
Mm. Go on.
Aziraphale felt the heat of Arthur closing behind her, sandwiching her between them, and then Arthur’s cock was lining up against her arse, even as Merlin slid fully back inside. Arthur had made himself slippery with something, and it glanced off once before he brought it back in his fist, steady now, aiming.
“Tell me to stop if you—want,” Arthur murmured, that low note of arrogance sending a dark thrill through Aziraphale's core; this was a man who’d never been told to stop, and these words were a courtesy, not an expectation. Arthur expected her to enjoy it, because he’d take care but also because it was him. And sure enough, as he pressed forward, she couldn’t hold back her thoughts. This was Arthur, she wanted him, she wanted to impress him, she wanted his approval almost as much as she wanted Crowley’s; she wanted to take his cock in her arse without flinching.
She still did flinch a little, just at first, just as the head pushed in; pressed her face against Merlin’s shoulder, her hands going to fists against the rug beneath. He was—it felt even bigger, like this. Maybe it was bigger, maybe Arthur had got harder at the sight of his cock lining up, shiny and pink as he started to enter her. Maybe he’d given it a couple of those preparatory strokes, like he’d done for Merlin, ensuring he was as hard as possible before he pushed into her arse, watching it stretch around him, gleaming.
“Ah, fuck,” Arthur muttered, as Aziraphale's tight hole let him in. Aziraphale groaned against Merlin’s shoulder—there was a brief searing pain, and then the stretch. The fullness. He didn’t thrust so much as allow his weight to drive him smoothly into her, his slick cock pushing slowly alongside Merlin’s, divided by a thin wall of pure sensation. Aziraphale squirmed and panted, the discomfort and overwhelm of taking them both edging somewhere closer to the breathtaking intensity of having Crowley push inside.
See? Crowley said smugly. Told you so.
This is not a moment for I told you so, Aziraphale thought shrilly, and Cowley’s low laugh warmed her from within.
But I did tell you. And you still welcome it, because it excites you—and because you know it serves me.
I—fuck—and does it?
Yesss, Crowley hissed.
That sounded good, and Aziraphale writhed between the three of them, glorying in the depth of penetration, the incendiary stretch, the panicky signals her body was sending cursorily overruled.
Take it, Crowley breathed, getting louder in her head. All of it, take it from them both, let them fill you up, and a blissful shudder went through her, filling her with golden light.
Merlin’s hands skated over Aziraphale's shoulders and on to Arthur, one sinking into his hair, the other spreading over the back of Aziraphale's neck.
“Oh, you’re perfect,” Merlin said reverently, kissing down Aziraphale's jaw, lips sliding along the column of Aziraphale's throat as he drew Arthur in closer as well. It wasn’t clear if he was talking to one of them or both, and Aziraphale's focus was too dreamy to care. “Mm, oh, come here.”
Arthur groaned softly and met Merlin’s mouth with his own, and Aziraphale felt them both thrust jerkily as their lips opened.
Aziraphale’s focus dissolved. Everything was just slick and tight and explosive as Merlin and Arthur found a rhythm together, the sounds of their desperate kissing almost as obscene as the sweat-slick noises of skin sliding in unison as they moved. Aziraphale’s clit throbbed between them, her breath coming short and ragged as the fire inside her surged. She was so full, so energised, the heat of it crackling over her skin. Every smack of their hips made her clit grind against Merlin’s pelvis, driving her higher, making her nerves sing. She tipped her head back on Arthur’s shoulder and let her mind spiral, reaching, stretched, open; Crowley.
Angel. Yes. Open for me.
Fuck, she could almost feel the rigid demon cock pushing into her mouth, almost feel the scratch of claws on her neck, the irresistible strength. She could almost taste him as she strove to obey, releasing cry after cry of pleasure.
Yes, angel, yesss.
The reply rolled through her and she tensed all over, shaking as she started to come again. Profoundly this time, rolling shudders of it igniting her core, muscles tensing around their cocks, cunt flooding with heat. It was a thunderstorm of sensation, her vision filling with silver clouds as it built to a boiling point and then erupted. And she felt it - felt it all - reach Crowley, before a stunning red-gold flare whipped back over her in return.
“Fuck,” Arthur moaned, against Merlin’s mouth, and they were moving faster now, breath coming in desperate bursts as they hammered out their shared rhythm.
“Yes,” Aziraphale panted, feeling Arthur swell in her arse, plunging ruthlessly deep each time. Any care he’d been taking had gone. The slam of his hips rocked her against Merlin; it felt like he was trying to fuck Merlin through her. Like it wasn’t about her any more at all. She was just a vessel, a toy for him to use to up the ante for his real goal, which was always, always Merlin. And given that was exactly what she was using him for, it gave her a dirty thrill to moan out softly, “Oh yes, sire, fuck me, take me, share me with him…”
Arthur’s hands tightened on her hips, and he let loose his full strength, his hips smacking her arse every time his cock drove inside. Aziraphale howled, feeling Merlin fuck back harder in response, and wondered dizzily if she could ascend once more. Surely not—and then she felt Arthur come inside her, slamming deep and gripping hard, grinding out his pleasure in selfish pulses, and she started to quake again in response. It was lesser, this time, more like a reflex; a rolling wave that peaked sweetly and then dragged her straight back into its hazy golden undertow.
She squeezed down tightly in anticipation of Merlin coming as well—but Merlin made a strained noise and pulled out, still hard, and before she knew it they were both disentangling.
“Hey,” Aziraphale mumbled, but it wasn’t really a protest this time, because her body was all pooling lassitude now, dazed and languid as the demonic energy rolled through her. She felt like the centre of a whirlpool, energy pouring through her and dissipating. Leaving her exhausted, wrung out and wholly relaxed.
Merlin shifted out from beneath her and knelt up beside Arthur, still prone. “Come here,” he murmured, hands cradling his face, and pushed his cock deeply into Arthur’s mouth instead.
“Mmh,” Arthur said, sucking vigorously, enthusiastically cooperating as Merlin knelt over him. Fastening his hands on Merlin’s hips and tugging him closer, urging him to fuck his mouth.
And this - Aziraphale realised, finding it starkly obvious now - was how it was with them, wasn’t it? It was in Merlin’s glittery eyes, gazing down in possessive pleasure as Arthur eagerly swallowed his cock. It was in the way that Arthur had followed Merlin’s commands through this entire encounter. He wouldn’t lay the crown aside for anyone else. Just as for Arthur it was always really about Merlin, so for Merlin it was always really about Arthur.
At another time, that thought might fill her with wistfulness, or at least carry the sting of exclusion. But right now, sweetly aching all over and bathed in the coppery glow of Crowley’s satisfaction, she couldn’t muster any concern over it at all. She lay for a while, getting her breath back against a backdrop of harsh noises, a crescendo of increasingly uneven gasps, and marvelled that the sight of Merlin fucking Arthur’s mouth without restraint didn’t raise more than a tremor of additional interest inside her.
She watched with an almost casual appreciation as Merlin came deep in Arthur’s mouth, Arthur’s lips working red and shiny around him, his throat moving as he swallowed. Merlin’s fingers softened against Arthur’s jaw, stroking instead of commanding, until their paired rhythm subsided.
Eventually, they untangled and Merlin’s focus swam back to Aziraphale.
He looked like he’d been… somewhere else, for a few moments.
“All is well?” Merlin asked, stroking a finger down her shoulder.
Aziraphale stretched out with the flickery warmth of Crowley’s enjoyment playing over her.
“Exceedingly,” she mumbled, content to float there indefinitely, or at least until her skin started to cool.
“Fire’s burning low,” she said eventually, to the ceiling.
“Lancelot and Percival never did come back with the firewood,” Arthur said, his voice somewhat raspier again.
“Aziraphale must be so disappointed,” Merlin murmured, and Aziraphale snorted.
“I’ll survive.” She was barely able to keep her eyes open. She rubbed her palm over her face. “Do we need to go looking for them?”
“They can look after themselves,” Merlin said, and then, when Aziraphale twisted to raise her eyebrows at him, elaborated. “They haven’t sent me any signal that something is amiss.”
Aziraphale thought of the little wooden crown in her apron pocket, and wondered how many such items Merlin had sent out into the world. She wanted to ask more, but not - she yawned hugely - right now.
Arthur was already getting to his feet; he offered her his hand to assist. He looked relaxed, composed again, the only sign of their activities in his reddened mouth and rumpled hair. “Upstairs?”
Aziraphale’s body ached all over, with certain areas more vibrantly smarting now. “Perhaps after a wash,” she demurred.
“Merlin might draw you a bath in our room,” Arthur said, the barest lilt of suggestion in his voice.
Aziraphale hesitated. That felt… like too much. She didn’t feel the need to be enclosed between them right now, nor a desire to mull over if any aspect of his invitation came from a place that was dutiful rather than sincerely welcoming. Rather, the thought of stretching out in the cosy solitude of her own bed was most enticing. “Thank you, but I need to clear my head.”
“Of course,” Arthur said, entirely gallant once more. “But the offer is there if your little room proves too cold… or lonesome.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said again, and then, gazing at him, unable to process everything but feeling like she had to say something, she gave a self-conscious laugh. “That was… um, incredible,” she said, wrapping a hand around the back of her neck. “You really know how to pin someone down…”
Arthur grinned, eyes sparkling with some gleam of shared understanding. “Well, you know what they say. Do unto others…”
It sounded like a secret, like the sort of confidential information one shouldn’t know about one’s king, and yet it was Arthur imparting it.
Aziraphale grinned back at him, pressed her lips together, nodded. “Indeed.”
Merlin was gathering up their clothes. He came to stand next to Arthur, bumping their shoulders together, a picture of tousled elegance.
“Is he still here?” he asked Aziraphale. There was no doubt to whom he was referring.
Aziraphale shook her head. “Hardly. Much less than at the, er, height of things.”
Merlin nodded. “It’s to be expected,” he said, and again Aziraphale wanted to know more but - now was not the time. “I daresay he has been well replenished.”
“Amply,” Aziraphale said, straight-faced.
Merlin’s green eyes flashed. “Indeed,” he drawled, then adopted a voice of exaggerated formality. “Well I must thank you for a most enjoyable evening. And I hope that - should the need arise - you wouldn’t hesitate to call on us again.” He leaned in, kissed her cheek, then took Arthur’s hand and led him away while Aziraphale’s mind grappled with formulating a reply.
Aziraphale took a pail of water, slightly warm from the hearthstone, and carried it out the back door. It steamed in the freezing air, but still felt chill to her skin as she washed, and when she finished by pouring the whole lot over her, she couldn’t hold back a gasp.
Bracing, she heard Crowley rumble.
Aziraphale beamed, deliciously warm beneath her wet goose-bumped skin. Crowley! You’re still here?
More or less, Crowley said, his tone rich, honeyed.
I thought you could only reach me like this when I was, um, serving you.
That is when it is easiest, Crowley agreed. But tonight you have strengthened our bond considerably.
All the aching places in Aziraphale’s body gave a jolt of delight. Oh! How marvellous.
Yes. Well, pssh. Under the circumstances, it was the least you could do.
Aziraphale arched her eyebrows. Is that so?
Crowley made a slightly flustered ungrateful noise. The bare minimum!
She slipped back inside, trying to keep the smirk from her internal voice. I see. Duly noted. And Crowley?
Ngk?
You’re welcome.
Another tiny flustered noise was his only reply. And yet as Aziraphale picked her way naked through the darkened interior, wet hair swinging against her back, scooping up her clothes and traipsing up to her solitary bed, she could feel him.
As she stretched out wide under the cool sheets, the silence of the inn offset only by the lull of her own heartbeat, she could feel him.
And as she closed her eyes…
Are you going to stay all night?
Might do. Might not! Depends how I feel. Not bothered.
…she had a sense of him, curled up around her on the bed, weighty as a wolfhound, warm and haughty as a cat, protective as—well, yes. A dragon of its heaped, golden hoard.
Chapter 18: Night 11: PERCIVAL
Summary:
Exactly where had Lancelot of Percival got to...?
Notes:
A tiny little coda to the previous scene. <3
Chapter Text
“Are they... still…?”
“Very much so.” Lancelot’s voice was drier than sand.
Percival groaned under his breath, tipping his head back against the outside wall of the inn. This overgrown corner leading off to the outhouses was sheltered enough where the biting wind was concerned, but still - it was bloody freezing out here. He gave his arms a brisk rub, then wrapped them around himself. The sweat he’d worked up lugging around firewood had long since chilled on his skin, and he hadn’t dressed for an evening outside.
“Might go for a run,” he said, when the silence had stretched long enough to become ridiculous.
Lancelot gave a soft laugh. “I’m sure it won’t be much longer.”
“Are you?”
Lancelot leaned slightly to glance through the window again; there were shutters, but the wood was old, gaping in a few key places and allowing - if you were standing where Lancelot was - an unobstructed view of the downstairs of the inn.
“...No,” Lancelot said, after a moment. He looked back at Percival, the faintest tinge of a flush ascending his cheeks, and then fixed his attention over Percival’s shoulder instead. “On second thought, perhaps we might, er…”
Blimey. Things must have progressed if Sir Lancelot the Eternally Stoic was getting his britches in a twist. Curiosity won out, and Percival shouldered him gently out of the way to take his place by the window. And, ah.
Yes.
Indeed.
When Percival had frozen earlier, about to push open the front door, his arm had been stayed by a noise echoing from inside that had sounded more animal than human. His first thought had actually been: ambush? And he’d signalled urgently to Lancelot to flank him, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword, before moving silently around the side of the inn to establish through the broken shutters what peril was awaiting them.
He’d had quite the eyeful then: a vision of Aziraphale - who made an extremely charming, buxom maid - straddling Merlin on the floor, who in turn was resting back in Arthur’s arms. They were all fully dressed and yet the events beneath those voluminous skirts were unmistakable: in the noises Aziraphale was making, in the movements of their hips and in the absolute attention of Arthur’s gaze.
Any ambush had clearly been resolved to the satisfaction of all affected parties.
“Ah,” Lancelot had said, coming close behind him to look over his shoulder, and by mutual accord they’d averted their eyes and backed off a bit, finding this secluded section of wall to lurk against, with plenty of requisite throat-clearing and heel scuffing.
Now, Percival saw that things had indeed progressed. The clothes were gone. Arthur had Aziraphale, in all her sumptuous glory, face down on the hearthrug and was taking her vigorously from behind. Percival’s mouth went dry, and he swallowed, momentarily unable to tear his gaze away. The athleticism of it was… potent. The visible impact on Aziraphale’s ample flesh made heat rise to his own face. And the impressive muscles working in Arthur’s back, his arse and thighs—Percival had technically seen it all before but not like this.
This was dreamlike, hypnotic. He couldn't look away.
He’d heard rumours, that this was what it was like with Arthur - with succubi and forest spirits especially, and memorably one time a Fae prince - but he’d never before been physically present himself. Aziraphale was arching back beneath him, a supplicant curve to her spine as Arthur held her down and fucked her hard. Even more than that, there was something of a bewitching glow about them. Arthur’s skin was its usual gleaming tan in the firelight, but Aziraphale’s skin had an especially lustrous quality to it, quicksilver caught in an errant sunbeam.
Percival realised he was staring and blinked away, then caught Lancelot’s wry glance, watching him instead. He fought to sound casual. “Ha, hm. Agreed, that might be… any amount of time, difficult to say.”
“Inconvenient to say the least.”
“Ahem. Yes.” He shifted his weight, restless. And cold. He hated feeling… stymied. Obstructed. That’s what this feeling was.
“There’s no other route to the bedrooms, I suppose.”
Ah! Excellent idea. “I’ll check!”
Percival tore away and jogged a quick lap of the inn, scouring the building for any promising windows or external stairs, or even an overhanging branch that might pose an accessible - if risky in the dark - alternative.
He returned without good news, but at least he’d warmed up a bit.
“No such luck. Don’t s’pose they’ve finished up and cleared off upstairs?”
Lancelot looked through the shutters again. “No such luck.”
Percival blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s almost as if they want us to burst in on them.”
Lancelot’s eyes glittered in the darkness. “You think they want us to catch them in the act?”
“No idea,” Percival said, shrugging. “Anything’s possible! You think they’ve just thrown caution to the wind?”
Neither of them had an answer. They shared an incredulous smile.
Lancelot rested back against the wall, tipping his head up and heaving a sigh at the windswept night. It bared his neck in a most distracting way.
“Suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later,” Percival offered, finding his voice had gone rough again. He swallowed. “Probably best it’s while we’re away from Court.”
“They have been circling each other like famished wolves.”
Percival laughed, nodding in the relief of acknowledging out loud what had been privately apparent for days. And then out of nowhere he remembered yesterday, scuffling with Lance in the confines of their little room, as they attempted to wrest the measly sole pillow from each other, finishing in a too-warm grapple of limbs and laughter—did that not also hold something of the famished wolf? A pair of cubs, perhaps.
Not that anything further had happened. Roughhousing only, purging some of the tension that accumulated in leaden swirls on a quest like this, where so many different needs were intermingled or competing.
They’d slept easily enough last night in the modest bed, facing away from each other by silent, mutual accord. Percival had woken unmolested, more was the pity - not that he’d expected anything different, but there was always that chance, wasn’t there? That somnolent bodies might encounter each other in the night, drawn towards the warm presence of another, that animal instinct to burrow together. To enfold. It could start as an accidental touch, even, becoming reflexive, then deliberate. There was always that chance.
He’d woken up this morning to find Lancelot peacefully asleep within arms reach—but he had not reached. At most, he’d watched, observed his slow breathing, the occasional twitch of those dark lashes fanned above his cheeks. Lancelot’s lips had been just slightly ajar; he remembered this vividly. That close, Percival had been able to see the lines around the corners of his mouth, his eyes. And—that was enough of that, he’d thought quickly, realising that he’d been staring for altogether too long.
As if Lancelot had heard his thoughts, he’d stirred, and Percival had slammed his own eyes closed. Nothing to see here.
“Don’t stop,” Aziraphale exclaimed suddenly, excruciatingly clear through the window, startling Percival enough that he looked without steeling himself first.
“Fffff,” he blew out, teeth pressing into his lower lip, at the scene awaiting him. Things had progressed even further; now Aziraphale was on top of Merlin again, undulating, a vision of unrestrained flushed curves and bouncing white-blonde hair; and Arthur was—
“Oh,” Lancelot said, over his shoulder, very quietly. He’d moved a lot closer, close enough that Percival could feel the weight of him against his shoulder blade. Lancelot was shorter, and had to crane up slightly to see.
—Arthur was pleasuring her with his mouth, or possibly both of them, it wasn’t really possible to see at this angle, only that every inch of his body looked downright devotional. It suited him.
Lancelot didn’t move from behind his shoulder. Percival could shuffle sideways a bit to give him a better view but that would be such a complicit act he wasn’t sure how it would be received. And also, it might mean he wasn’t pressed against him, and Percival rather liked Lancelot pressing against him.
A moment later he caught up with that line of thought, and berated himself. He should move, should duck out of the way, give him space, or should make a joke, or at least - for heaven’s sake - stop watching. But he couldn’t, and Aziraphale was moaning loudly now, and her eyes—were her eyes glowing?
There! That was a talking point that Percival could latch onto. He wet his lips, finding them bone-dry as he tried to locate his normal voice.
“Mon dieu,” Lancelot breathed, before he could say anything, as Arthur sat back and reached for a jar of something, then liberally slathered it over his cockstand. Percival hadn’t seen that, before, in all its glory. He found he couldn’t look away; couldn’t tear his gaze from the hard, shiny, ruddy length of it as Arthur surged forwards, pinning Aziraphale against Merlin with his chest. His hand was still holding himself, muscles flexing, and the angle his hips were at—it looked—
And then the noise Aziraphale made left Percival in no doubt: they were both inside her. Both taking her, slowly but—fuck—deeply, and Percival realised with a jolt that his own cock had become dangerously hard, tenting the front of his britches, heat blossoming through him in spite of the cold night air. He tried to will it down, with as much success as he’d had trying to force his gaze away.
“That’s…” Lancelot said gruffly, and broke off.
If Percival swayed back, and a little to the side, would he find Lancelot similarly afflicted?
He held absolutely still. “Uh huh.”
Lancelot cleared his throat. “I mean, not that,” he said, “not what they’re. Um. Doing. I mean the—the glow. I’ve seen that before”
Percival was lost. “What?”
“The glow of her eyes,” Lancelot repeated, as if that explained it. “It’s something to do with the demon. She must be serving it, um - feeding it.”
“Oh,” Percival said, not much the wiser, and realised he’d already filed the glowing eyes away as the least remarkable aspect of this. “Do they know?”
Lancelot snorted. “Somewhat difficult to miss.”
“No, I mean - they might just think she’s magical,” Percival said, “like Merlin. Is she magical?” he added, almost to himself.
“She’s certainly something,” Lancelot said, as Aziraphale moved herself on their cocks with every enthusiasm, throwing her head back against Arthur’s shoulder.
“She… yes.” He found himself giving a helpless laugh. “Does that mean, if it’s part of the quest - we’d be doing our duty to help?”
“Fancy yourself demon fodder?”
“Jus’ looks… quite an enjoyable toil,” Percival said, aiming for casual again, with an incredulous note for good measure.
“Well don’t let me stop you,” Lancelot said, his own tone most civil.
Percival considered it—striding up to the door and making a clatter of opening it, give them the warning they didn’t deserve, before stepping inside and making some exclamation. Would they be ashamed, appalled? Or embarrassed, to be caught in such a way… or brazen, defiant, perhaps even… welcoming?
He tried to joke. “Many hands make light work?”
“Ha! I’m sure they’d welcome your… attributes,” Lancelot murmured, and what was that supposed to mean?! He wanted to twist around and gauge Lancelot’s face - was he teasing? Sardonic? Uncharacteristically awkward? - but that, again, would mean losing the warmth at his shoulder, that almost-incidental pressure.
So Percival just matched his unreadable tone. “I’m sure they’d welcome yours.”
He heard Lancelot swallow. “I’m staying out here. But you must do whatever you’d like.”
Now his voice was magnanimous, and it set up such a swirl of restlessness inside Percival that it was difficult to stay still. He tried again to joke: “And leave you out here on your lonesome? Never!”
“Hm,” Lancelot said. “Thank you.”
It was also unclear if this was sincere gratitude, but it stirred Percival even more. He swayed and thought he felt an answering increased pressure. Inside the inn, the golden light around Aziraphale started to build, accompanied by a telling crescendo of fervent moans.
“Just so I know,” Percival found himself saying, “are there, ah, circumstances in which you would go in there?”
Lancelot said promptly, “If it was for the good of the realm.”
“That sounds like a prepared answer.”
“It helps to be prepared.”
Percival swallowed, kept his voice light. “I thought it might be more… if Gwen gave you permission?”
“She’s given me permission,” Lancelot said, and the world rushed hot in Percival’s ears. “But I would be a fool to become entangled with a matter of the heart. Something like this—” Percival felt him indicate the window with an unseen hand. “—may be of little consequence, but I must be vigilant against, ah, actions with consequence.”
It was unexpected enough that Percival twisted away from the show to stare at him, even as inside there was a sudden flare of light. It flickered, as if the room had filled with lightning, and Percival’s only thought about it was that Lancelot looked devastatingly good in its uncanny glow.
Lancelot glanced at him, then shrugged and gave him a lopsided smile. “The temptation is there. But what about the rest of the time? Back at Court, how does that go? The mornings, the daylight hours, duty. Can I still give the order that sends him into peril, if his is the last face I see when I close my eyes?”
Orders? Lancelot didn’t give Arthur or Merlin orders. And Aziraphale was not currently a he.
The noise was back in Percival’s ears, the thudding staccato of his own heartbeat. “…You’re not talking about… them.”
Lancelot held his gaze, his dark eyes rueful now. “No, I’m not.”
“Lancelot…” Percival started, voice low, and then had no idea what to say next. His thoughts were boiling in his head: that doesn’t matter! I’d follow you into any battle, no matter what else may come! Just—
Darkness fell around them then, a rapid dimming until the details of Lancelot’s expression were barely perceptible in the gloom.
Lancelot took a deep breath. “I think it really is over this time.” He pressed closer to Percival to look through the window shutter once more, the alluring heat of him making Percival's skin tingle. “If we allow them a few minutes to get upstairs, our way should be clear.”
The way is not clear at all, Percival thought. This return to neutrality was dizzying. Percival was torn between pressing closer and pulling back. Unwilling to let what felt like a remarkable opportunity to slip through his fingers. And yet, what could he say? I hear you - it could get complicated. Let’s do it anyway.
He opted to give Lancelot a cheerful shove with his shoulder. “Well, that’s that then,” he said, as breezily as he could manage, and then clapped Lancelot on the back and gave him a brief look that was probably far too intense. “Ready when you are.”
He didn’t acknowledge which matter he was referring to, and Lancelot didn’t ask.
It seemed a long wait before the door closed behind Merlin and Arthur, and an even longer time before Aziraphale meandered dreamily up after them.
They stole inside wordlessly, not bothering to light any burnt-out candles or throw another log on the fire. They ignored the smell of sex, the discarded mead jug, the wet footprints. They made their way in silence upstairs to their little room, lit just one oil lamp, and heeled off their boots without a word.
Percival found himself pausing before starting to undress.
After all - why not? If he wants to play the oblivious saint, why not let him?
He peeled off his shirt and slowly stretched, fingertips brushing the ceiling, turning away from Lancelot as he did so. He rolled his shoulders and then pulled one wrist obliquely above his head, then the other. He finished with a slow squeeze along the angle where his neck met his shoulder, where the muscle was tightest, and groaned in pleasure under his breath, barely loud enough to carry.
Then he turned his head to one side, just enough to sense that Lancelot was indeed watching, and pushed down his britches. Entirely bare, he was still half-hard, the sort of warm fullness that hung heavily forwards, swaying as he twisted to grab a pair of thin drawers from the bed and pull them on.
“Good night,” he said, climbing into bed, and observed with satisfaction that now Lancelot seemed quite dazed.
“G-good night,” Lancelot returned, tripping over the word in a way that brightened Percival’s whole evening.
Lancelot shucked his own clothes hastily, and Percival resisted the urge to watch and see whether Lancelot was sporting a similar affliction. He closed his eyes instead, sprawling out in the bed with the covers rising low over his naked torso, one arm pillowed behind his head. The pillow itself, he left graciously to Lancelot this evening.
The bed dipped as Lancelot slid in next to him. Was it Percival’s imagination, or was the space between them slightly less well delineated tonight?
“Good night,” Lancelot said again, apparently having forgotten they’d already said that. He extinguished the oil lamp.
“Good night,” Percival said softly, finding himself smiling in the sedating blackness. He knew it was unlikely, but he did feel like now there was a remote possibility that - if their bodies brushed in sleep, warmth seeking warmth, long limbs encountering each other in blind nudges - he might wake up in a delightfully compromised position.
He drifted off to sleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of Lancelot’s breath in the darkness beside him.
There was always a chance.
Chapter 19: Day 12 - Bargains & Exchanges
Summary:
Let the demon-retrieval commence. Aziraphale has her eyes on the prize and… nowhere else. Nope. Not today, Morgana. 🖤
Notes:
Last chapter of the weekend, to hopefully set us up for the finale next week. Thank you so much for reading this far! 💫
Chapter Text
The following morning, Aziraphale was somewhat uncomfortable in the saddle as they rode out once more towards Morgana’s castle; apparently tenderness resulting from intimate congress with ordinary people did not magically resolve with daybreak.
Crowley’s presence seemed to have faded by the time she woke, but she still had a sense of him, just over the water, lurking; captive and yet ready to spring. Despite the distinctive twinges she was experiencing, Aziraphale caught herself wondering if they might ride a little faster.
Unbeknownst to the others, she had decided something during the night. She was not going to ride back across that bridge again without her demon. Dizzying trysts with mortal men were all very well, but she had woken at dawn as hungry as ever, and there had been only one thought in her head as she dealt with those urges with new efficiency: Crowley.
She had done her best to act naturally around Arthur and Merlin for the rest of the morning, despite finding that she knew to a hare’s whisker where each of them was in the room at all times.
She didn’t know how they did it, at Court. How did they parade around together in a semblance of disinterest each day, despite the true regard with which they clearly held each other, and the activities that filled their nighttime hours?
At least Lancelot and Percival seemed none the wiser, so it was only Arthur and Merlin’s eyes she needed to keep not meeting. Small mercies.
The wind was brisk and smelled faintly of the northerly sea, and the sky loomed grey-white and ruffled above them as they rode. It seemed to darken somewhat as they clattered across the bridge, picking up the blackness of the water stretching out either side.
“Here’s hoping it’s the last time we make this trip,” Percival muttered, riding at Aziraphale's shoulder.
“Hear hear,” Aziraphale said fervently.
In Lancelot’s fist, the bellpull at the castle gate sounded a heavy note like a warning.
“Well met,” Arthur said warmly, as soon as the gate swung open.
To Aziraphale's surprise, Morgana herself was there to meet them - astride her warhorse in the long dark gown she’d worn in the dream. She had swapped out the heavy armour and was swathed instead in an impossibly fine, silvery chainmail from her throat to her hips, draping off her shoulders and leaving bare the long dark trailing sleeves. The worked metal caught the light as she moved, sinuous as snakeskin. It didn’t look sufficient to stop a blade, but it did somehow give the impression that the blade would never get near her in the first place.
Whatever fatigue or malaise had confined her to her bedchamber the previous day was no longer in evidence. The resolve in her eyes and the set of her fine jaw looked… formidable. She looked down her nose at Arthur, as thicker clouds massed in the sky above them. “Good day to you.”
"Good day to you," Arthur returned, and nudged his horse forwards, until they were close enough to converse without raising their voices. “How fares the accused?”
“She’s… better,” Morgana said, and Aziraphale felt a blooming of excitement despite having expected - if not directly brought about - this news.
Merlin rode forwards to flank Arthur. “We hoped she might be well enough to travel today,” he said, all too innocent.
The daylight darkened as Morgana scowled at him. “Why do you think that?” she asked quickly, and her eyes narrowed further. “Who else did you bring with you?”
Aziraphale shivered as the wind picked up, slicing under her cloak.
Undaunted, Arthur just smiled. “Only those of us you see before you.”
Morgana looked at them each in turn as storm clouds built overhead, then turned her icy glare on Arthur. “And you’re all well?”
“Your concern for my knights is touching. Yes, we’re all well.”
“You brought no one else. And no one has taken ill.”
“Our party is as you see before you. A picture of health.”
After another exceedingly suspicious look, Morgana nodded. “Well. My handmaiden has made a nigh miraculous recovery.”
Aziraphale did her level best not to react, despite an internal flurry of delight.
“Excellent,” Lancelot said briskly, clearly eager to move this on. “Then she’s under arrest for suspicion of high treason. Bring her out at once.“
Morgana levelled her gaze at him, like an archer bringing a hobbled deer into her line of sight. “No.”
Lancelot bristled and opened his mouth to reply, but Arthur held up a hand, forestalling him.
“Morgana,” Arthur said, much more the voice of an exasperated sibling than an outraged monarch.
Morgana flashed him a sweet, false smile. “…My apothecary needs to have a look at her first.”
“Of course. You have one hour,” Lancelot said, so brusque it was teetering against the line of insult.
Morgana gazed implacably at him. “Or what?”
Aziraphale could almost taste the charge in the air now, the burgeoning threat of a torrential downpour.
Lancelot’s jaw looked iron-wrought. “Do we really need to go over the definition of ‘acts of war’ again, my Lady?”
“Oh, very well,” Morgana said, and spurred her horse, rearing up before turning and bounding noisily back through the gate. Her voice echoed behind her, a mocking ring to it. “One hour!”
The downpour started as soon as the gate closed behind her.
They should have left the bridge immediately, Aziraphale thought later, through a curtain of soaking rain. Waiting five minutes, then ten - it became ridiculous. And yet she supposed it would be equally ridiculous for their party to be dispersed by a simple act of weather.
Still. This was serious weather. The rain drummed down, chilling and relentless; closer to black sleet than individual raindrops. And yet here they stood, the horses stamping and shifting their weight, ears flattening to their heads at every new whistle of wind across the open water. At least their cloaks were oilskin, and hooded.
Conversation was minimal.
They still managed to take bets on when - or indeed, whether - Morgana would reappear.
The hour came and went, and she did not.
“I win,” Percival said, as a rumble of thunder echoed across the sullen water. A moment later, the dark undersides of the roiling clouds were illuminated by flickering lightning.
As the rain soaked her to her skin, Aziraphale felt in a similar state of restless unease as the horses. Her sense of Crowley had diminished to the barest trace of warmth, a guttering candle flame around a corner in a deep cave.
Lancelot, who had taken the opposing bet to Percival, blew out of a breath. “Looks like your prize is to storm this gate with me,” he said, tracing the forbidding stonework with his tactician’s gaze. His face was deeply shadowed beneath his hood, but it creased with despairing amusement as he looked up and trickles of water dripped off his nose. “Any thoughts on where to start?”
His voice invited good humour and yet there was an unfamiliar tension to his face. Aziraphale marvelled at Morgana’s ability to get under the skin of every man she sparred with. It was a travesty, of course; disreputable behaviour, so very underhanded.
Aziraphale caught herself wondering if it was innate to Morgana, or if it was something one could learn.
“I’d sooner have a different prize than that,” Percival said slowly, and Aziraphale noticed Lancelot go still. They all looked at Percival, who gave an innocent quirk of his eyebrows. “What? Storming this particular castle is surely a last resort.”
“Percival’s right,” Arthur said, glossing over whatever subterranean conflict was passing between his men. He looked at Merlin, who was as dripping wet as the rest of them. Merlin was beginning to resemble a raven, his angular form hunched against the weather, rain-slicked dark hair sticking to his pale face like disordered feathers. “I’d rather this didn’t come to open hostility. But why do I get the feeling she knows that, and is laughing at me?”
“In all fairness, she does know that. And she probably is!” Merlin squinted at the gate, then wriggled his fingers. A golden flicker came and went again. “It’s warded to oblivion. As you might expect.”
They frowned at each other. The rain kept pouring down, unrelenting. Aziraphale was now so drenched it was laughable.
“So… do I get a prize or a forfeit?” she asked Percival, trying to lighten the mood. She had bet that Morgana would not reappear within the hour, but would send down some messenger instead, and had been proven right and wrong respectively.
Percival wasn’t even bothering with his hood anymore. He grinned down at her, his face shiny wet, water dripping off his eyelashes. “Ah, you’d go straight in the stocks for trying to have it both ways.”
Aziraphale laughed, delighted. Then she stared unseeing into the rain for a moment as his words reverberated around her mind. She found a wet coil of hair, tucked it behind her ear, and looked sideways at Percival again, still winding the damp strands between her fingertips. “And what would, um, happen to me, in the stocks?”
“No one’s putting anyone in the stocks,” Lancelot interjected.
Percival winked at Aziraphale. “Remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”
Lancelot glared at Percival, who grinned back at him and raised his palms.
“Sorry! Sorry,” Percival laughed. “Just joking around. Comes of being stuck on a sodding bridge. I’m feeling a need to be… occupied.”
Lancelot opened his mouth but no words came out. He turned to Arthur instead and said tersely, “My Lord. What is your wish?”
“I’d rather not show them our backs,” Arthur said, and the others sobered again. They all nodded in mulish solidarity, brows furrowing, collectively ignoring the rain as it made its way into unmentionable places. They seemed content to dig their heels in indefinitely.
And… Ah.
In a flash, Aziraphale realised that if the conversation were kept between Arthur and Morgana there was every chance they would indeed be stuck on the sodding bridge forever. Neither had any talent for, or interest in, giving ground. Arthur patently should have called a retreat to regroup by now, but for some reason he wasn’t even considering it - too proud? - and when it came to Morgana it seemed the others would sooner slide into ridicule than push him.
“Agreed,” Lancelot was saying. “Even if she had answered for the treason against Arthur, the wilful endangerment of his life–”
“Or told us what became of our horses,” Percival muttered.
Lancelot ignored him. “—She is still in possession of a powerful weapon that must be relinquished, not to mention that she’s flagrantly disobeying your orders right at this very moment. Anyone else, we would be preparing to mount an attack.”
“I know,” Arthur said loudly, and then, scowling, repeated more quietly, “I know. But…” He pinched the bridge of nose for a long moment. Then he swiped water back from his forehead, raking his fingers through his hair, half laughing. “...I’m not going to storm my sister’s castle. I’m not. Even aside from the sheer number of fearsome magicians she apparently lives with, that is just not something I’m willing to go down in history as doing!”
Lancelot raised his eyebrows. “So she’s outside the law.”
“No,” Arthur insisted, “she's just… incredibly difficult to police.”
“Like so many outlaws.”
“She is not—”
“She—“
“I don’t think you can take her stronghold,” Aziraphale interrupted. Arthur and Lancelot broke off, and all four of them looked at her. “I mean,” Aziraphale clarified quickly, face heating, “I don’t think you should take it. This is a place of… rage, yes, but also of sanctuary. You don’t know the stories of everyone residing here and you never could.” She glanced at Merlin and touched the wet hollow of her neck, where the necklace chain rested. Her voice firmed. “A dozen amulets might give a glimpse, but never the whole story.” She looked pointedly at each of them in turn, then back at Arthur. “Wresting this away from her would be dishonourable.”
She didn’t know what she expected – to be dismissed, perhaps? Told she was overreacting, or had missed the point?
But Arthur looked at her without laughter. “Exactly,” he said. “So what do you suggest?“
“We need to offer her something in return. A trade.”
“You suggest we bargain with the enemy,” Lancelot said, though there was less bite in it than before.
Aziraphale shook her head. “I suggest we call a truce,” she said, and risked a hint of a tight smile at Arthur. “You’ve more in common than you might think.”
Merlin laughed at that. “Pig-headed, obstinate…” he murmured, then, when Arthur gave him an outraged scowl, lifted his voice a little. “Charismatic and fierce?”
“Sire,” Aziraphale said carefully to Arthur, against the drumming of the rain and the others’ laughter. “Do you trust me?”
She chose the words as a deliberate echo of what he’d asked her the previous night, and she saw him register that.
Still, his voice was entirely proper as he responded, “Always - I have your sworn oath, do I not?”
Aziraphale looked at him.
Arthur tilted his head, relenting. “Of course I trust you,” he said quietly. “Why?”
“I think you should send me back in there. Alone. To seek that truce.” She saw an objection spark in his eyes and lifted her finger, kept speaking. “I know it’s contrary to what you’ve been saying, and you might be concerned I have an… um… a divided loyalty, but I’d ask you to consider it anyway on the strength of—well. My word.”
Arthur’s eyes had narrowed as he parsed what she was saying, and then he glanced at Merlin. Aziraphale felt rather than saw the movement in her peripheral vision as Merlin gave a small nod.
Arthur’s face smoothed out and he lifted his eyebrows a fraction. “Volunteering to venture forth once more where angels fear to tread,” he declared, and Aziraphale felt renewed heat prickle across her cheeks despite the pouring rain. “Anything could happen! How fortunate I am to have surrounded myself by such valiant, selfless knights.”
His voice was unimpeachable but there was a highly amused gleam to his blue eyes. Teasing, again; it brought it all back, their teasing last night, and all that had come after. A confused rush of arousal welled up in Aziraphale's body, no doubt painting her cheeks brighter still.
“I know it’s not - hm - an ideal solution,” Aziraphale managed, working to keep her voice from squeaking.
“It might not be entirely ideal,” Merlin said, shadowing Arthur’s tone, “but as we are all so very aware, from time to time, when necessity sorely dictates it…”
“...Needs must,” Arthur finished for him. His eyes creased more deeply at the edges, though his mouth remained solemn. An observer would likely only see a royal imperative being given, unsmiling, as he gestured towards the closed gate with one hand. “Away with you, then!”
“I wouldn’t expect they’ll open the door until you all leave,” Aziraphale said. She had a distinct sense they were being watched, and not just because Percival and Lancelot’s attention looked keener than ever.
“Ah. Away with us, then,” Arthur amended, raising his voice to include the other two men as well.
In a flurry of wet clattering they turned and departed. The noise of the rain soon drowned out their retreating hoofbeats.
Aziraphale watched them go, then took a deep breath, tasting rainwater with a fresh glimmer of anticipation.
She settled her shoulders. She rode up to the bellpull once more.
Her fingers hadn’t quite brushed it when the gate started to open.
Nina stood there, on foot, arms folded. Her sleek black clothes were, Aziraphale noted, perfectly dry.
“You’re permitted to enter the orchard,” Nina said, without preamble. Her dark eyes skated over Aziraphale and then behind her, as if verifying that the retreating party of men were truly getting further away. “But no further.”
“Understood,” Aziraphale said. She was abruptly aware of her own sodden clothes, wet weighted fabric tugging and hanging limply around her, the cinch of her belt rubbing folds of cold cloth against her belly. She dismounted from the horse and removed her sodden cloak, and resisted the urge to wring her skirts out onto the entrance hall’s paving stones.
“This way,” Nina said, leading her through the courtyard and into the strange throng of apple trees.
Aziraphale realised with a jolt that it wasn’t raining on this side of the gate, despite the wide open sky above. It wasn’t even that cloudy. Aziraphale swallowed. Was she playing into Morgana’s hands? Surely not. This wasn’t a foolhardy plan, doomed to failure. This was taking the initiative!
She was led deeper amongst the trees, disturbing a multitude of squabbling birds. A few trees were wizened with drooping, crooked boughs, but most looked vigorous and sturdy, their branches splayed out adorned with glossy leaves, bearing a multitude of apples in varying sizes and hues. The scent was tantalising, a rich syrupy cider smell from crushed windfall underfoot, mingling with the tang of fresh sap and trampled undergrowth.
It felt like they walked further than could have been possible, given the scale of the courtyard around them, despite the ever-present grey reticulations of castle walls beyond the uppermost treetops.
Aziraphale followed Nina’s svelte, nimble figure as she turned sideways between two trunks and emerged into a cool, grassy clearing. Nina indicated a round stone table, lichen-streaked and blotched with moss, with a collection of similarly ancient-looking stone benches drawn into formation around it.
It reminded Aziraphale immediately of Arthur’s table, though half the size. Was this where he’d got the idea, all those years ago?
“Morgana will join you presently,” Nina said, and melted away again into the leafy shadows.
Aziraphale sat uneasily on a bench, shivering a little without the shelter of her cloak. Her wet clothes clung. The warmth of the horse seemed a long-distant memory. She couldn’t feel Crowley here at all. Everything was muffled, as if they were much deeper within the trees than could have been possible; even the squabbling birdsong now sounded distant, sparse. Leaves rustled occasionally though she did not feel any breeze.
She still had her apothecary kit on her belt; the various tools and pouches, the small knife. No flint, though. She started to wonder about the merits of cutting down two sticks to rub together - it seemed unwise, in this bewitched orchard - and then Morgana swept into the clearing, and Aziraphale forgot about the cold entirely.
Morgana was dressed as before, in chainmail so fine it flowed like liquid atop the shifting drape of her gown. Everything glinted, from the rings on her fingers to her loose dark hair, to the gleaming black riding boots visible beneath her skirts on every step. Aziraphale's eye was drawn immediately to the sword on her belt, the smouldering yellow gemstone in its hilt. A dragon’s eye.
“You’ve a strong nerve, I’ll give you that,” Morgana said, eyes afire with something that might be excitement, might be malice. Her dress rippled around her legs as she strode closer, the chainmail catching the light. “But if you think I’m going to just hand over an innocent maid to a group of Arthur’s men without so much as a promise for her safety, you don’t know me at all.”
It was reasonable, justifiable, and entirely false.
All at once, Aziraphale realised how this was going to go. She wasn’t here to create more layers of lies; she was here to unpick them. She fixed her gaze on Morgana and lifted her chin. “She’s not, though, is she?”
Morgana stopped before the table and set down one bejewelled hand, fingertips pressing onto the stone surface. The rings flashed as she glared at Aziraphale. “Not what?”
“Not a maid,” Aziraphale said, keeping her attention fixed on Morgana’s face. “And certainly not innocent.”
“Spurious rumour,” Morgana started, and then broke off as Aziraphale stood up as well, putting her own hand on the table opposite Morgana’s, so close that their knuckles brushed. A shock tingled up Aziraphale's arm.
“Don’t toy with me,” Aziraphale said, as silkily as she dared. She leaned closer, feeling the amulet slide against her wet skin, still beaded with rainwater. “They know she’s a demon.”
A dark flitter went through Morgana’s eyes, too brief to be panic. A mild startlement, perhaps. Nevertheless, her voice was cool with disdain when she spoke. “What a wild tale. People really will stop at nothing to slander an enterprising young woman.”
“Morgana,” Aziraphale started, feeling some of the exasperation that Arthur so readily exhibited.
Morgana didn’t point out the missing honorific. Apparently they were past such formalities.
“Angeline,” Morgana mimicked instead. It was probably Aziraphale's imagination, but it seemed like Morgana was leaning closer as well, gaze tracking down the heavy hang of the amulet, over the compressed wet curves of her breasts, and back up. “And what makes them think that, pray tell? Some peasant’s tale of demonic possession?"
Aziraphale took in a shaky breath, the lacing of her bodice feeling unaccountably tighter.
"Or a rumour snaking its way through Court," Morgana continued airily, before Aziraphale could find words to reply. "I suppose they observed her drink more wine than befits a handmaiden. Or perhaps they heard stories of her doing… other inappropriate things.”
Aziraphale's head swam. She had been certain she had the upper hand in this conversation - she’d revealed they knew Frán was a demon! - and yet somehow she was grasping now for any sort of retort. She heard herself say instead, faintly, “What sort of things?”
A gleam in Morgana’s eyes told her she had given ground.
“Oh, you know how prudish the common courtiers can be,” Morgana said, as if confessing a most sophisticated secret. Aziraphale found herself leaning in further, aware that the wet laces of her bodice were straining across her breasts and not caring to adjust them. Morgana’s voice was hypnotic. And her eyes—Aziraphale could dive into that cool dark regard and never surface again. “You cannot laugh or make merry without being labelled a sinner, a reprobate… You barely have to dance in front of them… and woe betide any innocent damsel who attends the wrong sort of party in the woods…”
“I…” Aziraphale started, as dizzying images rose in quick succession of Morgana and Frán laughing together, confusing courtiers and sparking rumours, before getting up to - well - Lord knew what in the woods! Possibly involving this very table? For an absurd moment it struck Aziraphale that she might have had it all wrong. Was she as shockable and easily influenced as any gawping courtier? She wondered suddenly if it could be true, if her dreams of Crowley were simply the product of an excitement-starved, easily-shocked imagination; if this entire quest had been some sort of fever dream. Had she simply been confused? Delirious? Making things up?
No.
The rapid wash of golden warmth struck her like the resounding smack of a lover’s hand, and she shook her head, bursting free of whatever veil of influence Morgana had drawn over her.
“Stop,” Aziraphale said, shifting her hand so that their knuckles no longer touched. Her head immediately felt clearer. The thoughts, preposterous. Crowley was gone again as suddenly as he’d arrived, but the knowledge that he had managed to reach her, when it mattered, helped. She wasn’t entirely alone.
Morgana’s mouth twitched. “I almost had you.”
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open in indignation. “Not quite,” she said, spirited. “But I’ll admit you have a knack for changing the subject.” She let her gaze turn steely. “You almost distracted me from the fact that you summoned a demon to wreak havoc on Camelot while you placed a curse on the king.”
“Lies,” Morgana drawled, though her eyes had widened at this extra level of detail, and Aziraphale thought she saw her fingertips turn white against the stone table. “Have you been drinking too many of your own herbal tinctures, my dear apothecary, that your mind would conjure up such a preposterous tale?”
“My Lady,” Aziraphale said, exasperation making her voice tight. “I don’t know how much plainer I can put it. No amount of silken words will make a difference! It’s over. They know. We know.”
“But where did this knowledge come from? Can you trust it? There are many with grudges against me, many who—”
“I know because she’s my demon,“ Aziraphale snapped, and felt a rosy gold haze surge inside her; Crowley wasn’t here but he wasn’t far away, and he had felt that.
Despite her own surprise at hearing herself disclose that, Aziraphale enjoyed a moment of sheer triumph at the expression on Morgana’s face: her jaw dropped, then clenched, and then she blanched paler than Aziraphale had ever seen before.
“Oh,” Morgana whispered, a moment later. “You. Under some sort of…“
Unbidden, Aziraphale's hand stole up to close around the amulet, knuckles resting against firm wet curves, and realised she was breathing quite hard. “Yes.”
“You’re him. That… knight.”
“Yes.”
She watched as Morgana realised that if Angeline was Aziraphale, then Angeline knew what Morgana had done to Aziraphale. They both knew what Aziraphale had endured at Morgana’s hand. And now, both knew that Aziraphale had still come back, despite every possibility it could happen again—had come back alone, unarmed, and willingly.
For the first time in their acquaintance, Morgana looked slightly flushed.
Aziraphale felt like she’d stepped off a cliff and was flying as she fell—with the terrible impact temporarily postponed. It was an exhilaration to speak freely; whatever comeuppance she had earned was already inevitable. She surely couldn’t make it worse.
“I’m sorry, for what it’s worth,” Aziraphale said, as Morgana’s mouth worked around a phrase she wasn’t quite finding the breath to say outloud. “For the deception.”
Something that might have been an apology in kind crossed Morgana’s face, but she didn’t acknowledge it in words. She still seemed to be reeling, though outwardly she remained motionless. Eventually she said, “How long?”
“How long what?” Aziraphale wasn’t even being facetious. There were rather a lot of questions Morgana might legitimately ask her now.
“The demon,” Morgana said stiffly. “When did you… intercept its intentions? Initiate the… bond. This is a pair-bond we’re talking about, I gather?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said.
Morgana’s mouth twisted. Under her breath, she muttered, “How has Arthur managed to enlist a knight susceptible to a demonic pair-bond?”
Aziraphale suspected that that did not require an answer. “And - the first night,” she said instead.
Morgana gave a soft snarl. “That’s why it was so defective. I didn’t—I had no idea,” she said, with a despairing sort of laugh that reminded Aziraphale suddenly of Merlin. “But it still killed one of them,” she said, frown deepening, eyes unfocused for a moment. “What happened - did you quarrel?”
Aziraphale wet her lips. “No, I… I let him have that one.”
Morgana’s eyes narrowed, and Aziraphale thought she detected a grudging hint of respect. “That’s something. And - this,” she said, with a jangling wave at Aziraphale's body, describing the physicality of her in a few curving arcs. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Two days.”
Morgana gave an explosive laugh. “His cousin,” she sneered, but the scorn was aimed at herself, not Aziraphale. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it.”
You didn’t recognise me with clothes on. Wisely, Aziraphale didn’t put it like that. “Your attention was not on our, um, similarities.”
“But how did it—” Morgana started, and broke off, shaking her head as if agitated. Her long black hair swayed around her shoulders, shining in the leaf-filtered light. She pointed an accusatory finger at Aziraphale. “You came to my dream and begged to be punished, to be forgiven, but all the time it was a stratagem. Your suffering served the demon.”
Aziraphale swallowed. “Not just my suffering.”
“No,” Morgana said pointedly. “You didn’t wholly suffer.”
Aziraphale felt her own cheeks flare.
“And yet it didn’t just use you,” Morgana said, her tone now wondering. “It came to your defence - rose up against me, showed its hand. Even knowing I could just break the sword and send it back to Hell in an instant, fatally wounded - it still came for you.”
“Foolhardy,” Aziraphale agreed, trying not to show how the words chilled her. Crowley had known what?
“And yesterday?”
Aziraphale borrowed shamelessly from Merlin. “Given the currencies of magic are violence and ecstasy… what do you think happened?”
Morgana made another of her low snarling noises; this time, Aziraphale thought she detected admiration. “No wonder Frán rallied. And what was Muriel doing, all this time?”
“Her best,” Aziraphale said quickly, lest she get anyone else into trouble. “She knew nothing of it. I take full responsibility for the… deception.”
She realised she was almost enjoying this. She was still holding the amulet, her curled fist resting against her cleavage, and she caught herself wondering… would she have to take it off now, now the ruse was blown open? Or could she keep it a little longer? She didn’t feel ready to return to her male self. She especially didn’t feel ready to swap the way Morgana was regarding her right now, for the way that Morgana had regarded Aziraphale’s male form in the dream.
Morgana somehow tracked Aziraphale's internal attention. “Show me,” she commanded, gaze dropping to Aziraphale's fist. Behind her, leaves stirred in a rising breeze. “Take it off.”
Aziraphale swallowed, hand tightening defensively. “If I do that, I won’t be able to assume this form again. For some days.”
Morgana blinked slowly. “And?”
“And I… prefer,” Aziraphale said carefully, “how you look at me in this form.”
Her skin prickled all over as the amusement in Morgana’s eyes turned to something sharper, darker. Remembering, perhaps, what Aziraphale had been like, in the dream. What he’d responded to, despite himself. What he’d asked for. How he'd protested, cried out, begged her to stop—but at no point had fled the dream.
Morgana closed her teeth over her lower lip, regarding Aziraphale for a long moment, then released it. “I daresay you do.”
“I wonder,” Aziraphale said, throwing caution to the fates, voicing in this secluded grove what had been simmering beneath her ribs since she first set foot through Morgana's heavily guarded gate, “if I had been who I said I was, and - um - open, to the suggestions you made… what might have happened.”
Incredulity played at the reddened corner of Morgana’s lips. “We will never know that.”
“Some… aspects… could still be known,” Aziraphale said, heart thudding below her fingers, still curled around the amulet.
She had an image of it suddenly, Morgana crushing her back against one of these trees, or pinning her down on this stone table, the hard smooth surface of chainmail imprinting her skin like scales. She wondered what Morgana’s hands would feel like, running over her. She wondered if she’d have to bow and scrape to incite Morgana to lose control.
She let it show in her face that she was wondering.
Morgana straightened, swerving her hips around the table and slinking closer to Aziraphale in a dark glimmer of metal and slippery skirts. She drew close to Aziraphale without touching her. She ducked her head, putting her mouth close to Aziraphale's ear, one fingertip lighting on the other side of Aziraphale's jaw, preventing her from twisting away. Her hair smelled of an untamed forest. Aziraphale stared down at the shiny black glimpse of Morgana’s boot, disappearing beneath the drape of Aziraphale’s skirts. She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to.
Morgana’s voice was low and musical, with a hint of broken ice: “Pick a side, angel. Relinquish Camelot and join me here, or go with my brother. But you can’t have both.”
Aziraphale drew in a ragged breath. “But I want both.”
She felt Morgana’s teeth close delicately on her earlobe in a neat, sharp bite. She shivered as if a glossy black feather had swept down the length of her spine.
“Stay with me,” Morgana said, her fingers smoothing along the other side of Aziraphale’s face, tucking her wet hair behind her ear. Scintillating sensation danced beneath every brush of her fingertips, and yet somehow Aziraphale knew it was not accompanied by a compulsion this time. The words were genuinely spoken, and all the more powerful for that. “You’re complicated enough. Curious enough. You’ll like it here.”
“I—”
“Frán liked it here, before we came to Camelot. We have our own way of doing things and we do them very well.”
That at least was simple. “I’m sworn to Arthur,” Aziraphale said, inhaling sharply as Morgana responded to that by scraping her teeth against Aziraphale’s neck. “Ah! I—can’t stay here.” Even as she spoke, a pang of loneliness went through her. In an instant, she saw clearly what awaited her back at Court: bearing witness to Arthur and Merlin’s subtle acts of devotion, to Lancelot and Percival’s well-knit allegiance, and then herself, pining uselessly after fading memories of Crowley, alone on the outside once more.
“You could stay here,” Morgana corrected. For one so cool in composure, her breath was immeasurably hot on Aziraphale’s skin. “If you chose to relinquish that oath.”
Aziraphale blinked. In that word, Morgana had made an error. Oath sparked a memory in Aziraphale of knees pressed into the floor of the throne room, of the ceremonial tap of Arthur’s blade on each shoulder, of the rush of blood through an aching heart. That moment - knighted, sworn, belonging for the first time, at least to an idea - brought a glow of certainty to Aziraphale’s chest even now.
“No,” she said, firming her voice. “I will not be relinquishing my oath, and I cannot stay here.”
Morgana gave a dismissive little hum, as if Aziraphale had come fifth in a tournament but still bounded up in hope of receiving a prize.
The sound made her strangely reckless. “But despite that… I wish I could… er…”
“Come and go?” Morgana said archly, mocking now, drawing back and turning Aziraphale by the jaw to look at her.
“Yes,” Aziraphale said.
Morgana searched Aziraphale’s flushed face, and the derision faded from her expression. Her tone flattened. “Oh. You’re serious.”
Aziraphale nodded, her mouth going dry, and she quickly wet her lips. “An emissary,” she blurted, looking earnestly into Morgana’s implacable dark eyes. “Would that… could you ever… make use of such a role?”
Morgana’s expression closed off further. “That isn’t something I’ve ever needed.”
Instead of being crushed, that fired Aziraphale’s vexation. “Hence - all this!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Maybe if you’d had an emissary you wouldn’t have had to resort to an infernal assassin.”
Whoops. The burgeoning truce between them, that Aziraphale hadn’t quite realised she was building, abruptly splintered.
Morgana’s eyes blazed. “You don’t know what he did. Your precious king, his loyal circle of imbeciles, that wizard.” She made it sound like that was the greatest insult of all. “My only regret is choosing a demon who couldn’t finish the job.”
Every single one of Aziraphale's hackles rose. “Baron Dorin’s crimes weren’t Arthur’s fault,” she snapped. “I know Arthur regrets his actions then and I know he’d do things differently now—” She thought of Lancelot and the fate that had already been enshrined for Escanor before Aziraphale stepped in. “—Very differently. But it was a lifetime ago, Morgana. Isn’t it time to let that wound heal?”
“Sebille would be twenty-five,” Morgana said, stone cold, eyes half-closing in fury. “If she had lived. And how many more, in her missing lifetime, has Arthur condemned? We hear things - we know their names - every time we come to Court the list gets longer. But he—”
“But do you tell him their names?” Aziraphale demanded. “Have you ever spoken plainly with him on this - on anything! Or do you both just endlessly joust with each other, assume the worst, and stalk off without waiting for an explanation?”
Morgana made a dismissive noise. “Don’t try to suggest he values my word any more than I value his.”
“I’m not!” Aziraphale said. “Believe me, you are as bad as each other. I blame your father.”
For the first time, a sliver of light penetrated the darkness of Morgana’s expression. “One point of agreement,” she allowed.
Emboldened, Aziraphale seized Morgana’s hands. “Let me find more,” she urged, with a strange spark of hope that she could once more bridge the chasm between them. “Give me the names, let me tell Arthur. I have his confidence and I truly believe him to be just. They will answer for their crimes. Let me try.”
For a moment Morgana’s fingers lay cool and lax in hers, the rings irregular weights and textures against Aziraphale's palms. Then she twisted her hands free, shaking her head, scowling. “It’s impossible. This is yet another ruse. Arthur doesn’t want peace between us - he wants our submission!”
“I assure you,” Aziraphale said, “he does not.”
Morgana didn't slow her words. “There can never be peace,” she said, voice dropping into a baneful hiss, “when everything my brother stands for seeks to obliterate everything of ours.”
Aziraphale felt the gulf between them start to widen again. “But it doesn’t,” she insisted. “Merlin—”
It was the wrong name to invoke. Morgana’s hands curled into fists and an ominous rumble of thunder sounded overhead; the boughs of the trees around them trembled, and a few fruits thudded to the earth. “He can go hang.”
The strange weightless falling feeling gripped Aziraphale again. What more harm could she do?
“Why?” she demanded. “What has Merlin done to enrage you even more than Arthur?”
Morgana smashed her fist down onto the table, causing its ancient moss-furred surface to give off a damp cloud of dust. Raindrops started to pelt down, pattering off the leaves around them, growing heavy within seconds.
“That man,” Morgana bit off, loud and clear above the noise of the weather, “destroyed Excalibur.”
…What?
Aziraphale blinked several times. Stared. And then shook her head. “I really don’t think—”
Morgana whirled away, pushing her fingers into her hair and clasping her own temples, as if the degree of Aziraphale's naivete was causing an unbearable headache. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said. “You may think it’s ancient history, but that wound is just as raw today.”
“Merlin never mentioned this,” Aziraphale ventured. An odd optimism kindled in her stomach. Bracing for her reprisal, she added, “Is this matter… beyond doubt? I can hardly countenance it.”
Morgana set her jaw; her whole manner brooked no argument. “Arthur took the sword, and Merlin sacrificed it for their precious kingdom’s success. The next thing we knew, Merlin rose in a power so vast we all felt it.”
Aziraphale hesitated. Knowing Merlin, that didn’t sound impossible. But still—”You felt him destroy Excalibur, or you felt him rise in power?”
“They are one and the same.”
“They might not be.” Aziraphale tracked a tiny flare of hope in Morgana’s eyes, quickly extinguished, and leapt for it. “Look, I don’t know - this is all before my time - but I think you’d be better off asking… him.”
Morgana frowned as Aziraphale brought out the little wooden crown from her apron pocket.
“May I bring him here?” Aziraphale asked, pressing the faint advantage that she detected in that hesitation.
She wasn’t sure what she’d do if Morgana declined. This was the risk of having one foot in each camp; if the gulf widened she could only fall.
Dubiously, Morgana nodded.
Before she could reconsider, Aziraphale snapped the little crown like a wishbone. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to happen - the drumming of distant horses returning, some dramatic shouting or a regal command demanding entry? - but instead it was gratifyingly quick.
A hot bright space tore open in the very air of the clearing, Merlin’s hands wrenching its edges aside. He stepped through as the glowing tear widened, with the rest of the quartet close on his heels; Arthur leading with his shield raised, followed by Lancelot and Percival in close formation with swords drawn.
Ready to defend her, Aziraphale realised, with a pang of amazed fondness that warmed her to her core.
She really was not alone.
Within seconds Nina and Nimue, and another three women who Aziraphale didn’t recognise, slipped out from between the trees to flank Morgana. They were a sinister sight, hooded figures wearing mostly black and grey that blended with the surrounding shadows, fingers splayed with military poise, eyes ringed in gold.
Aziraphale had a strange impression of a host of magnificent, venomous serpents, motionless and ready to strike but waiting on Morgana’s signal. Had they been listening and watching, this entire time? The thought made her squirm a little.
If Arthur and Merlin were surprised at finding themselves in an orchard full of hostile sorceresses, they didn’t show it.
“Angeline,” Merlin barked, drawing alongside her with his hands raised, fingertips still glowing. His eyes were a full, dark gold and he was swaying slightly. “All is well?“
That phrase gave Aziraphale a wholly inappropriate flash of being sprawled out last night, gloriously spent, between him and Arthur in a depraved semblance of peace.
“Yes,” she said quickly, raising her own hands palms-out in hope of defusing the rapidly rising tension. “But… Lady Morgana had questions that I can’t answer. Just questions,” she added, looking meaningfully at Arthur. “Nothing to get into any trouble over.”
Arthur’s expression grew wary but he nodded, lowering his shield, and made a quick gesture with his free hand. Percival and Lancelot relaxed their stances, sheathed their swords, but stayed as watchful as hunting dogs, ears pricked, near-motionless.
Morgana was focused only on Merlin. “You shouldn’t have been able to do that,” she said, with a tone that was half resentful, half impressed.
Merlin gave a pained laugh; the golden tear in reality had evaporated into nothing again but Merlin was still swaying. “It cost me more than I expected,” he admitted. “Your wards are vicious.”
“I should hope so,” Morgana said.
“But most of the necessary power was stored in the wooden charm,” Merlin said, apparently - and to Aziraphale, inexplicably - deciding this was a good time to discuss technique. “Which was imbued in Camelot, in a time of strength, so that aspect didn't drain me. I only had to spend my energy carving the doorway, then the charm pulled us through.”
“Huh,” Nina said; she looked interested despite herself. “It must lie in the magic’s intention - to rescue rather than plunder. Otherwise I’m confident you could never have breached our defenses.”
“It feels that way,” Merlin agreed, and Nina gave a slow, satisfied nod.
To Aziraphale’s amazement, this exchange had Morgana looking almost mollified.
Arthur cleared his throat. “What was the question?”
Silence.
For her first act as unofficial emissary, Aziraphale took a chance. “My Lord,” she said, keeping her voice as neutral and polite as possible. “We have spoken quite candidly about events of late, including the, er, demon.” Might as well put that out there. “But I would ask you now about the past. Do you remember, some ten years ago, visiting this place and bringing back a sword?”
She felt the weight of Merlin’s gaze, rapidly calculating.
Arthur frowned at her. “Barely,” he said, and gave Morgana a guarded look. “Which I presume means you had something to do with it.”
Morgana said nothing.
Doggedly, Aziraphale continued, feeling her way. “Did you ever, um, think about that sword? Did the sword mean anything to you?”
“I… I hardly recall,” Arthur said, returning her earnest gaze with one of bewilderment. It was just as Aziraphale had noted when the others had been trying to search their lost memories; a halting, unfocused expression. “Should I?”
Aziraphale shot Morgana a triumphant glance. “You see? He has no idea.”
“Hey,” Arthur said, and Aziraphale belatedly remembered this was the king she was talking about.
“That means nothing,” Morgana said, her voice getting louder. “He may have been ignorant of what he took from us, but Merlin wasn’t. Merlin knew, and lost no time in using it - to all our detriment. We felt it.”
Merlin looked offended. “I did not know,” he objected. Probably, Aziraphale thought, the first time he had ever made such a statement. His eyes grew huge as he stared at Morgana. “If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting—then you are wrong.”
“You would say that,” Morgana shot back.
Arthur folded his arms. “Would someone care to tell me what we are arguing about?”
A new voice cut in. “Perhaps,” said Nimue, “it would be useful if I spoke of what I recall.”
It was a voice that could have commanded an army as easily as a host of angels. Aziraphale turned to her, noting that everyone else - including Mogana - wordlessly did the same.
Nimue stepped out into the clearing, drew back her hood, and made a small gesture. The rain stopped, bringing with it a hush that drew every attention to her words.
“You,” Nimue said to Morgana, “had lost your mind to grief, and you—” She turned to Arthur. “—came after her. Without your army. To find out why she hadn’t returned to your Court for most of a year.”
Arthur nodded. “That much I remember.”
“She would have killed you,” Nimue said bluntly, and Arthur blinked. “The sorrow of recent loss and the injustice overlaid - they knitted together and she called for your end.”
Aziraphale stared, unease soaring and twisting inside her. They were talking about the past, correct? Or had she just summoned Arthur to his own execution?
“But—” Nimue said, as if hearing her thoughts, “that is not how we do things here. A man might plead his innocence to the Court of the Wild, and they might set him a challenge to prove his fitness to live.”
“The Court of the Wild,” Merlin said, dread in his voice. Perhaps unwittingly, he stepped closer to Arthur. “I’ve only read… fragments…”
“They challenged you to prove yourself,” Nimue said to Arthur, “by setting aside your crown, baring your hands, and drawing the legendary sword from the stone.”
At that, Merlin did reach out and grab Arthur’s arm. “Excalibur,” he whispered.
“I thought it would be impossible,” Morgana said, wry now. “The hope of the wild, in your oafish hands?! But… you did draw it. From the sacred stone - like it was nothing.”
Merlin turned his gaze onto Arthur with unmitigated adoration. “Do you know what this means?”
Arthur’s gaze skipped from Merlin to Morgana to Nimue with mounting alarm. “Hang on. Stop. That sword was Excalibur?” he demanded, voice cracking. “The fabled weapon of—”
“After which, we had to let him go,” Nimue said, spreading her hands and shrugging. “The fates had decreed it - a ten year pardon. His story was not to end there.”
Aziraphale shivered suddenly. She seemed so calm. Impartial and unaffected by any of the emotion of the tale. And… clearly ten years had just elapsed.
Merlin was rounding on Morgana. “How could you?” he exploded, gesturing emphatically at Arthur. “You knew! You knew he had drawn Excalibur and you just let him… wander back to me… without his memories intact? He didn’t know—I didn’t know—you just—”
“Oh come now,” Morgana retorted, drawing herself up, a silver-black crackle filling her eyes. “You are trying to play us for fools! You say this and yet the next surge of magic I felt out of Camelot was a consolidation of power unique to this age—but you expect me to believe he didn’t bring Excalibur straight back to you? Only for you to turn your back on the wild once and for all, binding its might into your own paltry, small-minded, civilising realm?”
“I did not,” Merlin ground out. “Whatever you did to his mind, it was just a pretty sword to him. And to me!”
“It’s hanging in my bedchamber,” Arthur said suddenly, clapping a hand over his mouth. “That sword, it’s above my hearth. Excalibur is above my hearth.”
Morgana rolled her eyes at Merlin. “If you wanted me to believe that you shouldn’t have immortalised your betrayal in your little rhyme. Every time your Court raises a toast to a whetted blade – those damned words are an insult to Excalibur’s memory.”
Merlin threw his hands out in frustration. “Excalibur’s not the whetted blade,” he growled, and gestured furiously to Lancelot, Percival, Aziraphale. “They’re the blade - the knights of Arthur Pendragon - unmatched in the land, loyal men of arms, never bludgeoned or bought. Nor enlisted by blind fealty nor brute force,” he said, as if quoting an old manuscript. “Their loyalty sustains his rule.”
Morgana’s voice went faint. “But—the power. How then did you unlock all that power—?”
“I married him,” Merlin shouted, loud and crystal-clear. “I bound his fate, our union, and their loyalty into the stones of Camelot - that’s the wellspring of my power, that’s what underlies his reign. Not some artefact.” He sounded disdainful now, in a way that somehow made Aziraphale's heart soar.
Morgana was staring at him. “So you didn’t—?”
“No,” Merlin insisted, wild-eyed himself now. Possibly catching up with himself and his disclosure of their closest-kept secret to a grove full of hostile agents. “No, I didn't sacrifice the blade of legend, the hope of the wild, to stabilise the rule of a mortal man! Of course I didn’t!”
“I thought you did.”
“Clearly!”
I’m not entirely convinced you wouldn’t, Aziraphale thought, but wisely kept that to herself.
Morgana swung to Arthur, accusative again. “But how did you suspect nothing? You… when you returned from me… did it never cross your mind…?”
“I’ll be honest, I’m still not entirely following,” Arthur said bluntly. “It was all a bit busy back then.”
Percival exhaled a soft laugh at that understatement.
“But let’s see…" Arthur said, with a deliberate emphasis that rolled from word to word. "Did I know I had a legendary blade on the wall of my bedchamber? No, I did not.” Morgana took a breath to speak, but Arthur forestalled her with one finger. His voice had regained the brisk rhetoric of his royal office, and Aziraphale had a feeling that everyone else in the grove sensed it. “Why didn’t I know?” Arthur asked himself. “Because you, my dear sister, seem to have developed a dreadful habit of scouring out my mind of anything you deem inconvenient. And I don’t know what your wild court has to say about that, but my understanding is that the theft of living memory is an unlawful act. Isn’t that right, Merlin?”
“That is the gist of the treaty we drew up with the Fae prince after the floods, yes, sire,” Merlin said, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but appreciate his seamless switch into the role of deferential chief advisor. “I can fetch the relevant contract if that is your desire.”
Morgana grimaced, as if noting a change in the air. “Ah.”
“But,” Arthur said to Morgana, raising his hand as if appealing for quiet at a rowdy tournament, “you have spent considerable time away from Camelot since then, so it is not unreasonable to assume the particulars of that Treaty have passed you by.”
“It would be extremely gracious of you to assume that,” Merlin said, pointedly. “Sire.”
“I would also be willing to overlook the events surrounding that historic crime in which a personage of inadequate nobility was excised from Camelot’s collective memory and, ah, excommunicated from this land.”
Into the lake, Aziraphale thought, biting the inside of her cheek firmly.
“Whilst it is regrettable his crimes did not come before me in a formal trial, I have since learned that his fate was… befitting. I would even be inclined to overlook rumours that certain other honour-estranged noblemen have gone missing in this vicinity over the past ten years,” Arthur continued, transferring his steady gaze from Morgana, to Nina, to Nimue, and back. “Of course, fishing in another’s lake without permission is a perilous enterprise and we must expect a few casualties to befall an occasional poacher. But to accept that - I would need a guarantee that such casualties will be guarded against in future. And reported to me, no less, in the usual manner for local grievance or misdemeanor.”
It seemed to Aziraphale that what was being said danced with what was not being said in an exhilarating waltz. It filled her with a tension as sweet as it was charged.
Arthur looked around the entire assembly, establishing he had their full attention, before dropping his voice into a normal, conversational tone. “I would be willing to overlook all of this,” he said simply, “on two conditions.”
Morgana folded her arms. “And what are those?”
“Relinquish the demon,” Arthur said, raising his fingers in turn. “And vow to never again make alterations to our minds.”
Percival cleared his throat. “Horses?” he muttered.
Arthur flashed a smile. “Three conditions,” he amended. “If you could also reunite us with our full complement of horses, I’d be most grateful.”
“Your terms are fair,” Nimue said, in a slow, ringing voice. “And we appreciate your leniency.” This, Aziraphale supposed, was the closest any of these people might come to apologising to each other. “Morgana,” Nimue said, her eyes full of unspoken command. “It would be fitting to seal this agreement with the demon-bound sword.”
A torrent of anticipation whipped over Aziraphale, and she did her best not to show it.
Morgana’s hand dropped to the hilt of her sword, clenching around it. “I—” she started, and broke off. She looked around the grove.
She must feel cornered in her own territory. And yet, no violence had been done - except at her own hand. This was, Aziraphale thought, fair. Even if it didn’t feel simple.
Morgana lifted her chin. “I would outline my own conditions first,” she said.
Aziraphale’s brows raised, and there was a transient murmur amongst those gathered.
Arthur exhaled in amusement. “Of course,” he said, all wearisome pragmatism. “I’d expect nothing less.”
“Firstly, a list of names,” Morgana said. “We have kept records of many unpunished crimes across your kingdom, and we will share these with you. You’re said to be just,” she said, with a flicker of a glance at Aziraphale, “so what you do with this information will be your chance to prove it - to us, and to all who dare not speak up beneath your rule.”
Yet again, Aziraphale thought, there was no one else in the entire realm who addressed the king in this disparaging, borderline pugnacious manner. But perhaps there needed to be.
“Very well,” Arthur said. “We will await your list - and your scrutiny.”
Morgana nodded, a subtle satisfaction playing across her face. “Secondly,” she continued, without thanking him, “I won’t give the sword to you. But I’ll give it to her.”
All eyes turned to Aziraphale.
If they were expecting restraint, they had her all wrong. Aziraphale stepped forwards readily when Morgana indicated the stone table. She watched as Morgana unbuckled the scabbard from her sword belt and placed it carefully on the tabletop. Then without taking her hand off it, Morgana looked at Arthur.
“This is a powerful weapon,” she drawled softly, the minuscule shift of a smile catching her mouth, as if she might be about to sow one final careless handful of carnage. “Are you sure you trust her?”
Aziraphale tensed as a hundred answers rolled over her: the yes, but and the most of the time and the to a point…
But Arthur just laughed. “Yes.”
Warmth enveloped Aziraphale at his confidence, rich and sleek. Yes.
“On your head be it,” Morgana said. There was a faint ring of triumph to her voice even now. “Sir Aziraphale the White.”
Arguably proper names were required for a valid and binding agreement. But this still felt like another deliberate jab, this open reveal.
“I entrust this sword into your possession on the proviso that the conditions witnessed in this sacred grove are met in full by those assembled present. Do you agree to these terms?”
Aziraphale swallowed. She didn’t know if these words were a Fae contract or a Royal one - or both - but she had a sudden sense that there was one more thing she needed to do first before swearing her oath.
She reached behind the back of her neck and unclasped the amulet. It slithered into her hand, weightier than its form suggested. She closed her eyes for a moment against the strange and shifting unbalance that followed.
The grove filled with whispers, quickly stifled. Aziraphale thought he heard Percival make a disappointed noise.
And then - clad in a damp mismatch of female apothecary’s clothing, the back of his neck cold where blonde ringlets no longer swung - Aziraphale met Morgana’s eye.
“Ask me again,” he croaked.
Morgana’s gaze dripped over him like syrup, drawing his own attention to the newly crooked, gaping bodice, the lopsided belt, the heavy skirts hanging subtly differently off his hips. She’d wanted this, he realised. She’d wanted to watch him take off the mask, to reveal this last secret to this assembly on her command. If nothing else had gone her way in this meeting, she’d at least had something that she wanted.
Well, Aziraphale was about to get something he wanted in return.
“Sir Aziraphale the White,” Morgana repeated, “do you agree to these terms?”
“I do,” Aziraphale said, laying both his hands on the golden sword and lifting it towards him.
Angel.
Crowley!
It was like being enveloped in loving flame, like falling into a copper bath of water heated to perfection. Aziraphale's hands trembled as he buckled the scabbard onto his belt, relishing the weight hanging askew and trying not to let his fingers trip over themselves in haste.
He ventured: All is well?
Hmph, Crowley said, She has me chained up in cold iron.
What?! Where?
Cellar, Crowley complained. Not even a proper dungeon. Just stashed away like some grotty old wine.
Aziraphale glared at Morgana, who gave him an innocent smile. “Where is he?”
“Frán is still indisposed,” Morgana said, “but I will send her your way just as soon as you and your interloping party have removed yourselves from our stronghold.”
Just do as she says, Crowley said, a rasp of deepest petulance. At least with this blade in your hands, I can reach you once more.
“And then,” Morgana said, “we can let justice take its course. And we’ll see.”
She gave Arthur a significant, lingering look, and then bowed to Nimue and touched her collarbone. “Might I take my leave? I believe our inquiry has been resolved.”
Nimue nodded. “It is resolved.”
Before Aziraphale knew what was going on, every woman in the clearing had stepped back between tree trunks and melted away into the shadows beyond.
The men were left wholly alone.
“Oof,” Percival muttered, twisting on his heel to scour the wavering shadows. “That’s… disorientating.”
Some final rustles of distant branches sounded, accompanied by a few retreating twig-cracking footfalls, and then all was still.
Ugh, Crowley said bitterly. I do loathe the taste of her success.
Inquiry, Aziraphale thought, uneasily. He'd thought they had been the ones asking questions...
Lancelot made a quick circuit of the grove, checking behind a few trees, then returned promptly to the stone table. “Well, he said, raising his eyebrows at Arthur. “As beatings go, at least it was bloodless.”
The return of his gravelly voice made Aziraphale realise that Lancelot had been silent throughout the entire encounter amongst the trees - hanging back, observing.
Merlin and Arthur exchanged a look of umbrage. “I beg your pardon,” Arthur said, turning to him.
Boring. I might have a little sleep, Crowley declared.
There was a shushing sliding sensation as he rearranged himself in the ether, from an indistinct voice in the void of Aziraphale's mind to an invisible presence against his skin; as if some ethereal, heavy, indolent serpent had chosen Aziraphale for an opportune slumbering post.
Oh!
Crowley's weighty, translucent snake form encircled Aziraphale's shoulders several times, blunt muzzle nudging against the back of his neck. Wake me when you’re available to… provide.
Aziraphale braced as a filthy, near-irresistible wave of lust rolled over him, as if a single flick of Crowley’s serpentine tail could have every nerve of his skin set alight. He swallowed, blinking hard to stay focused on the conversation between the others. This new way of things might prove… challenging.
“My apologies, sire,” Lancelot was saying to Arthur, with a quick bow that Aziraphale now recognised as skirting against impudence. “But didn’t that feel altogether too easy to you?”
“It didn’t feel easy to me at all,” Arthur said crisply.
“Nor to me,” Aziraphale agreed, though it was difficult to mount much of an objection with the distinct sense of Crowley coiling sleek and warm across his neck, tail dancing down between his shoulder blades.
“No, she made you work for it,” Lancelot said, with a rueful laugh. “And indeed, it was hard to watch. But the outcome, if you recall, was that you pardoned all her crimes, in return for a list of crimes that she had not yet committed, which you will now… resolve for her. And you thanked her for it!”
“I’ll reserve my judgement,” Arthur corrected, sounding somewhat put out. “They did promise not to alter our memories again.”
Lancelot’s eyebrow showed how much store he set by that particular vow.
“There was also the small matter of the demon,” Merlin said.
Mmm, Crowley hummed, with a flicker of his barely-there tongue against Aziraphale's ear. Tell him, I am hardly a small matter.
“Remember the demon?” Percival quipped, drawing closer to give Lancelot a quick nudge with his elbow. “You know - the entire purpose of our voyage to this bedevilled outcrop?”
Lancelot stayed the nudge with a hand on his arm, an almost absentminded squeeze. “I know - that’s why it was too easy,” he said seriously, to Percival. “What does she gain by relinquishing him? Aside from not being arrested - which she wagered we were never going to do.”
Merlin had been looking at Lancelot with an expression of dawning realisation; now he grimaced, rubbing a thumb against the grain of his beard. “Or to put it another way - why is keeping the demon no longer of any value to her?”
A deadly chill went through Aziraphale despite Crowley’s warmth.
Oh, Crowley mumbled, with a sleepy sigh against Aziraphale's neck. Tha’s easy. It’s ’cos no matter what, at dawn tomorrow I get sucked straight back into Hell.
Chapter 20: Day 12: MERLIN
Summary:
Merlin has been keeping that secret for a really, really long time.
Notes:
how it started / how it's going
for those of you who wanted a deep dive into those oft teased Arthur/Merlin/Lancelot early days...
CW: first kisses; intoxicated lack of impulse control; rough oral sex
Chapter Text
Twenty-six years.
Panic spiralled up through Merlin’s chest, threatening to choke him.
Twenty-six years, Merlin had been hiding his feelings for Arthur. For the first couple of years, even from himself. Then, most definitely from Arthur. He’d endured untold months of his own hemming and hawing, tiptoeing and retreating, doubting and suspecting—alongside all of those awkward feelings any young man might have, coming into both his forbidden magic and his atypical affections at once. Even if the object of those affections had not been the crown prince of an unstable empire, it still wouldn’t have been ideal.
As it was, it felt like the world was ending—or opening up.
A bright and promising young notary, Merlin had been transferred to the castle on the cusp of manhood and found himself a clerical niche in which to grow and prosper. Eventually he was positioned to work beneath King Uther’s old man of books; and the library, it turned out, had excellent views across the grounds where Arthur trained. And trained. And trained. In all weathers, and in quite the range of outfits: from simple cotton smocks and soft-looking riding leathers, to full, gleaming, well-buckled platemail that gave him more absurdly broad shoulders than ever.
In the height of summer, sometimes the young men even fought with their torsos bare, and Merlin found his mouth quite dry whilst watching those same shoulders glistening as they flexed and parried. It made Merlin want to go down there - but he hadn’t known what he would say. He had met Arthur, occasionally, in groups and across halls, but he hadn’t met him. He didn’t know him. And oh, with every passing day, how he wanted to. So Merlin did what he always did, when something impossibly appealing seemed to sit just out of reach. He studied in secret. He already spent a vast portion of his nights reading everything he could locate on magic lore, the forbidden wild ways, and the legends of the Fae; now he had another clandestine topic to pursue: Arthur Pendragon.
He didn't know why, but he had a deep and persistent feeling that they would come to mean a lot to each other. Watching Arthur gave Merlin the same peculiar, lighthearted feeling he got whenever he was free to practice the few spells he had pieced together from old lore and raw instinct. A feeling that there was something momentous and glorious ahead of him, something magnificent waiting to unfurl, but at present it hovered ahead of him, indistinct - near tangible, yet still just beyond his reach.
His studies only served to make the problem worse. Arthur seemed to be sickeningly good at most things, and affable with it. Steadfast, too; bending beneath the unpredictable storms of his father's temper, but never breaking, nor parcelling out second-hard ire to those less fortunate, which the younger princes were sometimes wont to do. No, according to the little knowledge Merlin had of these things, Arthur seemed to him increasingly fit to rule. Fit in all ways, as a matter of fact. And so well liked that Merlin couldn't readily fathom any way to get him alone.
Merlin, who tended to keep mostly out of broad daylight, marvelled that summer at how even the sun itself seemed to fawn over Arthur, tanning his skin and turning his hair to spun gold. He found himself tracking the scatter of freckles as they appeared across Arthur’s nose, cheeks… presumably lower… noting whenever his skin was dusted pink with sunburn… and when autumn came, and the men-of-arms started fighting fully attired once more, Merlin was forced to admit to a disproportionate degree of disappointment.
By the time Merlin worked up the courage to approach him, to suggest he might provide a course of calligraphy tuition - an excuse so threadbare he suspected that Arthur’s acceptance of the invitation would itself be confirmation that Merlin’s interest was returned - he already knew the ingredients for the prince’s favourite meal, the names of his favourite horses, and every inch of his physique.
Well - not every inch.
To his delight, Arthur accepted. Long private evenings in the royal library ensued that winter, the two of them sharing an ancient desk, enclosed in a cosy sphere of candlelight. And if it wasn’t really necessary that the crown prince learn to form exquisite letters with quill and ink, neither of them mentioned it. It certainly wasn’t necessary for Merlin to instruct him so closely, reaching across Arthur’s parchment to correct his hand, sometimes tutting and shaking his head and making him rewrite the whole sonnet anew; that Arthur allowed him this astonishing impudence, let alone responded with a darkening of his eyes and a murmured, “if you insist,” seemed significant indeed.
By the end of that winter Arthur’s penmanship was far better than it needed to be, and Merlin had collated more fine details than ever: of how Arthur smelled after a tournament, the way his neck slanted when he concentrated, how the blond grain of his stubble gleamed in low candlelight; and how, try as he might, Arthur always seemed to finish their tuition with a bruise-like smudge of ink across the outer angle of his palm.
“Let me see,” Merlin said one late evening, reaching out before he could second-guess himself and picking up Arthur’s hand, turning it over and inspecting it. The heel of Arthur’s right palm was, yet again, blooming with a soft, purplish grey stain. “You must be dragging it against the parchment - and perhaps erring in the pressure with which you hold the quill, to cause the ink to spray.”
“Maybe,” Arthur said, though his attention seemed to be more upon Merlin’s face than the mark on his hand.
Callouses delineated the sword-grip of Arthur’s fingers, but his skin beneath Merlin’s fingertips was soft. Barely believing his own daring, Merlin traced the creases bisecting Arthur’s palm.
“Hmm,” he teased. “I foresee a long life, a fearsome reputation…”
Arthur’s hand had been relaxed in his hold; now it twitched, closing momentarily around Merlin’s tracing finger. “Is that so?”
“…A network of, um, close allies…” Merlin said, abruptly trailing off. The sphere of candlelight felt warmer than ever in the secluded depths of the library. He caught up with himself: he was still holding Arthur’s hand, the hand of his feudal lord, his future king; how had this happened?
In a neat little movement, Arthur flipped their hands over. “Hmm,” he said, pretending to closely examine Merlin’s palm in turn, smoothing his thumb along the lines of it and setting up an excited trail of sensation that tingled all the way along Merlin’s arm. “Whereas I foresee a malady of the eyes and a wasting of the limbs if you don’t start spending a bit more time outdoors!”
Merlin stared at Arthur’s downcast lashes, the knowing quirk at the edge of his reddened mouth. He was sure that Arthur wasn’t magical, and yet everywhere his fingertips touched felt like the burgeoning of a golden glow.
Merlin found his voice with difficulty. “Outdoors?” He gave a theatrical shudder. “I’m not so suited to it. The elements, you know - they spoil the books.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “The books, the books…” he mimicked, and shot Merlin a sly look. “You should leave the books and come for a ride with me.”
Merlin blinked. This, for all his studies, he had not foreseen. “Um, really? When?”
“Tomorrow?” Arthur favoured him with a deliberate, charming smile and Merlin’s stomach flipped.
“I—I’d like that,” Merlin said, his voice slightly faint now. “Do you mean… just us?”
“Just us,” Arthur said, and he was still smoothing his thumb across Merlin’s palm, his eyes huge in the candlelight, intense and intent, like a hunter who had sighted his quarry and drawn his bowstring and then paused. Held in tension.
“Arthur,” Merlin started, warmth exploding through his chest like the beginning of a new spell. He could see it now: the two of them riding out, a secluded grove, some pretence or other, drawing it out, indefinite and excruciating and—suddenly he couldn’t wait any longer. He had to know.
“Yes?”
Merlin swallowed. He had to know now. He kept his voice as level as possible. “I think the candle’s about to burn out.”
Arthur’s gaze swept down to the perfectly vigorous candle on the desk, its flame throwing up a vivid orange-yellow dome around them. Barely flickering light traced the shapes of the bookshelves on all sides, the stonework of the walls, the voids of narrow bare windows high above.
“I see what you mean,” Arthur said seriously. In one deft movement he raised a hand to his mouth, licked his thumb and forefinger with a pink flash of tongue, and then reached down and pinched out the flame. “Whoops, there it goes.”
Darkness engulfed the library as heat flooded Merlin’s body; Arthur’s other hand was still enclosing Merlin’s, and they both stumbled slightly as they gripped harder, steering towards each other, emboldened by the pitch blackness around them.
Merlin leaned up and met Arthur’s mouth with his own, a blind hopeful nudge that flared into thundering relief at the feel of those red lips parting against his. This was real—foolhardy, yes, dangerous, yes, but incontestably genuine and all that waiting became abruptly worth it. Arthur was kissing him, holding him, tangling their fingers together and then cupping the back of Merlin’s head with their hands. He smelled a little smoky, or maybe that was the extinguished candle; his mouth was hot as they worked up a silent shared breathlessness, and then Arthur’s tongue slid against his, and Merlin stopped trying to keep track. He could collate any further details later. For now, he just had to feel.
After that, Merlin merely had to keep their secret from everyone else in the world.
From that very first daybreak, riding out as promised, the risk of disclosure lurked at every turn - and not only because the king and his advisors would take an extremely dim view of this development. There was also the persistent attention of Arthur’s younger siblings, Arthur’s servants, every third person at Court… It stood to reason, Merlin supposed, but it was damned annoying. Arthur was the dashing prince, the heir to the throne, and a massive show-off to boot; of course everyone was constantly looking at him.
So they kept to the shadows, the witching hour, and they found their fair share of secluded groves. They made it work. And once Merlin realised that Arthur found it a thrill to be ordered around - that every time Merlin had made him rewrite one of those sonnets, Arthur had been hard as iron beneath the wooden desk - they made it work very well indeed.
And they told no one.
It was entirely their secret.
Until… Lancelot.
Hailing from the rural French province of Benoïc and a year Merlin’s senior, Lancelot du Lac had arrived a brave and dashing orphan who rapidly rose in the ranks of both the Court and Arthur’s affections. He was a polite, amicable fellow of wry humour, an energetic swordsman, and his fine features turned heads wherever he went.
At a time when Merlin and Arthur sought every opportunity to be alone together in secret, Lancelot quickly gained a reputation for romancing - and more - any maid who returned his sultry attention. No outright scandals broke, and the matter didn’t seem to reach the ears of King Uther or his attendants, but it peppered the younger generation of the Court with plenty of invigorating conversation.
Over the next couple of years, the closeness between Arthur and Lancelot came to draw far more attention than the peculiar imbalance of the camaraderie between Arthur and Merlin. This suited Merlin very well, and so he encouraged it, spreading dazzling rumours of how eligible Lancelot was, how desirable. Rumours he could not help admit he believed himself. Before long a jovial buzz surrounded the golden prince and his dark and dashing first man-of-arms. Pairs of ladies might present themselves, only for Arthur to politely demur and Lancelot to thoughtfully escort them both away. So considerate, so gallant.
It certainly dampened the Court’s curiosity regarding Merlin and Arthur.
The night they’d told him was etched into Merlin’s memory like it was yesterday.
He’d been all of twenty summers, exhilarated after some tournament where Arthur and all his men-of-arms had excelled, making his father proud enough to throw a doubly lavish feast that night. They’d eaten richly and drunk their fill. All the others had traipsed off to bed, but the three of them had snuck away—really away, beyond the castle grounds, under a huge expanse of stars. They’d built a bonfire on a hillside, Merlin secretly encouraging the damp wood to take with a flick of his fingers while Lancelot was occupied with pouring more wine. They had hunkered down on oilskins around the fire, telling ever more impressive tales of courage that bore less and less resemblance to actual events.
The moon tracked slowly across the sky, the flames sunk down to a restless ruby red, and the wine jug dwindled to dregs. Conversation turned to courtly favours, to Lancelot’s many and varied dalliances - sometimes six to a fortnight - but of course you cannot behave in such a disreputable manner, Lancelot had grinned, a regretful acknowledgement of Arthur’s restrictions as a royal figure. Merlin could probably get away with it, but not the crown prince!
And Arthur had chucked a twig onto the fire in a shower of sparks and then reached out deliberately and folded his hand across Merlin’s thigh.
“No,” Arthur said slowly, as Merlin’s heart jumped into his mouth. “No, Merlin won’t be causing a stir across Camelot either.”
Time seemed to slow before Lancelot exhaled in a slow sigh of revelation: “Ohhhhh.”
“This is in the greatest secrecy, you understand,” Arthur said.
“But of course,” Lancelot said quickly, his eyes still on Arthur’s hand.
Just like that, their secret was known. Their fate was in another’s palm. Merlin swallowed against a lump in his throat, attempting to joke. “If his royal father knew…”
Lancelot flashed his teeth in a grimace. “I quite imagine.”
“…I’d be hung, drawn and quartered.”
Lancelot nodded readily. “And then set on fire and fed to the dogs?”
“Probably!”
“It doesn’t… disturb you?” Arthur asked softly, with such guarded shade to his eyes that made Merlin certain that this was also the first time Arthur had told anyone.
Lancelot broke into a lazy smile. “Not in the least!” he declared. “With you two occupied… all the more opportunities for me.”
Arthur squeezed Merlin's thigh so tightly he almost gasped.
Lancelot regarded him thoughtfully. “Unless,” he said, “you are still on the prowl despite this?” He nodded at Arthur’s hand, raising his eyebrows.
Arthur laughed. “No.”
Merlin let his own voice turn self-deprecating. “I have never - and will never - be accurately described as being ‘on the prowl’.”
“Ha! You never know,” Lancelot said, grinning again. “Sometimes the most skilled predator waits sly in the shadow of the boulder.”
Arthur made a noise of protest. “Are you calling me a boulder?”
“More an obelisk,” Merlin mused. “Majestic, simplistic, inexplicably well-regarded despite doing very little…”
Arthur jostled him in retaliation, almost spilling Merlin’s wine before relenting.
Lancelot laughed, though his eyes were tracking every point of contact between them. He sipped his own wine and then remarked, “I’m merely observing that sometimes it is the one you’d least expect that holds all the power.”
Merlin and Arthur were drunk enough that they shared a conspicuous laugh at that, acknowledging between them that Merlin’s tastes ran the one direction, and Arthur’s the other.
“Ohh,” Lancelot crowed, “so there is a tale to tell.”
Arthur’s laughter redoubled. “Not at all!”
“Or show,” Lancelot said, making Merlin's mouth go dry, his heart leaping back into his mouth.
What?
“Absolutely not,” Merlin said, feeling it was his duty to say it, even as he watched Arthur’s face react.
Arthur’s colour was a little high and the shadows of his dimples danced in the firelight, eyelashes sweeping down. “Of course not.”
Lancelot looked from one to the other, then looked around for the wine jug. Empty. “Bah!” he said, holding it upside down so that a few droplets flew spluttering into the fire. The smell of roasted fruit filled the air. “Such a disappointment.”
Arthur's thumb resumed its slow sweep up and down Merlin's leg. He seemed content not to move it away.
Lancelot's gaze followed it. He licked his lips. “So you two…” he said eventually, and made a grandiose gesture with one arm, taking in the pair of them, the fire, the kingdom in darkness beyond. “… Will never know the touch of another’s hand?”
He made it sound like the proclamation of a bard, only gently mocking.
Merlin laughed. “Well it took him a year to notice my advances, and I was practically haunting his footsteps,” he said, as Arthur spluttered. “So I’m frankly not sure there’s time to go about finding another willing accomplice…”
“Slander,” Arthur scoffed. “I knew you were there. I was biding my time!”
“Always wise to ascertain one’s quarry’s weaknesses before one pounces,” Lancelot agreed, making Arthur splutter even more.
“First you compare me to a boulder, now some sort of alley cat!”
“My apologies,” Lancelot purred.
Merlin looked at him. Lancelot had the curling dark hair and dark eyes of a French nobleman, his lips well-shaped and damp in the firelight. His cheekbones were as high as any maid’s, his fine jaw barely roughened with a day’s growth. He was watching Arthur’s outraged laughter with a louche slant to his smile and Merlin experienced a jolt of understanding. Something was ripening here.
“…Have you flogged,” Arthur muttered amiably. Then gave Merlin a mournful look. “Is there truly no more wine?”
“I might be able to… find some…” Merlin said, raising his eyebrows at Arthur. Really? All their secrets at once?
Arthur grinned. “I think you should.”
Lancelot frowned at the dark slope, the shadowy undergrowth leading back towards the castle’s crenellated bulk. “You'll break your neck, trying to go all the way back there alone. And I’m not walking anywhere!”
“He doesn’t have to walk a single step,” Arthur said, proving to Merlin that he really was saying - show him.
Merlin sighed loudly. “On your head be it,” he said to Arthur, with a pointed look, before reaching for the wine jug. He held it in both hands, fingertips brushing, and closed his eyes. He tried to stabilise himself, to concentrate, to think of cool flagons in the castle cellars. It was an easy spell, one he had perfected over three cold winters when neither of them wanted to put a toe out from the bedclothes let alone scamper across frigid flagstones to fetch a water jug - but this late at night it still required focus.
“Mon dieu,” Lancelot whispered, as the jug started to refill. Oh, that was satisfying. The unruffled, rakish foreigner swearing softly under his breath as Merlin's hands wreathed with power; that felt good.
He opened his eyes to find Lancelot gazing at him in unopposed wonder. “You are… some Fae changeling, then? A warlock?”
Merlin gave a diffident shrug, poured the wine. “A mage, I would say. Definitely not, er, the former. Ha. Don’t go putting that about Court!”
“Don’t go putting any of this about Court,” Arthur said, a moment of solemnity before he brought his fresh wine to his lips.
Lancelot shook his head like a warhorse dismissing a cloud of flies. “I would never betray your confidence,” he said, and his sincerity made Merlin shiver.
“No, I know,” Arthur said, looking deeply into his eyes. “You are my closest, truest friend.”
Merlin elbowed him.
“Second-closest,” Arthur amended.
Lancelot laughed. “Your secrets are safe,” he said, and raised his cup to kiss against theirs. He drank deeply, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then set his cup aside and dropped his voice back to a roguish tease. “I will tell no one about your magical fingers or your ruined virtue…”
Arthur drew himself up in indignation and Merlin tried not to double over laughing.
“I am not ruined,” Arthur proclaimed, sticking his nose in the air, the edges of his mouth twitching.
“Do you want to be?”
It was a warm velvet tone, which almost had Merlin spitting out his next mouthful of wine. He swallowed hard, the burn of it bringing a sting to his eyes.
Lancelot was holding Arthur's gaze, parted lips in a winning half-smile, leaning in close enough to reach for him—but not.
Arthur froze, the comedy draining from his stance as he finally registered what Lancelot was saying. Offering? Promising?
“I object,” Merlin said loudly, and then paused as they looked at him. He made them wait, drawing it out, watching emotion flicker across both handsome faces in different proportions: amazement, guilt, arousal. “…to the implication that I haven’t done a thorough enough job of ruining him myself.”
It broke the tension and they laughed together, a tinge of wildness to it, until the mirth subsided, and they were left looking at each other, slightly breathless.
Lancelot gave Merlin a meaningful look, charged with something luminous. Then he leaned the rest of the way in and kissed Arthur.
The sight of them felt like a shooting star going through Merlin’s chest - Arthur kissing someone else, wait! - and yet, Arthur kissing Lancelot, it felt like all his blood rushed in an instant to his cock. Arthur’s hand tightened around Merlin’s thigh again, even as Lancelot’s hand slid on top of Arthur’s, squeezing and pressing down.
Merlin found himself flanking Arthur on his other side, shifting closer, a little dizzy with drink and the surreal thrill of what he was witnessing. He reached over and brushed his fingertips across Lancelot’s stubbled cheek, sliding back towards that shiny tousled hair, and Lancelot rounded on him, mouth wet, crawling closer to seek out Merlin’s mouth instead.
His eagerness was intoxicating. It was different to kissing Arthur, though Lancelot tasted the same, all soft-rough lips and wine-sweet tongue. Merlin's head swam more and he heard himself make a desperate little noise, deep down, as their mouths opened, tongues sliding together.
It was late and the wine was strong; they were so deep in their cups they were essentially swimming. That was the only explanation for how easy this felt, allowing Lancelot to join them on what was surely just a mutual quest for impulsive, forbidden pleasure. Lancelot certainly had his own ideas about it, giving a pleased hum as his hands delved into Merlin’s britches.
“Oh,” he said, his fingers discovering Merlin’s cock, handling him with greedy efficiency. “This is… I see…”
He worked Merlin’s stand with a slow, lascivious touch, leaving one hand there as he eased the other into Arthur’s britches simultaneously.
Arthur hissed under his breath, getting an arm around Lancelot’s neck and kissing him hard. He already sounded like a man on the edge, tremulous and desperate.
This was, Merlin thought, almost certainly an idea that Arthur had entertained before. Merlin had not thought beyond the two of them, but knowing Arthur’s tendencies, his propensity to form intense, trusting friendships with beautiful men… this must have occurred to him at some stage.
Lancelot kissed Arthur back and then turned again to Merlin, muttering encouragement as they shoved down their clothes to give him better access; and then he was stroking them both as they exchanged messy, frantic kisses, the wet noises of their mouths offset by the crackling fire.
Speaking of propensities… it couldn’t be Lancelot’s first time with a man.
If it was Lancelot’s first time, there was altogether no sign of it. He seemed delighted by them - not uncertain in the least - and then Merlin got his hand on the hot, silken length of Lancelot's cock and almost moaned at how urgent and needy Lancelot became. Lancelot's own grip tightened, moving faster, making little noises of effort and approval that filled Merlin with satisfaction.
Break that composure. Make him tremble. It reminded him of the rush he’d felt when he’d first made Arthur beg. Lord save him, Merlin found nothing so delectable as bringing a bigger, more powerful man to his knees—and keeping him there.
He didn’t know if Lancelot’s tastes ran to that, and even drunk he wasn’t ready to test their friendship by pushing, but Arthur—Arthur he knew he could push. Arthur loved to be pushed.
Merlin returned his attention to Arthur, nibbling a path up to his ear and then shoving him gently but firmly down on his back. Arthur lay down readily enough, quite clearly too aroused to smile or jest about anything. They leaned over him from either side, filling his horizon, Merlin’s hand joining Lancelot’s on Arthur’s cock. They stroked him together, Arthur groaning and sprawling out wider as he realised that both their attentions were entirely upon him: both their hands working him, both their mouths on his neck.
Merlin pushed his fingers between Lancelot’s, taking charge of their shared grip and moving it over Arthur’s cock just as he knew he liked it. He controlled the pace, the rhythm, the squeezing clench of it, everything. Arthur’s groans splintered rapidly into the low, guttural sounds of completion that Merlin enjoyed so much; he arched up between them, moaning now, spending against his bared stomach and over their entwined hands.
Merlin’s fingers became slippery, sliding against Lancelot’s.
He lifted them to Lancelot’s mouth to see what he would do.
Lancelot’s eyes were already so dark, he didn’t see any change there, but he leaned in readily enough, lapping over Merlin’s knuckles, cleaning their fingers with his tongue. Watching Merlin, and smiling slightly as he licked.
A pulse of heat went through Merlin in a bright, searing arc. It made him want to get his hand in Lancelot’s hair and drag that sly mouth of his down into his lap but he—that wouldn’t be polite.
He leaned in and kissed him instead, tasting the strong burst of Arthur, feeling the tiny hum Lancelot gave as he sucked Merlin’s tongue into his mouth. Lancelot reached across, his other hand resuming its worship of Merlin's cock, reverent squeezes of its girth and head that convinced him this could not possibly be Lancelot’s first encounter with a man. Lancelot seemed altogether experienced, and the rhythmic way he sucked Merlin’s tongue did little to dispel that impression.
Would he—?
Merlin drew back to gauge his interest. Lancelot looked intensely aroused, tousled and flushed with his gaze darting between them. He rubbed his thumb over the head of Merlin’s cock and Merlin hissed softly, reaching across to stroke Lancelot once more—and finding Arthur’s hand already there.
“Ah,” Lancelot murmured, looking down at Arthur again in delight. “We didn’t finish you off once and for all?”
“A valiant effort,” Arthur said, his voice still husky. “But I am not one to bow out after a single round of a tournament, however thoroughly vanquished I may have been.”
“No, I’m sure you’d joust away all night,” Lancelot joked, and then groaned under his breath as Arthur did something deliberate with his hand. “Ahh—does anyone object if I put his royal mouth to good use?”
It was lightly asked, framed as a tease, and yet his intention was unmistakable, as was the dual permission he sought.
“Not at all,” Merlin said, enjoying answering for both of them, and then watched avidly as Lancelot shifted himself closer, tugging Arthur around to lie on his belly between Lancelot’s legs. They made quite the tableau, Lancelot propped up on his elbow with his other hand carding through Arthur’s hair, before gripping his cock and sliding the dark head of it against Arthur’s lips.
“Is this—do you do this?” Lancelot asked, even as Arthur opened his mouth to him with a low sigh.
Merlin nodded, dry-mouthed. “Very… partial to that.”
“Those who don’t are missing out,” Lancelot agreed, as Merlin watched Lancelot’s cock slide into Arthur’s mouth. The expression on Arthur’s face was similar to when he served Merlin in this way—a sacrilegious cast to his features, eyes closed in private pleasure.
His own cock pulsed hard. “Fuck,” he muttered, shifting closer to them, reaching out to Lancelot without quite knowing what he was reaching for. “I need—”
Lancelot looked glazed already, hips starting to roll. He beckoned vaguely at Merlin, urging him closer. “Come here. Ah. Merde!”
If Merlin was going to get involved, he had probably better do it fast. He shook free of any paralysing indecision and knelt next to Lancelot’s face, holding his cock steady with one hand. He was so hard it was almost embarrassing, the broad head pooling with fluid that formed slow beads and dribbled down. But could anyone blame him? He was watching Arthur suck Lancelot’s cock like it had been paid for!
“Do—do you do this?” Merlin asked somewhat redundantly, as Lancelot looked up at him, open-mouthed and panting.
“Yes, yes I do,” Lancelot said, twisting towards him and craning up, rubbing his mouth against the underside of Merlin’s cock, licking the length of it and grinning. “It’s a travesty,” he announced, a short time later, when he’d explored the whole of it with his tongue several times, “that you would keep a manhood such as this so discreetly hidden away.”
Merlin laughed, though he was seeing stars on every breath. “How would you have me keep it - on display?”
“I just think it is an underused asset,” Lancelot said, mumbling slightly as he started to suck up and down the shaft between words. “An audience with it… could be granted… in exchange for feats of loyalty or… exemplary acts of valor.”
Arthur pulled off Lancelot with a wet noise. “I think you’ll find,” he said archly, as Lancelot keened under his breath, “that I would be very particular about who would be granted such an audience.”
Lancelot’s tone changed immediately. “Understood,” he said, his voice tight now, quavering. “Please don’t stop.”
Merlin cupped his jaw with one hand. “It may be time for you to stop talking,” he said, nudging open Lancelot’s jaw with his thumb.
Lancelot made an indistinct needy noise and sucked Merlin’s cock into his mouth, as if there was never any doubt that he’d be taking it deeply on first-try. If he was an amateur to this act then he was a quick study; adapting to the size of it with a few quick breaths and sloppy swallows against the crown, before making a ring of his lips and bobbing his head up and down. He seemed almost dazed by it, or perhaps that was the result of Arthur’s renewed efforts; perhaps the realisation had caught up with Lancelot that he was stretched out between them, serving and being served, the taste of both of them on his tongue.
Merlin groaned at that thought, letting himself sink deeper into the wet suction of Lancelot’s mouth, his gaze lingering on the sight of Lancelot’s perfect lips stretched around his cock. It felt so good to rock his hips, push him a little, getting both hands in his hair and thrusting in time with the rhythm that Arthur had set up.
Lancelot frowned and moved faster between them, slickness overspilling his lips. Everything about him was growing taut, the long lines of him drawing up with tension. He sucked frantically on the head of Merlin’s cock and then jerked his head back, wrenching free of Merlin’s grasp, gasping; spending, Merlin realised a heartbeat later, in Arthur’s mouth.
The urge to pin Lancelot down and fuck him rose like a dagger. Merlin curtailed it with difficulty, trying to content himself with watching the shivers wrack Lancelot’s body, the ecstasy washing over his lovely face. It wasn’t the right time - and this might never be the right man - for that.
And then Arthur - his perfect, wanton Arthur - finished cleaning Lancelot’s cock with his mouth and rose on his hands and knees over him.
In the firelight he was the very likeness of a beast above its fallen prey.
Arthur prowled towards Merlin, a smile playing over his swollen wet mouth, crawling up Lancelot’s body until he reached Merlin’s hand and then butting his head against it, nuzzling his palm. It was so bestial and yet so subservient, it made every fibre in Merlin’s body sing.
“Good boy,” he murmured, before he could catch himself, and Arthur growled softly, flushing with pleasure.
Oh yes. This was his Arthur, his tamed lion, ferocity and strength in willing chains, biddable by Merlin alone.
“You took him so well,” Merlin said, watching to see if the praise was discomforting or exciting, enjoying the flush spreading down Arthur’s throat.
Arthur licked his lips. “What do you want now?”
“Your mouth,” Merlin said immediately. “Show me what you did for him.” It was a performance and yet it also - wasn’t. The urge to reclaim his territory, to push his cock into Arthur’s mouth until he could feel only Merlin, taste only Merlin, was a flickery dark shadow around the edges of his desire.
His knees were starting to ache - the oilskin wasn’t cushioned in the slightest, a thin cloak thrown over uneven scrubland.
He got to his feet and had Arthur kneel before him, and that—that also did something, knowing Lancelot was right here, probably watching them as he recovered, their silhouettes backlit by the smouldering fire.
It gave Merlin something, to be seen standing here with his hand casually on Arthur’s head, offering to feed his cock into his open mouth, having him beg for it. This was a glimpse for Lancelot, nothing more, but the display of it made him warm all over.
“Please,” Arthur mouthed, a soundless entreaty from those puffy lips.
Merlin kept stroking himself, watching Arthur’s gaze dart between his face and the glossy head of his cock. All at once, Merlin wished Arthur was wearing the dog’s collar they’d stolen from the armoury, a thick heavy band of leather that shone black against his tawny skin. He let that wish gild his voice. “I can’t hear you.”
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, cheeks going as red as his mouth. “...Please,” he said eventually, voice cracking on the word, but loud enough for them all to hear.
Good enough. Merlin closed his hand in Arthur’s hair, drawing him forwards, unbalancing him slightly as he slid his cock between Arthur’s lips. Oh, that felt incredible—unlike any other, the sight and sensation of Arthur’s mouth welcoming him. He pushed his cock in and then kept pushing, filling him and then rocking deeper still; Arthur’s eyes flew open but he didn’t protest, didn’t flinch away.
It was further than Lancelot would have pushed, Merlin thought, which made him swell even more.
“That’s it,” Merlin bit off, feeling Arthur swallow helplessly against him, jaw straining and eyes watering and yet still, leaning in. Merlin feathered his fingers against his face, admiring him. “You’re doing so well. I’m going to move now. Tell me if you need me to stop.”
Arthur made a negative noise deep in his chest, mouth flooding with wetness.
He’d planned to go gently, to ease him into it, but the whole evening caught up with him at once. Merlin found he was fucking Arthur’s mouth instead, short abrupt slides that felt so, so good. He realised he’d been holding back with Lancelot - of course! As was proper and necessary - but with Arthur, he didn’t need to hold back. He could ram his cock into Arthur’s mouth in full confidence that Arthur was desperately trying to be good for him.
A glance was all he needed—Arthur was touching himself again, his arm a blur. Thus satisfied, Merlin abandoned his self control. He held Arthur still and shoved deeply, letting his hips take over, letting the forceful demand of it become his entire world. Arthur choked so beautifully on him, eyes streaming, gulping and swallowing around his cock, taking even his most vicious thrusts with basest gratitude.
“Oh, Arthur, Arthur,” Merlin gasped, emptying himself into Arthur’s throat in a series of shimmering pulses that made him throw his head back.
The sky wheeled above him as he climaxed, dizzying and glorious. For a moment he thought he might stumble back ecstatically into the fire. Then he felt strangely at one with the fire, its crackling power filling him, otherworldly and boundless in possibility. The feeling ebbed again as quickly as it came, but Merlin noted it in the part of his mind that always took notes, no matter his circumstances.
He started laughing - in release, at himself, at the situation - as he drifted back to earth, sinking down, kneeling level with Arthur, finding Arthur’s soft mouth and kissing him. Arthur moaned against his lips, pressing blindly against him, already halfway through finishing himself off with a low cry.
Merlin nuzzled a path to Arthur’s ear, pitching his voice for Arthur’s attention only. “So good,” he whispered. “You are unbelievable. Every day I love you more.”
Arthur gave a happy little shudder and slumped against him, for a moment entirely still.
Merlin held him, praying that Lancelot wouldn’t break the silence with some jovial remark—and blessedly, Lancelot didn’t. Perhaps he sensed that Arthur needed a degree of time, afterwards, to find himself again. Or perhaps, for once, he too was at a loss for words.
“All is well?” Merlin broached, eventually, running his hand up and down Arthur’s back.
Face still pressed into Merlin’s shoulder, Arthur cleared his throat and gave a soft laugh. “Very well indeed.” His muffled voice held a testing quality. Bruised. “Though…” he said slowly, and sat up at last, a generous modicum of his usual humour restored. “I wouldn’t say no to another measure of that excellent wine.”
“Of course,” Merlin said, smiling, but couldn’t do more than just gaze at him for a little longer. He still couldn’t always believe how lucky he’d been.
Brick by brick, Arthur’s composure rebuilt before Merlin’s eyes. Eventually he gave Merlin a familiar, slightly sardonic prompting look. “Tonight, ideally…?”
There he was. Merlin laughed and then busied himself righting his crumpled clothing, giving the others space to do the same, before re-pouring drinks and handing them around.
He became aware that Lancelot was looking at him sideways.
“Yes?” he said eventually, taking a deliberate sip and catching Lancelot’s eye above the rim of his cup.
Lancelot laughed. “It’s always the quiet ones,” he said, a note of fond accusation in his tone.
Arthur snorted. “He’s hardly quiet. Never shuts up!” Amply recovered, clearly.
“Even so,” Lancelot said. “To look at the pair of you around Court… I’d have no inkling of all these scandalous goings on.”
“Well, that’s very much the point,” Merlin said. “It’s rather important it stays that way.”
“Your secrets are safe with me,” Lancelot said, and it sounded flippant but his gaze was achingly sincere. Merlin sensed that he meant not only the secret of their coupling, but also that their future king could look so enraptured on his knees taking a pounding like an overgrown cabin boy.
They did their duty towards the rest of the wine jug, and Lancelot marvelled at Merlin's cleaning spell - another he’d practiced so much it was effortless. When they eventually each went to their separate beds that night, it was with a rosy glow of camaraderie above and beyond the effects of the wine.
Outwardly, very little changed. Lancelot still cut a swathe through Camelot’s most eligible, most seasons. They kept any shared dalliances very much out of Court; the risks were too numerous, the consequences too great. Months could go by where Lancelot’s interactions with Arthur and Merlin kept to the platonic, the chivalric, the dutiful. And then months could go by when he stole up to them regularly after dark and begged an audience or proposed a toast.
Sometimes the whole of it was distilled down into a single glance across a merry candlelit feast. On such occasions, the matter might be dropped again as soon as Lancelot had been reduced to a wet crumple of French curses once more. Merlin came to pride himself on spotting the more obscure idioms as they arose, and would tease Lancelot with choice phrases later, ideally at an inopportune moment.
Other times, particularly after a gruelling battle or during a perilous quest, Lancelot might seek them out in a rather more serious manner—to share the heady acts of release, ostensibly, but afterwards he would linger, and Merlin grew to recognise when he wanted to stay with them late into the night.
To the closest comrades, became their toast, the three of them publicly celebrating what could only be shared under cover of darkness. And they told no one else, for several years.
Until Guinevere.
And even she—
“Merlin,” Aziraphale said, and Merlin blinked abruptly out of his reverie, realising they’d crossed the bridge while he was lost in thought, and were now walking up the dirt track into the messy embrace of green woodland.
The woods seemed more overbearing on foot instead of horseback, with foliage arching in all directions, tangled and verdant. The smell of damp earth and recent rain rose like mist around them, strong enough to taste.
Once again, Merlin felt the power in these trees, as tangible as if their leaves were rimed with hoarfrost. Yet another thing he would ask Morgana about if, oh, every other thing between them were different. And if she didn’t now hold a blade above their necks!
A renewed wave of nauseous panic surged over him. Morgana knew.
Twenty-six years, and now he'd declared it the one person who loathed them most in the world!
Aziraphale was wincing, gaze cast downwards, twisting his thumb against the palm of his hand.
Merlin tried to settle his own voice before speaking. “What?”
Aziraphale looked up again, but focused on a spot to the side of Merlin’s ear. ”Can I ask you something?”
“Um,” Merlin said, because for the first time in living memory he did not want to be asked a question; what he wanted to do was grab Arthur by the shirtfront and hiss: They know. And now everyone will know. What are we going to do?!
But—“Yes, of course,” Merlin said, slowing. They were drawing closer to the inn, and yet another part of him was looking forwards to its relative comfort, to stopping again, collecting himself. They had left in rather a hurry, after all, the pang of the little wooden crown’s destruction lancing through him like the pain of a broken tooth, calling him back to it at once. “What is it?”
Aziraphale was somehow managing to look more earnest with every passing second. Merlin hadn’t even spared a moment yet to deal internally with the sight of Aziraphale’s sudden reclaim of his male body, after everything they’d done last night, nor with Aziraphale’s apparent determination this morning to pretend that nothing had happened. He hadn’t dwelled on how the ill-fitting female garb twisted now across Aziraphale’s broad shoulders, or how the bared nape of his neck reminded Merlin of how much he’d wanted to make a rope of those bouncing blonde ringlets last night and tug—how ruthlessly he’d stayed that urge.
“Um,” Aziraphale said, and looked him in the eye for possibly the first time since they’d parted company in the darkness.
A hot blue shock went through Merlin at that: a sense of intimacy as mismatched as Aziraphale’s clothing. He hadn’t reckoned on how disconcerting it would be, knowing Aziraphale’s memories would be wholly intact despite his altered form. Merlin had brought this person to ecstasy half a dozen times last night, and yet he was simultaneously filled with a gnawing curiosity about what it would feel like to kiss him for the first time. It hadn’t been that way with Arthur; they’d lost no time in rediscovering each other after removing the amulet each time. This was different. His fingers twitched.
“Well - first, there’s this,” Aziraphale was saying. He held his hand out to Merlin, who for a stupid moment thought Aziraphale wanted him to shake it. Or hold it? He was reaching out before his mind caught up with his ears. This was ridiculous! His wits were muddled. He needed to collect himself!
But they knew. They knew!
Aziraphale dropped the amulet into his palm and Merlin caught it. The little shiny weight of it was familiar, at least, and he held it tightly for a moment before stowing it away. He tried to compose himself, gestured for them to keep walking towards the inn. “Thank you. What else?”
A touch brusque but it couldn’t be helped.
Something forlorn entered Aziraphale’s expression, entirely at odds with the beatific calm he’d displayed as soon as Morgana handed over that cursed sword - or favoured sword, possibly. Merlin hadn’t managed to give that issue all due consideration either. It remained to be seen whether the sword was going to be help or hindrance; he only sensed it was going to change things.
How he envied Lancelot his detached disinterest when it came to Morgana! She always managed to sorely unbalance Merlin’s world whenever they spent time with her. Their interests were invariably misaligned—too close in some regards whilst starkly opposed in others. Now he had a dreadful feeling he’d played right into her hands, because of course he had latched onto those revelations about Excalibur, been drawn too deeply into the possibility within the tale, and then let some crucial detail slip (I married him)—
“It’s regarding a spell - or, I don’t know if there even is such a spell - but if there is…” Aziraphale was holding the back of his neck now, face creased with worry as they strode through the gateway of the abandoned village. He was speaking quickly - too quickly. “Or if it would be an option to invent one from scratch, perhaps? I don’t know if you can do that, if that’s possible, or if they’re all pre-written somehow - there’s so much I don’t know! But—”
“Aziraphale,” Merlin said gently, stopping again, and Aziraphale broke off wide-eyed. “What do you need?”
“Something of a miracle, if you don’t mind,” Aziraphale said, with a terrible lopsided smile, and then barked a laugh, shook his head. “No, pardon me, it isn’t a joking matter.” He took a deep unsteady breath. “Merlin. I wonder if you might happen to know of any neat tricks to prevent a—to prevent my demon from being summoned back to Hell? Tomorrow.”
Ah.
Chapter 21: Day 12: ARTHUR
Summary:
Arthur comes to a decision.
Chapter Text
Arthur watched Merlin’s faintly frustrated expression change. His beloved had been all over the place since the events in Morgana’s orchard - eyes darting restlessly, fingertips tapping, not even pretending to listen as they marched back across the bridge - and Aziraphale had looked fit to burst by the time he worked up the courage to broach his question.
He’d had to ask three times before Merlin registered him at all.
The glare Merlin then turned on Aziraphale had been fearsome indeed, and a lesser man might have been dissuaded from speaking further. But Aziraphale had forged on, stopping short of wringing his hands but in general projecting the alarm of a shipwrecked sailor cut off by a rapidly rising tide.
Arthur saw the moment that Aziraphale’s question became the most urgent of Merlin’s competing concerns.
“Tomorrow, you say,” Merlin said, frowning.
Aziraphale dropped a hand to the pommel of the strange gold sword. “That’s right. At dawn, by all accounts. He only had so many nights to fill his quota, um, on Morgana’s summons. And after tonight, that time will have elapsed.”
“I see.” Merlin pushed a hand through his hair; it was still so damp it kept the shape of his raking fingers, giving him an even more harried appearance than before. “And of the three trinkets imbued with the demon’s power, only the sword remains?”
“Yes.” The certainty in Aziraphale’s voice was absolute.
Merlin spread one hand, indicating the sword. “If so, then it should stand that if you give the demon back the sword, you release him from Morgana’s contract.“
“Oh,” Aziraphale said, nodding quickly, enthusiasm filling his gaze. “Very well! If it’s that simple, and—and that would stop him from getting taken back to Hell?”
“…No,” Merlin said, and Arthur felt a twinge of sympathy at the stricken look on Aziraphale’s face. “But it would end the terms of Morgana’s agreement, and release him from those restrictions.” Merlin held up a cautioning hand as Aziraphale started to brighten again. “The demon would be able to feed with impunity after that, right up until the moment that the sun rose and Hell reclaimed him. It would be a terrible risk. He could - well, he could have us all. Rampage across the land.”
”He wouldn’t,” Aziraphale said loyally, and Arthur felt his own eyebrows twitch upwards.
“Wouldn’t he?!” Percival asked.
Aziraphale glanced around, as if only just realising the others were of course also party to this conversation. “I’m sure of it,” he said, as if mortally offended.
“It’s far too great a risk,” Lancelot said, shaking his head. “If things went wrong it would be catastrophic.”
Percival bristled at that, though Arthur couldn’t immediately see why. “Things might not go wrong though,” he pointed out, with mild but unmistakable belligerence. “You can’t just assume things will always go wrong.”
Lancelot shot him an exasperated look. “I’m the royal tactician,” he retorted, gruff in a way that sounded almost apologetic. “Assuming things are likely to go wrong is my duty.”
Percival stared at him for a long moment, but didn’t reply. He turned back to Merlin instead. “So how can you guard against things going wrong?” he asked brightly, as if it were a foregone conclusion that Merlin would have an answer for that.
Arthur looked between them, content to let this play out in full before he made his final decision. This was where Merlin excelled, gnawing on a problem until it split open for him. Percival could be relied upon for a hopeful attitude - usually - and Lancelot would balance him - usually - with his more cautious, pragmatic approach. Together, Arthur would entrust them with almost any obstacle.
Arthur shivered suddenly. Their other problem—it was too fresh.
He knew Merlin had grave concerns, their oldest secret spilled like a careless handful of dice across a gaming table. What Morgana would do with this knowledge, Arthur did not know. She might threaten them with immediate disclosure, or hold it over them indefinitely. He could imagine what each of his men would say to that.
Percival would back him to the hilt. Whatever stance Arthur wished to take, Percival would ensure he upheld it.
Lancelot would caution restraint, to stay calm, before drawing up a meticulous plan to suppress any damage before it unfolded. Lancelot’s preferred blend of diplomacy, intimidation and charm was often the most reliable way to handle a crisis, and Arthur had no doubt that Lancelot would have already started forming a strategy to combat this latest disaster of disclosure.
Aziraphale… Arthur wasn’t sure. Before, he might have expected Aziraphale to freeze with horror, stammer some reassurance or simply close his eyes and pray the stormclouds soon passed. Now, the set of his jaw told a different story. Those squared shoulders and starry eyes, as he said my demon, made Arthur suddenly wonder if Aziraphale might be the one to throw caution to the wind and declare, tell them! Tell them all.
Merlin, he didn’t need to guess. He knew Merlin would stop at nothing to protect what they had. If a rule needed to be bent or a bargain struck or a remote possibility explored, Merlin would discover it. There were times when Arthur felt like their entire kingdom was a chess board, and Merlin alone knew how every piece moved. Merlin would find a way to save their secret, Arthur had no doubt, even if he had to rough up the laws of magic to do it.
But… Arthur no longer wanted it to be a secret.
Morgana and her brethren knew. That die was cast, and word would spread, and to deny it would only undermine his honour—the only option, Arthur felt, deep in his bones, was to claim this for their own. And he was ready. Merlin was naturally more cautious, but Arthur knew this feeling. It was the moment before he looked a monster in the eye and charged forth. It was confidence in the accuracy of his arm and the strength of his shield. Fear was only useful if it protected them; now it was time to grab fear by the horns and wrestle it to the ground. Arthur was ready. He knew what victory would look like. And he was surrounded by those who would cheer them on.
“There is no way to guard against things going wrong,” Merlin was saying, ostensibly to Percival, but his gaze soon returned to Aziraphale. “There would be a time of great vulnerability, in which only the demon would know what he will do. No matter your assurances!” he said, forestalling Aziraphale’s repeat objection. “But then you would present your own contract, and if he swore to it, and if you could imbue it with enough power to oppose the returning summons to Hell - then he could be granted a portion more time on Earth.”
Aziraphale was staring urgently now. ”How much more time?”
“Mm, depends. Whether it’s three days or a hundred, these things work best with meaning attached.” Merlin described a few circles in the air with his hand. “A year and a day is traditional. Ten years is oft the choice of the Fae, as a compromise between their longer lifelines and our more unstable trajectories. Or - well, given the bond - the other option would be,” he said, and glanced at Arthur, “to make it a lifetime.”
Arthur’s own intention flared.
Chapter 22: Day 12: PERCIVAL
Summary:
Percival also has quite a lot on his mind. Most of it - but not all - Aziraphale's fault.
Chapter Text
Percival watched Aziraphale’s eyes grow huge.
“A lifetime?” Aziraphale squeaked.
Merlin looked diffident. “Yes - that is, you could offer up the duration of your lifetime, if you wished it.“
Reckless enthusiasm lit up Aziraphale’s face, making Percival want to cheer. “I wish it! How do we do it?”
“Hold on,” Merlin laughed. “It isn’t something to rush into. There’s a binding element - it would be sensible to do something smaller first. Besides, binding to a whole lifetime would require a lot of power.”
Lancelot had laughed as well, but it dwindled into a rueful noise. “Not that a lifetime is necessarily the longest of those three timeframes…”
He was joking, a doubtless fair reflection on the unpredictable nature of the lives they’d chosen, and yet Percival had to bite back a snappish retort. Of late, a curious pang found him whenever Lancelot voiced his more defeatist impulses, even in jest.
Percival contented himself with pointing out cheerfully, “On the other hand it might be an extra long lifetime, with a demon guardian in tow.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Merlin said, waving an elegant hand.
“I’ll take it,” Aziraphale said, so forthright that Percival grinned again.
“That’s true, about the demon guardian,” Lancelot said quietly to Percival, low enough not to be heard by the others. Percival glanced at him. The ruefulness had spread to Lancelot’s eyes. “It’s still such a huge risk.”
Percival swallowed, all of a sudden unsure of which conversation they were having. “But if everything goes well…”
“…they get everything they want,” Lancelot finished softly.
Just like that, Percival became convinced again that they were indeed on the same side.
He beamed. “That’s the spirit!” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, ostensibly redirecting his focus to Aziraphale once more. Yet as he did so he let the outer edge of his little finger brush against the side Lancelot’s hand and a tingle shot up his arm.
“How soon can we undertake such a spell?” Aziraphale was saying to Merlin, and in his renewed good spirits Percival was struck by how much he enjoyed that pleading timbre to Aziraphale’s voice, so refined and rich and urgent. He hadn’t heard it for a while.
Of course, he’d heard Aziraphale’s female pleading voice rather more recently… hm. Probably better not to think about that right now. Only go and complicate things even more.
Percival had been entranced by Aziraphale’s female counterpart from the moment he met her, and it still felt jarring that she’d vanished so abruptly, before… well. Before anything else might have happened. Not that Percival had expected anything. But then after last night, it did not seem unreasonable to ponder the possibility that she might have been open to some… experimentation.
He had a sudden vision of the glance she'd given him, drenched outside Morgana's castle that very day, winding a wet ringlet around her finger. And what might happen to me, in the stocks?
Percival had been dumbfounded for a moment, before recovering himself. The image of Aziraphale's female form held like that, in pillory and stocks, her hands and throat immobilised, her legs apart… the possibilities were endless. His mind had filled with inappropriate images as fast as he could dismiss them. Would she want to play the role of it, inviting punishment, correction? Take a cane or palm to that luscious behind? Would she endure being teased, made to writhe for it, beg? Or would she want to jump straight to the end, arching her spine, taking him—them—fuck.
The thought of sharing her with Lancelot had struck like a burning arrow between the eyes.
Such thoughts had accosted Percival repeatedly since Aziraphale donned the amulet, often at the most inoportune moments. He'd tried to suppress them, but since last night… perhaps it was inevitable. She had been quite shockingly becoming, and playful with it, and there were aspects of Aziraphale which seemed to shine all the brighter in womanly form—those hips! That hair! The way she curved her back when she’d been riding Merlin's cock, when Arthur had ducked down to run his tongue along—
Percival broke off the thought with the finality of stamping on a twig, cleaving it in two. He needed to wrest back control of himself! His thoughts could not be allowed to wander in this scandalous manner. That Aziraphale was gone and this Aziraphale needed their help. Clothed help! His libidinous recollection of the scene he’d witnessed at Lancelot’s elbow would have to wait.
As would his memory of how close behind him Lancelot had been standing, how preoccupied, how near he might have been to discovering Percival’s preoccupations in return…
“We can start composing the contract part right away,” Merlin was saying to Aziraphale, “but the execution of the spell would require the presence of the—of Frán.”
Aziraphale looked longingly back down the dirt road behind them, as if the demon’s female form might be chasing after them. Percival caught himself craning his head to check if Aziraphale was right, but the road was still empty.
It occurred to him suddenly that the demon’s female form and Aziraphale’s female form must have had quite the time together yesterday, before Aziraphale returned with such vehemence to - well - to everything that then unfolded with Merlin and Arthur. Of course, Percival had known this on some level yesterday, but to really think of it now… he swallowed as his mouth watered. It was almost too much to dare contemplate, like licking honey off a too-sharp blade. Delicious and foolish at once; a thrill liable to hurt. It was the temptation to dwell on what they must have done together, yes, and how, and where, and how many times… but also… the temptation of the very change itself.
Percival had watched the amulet go from Aziraphale's neck to his hand to Merlin’s hand, and then disappear into a fold of Merlin’s clothes. He’d tracked its tiny shining presence with an attention that he recognised was… a bit much.
But, the thing was, when it came down to it, actually - he wouldn’t mind a turn with an amulet like that himself.
Witnessing Aziraphale's transformation - both ways - had produced a feeling within Percival far more jarring than simple curiosity or lust. He’d been bewitched by the totality of the physical differences - yet all the while, Aziraphale’s innate self seemed to remain constant. It didn’t hurt that Aziraphale had seemed to thoroughly enjoy each form, making a damned fine woman as well as a damned fine man. And Percival, who’d been tall always, a strapping youth, earmarked as a man-of-arms from the moment he could walk, couldn’t help but wonder how donning an amulet like that would feel for him.
What—what would Lancelot make of him, in that form? Would he be intrigued by such a change?
…Would Guinevere?
“Finally,” Aziraphale said, making Percival blink away from his rapidly-spiralling thoughts yet again, “there is one more matter I really must discuss with you.”
He was addressing Merlin again, and Merlin was smiling tolerantly back at him, clearly now resigned to shelving all his other concerns in the face of Aziraphale’s persistent if charming demands.
“Yes?”
“It will be a hard spell, by all accounts,” Aziraphale said, leaning on the words. “Requiring such a lot of power.” The barest shiny pink tip of his tongue gave a fleeting nudge, back and forth, over the midpoint of his lower lip; Percival had no doubt he held the attention of every man there. “So it feels only prudent to check if you, when it comes to the crux of it, would lend me your aid?”
It wasn’t often that Percival had seen Merlin destroyed by a simple look. But this—the polite optimism of Aziraphale’s regard sat beside the weight of his expectation, and the whole was lashed to something outrageous. Aziraphale was somehow managing to make his bedraggled wet clothes seem as prim and appropriate as a priest’s garb, while never letting it be forgotten that under all that sodden fabric waited an expanse of glistening wet skin.
Something in his look sliced through the flustered fog that had been encircling Merlin since their encounter in the fairy orchard.
Merlin looked back at Aziraphale with an expression that said I’ve had you once and I’ll have you again.
Any doubt about the inferences being made here were obliterated.
“Ah - yes,” Merlin said, a few tones lower than his usual voice. “You can count on my assistance.”
Aziraphale wasted no time in turning the exact same look on Arthur.
Percival expected Arthur to laugh, but it never erupted, warming only his eyes. “Yes,” Arthur said, inclining his head, and Percival felt his mouth drop slightly open at the easy heat in Arthur’s voice. “Whatever it takes.”
And then Percival himself experienced the full force of the look that had so summarily conquered the other two men. Aziraphale’s eyes fairly twinkled at him, a glitter of mischief made proper beneath open, earnest entreaty. It made Percival think at once of both lazy summer evenings with a sweetheart by a lake—and sweltering, heady, frantic nights.
It wasn’t a Fae influence, nor demonic. This was something purely Aziraphale.
Percival made a show of pretending to waver with indecision, then winked. “Just say the word.” His own voice, he was surprised to note, was also huskier than expected.
The delight that flashed through Aziraphale’s expression dispensed with any qualms Percival might have about intruding in this unlikely triad’s games. He didn’t know what was yet to play out between them but he would not decline a front row seat - nor, this time, an invitation to be drawn into the fray.
All eyes turned to Lancelot, and Percival found he was holding his breath. Surely Lancelot could not be unaffected by this charge building between them; surely he would not prove immune to the look.
“What do you say?” Aziraphale gazed at Lancelot as if he were the only man in the room. “Would you see fit to come to my aid, if the need arose?”
Lancelot stared back at him for an unreadable moment, then squared his shoulders. “No.”
Chapter 23: Day 12: LANCELOT
Summary:
Diary of a spoilsport.
…
I mean… diary of the most noble loyal virtuous knight. Who is conflicted!
Chapter Text
“No.”
Aziraphale’s eyes opened wide, as if this denial was the last thing he’d expected—rather than the sole answer that Lancelot could possibly have given.
The pause was closely followed by a communal chorus of indignation. The collective madness that had seemingly gripped them all showed no sign of abating, then.
Lancelot stood firm. “I’m very sure you will be amply supported by this fine assembly,” he rasped, to Aziraphale’s beseeching expression. “You won’t need my assistance as well.”
“Oh Lance, poor show,” Arthur murmured, shaking his head in mock disapproval and smirking at him. “Whatever happened to ‘come the hour, come the man—?’”
Lancelot was having none of it. “Absolutely not,” he said loudly, smiling back at Arthur but keeping his jaw tight. He trusted none could see beneath to his heavy-thudding heart. “You will recall my sworn loyalty in all matters pertaining to the security of the crown. This matter does not—”
“Surely it does a bit,” Percival said over him, objection in his voice but his eyes were sparkling with mirth. He seemed to be enjoying Lancelot’s discomfort a disgraceful amount. “What if… What if together we can muster almost enough power to bind the demon again, but not quite, and for want of your input he winds up rampaging all over the place? What if he rampages over Arthur?”
Arthur did not look especially dismayed at this dire threat.
“I'd reckon that would pertain to the security of the crown, would it not?” Percival was openly teasing now, with an easy wide grin that made Lancelot’s chest ache. “How could it not?”
The customary instinct to go back-and-forth with Percival warred with Lancelot’s determination to wrest this absurd conversation away from the brink of impropriety. He felt his own mouth form a moue of disfavour. “Regardless. I am positive my contribution would prove superfluous to requirements—or else inadequate.”
“For shame! You sell yourself short.” The look that Percival gave him now - heavy-lidded and reproving, with a smouldering something behind his eyes - momentarily made Lancelot regret his stance.
Nevertheless, he rallied. What were they all doing? Were they under some spell, some infernal influence? He had known each of the others to be playfully irresponsible as individuals, over the years, but en masse like this could only be courting disaster.
It felt like… old times. When the stakes were higher but the victories and losses were external - kingdoms, borders, treaties, duels - instead of the mistreatment of any one person’s raw heart.
Lancelot’s gaze slid over Aziraphale—bedraggled and unrepentant, with his lips quirked to one side and his wet clothes unevenly cinched. Without doubt, he was the source of the influence the others were slipping under. He looked like he knew it. Here at the end of this venture, he was so resolute it shone out of him.
“In any case,” Lancelot said dryly to Aziraphale, “someone needs to keep their wits about them in case your demon does indeed decide this is a perfect opportunity to wreak havoc. Do they not?”
“I think we could probably cover that collectively,” Arthur said, a wicked light in his eyes.
Lancelot gaped at him for a moment before shutting his jaw with a snap. There was no arguing with Arthur when he was in this mood—but he hadn’t seen this specific recklessness in an age. It was more than just old times. This was like stepping back two decades.
Vividly, Lancelot recalled his early years at Camelot, that flurry of desperate quests and shared beds and rarely the prospect of surviving another season… it had been an exhilarating existence for certain. But that time had passed. Things had changed. They had all changed—none so much as Lancelot himself.
Back then the speed of his sword arm made up for any lapse in honed skill. He didn’t need to call on discipline when he was flush with raw talent and reckless with his varied appetites: for excelling in any field, for the heat of battle, for the rush of victory in another’s arms. Discipline had come later. As had the renouncing of all types of reckless adventuring, for the favour of one lord - Arthur - one cause - Camelot - and one love - Guinevere.
Guinevere. Before her, Lancelot had a sense that he had never been still nor looked back. Well, granted - he had achieved physical satisfaction, vigorously and often, and subsided into delightful stillness afterwards, perhaps even for a night or two - but his attention would never linger, always flitting onward, to the next gleaming opportunity, the next, the next. And he had become well known for it.
“You are a peacock and a butterfly,” Guinevere had accused him, on their first meeting in the French court where he had been dispatched as silver-tongued assistant to King Uther’s aging diplomat. Lancelot had been stationed there three weeks and word, it seemed, had already spread. Guinevere’s voice was sugar-spun and cradled a dagger. “Alighting only for a moment on every blossom, before being drawn on by the scent of fresh nectar. Another pretty flower, another, another. And being so obvious about it.”
“You wound me,” Lancelot had replied, only half laughing as the inarguable truth of it sank in. It had been one of a series of blows she had unleashed upon him that evening, each more cutting than the last, however musical she made them sound in their shared mother tongue. Despite her scorn, he had ventured again, bracing for the worst: “Would you have nothing to do with me, then? That would be a tragedy.”
“I will have everything to do with you,” she’d said, and these warm syllables rippled over him. “And you may return to me as often as you like. But I will not be known at Court as one of your conquests. So if we are to know each other well, you may not tell a soul.”
And thus had begun the headiest, most rapid courtship of Lancelot’s life, as this exquisite woman wound him just so around her little finger. Once home he ached to talk of her, to dispel the feeling that he might burst if she did not return his letter—but he did not. And she did return his letter. And he did return to her, whenever possible, again and again.
She didn’t forbid his dalliances with others, only remarked that until he fixed his reputation she would not be publicly associated with him. That thought punctured his ardour in a way that no amount of wise counsel ever had; overnight he changed his behaviour and found to his amazement that his desires followed. His attention no longer snagged on new groups of pretty maidens arriving at Court, because he no longer wanted to be caught watching. He wanted Guinevere’s favour above all else. Nothing else compared.
He realised, belatedly, that she had set him a quest of sorts. Well, he never could resist a quest.
He did entangle with Arthur and Merlin a few more times, after dark, over the next few months, telling himself that the secrecy they insisted upon meant that this was a fine means of redirecting his frustrated passion.
But even that was different now - spending intimate time with a couple who so clearly thought the world of each other. Whereas before Lancelot had enjoyed their shared excitement and felt spared from the clear excess of feelings that they suffered, now he found he envied them. Witnessing their stolen slow kisses and words of shy devotion; increasingly he yearned to be able to share such time with Guinevere instead.
What would he give to be in her bed, in the crook of her arm, whispering into the shell of her ear?
Well, this, apparently.
This and everyone else.
He wasn’t sure if he should tell Arthur about his change of heart, or simply stop seeking out their private company. In the end he blustered his way through a few excuses: claiming to have read an inspiring work about the compounding virtues of celibacy and discipline; mentioning he had realised he fought much better without the distractions of a recent or anticipated embrace; and finally inventing that he had become aware of some hurt he had caused and sorely regretted. He did not seek to rekindle anything with the injured party, but was resolved not to handle anyone else so carelessly.
It was nothing more than a few mere lines - but a year passed without Lancelot engaging another bedfellow, and his resolve did not falter.
As his crown prince, Arthur congratulated him on adopting his virtuous new habits - they were certainly paying off on the jousting field, and his reputation was increasingly well-regarded.
As his closest friend, and one well aware of how fulsomely Lancelot had been led around until now by his desires, Arthur was incredulous.
“You have met someone,” he declared, amidst a game of cards in the anteroom to his bedchamber - a scene which, prior to Lancelot’s change of manner, would have likely devolved into debauchery by this late hour. “It’s the only possible explanation. Where are you hiding them?”
“Would it ruin them to let us know?” Merlin asked, disturbingly incisive as ever.
Lancelot shook his head. “I’m flattered by your interest. But there is no one.”
“No one in all of Camelot?”
“No one in all of Camelot,” Lancelot agreed. Unable to prevent a rogue thought zipping across his mind: she’s in France.
“Outside of Camelot, then,” Merlin said. Damn him.
Lancelot felt a telltale heat in his cheeks as he protested. “There’s nobody.”
Merlin and Arthur exchanged a look. Then Arthur reached over and squeezed Lancelot’s knee. “I hope nobody knows they’re very fortunate,” he said.
So that was that for another few months.
Then Uther received a concerned missive from Guinevere’s father, an important French duke, explaining his eldest daughter sought a season in Camelot but would require the utmost protection - the prince himself, or his right-hand man - to accompany her and her attendants at all times. It was vital that her honour was not besmirched or placed in jeopardy. He really needed Uther to appoint one of his very finest men-of-arms to the task.
Arthur passed Lancelot the letter and watched him read it.
“I wonder where he acquired the idea that Camelot is so awash with villains and ruffians,” he said.
“I couldn’t possibly imagine,” Lancelot said.
Merlin took one look at the pair of them, standing three feet apart and averting their gazes from each other, and knew.
“Whoever would have thought this ravishing French duchess-to-be would seem such a nobody,” he whispered to Lancelot, as they passed.
But if there was one thing Merlin and Arthur excelled at, it was caring for a secret. So the next few years ran more easily, and after the coronation - once the worst of the hostilities had settled down - King Arthur made sure that his most noble knight Sir Lancelot was posted to the French court as often as prudently possible.
Lancelot had made a moderately positive impression on the duke, Guinevere reported around this time. But his prior reputation was still a concern, and she didn’t dare bring the proposition to her father directly. Yet.
Merlin and Arthur came to Lancelot with their own proposal a few months after the coronation.
“Arthur needs the prospect of a wife,” Merlin said. “Not to marry, but to divert attention from why he will not now be courting in earnest - in defiance of the expectations of, er, everyone else.”
“Merlin’s worked it all out,” Arthur said. “It wouldn’t be forever - for a couple of years, probably - only whilst our focus is on the most pressing issues of the kingdom. Whilst we establish stability.”
“But it can’t be just anybody,” Merlin said, lowering his voice. “We need someone who understands, who could be loyal to our secret, and - crucially - who would not be seeking Arthur’s affection herself. She must not be dismayed or vengeful when the match inevitably fails.”
“Your efforts wouldn’t go unrewarded, of course,” Arthur put in quickly. “You already have a title, but if you chose to help in this way I would give you a generous estate as well, ensuring you’d have the requisite land and wealth to encourage her father to approve your match in turn.”
Lancelot, whose parents had died without bequeathing him anything more valuable than his name, saw the appeal in this immediately. And when they discussed what it would involve - a few letters, penned by Merlin, entrusted to Lancelot during the visits which could now be made more frequently, and for longer - he’d become convinced this would suit all of them very well.
“This could suit us very well,” Guinevere told him, on their next encounter, as Lancelot grew tired of talking and turned his attention instead to pressing kisses to her palm, her wrist. “It is plausible that the new king would desire to know me better.”
“He does - but not in that manner,” Lancelot said. “I must warn you, if you are hoping to actually marry Arthur—” He was joking and yet it also did need to be said.
“I am hoping to marry someone,” Guinevere said, flooring him with the simplest look. “But not your king.”
Lancelot’s heart clamoured in his ears. “Right! Well, this is probably the best way to go about—that,” he said. “To ensure I have the resources to offer you, the stable position to declare to your father, the—”
“Is that a yes?”
Lancelot broke off and swept her up in his arms. “Yes,” he said. “Anything and everything you might want from me, now and forever - is a yes.”
Betrothed, then, albeit in utmost secrecy, they tiptoed through the next few years - by turns deliriously happy and beset by an endless-seeming frustration. The “couple of years” that Arthur had mentioned became longer, longer, longer. Stability of the realm proved elusive. There was always another crisis amassing.
Devoted as he was to his role of second-in-command to the king, herding the knights of Arthur’s novel round table through a near-infinite array of challenges, Lancelot nevertheless fretted on occasion that Guinevere would cut her losses and turn her devotion to someone closer to home.
“Never,” Guinevere said, when he brought this up, one frantically short visit just a few scant weeks ago. “There is no one here I like even half so well as you.” She searched his face. “What’s going on? Are you worried about fidelity - should I close off my bedchamber entirely? Sandrine would understand—”
“No, no,” Lancelot said, thinking of the wiry dark-haired woman who he knew Guinevere favoured when he was leagues away. She could hit a target at ten paces with a throwing knife. “I would rather Sandrine were with you, if that is still… good,” he finished lamely.
“It’s good,” she assured him. “What, then? Have you turned your attention to someone else? Someone new?”
“There’s no one new,” Lancelot said.
Her eyes grew knowing. “Ah. Well. You know I do not mind if Percival warms your bed,” she chided softly. “If he’s as delightful as you bemoan…”
“He is - but he hasn’t - we haven’t,” Lancelot said. “I keep him at arm's length.”
Which wasn’t to amuse himself; with the respect in which he held Percival, he truly feared that allowing even a casual tumble to occur between them would leave a deep bruise on Lancelot’s heart. For all Guinevere’s airy assurances, it could not be some mindless indulgence between them - and yet he could not imagine Percival would be drawn towards the depth of feeling between himself and Guinevere.
Percival was a light-hearted, enthusiastic fellow of simple tastes. Lancelot would sooner resist him entirely than ensure their estrangement.
“And has he had a say in this matter?”
“No,” Lancelot admitted, and ran a hand through his hair. “I daresay he should. But…” He blew out a sigh. “Why does it all seem so simple when I’m with you and so conflicted when we’re apart?”
“Because we are not destined to be apart,” Guinevere said, shaking her head sagely.
Lancelot cracked a smile.
“Look,” she said, brushing his dishevelled hair back from his face with one gentle finger. “Mention to Arthur that you hope our arrangement will not last much longer, and that I echo your hope. He must understand. Eight years is a long time to pretend to be something other than what you are.”
“Arthur has been pretending for twenty years and five,” Lancelot pointed out. “But I take your point. I will mention it.”
“And meanwhile - you should make use of your opportunities as best you can,” Guinevere said, a rakish richness entering her voice. “If that involves charming wizards or strapping knights or the sworn king of your realm - maybe that would be good for you. At least it would pass the time!”
Lancelot made his voice dry. “You are most gracious, but I will manage without.”
“Just don’t open your heart to anyone I couldn’t also love,” Guinevere added, in that sly deft way she had. Like being pierced by one of Sandrine’s throwing daggers, a puncture so sharp he only noticed the percussion of it ringing through his chest.
“No,” Lancelot agreed, as his convictions firmed in resounding pulses once more.
The safest way to proceed in Camelot - the only safe way - was alone.
Still looking Lancelot in the eye, Aziraphale started undoing his belt.
Lancelot blinked a few times in quick succession and sought to recall what they had just been saying—here, now, in this overgrown abandoned village, not weeks ago in France nor years before. Ah, yes. Some absurd assurances that this ensemble of wild-eyed libertines could keep their wits about them to fight an unleashed demon, even while giving in to their baser urges. Chance would be a fine thing!
As if to prove his point, Aziraphale was now actually, before Lancelot’s very eyes, grasping the thick tongue of his leather belt and feeding it through his pale fingers, until its pin slipped free of its notch and the whole buckle—
“What are you doing?” Lancelot asked faintly.
“Taking off my wet things before I catch a malady,” Aziraphale said, daring him to disagree. The belt and its various pouches thudded to the wet verge and the rest of his feminine clothes shifted into even more disarray.
Lancelot raised his eyebrow. “In the open air?” He had to cough to clear his throat. The rest of them had benefited from a change into dry garb earlier, but still. “That may equally be inviting a malady.”
Or an ambush. Merlin’s eyes had darkened considerably, sweeping over Aziraphale’s bedraggled silhouette with no hint of his usual decorum.
“No, no, I’m certain I heard the wet clothes are the problem,” Percival said cheerfully, and winked at Aziraphale. “Need a hand?”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, peeling off the leather apron and handing it to Percival, then unlacing and squeezing the worsted dress over his head, until he was standing before them bold as brass in nothing but a clinging, sheer white chemise. The feminine shape of it made his masculine figure look all the more captivating. It skimmed over Aziraphale’s broad chest, down the soft curve of his belly, rounding a prominent bulge at his crotch; further down, it clung again to the thickness of his thighs, before falling straight to his ankles. It suddenly appeared less ill-fitting, more… tailor-made. If the tailor had an eye for scandal.
Aziraphale feathered his fingers against the edge of the chemise and then paused, as if unaware he was holding every one of their attentions in the pinch of his fingertips. “Perhaps this should wait until we’re inside,” he said, with a theatrical shiver, and turned towards the inn’s front door.
“Marvellous,” Merlin said, to nobody in particular. “Shall I get started, then? On the, er, words. A written contract is best. And it will take time to ensure every clause is correct.”
Aziraphale looked back, the scant slide of translucent wet cotton over his shoulders making Lancelot’s fingers twitch.
“Please do,” Aziraphale said to Merlin. “With every urgency.”
Percival held the door for him, tracking the sway of Aziraphale’s hips as he padded forth into the darkness.
Lancelot wanted to punch something.
Arthur grinned and followed them inside, brushing past Lancelot with a slow clap on the shoulder that might have felt perfunctory from someone else. From Arthur it felt like judgement.
Lancelot walked after them, his own tread slightly heavier than usual.
“Of course,” Merlin was saying, nodding at Aziraphale. “But I trust if the demon arrives before I’m ready, you can keep him occupied? It is still bound to the sword - you should be quite safe.”
“I expect I can manage that,” Aziraphale said, smiling.
Inside the cool shadowy interior of the inn, despite himself, Lancelot looked for Percival’s attention. He found it entirely focused on Aziraphale's state of undress - as well it might be. Aziraphale, having made his intentions clear, had overtly sought Percival’s assistance. Now Aziraphale was putting his body into the public arena. Was issuing invitations to look, to flirt, to explore. Of course Percival was responding.
What would Lancelot expect, when he’d done precisely the opposite? Percival’s fidelity to an idea that Lancelot had wholly refused to entertain?
The others crowded together before the hearth, building up the fire from its cold embers. More wood was called for, with Percival and Arthur competing over who could carry the greatest number of logs without staggering, while Aziraphale’s eyes rounded in appreciation.
“I’ll just… patrol once around the village,” Lancelot said, jerking the door back open once more and stepping outside. “Make sure we’re not leaving our flanks exposed to unwelcome visitors.”
“Don’t be too long,” Percival called after him, and then chuckled at something one of the others said.
Lancelot gritted his teeth, and did not reply.
The forest soothed him with its great darkness, unknowably vast. It was full of noises of nighttime creatures, the wind, occasional slivers of glossy black sky above the dense black canopy. He stopped at the ruins of a shelter above the village well, now half-collapsed with moss cushioning every stone.
The well’s depths were impenetrable in the darkness; after a few false starts, he and Percival had managed to draw fresh water from it on their arrival, but right now Lancelot would struggle to believe that had been possible. It felt desolate here. It was abandoned, a ruin. Surely silt should have long clogged the waterways beneath.
He threw in a pebble, hearing its echoey passage clatter against the sides before there was a low faint splash. Ah, so he hadn’t dreamt it. Still functional. Would need some attention, but it wasn’t irreparable yet.
He sat against the side of the well and sighed. The poet in him wanted to draw comparisons, riddles, toy and tug at the words. Was his heart the disused well, or his body? Was the silt in his mind? Why did he feel so wretched at the sight of the others’ merriment, when nobody had purposefully excluded him in any way?
He peeled a segment of moss from a cold stone, rubbed its furred dampness between his fingertips before idly shredding it.
The problem, he knew, in the clarity of the cold darkness, was that he couldn’t do anything by halves. He never had. His nature was to whole-heartedly pursue.
He couldn’t half fall for Percival, no sooner than he could parry half a greatsword. Even a glancing blow would likely undo him.
And he knew that blow was coming. It was in Percival’s eyes, in his silences, in that brazen display last night. How Lancelot had burned to close the distance between them!
He might as well give in. He couldn’t avoid Percival, couldn’t bear to hurt him, and was finding him ever more difficult to resist. But while he could resist - logic dictated he should try.
As for resisting the others… they posed varying degrees of difficulty.
Aziraphale hadn’t been a problem for Lancelot before. Though he clearly styled himself as a forbidden treat, luscious and appealing, he had always seemed a little too innocent for Lancelot’s tastes. Too wide-eyed, too unsure. Well—those scales had certainly fallen from Lancelot’s eyes last night. What he’d witnessed had lured him like a moth to an inferno, calling out to his body’s wild spirit and making him long to step into the fray. But still he did feel he could resist Aziraphale, more or less. Aziraphale was likely the least of his problems.
Merlin, damn him, was a more serious threat to his equilibrium. Merlin made Lancelot feel like a valuable chess piece—beautifully polished and powerful, irreplaceable. If Merlin made a direct request of him… he would struggle. And if Merlin demanded his involvement - or if Arthur begged it - all that would be left of his restraint would be broken shards. To be honest, Arthur wouldn’t even have to beg him. If he pushed even a little more, if he employed the deadly curve of his mouth and said something like, For old time’s sake… then Lancelot would struggle to demur.
As for Percival—well, there lay his true problem. Every moment alone with Percival felt like another step closer to a precipice. But Lancelot had not yet tumbled over the edge, though he’d teetered close a few times. And he couldn’t let himself leap willingly either, not while he still had some strength of resolve left.
He paused for a long time, tearing off small pieces of moss and letting them scatter. As long as he could resist, he would endure. Then, eventually, in a resigned whisper, he said out loud, “Unless it becomes impossible…”
Even that private acknowledgement made him feel shivery, unmoored. He was nearing his edge, and he knew it. The shield he’d raised between his logic and his desires was starting irrevocably to splinter. It would shatter, he could admit - out here, alone, without distraction or interruption - under one more solid hit. And there were so many damned directions from which that hit could come.
He told himself he may yet be overreacting. Perchance they were all settling down to a game of cards back there! It wasn’t impossible? He dusted his hands off against his legs, rose to his feet. Probably he was overreacting. No one had any designs on him beyond the usual, and his own desires could be suppressed without untold effort. Provided there were no more dire blows to his equilibrium, Lancelot would endure.
But if there were more dire blows…
His body gave an unhelpful pulse of excitement. Racing in the darkness, as ever, his heart was three paces ahead of his mind. And even as he tried to quell the growing anticipation, he had the sense that something else was approaching apace. Something catastrophic, powerful, unique.
Something that might overbalance him entirely.
Chapter 24: Day 12: CROWLEY
Summary:
Meanwhile, a demon.
Chapter Text
All chained up in Morgana’s cellar, Crowley sulked in his red-headed female form.
The subterfuge was no longer necessary, but Crowley was finding himself reluctant to relinquish this form because - though it pained him to admit it - Frán’s body still reverberated with echoes of his angel’s touch. Frán could still taste a memory of Aziraphale on her tongue, in a way that would be lost if Crowley returned to wholly demonic form.
Their afternoon together, from being submerged in scalding water to the hastily-curtailed final bout of wrestling on the bed, had filled Crowley with a light unlike any he’d experienced since - well - before. Before all of this. Such an energetic appetite, Aziraphale had; such an exhilarating match of Crowley’s own. How could it be that Crowley, a being designed to devour, had met a being with a seemingly infinite capacity to be devoured—and to make Crowley want to be consumed in turn? Unheard of.
Renewed hunger ran its talons ceaselessly over his insides. A blue-grey ache ever growing. The day was wearing on and he needed more.
He would pace around in aggravation, but Morgana had had Frán’s body secured in cold iron - cuffs enclosing her wrists, her neck, chained to the wall by large rings - and stuffed in this freezing cellar. It was deep enough below the main body of the castle that all noise and light was extinguished.
Until these negotiations are complete, Morgana had said. I want you powerless to interfere.
It was nothing Crowley wouldn’t have done, were their positions reversed, and he grudgingly respected Morgana’s meticulous use of cold iron: the very touch of it was draining, muffling his mind’s reach. So Frán idled by the wall in this dark place, occupied only by keeping the bite of metal to a minimum against her wrists and throat, indignation at this turn of events churning inside her slight form, along with the rapidly mounting hunger.
Faint elusive traces of Aziraphale's presence were occasionally discernible from the orchard above, drifting down, but they were stifled as well, as if Morgana had blocked their attunement. Or perhaps Crowley was getting too hungry to concentrate.
He had a sudden suspicion that if Aziraphale left this place they might never sense each other again.
Aziraphale didn’t seem to be leaving though. There was a moment when the defiant peal of her voice carried perfectly into Crowley’s mind - my demon - and the shock of delight Crowley felt at that seemed to burst forth despite the shackles, arching triumph. Aziraphale was claiming him from the witch?! The impetuous nerve of it made Frán’s skin grow warm all over, beneath the cold chains.
Then dark silence fell again. It stretched, impenetrable despite Crowley straining to sense something, anything, for longer than he cared to admit. He could taste the sweeping mists of Morgana’s anger, ebbing and building; and the slow stifling glow of her satisfaction, rubbing him the wrong way like fingernails scraping up his scales. Occasionally, there was a faint pattering of more distant emotion from Aziraphale, as insubstantial as raindrops on the black lake.
And then - after an interminable time - suddenly Morgana handed over the sword.
Fuck! How had Aziraphale orchestrated that? Crowley had no idea, but as soon as the transfer occurred it was like a lightning bolt striking between them, leaving a white-hot trail which lingered, a fracture in the ghastly solitude to which he had become painfully accustomed.
The cellar was no less dark or musty afterwards, the stones no less frigid at Frán’s back, but the moment Aziraphale had lifted the sword in his - his, again! - hands, Crowley felt like the numbing darkness itself had been irrevocably pierced.
Connection. Call it a bond like the humans did, or a twisted curse, as another demon might. There was a thread of something strung between them now, an open conduit from Crowley’s darkness to Aziraphale's light. Whereas Morgana’s grip on the sword had felt like the manacle she’d fixed around Frán’s throat, draining his power further, this felt more like Aziraphale was cradling it, fondling it; helping to prise open the void. It was as if Crowley had just stopped screaming after an interminable, fruitless cry. He could breathe again, speak, reach.
Angel, he thought, as hard as he could, and felt Aziraphale's peal of joy catapult back to him.
Crowley!
Frán’s body slumped in the chains, relaxing entirely as Crowley focused on sending the most slithering flexible extension of his form through the narrow split in the ether that now tethered him to his angel. It was a strange, unworldly sensation, squeezing, leaving most of his power inhabiting Frán’s form and just—pushing—the barest echo of himself—through.
There. He couldn’t really see much, or hear what was going on around Aziraphale, but he could feel him, and that was magnificent. This small translucent serpent form could wind around Aziraphale's shoulders, draping him in weighty coils, pushing his muzzle against the nape of Aziraphale's neck, into his hairline. Smell him—no, he couldn’t quite smell him, or taste him, despite the flicker of his snake tongue against skin that he knew must be rain-dampened and sweetly tarnished with the delectable sweat of fear. Crowley remembered that scent with an intensity that made Frán’s mouth water.
It wasn’t much - the extension of himself was as weak as a reflection in wavering water - but it still felt wonderful to wrap around Aziraphale again, without the constant expenditure of energy it had previously taken to reach him. It felt so good Crowley was almost suspicious. Like a trapdoor cracking open in this impossible imprisoning void, allowing a little light to shine down - not enough to illuminate any escape route, but a slender beacon of hope nonetheless. Fragile as a sunbeam amidst massing clouds.
Bah! Listen to him, a demon snagged by hope. Pathetic!
Not pathetic, came Aziraphale's voice in his mind, less melodious now back in his male body but still one of the loveliest things Crowley had ever heard. Fuck, he hoped all his thoughts weren’t broadcasting back to Aziraphale. That would be excruciating.
He wondered briefly about dissembling, then opted to distract instead. Where are you?
This damned bridge, Aziraphale's voice came, sweet and low, a little strained. On foot! It’s so exposed. I feel like we’ll be ambushed from the water at any minute.
Crowley heard a raw edge of fear in Aziraphale's grumble, and decided to override it. Mmm, he drawled slowly, letting his intention bubble up between the words. I’d like you exposed. Stripped bare and tied up.
Aziraphale went quiet, so quiet that Crowley wondered if he’d pushed too much too soon. Then Aziraphale's voice reached him once more, faint but clear. I forgot how hard you get me. In this form - in an instant.
Crowley thought about the tender flesh of Aziraphale's body growing pink with arousal, the hard line of his prick trapped beneath his swishing, heavy skirts. Maybe I wouldn’t strip you bare. I like the thought of you still in that dress. I could bend you over a tree trunk and flip your skirts above your head, pin you there, mewling for aid with your arse exposed. All mine to exploit at my leisure. You wouldn’t even be able to touch yourself through all those layers. You—
Stop! I am surrounded by knights and a wizard and the king! Aziraphale's internal voice had a hissing, hushed quality to it, as if he was afeared the others would also be able hear his thoughts.
Crowley grinned. Worried they’d want to have a turn on your arse as well?
No!
Oh, he sounded deliciously flustered now. Mmm, don’t lie to me. There’s not a man among them you wouldn’t go to your knees for. My filthy, filthy angel.
That’s not it, Aziraphale insisted. Not, Crowley noticed, denying anything. I need to keep my wits about me if I’m to save you. I won’t let you get dragged back to Hell!
Crowley shivered, sobering again. The rawness was back, the heroic declaration of it. It would be easy to believe him. Easy and foolish. But Crowley knew it was impossible. He sighed, the moment making Frán’s chest heave in the darkness. You can’t save me. I’m un… saveable. Insalvageable? Not to be salvaged.
No you’re not, Aziraphale said immediately, I won’t have it.
‘Fraid so, Crowley countered, aiming for insouciant. If he could raise a smile this wouldn’t feel so bad, so achingly hollow. It’s all there in black and white in the quota. Twelve nights, twelve knights. Just our little joke. Then whoosh! Back to Hell. He swallowed against a rising tightness in Frán’s throat. It wouldn’t have been a bad deal if I’d held up my end of the bargain. I’m faaaairly sure all the starving and imprisonment was her last resort. If I’d done my bit—
If I hadn’t foiled you.
Hah! Foiled! I hardly think so.
Distracted? He could hear that Aziraphale was smiling again, just a little.
Tempted, Crowley said, letting lascivious heat rise through the syllables like steam coming off a blacksmith’s anvil.
Merlin will think of something, Aziraphale said, again so earnest it was almost painful to hear.
Crowley gave a bitter laugh. Why would they want to help me? All they wanted was to snatch away another weapon from Morgana’s hands.
They’d want to help me.
Aziraphale's tone was quiet now, but resonant with conviction. That threadbare plume of hope threatened to brighten again. Crowley didn’t dare let himself indulge in it.
Ask him then. But don’t be surprised if it doesn’t go our way.
Don’t be surprised if it does! I can be quite the negotiator, Aziraphale said, with a flourish in his voice that made something tighten in Crowley’s chest instead.
He scrabbled to dispel the feeling. I’m sure you negotiate best flat on your back with your feet behind your head.
Actually, I’m at my best on all fours, Aziraphale replied tartly.
Crowley snickered despite himself, even as he remembered the phenomenal tide of golden energy that had emanated from the debauchery Aziraphale had got up to last night with those two men. These two. Them. He could still just about sense them, the murmurs of their energy on either side of Aziraphale; it was like detecting familiar intermingled scents on a foreign breeze. Apples and elder, and between them, all over them, Aziraphale's buttery golden warmth.
Hmm. Crowley was so hungry again.
He contemplated Aziraphale's chances with renewed interest. After all, after last night, these men would already know how succulent Aziraphale was, how enticing. Crowley hadn’t been able to survey every second of what they’d been doing, spread out on the floor in front of that hearth, but he’d felt the rising success of it in tidal waves. He’d received images behind his eyes as it built to a crescendo, of Aziraphale sandwiched between them positively yearning for Crowley to stuff himself into her mouth. Every part of her, he’d had no doubt, had been stretched and filled and still she wanted Crowley to finish her off.
He let himself ponder that for a minute, feeling eddies of warmth start to swirl in Frán’s body. Then remembering Aziraphale's hunger for her, the way that her careful caring touches had turned demanding, dizzying. Aziraphale had lain with Frán as if she wanted to meld their flesh into one. As if she wanted to draw out every last sparkle of pleasure that either of their exhausted bodies could concede—while as Frán, Crowley had enjoyed pushing Aziraphale to different limits, making her move in different ways, lose herself in bliss.
They could have kept going until dawn, Crowley had no doubt, had that rude interruption not spoiled things; taking turns, back and forth, surges of pleasure peaking and overlapping, merging and receding before swelling inexorably again.
And then his mind slithered back to what Aziraphale had done for him, subjecting himself to Morgana’s wrath so that Crowley might survive another night. That silken braid of anguish and arousal, as Morgana’s beast caught him, explored him, pushed into him. Crowley remembered how Aziraphale had looked, the paleness of his writhing body a stark contrast against the dark wet sand. He remembered how Aziraphale had fought and protested as the shining black tentacles immobilised him in a prison of thick living bars—before penetrating him, everywhere. He’d seen the fight diminish, replaced by something provocative and animalistic, Aziraphale arching and squirming and taking it all for Crowley—the rush of watching that absolute submission, that sacrifice, had been indescribable. Crowley had felt rage, yes, spiking rapidly, giving him the strength to rise up and fight; but he’d felt pride as well, in how much Aziraphale could endure for him, and reflexive envy towards the monster subjecting Aziraphale to such torment; and lust, overshadowing all of it, the monumental twinned urges to devour and defile.
Yes, Aziraphale shouldn’t be underestimated. They all surely knew that by now. So maybe, these men might want to give him everything he asked for, provided his request was delivered with the right sort of twinkle in his eyes.
If in doubt, beg, Crowley suggested.
Oh I will.
And—Crowley started, and then broke off as the door to the cellar grated open and Frán’s vision filled with violent light.
Crowley snapped fully back into the form of Frán. Inhabited it, fully, from the curled lip to the shackled wrists, fingers flexing where they were held against the wall high above her head. She was Frán and Frán was incensed, even as she tried not to squint in the sudden flood of illumination from a widely thrown door.
The ethereal line to Aziraphale had become barely perceptible again - but it was still perceptible. Just.
“Yes?” Crowley asked, as archly as she could muster.
Morgana stalked into the room - backlit by the doorway Crowley couldn’t make out her face, but her demeanour was haughty.
“Come on,” Morgana said, sweeping across the floor to reach her. Without preamble, she started unhooking a chain from the wall, the room filling with loud scraping noises of metal against stone. “You’ve been reprieved.”
Crowley lifted her chin so she could meet Morgana’s eye, trying to ignore the chilly weight on her wrists shifting as the heavy iron cuffs moved. “How so?”
Morgana leaned very close to her, to release the shackle behind her other shoulder. She’d laid aside her own chainmail - insulting - and Crowley’s senses were filled instead with a susurration of black silk, the scent of crushed apples and wood sorrel.
Crowley’s eyes had adjusted now. She looked up as Morgana leaned above her and wondered about sinking her teeth into that exposed expanse of pale collarbone. Her mouth watered. What sort of noise would Morgana make if Crowley bit her?
“You get to spend your last few hours,” Morgana said, curling her lip as she unlocked the band enclosing Crowley’s neck, “whispering sweet nothings to your knight in shining armour.”
Crowley didn’t rise to Morgana’s disdain. Instead she grinned as she rubbed circulation back into the tender skin at the base of her neck. The cold kiss of iron was slow to dissipate. “Oh, I’ll have him remove the armour. Most of it, at least. And we certainly won’t be whispering.”
Morgana wrinkled her nose. “I’d bid you fare well but, frankly, I suspect you’ll fare terribly,” she said. “Your guard is quite obviously down. I don’t know how this bond of yours works but I wouldn’t trust it, not around them.”
“You don’t trust anyone.”
Morgana detached a last chain from the wall and yanked Crowley by the wrists to stumble forwards. “And you do?!”
“I’m a demon,” Crowley said, smirking as she righted herself. The remaining shackles bit into her wrists and made her shoulders strain, but she still felt better without the band around her neck; standing taller, breathing more deeply. “I’m not supposed to trust anyone. What’s your excuse?”
“I have a long memory.“
“Yes. You’re stuck in it.”
A flare of anger swept through Morgana’s eyes. "Don't you dare preach to me, fiend.” She hefted the length of chain she’d just unhooked in both hands, then slung it twice around Crowley’s shoulders, binding her arms back to her sides.
Crowley bared her teeth. “Mm. Tighter.”
“Are you trying to make me whip you?”
“Would you? For old time’s sake?” Crowley let her voice linger on the words, let her gaze slide back down across the fine column of Morgana’s neck, the flawless untouched planes of her; Crowley tilted her head, lips parting, imagining sucking a lurid bloom of pinkness across the unguarded skin.
“No,” Morgana said, and tugged curtly on the chain so that Crowley stumbled towards the open doorway with a chagrined smile.
Crowley’s stomach twisted pleasantly. Baiting her always felt so good.
The charge between them had never ignited. Morgana had always been single-minded and scrupulous with Crowley, cool and formal. Yes, there had been the occasional intimacies of bathing and dressing, but mostly Morgana had others for that, women more accustomed, less changeable. She’d kept Crowley at a distance, their joint purpose between them: a shared ambition of destruction, which Crowley knew Morgana told herself was for the greater good, with no room for personal pleasure to sneak in around the edges.
Well, Morgana’s ambition had been realised now, hadn’t it? Whatever she had just extracted from Arthur, whatever that exchange had really been, this was likely the last time that she and Crowley would ever see each other. The summons would send Crowley back to Hell at dawn, and time worked differently there. Even Morgana’s prodigious grasp of magic couldn’t sustain her lifespan indefinitely. The chances of their paths crossing again, once Crowley had passed back through the ether, were impossibly slim.
Which made this Crowley’s last opportunity to provoke her.
Crowley… couldn’t resist.
She shifted in the spiral of chain that was still binding her, testing its grip of her arms, the way her hips remained free. She was leashed but mobile. What potential lay in that.
A few paces before the open doorway, Crowley spun on her heel to give Morgana a knowing smile. “Seems a shame to waste a perfectly good dungeon.”
“It is not a dungeon,” Morgana said immediately, icily, as Crowley had known she would. “It is an apple cellar.”
“That happens to have hooks in the walls…”
Morgana’s teeth were very white in the dim illumination. “On which to hang sacks of apples.”
Crowley inhaled slowly, making a show of it. Lo and behold, the air did have the familiar pungency of a cider cellar running through it - but what she mostly smelled now was the bruised leaf smell of Morgana’s clothes, and that fresh ozone tingle of recent power.
“Perhaps,” Crowley said. She made another attempt to get a rise out of her. “Still a shame not to put it to better use than this.”
Morgana didn’t respond to her suggestive tone. “It has served its purpose,” she said briskly. “As have you. Come on.”
“Not yet,” Crowley said, with sudden renewed urgency. She was gripped by the urge to eke out one last spark from the banked coals of their interaction, to engrave this moment somehow in time. “Before I leave, treat me to one… impulse.” She said it as if she was throwing down a bargaining chip. “Whatever you really want, try it. As capricious as you like - anything - let me feel it - whatever tempts you, give in. Just once. Down here, where no one will know.”
Crowley wasn’t sure what she hoped to provoke - a laugh, a kiss, a head injury? But somehow she burned for an honest answer from this opaque woman, in whatever form it came.
All Morgana did was give her a startled look. Then her eyes narrowed. “I want for nothing. You won’t catch me in a devil’s bargain.”
“I’m not trying to bargain with you,” Crowley insisted, and gave a wide-eyed laugh, looking from side to side and using her chin to indicate the still-tight chain. “I’m hardly in a position of strength, am I? And I’m not offering anything in return. I’m just… curious.”
“Don’t be.”
It hadn’t worked. And the prudent course of action would be to abandon this frippery, draw a veil over it. Crowley wouldn’t usually give two figs for a human’s disquiet. She tried to ignore a sudden flickering suspicion that Aziraphale’s eagerness to interact with everyone was rubbing off on her.
And yet - that did give her an idea.
“What if I was Angeline,” Crowley tried, and Morgana went still. Crowley’s skin prickled all over; this was something. She leant into it, dropping her voice, shifting closer within her restrictive metal confines. “Before she changed back, when she was still in that lovely, generous form... What if she were here?”
“She isn’t.”
“What if she were?”
Morgana bared her teeth. “It’s immaterial.”
“Do you want to know what I’d do to her, in this secluded apple cellar?” Crowley asked, and then, when Morgana’s breath caught, almost imperceptibly, she closed in further. “What I did to her, upstairs in my bedchamber? Again and again, under your roof…”
Morgana’s eyes flashed and she tugged sharply on the chain; the jarring bodily jerk of it felt like victory. “Hush.”
“I had her mouth,” Crowley whispered, swaying to right herself, undeterred. She felt like her fangs were lengthening. “Her soft, hot, supple mouth, can you imagine how that felt? I had her whimpering and crying out, lost in sensation, perfectly corrupted. Her hands—do you have any idea what she can do with those hands? She’s—”
“Be quiet,” Morgana barked, and Crowley felt an otherworldly stifling effect grip her tongue, silencing her.
Morgana’s eyes were huge and dark with a shimmering rim of gold, and she stared at Crowley with something close to agitation.
Crowley stared back, effectively bound and gagged, and so turned on her vision was starting to waver. What now? Heat roamed in this body’s veins, coalescing around the vision she’d summoned of Aziraphale and the raw conflicted intensity she felt from Morgana. What would Morgana be like if she let go? If she let herself trust, or desire? The potential here—ah, Crowley needed Aziraphale. Clearly! Forget Aziraphale’s doomed quest to save Crowley from the return trip to Hell; their time could be far better spent coming back here to see what could happen between them.
She tried to say as much but the enchantment restricting her speech intensified. Her mouth felt acrid, deadened, full of a stifling dryness, not a flicker of reaction when Crowley tried to protest.
Fine, let Morgana have it her way.
Crowley swallowed wretchedly and then, in an overdone show of submission, lowered her eyelashes and bowed her head.
There was a pause. Then Morgana moved one finger, a quick flicker of power, and the spell on Crowley’s tongue released.
It was an immediate and intense relief. Crowley glanced up again, running her tongue across her lips, making shapes in her mouth, testing it was back to its usual dexterity.
Morgana watched her with a slightly raised eyebrow, her own equilibrium restored.
“Well that showed me,” Crowley said, with a hoarse little laugh. Her mouth felt raw, the words stinging on her tongue. “Point proved - I’ll be quiet! Obedient. Your summoned servant. Subject to your whim but not…”
“Don’t push it,” Morgana said over her.
“…pushing it,” Crowley finished, widening her eyes as if innocent, and a spark of amusement entered Morgana’s expression before she tugged Crowley forwards again by the chain.
That spark felt oddly good. If Crowley wasn’t going to overpower her with vengeful lust, at least she might get her to smile.
Crowley elected not to dwell on this shocking descent into sentimentality. It wasn’t in keeping at all.
But… nobody needed to know that.
They were walking, now, along the various through-ways of the castle and out into the paddock. The afternoon sunshine gleamed off the manes of various horses grazing on tufted grass.
“Where are you sending me, then? Did they wait?”
“No.” Morgana’s blunt answer was not softened by a smile. “There’s an old village, a short distance from here. They’ll be waiting there. You’ll be drawn to the sword. And then - your fate is in their hands.”
She brooked no further delay. Morgana indicated a large black stallion who had already been saddled in gleaming black leather. It wasn’t raining any longer, but the beast still swayed uneasily, shifting its hooves on the ground as they approached.
“Get on.”
Crowley looked around. No other people were in evidence. Her boots sank a little into the damp grass of the paddock. “You’ll have to untie me first.”
Morgana looked at her for a long, suspicious moment. “No.”
“Then you'll have to put me on yourself,” Crowley declared. “Manhandle me into the saddle.”
Morgana gave her an amused glare. “I’ll untie you a little.” Her hands were perfunctory, brisk. She loosened the chain around Crowley’s upper body, freeing her arms before casting the chain aside. Then she passed a rope through the cuffs on Crowley’s wrists, and slipped the long length of it through a loop at the peak of the horse’s saddle. So her arms were free to an extent, but she was now locked to the horse.
Then—Morgana hesitated.
Crowley’s focus sharpened. “What?”
Morgana appeared to choose her words. “You… asked for one impulse,” she said slowly. “One thing I want. I considered it. This form—I would ask you one thing. You don’t have to grant it. But it would please me if you would.”
Crowley began to smile. “Tell me.”
For a moment it looked like Morgana might give her a straight answer. Then she shook her head, abrupt enough that the dark curtain of her hair slipped over one eye. “It doesn’t matter.”
All tied up, Crowley was not in a position to lift her hand and brush the hair back Morgana’s face, but she fancied that if her hands were free, she would have done exactly that. Sure, she might have had her finger bitten off for her trouble—but she still would have done it.
“Morgana,” she said instead, level. “What do you want?”
Morgana’s hand lifted towards her, then staggered, drifted back down. She exhaled hard, and glared across Crowley’s shoulder. “It pains me to send a maid as a prisoner into my brother’s camp,” she said. “So. Would you not take another form?”
Crowley’s eyebrows lifted. “I never expected you to have such a sentimentality about how a thing looked - you know I’m no helpless maid.”
“It’s not just about how it looks,” Morgana retorted. “It’s how it feels to me. Dishonourable.”
Crowley was not a being of honour. She was a being who broke things. Big things like drawbridges and portcullesses; small things like laws and promises and spines. Faced with an indestructible fortification, Crowley wouldn’t always devote herself to brute force, sometimes preferring an oblique attack, chipping away with demonic ingenuity.
Crowley had always had a sense that Morgana’s composure might fracture under the right pressure, if a certain force was exacted along the right fault line, but had never quite determined exactly what that might be.
This conversation was the closest Crowley had ever felt to cracking her.
“And what would you prefer? Some strapping youth?”
“That is not my concern.”
“You surely wouldn’t want me to swap into any old thing,” Crowley said reproachfully. It was intriguing that Morgana had made this request. “You must have an idea.”
“I really don’t care.”
“But you’d care if I stayed like this,” Crowley mused.
Morgana glowered, but didn’t deny it.
“I could resume my demon form.” A yearning kindled under her skin at this idea. It would feel so good to stretch.
“And put the horses into a mortal panic? That, my brother would never forgive.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know,” Morgana snapped. “Forget I said anything. Stay like this.”
“No,” Crowley said, and changed.
He kept a lot of it the same: the lanky long limbs, the facial features, no need to mess too much with any of that. He’d enjoyed the effect Frán’s face had had on people - on Aziraphale, especially - so he made only the smallest adjustments there to create a more masculine visage. The hair could stay; he remembered how Aziraphale’s hands had closed in it, and wouldn’t want to deprive him of doing that again. And thinking of Aziraphale… he made a few more adjustments, giving himself a deeper voice, and body hair, and a cock and balls to be reckoned with. Clothes were an afterthought; he kept the tight black riding leathers that he’d preferred when Frán rode, but dispensed with the dress and cloak. His new genitalia were a bit squashed, but a combination of shifting his stance and slightly loosening the crotch of his trousers made all the difference.
He cocked his hip at Morgana and spread his hands as best he could within the confines of the roped cuffs. “Better?” Oo, the new voice was a triumph.
Morgana was staring. Crowley felt her gaze run over him like quicksilver, before jerking back to his face. “...Better,” she said faintly.
Well, what do you know?
Crowley grinned, showing his teeth. “Going to help me onto this horse?” He could probably manage it even with his hands immobilised, stepping up into the stirrup and heaving himself up, but Morgana’s expression was luminous with baffled heat and he wanted to enjoy it a moment longer.
Wordlessly, Morgana made a cradle of her hands and proffered it to him at knee height. There was something deliciously obscene about her choosing this, of all the ways she could help him onto a horse. Crowley stepped up, tucking the toe of his new riding boot into her fingers and pressing hard as he straightened his leg. She didn’t buckle; she lifted until he could slide his other leg over the horse, marvelling at the corded strength his new muscles provided.
Crowley righted himself in the saddle and looked down. “So, does that look better to you?”
Morgana was shaking out her fingers, staring up the length of his leather-clad thigh; she blinked rapidly, transferring her gaze to Crowley’s face, and then before his eyes her composure repaired itself. “Somewhat,” she said.
Her eyes sheeted gold and the rope pulled tight of its own accord, binding Crowley’s wrists to the saddle and then forming a complex series of knots. Crowley recognised a sigil of immobilisation in there - apparently for good measure since the rope and cuffs were doing a perfectly good job on their own.
“There,” Morgana said. “That’s better.”
“Doesn’t feel dishonourable, sending me off in this new form, all trussed up?”
“Not at all,” Morgana said, her voice dry.
Crowley tried his hand at a charming smile. “Still think I’m going to fare terribly?”
“Probably.”
“He’s going to try and save me, you know,” Crowley said. “Aziraphale. He thinks he’ll find a way to release me from Hell’s return summons.”
“I doubt that very much. He did not seem very magical.”
“If he manages it,” Crowley said, off-hand now, “I don’t suppose you’d extend us an invitation back here, the pair of us, you know, if we wanted an occasional break from that tiresome, dreary Southern Court?”
A complex wash of emotion passed across Morgana’s face, too brief for Crowley to decipher. “I don’t suppose I would,” she said. And then, as if the word had tripped out without her intention, she added, “Unless…”
Crowley pounced. “Unless?”
Morgana shook her head, folded her arms. “It’s vanishingly unlikely, of course.”
“But…?”
Morgana blew out an impatient breath. “But if your knight somehow does manage to pull it off, and if my brother and his pet wizard stick to their side of the bargain, and if I don’t immediately hear word to the contrary about some fresh dishonour, then I wouldn’t… object… to Angeline fulfilling the offer she made. The role of emissary between our Isle of Apples—between Avalon and Camelot.” She rushed on, as if already regretting the words and wanting to eclipse them. “And if you come as a pair then I suppose it’s not impossible I’d expect you both back, is it? On your best behaviour.”
Crowley fought to keep his mounting glee out of his expression. Trust Aziraphale to melt the ice queen where everyone else had failed. “Sounds like long odds.”
“The longest,” Morgana said readily, a glint in her eye challenging him to suggest otherwise.
“Well, this is probably goodbye, forever, then!”
“Probably,” Morgana agreed. Her tone became formal, serious. “Fare well, demon.”
Crowley gave her a little nod. “Fare well, mistress.”
Morgana rolled her eyes at the honorific, then slapped the horse sharply on the rump; it sprang forwards and headed for the main gate, jolting Crowley wildly. He clung on as best he could with fingers and thighs.
“Enjoy your last night on Earth,” Morgana called after him, seemingly timing it so that the wind would carry away any attempted reply.
The air filled with drumming hooves as a number of warhorses cantered after him, and Crowley caught a glimpse of two hooded figures throwing open both huge doors of the main gate just in time. They thundered out onto the dark bridge, stretching over the black water to the surly expanse of deepest green forest beyond.
Crowley wasn’t free - he was still bound to the sword, and out here he could feel its pulsing presence calling ever-more strongly to his blood - but the cold air whipping past his face tasted like freedom.
Avalon was behind him. He was going back to Aziraphale, at speed, and they had at least this final night together.
Beyond that, his fate would lie in Aziraphale’s hands.
Chapter 25: Night 12 - Something Entirely New
Summary:
Aziraphale and Crowley are reunited. A hot mess ensues.
Notes:
This chapter is what is colloquially known as THE PAY OFF (PART ONE).
Thank you and enjoy 😘
CW:
consensual m/m/m/m/m/demon orgy. first kisses and first times, and also, spanking and spit roasting and an awful lot in between.
Chapter Text
They heard them long before they saw them.
Aziraphale dashed outside before the others had registered that a few distant hoof beats had become many; the other men erupted out after him in a formation of sorts, peering into the forest ahead as the approaching noise built and built. Horses, a small herd, charging back towards the village, filling the woods with hasty upheaval.
The sun was sinking between tall trees, painting the edges of the leaves with a brush of benign fire. The air seemed honeyed with Aziraphale's expectation—and then he saw him. And gasped.
Rounding a bend at the head of the herd was the most entrancing man Aziraphale had ever seen, red hair streaming behind him, galloping on a tall black horse at full speed, sending up clouds of dust. His hands were in entirely the wrong position, affixed to the front of the saddle, but he looked like this was a minor hindrance, certainly not affecting his enjoyment of the ride.
He looked like he was riding for pleasure. Aziraphale stared. In a mesmerising trick of the light, the setting sun’s richest rays were gilding the swirling dust, giving the illusion that the man was riding straight out of a living inferno.
“C-Crowley?” Aziraphale squeaked.
The man shot Aziraphale a wicked smile as he brought the black horse to a halt using only his posture - possibly a tactical squeeze of those brazenly long legs - and the rest of the horses fanned out around him.
“Angel.”
Fuck. What a voice. In that moment this apparent stranger was more attractive than Lancelot, more charismatic than Arthur, more debonair than Merlin, more impish than Percival. He was at once the sum of every man Aziraphale had ever laid avaricious eyes upon, and something entirely new.
“What’s, um—“ Aziraphale broke off and tried again. He could see now that Crowley’s arms were bound in thick raw rope, which looped around the base of Crowley’s wrists and back into a complex array of knots. “Your hands.”
“She tied me to the horse,” Crowley said, nevertheless managing to give an eloquent shrug. He tossed his head, throwing most of his red hair behind his shoulders like a mane of his own, leaving only a few strands sticking to his sweaty face and throat. And—the loose black jerkin he was wearing would have been nondescript on most men, but it was damp now, and clinging to the slant of Crowley’s waist, before tucking into the most outrageously tight trousers Aziraphale had ever seen on anyone. It was amazing his thighs could stretch so wide across the saddle given the… the degree of confinement and exactly what they seemed to be confining.
Behind Aziraphale, Merlin cleared his throat. “There’s a spell of binding on that rope,” he said, sounding like a man determined to keep his mind on a single matter.
“Seems she wanted to be absolutely sure you were going to be delivered directly to us,” Arthur said cheerfully. His hand was reaching out to one of the loose horses, letting it nose his palm.
Percival was already striding forth amongst the other horses, smoothing his arms around their huge necks and patting them fondly, murmuring in a low soothing voice about what good boys they were, so faithful and strong, and how he’d never given up on them.
Lancelot seemed to find this something of a distraction.
Aziraphale was struggling to remember that anyone apart from Crowley existed. He watched transfixed as, in a movement that was much more slithering serpent than the average man, Crowley wriggled out of the saddle and jumped lightly down to the ground, leaving his wrists raised above his head by the knotted rope. It would have looked awkward had his joints not seemed unbound by the laws of human anatomy. Instead Crowley almost looked comfortable, lounging back against the horse’s foreleg, his arms framing his face. Crowley nuzzled his head against one straining bicep, pushing some of the hair off his face. The shirt clung even more.
“Don’t s’pose you’ve got a knife about you…?” Crowley said, jolting Aziraphale out of his paralysis.
“Oh! Of course.” Aziraphale strode forwards, hand falling to the sword on his belt, where the crystalline hilt always bore a trace of uncanny heat. Now it seemed to throb beneath his palm, or perhaps that was his own pulse he was feeling, rapid and heated, as he closed the distance between them.
Crowley was taller than Aziraphale, but not as broad. He had the same slanted cheekbones and bewitching eyes that had looked so mesmerising in Frán’s face, but subtly different, the jaw firmer, the angle of his nose more pronounced. The freckles were the same. The hair was the same. The hunger Aziraphale felt, screaming through him, a higher pitch with every step he took towards this ravishing creature, was the same.
“You, um, changed again,” Aziraphale said, voice fading away as he gazed into Crowley’s golden eyes; this close he realised the pupils had become dark vertical slits, like a cat or snake—or dragon.
“Like it?”
All Aziraphale could do was nod. Standing this close to Crowley without touching him seemed to be creating a palpable heat between them; Aziraphale's face was burning, the whole front of him was burning, his skin was calling out for the last few inches between them to be shrunk down to nothing. He wanted to push up against Crowley, breathe him in, rub against him, feel him push back. At the very least he wanted to brush back those last few strands of red hair from where they traced the steep planes of his cheeks.
Instead, Aziraphale drew the sword a couple of inches from its scabbard; just enough to let the shine of its metal catch the attention. The sword felt eager to be drawn. He could almost feel it nudging up against his hand. This was not, he was realising, the sword of any simple knight. The strength required to confidently wield it was not just physical.
Crowley’s eyes flickered like flames, acknowledging the blade, and one eyebrow twitched up. “Would you have me kiss it?”
“What?” Aziraphale said, startled. “No!” His eyes narrowed. “Did Morgana have you kiss it?”
“No,” Crowley said slowly, watching Aziraphale closely. “But it is the right of a demon’s new master to demand some show of obedience.”
Aziraphale's face burned even more. He hoped the others were too distracted by the horses and each other to be paying attention. “Oh,” he said. “I see. That’s not really my... I… was just going to cut the rope.”
The plan he’d discussed with Merlin, so measured, with so many ordered steps, had gone from Aziraphale's head. He just knew he couldn’t abide the word master on Crowley’s lips. He hadn’t expected him to be tied up. He hadn’t expected him to be a him. He was used to bracing himself against his swirling desire for Frán, and to freely craving the demon itself; this beguiling snaky man was another matter entirely.
Aziraphale tried to assess what was needed, but his mind felt misted over with warmth, as if steam was rising behind his eyes. He couldn’t quite work out how he was going to safely raise this too-powerful sword in such close confines. He didn’t want to spook the horse. Or Crowley. Or himself.
He glanced around and saw that Arthur, Lancelot and Percival were indeed more engaged in rounding up the other horses and guiding them off to the stables beside the inn; but Merlin, of course, was watching.
There was a show of confidence in that, Aziraphale told himself. The others trusted he could handle this bit. Or they trusted that Merlin could handle it, at least. Merlin, with his plan of many parts. And Merlin was—ah, Merlin was coming closer.
“Here,” Merlin said, “I’ll make it easier.”
He moved right into Crowley’s space and then reached up behind his shoulder, doing something with his hand to the mass of knots. His eyes were a fading flash of gold as he glanced back at Aziraphale; the rope twisted and thrashed like a snake before sliding free of the saddle, leaving Crowley’s arms bound together but no longer attached to the horse.
Rather than showing any hint of gratitude, Crowley turned his head and sniffed the angle of Merlin’s neck. A full, slow inhale with no attempt to hide it.
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, his voice distant.
Neither seemed to hear him, as Merlin drew back just enough to lock eyes with Crowley.
The air shimmered.
Aziraphale stared. They were close enough that they might kiss, but their eyes were matched in suspicion.
“You’re the elder,” Crowley said nonsensically, gaze darting rapidly between Merlin’s eyes and mouth. “Not the apple. You’re the one with the power.”
“Arthur is the king of this realm,” Merlin corrected. “He—”
Crowley’s lips twitched. “Not mortal power. Eternal power.”
“Our power is combined,” Merlin shot back. “Any deal with one of us includes the other.”
“Sounds delicious,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale was close enough to witness how Merlin’s shoulders stiffened at that, how his chin jerked up a fraction.
“But I’m not at liberty,” Crowley said, lifting his bound hands between the three of them and pulling a sour expression, “to make any more deals.”
“What if you were?” Aziraphale asked.
Merlin shot him a cautioning look, which reminded Aziraphale too late that the plan had involved getting everyone inside first, making secure the surroundings, the circles of salt, the written contract laid out in full…
Crowley gave Aziraphale a crooked smile. It made him feel like none of that mattered - like nothing else mattered. “How?”
“First,” Aziraphale said, stepping back to fully draw the sword, then holding it vertically between them with utmost care, “I’d have you untied.”
Without a word, Crowley held out his wrists, displaying the complex array of rope and knots, wrapping around his forearms with a single loose end. Was that a glint of metal, amongst the coils? Were the ropes… seething? Aziraphale couldn’t tell exactly, but there was something fiendish about the arrangement, something that Aziraphale found his eyes didn’t want to focus on.
It had to go.
Aziraphale steadied his arm and sliced slowly between Crowley’s proffered wrists, ensuring to catch only the thick snarls of rope against the blade. The sword was brutally sharp, and had a beautiful weight to it. The various knots parted easily at its slightest pressure, unfurling like dried seed heads pulling apart, fragmenting into curling tendrils and wisps of pale dust.
Something dark in the heart of the rope nest burst into black sparks before fading away, and Crowley hissed under his breath.
Aziraphale jerked the sword back reflexively, looking with alarm at Crowley’s face. “Did I hurt you? What was that?”
“Binding rune,” Merlin and Crowley said simultaneously, in very different tones of voice.
“Oh. Should I not have—?”
Crowley yanked his wrists apart, and the rest of the rope fell to the ground in pieces, followed by two thuds of metal—manacles, Aziraphale realised belatedly, which had also unlatched now with ease.
Crowley gave Aziraphale a smile that was not entirely nice, with teeth that were sharper than human teeth between lips just slightly too red. His serpentine eyes almost glowed. “Thank you,” he breathed, rubbing his wrists. “That is much better.”
He took a step towards Aziraphale - more of a slink, really - and Merlin threw up a hand, his own eyes rimmed with gold.
“Not so fast.”
Crowley looked offended, but stilled. It didn’t look voluntary. “What?!”
Aziraphale gave a guilty start at Merlin’s grim expression. “Erm, well, I was perhaps supposed to get you inside before I freed you.”
“Freed me?” Crowley demanded, looking between them, then threw out his hands and released a wild laugh. “That sounds truly gallant, angel, and so I hate to break it to you, but you haven’t freed me at all.”
“He’s done enough for now,” Merlin said, warily poking the small heap of detritus on the ground with his boot. It gave off a desultory fizzle of black sparks.
“But I’m not free,” Crowley said to Merlin, more insistent now. “He’s not ssset me free. My hands are a tad more comfy, I grant you, but I’m ssstill completely bound to that pointy ssstick.” His focus shifted to Aziraphale, voice growing sharper again. “The only way you could free me would be to give it back, and he’s hardly going to let you do that, now, is he?”
Aziraphale swallowed. “Well—”
“Good grief, can we please get inside,” Merlin hissed, waving urgently for Aziraphale to resheath the sword and proceed ahead of him; chastened, Aziraphale clamped his mouth shut and hurried back towards the inn, heart racing.
He’d erred. He’d gone too fast - with Crowley right there, urging him to go faster. But they couldn’t. They had to do this safely, according to Merlin. And so now he had to focus.
Aziraphale had listened earlier to Merlin’s plan and presumed he’d have no difficulty following any of the various instructions - he was a knight! Upholder of law! Used to taking orders - but something about that commanding look in Crowley’s eyes made everything else melt away.
Merlin and Crowley followed behind at a more considered pace. Aziraphale fancied he could feel Crowley’s gaze on the back of his neck - and lower - with every step. He yearned to spin around and let Crowley bump into him, to gather that slinky lanky form up in his arms. He resisted.
Inside, the inn was draughty with the hearth already burned low and the back door propped open.
Arthur re-entered at the other side of the room only seconds after Aziraphale, Merlin and Crowley came through the front door. Arthur was pink-cheeked, stamping his feet and dusting off his hands on his thighs, bringing with him another blast of cold air.
He took one look at Merlin’s face and winced. “Ah, sorry. We were just sorting out the horses.”
He had, Aziraphale realised, entirely delegated the demon-wrangling bit to Merlin.
Merlin visibly bit his tongue. Then he said in a too-pleasant tone, “Aziraphale, please build up the fire. Arthur, would you be so kind as to fetch the others? And then once they’re all inside, let’s redraw the salt circle, shall we? With all haste. Before this situation progresses. Sire.”
“And what should I do?” Crowley asked, making it sound impossibly suggestive as he surveyed the interior with indolent delight. He wandered to the centre of the room, eyes gleaming as he looked around. “Why, you’ve made it so… cosy.”
There were certainly more cushioned armchairs, luxurious rugs and shiny pieces of tableware than this inn had likely ever known in its former years.
“Keeps out the chill,” Arthur said cheerfully, impervious to Merlin’s palpable impatience, before ducking out the back door again. At least he didn’t seem to be worrying about anything going horribly wrong.
Crowley pursed his lips, nodding. “I bet it does.” He spread both hands against a battered central tabletop and pushed nimbly up backwards onto it, toppling a candlestick behind him with a clatter. “…Oops.”
“Just—stay,” Merlin muttered, barely sparing Crowley a glance as he hurried around, fixing salt lines across doorways where careless feet had trampled through them.
Aziraphale didn’t dare look at Crowley, lest he lose his head again. He so dearly wanted this to go well. He also didn’t dare look at the low table right next to the hearth, where the brand new painstakingly-written contract lay in a furled white scroll, curled up in its glittering bowl of salt.
They’d opted for one-hundred-and-one nights in the end, which Merlin had said would require a reliable, predictable amount of power that he could call upon entirely by himself, and which Aziraphale had reasoned was still a huge amount longer than he’d had with Crowley so far. It would be time enough to prove this thing between them worked, if such a thing were possible to prove. It… was better than nothing. It would have to be enough!
Unless Crowley didn’t want what he was offering at all.
Unless Crowley preferred a night of true freedom - even if it was followed by inexorable damnation as the sun rose.
In which case… well, they would have to exert every effort to limit the damage he could do before dawn. But Aziraphale didn’t think it would come to that. It couldn’t—that wasn’t what Crowley wanted. Crowley wanted him.
Aziraphale tried not to concern himself with the flurry of doubts rising in the back of his mind, and busied himself instead with stoking the fire. Flames feathered around his fingertips as he nestled dry logs amongst smouldering ones, breathing out gentle encouragement for them to catch.
“What’s all this, then?” Crowley asked, sounding bored now, as Merlin continued around the room, tweaking arrangements of wooden cups and polished stones, lighting candles at every window and doorway.
Merlin answered before Aziraphale could think of a diplomatic way to describe their venture. “What does it look like?”
Crowley gave a soft, slightly dangerous laugh. “Let’s see. You’ve got your trinkets, your bits and pieces, all this lovely shiny salt…” His tone was too mild. Then his words stopped Aziraphale in his tracks. “I’d say it looks an awful lot like preparation for a ritual sacrifice, wouldn’t you?”
“Sacrifice?” Aziraphale blurted, twisting around in horror. He’d promised himself not to interrupt again but some things couldn’t be borne. “No! Absolutely not!”
Crowley was lounging slouched back on the tabletop with every evidence of relaxation, thighs lolling apart, and his expression and voice were amused, but—there was something else. Tension, barely perceptible, in the spread of his long fingers on the scarred tabletop. A hint of a twitch to his eyes. The slit pupils were very narrow.
“What else would you call it?” Crowley asked. “All these wards - it’s not to keep anything out, is it?” His next smile to Aziraphale was mirthless. “No, your charming wizard here doesn’t want me running away. So that begs the question - what’s he planning to do, that I might get it in my head to flee?”
The fire swept up into several logs at once, enveloping Aziraphale with heat. Before he knew what he was doing, he pushed to his feet and crossed the floor, pressed his palms into the table between Crowley’s splayed knees, and gazed earnestly up at him.
“You’ve got the wrong idea,” he said. Believe me.
A terrible tinge of resignation swept through Crowley’s expression, and he cupped Aziraphale's face with one palm. “Or you have.”
A chill went down Aziraphale's spine despite the heat of Crowley’s hand and the building warmth of the room.
He… hadn’t, had he? He could trust Merlin. He did trust Merlin. Merlin wouldn’t say one thing and then do another.
Crowley read whatever was crossing his face. Brushed his thumb over Aziraphale's mouth. “It’s not that far-fetched,” he said, hypnotic now, a fatalistic wryness in his low voice. “Bit of demon binding, far away from Court where no one else gets hurt if it all goes wrong. Drain the rest of my power into this sword, siphon it off until all that’s left of me is a husk where a demon once stood - all ready to get sucked back to Hell forever. They could make an artifact.”
Aziraphale’s mouth fell open, aghast, as fingers of dread drummed against his chest. That was unthinkable! Horrible! But they would never… Merlin and the others would… never…
His world started to disintegrate at the edges, remembering the shape Merlin’s eyes had gone when he’d heard, Excalibur. But no. No! Crowley couldn’t possibly be right about this… could he?
“Didn’t you ever wonder what happened to the dragon who provided the scales for that amulet of theirs?” Crowley raised his eyebrows, pausing just long enough for an agitated knot to rise in Aziraphale's throat, then shrugged. “Powerful weapon they’ll make, if they pull this off. Excellent addition to the king’s armaments - what an asset to any war! Of course, they’d have to be careful about who wields it, demon sword and all. Might have a tendency to bite. But… you’re handling it without too much trouble, aren’t you? Could almost say it likes you.”
The sword gave a throb against Aziraphale's hip, and he flinched against Crowley’s hand. “Does it?”
“Very much,” Crowley said, with another of those resigned, crooked smiles that made Aziraphale want to burn down this entire inn. “Picture it - the most noble, virtuous white knight and his vicious, flaming sword that only he can wield. Doesn’t that sound like a figure of legend?”
“You—” Percival said loudly, startling Aziraphale to jerk back and look around; he hadn’t noticed them come back, but they were all there, and the door was closed again behind them, fuck, they were all there, listening to Crowley’s speech with varying expressions of bemusement. “—Have got one unruly beast of an imagination, did anyone ever tell you that?”
Crowley blinked rapidly, re-focusing up from Aziraphale. “What?” Apparently he also hadn’t noticed the room refilling.
Aziraphale looked around, following the line of Crowley’s gaze.
Percival gave them an easy grin. “I said,” he repeated, strolling closer, “that’s quite the imagination you’ve got there. And what a flare for the telling! Here I thought Lance was our resident bard…”
His cheerful voice was a salve for the raw dread that had enfolded Aziraphale's chest.
And as for its effect on Crowley—Crowley was still staring. He had taken breath to reply and then as Percival drew closer, the breath roved out again, and Crowley said nothing. His lips stayed slightly ajar, and his pupils were flickering like a—well. Like a dragon scenting its next meal. Or mate. He looked Percival up and down as if not wholly convinced he was real.
Aziraphale did some quick calculations. Frán would definitely have seen Percival before, at least from afar, as one of Arthur’s knights at Court - but given Percival’s perpetual avoidance of Morgana, they might never have spoken. Meanwhile in his demon form Crowley may only have seen him snoring in the dormitory, all those nights ago. In the dark. At a distance. Covered in blankets.
He did make quite the impressive vision up close.
“Well,” Crowley said after a long moment, once Percival was close enough to tower over them. “Aziraphale never mentioned you were here.”
Lancelot’s gaze was riveted to Crowley; at this low appreciative utterance, he took an involuntary-looking step forwards, then paused and bit his lip, visibly hesitating, watching for Percival’s reaction.
Percival just chuckled, then gave Aziraphale an affectionate cuff around the back of the head. “Didn’t he? I’m distraught,” he declared. “Crushed. Beside myself! But I’m not as cracked in the head as you must be,” he said to Crowley, with an affable jab of one large finger towards Crowley’s face, “if you think for one minute that this one would let us betray you like that.”
Crowley blinked again, leaning back a bit more on his table, focusing on Percival’s finger. “I… I see.” He looked a little pink. “Thanks.” His eyelashes flicked up to fix Percival with a speculative glance. "Good to know."
At once, something new firmed in Lancelot’s expression,followed by a fleeting look of amused resignation before he strode closer. Then it was gone, and Lancelot looked his charismatic self once more, eyes gleaming, a picture of untroubled composure.
“He’s right of course,” Lancelot drawled, his gaze sliding from Percival, to Crowley, to Aziraphale, and back—as Lancelot stepped half in front of them, putting his body between Crowley and Percival.
Aziraphale heard Crowley make an involuntary noise that was either interest or dismay.
“Sir Aziraphale is quite painfully devoted to your cause,” Lancelot told Crowley, all warm confidence now, apparently finding his stride. “He won’t have a word said against you.”
“Not a word,” Percival agreed, throwing a companionable arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and giving him a squeeze, forcing him to stand up straight.
Aziraphale had a front row seat as Crowley’s focus zipped back and forth between them, man to man, pupils expanding now, black and glossy.
“Quite emphatic about it,” Lancelot said breezily, wandering around them to stand on the other side of Aziraphale, shoulder brushing up against Percival’s knuckles. He leaned against them, giving Crowley his most charming grin. The one that was essentially a weapon in its own right. “I wonder what you might have done to deserve it.”
“I…” Crowley said, and then Arthur strode over and slipped his arm around Lancelot’s waist, leaning his other hand casually against Crowley’s table, fingertips almost brushing the edge of Crowley’s thigh.
“I’m beginning to think my dear sister might have misled you about our ambitions,” Arthur said, a knowing hint of challenge in his voice. “She’s the one binding people to things and trying to sacrifice all my best men as a diversion. We’re more interested in making… allies.”
“And for what it’s worth,” Merlin said, coming to stand next to Percival, looking all the more diminutive next to his bulk, and yet still competing to be the most compelling figure in the room, “that great green dragon was doing its level best to eat Arthur whole. And those scales you’re so concerned about were left in a great green smear across his best shield - we only realised it might be possible to salvage one when we got far enough away to think about bashing out the dents.”
“It went back to its sea caves, if I remember rightly,” Arthur said, sounding thoughtful now. “We never did go back and explore.”
“One day,” Lancelot said, nudging Arthur as if this were an old joke.
Arthur grinned and nudged him back. “One day. Though I seem to have rather a lot on.”
Aziraphale, squished between Lancelot and Percival’s warmth, realised he was holding his breath.
Crowley was still staring at them. At these five men ranged shoulder to shoulder, with Aziraphale firmly in the middle; disarming a demon with nothing more than their shared countenance.
Or perhaps not disarming, Aziraphale thought, watching a soft pink tinge diffuse down Crowley’s neck. They’d unsettled his conviction, though. Intrigued him. Put something else on his mind.
“Well—what, then?” Crowley demanded, sounding a little wild. “Why ensure I can’t escape if you’re not going to do something horrible to me?”
“Quite the opposite,” Arthur said firmly. “We wanted to make it safe for us to offer you… Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale felt himself blush as everyone looked at him. “Er, he means offer you a deal,” he prevaricated, then realised that was nonsense - Arthur had got straight to the heart of it after all. He looked Crowley in the eye and made himself elaborate. “Leave Morgana and join me instead.”
There was a pause.
“I… already did that, didn’t I?” Crowley said, with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “You were instrumental in arranging it, if I recall.”
“I mean,” Aziraphale said, trying again, “let us destroy Morgana’s contract and join, um, my contract. Let me offer you a new contract on Earth, a longer one. With me.”
Crowley’s eyes widened, and for a moment Aziraphale couldn’t read him at all.
“You can take some time to think about it,” Aziraphale added quickly, “if that’s not something you’re sure you’d want to do,” and then Crowley was hopping down from the table and cupping Aziraphale’s face in both hands and kissing him, all fierce heat and careless teeth, as the others guffawed and scrambled out of their way.
Aziraphale stumbled backwards, hands coming up to grasp Crowley’s wiry shoulders, opening his mouth under this welcome onslaught. Holding him felt like an adventure and a homecoming at once. And kissing him… ah. Aziraphale kissed him and kissed him and returned to kiss him again; Crowley tasted irresistible and wild, new and familiar, known and unknown, all together.
“That’s something I very much want to do,” Crowley muttered against his lips, pressing another kiss to them, another, another, before eventually slowing and going still. Then he twisted around, relinquishing his grip on Aziraphale's face only to grasp his arm instead, and waved distractedly at the ragged assembly of amused men behind them.
“And you lot are here to what - watch?” he asked, voice husky. “Applaud?”
“Bit of both,” Percival said, winking at Crowley, and somehow it was that casual gesture - familiar, inclusive - that made Aziraphale dare hope this might just work after all.
Crowley made a low growling noise in response, which possibly only Aziraphale heard but he had a strong sense that everyone felt. A charge filled the air.
“We’re here to bear witness,” Arthur was saying seriously, as if he of all people owed Crowley an answer. “To formalise it, make sure it all goes smoothly—and to ensure your honourable conduct, when the time comes. Just in case your intention wavers.”
“Won’t,” Crowley muttered, but any vitriol towards Arthur did seem to have melted away.
“You’re a demon,” Lancelot pointed out, cocking his head. His voice was at its silken best. “It’s not impossible that you’d lie.”
Instead of taking offense, Crowley nodded eagerly - and Aziraphale realised to his amazement that Crowley approved of them protecting him. It was as if their wariness of Crowley’s duplicity made him hold them in higher regard.
“Well I am prone to that,” Crowley was agreeing. “So what if I did?”
“I’d try to convince you,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley gave him a brief, blinding smile.
“And then we’d fall back on the salt,” Merlin said dryly. “Try to keep you enclosed ‘til I could banish you myself.”
“Meanwhile we’d keep you occupied with good old hand-to-hand combat,” Arthur said, exchanging a look with Percival.
“Or distract you in other ways,” Lancelot said innocently, with a sidelong glance that made Aziraphale suddenly aware of his pulse throughout the whole of his body.
Lancelot had propped himself against the edge of the table with his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankle. Aziraphale stared at him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something subtle and yet very important had changed in his countenance - as if some internal conflict had been resolved, or at least set aside - and the louche confidence that had risen in its place was mesmerising.
Lancelot’s silky voice became almost conversational. “It’s been a long time since I fought a demon but… I’m sure I remember a few tricks.”
Crowley made a tiny noise that sounded like “ngk.”
Percival was also staring at Lancelot. “Uh—yes,” he said, nodding now as well, visibly swallowing. “Loads of tricks up our sleeves when it comes to, uh, demon fighting. What with it being such a legitimate and honourable pastime. Duty and suchlike.”
“I’m quaking in my boots,” Crowley drawled, grinning and scuffing the heel of his tight, black leather riding boot against the stone floor. “And if I don’t lie?”
A tingle went through Aziraphale, so strong he imagined Crowley must be able to feel it too.
“Then I’ll provide the magic,” Merlin said. “You can pour your own power into the new contract, but I will still need to augment Aziraphale’s contribution.”
Crowley nodded. “He is very unmagical,” he said, and then yelped when Aziraphale pinched the sparse flesh of Crowley’s stomach, under his jerkin. The skin there was smooth and soft, and Aziraphale soothed it with his fingertips afterwards. Crowley shifted more purposefully, arching a little to put more of his flank in reach, and Aziraphale rewarded him with some teasing circles, broader and lighter, until he felt Crowley shiver.
All at once, he realised everyone was staring at them, except for Percival, who was biting the edge of his own thumbnail and studying the ceiling.
Crowley raised a fist to his mouth and coughed, poorly concealing a smirk. Then he looked around. “Where is it, then?” he asked, deftly changing the subject, holding the back of his neck with one hand whilst running the other up and down Aziraphale's spine.
“Where’s what?” Merlin asked, as Aziraphale shifted and looked at the ceiling as well, trying not to think about how conspicuously this body betrayed its interests.
“Contract,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale's attention snapped back to him before - inevitably, irresistibly - flicking to the low table in front of the hearth. The shallow bowl of salt glistened in the firelight, giving the impression that the scroll was a beautiful statue or precious relic on a plinth.
Crowley appeared to notice it for the first time. “Ohhhhh,” he breathed. “It’s been here all along.”
Diffident now, Aziraphale walked over and picked it up, dusting off the salt as he did so.
Crowley’s eyes followed the movement, crinkling at the edges. “You really didn’t want me to sense it,” he said, extending his hand.
“Not til we were sure of you,” Merlin said, coming forwards to flank Crowley, watching over his shoulder as he unfurled the scroll.
Crowley inclined his head slightly as if to look back at him. “And now you’re sure of me?”
“Sure as we ever will be, I warrant,” Merlin said, matter-of-fact, and reached forwards to point out something on the page. He was so close to Crowley that it almost looked intimate. And yet they weren’t touching - like two opposing magnets, they kept just a fraction of distance between them in all planes. “If there are any changes I should make to the clauses, you must tell me - I don’t have a copy of how Morgana did it but I - I’m widely read.”
Crowley frowned, his focus entirely on the words now, poring over it as if oblivious to Merlin breathing down the back of his neck. “You’ve got this right - it’s all fairly standard,” he said, running his fingertip down the top half of the page. “I don’t think that part of demon summoning has changed in a thousand years!”
Crowley couldn’t see it, but Aziraphale caught how Merlin smiled at that, a tight little grin and the barest bounce on his heels.
“What about here?” Merlin asked, pointing at something further down.
Crowley read it, then sucked air in through his teeth. “See, I could slither through a hole or three in that,” he started to say, and then read on and his eyes widened. “Oh! Or perhaps not. No—I have to hand it to you, this is a fairly robust summons. And the bind looks sound.”
Merlin beamed.
“Oh don’t, his head’ll get so big it won’t fit through the door,” Arthur called, and the others joined in the groaning laughter, drowning out Merlin’s lofty reply.
Aziraphale was watching Crowley with his head on one side. As if Aziraphale's attention was a physical touch, Crowley looked sharply up. Angel?
Aziraphale grinned. He still wasn’t used to this form of communication being accessible whilst not at the height of passion. I was just contemplating - did you read Morgana’s contract with this much attention?
Ha! No. Evidently.
I did wonder…
But then I supposed I could tolerate anything for twelve nights. Crowley lifted one shoulder in a minimal shrug. Given the generous quota she was offering.
Aziraphale felt a flash of offense at that, though he didn’t know why.
Crowley’s eyes widened and he hurried on. Whereas what you’re offering is—angel, it’s so much more. It’s everything. It’s important to me to get it right. And so I’ll read every single one of your damned wizard’s damned clauses, even if it takes all night.
Relief surged up inside him, fresh as a welling spring. Oh! I see, well - good! Carry on.
Crowley twitched the scroll flatter within his fingers and peered over the top of it, like an ancient man of books. His cascade of hair glimmered in the firelight, like an extension of it, as he read onwards. Aziraphale couldn’t remember ever feeling so happy.
And then Crowley’s fine, expressive eyebrows drew together. “Oh,” he said out loud, in a different tone of voice. A dull tone.
Aziraphale tensed. “What?”
“This is your will? Your wishes?”
“Yes...” He had a horrible feeling he knew what Crowley was about to object to - because he would have objected, were their roles reversed. How could he not? Aziraphale had rationalised that it would be fine, was an agreeable compromise, would still be nice. But deep down, he knew Crowley’s stance on nice.
Crowley lowered the paper a little so that Aziraphale could be caught by his full glare. “You only want me for a handful of days?”
His voice was scornful with a little theatrical outrage thrown in, but in his eyes—a sudden, deep hurt blazed.
Aziraphale scrambled. “No! No,” he started, “no, that’s not all I want, of course—”
“But that’s all we have the power for,” Merlin interjected calmly. “It’s not safe to try to make it longer - it might fail completely. At the end of the trial we will know more, we’ll be able to consolidate the–”
“Trial?!” Crowley shouted.
“Not trial,” Aziraphale said quickly, voice lifting insistently. “Not—no—first! First part! Our first chapter,” he tried, beseeching, placating, “Crowley, please - don’t be upset.”
“I’m not upset,” Crowley hissed, and in truth he looked more furious now than anything.
“I’d be upset,” Arthur volunteered, clapping Crowley on the shoulder.
Crowley snarled at him.
Arthur raised his hands again, smiling and unperturbed, and continued with what he was saying. “I would! In your position - upset and, well, put it this way, following particularly bad arguments with Merlin I’ve invaded entire counties.”
“Lies,” Merlin put in mildly. “You’ve never invaded anywhere you hadn’t set your sights on already.”
Arthur exchanged a look with Crowley. “But it’s just how they think,” he said, confiding as if they were old friends. “Believe me, there's no offence meant by it. It’s all trials and tests and maybe this year, maybe next year… but they mean no harm,” Arthur said, and touched Crowley’s arm again, more carefully. “And it doesn’t mean they think any less of you. They’re just…” He shrugged. “Wizards.”
“Aziraphale is not a wizard,” Crowley grouched, but something in Arthur’s dauntless comradery seemed to have had an effect and the dark fervour had gone out of his voice. He slouched against Arthur’s hand. “He’s very–”
“Unmagical, I know,” Arthur said. “But look at him. Deep down, intrinsic power or no, he is a wizard.”
Aziraphale could come back and dwell on that statement later. “I do mean no harm by it,” he said, hearing his own voice come out small and earnest. I love you. And then, because it would surely mean even more out loud in front of witnesses, he steeled himself. “I love you.”
Arthur’s eyes softened; Crowley’s seemed to blaze.
Aziraphale stepped forwards again, reached for Crowley’s hands. He held Crowley’s fingertips tightly and said, “I only want to save you - this gives us more time to get it right.”
Crowley’s gaze darted over Aziraphale, then Merlin, then Arthur, then back to Aziraphale. “Go on then.”
“Wait,” Merlin said quickly, “wait—the contract, though, will you honour it? Will you sign it?”
Crowley glared at him, apparently now viewing Merlin entirely as the architect of their limitations. “Let him give me the sword and find out.”
There was still a sense of hurt about him—not on the surface, where he looked tetchy and restless, but on some other level that Aziraphale wondered if only he could see.
He’d truly wounded him, and… and so there was only one thing for it.
He did the reckless thing. He let go of Crowley’s fingers and drew the sword again, holding it up in both hands, swallowing as the blade responded to Crowley’s proximity with unreal fire that raced up along its length. The flames were amber with flashes of white and blue, like Crowley’s demonic eyes, and the air around them seemed to hum and crackle. It was so beautiful. So powerful.
Aziraphale held his breath and gave it to Crowley.
“I relinquish this sword, that you might retrieve your own power,” he recited. One step of Merlin’s intricate plan that he did remember. “I release my control, that you might become your own master.”
Crowley took it away from him just slightly faster than was ritualistically appropriate. He plucked the sword from Aziraphale's grasp and clutched the hilt in both hands. The flames redoubled, more vibrant the longer Crowley held it, licking hungrily up and down the blade.
Behind him, the other men displayed varying degrees of apprehension—but did not seem unduly hostile. Arthur looked ready for anything; Lancelot looked amused but there was also a sense that he was calculating melee ranges; Merlin’s deep green eyes were narrowed in determination, yet there was no flicker of gold to them at all. Percival looked positively exhilarated.
With a roar, Crowley plunged the blade into his own chest. The glow of it disappeared inside him, flames rushing out from the point of contact to envelop his entire form. As the hilt connected with Crowley’s breastbone it shattered in an explosion of white hot light: the room trembled, the flagstones seeming to shudder beneath their feet, and the fire in the hearth whirled in answering uproar.
For a moment it was too bright to bear. Aziraphale closed his eyes and saw, behind his eyelids, the crystal-clear imprint of Crowley’s demon form: large as life, his familiar huge horned red fire demon, outstretched wings beating, clawed hands clutching his chest. The centre of his breastbone was glowing like a red-hot coal - was that Crowley’s heart? His soul? The power Morgana had taken from him? - but within seconds it dissipated, and Crowley threw his arms out wide, his snarling mouth opening around a rumbling, satisfied, animalistic noise.
YES. My confinement is broken.
…Crowley?
Crowley’s head turned to Aziraphale, the raging fire of his true gaze burning ever brighter.
You.
Aziraphale's eyes flew open to find the room’s light tolerable again and the Crowley in front of him still shaped like a man. Crowley looked sweaty and was swaying, his red hair flowing down his shoulders in burnished waves. He seemed to be… slightly bigger. Standing taller. As if there was an energy now rushing through him that needed a little more height and reach to properly roam. His eyes, when he blinked at Aziraphale, were fully gold.
Aziraphale tried again, out loud this time. “Crowley?”
The room reeked of power—the hearth burning unnaturally high, filling the inn with dancing shadows. The salt circles were glowing now as well, a bright icy opaline white. Aziraphale could see that a few glowing grains still clung to Crowley’s long fingers where they were holding the scroll. Aziraphale's scroll. The scroll that Crowley had not yet agreed to sign.
And now - Crowley was free.
Now he didn’t have to do anything.
Burningly aware of everyone’s attention, Aziraphale approached him. He felt as exposed as that first day in Camelot, walking alone across the throne room to kneel at the king’s feet, with everybody watching and nobody on his side. But this was different. Because he had proved himself many times since then. Because he had all of them on his side. Because this was Crowley.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, thanking his voice for not trembling around the formal words. “Now you are your own master, I beseech you to answer me. In truth, what is your will?”
With a terrible smile, Crowley quite deliberately held the scroll up between them, fingers poised as if to tear it in two.
Fuck. “No!” Aziraphale protested, gripped by a dreadful slowing of time as a thousand thoughts competed for dominance. What a fool he’d been! To dare ask. To dare hope. Would he never learn? Crowley didn’t want him, not in a way that mattered; Crowley had used him, and would discard him without another thought; Crowley had betrayed him, while Aziraphale was blinded by his own naive longing; Crowley wanted—
“A hundred and one nights?” Crowley demanded bitterly. “Is that all you want from me? I would give you the world and you offer me a grain of sand?”
—Crowley wanted more.
“No!” Aziraphale cried. “I—I would—”
“Unless your intent is to provoke me?” Crowley growled, and the flames leapt higher.
With a sinking feeling Aziraphale realised the others were drawing closer, faces serious now, shoulders stiffening, their stances shifting subtly into formation.
“Is that it? You mortals are toying with me, having me ascend these peaks of hope before dashing me back down? A cruel pastime, to stir the broken dreams of a demon before consigning it to plummet back to Hell—”
“I would offer the length of my lifeline,” Aziraphale said loudly.
Crowley froze.
Merlin clapped a hand over his eyes and made a noise of protest.
Aziraphale ignored him. “Change it,” he told Crowley, waving at the scroll. “Strike out what is written there and write instead - my life. I want to give you all of my life.”
“That won’t be possible,” Merlin objected, though Aziraphale noted distantly that he was the only one whose shoulders hadn’t relaxed again.
In a whirl of movement, Crowley picked up an ember from the fire and licked it, extinguishing the flame into a sizzle of dark charcoal, making a few decisive marks on the paper before signing with a flourish.
The whole scroll started to glow.
Crowley gave Aziraphale a satisfied smirk. Done.
Crowley, I… Aziraphale was caught between heartstopping elation and a very real sense that they had just ruined everything.
“Don’t put it back in the bowl,” Merlin said quickly. “It’s signed now, it’s an active summons - the moment you put it back in that bowl Hell will seek to reclaim what it’s owed. Fuck,” he bit off, raking a hand through his hair, voice rising. “There’s not enough power for this - I’m not powerful enough.”
Aziraphale had never heard Merlin say that before. From Arthur and Lancelot’s exchanged glance, they hadn’t either.
Percival tilted his head. “But can’t you… you know… make more?” He raised his eyebrows at Lancelot, and Aziraphale heard him add, under his breath, “…Fairly certain last night they made more...”
“It’s not that simple!” Merlin either didn’t hear that last part or was choosing to ignore it. “And if we can’t muster enough power, the whole thing might fail.” Merlin’s voice grew exasperated as he refocused on Crowley. “You do recall this is a summons to Hell we’re trying to overrule? You of all beings must recognise that anything less than victory would be catastrophic.
Crowley stalked up to him. “How much do you need?”
To his credit, Merlin stood his ground despite the wild-eyed man-shaped demon getting right in his face. “It’s difficult to quantify.”
“How would we know when it was enough?” Aziraphale tried.
Merlin didn’t look away from Crowley. “Immolation of the scroll would signify that Hell accepts the exchange.”
“Well there is nothing I want more than this,” Crowley said, the words thick with intent, “so I implore you, wizard. Make it work.”
“I don’t think it can work,” Merlin said, shaking his head. “If I were in Camelot, maybe - on our hearthstone - but even then—"
Crowley’s expression grew deadly. “Be. Creative.”
When Merlin said nothing, Crowley stepped closer still, putting his mouth by Merlin’s ear. “I felt it,” he said, a low rumble that was nevertheless clearly audible. “Whatever you and the other one did with Aziraphale last night, it worked. The wanting—the waiting—the fusion of energy—it was powerful, it filled me with power, so don’t tell me you didn’t feel it too.”
A flush swept Merlin’s cheeks; he opened his mouth but no sound came out.
“Exactly,” Crowley purred. “So don’t play the fool with me. I know you have the spark in you - give me the flame.”
There was a brief silence where Merlin stared at him, and then Arthur sidled closer.
The king, at least, it appeared had made a decision.
“But we're not alone with him,” Arthur said to Crowley. His eyes were very dark. “You're here. And you’re… obviously so strong.” He wet his lips. “You talk about the power of waiting but how could we stop you from immediately taking whatever you want from us…? You might force us to do anything.”
Crowley looked at Arthur with renewed interest. “I might,” he agreed, looking him up and down.
A hint of a challenge entered Arthur’s expression.
Wordlessly, Crowley planted a fingertip in the soft bare divot at the base of Arthur’s throat and then scratched down, leaving a red line that disappeared under the laces holding Arthur’s shirt closed. Fingers buried in the fabric, Crowley closed his hand and twisted, tugging Arthur abruptly towards him.
For a moment it looked like open aggression; Percival’s eyes went round and he took an involuntary step towards them, before Lancelot’s hand shot out, staying him.
“There would be nothing to stop me,” Crowley said slowly to Arthur, with deliberate enunciation as their noses almost brushed. “I might lose my patience with your paltry efforts at any moment, at which point you would be entirely at my mercy.”
Arthur made an indistinct little noise.
Until this moment, Aziraphale had been too tense to pay much heed to the arousal stirring at the edges of his awareness. He hadn’t let himself think about what they might be discussing, let alone picture it. But that noise that Arthur made did something to him—as did Merlin’s unmistakable flare of possessiveness in its wake.
Merlin reached over and wrapped his fingers around Crowley’s wrist, as if planning to physically wrench his grip off Arthur.
“Unhand him,” he said.
Crowley inclined his chin at him. “Or what?
“Or I’ll spend all my remaining power on making you,” Merlin said calmly, eyes sheeting momentarily gold; Crowley dropped Arthur’s shirtfront like it had burnt him.
Crowley shook out his hand, smirking. “Easy there, boy,” he murmured, a mimicry of someone talking to a skittish horse. “Let’s save that power of yours for when it counts.”
Arthur, for someone just ostensibly rescued from a demon’s clutches, had not fallen back from their confrontation at all. “Yes, Merlin,” he said, with a rakish smile. “Save your power - didn’t you hear what I said about hand-to-hand combat? You should at least let me try to wrestle him to the ground first.”
Percival’s jaw unclenched again, though his eyes were still wide. Lancelot, Aziraphale noted, did not let go of Percival’s arm.
Crowley glanced from one to the other and then, apparently satisfied with the chaotic energy he'd instilled in their tight-knit group, strode back to the low table, all casual confidence.
“‘S worth a shot,” Crowley declared, and replaced the contract in its bowl.
Light ricocheted around the room in jagged patterns, and all the various lines and patterns of salt shone like they were bathed in moonlight. Hellfire - a roiling, sulphuric, larger-than-life inferno - started filling the hearth. Lurid tongues of flame roved outwards as if searching for something, swiping up the sides of the bowl in which the scroll sat, pristine.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonished, open-mouthed; for all he probably should have seen that coming, he had been distracted by the edgy heat in Arthur’s expression, the way he’d said wrestle him to the ground. Like someone confident to try, and even more confident to be soundly beaten.
“What?” Crowley shot back, spreading his hands to describe the room and everyone in it. “It’s our best chance.” Our only chance. “So let’s get started.”
“Started with what, exactly?” Aziraphale asked. He’d heard what Crowley had said, of course, but there was a vast difference between trading jibes with a sparring partner and actually making that instruction… explicit.
Crowley’s expression left him in no doubt, nodding at Merlin and Arthur. “Go on.”
Still, Aziraphale hesitated. “Go to them?”
“At once,” Crowley agreed, making a little shooing motion.
“And then…?” He needed to hear it. His brain seemed to be full of mist again. Tell me what to do.
Submit, came Crowley’s immediate internal reply. “Let them enjoy you. Whatever they want - whatever they did before to replenish me so impressively - you must let them do it again. While I watch.”
Aziraphale lost the power of speech for a moment as everything rushed downwards.
“Wait,” Merlin said sharply, raising his eyebrows. “Are you not going to lead this?”
Crowley looked as if he was irritated by repeating himself. “No. You are. Put on a show for me. Use your initiative.”
A wary, curious light flickered in Merlin’s eyes. “And you won’t… punish us for the transgression?”
“No,” Crowley said. “Unless you manage to make it boring.”
“I’ll do my best to hold your interest,” Merlin shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. And—something else.
“These two,” Crowley said, waving at Percival and Lancelot, still watching from the side, drinking it all in, “can work on keeping me occupied.” He turned to them as he spoke, pinioning them with his heavy-lidded gaze. “Can’t you?”
It didn’t sound like a question.
“Erm,” Percival started, looking cautiously from Crowley to Merlin.
“Yes,” Crowley said, decisive now. “I’ll use their mouths while I watch you debase him.”
Merlin’s eyes narrowed with something akin to the admiration of one craftsman appreciating another’s work. “They… might object,” he pointed out.
“Might they?’ Now Crowley sounded amused. He looked around. ”You! Come here, get on your knees, and open your mouth.”
Percival’s gaze jerked to Lancelot, then back to Crowley. “Me?”
“Here,” Crowley said, throwing himself down into an armchair with knees flung wide and pointing at the space between his feet. “Now.”
For a moment, no one moved - Aziraphale didn’t even breathe, perhaps no one breathed - and then Lancelot took Percival’s hand in his own and led him across the floor.
Lancelot folded smoothly to his knees before Crowley, then looked up at Percival with a sly grin.
“For the good of the realm,” Lancelot said. “Wouldn’t you say?”
Percival knelt haltingly down next to him; he still looked like he thought he was dreaming. “Er…”
“Yes,” Crowley said, unlacing the intensely tight trousers and working them down enough to allow—Aziraphale stared, as all at once Crowley’s cock sprang forward, and his own mouth went dry. Human-looking, and yet still quite something Even at a distance it was prodigious, but he didn’t get a good look before Crowley was folding an authoritative long-fingered hand around the back of each of Lancelot and Percival’s heads.
“For the good of the… whatever you said,” Crowley drawled, pulling them down. “Ah. Yes, that's it." He exhaled hard, staring down at them, eyes darkening as he watched, starting to smile. "Mmm. Aren’t you eager? Your pretty mouth was made for this. And yours. Fuck! Yes, that’s it—share. There’s enough to go round.”
Aziraphale watched as Percival and Lancelot started to suck and lick, tentative at first, before encountering each other’s mouths and fiercely kissing. Their hands rose in unison, grasping each other, before returning their attention to the thick dark length of Crowley’s cock standing between their lips.
For a moment all Aziraphale wanted was to go over there, to push in between them, lower his own mouth or - better yet - crawl into Crowley'a lap.
Soon. Crowley’s eyes met his, a dancing wickedness in their depths. The angle of his jaw bulged as Lancelot did something inventive with his tongue.
Soon, Aziraphale thought back, biting down on a shudder of raw anticipation. This was a delicious torture, watching two men he dearly desired apply themselves wholeheartedly to a task he sorely craved. His own cock was plumping up and no one had even touched him yet; just that one kiss from Crowley, passionate and devastating in equal measure.
“Go on, then,” Crowley called to them, across the room. “Make a start before I lose my patience.” This last was to Merlin, who was staring with a dazed expression as Lancelot and Percival took Crowley’s cock in between their mouths.
"Mmh," Lancelot moaned, shockingly loud, as Crowley did something that Aziraphale couldn't clearly see.
Crowley saw Merlin watching, as if hypnotised, and grinned at him - not nicely. “Oh, yes,” Crowley growled, cupping Lancelot’s jaw, stroking through Percival’s short hair with idle fingers. “That’s good, keep doing that.”
Again, it was Arthur who acted; tugging Aziraphale closer and kissing him with the breezy confidence of someone who already knew he enjoyed being watched. His hands were confident, and he kissed like one of his speeches: headstrong, vehement, and extremely persuasive. He had Aziraphale fully hard in a few mere seconds, and gasping within a minute.
That caught Merlin's attention.
And—they were putting on a show, Aziraphale realised. The two of them. They were of an accord, and their shared purpose was to drive their lovers into a state of frenzy. It became fun, the shared dance of it, taking turns to lead: making a point of moaning and arching against each other, opening mouths lasciviously and ensuring the wet flashes of tongue were visible across the room.
Aziraphale sucked on Arthur’s tongue and received a lazy jab of his hips that almost sent him stumbling backwards; so he needed to be more tactical about this. He wrapped a leg around the back of Arthur’s thigh, anchoring them together, and moaned freely as Arthur kissed him harder, both hands spreading across Aziraphale's arse. For a moment he felt like Arthur grinding against him was the only thing he needed in the world.
The next thing he knew he was being dragged backwards by rough, brisk hands. Whatever paralysis had gripped Merlin had clearly resolved. Merlin took Aziraphale's place, kissing Arthur like a man possessed by—well—by Crowley, dipping him backwards and sliding a knee between his legs. Arthur melted against him, looping his arms around Merlin’s neck and making soft urgent noises in his chest.
Merlin removed his tongue from Arther’s mouth only long enough to bark, “Take off your clothes,” to Aziraphale, who found his hands obeying even as his mind hesitated.
For all this situation was definitely underway, there was something that seemed irrevocable about stripping off his clothes: the full reveal of his own arousal, the issuing of an invitation to watch. The earlier display in his damp chemise had been different—its skimming lines and the warmth still clinging from his female form had made him feel invincible.
There was something about being entirely naked and male, he realised, in front of all these men, these perfect specimens of knighthood and… demonhood? Well, all these delectably proportioned bodies, anyway. As Angeline he hadn’t had to worry, because he’d known precisely how desirable every glimpse of that form had been in every looking-glass she passed, how unconditionally glorious those curves and features were. Back in this form, he wasn’t shy exactly, just… hesitant. He'd never done this. It felt significant.
Luckily, Merlin and Arthur did not share his reticence whatsoever. Within seconds of Aziraphale’s jerkin peeling away, the two of them were enclosing him on either side, Arthur behind him kissing his bare shoulder, Merlin in front of him, zeroing in on his mouth. So very, incontrovertibly hungry for him.
Their dual attention was its own aphrodisiac, and every trace of Aziraphale's self-consciousness burned to ashes. Because this felt… incredible. If Arthur had been kissing him partially for show, to provoke Merlin, now it seemed Merlin was trying to provoke Aziraphale. His tongue was light and teasing. There was no suggestion he might be missing Aziraphale’s female form; his fingers explored with deft, knowing touches, skating his ribs, his sides, suggesting that he might like to step closer, press back against Arthur, tip his head to one side. Firmly suggesting, in fact. Compelling.
Then Merlin’s mouth found his ear. “I dearly want to fuck you,” he said quietly, beard prickling against the skin of Aziraphale’s neck, “right here, on your knees, while he watches. But—” Aziraphale struggled to concentrate on the words over the sudden clamour of his pulse, face heating. “—I don’t actually want a vengeful fire demon on my hands. So I need to know if he means it, everything he just said. Can you find out?”
“I—“ Aziraphale started.
I meant it, Crowley’s voice boomed through his head.
Aziraphale swallowed. “He meant it,” he whispered.
“And what do you think about it?”
“I… I…” Aziraphale said, unable to find words for what he felt, as Arthur’s mouth sucked slowly over the back of his neck, as his hips sawed automatically forwards, pressing his aching cock against Merlin’s hip.
Apparently that was enough confirmation. Merlin’s hands smoothed down over Aziraphale's waist, then one lifted to Arthur’s face behind him. “Get them wet.”
Aziraphale heard the soft sounds of Arthur sucking Merlin’s fingers, and shivered harder.
“Good. Now kneel behind him, use your mouth to open him up for me.”
“Ah,” Aziraphale gasped, as Arthur’s damp lips closed on his shoulder again. Arthur leaned against him, kissing a slow messy trail down Aziraphale's spine. His mouth was hot, and seemed to get hotter as he tongued the dimples at the base of Aziraphale's back, one by one, scraping his chin slowly downwards, before finally nuzzling the cheeks of Aziraphale's arse apart.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, against Merlin’s mouth, at the hot, confident pressure of Arthur’s hands spreading him, holding him open.
A cloud of warm breath resolved into the pointed slickness of Arthur’s tongue, testing and probing. Arthur teased as he explored, taking his time in breaching him, working his tongue into Aziraphale's hole in a series of slow, deep thrusts.
Aziraphale kept gasping, unable to catch his breath, hands coming up to clutch helplessly at Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin grinned and kissed him again, lazy and lewd, his tongue pushing deeply into Aziraphale's mouth, mirroring Arthur’s actions. Both of them… both of them, holding him, exploring him, licking inside him…
Aziraphale's cock gave a needy pulse, then another, leaving a hot smear across the fabric of Merlin’s clothes. If he could just get to bare skin—if he could just have a hand on him—fuck, Arthur’s mouth was a law unto itself, so greedy and confident, it made Aziraphale want to cry out. He felt himself speared inexorably open, but without any sense of threat or promise of more; there was just worship and dedication, shallow breath and wet heat, Arthur’s soft lips and eager, slippery tongue. It was like Arthur would be content to pleasure him like this all night, without attending to his own needs. And—ah, yes, Aziraphale realised. This was meeting a need of Arthur’s: to slavishly follow Merlin’s every command.
Merlin nipped his lower lip sharply, as if he’d heard that - which was all Aziraphale needed, someone else listening to his degenerate musings, good grief - then sucked away the sting.
“Good,” Merlin said again, and his cool wet fingers drifted down to join Arthur’s mouth against his hole, sliding into him from behind. And there—there was the threat. Aziraphale went up on his toes, rubbing blindly against Merlin, unsure if he was giving more access or trying to get away. Arthur’s tongue played over his rim as Merlin’s fingers sank in to the deepest knuckle, scissoring and pulling out, returning once more.
“Oh,” Aziraphale gasped, “oh,” and then Crowley threw his head back and groaned loudly.
Aziraphale's attention snapped back to him. One of Crowley’s hands was a bunched fist in Lancelot’s hair, the other curled around the back of Percival’s neck, blunt nails digging in. The knights were kissing again, around the head of Crowley’s cock, and Aziraphale could see Crowley’s hips rocking, seeking more friction. He felt a strange kinship of frustration on top of everything else, and almost laughed, and then Merlin squeezed another finger inside him, and the laugh crumbled into a guttural groan.
That’s it, Crowley growled, in his mind. Whatever they’re doing, that’s it, I feel it building. You are luminous, radiant! Give it to me!
Yes, Aziraphale thought desperately, and then felt he had to add, Though they’ve not really, um, got started yet.
Crowley’s eyes flew open, and he threw Aziraphale a suspicious look. “What do you mean?”
Good lord, was he going to make him say it out loud? “Um,” Aziraphale said, trying to string coherent words together, almost losing his mind as Arthur’s mischievous tongue slipped down to stroke over his balls from behind. “They haven’t… ah! This is only—his mouth, and his fingers.”
“And it makes you radiate like that?” Crowley demanded, so sceptical that Aziraphale almost laughed again.
Merlin twisted around to look incredulously at Crowley. “Have you never teased anyone before? Made them wait?”
“I am the thief of the last breath, harbinger of mortal suffering and disciple of death,” Crowley said, and sniffed. “I do not tease.”
Lancelot pulled off and looked up at him, one hand sliding playfully up under the front of Crowley’s soft black jerkin. “Want a lesson?”
“I do not mean I need to be taught,” Crowley exclaimed.
Percival licked a slow path back up the length of Crowley’s cock, shifting his lips in a way that had Crowley lifting his hips out of the chair in an effort to follow him.
“He knows what he’s talking about, though,” Percival rumbled, nodding at Lancelot. “He’s a bloody expert in making people wait.”
Lancelot made an outraged noise and muttered something that sounded like “…tactician,” and then Percival was laughing and leaning over and kissing him. Hard and sweet, for a long drawn-out moment before he drew back and started sucking Crowley’s cock once more.
Crowley’s breath rushed out in a moan that sounded frankly inhuman. Aziraphale tracked the progress of Lancelot’s hand, the bulge of it sweeping idly up and down beneath flimsy fabric, before settling over one side of Crowley’s chest.
Crowley yowled softly as Lancelot—Aziraphale wasn’t sure, but it seemed he was pinching at Crowley’s nipple, rubbing back and forth, as Percival took Crowley’s dick gleefully deeper into his mouth.
Merlin noticed him watching and raised his free hand to Aziraphale's chest, adopting a fair approximation of what Lancelot was doing. Aziraphale felt like his skin brightened all over, and he felt Crowley feel it, that duality of sensation, a deep yearning pull.
“That,” Crowley said, hand dithering over Lancelot’s as if unable to decide between gripping closer or pulling away. “Is… not necessary.”
“Yes,” Lancelot agreed, pushing up Crowley’s jerkin now, lowering his lips to the base of Crowley's belly, “but is necessity not the enemy of joy?”
Percival almost choked and pulled back again, wiping his mouth as Crowley’s cock sprang free. “Don’t—” Percival muttered, half laughing, half groaning.
Lancelot turned his head, resting his cheek against Crowley’s belly and looking up at Percival with sly dark eyes. “Does my philosophy not interest you?”
Percival blew out a laugh, under his breath. “Everything about you interests me, and the problem is - you know it.”
“I would hope that’s not a problem.”
“I… It… They’re your rules!” Percival protested, eyes widening with indignation. “You’re the one—” but the rest of his complaint was cut off as Lancelot reared up, catching Crowley’s hand around the back of Percival’s neck and guiding him back down.
“You’re the one I’d change the rules for,” Lancelot said, pressing his lips to Percival’s, and then, when Crowley hissed softly, redirecting him again. Aziraphale watched, as Percival and Lancelot exchanged slow, lazy, open-mouthed kisses against the head of Crowley’s cock, moaning softly in unison.
Merlin tweaked his nipple hard, and Aziraphale came back to himself—back to the shimmering mess of his own arousal, already threatening to spill over its boundaries. He felt gloriously fat and shiny with potential, ready to burst. His cock was leaking, his arse was trembling around Merlin’s fingers, and the intimate brush of Arthur’s tongue was an insidious lick of wildfire.
“Fuck me,” he said fervently to Merlin, rubbing his face against the side of Merlin’s neck, unable to coordinate even just looking at him when he was this plump with need. “Please, now… Please.”
“Yes,” Merlin said softly, guiding Aziraphale carefully down to kneel on the thick, luxurious heath rug, the heat of the flames competing for prominence with the heat inside himself. “Oh, yes, you’re so lovely—that’s it—bend forwards—perfect. Now open your legs. More.”
Aziraphale hastened to obey, the room swimming around him, vaguely aware of Arthur’s hands assisting Merlin’s, smoothing over him, reverent but purposeful.
Open his legs. He shifted his knees apart, scuffing up the rug’s opulent pile. This was a king’s hearthrug and all the more incongruous for it - this was his king - arranging him to arch his back for the pleasure of his closest advisor. These were the most powerful men in the land, bending over him, murmuring together as they applied something slippery to the entrance to Aziraphale's body, and - he deeply hoped - to Merlin’s cock as well.
He looked up and saw Crowley’s head had fallen against the back of his armchair again, and he was snarling softly at the ceiling as Percival and Lancelot worked his cock devotedly with their mouths. Their expressions were half-hidden by the angle of their activity, but what Aziraphale could see of them was arresting: the glossy strings dripping down between the pink gleams of their tongues, the glazed delight in their flushed faces.
He felt Merlin line himself up.
Crowley—Aziraphale reached out shakily, but Crowley didn’t respond straight away. He looked lost in pleasure, head thrown back, hips bunching up between the others’ mouths.
Aziraphale rocked against the expanding pressure of Merlin’s slick bare cock, trying to relax, trying to keep his eyes open. He needed Crowley to look at him. He needed it. Please, please. Look at me. Fuck, Crowley.
Crowley’s eyes snapped open, locking onto Aziraphale, and his mouth spread into a bright, lascivious grin. Oh look. Your favourite part.
Please… yes…
Oh, yes, Crowley agreed. Move your leg, arch your spine. I want to see the moment he gets that thing inside you. He’s big, isn’t he? Almost as big as me. But you can take it. For me, you will. Look at you, shaking as you try. My sweet, innocent angel… you were right, you are at your best on all fours.
Aziraphale shuddered as he felt the head of Merlin’s cock ease inside him, stretching his rim to an almost unbearable degree. Once the curve of the head had squeezed in, it was easier, though he could feel its weight sinking deeper, filling him until his head was spinning, until he was clawing the rug and panting for breath. There just—seemed always to be more of it, fuck. Spreading him, spearing him, almost cleaving him in two.
No wonder Arthur was in such a good mood all the time.
Merlin’s hands were heavy on Aziraphale's hips, holding them steady as Aziraphale's legs threatened to buckle. He was whispering a soft litany, soothing and inflaming at once. “That’s it, I knew it - I knew you’d be like this - from the moment you knelt by our hearth I knew you’d kneel for me, open for me, ah, that’s it,” his hips sinking hard against Aziraphale's arse, rolling against him, so deep that every shift made Aziraphale's vision blur. “Arthur, get on your back. Reward him for taking me so well.”
Aziraphale felt movement next to him and forced his eyes back open. His vision swam into focus as - disconcertingly - Arthur slid himself upside-down under Aziraphale's straining body, until his face was beneath Aziraphale's cock and his own hips were between Aziraphale's hands.
Aziraphale hissed as Arthur’s fingers enclosed his stand and guided it into the eager, mobile welcome of Arthur’s mouth. Aziraphale must have twitched around Merlin’s cock, because Merlin made a gruff approving noise, stroking his thumbs up and down across Aziraphale's stretched hole.
“Yes, my love,” Merlin said warmly, which had to be aimed at Arthur once more. “Suck him as if you were sucking me, show him paradise, I want to feel him clench around me as he spends right down your throat.”
Fuck, Aziraphale thought wildly, as Arthur enthusiastically tried to obey. His mouth was a revelation, all wet velvet suction and undulating muscular softness, and at this angle - upside down! - Aziraphale's cock seemed to slide straight into his throat without hindrance. He tried to hold back, but Arthur swallowed in rippling waves around him and made choked-off noises of pleasure, expertly taking him to the hilt.
Fuck, agreed Crowley, filling Aziraphale's mind with his gravelly approval, and the idea that he was enjoying this unfold made Aziraphale come even closer to losing his mind.
It would almost have been too easy, fucking deeply into Arthur’s throat, except that every thrust caused Merlin’s cock to pull half out of Aziraphale, and Merlin was quick to bury himself again. The pace built raggedly, Aziraphale whining and whimpering as he moved between them, and then he felt Merlin’s hand on the back of his head.
“Open your eyes.”
Aziraphale blearily obeyed and saw Arthur’s cock was right there, swaying hard and proud, its shiny head right below Aziraphale's mouth.
”Go on,” Merlin said, pushing his head down to meet its dark length. “Suck him back while I fuck you. Just mind the teeth—I don’t want you to leave a mark on him.”
Aziraphale opened his mouth, ungainly but eager, taking as much of it as he could inside. He sucked freely, not trying to coordinate, just losing himself in Arthur’s scent and taste, the musk and athleticism of it - trying in vain to mirror what Arthur’s mouth was doing to him.
Mmm. Good look on you. Is that what they did the other night?
Not… quite…
No? No, I thought as much. You wanted me in your mouth. They were both inside you but you needed me to fill you up. Like now—they’re sticking you at both ends but you need me in your mind.
Yes!
Crowley hummed appreciatively, then hissed under his breath. Fuck, and these two are hungry for it. So eager. Did you already know how much they love sucking cock?
If Aziraphale thought too hard about Lancelot and Percival’s desire to pleasure Crowley with their mouths right now, he was going to lose all control. And yet, if Crowley wanted to tell him about it, he was keen to hear more.
I did not know.
They’re ravenous, Crowley said, lasciviously drawn out. Starving. It’s like they’ve been holding back for a hundred years. They’re making it a competition—determined to outwit each other.
I can’t imagine how that feels.
I want to show you, Crowley’s words came immediately. Sit you in my lap, fix you on my cock, and watch them take you to pieces. You'd be squirming down on me in no time. I doubt you’d last ten seconds.
I… yes… Aziraphale thought, feeling it all start to gather together, bunching and simmering inside him: the description Crowley was giving and Crowley’s influence on his mind, the sensation of Merlin impaling him, the shape of Arthur’s cock in his mouth and the service of Arthur’s mouth around his cock, and the noises, the whole room, the overlapping obscene chorus of noises…
Not when they’re this eager, this devoted. Sucking me like it’s their last meal. First they were competing and now… now… ah, fuck… collaborating… ah!
Crowley? Aziraphale thought dizzily, as golden waves lapped at the corners of his mind, welling up all at once.
Ah, angel, yes, that—oh fuck.
Crowley came, sending shocks of pleasure hailing through Aziraphale's mind, bright and sharp as the explosion of the flaming sword.
It took Aziraphale with him, an irresistible force that had him spending into Arthur’s mouth without warning. Arthur gagged and then forcefully swallowed, his own cock flexing hard in Aziraphale's mouth; fuzzily, Aziraphale kept sucking him, pursuing this one thing he still vaguely knew how to do in a swirling sea of pleasure. He could take whatever they chose to give him. He could be wholly pliant, endlessly grateful. He mouthed Arthur with renewed generosity, sucking the salty satin length of it, and relaxed back into Merlin’s grip, letting them plunge into him with abandon as he clutched at the backs of Arthur’s thighs.
Crowley’s languid groans were still reverberating around Aziraphale's head, intermingling with his own residual surges of release. Merlin was sliding deep each time, the crack of his hips was even louder to Aziraphale that his own choked off groans around Arthur’s cock. He worked Arthur as well as he could, urging him onwards, swallowing and sucking in muffled sequence until the muscular slam of Arthur’s hips resolved into a low-groaning shudder. Aziraphale tasted Arthur’s come hitting the back of his mouth, burst after burst of it, until Arthur collapsed in a smiling heap beneath them.
“Beautiful,” Merlin murmured, quickening his own pace; all Aziraphale could do was give another helpless moan. He felt boneless in Merlin’s grasp, no longer commanding his own musculature, barely able to prop himself up without collapsing on top of Arthur. He was already so molten with pleasure, unresisting as Merlin leisurely fucked his arse with deep, deliberate strokes.
He was dimly aware of Lancelot and Percival, kneeling up and kissing again, open-mouthed, gripping each others’ shoulders. Crowley’s hands were still in their hair, drifting down as Aziraphale watched, Crowley’s cock lying listless and shiny against his belly.
Percival pushed Lancelot backwards down onto the rug beside Arthur, crawling on top of him, holding his wrists above his head and kissing him breathlessly.
Lancelot wriggled beneath him, wrapping a muscular thigh around Percival’s massive hip. Clothed, but moving as if they weren't. Though his vision was blurring at the intensity of Merlin’s thrusts inside him, Aziraphale dazedly managed to watch them, how they interlocked, restlessly shifting, each continually seeking more contact. Combative and cooperative. They weren’t glowing but there was something shimmery about their bodies, something precious being drawn off that Aziraphale sensed his eye couldn’t see. He wondered what they looked like to Crowley—the whole room was probably full of delicious dancing light.
“Ah—fuck, stay there, just there,” Merlin hissed suddenly, swelling inside him, nails digging into Aziraphale’s hips as he made the angle of his thighs more acute.
Aziraphale’s eyes rolled heavenwards, the sudden slam of Merlin's cock making his teeth rattle. Without the distraction of Arthur’s attention, every nerve ending he had left seemed stretched around Merlin’s demanding length. He was so full, he was getting short of breath again, dizzy—was he going to pass out from the sheer sensation of being used, moved, exactly as Merlin wanted? He didn’t have a sense that Merlin was close, either; more, he felt like Merlin was performing, showing off how long and hard he could fuck him, while Crowley watched. He had a sudden apprehension that Merlin was fucking him for Crowley’s approval, that Merlin wasn’t going to come until Crowley gave some signal that he was satisfied. That between them, they might keep going until dawn, passing Aziraphale back and forth between them until he begged for relief. Maybe not even stopping then.
He moaned at the thought, louder as Merlin heard him and slammed home, once, twice, making the pitch of Aziraphale’s voice quaver. And then Aziraphale’s blurry gaze fell on the contract again, and—ah.
Maybe that was why Merlin was going so hard on him. Flames had engulfed the bowl but hadn’t yet reached the scroll on its glowing island of salt. Its edges were singed, but the paper still looked undamaged. Given the strength of his own recent climax, this was not just disappointing - it was a travesty! It should have gone up in smoke!
“Stay,” Merlin growled, and Aziraphale realised he’d slumped forwards again—he fought back onto his hands and knees, bracing against the smooth length of Merlin’s cock driving into him, and gasped as Merlin increased his pace an impossible fraction more in response. For a moment Aziraphale thought he was finally going to come, but he didn’t, even as Aziraphale clenched hard around him in anticipation.
Fuck! Can you feel this? What he’s—doing? Proving something… Making us wait.
I want it to be me.
Aziraphale stared dazedly at Crowley’s cock, the twitch of it against Crowley’s belly, visibly refilling as he watched Merlin taking Aziraphale. His own cock gave a muted jolt of sensation, starting helplessly to refill.
But… does it serve you, can you use it, the waiting?
Yesss… but I still want it to be me.
I’m yours.
You couldn’t take us both at once…?
No!
Not if I—
“Aziraphale,” Merlin said, half laughing, half deadly serious, “is your mind elsewhere?”
Aziraphale flushed, and he twisted back to look over his shoulder at Merlin’s face. “Sorry,” he breathed. “I… Crowley was…”
Merlin frowned, gripped his hips hard and pushed all the way in, making Aziraphale gasp in mixed pleasure and alarm. “You may recall he asked me to lead this,” he said, the words bitten off, sardonic. “I was therefore expecting that you would do your best to pay me some heed.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, his attention entirely refocused. Merlin was compelling when he was annoyed, green eyes narrowed. And buried so deeply in his arse that Aziraphale could feel his hammering pulse all around. “But—”
A curt, brutal little thrust made his words cut off into a grateful whimper. The sound seemed to irritate Merlin even more.
“Impudent,” Merlin said, lowering his voice so that Aziraphale had to crane back to hear. “Talking back to me. Daydreaming while I fuck you. If Arthur tried my patience like this I’d make him feel it tomorrow. But you…”
Aziraphale reeled with the second-hand images of Arthur pressed flat and pounded, alongside the first-hand crackle of threat in that incisive voice.
“But…?” he gasped.
“But you’ve been fucking a sleep demon,” Merlin said softly, another echo from the previous night slamming back through Aziraphale’s mind. “You’re serving him right now.”
Do your worst.
Aziraphale braced, anticipating spiking. But Merlin didn’t redouble his onslaught. Instead he stilled entirely, before continuing in a devastatingly thoughtful tone. “So if I really want to punish you, the worst thing I could do to you would be to… stop.”
…Well he has the measure of you, I’ll give him that.
“Oh, n-no, please,” Aziraphale whispered, stricken. That couldn’t be what Merlin meant. How would stopping serve the spell? Or anyone? It wasn’t even solely about his own physical pleasure, he could admit, deep in his own mind; it was also about the growing need to feel Merlin let loose his control. Redress the balance from yesterday, when he’d pulled out rather than spending in Aziraphale's body, and turned his attention to Arthur instead. It hadn’t bothered Aziraphale at the time but now—now he really wanted to feel Merlin spill inside him, wanted him gasping, panting, undone, because of Aziraphale.
“No, I’m beginning to think you don’t deserve this at all,” Merlin said, holding Aziraphale’s hips tightly and slowly withdrawing. There was an edge to his voice, smooth and unyielding, and by slow degrees Aziraphale realised that this was indeed his punishment - he’d erred and now he was being denied, not just the moment of Merlin’s completion but every moment leading up to it. Denied, in front of everyone. Left wanting. “After all, you’re barely contributing to the font of power, just kneeling there taking it. We need to make more of a spectacle of you.”
Aziraphale couldn’t help it: he whined a little. This shouldn’t be happening! Not now! But now that ridiculous wonderful fullness was being taken away, Merlin’s cock nudging against all sorts of secret pleasure centres as it withdrew, while Crowley’s delighted amusement surged in his mind—it was unbearable.
“Wait,” he whispered; realising that now he was mostly hard again, his body tugged effortlessly along by the heat gripping his mind. “Wait. Keep going. Don’t stop, I—I want to feel you to spend inside me,” he admitted, face burning but hoping the confessional truth of it would win back some favour. He wanted to feel Merlin give up the tightly held reins of his control, wanted him erupting deep inside, wanted to feel it filling him, spilling out. He… couldn't quite put that into words. “Fuck me again, please.”
“No,” Merlin said.
Aziraphale felt the tiny extra stretch as the head of his cock withdrew, and then he was closing around nothing and the feeling made him almost insensible. He was slick and open and so very, very needy.
“Please,” he tried again.
Merlin ignored him.
Oh, he’s good…
“Percival,” Merlin said, and the pair writhing on the floor subsided into a guilty stillness. “I realise you’re… busy… but I need a strong arm right now.”
“What… Um. What?” Percival repeated, pushing off a dishevelled Lancelot and giving Merlin a bewildered yet charming grin. “What?”
“A strong arm,” Merlin repeated, smirking openly now. “I need to borrow you for a dash of corporal punishment. Until Sir Aziraphale remembers his place and how to behave when taking… an order.”
Percival was still fully dressed, his lips red, his short hair as tousled as it was possible to be. “I see…” he said gruffly, gaze flicking for a long moment between Merlin and Aziraphale, and then instead he looked at Crowley. Who had just come in his mouth - or possibly on his face - Aziraphale had somehow missed what had happened there. How had he missed that? Whatever had happened, Percival seemed confident he could now liaise with Crowley directly.
“Do you want me to spank him for you?”
Crowley blinked at Percival, then nodded. “...Ngk,” he said, and then hastened on, “I mean… that might entertain, I suppose. To some extent.”
“As long as you’ll watch,” Percival said eagerly, as if extracting a promise; clever, Aziraphale realised. Acquiring Crowley’s permission by framing it as a favour for Crowley.
Crowley curved a hand around his own cock, visibly swollen again, rearing up off his lean belly. “Yes. I will watch.”
“Then I’ll do my best to keep you entertained,” Percival said, pushing himself easily off the floor.
Crowley tracked his movement, head tipping back a little to look up at him. “…Yes.”
“And then, you know,” Percival said, his nonchalance cut with something mischievous now, “afterwards you might see fit to have your way with us again?”
Lancelot rose into a half-seated position at that, leaning back on his hands and raising one knee, attentively following the conversation. Possibly concealing something, with that slanting stance. Possibly showing something off.
“Might do,” Crowley said, rubbing a finger against his lower lip, then chasing it with the tip of his tongue. “Might let you use your initiative.”
Apparently satisfied, Percival transferred his gaze to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale swallowed, feeling even more naked than he was already. “Yes?”
“Merlin thinks you need a reminder of who’s in charge here,” Percival said, nodding at Merlin, his voice neutral. “Chain of command, you know. Falls to me as the next best thing to a quartermaster.”
Percival sank into an armchair opposite Crowley, all high-backed black lacquer with velvet cushions and carved curlicues of lions detailing each arm. Merlin had really outdone himself. Percival shifted to sit forwards; fully dressed, he made an arresting vision in the grand chair. Certainly more disciplinarian lord than friendly quartermaster. He met Merlin’s eye. “Six of the best?”
“Sounds like a start.”
Mmmh. I like this one a lot.
“Umm, yes,” Aziraphale whispered, though no one had asked him.
Percival patted his thigh. “Come here, then. Over my knee.”
Percival’s knees were huge. Aziraphale had of course registered before how big he was, how tall, how broad—but he was also so affable, so jovial, and wore his strength and vigour so easily, that it worked like an obscuring screen, most of the time.
It was very apparent when bent across the meaty slabs of his thighs that there was nothing soft about him. Percival was supremely fit and unapologetic about it. Aziraphale's cock slid between those thighs, trapped against soft folds of cloth, and he shivered at the contrast of his bare damp skin against warm dry fabric. Percival’s hand settled against his arse, shaping it for a moment, appreciative.
And then, at Merlin’s nod, he struck.
“Ah,” Aziraphale blurted, as the solid flat of Percival’s hand connected against his arse, sending a blinding frisson of pain through him, an instant warmth.
Percival made a barely perceptible noise with a question at the end. Aziraphale tilted his hips back in response.
The next blow was harder.
Fuck!
Oh, yes. Crowley sounded like he was biting into something delicious. We can all see how much you need this. The wizard was right. Making a spectacle of you… this is warming me right up. Giving me ideas. Making me want to fuck you right there over his knee.
Another resounding slap met the meat of Aziraphale's buttocks, and he felt his own flesh reverberate against Percival’s palm.
“Oh!” Aziraphale was getting harder fast, both correction and connection making him tingle all over. He stopped trying to contain his cries. “Oh! Oh, oh—“
The next slap pushed his cock sleekly against Percival’s clothed thigh, and he openly moaned.
“Harder,” Merlin said, biting his lip.
The next blow jarred his teeth. Aziraphale hissed, wriggling to spread himself, to offer his hole to Percival’s ruinous hand.
“Go on,” Merlin said faintly.
The following few blows felt close to full strength.
Aziraphale whimpered, losing any understanding of himself amongst the searing white volley of sensation. The floor blurred beneath him. He flattened against Percival’s lap and then restlessly arched his spine, unable to lie still—until Percival’s other large hand pressed on the back of his neck, smoothing down, calming him between the heavy smacks of his palm. Aziraphale’s vision grew starry, his skin on fire. The thrill of being watched paled in comparison to letting the slurred pleasure-pain take over, and Aziraphale floated in a heavenly freedom of giving himself up entirely. He realised he was emitting a long, constant moan that peaked on impact and ebbed between blows but never died away.
He didn’t know how it was possible to feel this vulnerable and this safe at once. It reminded him of collapsing exhausted in Crowley’s vastly oversized palm.
“That’s enough,” he heard Merlin say eventually, as if from very far away, and the spanking immediately stopped. His pulse took no notice, continuing to race away through every part of him, from his heaving shoulders to the soles of his feet, to the aching tip of his cock.
Percival’s hand closed on one stinging buttock, fingertips curling in, finding the oiled skin between. His fingers felt as huge as the rest of him. “Better?” His voice was much closer than Merlin’s, more immediate, his other hand stroking circles at the base of Aziraphale’s spine.
Aziraphale's whole body was still ringing with a slow fade of pain; now suddenly he was desperate for another sort of touch. He flexed his hips back, unable to find words, and Percival rewarded him with two fingertips, slowly sinking into his arse.
Aziraphale found his voice at that. “Oh goodness, please,” he gasped, as Percival pressed deeper and crooked his long fingers, making Aziraphale’s whole body light up in a different way. Aziraphale squirmed, holding his breath. Percival gave a soft laugh and fingered him more deliberately, seeking out the area inside him that reacted most beautifully to being massaged.
Aziraphale’s cock started to leak, and he heard himself let out a desperate keening sound.
Oh, Crowley hummed. Good. He didn’t forget.
F–forget what?
I told him how much you love being defiled.
Aziraphale’s head was whirling. When on Earth had that conversation happened? You talked about me while they were, er, serving you?
Only about your arse.
…Right. Aziraphale felt a strange giddy glee at that. Not least because he felt that part of his body was glowing like a beacon under Percival’s attentions. He was tender against Percival’s palm where he had two fingers buried inside him, knuckles grinding, playing a little rough now. He imagined his buttocks must be bright red and warm to the touch. The thought of hips smacking against him while being fucked... was incredible.
The thought of Percival’s hips…
“Don’t make him come yet,” Merlin said, almost cautioning, and Aziraphale realised his toes were curling as he rocked himself shamelessly between Percival’s capable hands.
Percival eased off, fingers withdrawing, and tapped a little staccato beat between Aziraphale's shoulder blades with his other hand - actively bringing him back to himself. A jerking awareness of his surroundings returned. He became conscious again of his position and that of the others, and realised his own harsh breaths and the crackling fire were the main sounds filling the room.
There was also the noise of a half-dressed Arthur plastered between Merlin and Lancelot, murmuring and kissing Lancelot’s neck. Arthur had one hand under Lancelot’s collar, the other blindly stroking Merlin’s chest, while Merlin devoted a good portion of energy to divesting Arthur of the rest of his clothes.
Aziraphale didn’t know when Lancelot had got off the floor and joined the pair leaning against the table, but he had a suspicion it involved getting a better view of Percival’s arms while they were being exhibited to their full potential. Lancelot was definitely watching Percival and Aziraphale now with a glittering look of frank anticipation.
Crowley was watching them as well, still sprawled in his chair, slowly stroking his cock where it protruded from his open trousers, his golden eyes dark with approval. His gaze was like a physical touch, stroking down the backs of Aziraphale's splayed thighs.
Crowley?
Three paces. Three paces and I could be buried inside you with my teeth on your neck.
Aziraphale inhaled sharply, tilting his head to look back at him. What’s stopping you?
Crowley slouched even lower in his seat, one leg thrown over an arm of the chair. Your wizard. He’s not wrong. We need to make this last, make as much power as we can before witching hour. And if I fuck you as hard as I want to right now, you may not survive.
It was said so matter-of-factly that Aziraphale thought he was joking. Weakly, he retorted, You’re planning to devour my soul after all?
Crowley made an outraged noise. Pah! If that was my intention, I would have had all five of you the moment you gave back that sword.
Oh. Aziraphale swallowed. Good… I think. Well, I’ll have you know, I’m very durable. Unless you’ve forgotten our first, oh, ten encounters?
They were largely in your dreams, Crowley pointed out. What I meant was, if I touch you right now I would lose control, I would revert to my wild demon form, and you may get hurt. His voice became peevish. I am trying to be considerate of your piteous human frailty.
It takes your control to stay in this form? That sounded… ominous.
It would take control not to fuck you as mercilessly as I did before, Crowley groused. And yes, you may survive it, but you would not be likely to muster any more energy for the others after that. And by the state of that scroll, we need the others.
Aziraphale's gaze slipped to the scroll: it was no longer pristine, with decidedly charred edges - one actively smouldering - but the bulk of it still looked pale and new.
“Oh dear,” he said out loud, before he could stop himself.
Abruptly self-conscious, Aziraphale scrabbled to rise up from Percival’s lap, twisting the other way and promptly overbalancing as his head swam. Percival grinned at his flailing, and then his strong hands were helping Aziraphale shift around and climb up to kneel astride his lap. His knees were digging into the sides of Percival’s thighs, which must surely hurt - but Percival didn’t seem to register any discomfort. In truth, Percival looked more fond of him than anything.
Aziraphale smoothed his palms up Percival’s chest, over his dark jerkin—it seemed Lancelot had already wrestled those laces free, and the steep inclines of muscles beneath were readily visible, easily groped.
Percival regarded him with a tolerant grin. “Are you in your right mind once more?”
His hands wandered back around Aziraphale's arse as he spoke, squeezing the smarting curves in open appreciation. Steadying him, but also enjoying the view. At the tightening of Percival’s hands, Aziraphale's cock flexed, bobbing in the air between their chests, drawing Percival’s attention downwards. He seemed to enjoy that view as well.
You look good in his lap. Almost as good as you’ll look in mine.
“Very much so,” Aziraphale said, pressing more firmly against Percival’s chest, stroking slowly downwards. He reached a promising bulge at Percival’s crotch before his wrist was suddenly grabbed in a restrictive hand.
“Not so fast,” Percival said, playful but with a hint of steel beneath.
Aziraphale hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t think you know how… affecting you are,” Percival said, without letting go of Aziraphale's wrist. “It would be easy to get carried away.”
“So get carried away,” Aziraphale suggested, but Percival just gave a tiny shake of his head.
He has my permission, if that’s the delay. I want to see you sit on his cock. Get it out.
Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Um, Crowley wouldn’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“‘M not worried,” Percival said quickly, but still, when Aziraphale reached for him again, he steered his hands away.
Aghast, Aziraphale did the only thing he could think of, and pouted. “But aren’t you going to fuck me now?”
Percival’s eyes darkened, and for a moment Aziraphale thought he was going to be kissed senseless. But—
“No, sweetheart, I’m not,” Percival said, the endearment making Aziraphale feel warm inside even as he shivered in frustration. Percival lowered his voice to be just between them, and added a wry smile. “Because, I’m dearly hoping to lie with Lance.”
“But—”
“And this might be my only opportunity with him,” Percival said, even softer. Then he gave Aziraphale another brisk smack on the arse, making him yelp, and added at his normal cheerful volume, “Whereas you, I suspect, will fill the future with all sorts of troublesome opportunities."
“Can’t you do both?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but ask.
Percival laughed outright. “You’re true to form, I must say. How about this - once we’re back at Court, I will dust off the pillory and stocks in one of the castle dungeons, and we can make a night of it. You and Crowley.”
Aziraphale stared at this man who had just spanked him to within an inch of his life after sucking his demon lover’s cock so hard they were now on first name terms. There was likely no limit to what he could do.
“Yes, but—well, yes,” Aziraphale said quickly, interrupting himself in his haste, “that, definitely, please do make a note of doing that—but right now…” Aziraphale sidled his fingers lower again, trying to undo the fastenings at the front of Percival’s trousers. “Can’t I warm you up for him?”
That tiny head-shake again. “Believe me, I am exceedingly warmed up.”
Don’t take no for an answer.
I am trying!
Try harder. The other one is very interested. The wizard is getting distracted by his mate, but the one watching… I want to see more of the one who is watching.
Aziraphale knelt a little straighter astride Percival’s lap, trying to imagine what Lancelot would be seeing: Aziraphale's pale limbs and reddened backside, one of Percival’s tanned hands resting comfortably on his hip, the other holding Aziraphale's hand clear of his lap. Both of them laughing a little, panting a little.
“Won’t you just let me see it?” Aziraphale widened his eyes, trying to be charming, leaning forwards and aiming to graze Percival’s cheek with his mouth. “I want to see all of you.”
Percival evaded him again, smirking. “Didn’t you see all of me already, across that lakeside bonfire?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, smiling more slowly, feeling his way, “and I have to admit, I had some very wild thoughts about that afterwards.”
Percival drew back slightly to look at him, eyebrows lifting a shrewd fraction. “Oh did you?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and now he was trying something new. He had a hunch it might prove more persuasive. “I imagined lying with you and Lancelot that night, what it would feel like to be… between you. I’ve always found you a very distracting pair.”
“A pair?” Percival repeated, slightly breathier. “You think of us together?”
He sounded intrigued enough that Aziraphale tried dropping his hand again, and to his delight this time Percival didn’t push him away.
“Often,” Aziraphale admitted.
“And did—” Percival started, then broke off as Aziraphale's fingers closed over his cock through the straining cloth. He exhaled hard and uneven. “You are determined to get in my britches,” Percival said, a little fire of incredulity flickering in his tone. “Wily about it, aren’t you?”
Correct.
Aziraphale ignored that. “Ask me,” he breathed, shaping Percival’s cock through the fabric, shamelessly trying to learn its bulk, encouraging it to strain against his fingers. It felt… proportional. His mouth watered.
Percival closed his eyes for a moment, though it wasn’t clear whether this was due to the actions of Aziraphale's fingers or in preparation for what he was about to say. His eyes opened again, a shade diffident. “So… Did you imagine lying with us in this form, or as a maid?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said.
Percival took a moment to parse that, brow twitching, before his head fell back against the high-backed chair and his lips parted around another rushed-out breath. Aziraphale squeezed again and Percival’s eyelids fluttered closed once more.
Keep going. I want this. He is weakening.
Aziraphale raced quickly through his recent forays against Percival’s armour—Percival was resisting him, Percival liked being considered as a foil to Lancelot, Percival had exhibited some telltale interest in Aziraphale's female form. He chose the most obvious dent in the shield. If that failed—well, Lancelot was right there.
“So…” he said, mirroring Percival’s artful hesitation. “What did you make of me, when I was a woman?”
Percival’s cock jumped against his hand. “I—er—well I didn’t—” He could almost hear the wall of chivalric instinct splintering under a battering ram of arousal. Percival scowled with his eyes closed, tipping his head back further. “You were… Yes.”
“Did you like it?”
“Of course I liked it.”
“How would I know?” Aziraphale teased. “You don’t seek out any maids at Court, you aren’t betrothed… How would I know if your head might be turned by an ankle in a few swishing petticoats?”
Percival opened one eye. “If you’re trying to induce me to recite a list of your female counterpart’s attributes, you will be waiting for an age.”
“I’m not!” Aziraphale protested, who had been. He leaned in closer again, lowering his voice to a confiding register. “Truth be told, I really rather enjoyed it. Being watched by you, and all the others. There’s nothing like the feeling of being… a ripe fruit ready to be plucked.”
Something in what he’d said made Percival’s breath stutter out again. “Oh, really?”
“Mmm,” Aziraphale agreed, and took a risk. “And inhabiting that body was… sensational. So similar to ours and yet so very different. All those curves and secret places and reactions… It was quite something.”
Percival blinked slowly at him, pupils blown huge. “Tell me.”
That’s my angel. You’ve got him. Or them, possibly.
“I’ll answer as many questions as you like, if you let me touch you…”
Percival’s hand fell onto Aziraphale's and guided his thumb to flick apart the rest of the flimsy fastenings. “Go on.”
He hadn’t asked a question, so Aziraphale took the initiative. “Have you lain with a woman?”
Percival looked nonplussed. “Of course.”
“I hadn’t!” Aziraphale returned, shrugging one shoulder with a rueful smile. “So I didn’t know anything. No idea where to start. But… it was like I couldn’t go wrong. All I had to do was let my imagination wander, and every place that might feel good would clamour for attention.”
“You certainly gave that impression.” Percival said hoarsely, finally letting Aziraphale’s hand slip into his britches and close around his cock. It seemed to thrum in his grasp. “Oh, fuck. Don’t—go too fast. I don’t want this to end suddenly.”
Aziraphale made his touch featherlight in response. “That was another wonderful thing about being in female form,” he confided, brushing his lips against Percival’s jaw. “Nothing ever ended. With Frán, I truly believe we could have continued until dawn, climax after climax, with no resolution to it…”
Percival made a slightly strangled noise. “What stopped you?”
“Interrupted. Actually, almost caught red-handed.”
Percival’s brow flickered again as if that answer physically hurt him. “Worst luck.”
“Yes. Well… no, I’m not complaining, we did very well out of it,” Aziraphale said, and Percival gave a soft laugh.
“I daresay that’s true.” Percival swallowed audibly. “Would you go back to that island?”
Despite his nonchalant tone, Aziraphale heard a wealth unsaid in the sparse enquiry.
“Without question,” Aziraphale said vehemently, and then wet his lips. “Would you care to accompany us? Imagining, um, we could find another amulet.”
A barely-there nod confirmed his suspicions.
Aziraphale turned his head, brushing his lips back along Percival’s jaw, holding his breath. Holding back—hoping—and then exhaling softly when Percival’s lips brushed his, something transcendent and luminous about it.
Is he going to fuck you or not?
Wait!
…Humph. Crowley sounded vaguely resentful, but not too committed to it.
Aziraphale tried to placate him. Just… wait. I think what is building between us is even more valuable.
More valuable than the licentious power I would experience watching you sit on his massive—
Yes. More valuable.
Crowley gave a great sigh. Boring. At least the wizard shares my vision of unrestrained debauchery. I will watch them instead, if you refuse to entertain. He has his mate bent over the table and—
Fine!
Aziraphale opened his mouth, let the barest tip of his tongue slide along Percival’s lips, and they both shivered.
“That’s—I’ve never told anyone that,” Percival said, barely more than a whisper.
Aziraphale nodded, at a loss for a more coherent response but certainly not disagreeing.
It seemed to be enough; Percival’s tongue flicked back against Aziraphale’s, a warm nudge that made Aziraphale suddenly aware he was still naked in Percival’s lap with his hand wrapped around Percival’s erection. Shivers flew over his skin.
“One more question,” Percival said, his tone a little more sly.
Aziraphale braced, though he wasn’t sure against what. “Yes?”
Percival hummed softly, “Hm. So… When they…” He cleared his throat, then forged on. “How did it feel last night, when Arthur and Merlin both took you at the same time?“
Ha! Not so boring.
“You saw that?” Aziraphale hissed, and Percival gave a tiny laugh.
“Of course we bloody saw that - where did you think we were all evening?”
“Collecting wood?” Aziraphale said, and blushed violently as the realisation dawned. Of course. He rushed on, hoping to salvage something from his own discomfort, turning the heat of it back on Percival: “But in answer to your question—it felt amazing. Arthur’s so strong, and Merlin’s so talented, and having either of them fuck me felt good, but both at once…?” He licked his lips, lowered his voice, toying with the words as he toyed with Percival’s cock, making the phrases themselves a caress against Percival’s ear. “Both their cocks pushing inside me at the same time, stretching me to my limit—Merlin in my cunt, Arthur in my arse. Feeling them rub against each other inside me. When they started pounding me I could barely breathe - I came so hard I nearly passed out. But then I do like it… intense.”
“…Indeed,” Percival said, his voice a good octave lower.
“And I do like… duality,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his thumb along the underside of Percival’s cock.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to see if Lancelot wants to join us?”
Percival sank his teeth into his lower lip.
“Or do you want him all to yourself?”
Oi, Crowley protested, but Aziraphale held firm. His own cock was leaking, his own speech had worked himself up to a point of dizzying arousal, but if Percival really wanted to take Lancelot off into a corner right now, away from the rest of them, then who was he to get in their way?
Percival’s pupils grew huge. “You could ask him to join us.”
“I think if you crook one finger, he’ll come running,” Aziraphale joked, and then sobered. “You—you do know that, right?”
Percival said nothing.
Aziraphale felt his own eyes widen. “What do you mean?” he muttered incredulously. “You had him pinned to the floor not ten minutes ago!”
“But that might have been just for the good of the realm,” Percival muttered back. “I don’t—”
Get. On. With. It.
Aziraphale gave a guilty start, twisting to look back over his shoulder at the trio behind them. Merlin had Arthur braced against the table and was fucking him hard, his short efficient strokes nothing like the drawn-out pace he’d used with Aziraphale, his expression already looking starry. Lancelot was gripping Arthur’s face and saying something stern to him, his fingers in Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur was sucking them with his eyes closed, his handsome face contorted.
Gold miasma was rising in curlicues off all three of them like shimmering smoke, filling the air with a warm haze that was sharply delineated by the glowing lines of salt around the room. The haze grew more vivid as they moved together, Arthur gasping around Lancelot’s fingers, the rapid smack of Merlin’s hips as loud and obscene as anything Percival had done to Aziraphale.
Too late, Crowley grumbled, as Merlin snarled and sheathed himself fully, throwing his head back, clamping Arthur’s hips tightly to himself as the gold haze crackled and sizzled. They shook together, Lancelot’s fingers slipping free, unstopping Arthur’s mouth and releasing his loud groans into the air. Arthur collapsed forwards onto the table as Merlin finished inside him, and the light flashed again and again, flickering ever-weaker until Merlin pulled out; Merlin caught the front of Lancelot’s jerkin as he did so, drawing him into a messy haphazard kiss.
The haze swirling by the ceiling drew into an ever-brighter whirlpool, which suddenly shot down in a jagged bolt, striking the scroll. Smoke plumed upwards, temporarily obscuring everything.
That wasn’t bad, Crowley admitted, still sounding despondent, but look. It’s nothing like enough.
The smoke cleared to show another smouldering edge of the scroll, and a section of parchment burning away to nothing on one side, revealing a further curl of unblemished white beneath.
Sorry, Aziraphale thought, but it was somewhat insincere because the sight of Lancelot taking over and kissing Merlin deeply was its own reward. Merlin looked like his knees were buckling as Lancelot stepped closer, dwarfing Merlin’s slighter figure, getting a hand into his ruffled black hair and making it even more dishevelled. The sight of them, Arthur’s two closest confidants, kissing as if this were just another way to punctuate a long-running dispute, took Aziraphale's breath away.
Oh, Crowley said, in an altogether more hopeful tone. But what was that?
What?
Crowley growled softly in response, and Aziraphale looked all around himself. Lancelot’s tongue was in Merlin’s mouth, his eyes shut, his brows drawn together as if taking painstaking care; and Percival was staring at Lancelot kissing Merlin, his expression unreadable.
Aziraphale felt a reflected tremor of it, whatever Crowley was detecting. The discordant edges of jealousy mixed in with lust, giving it an incendiary kick. He’d barely identified the feeling’s component parts before Percival was leaning in and kissing Aziraphale hard enough to bruise.
“Mm,” Aziraphale grunted, opening his mouth to Percival’s tongue; the whisper-softness of earlier was gone, replaced with something decisive, demanding. Bordering on brutal.
This, we can work with, Crowley said gleefully, as Percival’s hands slid over Aziraphale's hips and tugged him more securely into his lap. Their cocks brushed and Aziraphale gasped, gathering them together in his hands, squeezing the shafts tightly against each other and rocking his hips.
Don’t look around, but trust me, the other one has definitely noticed.
Aziraphale couldn’t have looked around if he’d tried. He stroked over their cocks and sucked on Percival’s tongue, feeling the rush of shared sensation building. He pushed up Percival’s top and rubbed the heads of their cocks against his lean, hot stomach, streaking it with slick. In response, Percival slid his fingers back under Aziraphale’s arse and into his hole, fucking him roughly with them. Aziraphale felt himself start to ascend, head swimming at the sudden ferocity.
Yes, yes, let him take it out on you, delicious. And now I will bring the other one back to me, and heighten this exquisite conflict even more.
It took Aziraphale a moment to understand what he was saying, and a moment longer to realise that Lancelot was walking purposefully back towards Crowley, his face drawn into rakish lines of dark-eyed lust. He looked like a man about to ravish someone and not wholly concerned about whom that someone might be.
And that felt… wrong.
No.
What?
No, Aziraphale growled, lunging out wildly and accosting Lancelot by the wrist as he moved past, breaking the so-called kiss and dislodging Percival’s fingers, almost falling on the floor as he did so.
“Whoa,” Percival called, grabbing Aziraphale's hips again to stabilise him, hauling him back to his lap—as Aziraphale doggedly dragged Lancelot with him.
I won’t let you use them.
What?! Crowley demanded, sounding genuinely confused. Using them is the entire point.
Not like that.
“Oh,” Lancelot said, blinking and refocusing on Percival as if he was emerging from a walking trance. Aziraphale sent an accusing nettle-sting of suspicion at Crowley for that.
“Oh,” Percival echoed, staring up at Lancelot as if the stars had just come out across a midnight sky.
Aziraphale was still holding Lancelot’s wrist; he wasn’t sure what to do with his other hand. He found himself fishing for Percival’s hand as well, interlacing their fingers, giving them a prompting squeeze.
“Um… hullo,” Percival said gruffly.
Aziraphale squeezed Lancelot’s wrist, and Lancelot cleared his throat. “Ah… Don’t let me interrupt.”
“No,” Percival said. “Interrupt.”
This is painful, Crowley complained, but he wasn’t where Aziraphale was sitting, hadn’t seen the corner of Lancelot’s mouth twitch up, nor the sinking of Percival’s eyelids to half mast.
Shush. Wait.
“You looked like you were in the middle of something,” Lancelot said delicately.
Aziraphale resisted the urge to point out that he had a name.
“So did you,” Percival protested, returning Lancelot’s guarded half-smile.
Aziraphale didn’t resist the urge to raise Percival’s hand to his mouth and start nibbling his fingers. In the same movement, he adjusted his grip on Lancelot’s hand, threading their fingers together as well and bringing Lancelot’s knuckles to his lips.
“I… yes,” Lancelot said to Percival carefully, barely distracted as their hands brushed together. “I can see why you would assume that.”
“Which would be fine,” Percival said quickly. “For the good of the realm.”
“For the good of the realm,” Lancelot agreed.
Aziraphale gave up on subtlety. He sucked both their forefingers into his mouth.
Percival hissed under his breath, scowling at Aziraphale as if this was yet another unwelcome distraction—and then Lancelot leant abruptly down and kissed Percival on the mouth, hard and fast, and Percival’s fingers spasmed against Aziraphale's lips.
Ahh, Crowley said, as if this had been his idea all along. That does feel like something.
Told you so.
Aziraphale sucked their fingers harder, dropping his own hands to his lap, gathering up Percival’s cock again, pressing his own against it. He squeezed them together into his grasp, then used his free hand to paw at the front of Lancelot’s britches. Part of him couldn’t believe he was being so forward with Lancelot, of all people, while another part of him wondered what was taking them all so long to get undressed.
“Ah, fuck,” Lancelot bit off, drawing back, breathless already, reminding Aziraphale all at once that neither of these two had come yet this evening.
Aziraphale swirled his wet tongue around their fingertips, unmistakably lewd, and Percival groaned, cock twitching in Aziraphale's grasp.
Aziraphale sucked harder, rubbing his wet tongue in suggestive circles around them, and then let them slide out of his mouth.
“I would ask a favour of you,” he said bluntly to Lancelot, looking up at him. “He won’t give me what I want unless you agree not to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Lancelot said. His eyebrows arched. “And what is it that you want?”
Aziraphale felt himself colour as a hundred answers rushed through his mind at once. “Um, a lot of things,” he said, swallowing hard. “But right now I really want him inside me, and you—however you want. Is there anything you want?” He felt like he’d asked this in the wrong order, and his cheeks blazed hotter. “I would do, um, anything you liked. Anything.”
Mmm, Crowley said. A different flavour of heightened. I do love to see you squirm.
In truth he expected Lancelot to demur in some way, to draw a dignified veil over the conversation and put Aziraphale firmly in his proper place. He didn’t expect Lancelot to give them a brief, scalding once-over before saying—
“Then I’d like your mouth on my cock while he fucks you.”
Percival let out a quiet, shuddery breath.
Aziraphale stared up at him, wondering if he’d misheard, and then Crowley hummed in approval and he knew that he had not.
“Go on - before he entirely loses his mind,” Lancelot said, with a wolfish grin. “I’m amazed he’s lasted until now with you bouncing in his lap for this long.” His hands were stroking over Aziraphale as he spoke, encouraging him to kneel up a little, shuffle forwards. Aziraphale's belly pressed against Percival’s chest, his knees sinking deeper into the cushions at the back of the chair, and then he felt—yes. The length of Percival’s cock standing up between his thighs, brushing behind his balls.
Lancelot licked his own hand generously and then reached down, and Percival’s breath stuttered out again as his stand was enclosed, stroked, guided between Aziraphale's cheeks.
That looks so good, Crowley murmured, an extra resonance to his voice that made Aziraphale's toes curl. His cock is even redder than your arse. And thick, too, like the rest of him. But you’ll sit on it without complaint, won’t you, because you’re so desperate now, you need me inside you and these humans are the next best thing.
Yes, Aziraphale thought, tipping his head back as Lancelot pressed Percival’s cock into place. Percival’s hands were back on his hips, drawing down on them, coaxing. All three of them made a sound as he pushed inside—the same exhalation, at different pitches, Aziraphale high, Percival guttural, Lancelot all breathy approval.
Yes. Crowley’s voice filled Aziraphale's mind as he sank down steadily, letting his own weight drive him down to take the length of Percival’s cock to the base.
“Fuck,” Aziraphale whispered emphatically, sliding his arm around Percival's neck and arching against him. It felt so good, the sweet burn of being stretched open again, that thick steady fullness driving up inside him. Percival kissed him again, open-mouthed and breathless, nudging up; his other hand climbing Lancelot’s hip, helping with frantic tugs to open his britches.
Aziraphale looped one arm around Percival's broad shoulders and the other around Lancelot’s trim waist, locking them together. It should have been awkward but it wasn’t; they fit against each other well, Aziraphale riding Percival's lap with Lancelot bracing one knee on the arm of the chair, feeding his own cock to Aziraphale.
Beautiful, Crowley said. Aziraphale didn’t know if that referred to the sight of Percival's stand disappearing inside him, or Lancelot’s cock curving up proud and hooded by his face—the perfect height for Aziraphale to duck and take it into his mouth. Or possibly it was his own obvious eagerness to please that Crowley was remarking on, in that liquid dark internal drawl.
It didn’t matter. Crowley liked what he was seeing and Aziraphale wanted to show him more. He ran his tongue around the soft fold of skin enclosing the tip of Lancelot’s cock, making a show of easing it back with his mouth. He sucked on the rounded head beneath, tasting a burst of pearlescent sea salt, as Lancelot’s hand settled into his hair with an easy proprietary grip.
Percival was moving already, but carefully, minutely, as if he meant to hold back but couldn’t quite. He was so deep that Aziraphale wasn’t sure he’d be able to manoeuvre him more than that at first, before realising, no, of course he could. Because he was strong—so strong, so big. He wasn’t demonic or fae on any level - there was nothing otherworldly about him, no magic - but there didn’t need to be. Percival was equipped with the boundless energy of lean, well-fed muscle and red-blooded lust, and that, Aziraphale found, packed quite a punch.
As soon as Percival chose to move, instead of the reflexive twitching of his hips so far, Aziraphale realised just how easy he found it. His own balance was the main issue—until Percival clamped his hands around Aziraphale’s waist and steadied him, fingers digging in, anchoring his hips and fucking up into him. And he’d been right, it did feel incredible, the tender flesh of his arse reminded of the earlier spanking by the powerful upward slam of Percival’s hips. He almost swooned as the repeated hard impact reverberated through him, but Lancelot’s firm hands stopped him.
Aziraphale wanted to moan. He was doing his best to lavish the attention on Lancelot’s cock that it deserved, but it kept slipping free, glancing off his lips and sliding against his cheek—until Lancelot growled and leaned closer. He pushed deeply into Aziraphale’s mouth and held him there, letting the force of Percival’s thrusts move Aziraphale’s tongue against him.
And that, messy and rough and real, felt criminally good. Aziraphale could detect the lust between them building into a magical charge, crackling through him in response to every thrust. He felt like he was glowing already. The first moment that they synchronised, Percival and Lancelot both driving inside him together, Aziraphale thought he might explode—and then it happened again and again, moments of perfect fullness aligning amidst ragged sleek abandon. Mostly he was just sucking and being fucked, delirious pleasure rising fast. He was barely able to spare a thought for his own building pleasure, coiled inside him, sparking and thrumming as the pitch of the others’ groans rose. But there was also a shapeless desire that was growing with every second that passed.
Come here, he thought at Crowley, from within an urgent spike of need.
Crowley made an inquisitive noise. You want me to take over? They look like they have you under control.
Not… take over, Aziraphale thought desperately. I just want you here.
…Fucking you? Crowley supplied uncertainly, and if Aziraphale could have spared the breath he would have made a frustrated noise around Lancelot’s cock.
No! Just here!
Crowley tucked himself back into his clothes and sidled over, almost comically hesitant. But they already have you under control, he repeated. I’m still not sure what you want me to do.
His fingertips lighted on Aziraphale's bare shoulder and a heated crackle of sensation went down Aziraphale's spine.
That, Aziraphale thought vehemently, arching his back; cock jerking against Percival’s stomach, leaking copiously against the glorious satiny heat of his skin. That, that, that.
“This?” Crowley said out loud. His voice was an oaken burr that enveloped Aziraphale in a golden cloud, shot through with silver sparks as Crowley’s fingers traced lightly across the sweat of his back. His touch was aimless, grounding, and everything.
Lancelot looked up at Crowley’s voice and made a pleased noise. “Decided to join us?”
“Jus’ doing what I’m told,” Crowley replied, which probably wasn’t the sharp retort he’d imagined.
“It becomes you,” Lancelot said warmly, tugging Crowley in closer and kissing him.
Light exploded behind Aziraphale's eyes at the sight, and it was all he could do not to lose his rhythm entirely. It charged through him, over him, interconnecting inside him like rivulets of fire. He felt like he was reacting to Crowley’s presence like the sword had, flames flickering along his surface, uncanny and dangerous and so, so beautiful.
He felt the intense joy of it swirl around him and rush right back into Crowley.
“Oh,” Crowley muttered against Lancelot’s mouth, sounding bewildered, delighted, “oh.”
I’m going to come, Aziraphale thought desperately, fuck, fuck, Crowley—and Crowley knew exactly where to put his hands for that. He reached down and grasped Aziraphale's cock, stroking him hard and fast against Percival's stomach, and Aziraphale's whole body tensed in devastating ecstasy.
Waves of it spread out from his centre, unstoppable, an earthly release neither magical nor profane. It was hot, sweaty, crude, and impossible to resist. Aziraphale tightened and shuddered on Percival's cock and found within moments that Percival was coming inside him; he sucked furiously on Lancelot’s dick and almost immediately tasted the bittersweet spurts of completion flooding his tongue.
Above him he had a vague awareness that Lancelot had both hands in Crowley’s hair now, and was gripping him, groaning against his mouth, as Aziraphale swallowed and swallowed. Below him, Percival started to subside, rubbing his face against Aziraphale’s neck.
This time the scroll set fully on fire.
“Yes!” Aziraphale cheered weakly, raising one fist in triumph, even as the rest of him collapsed boneless and panting across Percival’s chest. He had a glimpse of Lancelot leaning heavily against the chair, panting and fumbling to right his own clothes, and felt a welling of triumph. They were all in a splendid disarray - but they’d done it!
“Yes,” Crowley said, as the smoke cleared. “Definitely a better effort. Not quite there but at least it’s thoroughly… singed.”
“Singed?!” Aziraphale exclaimed, indignant, and heard Percival give a despairing laugh beneath him. He was sweaty and his chest was heaving, but he’d managed to arrange one arm comfortably around Aziraphale's waist and pillow the other behind his head, elbow bent. He was still buried in Aziraphale's body, a fat solid presence even when - presumably - getting soft, but he didn’t seem too interested in moving.
“How can it only be singed?” Percival demanded, looking askance at Crowley. “How much, er, power are you expecting this to take?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” Crowley told him. His eyes were relaxed and his mouth was very red, with an amused tilt to the edges. “I usually deal in death and despair. This… currency… is strange to me.” Absentmindedly he reached out and stroked a few errant strands of hair back from Lancelot’s forehead, tucking them behind his ear, before running his fingertip along the slant of his freckled cheekbone. He was apparently still addressing Percival as he continued, “I don’t loathe it - ‘s very enjoyable - but I have bugger all idea of what anything is worth. Souls are souls, usually… all this feels more like a gradient.”
They were all staring at him.
Aziraphale bit his lip; Percival sniggered softly.
Lancelot gave Crowley a bemused smile, glancing up through his lashes.
“What?” Crowley demanded. After a moment his eyes narrowed. “Oh, come on,” he scoffed, waving a hand in protest. “He kissed me - and almost asphyxiated Aziraphale, besides - but your expressions imply there is some unspoken rule that I should resist from touching his face?”
“There’s no rule,” Lancelot said, his smile going lazy and crooked. “You are welcome to touch whatever part of me you like.”
“As long as we get to watch,” Percival interjected, a hint of his usual cheer returning. He reached out and patted Crowley’s thigh - the only part of him he could reach. “Don’t worry, we’ve all been there. He is distressingly easy on the eye.”
Lancelot flashed Percival a grin, and Aziraphale felt Percival’s cock give a hopeful twitch inside him. Aziraphale’s gaze snapped to Percival’s face, who gave him a wide-eyed innocent look.
“Not one word,” Percival mouthed, quiet enough that the others couldn’t hear, then made a show of clearing his throat. “So Crowley! What now?”
Chapter 26: Night 12 - A Coordinated Attack
Summary:
New plan: everybody try harder.
AKA: Aziraphale finally gets his hands on that demon cock again, after waiting so patiently (so! patient!) and stays very cool about it (spoiler: he does not)
Notes:
CW: orgy; multiple partners; dom!Crowley; a smidge of fantasy of free use; a tiny bit of demonic possession; top versus top; sexualised brawling; rough sex; unsafe sex; five-on-one restraint; wet and messy monsterfucking; happy ending
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"What now?"
Crowley laughed and spread his hands in an eloquent gesture of despair. “You need to ask the wizard, but he appears to have disappeared when I… wasn’t concentrating.”
Aziraphale craned around to see, and found the cavernous room deserted behind them.
“Gone?” Percival demanded, sitting upright and finally dislodging Aziraphale from his lap—Aziraphale hissed under his breath as they pulled apart, releasing a sudden wetness onto his thighs. Aziraphale staggered to his feet and saw Crowley’s nostrils flare, distracted.
“Arthur’s gone too,” Lancelot was saying, drawing himself up and looking around, something commanding returning to his posture. “But there’s a limit to the trouble they can get into together.”
“Well actually—” Percival pointed out.
“I think on this occasion we can safely assume they haven’t stolen away for some privacy,” Lancelot said, bone dry.
Percival tilted his head. “Fair.”
“There are really,” Lancelot continued, “only two places Merlin might have gone in the middle of a spell like this—out the back for more firewood, or off to the saddlebags for more salt.”
“You forgot upstairs for more power,” Merlin said, reappearing in the doorway to the stairwell with Arthur behind him. They were bare-chested still, but once more wearing the loose, dark britches that Aziraphale immediately wanted to rip off again.
Arthur was holding a large unfurled roll of parchment, on which had been scratched a series of hasty black lines. The shape they formed was recognisable, but Aziraphale didn’t have time to process that before his focus jumped to Merlin.
Merlin was holding his staff.
Lancelot immediately looked more indolent again.
“I’ve come to a conclusion as to what’s been going wrong,” Merlin announced, in the tone of someone who was all too used to evaluating a piece of work whilst it was still underway. “It’s quite simple really.”
Crowley’s expression became wary. “And what’s that?”
Merlin gave him a look of suppressed excitement. “We thought we were fomenting more power keeping you apart, but I’ve developed… doubts, ha. It’s not been easy to keep track, but my best approximation is that the raw conduit is broadest with the subjects aligned, not opposed, whereas the ancillary power has proved entirely unpredictable! I think there is a lot of dissipation. So to avoid further losses—”
“What he means,” Arthur put in smoothly, as an inexorable glaze crept over the rest of their faces, “is that all spread out like this, we’re getting nowhere, and instead we need to - hmm - mount a coordinated attack. So…” He threw them a dashing smile. “We will be needing a half-decent bed.”
He strode to the main table and spread the parchment flat upon it, then made a formal beckoning gesture to Merlin.
Merlin approached, raising the staff in both hands, and brought it down in a careful sweep to impact precisely in the middle of the parchment. The muscles in his back flexed, the only visible sign of how much control he was exerting. The staff shone momentarily, and then a pool of ink seemed to seep out of it, flowing across the parchment, glinting. The ink pooled outwards in all directions across the surface of the table in a gleaming spill, pouring over all the sides at once. And then—it stopped.
Aziraphale blinked as the vision shifted, as the image of flowing liquid slowed into a swirl of fabric. A huge, dark wooden bed solidified before his eyes, draped in pale bedclothes with an embroidered motif like metallic scales. Covers fell to the floor in shining curtains. It was bigger than the canopied bed Aziraphale remembered from the king’s bedchamber. It was absurdly big.
“That’s more like it,” Arthur said with satisfaction, walking along the foot of the bed with his hand outstretched, fingers smoothing along the glossy surface. “How you expected us to build up any momentum without a dedicated arena, I’ve no idea.”
It was the calm, amused, mildly teasing voice of someone used to holding court, and Aziraphale noticed them all react to it - the knights standing up straight, Merlin grinning and inclining his head with a vaguely deferential air.
Crowley’s eyes glinted. “Then why didn’t you do that before?”
It was a jarring change of tone, as discordant as the sound of a dagger being drawn at a jovial gaming table.
Arthur’s brows lifted. Despite his state of undress, in that moment his bare shoulders somehow conveyed a sense of ermine-fringed robes, his tousled hair the invisible indentation of a crown. Aziraphale felt a peculiar wash of apprehension for Crowley, as if he might be about to be exiled.
“We didn’t know,” Merlin interjected, before Arthur could say anything. “This is all speculative.” His eyes darkened. “I’d remind you that if not for your impulsive, foolhardy declarations and modifications to the contract we prepared, I could have handled the entire power exchange myself—and planned to.”
Crowley opened his mouth in indignation.
“As things stand,” Merlin said, without pausing to let him speak, “it’s going to vastly outstrip my resources.” He waved in exasperation at the new bed. “I’ve even had to use power stored in the staff for a mere incantation!”
For a moment it felt like things were getting heated in entirely the wrong way, and then Lancelot murmured, “Shocking…” in the tone of one who was neither shocked nor indeed interested at all. The languid richness of his voice was its own type of soothing. Once Lancelot had dismissed a concern, it tended to dissipate without further delay.
Lancelot’s body was angled towards Arthur, but his gaze was fixed on Crowley.
Crowley looked with begrudging interest at the staff. “How much power did you say is stored in there?”
Merlin gave him a mirthless smile. “Not enough for your purposes. And in any case, that power’s not for you.”
“Shocking,” Crowley said, in a fair approximation of Lancelot’s tone. Crowley peered at Lancelot sideways through a fallen wave of red hair, smirking when Lancelot nodded. Aziraphale had a terrible suspicion he was learning.
And then Crowley moved towards Arthur.
“It’s for Camelot,” Merlin was explaining, but no one was listening now; all focus had switched to Crowley, walking in his idle loose-hipped way, somehow purposeless and purposeful at once, towards where Arthur still stood at the foot of the bed.
They were the same height now, though Arthur was much broader, his shoulders squared. Most knights had a significantly stronger sword arm, but Arthur’s physique suggested balance in all things, right down to the angled muscles in his neck. Everything about him was symmetrical; even the distribution of his tawny chest hair, the ruddy points of his nipples, his tapered waist.
By contrast, in the loose dark shirt and with those slinking hips, the unruly cascades of red hair, everything about Crowley looked sinuous, shifting, unpredictable.
As Crowley drew closer, Arthur raised his chin.
“So is your best guess…” Crowley said slowly, still showing none of the deference that they all instinctively used to address Arthur—even now, half-naked, it was ingrained. “…Is that if you all try very, very hard to please me, together, on this bed, it should be enough to rid me of Hell’s summons?”
“It’s not my guess,” Arthur said.
“I think—” Merlin started, but Crowley threw up his hand, silencing him without breaking eye contact with Arthur.
“You are the leader, the wizard tells me - so it is your guess.”
It was that same discordant note again - provocative and deliberate, cutting through the camaraderie and making their assembled company bristle.
Aziraphale hoped against hope that Crowley knew what he was doing.
Wariness infiltrated Arthur’s stance, but he was still wearing a faint smile as he squared up to Crowley. “Then yes,” he said, head held high, voice resonant with familiar confidence; his regal voice. “My faith in my advisors is absolute. It will be enough.”
“I hope you are correct,” Crowley drawled, apparently responding to Arthur’s posture by becoming more slouchy, more indolent, shifting his weight from one hip to the other. “I hope your confidence in your sworn men is not misplaced. But if it is…”
His voice dropped to a threatening register that Aziraphale felt prickling all over his skin.
“…it will be you that bears the brunt of my wrath before my fate is sealed.”
Fuck.
Crowley! What are you doing?
Trust me. This is what this one needs.
Merlin had taken an instinctive step forwards—but Lancelot stopped him, dragging him back with a firm arm around his bare shoulders. Lancelot’s attention was still fixed on Crowley.
The noise Merlin made in his throat suggested he was reserving judgement.
“Which might not seem fair,” Crowley was saying, with an unruly edge to his voice, “but then, what about your life is fair? The golden prince, the once and future king…” Crowley found the place where he’d scratched Arthur before, a red line that started at the base of his throat and arced downwards. He ran the pad of his thumb down the mark, and Arthur visibly shivered. “You were born with a coin of fortune—this is the other side of that coin. They’d all bleed for you. But this time, if you get this wrong, you will bleed for them.”
Merlin’s fingers flexed and his eyes ringed with gold—but Lancelot squeezed his shoulder again, catching his attention with a meaningful look, a quick shake of the head.
Aziraphale couldn’t look away. He was watching the words roll over Arthur, incisive and cruel, making Arthur’s face flush and his eyes brighten. He knew the sorts of terrible things that Crowley could say - vividly remembered the hot-wash of shame and arousal that similar litanies had inspired in himself - and yet the trust Crowley had asked him for was a reassurance. This was a performance, not the vicious attack of someone who couldn’t hold back any longer. Despite bordering on treasonous, it felt… tactical.
Percival had folded his arms as if holding himself back, and inclined his head to Lancelot. “Not like you, to not defend Arthur,” he murmured, for their ears only.
Lancelot gave a soft laugh. “Don’t be absurd,” he said, matching his volume. “He doesn’t need defending. He likes it.”
“But Crowley doesn’t… mean it,” Percival said uncertainly.
Lancelot tipped his head one way, then the other. “I’d imagine it’s the possibility that he might mean it which is making it so very effective.”
The look Merlin shot Lancelot suggested he was well aware of this - grudgingly impressed, even - and it made Aziraphale wonder if this was something they ever played together, him and Arthur. The prospect of real threat, real consequence. It didn’t seem impossible. And yet Arthur's intent concentration and gleaming eyes suggested it couldn't be commonplace either.
Merlin shrugged off Lancelot’s arm but didn’t attempt to intervene. Crowley was walking around Arthur, speaking in a low hypnotic drawl, as Arthur’s breath became increasingly shallow. Arthur was clenching his jaw now, the muscle jumping. He didn’t look like he liked it, exactly, but Aziraphale couldn't deny that he looked increasingly aroused. As if Crowley had exposed a hidden sore spot and was pressing expertly against it; as if the pain felt good.
Not two weeks ago that would have been a strange concept to Aziraphale but now… now he more than understood.
“If you let me down, you will be the one to answer for it. You will be the one on whom I exact my merciless revenge…”
“H-how will you do that?” Arthur asked, and Aziraphale felt the rough crack in his voice down to his toes.
“I will strip away your crown—it’s nothing to me,” Crowley said, snapping his fingers, and Arthur gave a delicious shudder. “I’ll take it all - your riches, your title, your men’s respect - and then I will punish you until you forget your own name. Do you know how many ways I could ruin you before the sun rose?”
Arthur’s eyes had closed; now they flew open, disbelieving but intrigued.
“You haven’t even seen my demon form,” Crowley said, his voice becoming a growl. “I’ll unleash myself on you. The others I’ll just discard, but you, your fine body, your rich mouth, I’ll ensure I’ll make every use of it.” He touched Arthur’s lower lip speculatively, then arranged his hand around the base of his throat and squeezed, leaning closer. “I’ll fuck you right up to the moment I’m sucked back to Hell, and then I’ll take you with me, let the other demons enjoy you there. And if you think I’m bad… they’re worse. They’ll make you do despicable things. You would have to earn your way back to this realm, doing whatever it takes for whoever might deign to help you. Would you like that?”
Arthur shook his head, though the colour in his cheeks and the bulge in his britches spoke otherwise. Aziraphale realised his own heart was pounding again.
“But if you please me now,” Crowley said, releasing his throat again, voice altering to one of thoughtful warmth, almost syrupy, “if you fulfil your promises and do whatever it takes for me, then all will be well. Can you do that?” His fingernail stroked under Arthur’s chin, lifting it. “Behave for me?”
The change in tone was dizzying, and Aziraphale swore he felt the heat in the room spike.
“Yes,” Arthur said, his lips barely moving.
“Good,” Crowley said, and gestured to the bare flagstones beside the grand bed. “Now get on your knees, cur.”
A spark of defiance entered Arthur’s eye at the low-voiced insult. “Make me.”
Without hesitation, Crowley shoved him to the ground. Even though he’d been half-expecting it, Aziraphale wanted to call out, react, protest—but he didn’t, because Arthur was looking up from the floor with eyes like shining black coals. His whole body had changed into something slinking and sly, and Merlin had frozen as well—his gaze also riveted on Crowley.
Crowley reached down and closed his hand in Arthur’s hair, twisting so that Arthur’s face was upturned. “You are exceedingly pleasant to look at,” Crowley told him, as if this were an admission. Then he ran his nails lightly down Arthur’s face. “I’m sure everyone would like to keep you that way. Don’t tempt me to make changes.”
The crack of a cane in his voice sent a reverberation through Aziraphale's chest.
Percival gave a theatrical shudder. “That is genuinely terrifying,” he muttered. He shifted to wrap his arms around Lancelot from behind—and then, as if fearing Lancelot might object, like he wanted to distract him, rushed on with a vehement whisper. “If he says something like that to me I might flee the inn!”
“He won’t say anything like that to you,” Lancelot said, adjusting to secure Percival’s arms more tightly around himself, resting back against his shoulder. Percival visibly relaxed. “He’s taken the measure of Arthur like a seamstress assessing a bolt of cloth. This narrative is… tailor-made. Besides,” he added, with a half-nod at Merlin. “He’s the intended audience, not you.”
Sure enough, Crowley was looking at Merlin as he ran a hand through Arthur’s hair and then down his face—gentle now, but with an unmistakable lewd possessiveness.
The low light flickered.
Merlin’s teeth were clenched, his eyes very dark with a hint of a too-warm glow. The air felt humid, thick.
Aziraphale thought he heard a distant rumble of thunder.
“Go on,” Crowley said, as Arthur parted his lips for Crowley’s fingertips, his tongue glistening wet and pink. “Open up for me.”
When Arthur obeyed, Crowley swiped his forefinger in a slow curve across Arthur’s tongue. Aziraphale blinked—he thought he could see light trailing behind Crowley’s fingernail as it made a few quick brushstrokes. Yes, there it was again, a glowing red line that lingered until suddenly a twisted shape flared across the tip of Arthur’s tongue - before melting away. Arthur sucked in a hissed breath, as if it stung, and Merlin growled softly; Aziraphale was reminded instantly of the sigil Morgana had drawn on his chest, in the dream. The insult of it.
Was Crowley trying to insult Merlin? That seemed… unwise.
Crowley! Did you just mark him?
Pff, only a little one. Transient.
Merlin looks, um, not happy about that, Aziraphale hazarded.
Good. Crowley was playing his fingertips across Arthur’s lower lip once more. “Suck them,” he said out loud, still in his command tone, and the sound of it made Aziraphale’s knees go weak. Crowley smiled as if he knew it, then dropped back to a more human register. “Keep your eyes closed.” He made Arthur chase after his touch, tilting his head, a line appearing between his brows as he tried to draw Crowley’s fingers into his mouth. “Try harder.”
Arthur made a soft noise of effort, one hand raising to capture Crowley’s wrist, guiding Crowley’s fingers into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked, a look of earnest peace washing over his face, captivating.
“Steady,” Crowley said, intercepting Arthur’s grip—and then, with a shrug, redirecting Arthur’s hand to the front of his unlaced black britches. Arthur made another soft noise, moulding his palm to the thin fabric stretched around the bulge of Crowley’s cock. “That’s better. Mmh,” Crowley said, approvingly, watching where his fingers disappeared between Arthur’s lips, before shifting to glance provocatively at Merlin. “Doesn’t that look better? Or are you getting all hot under the cowl over there, seeing how gladly your mate submits to my hand?”
In an instant, Merlin had crossed the floor. He sank his own punishing fist into Crowley’s hair and dragged Crowley backwards down onto the bed with a single sharp yank, overbalancing him, half-crawling on top and shoving a knee between his legs.
“You are trying to enrage me,” Merlin bit off, voice level.
Crowley bared his sharp teeth up at him. “Seems to be working.”
“Yes,” Merlin said shortly, with another hard downwards tug that forced Crowley flat to the sheets.
Crowley hissed and wriggled against him, getting an arm between them, dispensing with Merlin’s hold on him and giving a vicious kick up. Merlin slammed him flat again, but Crowley seemed to absorb his force and turn it back against him, throwing Merlin backwards. Before he could slide off the slippery sheets, Merlin whipped around and grabbed Crowley’s wrists, launching himself back at him.
“Oh-hoo,” Percival hooted, immediately seeming comfortable once more. This - as they wrestled in earnest, each vying to pin the other down - was apparently more familiar territory. “Oh, my coin’s on Merlin. He is furious!”
“My coin’s on Crowley,” Lancelot returned, even as he spared Aziraphale an amused glance. “He seems the type to fight dirty.”
Aziraphale made a vague noise to acknowledge that, but couldn’t find the words to reply. He couldn’t even think what to think at Crowley. This was madness! Impossible!
Lancelot’s attention had already flickered away—to Merlin slamming Crowley over and twisting his wrists behind his back; to Crowley breaking free and crushing Merlin against the bed by his throat; to Percival nibbling the back of Lancelot’s neck, as their fingers restlessly entwined.
Aziraphale couldn’t countenance what he was seeing. The spectacle on the bed was making his mind hurt. Their physical forms looked evenly matched; both were wiry and quick, nothing careless about any movement. But Aziraphale knew that Crowley was fearsomely strong, and Merlin was matching that with something, and yet neither was taking precedence, both reduced to this tussling, panting brawl.
It was Arthur who rose silently to his feet and quirked an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “What do you think?” Arthur's voice had found its air of lazy confidence once more, though his mouth was still shiny pink from Crowley’s attention. “You retrieve yours, I’ll retrieve mine? Or…” He tipped his head to one side, regarding them like a monarch graciously assessing a new tapestry being presented. “…do you think all this antagonism might be standing in for something else?”
“Very astute, sire,” Lancelot called, straight-faced, shifting back against Percival’s chest.
Aziraphale ordered his thoughts at last. Crowley. Crowley! What is the meaning of this?!
Crowley paused to glance at him, and Merlin took the opportunity to drive a fist into his stomach. Crowley retaliated with a snarl, throwing them over and bringing the heel of his hand up under Merlin’s ribs, making him gasp. Demon, remember? I won’t always play nice.
But you’re not meant to be playing nice! You’re meant to be fucking me senseless while the others watch and applaud, or had you forgotten?
…Ah. Yes.
Aziraphale made his internal voice as dry as he dared. Yes you’d forgotten, or yes you remember?
Ngk, got distracted, sorry—fuck, ow! This damned wizard is going to make it difficult for me to fuck anyone at all, at this rate!
Then. Appease. Him.
The noise Crowley made was one of displeasure, but Aziraphale was watching closely; he saw Crowley slow his attack, allowing Merlin to flip him onto his back this time. Merlin pinned Crowley’s wrists to either side of his head, and he was sweating, they both were, breathing hard as Crowley slowly raised one knee between Merlin’s legs.
Merlin’s eyes were glowing, but it was more like red-hot iron, ringed with black, than the usual sunbursts of golden fire.
“Truce?” Crowley suggested, rubbing his knee between Merlin’s thighs. “Or would you rather—”
With a growl Merlin dropped down and kissed him - not a truce sort of a kiss, more a continuation of their war - which Percival and Lancelot met with matched ironic little cheers.
“Right! There you go,” Arthur said, spreading his hands to indicate them, as if that wasn’t where Aziraphale was already looking. “You see?”
“I see,” Aziraphale agreed, staring in escalating awe as they savaged each other with a different sort of violence. Merlin ripped Crowley’s shirt in two and feasted on his neck, beard rubbing his skin raw, leaving bite marks and sucked bruises; Crowley retaliated with his teeth bared, scratching viciously down Merlin’s back, creating lurid red streaks either side of his spine.
Do you think I can fuck the wizard? Crowley asked suddenly.
I… Aziraphale reeled. Possibly not and also walk away with all your limbs?
Ashhk, Crowley said indistinctly, and then, in a suspicious tone: Do you think he wants to fuck me?
I have no idea!
He might… wrench my arms behind my back and force me to take it…
Crowley! Aziraphale was struggling to cope with the barrage of feelings that image conjured. I don’t… think… Look, Merlin is a good—Normally, Aziraphale amended, the glowing red eyes notwithstanding. Merlin normally takes utmost care with people, so he would not do that unless you told him you wanted it. Usually. I… I don’t know what you’ve done to him to make him like this.
Unleashed him, Crowley said, with relish. Matched him and let him do his worst, let him sate himself on my energy, feed off my core.
….Right, yes, so I see. But since none of the rest of us are going to come near either of you unless you stop fighting like cursed wildcats, would you now care to desist?
There was a short pause.
“Fine,” Crowley said out loud, throwing both his arms wide on the bed. “Arthur,” he barked, and Aziraphale blinked because - until this moment - he hadn’t actually known if Crowley had bothered to learn the king’s name. “Join us. We’ll mind the teeth.”
Arthur returned him a charming smile. “Oh, I beg you not to restrain yourself on my account,” he said, sprawling down on his side next to them without a moment’s hesitation. He lowered his mouth to Crowley’s freckled shoulder, stroking a hand down Merlin’s scratch-streaked back.
Merlin stilled at his touch, and Aziraphale saw him push back off Crowley’s ravaged neck and blink several times. The red light in his eyes faded, slowly returning to their normal shaded-forest green. Then, they narrowed at Crowley.
“Did you just possess me?”
Crowley had the grace to look diffident. “Unleashed you,” he said, with a little less conviction than he’d declared to Aziraphale.
To Aziraphale's amazement, this didn’t faze Merlin at all. “Fascinating,” he said. “I have questions.”
“For some other time,” Arthur prompted, and Merlin laughed, rolling onto his back and gazing up at him, reaching up to trace his jaw with his thumb.
“Indeed,“ Merlin said, and pulled Arthur down into a kiss. It was firm and demanding, but the vicious edge had melted away, and the firelight brightened again as Arthur’s lips met his.
Aziraphale’s own mouth turned dry as Crowley looked at him. “Come here then,” Crowley said, and drew him in.
The light flickered again as their mouths met, and oh, how had they not been doing this the whole time? Crowley’s lips were red, warm, mobile, opening promptly at the brush of Aziraphale's tongue. A jolt went through him as Crowley sucked his tongue into his mouth—hotter than human, but still wet and soft, as the stroke of Crowley’s fingers down his face made him shiver.
Aziraphale hummed happily and rolled them over so that Crowley was on top of him, his wiry weight pressing him into the bed. Crowley still had his ruined shirt and tight trousers on, whilst Aziraphale was naked. Surely that wasn’t fair.
You have me at a disadvantage.
Good.
Aziraphale gave a muffled laugh into the kiss, his hands roving over all the skin he could reach, hungry for more. His hips were already starting a rhythmic roll, crushing his stand up against the answering bulge in Crowley's britches, rubbing them together. Even through the fabric, that sliding greedy pressure felt wonderful.
More? Crowley asked, apparently hearing what Aziraphale was thinking even in the spaces between his defined thoughts.
More.
All of them?
Oh! That hadn’t been what he’d meant but oh, yes, oh yes, please.
Yes.
Crowley clicked his fingers at Lancelot and Percival, summoning them with a supercilious gesture.
Aziraphale thought they might hesitate or protest at that, but they didn’t; they came willingly, wantonly, eyes gleaming. They crawled onto the huge bed, spreading Aziraphale out on the cool smooth sheets. Lancelot kissed him, sweet and firm, while Percival kissed Crowley, then Arthur, then sought out Lancelot once more.
And then, slowly but surely, Aziraphale realized everyone was turning to him. He closed his eyes and floated in the sensation of numerous mouths and hands exploring him, the varied warm textures of skin sliding against skin: smooth and sleek, roughened with soft hair or coarse bristles, the wet brushes of lips and the hints of teeth, all in motion. He was glad, now, that they’d already taken the edge off, that every one of these touches wasn’t wholly new. He liked that he already knew how it felt to lie with the others, because there was only so much anticipation he could tolerate, and because here, now, every shining thread of anticipation was able to weave itself around Crowley.
Crowley. Where was he? Ah—there. Everywhere. Aziraphale found Crowley’s lips again and kissed him hard, mumbling and moaning under his breath. Lancelot’s hands were already there, tugging the ripped remains of Crowley’s jerkin over his head, and they had to disengage to let that happen, before picking up laughing where they left off. Crowley’s mouth seemed to be getting hotter and hotter, and his teeth were not careful and he didn’t - it seemed - always need to breathe. He liked to smell Aziraphale, though, nuzzling deep against his neck, his hairline, along the line of his collarbone. He liked to rub his face against Aziraphale and suck, and bite.
Aziraphale rolled them over again so that Crowley was on his back in the middle of the bed, pleased when everyone else surged back in like a flowing tide. Percival and Arthur were grappling over something now, and Merlin had found his way behind Aziraphale, kissing his neck, hands roaming in their light-fingered way down his side, his belly. Aziraphale pressed back against him, even as he found himself looking down at Crowley and across at Lancelot.
Lancelot - all soulful dark eyes and dishevelled dark hair - was looking right back at Aziraphale. “May I?”
Aziraphale's eyes widened, and he nodded without bothering to ask for more information. Whatever he was being asked, by Lancelot, the answer was yes, oh, yes.
Lancelot grinned and then ducked down to kiss Crowley again.
Aziraphale stared as their mouths met, floored by another surge in arousal because fuck, that really was Lancelot, his attractive profile meeting Crowley’s - they were both so attractive - and Lancelot had asked Aziraphale for permission to press Crowley into the bed! Aziraphale!
This is wonderful, Aziraphale caught himself thinking, as his hands slid over Lancelot’s on Crowley’s bare chest, guiding them downwards. I can’t believe they’d do this for us.
It’s the least they could do.
It really isn’t! An inappropriate bubble of merriment welled up in his chest. Do you know how envious the maids at court would be? We’re lying with Arthur and Lancelot.
I’m lying with you, Crowley rumbled. The rest are merely… accoutrements.
Lancelot’s mouth mirrored Aziraphale's on the other side of Crowley’s neck, hands sliding down Crowley’s stomach, encountering the bulge of his cock once more.
Very… pleasing accoutrements, Crowley said, and the light flickered again with the intensity of several candle flames.
“Mmh,” Crowley said gruffly, breaking the breathless silence that had been building between the three of them. “Yes, get it out,” he said to Lancelot. “I want to see your fingers wrapped around my stand.”
“All in good time,” Lancelot said, rubbing him through the fabric, and Crowley hissed in soft outrage.
Aziraphale caught on all at once. He started kissing Crowley’s chest, making his mouth light and teasing. Percival threaded his fingers through Crowley’s and then moved his hands above his head, held them there, kissing his wrists, his forearms.
“Oh,” Crowley said abruptly.
Aziraphale flicked his tongue over one nipple, encircling it, blowing on it until the pink skin crinkled tighter than ever, then sucked it, slow and generous, working it with his tongue.
“Ah,” Crowley said, almost like anguish; but Arthur was already leaning over him, catching the sound with his lips, and for the next few minutes the only noises were Crowley’s muffled moans, the slide of wet mouths, the increasingly harsh breathing.
Aziraphale closed his hands over Lancelot’s, above the prominent ridge of Crowley’s cock, and felt Crowley’s hips jerk up against their touch.
“Is it cruel to make him wait much longer?” Lancelot asked innocently. “He seems very impatient.”
“Yes,” Crowley mumbled. “Cruel!”
Merlin was kissing the back of Aziraphale's neck, stretched out behind him. “What about you?” he asked, his voice pitched to make Aziraphale's toes curl. “Is it cruel to make you wait much longer as well?”
Aziraphale nodded eagerly.
Merlin’s laughter was warm. “Poor thing,” he said, without sincerity. His fingers swept down between Aziraphale's legs, finding his hole, where he was still wet, still slippery. Merlin pushed two fingers inside, so peremptory that Aziraphale groaned. “So ready...”
Aziraphale tried to focus on teasing Crowley’s nipples, while spreading his legs for Merlin’s hand. His own cock was pressed against Crowley’s clothed thigh, and he ground against it in blind need.
The light flickered more vibrantly, the room seeming markedly hotter.
“I want to watch you ride him,” Merlin said, close to Aziraphale's ear. Deft fingers toying, stroking. “I want to watch you take his cock as well as you took mine, I want to watch you stretching around him, that lovely little curve in your spine as you tip back to cope with how big he is, how hard. I want to watch him fuck you, all the while remembering your tight hole stretched around me, how you begged me to come in your arse. How desperate you were for it. He'll give it to you, I'm sure, if you work for it. Can you do that for me?”
Aziraphale nodded, squeezing down on Merlin’s fingers, struck almost dumb with lust. “N-now?”
Crowley was practically writhing beneath them, dewy with sweat and throwing his head back as Percival and Arthur took turns kissing his throat, his ears, sucking on his fingertips. He looked insensible, glazed with rising pleasure.
“Soon,” Lancelot agreed, taking out Crowley’s cock and stroking it lightly, peeling down Crowley’s absurdly tight trousers with the other hand.
Oh. Yes. Fffffuck, yes, Crowley yelped, as Lancelot ducked down to run his tongue over Crowley’s cock, getting it wet. Aziraphale stared at the rigid length becoming shiny under Lancelot’s tongue, flushed dark pink, clear fluid leaking from the tip.
Lancelot glanced up at Aziraphale and smiled. Not one of his weaponised smiles; more appreciative than anything, almost giddy. He looked like he was enjoying himself immensely and that wasn’t, Aziraphale realised, something he was used to seeing. Well - not that any of this was - but it added another layer of shivery delight to realise this venture was serving more than just himself.
Then Lancelot’s eyes widened with mischief, and - keeping Aziraphale's gaze - he very deliberately ran the point of his tongue up the long length of Crowley’s cock.
Crowley growled, hips trying to crane up. With a start Aziraphale realised that Percival and Arthur were using their full strength now to keep his hands pinned above his head.
Lancelot made a thoughtful noise and did it again, and this time Aziraphale felt the thrash of frustration in his own mind as vividly as if it were happening to him.
Yes, no, yes—ah—that feels—I can’t—I want—
Me?
Yesssss.
Aziraphale was shaking as he got to his knees, moving the others out of the way to straddle Crowley’s body, letting Merlin guide him, Arthur balance him, Lancelot hold Crowley’s cock for him—as Aziraphale shifted into place.
He could hear Percival murmuring something to Crowley, voice low and soft despite the strain visible in his arms from keeping Crowley's hands pinned above his head.
Crowley snarled something in reply that made Percival laugh, and they both looked at Aziraphale.
For a moment Aziraphale thought Crowley’s gaze might actually set him on fire. His eyes were gleaming gold, flickering red. The room became so hot Aziraphale felt faint, the light seeming to stutter around him. The slick pressure of Crowley’s cock against his rim was the hottest sensation. He started to push down, becoming immediately glad of everything that had happened so far to prepare him for that singular stretch. Crowley’s hot, rigid stand was unlike any other, and as Aziraphale eased down on it he felt a rippling sensation inside him—as if the demon form was flickering beneath.
Oh, angel, yesss. Crowley’s voice filled his mind, its human timbre lost; inside his head was only the rasp of possessive heat that Aziraphale recalled so vividly from his dreams.
“That’s it,” Merlin said, stroking Aziraphale's back, fingertips sliding down his sweaty skin as Aziraphale sank down, taking more of the shaft inside him, and then, biting his lip, a little more. "That's it, there you go. Keep going. Aren't you good?"
"Mmh," Aziraphale quavered, the breath punched out of him. "Ah—fuck—"
For a moment the skin of Crowley’s chest glimmered, the lustre of scales in firelight sheeting over him.
Aziraphale moaned aloud, buckling under an additional unexpected hunger at that glimpse of Crowley’s true self—consuming him.
Let go. Do it. Fuck, please, do it. I can take it, I want you.
I want to. Crowley’s voice became subterranean gravel, molten rock. I want…
Aziraphale felt Merlin’s breath against his cheek and reached out blindly to pull him closer, tilting his head to invite Merlin’s mouth against his jaw.
“Take me,” he mumbled; to Crowley, to all of them.
The sound of his hoarse voice set everything in motion. Crowley thrust sharply up inside him, and all other sensation became ephemeral, indistinct; Aziraphale's attention locked onto Crowley’s cock, filling him in one great push, hips rising urgently, and yet, and yet—
Do it.
I want to. A whine entered the heady mixture of Crowley’s internal vocalisation. They’re not letting me.
What? Aziraphale asked, confused, jerking his head around at last, and saw Merlin’s eyes were vividly glowing—gold, this time.
Merlin’s other hand was spread in tension over Crowley’s hip, and there was magic, now he looked for it, Aziraphale could see the magic flowing out of Merlin’s fingers like a net cascading over Crowley’s skin. Opposite him, Lancelot had both hands spread over Crowley’s other hip, pressing down firmly. Arthur and Percival still had his hands clasped, his shoulders weighted by theirs.
Abruptly Aziraphale realised that every single man here was exerting themselves wholly on keeping Crowley restrained.
They are—protecting you, Crowley said with effort. Their combined strength—for mortals—is more… formidable, than I expected.
Aziraphale reached down, enclosing Lancelot’s wrist in one hand and Merlin’s in the other.
“Stop,” he said, swallowing as the new angle seated him more firmly against Crowley’s pelvis; Merlin had been right, the pressure did make his spine want to curve. “Let him go.”
Merlin’s lips twitched. “Are you sure?”
Thrumming all over, Aziraphale nodded.
The glow faded abruptly from Merlin’s eyes, leaving them gleaming only in admiration, and the shimmery net vanished.
And then a lot of things happened at once.
Crowley broke free of Arthur and Percival’s grasp and sat up, grabbing Aziraphale's shoulders, pulling him into a kiss as his hips snapped up. His tongue pushed into Aziraphale's mouth as he pulled Aziraphale down around the base of his cock, grinding up inside him as he changed.
Aziraphale felt it in his mouth first, Crowley’s tongue forking against his own, growing rapidly; then Crowley’s cock was elongating and thickening inside him, stretching Aziraphale impossibly around newly angled ridges, the fullness intensifying towards the point of pain. Aziraphale broke from the kiss and yowled - fearing for a moment that he couldn’t do this, couldn’t possibly - before his breath died away at the sight evolving before him.
The rest of Crowley was also growing, doubling in size, his mane of red hair coiling together and twisting into horns that curved back either side of his head. His jaw was firming, the planes of his face growing hard and austere, inhuman. His shoulders were broadening, with shining red and black scales appearing before Aziraphale's eyes. It was all happening at once - wings sprouting, abdomen lengthening, the agile hands gripping Aziraphale turning huge and heavy as Aziraphale stared up at the sheer size of him, awestruck all over again.
And the eyes. He’d forgotten. Those living flames dancing, flickers of blue and white and gold, so much gold. This was his demon, back where he belonged - under him and inside him, hot and strong and massive, free - and ready to be ridden.
This is where your comrades flee.
You might be surprised…
Because the others had been moving as well, getting up on their knees, eyes huge as they took in the transformation in front of them but not - never - cowed. A brief glance at each of them, and Aziraphale knew nobody had the slightest intention of leaving.
“Can we touch you?” Arthur was asking, reaching for the burnished scaled expanse of Crowley’s shoulder; on the other side Merlin was already trailing a fingertip across the huge dark ridge of one folded wing.
“Ah… yes,” Crowley said, his voice sounding rusty as his gaze jerked from one to another in overt surprise. His cock throbbed inside Aziraphale, sending up a jolt of sensation that made him shudder.
“Can we taste you?” Lancelot asked, from the other side of Aziraphale, and Aziraphale twisted around to see Lancelot was stroking his broad hand up Crowley’s enormous hard thigh, his touch appreciative now where before it had been restrictive. He was focused on Crowley’s face, on his lips, where the play of firelight was making the harsh lines of Crowley’s mouth look softer, more uncertain.
“You…” Crowley started, breaking off as Percival stretched up and started kissing his neck. He visibly shivered, but didn’t push Percival away. “You can do anything you want to me,” Crowley said gruffly to Lancelot, and then, with a wild leap to the flames of his eyes, glancing around, “you all can.”
“Glad to hear it,” Merlin said, nodding at Arthur—and they swarmed him. All four of them, pressing Crowley back down into the bed, mouthing the angles of his collarbones and down his chest, licking the long gleaming stretch of his muscled stomach. It was a very different flavour of pinning him down. There was so much of him and yet there were so many of them, groping and rubbing, stripping off the remnants of their clothes and angling their bodies to lie against him, hands wandering, worshipful, sly.
“Ah,” Crowley exclaimed out loud, a barked sound of bewildered pleasure.
Arthur and Merlin found each other again, murmuring and rutting on either side of Crowley’s chest, closing Crowley’s huge hands - with care! - around their cocks and then tracing his horns with their tongues. Crowley bucked beneath them, and they grinned at each other and clung on, Arthur's mouth opening around the base of one horn, sucking hard, as Merlin massaged the other from root to tip with both hands.
The noise Crowley made was more of a sonic bellow. How do they… this isn't… mortals usually don't know about…
They may have some prior experience, Aziraphale said, even as his own body took the opportunity to shift and sway, adjusting to the massive threatening pressure of Crowley’s cock inside him. The unfolding scene was sorely reminiscent of his previous fantasy—and yet now that seemed blurry and idolised, focused entirely on himself. He’d forgotten to include the possibility of his party’s collective interest in Crowley. And they were clearly extremely interested.
Aziraphale knew, of course, that even Crowley’s most casual touch felt incredible to him, calling sensations across his skin that he’d never experienced before, but watching that effect play out amongst the other men was giving him an otherworldly thrill. It felt like a dream again, to watch the four of them explore him, bolder than Aziraphale had ever been—safety in numbers. He didn't know how much prior experience any of them truly had, but their actions spoke of familiarity with demonic forms to say the least. Merlin seemed to be conducting their varied attacks on Crowley's composure, his fingertips playing over Crowley's mouth, flirting with danger and those vicious teeth, that forked tongue. There was no fear in Percival's face as he licked stripes up Crowley's huge neck, tracing the scales with his tongue - as he sank his teeth into the muscular junction between neck and shoulder - only an exhilarated satisfaction when Crowley threw his head back and growled. Percival was the anchor here, his weight over Crowley's chest, his other hand almost casually gripping Arthur's bare arse as Arthur ground his cock in Crowley's fist. Percival's other hand was planted on Crowley's chest, where Lancelot was kissing, nuzzling, his lips brushing Percival's knuckles between forays across glinting scaled skin.
Not two weeks ago, witnessing their effortless unspoken cooperation would have played on Aziraphale's insecurities, left him feeling excluded without due cause. But this wordless charge between them did nothing of the sort.
Instead, it gave him the freedom to move.
Aziraphale tilted his head back and began to rise and fall on his demon’s cock, closing his eyes.
And—fuck. The overwhelming intensity from his dreams flooded over him, scintillating patterns dancing behind his eyelids. Crowley had been right, this was more challenging outside the relative safety of the dreamscape. His cock was so big, bigger than anything Aziraphale's body had taken before. Wet as he was, there was still an innate physical friction with every shift inside him, stimulating him right up to the point of pain. Crowley's cock was pushing him to his limits, almost unbearably intense to move on and yet—Aziraphale could. He could lift up until it was almost all withdrawn, and then sink back down, relishing the fiery stretch of it, the sense of being filled by its extraordinary length. Every ridge, every bulge, his body was learning to meld around it, to feel it and still give in to it, submit.
“You look like you’re having fun,” Lancelot’s voice came, and Aziraphale's eyes snapped open again. Lancelot was facing him now, sitting naked astride Crowley’s stomach, undulating gently with the rhythm of Crowley’s body surging up beneath them. He lifted his brows in silent entreaty, and then closed his hand around Aziraphale's cock, gently, almost teasing.
“Oh!” It was more an explosion of breath than a word, and Aziraphale realised he was panting. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
Lancelot knelt up, and then the warm silken firmness of Lancelot’s cock pushed against Aziraphale’s own, and Aziraphale could cope with that additional sensation—barely. And then the feeling of Lancelot’s fingers wrapping around them both, squeezing them together, threatened to inundate him. This was—this was everything he’d ever dreamed.
He froze, no longer fucking himself on Crowley’s cock, and Crowley effortlessly took up the rhythm instead, snarling and thrusting up into him in long heavy slides.
“Yes,” Aziraphale moaned, the paralysis lifting a little, but still more than grateful when Lancelot leaned in and kissed him, soft and warm and solid. Aziraphale clung to him, clutching him helplessly as Crowley fucked him and Lancelot stroked them and the whole world seemed to ring with fire.
Yes, ah, yes, you’re getting close, I can feel it, go on.
Aziraphale just moaned, lost in a glittering array of stimulation: of Lancelot squeezing their cocks against each other, thrusting against him, as Crowley shoved up from beneath; as Lancelot bit Aziraphale's lip and then sucked it, pressing their foreheads together and panting against his face. As Lancelot groaned against his mouth, all composure abandoned.
Go on, angel, let him finish you. Let me feel your climax as I fuck you through it.
I think that is hhhhh—highly likely if you both keep going.
Or do you want to spend in his pretty mouth instead? I can make him get down on his knees and open up for you.
Aziraphale's mind went absolutely blank at that image. Crowley's next thrust made him cry out.
Or do you want him standing over you, fucking your face, taking his pleasure as I take mine, heedless of your needs? Using you—and when he’s done, the next can step in, and the next, and the next. Each of them choosing where to spend, on you, inside you, all over you, two at a time—
“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped out loud, as Lancelot’s hand tightened in a wonderful twist, stroking him expertly as he hurtled over the edge. Pleasure raced through him, hot and sweet, filling him, spilling out of him, his mind flooding white-hot while his body quaked.
—Yesss, Crowley hissed, and then went silent, throwing his head back and arching beneath them. Aziraphale felt him start to come in response, swelling, a rising tide. At last, fuck, yes, he could feel it inside him like a series of targeted explosions, pumping him full of Crowley's essence. Pleasure surged over him and inside him at once, hot and wet and filthy, accompanied by a roar from Crowley that filled Aziraphale's mind to the exclusion of all else.
Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, he chanted, as fire-form manifestations of Crowley’s pleasure flew around the room - blankets of flame, a rushing tornado - before crashing over Aziraphale once more.
Aziraphale cried out as heat swept back through him, as Crowley bucked beneath him, clutching Aziraphale's hips to him and roaring out loud as the last few spurts escaped down Aziraphale's thighs.
“Oh, you’re beautiful,” Lancelot murmured, kissing Aziraphale's lips, hand still moving on his cock, coaxing out the last few drops of liquid pleasure. “Percival, isn’t he beautiful?”
Percival was right there, Aziraphale realised. He swallowed, becoming vaguely aware of the others again as the high notes of his orgasm subsided into a low hum.
Percival was there, and Lancelot was there. Their presence plucked at him, a faint melody returning in the background of the beat. The beat was Crowley’s pulse inside him, the golden eddies still passing back and forth between them, even as Aziraphale's body started to wind down. The beat was being able to hear the sound of Crowley’s heart, even though that shouldn’t be possible, before realising he was hearing what Crowley could hear: that thundering drum, precious now, eternal.
He bit his lip as Crowley levered him up and pulled out, somewhat quicker than Aziraphale would have chosen, though he had to admit there was a filthy thrill to feeling Crowley’s essence stream down wet over his legs, and a wave of exhausted relief as his internal muscles slowly closed. He was… a wreck. He felt tender and sated at once, with a shivery euphoria still emanating from every overused nerve. For all Crowley’s playful threats, the thought of someone else fucking him now seemed impossible.
Just as I told you. Crowley’s voice was a smug mumble.
Hush!
“Did they manage it?” Percival was asking, low-voiced again. He was kneeling close behind Lancelot, astride Crowley’s waist, before Crowley’s torso broadened so much that even Percival’s long legs couldn’t straddle him.
Belatedly, Aziraphale looked around. His vision was shimmering with light. It took a few deliberate blinks to resolve. And then—well, he’d clearly missed a couple of things.
Arthur and Merlin were holding hands across Crowley’s chest, both sweaty and half-collapsing, sharing lazy kisses between slow, satisfied grins. Crowley’s hands were still hidden beneath them. Well, he could imagine what had happened there.
Crowley had his eyes firmly closed, still in demon form but splayed out beneath his human accomplices in a study of dramatic exhaustion.
In contrast to Crowley, Arthur and Merlin’s stillness, Percival and Lancelot remained decidedly restless. Percival had his arms around Lancelot from behind, and was shifting suggestively against him, one hand smoothing down Lancelot’s stomach to join Lancelot’s hands on his still-hard cock, the other wandering over his hip, his arse, and down. His expression suggested he was not at all sated.
And the scroll—the scroll was a small grey heap of ash.
“Oh!” Aziraphale blinked again. “When did that happen?”
Lancelot followed his gaze. His own voice was thick, wavering as Percival reached around him from behind and started to handle him more deliberately. “About… five minutes ago. Didn’t you notice all the fire?”
“Bit… preoccupied,” Aziraphale said, distracted anew as Percival’s large fist started to move over Lancelot’s cock.
Lancelot gave him a breathless smile. “That probably helped stoke the flames.”
“So they did do it,” Percival said, grinning at Aziraphale even as he stroked Lancelot a little faster, a little harder. Lancelot’s head fell back against Percival’s shoulder, his eyes closing.
“We all did it,” Aziraphale said loyally.
Percival’s grin turned wicked. “That does beg the question, though,” he said, slow and thoughtful, his hand slowing as well. “If the quest has been completed, there’s little point in me continuing this, is there? We don’t need any more power.”
Lancelot made a low protesting noise.
Percival gave the side of Lancelot’s neck a slow, biting suck. “After all, if it’s no longer for the good of the realm…”
“Don’t you dare stop,” Lancelot gritted out, and then he gasped, ragged and wholehearted, and Aziraphale realised Percival was doing more than just stroking him. His hand was working behind Lancelot as well, his wrist moving in slow strokes, bicep bulging rhythmically.
Aziraphale remembered those fingers well.
“…or even for the greater good…” Percival mused.
“Fuck the greater good,” Lancelot mumbled, reaching blindly up and back, coiling his arms backwards around Percival’s neck, hanging off him. “Please, please.”
“Er, well a little more power wouldn’t hurt,” Aziraphale said quickly.
Percival gave him an approving look. “Good to know,” he said. “Lancelot, did you hear that? If I fuck you right now in Aziraphale's arms, he thinks it might still contribute to the quest. So I think I’d better, hadn’t I?”
Lancelot made a blurry noise of assent.
Percival met Aziraphale's eyes, then winked. “Forever in your debt,” he quipped, and shifted in an unmistakable way, one hand anchoring Lancelot’s hip, the other guiding himself into place. Lancelot groaned, arching his spine as Percival pushed inside him, colour blooming across his face, down his chest. He looked delirious with pleasure, wanton and achingly responsive, dark lashes fluttering down, lips a shining wet invitation.
At that, Aziraphale found he wasn’t irreversibly sated after all. He leaned in and kissed Lancelot, sucking his tongue, tasting the soft moans Lancelot was making as Percival fucked him, slow and easy. Lancelot was gorgeous like this, barely managing to kiss him back, giving himself up completely to the moment, to Percival, to desire.
Aziraphale joined his hand with Percival’s on Lancelot’s cock, letting him lead, enjoying Percival’s greater grip, bigger knuckles, feeling Lancelot get harder and harder as they stroked him together.
Mmm, he heard Crowley murmur, faint now, but still approving. That’s… yes. You know, there’s a place just under the head of his stand that he really likes being rubbed.
I think most men have that.
Crowley chuckled, and it was like having his mind filled with warm honey. Yes, but he really likes it.
“Oh—mmh—” Lancelot was gasping, mostly broken little noises as Percival picked up the pace.
Experimentally, Aziraphale swirled his thumb in a circle over the area he thought Crowley was talking about.
Lancelot instantly broke off the panting noises and started to whine.
Impressed, Aziraphale made a circle of his thumb and forefinger and massaged deliberately, rocking back and forth just below the head of his cock. The effect was immediate, Lancelot’s eyes opening in incredulous pleasure, pupils huge.
“Like that?” Aziraphale asked, squeezing harder, which robbed Lancelot of any answer he might have given; and on Percival’s next thrust his eyes fluttered closed again and he came all over Aziraphale's hand.
See? Crowley said, with satisfaction, as Percival growled and wrapped both arms around Lancelot to keep him upright, moving faster.
Very impressive. Can you do the same for Percival?
No need. I do not imagine he will last much longer now his heart’s desire has been realised.
You make it sound quite sweet…
I—Nothing about me is sweet.
No! No, of course not.
Aziraphale's amused reverie was interrupted by Lancelot pitching forwards and throwing his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders, nuzzling his neck, using Aziraphale for support as Percival held his hips and redoubled his pace. Aziraphale had a perfect view as Percival slammed into him, unsmiling now, reaching his full depth each time. The force of it quaked through Lancelot's body, making Aziraphale tighten his grip to keep him steady. Percival didn’t even notice Aziraphale watching; his gaze was fixed on the point where he was entering Lancelot, shoving inside him again and again.
Aziraphale's cock gave a weak twitch at the unopposed possessiveness of it - Percival was taking him, claiming him, with the determination of someone who had wanted this for a long time - before Percival abruptly pulled out and stroked himself with a rapid, efficient hand. His teeth sank into his lower lip as he started to come, a satisfied look in his eyes as he painted Lancelot’s lower back and arse with dripping white streaks.
Somehow it was one of the most obscene things Aziraphale had seen all evening.
At last Percival glanced up and caught him watching, and a strange combination of diffidence and defiance flickered through his eyes. Aziraphale tried to show in his own eyes that he understood completely.
Merlin obliged them with a fresh set of bedclothes, after the first was pronounced by Arthur as not fit for the dogs.
Crowley immediately sprawled back down in the middle of the bed, as if to survey the humans while they took turns outside the chilly outhouses, sluicing themselves clean with punishingly cold water and then stamping back inside leaving salty wet footprints across the flagstones.
When Aziraphale came back into the warm room, patting himself dry with the softest length of linen he'd been able to find, he was surprised to find that Crowley had spontaneously returned himself to the male red-headed human form.
“What?” Crowley demanded, when they all looked at him. “We succeeded, did we not? So I’m staying. So I will need to match… expectations.”
“Surpass them, I reckon,” Percival called, from over by the hearth where he was dressed again, boiling water in a large black pot. “Unless you prefer to defy.” He grinned at Crowley. “Whatever people’s expectations are, you’ll topple them one way or another, mark my word.” He seemed in an inordinately good mood.
Lancelot had also dressed again, and had gone out to raid the saddlebags for some missing ingredient that was apparently essential for even a passably adequate meal. Some bulb or other.
Arthur and Merlin were not dressed. They were lounging against each other, propped up at the head of the absurdly large bed, incongruous in the main room of the inn now that the ritual ambiance had cleared. Dwarfed by the bed, and bare of the trappings of power, the two men still looked somehow like they were holding court together.
Aziraphale excused himself and staggered up to his little room, pleased when Crowley joined him a few minutes later.
He lay down on the bed, even more pleased when Crowley stared for a moment and then plonked himself down next to him.
For a moment, there was silence.
After a few seconds, Aziraphale felt a little wordless press against his mind, a tentative elbow-nudge of an internal connection. He still didn’t have the words, but he pressed back, and felt Crowley relax next to him.
It made Aziraphale grin. “So…” he found himself saying. “A lifetime.” My lifetime.
He sensed Crowley growing marginally more tense again.
Crowley cleared his throat. “I’m sure the wizard can amend things if you’re having second thoughts. You’ve secured my immediate release from Hell but the binding clause, that can probably be—”
Aziraphale rolled on his side towards him, seeking the full brightness of those lovely eyes. “I’m not having second thoughts.”
Crowley mirrored him, blinked at him. This close, Aziraphale could see paler flecks across his deep gold irises, streaking out from the dark slitted pupils, like sparks bursting out from heated iron. His eyelashes were a dark russet colour, and his eyebrows were the same, but richly stippled with brown and grey. There were faint creases around his eyes, not as deep or pronounced as those of the older men downstairs—more like Aziraphale's own in a looking glass, a hint of what would later come, if he were fortunate enough to pass those years. In searching his face, it suddenly became clear to Aziraphale that Crowley had aged this form against his own. Because… well, yes. Made sense.
“Good,” Crowley said, and then, after an opaque moment, added, “I have been known to be impulsive.”
“You don’t say.” Aziraphale smiled in case it stung, but Crowley’s eyes just darkened in amusement. “Well, I… me too.”
Crowley reached down and pushed his fingers through Aziraphale’s, threading them together. “Come here.”
It was a slow, exploratory kiss, luscious with possibility but for now, content. Aziraphale mapped the soft lengths of Crowley’s hair, carding through it, smoothing it behind his ears. Thumbing his earlobe, the angle of his jaw, the knobs at the top of his spine.
You may tire of this form if you learn its secrets too soon.
…I don’t think I will.
Ha! Then keep going.
Crowley tugged Aziraphale closer, but this time Aziraphale winced as the effects of their earlier exertions rang through his body in sharp twinges.
“Hm,” Crowley said out loud, watching his face. “You are less robust than you thought.”
“Not at all,” Aziraphale protested. “I’ll be fine.”
“You will,” Crowley agreed, with a searching look. Then he drew a line in the air with his thumbnail. A glowing slit formed in its wake. He reached one hand into the slit, up to the wrist, and rummaged for a moment, before withdrawing Aziraphale's pot of salve from his bedside in Camelot. Crowley proffered it with a smile. “But this might speed up the process.”
Aziraphale took it, dumbfounded. “How did you do that?”
“It’s just a healing draft made, ah, viscous.”
“Not—” Aziraphale laughed. “Not the recipe! The…” He mimed doing the same thing with his thumbnail. The air remained resolutely unreactive. “That!”
“Ether pocket,” Crowley said, apparently bemused that this was at all novel to Aziraphale. “It’s a mere channel from one place to another.” He took in Aziraphale's expression, and started grinning. “How do you think I got in and out of your dormitory each night—did you think I took the stairs?”
Aziraphale spluttered for a moment, then shook his head, trying to clear it. “I—Well—I didn’t know. I don’t know. I never really understood what was going on.”
“You just got on with it,” Crowley said, and leered at him.
Torn between discomfort and delight, Aziraphale grinned back, and for a moment he could see both the mischievous human form and the aura of the demon behind. He shook his head, marvelling. “You are astonishingly powerful, aren’t you?“
“This can’t be something you’ve only now noticed.”
“Let’s just say the implications are starting to sink in.”
“Well, you may consider yourself safe from my wrath,” Crowley said magnanimously, then cocked his head. “Except when you do not wish to be safe...”
Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you.”
There was the sound of a door opening and closing some distance away, and then the smell of cooking wafted upstairs, along with a cosy, familiar exchange of male laughter. A sense of homeliness went through Aziraphale in a slow, warm wave.
He sat up. “Shall we go back down in a few minutes and see what they’re cooking?”
Crowley pillowed an arm behind his head. “Do you want to?”
“Um—” Aziraphale started, uncertain of how to put the reason into words: it was something to do with duty and comradeship, and something else to do with not wanting it to appear that they’d run away at the first chance they got. Even if they had. He wasn’t sure how to explain to Crowley that he wanted the others to see that he appreciated what they’d risked for him. Even if it had been a highly enjoyable success in the end, it might not have been - it might have been a catastrophe - and yet they had all stood by him nonetheless. "Yes, I—"
“Very well,” Crowley said, without waiting for the reason. "Then we shall."
Notes:
I can’t believe the orgy is over! But I hope you like where they all ended up.
Chapter 27: Night 12: MERLIN
Summary:
Merlin wants to be sure of all things. Crowley is no exception.
Notes:
Just a massive thank you to everyone who has commented and messaged so far - these are the final scenes and I don’t want it to be over but I also am so happy to wrap it up with you SO. *sniff* ONWARDS!
Chapter Text
“So we’re in agreement, it can go?” Merlin asked, looking around for confirmation. Lancelot had gone outside and Percival was too far away to catch his eye - overtly keeping busy, not that he blamed him. It was doubtless the same urge that had led Aziraphale and Crowley to scamper off upstairs not five minutes ago.
There were a lot of deep feelings on the surface right now.
“It can go,” Arthur said, nodding.
For a moment all Merlin wanted to do was crawl onto the bed with him and shift in close, find that warm place in the crook of Arthur’s shoulder that seemed especially shaped for Merlin to rest his head in perfect comfort. But that would leave too many ends undone. When a ritual such as this had taken place, it was imperative it was finished correctly. He’d already swept up the salt, scattered the ash to the wind, collected the trinkets.
Now, the final piece.
Merlin closed his eyes for a moment, and allowed the last remaining spell to be extinguished. The bed became a table again, and a tiny glimmer of power returned to him. He stowed it ruefully. A paltry amount, but right now that was better than nothing.
When Merlin was calm, his mind was a cool corridor of black doors, some ajar, some bolted. Usually each contained a fluctuating measure of magic, a swirling golden reservoir he could siphon off to power a spell or enact a command. Usually. Right now every door was thrown open, the contents spent, and yet the air of that internal corridor was swarming with unkept power, some golden coils strewn around, some red vapour floating.
The red vapour was the remnants of Crowley’s brief siege on Merlin’s sanity.
The demon’s influence had felt like a vibrant storm blowing through Merlin’s mind, filling up the space behind every door with gleaming crimson luminescence. He’d felt ferociously alive, unrestrained in power. With Crowley baiting him, needling him, tempting him to attack, it had proved impossible not to react. And oh, the rare thrill of being able to lash out without hesitation, employ his full strength without any qualm, to be met by an equal force, vicious and undaunted—
And yet he knew, deep down, like a dry piece of timber catching in a flame, to burn that hot would soon reduce him to a smouldering ruin.
He’d known that, and a tiny voice in the back of his head had chanted for caution, but it had taken Arthur’s touch to lift his consciousness out of the rampaging heat of it, to bring him back, ground him once more.
He’d felt a rebound swell of alarm as he realised what had happened - he’d let his guard down; would Arthur fear him now? - but those concerns were quashed within a moment of Arthur’s knowing gaze and easy grin. As ever, he’d glimpsed the beast beneath Merlin’s composure and found it intriguing.
Opening his eyes, the inn looked mundane again, no hint of ritual magic remaining.
“Here,” Arthur said, and Merlin found himself led to a high-backed armchair and pressed down into its formal, firm comfort. That felt good. Stable. Angled towards the hearth, but not too close.
A mug of wine was pressed into Merlin’s unresisting hand, and Arthur strode off again to do—something.
He always was the most equanimous, the least perturbed, whenever it came down to it. He trusted Merlin would handle the magic; he would make any necessary calls, and stand by his own decisions once made. When Merlin was ragged or numbed by what he’d enacted, Arthur quietly put him back to order. It was a different type of sustenance, uniquely theirs.
Merlin stared into the fire, which was now a low-burning ordinary cheerful thing. It was no longer the vast wall of Hellfire that had briefly lashed around the room while Aziraphale was busy impaling himself on Crowley’s demonic member.
It was faintly alarming that Aziraphale hadn’t noticed, Merlin felt, but that was pair-bonding for you.
Merlin had been enjoying himself as well at that moment, but not so much that he wasn’t shockingly aware of the echoing commands of Hell resounding around the room, searching, seeking—and being rebuffed.
He’d felt the scroll incinerate between one fleeting second and the next. For a moment he had worried he’d misjudged this, had feared that Hell could take all his power and all of Crowley’s, and still manage to drag them all down into its despairing depths—but as the tiny pile of ash formed, the flames flickered suddenly white, and then subsided back into the cheerful glow that was before him now. And that was that.
He’d wanted to celebrate - but Arthur was lost in an ecstasy of having his cock worked by Crowley’s massive hand, his mouth open around the gnarled base of a curving horn; and Crowley’s focus was entirely on Aziraphale.
As well it might be. Aziraphale looked luminous with pleasure, radiant with it, almost ethereal. If a halo and wings had sprouted Merlin wouldn’t have been unduly surprised. The way Aziraphale moved with Crowley was instinctive, mesmerising, like a dancer who knew his steps better than breathing.
If Crowley was bewitched by him, drawn like an exhausted overnight creature to the full glory of a sunrise, Merlin couldn’t blame him.
Crowley had noticed the light when it changed, though. The flames of his eyes had reared, filling with vibrant hues of triumph. And he hadn’t been so lost in pleasure that he let Merlin finish without one final needling.
Percival and Lancelot were kissing Crowley’s stomach, hands exploring as Aziraphale rode him with silken abandon. Crowley was stroking Arthur with one hand, Merlin with the other, while they played with his horns and worked themselves against his palms.
And then Crowley turned his flaming gaze on Merlin and said, in a voice as ancient and roughened as a desert wind, “Earlier I thought you were going to try and fuck me.”
Merlin shuddered, ecstatic tension gathering in the base of his balls. He knew Crowley was probably being insincere and yet he was right, the urge had been there, slithering through the long grass of his desire.
He couldn’t make himself deny it. Not exactly. “You wouldn’t invite that. Not even in your human form. Definitely not like this.”
“No,” Crowley said, a cruel tilt to the corner of his inhuman mouth, even as he stroked Merlin’s cock more firmly. “But if you used all your power, and that binding rune, perhaps… you might do it anyway.”
The gathering tension spiked. Merlin swallowed, shaking his head. “That’s not my—” That was fantasy, only. With Arthur, only. With rules, and trust, and. “I would never.”
“I thought you might wrench my arms behind my back and pin me face-down,” Crowley whispered, his eyes drawing Merlin into their terrible blazing depths. “You liked pulling my hair, didn’t you? Making a rope of it around your wrist and throwing me around…”
A burning red mist started to rise and Merlin struggled to breathe through it. Crowley’s clasp around his cock was getting hotter, sleeker.
“You are tempting me to threaten you,” he gasped.
”I am tempting you to make me an offer.”
“What offer?” Merlin asked faintly, and shivered hard as Crowley’s terrifying mouth brushed against his ear.
“You’re the only one who could do it,” Crowley said. “Morgana has the power but not the inclination. Others have had the inclination but proved… too weak.” His voice dripped with disdain. “But you… wouldn’t you like to know how it feels to overpower me? If you could.”
Merlin closed his eyes against the knowing certainty in Crowley’s gaze. The demon had him, and clearly knew it. The thought of taking out his wildest, worst impulses on one who would survive it - and be impressed, not horrified - was its own raw, forbidden temptation.
“I don’t need to,” Merlin said, and even he could hear his voice was strangled.
“Promise me it’s not impossible,” Crowley said.
“No.” Merlin knew the fae value of promises, of darknesses exchanged, the binding elements even of words alone.
Crowley’s voice turned amused. “Fine! Have it your own way.” It felt like flames were licking up the sides of Merlin’s body, enveloping his face. “But I know this is yet to play out between us.”
His hand twisted and squeezed, sending a glittering rush of pleasure right up to the back of Merlin’s eyes, and Merlin understood distantly that he was going to come now—that Crowley had been holding him here on this roiling simmer while he taunted him with this idea, and that now he would obediently overboil.
He gritted his teeth as the climax rolled through him, the searing fulfilment of it just slightly tainted by a sense that Crowley had extracted more from him than he had intended.
Well—demon, remember?
Afterwards, after Crowley had returned to his achingly captivating human form - after Aziraphale had disappeared off upstairs, and as he saw Crowley’s wavering intent firming to follow him - Merlin strode over from the bed and caught him by the wrist.
“A word.”
Crowley looked him up and down, then tipped his head to one side. His face was very still now. “Yes?”
Merlin consciously relaxed his grip on Crowley's wrist. “You have done well,” he said, watching Crowley closely in return. “Cooperating with us, escaping Morgana, escaping Hell. And if—if any of this is built on deception, I would understand you concealing it until now. But henceforth it would not be acceptable to continue any… ruse. At Aziraphale’s expense.”
Crowley’s mouth opened around a noise of startled outrage. “Hnngk!—there is no ruse,” he snapped, with enough vehemence that Merlin felt paradoxically reassured. “How dare you!”
Merlin just looked at him.
“Pah!” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Just because I had a little fun, teasing you.”
“Invoking my worst nature,” Merlin corrected.
“Right, exactly - teasing you.” Crowley gave him an even smile, refusing the correction. He waved his free hand in a facsimile of easy dismissal. “I take it back, if it bothers you that much. No unfinished business between us, not a jot!” His eyes grew serious. “My intentions towards you lot are entirely changeable, and I don’t care who knows it.” His voice dropped. “But don’t for one minute cast doubt upon my feelings for Aziraphale.”
It clearly pained Crowley to say something so earnest; a moment later his lip twisted, and he escaped Merlin’s hold on him with a serpent’s slippery ease. Then he shook his hands, like a swordsman who’d held a posture beyond his tolerance, and blew out a breath.
“Don’t believe me? Fine! I don’t care,” Crowley declared, and Merlin realised he’d been watching too long.
Look at that, he’d made the poor demon uncomfortable.
“Don’t distress yourself - I believe you,” Merlin murmured, and permitted himself the enjoyment of Crowley’s renewed fluster. Turnabout, and all that.
“I am not distressed!” Crowley hissed.
Merlin patted him on the arm, then leaned in close. “I think we understand each other,” he said quietly. “You will look after yours, and I will look after mine. If I become at all concerned about Aziraphale, I will make you aware. And if you would give all due consideration to Arthur’s offer, I would appreciate it.”
That gave Crowley pause. His nose crinkled, his voice catching. “Offer? What offer?”
Right, Merlin had to stop discomforting him, it was getting far too enjoyable. “Oh, he hasn’t made it yet. But now that we’ve had this conversation, I will let him know that he may."
Crowley’s eyes widened, then his head whipped round to see Arthur watching them.
Arthur inclined his own head in acknowledgement.
Crowley glared back at Merlin. “What offer?”
“We’ll put it to you together,” Arthur said, without raising his voice. “Don’t worry. I suspect it will suit you very well.”
“I do not worry,” Crowley said loftily, with one final smouldering glare before hastening upstairs after Aziraphale.
Merlin watched him go, then turned back to Arthur. He raised his eyebrows. “We might have just invited a viper into our nest.”
“Oh, without a doubt,” Arthur agreed. “But I suspect this may be exactly the right place for him.”
Chapter 28: Night 12: LANCELOT
Summary:
Lancelot and Percival set things straight (wrong choice of words).
Notes:
If you have been drawn into this minor pairing / prospective thruple, then this is the chapter for you. 💝
Chapter Text
Well. Now he’d done it. A decade of restraint, crumbled away in an evening. Not just physical walls bludgeoned to dust, either. As well as his internal clarity, Lancelot had ceded every aspect of control, every part of his composure.
And now, with every fibre of his being, he wanted to do it again.
For the good of th—no, he corrected himself mildly. That excuse had worn thinner than thrice-folded parchment.
His body ached as he lifted saddlebags and riffled through the provisions Morgana had sent, his muscles unused to that specific range of enjoyable exertion.
Moments kept repeating on him: Percival hot and close behind him, moving inside him, gripping him hard; the greedy heat of Aziraphale’s mouth, its endless generosity; the idly predatory look in Crowley’s eyes as he’d tucked Lancelot’s hair behind his ear and smudged a fingertip along his cheek. Being in the midst of them, their alchemy, their pleasure, had reignited a raw excitement that Lancelot had thought had been firmly relegated to the past. It felt wonderful to indulge - like flying free in his body after a long period of marching to order - but it couldn’t possibly happen again, could it? Not so easily, without ramifications. Not with Percival, at once, again and again.
Or… maybe with Percival.
Everything they’d said to each other circled his thoughts like fireflies. Recurring, sparking, flaring out, spinning close again. He would need to wait until they all burned out to see how that dust settled, he thought.
Yet he didn’t want to wait. He didn’t want to be sensible, ordered. He wanted to write to Guinevere at once!
My dearest Guinevere. You were right. He is everything I feared. By the time this missive reaches you he will most likely have broken my heart. If not…
He didn’t dare hope.
“Need a hand?”
Ah, no. An ambush.
Percival was there behind him, silhouetted against the door, further obscuring the already-paltry light.
A festival of emotion flared in Lancelot’s belly and time itself seemed to slow.
He smiled in the gloom despite himself. The question was not now how much he wanted Percival, but to what degree it could be allowed to topple the rest of the order he’d built around himself. The other, more entrenched walls. There was a vast difference between a solitary episode of indulgence and the long, open exchange of everything that he now craved.
He wet his lips, trying to recall how to form the simplest words. Every scrap of poetry deserted him. It was ludicrous! He couldn’t fathom holding this much energy inside himself during the disciplined routines of the Camelot calendar. And yet, and yet.
Percival’s smile started to—not dim, exactly, but become hardened, wary.
“Please.” Lancelot said quickly, and Percival brightened again. Was that really all it took? How he loved—that. “Please join me.”
Percival joined him at his elbow, helping him lift out a few supplies and stack them, some boxes of potatoes, parsnips, some more of that godawful dried meat.
Percival’s hand collided with his over a parcel of waxen apples, cold and shiny in the low light.
Lancelot’s head whipped around as a bolt of heat shot up his arm.
“How—” Percival paused to clear his throat. His fingertip traced a slow path over Lancelot’s knuckles. “How do you want this to be? I’ll take your lead.”
Lancelot stared up at him. He couldn’t see the whole of his face, just an impression, his close-cropped hair silhouetted in the darkness. And yet he knew every inch of his face, knew that barely-visible crease meant Percival’s lips were tilted just so, knew the precise shape of his mouth without needing to be able to see.
“There’s a question,” Lancelot said softly. The enormity of it floored him. “What happens if I can’t tell you exactly, yet?
Even shadowed, Percival’s gaze was intent. “Do you not know what you want?”
“No—I know,” Lancelot found himself saying, and then, even more uncontrolled, his free hand lifted towards Percival’s shoulder before stilling. “I know.”
“Then what?”
He made it sound so straightforward. Lancelot swallowed, understanding dawning. He had thought Percival was a man of simple tastes, but it turned out he just made complex things simple.
Yet another trait that he and Guinevere shared.
Lancelot wet his lips, aware his voice was rasping a little. “My, ah, rules of engagement,” he said, with a rueful shrug. “With you. They are in tatters.”
Percival made a little noise in his throat. “So…?”
“So I am cautious of rewriting them alone.”
Percival immediately ducked his head, a gesture which carried an awkward submissive reflex that ill-suited the rest of his demeanor. “If you fear Guinevere would object to my encroaching on, on anything,” Percival said, rushed, almost flustered, “of course I would not dare to presume—to know your mind or hers—”
Lancelot couldn’t resist; he lifted a fingertip to Percival’s lips, staying the uncertain flow of words. “No. I do not fear she would object. I fear… you might.”
Percival’s eyebrows rose as if startled, and he flashed a momentary grin against Lancelot’s finger. “Really? To what?”
Lancelot retrieved his hand, feeling heat dance across his own face once more. He owed Percival this. Even if speaking in all earnestness betrayed himself as taking everything far too seriously, yet again—Percival was owed this.
“If you wished to pursue a more… significant arrangement with me, for more than this single night away from Court, then… then I would tangle you in our affairs most thoroughly. Forgive me,” he hastened on, flustered now himself, “if I am looking too far ahead. It is my nature but I know it can be disquieting."
“I’m not disquieted,” Percival retorted. Far from it, in fact, now he sounded bland to the point of a tease. “I still haven’t fathomed what you think I might object to, but maybe you’re getting to that presently?”
Lancelot paused. Was he really doing this? If so, it was indeed high time that he strove for the heart of it. Tarrying longer would not reduce the risk - quite the opposite!
“Very well,” Lancelot said. Courage flared in his gut: if the depth of his feeling was off-putting, better to know at once. “Percival,” he said softly, turning his hand, clasping Percival’s fingertips unseen, his own pulse bounding. This was as close as he could get to laying his heart open, bare. “Have you ever been to France?”
“No…” Percival said, and then, with one of those disbelieving smiles that made hope explode through Lancelot’s chest, he added, “not yet.”
“Perhaps we might,” Lancelot said faintly. “I could send a missive at once, as soon as we return to Camelot, if—if you thought you might like to see France. With me. To meet her.”
“Lance?” Percival asked, the tease warming in his voice now, and Lancelot squirmed in delicious tension, skin heating further.
“Yes?”
“Are you seriously asking me to abandon my post, throw caution to the wind, and ride off with you to a distant land - all so your future wife can get a good look at me?”
Lancelot’s eyes widened. Put like that, it sounded like he was courting pure outrage. “Er—”
“Because I won’t abandon my post,” Percival said airily, “but the rest of it sounds perfect.”
“I would never—it does?”
“It does.”
“Oh,” Lancelot said. Stunned that it might be that easy; as easy as large fingers pushing between his own in the darkness, warm and secure.
“Umm, but in that case, I do have a follow-up question.” The glimpse of Percival’s crooked smile was more devastating than Lancelot had expected.
“What’s that?”
“Do I have to wait ‘til we reach France before I kiss you again?”
Lancelot couldn’t breathe. Wordless for once, he shook his head, then almost melted entirely as Percival gathered him up in his arms and kissed him like he was something delicate.
In all of Lancelot’s many adventurous summers, he could not recall ever once being made to feel delicate. He was the premier knight of the realm! A fighter, first and last! He was not some precious rarity. And yet Percival’s hands cradling his head told a different story, Percival’s fingertips brushing down Lancelot’s neck, Percival’s soft lips parting.
Lancelot gave a low, incredulous sigh and felt Percival smile against his mouth; gentle at first, and then more broadly as Lancelot kissed him back, growing fierce all at once, his own hands turning demanding. Could he really have this? Have both? Invite this shockingly lovely man into their complicated accord, and receive simple, fervent assent where he’d anticipated doubt, caution or even outright dismissal?
He whirled them around to pin Percival against the table, dipping and kissing him in turn, and a sweet fire of delight licked through him at how willingly Percival bent under even a suggestion of pressure. A thousand possibilities seemed to spill out before him, each more captivating than the last.
My dearest Guinevere. We have a situation. I need to visit you with all haste. And there is someone I need to bring.
Chapter 29: Night 12: ARTHUR
Summary:
Arthur makes his offer to Aziraphale and Crowley; and also to Merlin.
Notes:
If any chapter is the velvet ribbon tying the whole thing up like
shibaria lovely big present, it’s this one. I truly hope you like how it all lands. 💝
Chapter Text
Arthur looked up as Aziraphale and Crowley came back downstairs, loosely dressed again, and reached for another wineskin.
He poured them each a generous mug, then ensured everyone else was topped up as well. Wouldn’t do to run dry right now.
While the others made themselves scarce, he and Merlin had spent a while spreading out the rolls and rolls of parchment that Morgana had sent over, lists of names and dates and accounts painstakingly recorded in a variety of spiky hands. Men at all levels who had committed outrages and yet evaded any consequence; in many cases, no notice seemed to have been taken at all.
A plummeting sensation had set up in Arthur's stomach as he'd deciphered some horribly familiar names. The next few months were going to be… a challenge.
On the other hand, he couldn’t deny the burgeoning heat of righteous anticipation. There were men on that list that Arthur had had to sit across from for years, smiling through his teeth. It was high time for that to change.
Merlin’s finger had halted over a particular name, and he'd winced.
Arthur had seen where he was pointing. “Ah.”
Merlin’s jaw had taken on a grim set. “Regrettably so.”
“It’s not unexpected,” Arthur had said, recalling the older man’s fiery condescension, the cruel curl of his lip as he challenged tithes and negotiated over even the most barren parcels of land. “But… we will have to work out the right time to tell Aziraphale.”
“Before or after you put your proposal to him?”
Arthur had grimaced. “After, I think. I wouldn’t want this to sway his decision—in either direction.”
“Soup’s up,” Lancelot called, and they gratefully laid aside the damning records and relocated to the main table.
The atmosphere was infinitely preferable over here. Lancelot and Percival were furnishing the table with steaming bowls of broth, a basket of breads, and some large cold plates; assorted pickles and wedges of cheese, a few sliced apples. There was butter, and ale, though Arthur preferred the excellent wine that Merlin had found somewhere.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Aziraphale said, taking in the heavily laden table. He clapped his hands together and waggled his eyebrows at Merlin. “I had a terrible hunch you were going to usher us all back to Camelot tonight!”
Merlin smiled and shook his head. “Not before morning. I will need to significantly recuperate before I tackle Llyn Nywell again,” he said, then tipped his mug in a silent salute. “Best way.”
Aziraphale raised his mug in return, a tension in his face releasing. He pulled up a chair, assessing the spread with an enthusiasm worthy of Percival.
Crowley was watching him, an expression of bemused adoration on his face as Aziraphale busied himself from plate to plate.
Yes, Arthur thought. He knew that feeling. It was good to see.
Arthur realised he didn’t actually know if Crowley ate and drank like the rest of them, but watched him take a seat at the table readily enough, sprawling down with those long legs uniquely angled, as if a constant debate was underway between his limbs and the confines of the chair.
“I seem to remember you joined the feasts when you were part of Morgana’s entourage,” Arthur said to Crowley, recalling a svelte redheaded woman with a degree of difficulty. Though their paths must have crossed several times, Crowley’s female persona had not distinguished herself to him. Arthur would not put it past Morgana to have purposefully ensured this.
“Certainly. As Frán I partook in many cups,” Crowley said, raising the mug to his lips and giving Arthur a pointed look. “Your Court held very little other entertainment for me."
“Hmm,” Arthur returned, refusing to be roused. “I wonder how that could be remedied? Can’t have our handmaidens getting bored, or who knows what mischief they might find.”
“I heard something about some revelry in the forest,” Aziraphale said mildly, and Crowley’s eyes widened.
“You did?! Oh… Pfff… An occasional greenwood gathering, nothing more…” Crowley’s gaze darted around, meeting Aziraphale’s eye and then flitting away again.
Pressing his lips together, Arthur chose not to enquire any further. But it was good to see that, for all Crowley seemed the more assertive conversationalist of the two, Aziraphale had no problems teasing his disreputable lover right back.
The hearth-fire was low and melodic now, crackling to itself as they got on with the meal. Breaking bread together dispelled much of the charged hesitancy that had arisen in the immediate aftermath of their shared exploits.
They were settling into a group of three pairs - but a group nonetheless - with undercurrents and ripples running between each of them, subtly effervescent as the evening wore on.
Arthur liked it. He liked the uncommon thrill of open intimacy, Merlin’s hand on his leg, easy laughter passing between them. He liked watching Crowley feed Aziraphale a sliced morsel of cheese from his fingers, and Aziraphale’s overdone whimper of appreciation. He liked the sight of Percival’s arm resting solid against Lancelot’s—Lancelot who looked less careworn this evening, less beset by the concerns of the world, than Arthur had seen in a long time.
It got a little ridiculous, certainly. There was a moment when Arthur was in pleasant conversation with Percival and became aware of a hush falling over the rest of the table. He realised that a chain of attention had formed, with Aziraphale gazing at Crowley who was watching Lancelot who was watching Percival who was smiling as he conversed with Arthur—What have we done?! Arthur thought, with despair-tinged amusement, glancing to his left to find that Merlin, too, was looking at him. The whole of his royal guard, compromised. Smitten, even!
But what was done was done. And Arthur was confident that the positives vastly outweighed any new causes for concern. Their aims had been achieved, the threat dismissed, and they’d shared three wonderous nights to remember. Once back at Court, he was confident the bonds of trust and devotion between them would only strengthen their shared might.
Merlin was speaking in a low voice to Aziraphale now, clearly pondering something similar. “It can be like this, away from Court.”
Aziraphale gave him a bewildered laugh. “Like this?”
“Not usually like this,” Merlin amended, smiling. “I just meant, ah, the sense of it being a special time—different, and so much more free. Away from Court, unobserved, we can be… more ourselves.”
“It needn’t always be like that, though,” Arthur interjected, though he hadn’t planned to speak. Hmm, that might be the bellyful of food and drink talking. Or the camaraderie might be going to his head.
Merlin glanced at him. “It’s certainly more free than the rest of our time together. But I suppose you’re right, we’re never entirely free…”
“No, I mean—I want to be,” Arthur said, his pulse picking up, tasting the rapid beat of it against his wine-warmed tongue.
“What?”
“Free. With you.”
Merlin’s eyes softened. “I know.” He shrugged, gesturing around the table. “No doubt we all would. But there’s only so much time we can spend away from Court. Gwaine is good, but he’s not a magician!”
His voice invited the others to laugh with him, and Arthur let the matter rest a while.
Once replete, they left the table and moved to the tall armchairs around the hearth, allowing the candles to burn low.
Arthur made another trip to the outhouses to replenish the wine, returning to find Lancelot and Percival engaged in trying to teach Crowley the basics of courtly manners. With limited success.
“And what would you do if Arthur enters the room?“ Lancelot asked, with a wave as Arthur duly approached, bearing wine.
Crowley’s gaze flickered over him. “Loosen my belt.“
Aziraphale sat bolt upright as the others guffawed. “Crowley!”
Arthur fought to keep a straight face, ignoring the prickle of heat that went through him at Crowley’s provocative, arrogant manner. Remembering their curtailed moments earlier, their shared understanding. The hot, sweet ache he’d felt as Crowley and Merlin wrestled, followed by a pang of wistfulness as they divided back to graciously welcome him between them. It could have gone another way…
Crowley really was going to be a marvellous addition to the household.
“Try. Again,” Aziraphale ground out, pink cheeked.
Crowley rolled his eyes. “If the king comes into the room, stand up straight and attend to his words,” he intoned.
Aziraphale looked somewhat mollified. “Right. Exactly,” he said.
“And only loosen my belt if he comes and begs to suck my cock.”
Lancelot smothered a laugh behind his hand.
“Sounds all right to me,” Arthur said, taking a seat nearby.
Merlin threw a wineskin cork at him, then winked. Arthur felt an enormous ripple of wellbeing pass through him, soothing and warming at once. The temptation rose to sink into his chair and allow the rest of the evening to roll over him.
Right, then. Time to say his piece.
“Speaking of Camelot,” Arthur said slowly, and their laughter subsided. He addressed Crowley and Aziraphale directly. “It won’t come as a surprise to you to hear we will need to make some changes to the sleeping arrangements.”
Tension flashed back into Aziraphale’s face. He nodded hurriedly, before even hearing Arthur’s reason; Crowley scowled, clearly irked by this display of unquestioning acquiescence.
“Why?” Crowley asked bluntly.
Arthur gave him a measured look. “Well, I’m presuming you would want to lodge together. And you can’t sleep in the knights’ dormitory."
“I can sleep anywhere,” Crowley retorted.
“You’re not a knight.”
“I could—”
“You’re not a knight,” Arthur repeated, more sternly. “And unless you envisage a multitude of valiant deeds, selfless sacrifice and striving for honour in your future - you will not become one either.”
“I don’t even want to be a knight,” Crowley huffed, and Arthur felt Merlin stifle a laugh next to him.
“So…” Aziraphale prompted, voice strained. He looked like he was about to burst, but he was keeping it all suppressed. Badly.
Arthur took pity on him. “So I could see to providing you with alternative lodgings,” he said gently. “Together. A cottage, perhaps. To the South, down by the castle walls.”
“Out of the way,” Crowley said, eyes narrowing, even as Aziraphale clasped his arm, lips pursing in an excited oh.
“Discreet,” Arthur agreed, acknowledging Crowley's glare. “But still accessible.”
“Those cottages are well within earshot of the bell tower,” Lancelot said, without elaborating on how he knew that.
“It wouldn’t excuse you of any of your duties,” Arthur said seriously to Aziraphale, who beamed.
“No! I should think not!”
“But it would award you some privacy, and a degree of independence. As befitting a knight of the realm and his… consort."
Arthur let the word hang in the air for a few long seconds, before deliberately looking at Merlin. Merlin was narrow-eyed now too, having caught the emphasis in Arthur’s voice, if not his meaning.
“But why?” Crowley demanded, tone dark.
Aziraphale stiffened. “We don’t question—” he started, terse and apologetic, but Crowley cut him off.
“No,” Crowley said. “Why? He hasn’t aided anyone else like this.” With an irritated hand, he indicated Percival and Lancelot in turn. “They will stay in the dormitory, he hasn’t brought his other beloved to Court, he hasn’t even pledged his troth to his own mate of two decades—why would he help us unless it also served him?”
An overlapping chorus filled the air as everyone spoke at once.
“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice was appalled again. “You can’t speak to the king like that!”
“The scandal would ruin—” Merlin started, over the top of Lancelot saying helplessly, “Bringing her to me might undermine the ruse that she’s in love with Arthur.”
“Bit early for us to move out together, I should think,” Percival said cheerfully, below everyone else and sounding far less harried. "I gather we need to pop over to France first."
Arthur raised his voice a fraction. “The greater purpose,” he said to Crowley, and everyone else fell silent, “is threefold. Having you stationed on the outskirts will allow Merlin to repair the dormitory wards without impeding your power.” Lest anyone forget that most demons were not welcome to prowl amongst them while they slept. “It will also allow you to act as an… early hindrance, in the instance of any further threats to the castle’s integrity. And lastly, I want to ensure your movements are less easily tracked."
Alertness suffused Aziraphale’s expression. “Oh?”
This, Arthur suspected, was where he might balk. “Which brings me to a proposal, for you both.”
Aziraphale visibly blanched, one hand falling to clutch at Crowley’s sleeve, possibly without realising it.
Crowley’s eyes grew more suspicious still. “Keep talking…”
How did he manage to be so threatening and so beguiling at once? The immediate animosity was all the more laughable given that Crowley, Arthur suspected, was going to approve of this part. Aziraphale was more likely to need convincing.
Arthur smiled at Crowley. “My sister has set me a very great task. Bringing a previously untouchable cohort to justice—going after men who have been sitting pretty in their corrupt seats for too long. Of course, such injustice has been a thorn in my side for an age already, and I have long devoted my forces to scouring the realm for dishonour. Fighting for those who lack the strength to—"
“Get on with it,” Crowley barked, and Arthur broke off, startled. It was an unusual feeling when he was just reaching his stride; people normally let him speak as long as he pleased. Even now he could feel Lancelot drawing himself up to object, but the intensity of Crowley’s exasperation seemed to be swaying him.
“As I was saying,” Arthur said quickly, forestalling their disapproval and nevertheless getting to the point, “the mission is nothing new, but the scale of the problem might daunt a lesser man. She’s given me names, dates. Records and—” His jaw firmed with distaste. “—first-hand accounts, an irrefutable burden of villainy. Extensive, difficult and delicate diplomacy will hang in the balance as I seek to resolve each charge. As we already know, to our cost, some men would burn down swathes of their own land before admitting a single fault."
“Or a fault of their son,” Lancelot put in.
Arthur nodded. “Unfortunately. So…” His gaze met Crowley’s. “There will doubtless be times when a swift and subtle hand of justice, ostensibly innocent of politics, would be most advantageous to me.” He paused, letting the significance of his words swell. “Preferably, one that descends in the night and leaves no trace.”
Crowley’s face immediately brightened. “Oh!” He flashed his teeth in a grin slightly wider and sharper than any human’s, before making an ostentatious bow forwards in his seat. “If that’s what you’re getting at—oh, with pleasure.”
Aziraphale had been staring at Arthur, expression unreadable; now he looked askance at Crowley, flustered. “What?”
Crowley waved an airy hand. “Makes sense, doesn’t it,” he said, his golden eyes gleaming with dark delight. “I was puzzling over it - why he’s come all this way himself, when he could have just sent all these loyal men he’s so proud of - but this is it, isn’t it? He needed to see for himself.” He nodded sideways at Arthur, while still addressing Aziraphale. “Your king wanted to be sure of us before he offered us the job.”
“What job?”
“Aziraphale the White, Angel of Justice,” Crowley said grandiosely, then indicated himself with a long-fingered flourish, “wielding his secret weapon.”
Aziraphale’s gaze fixed back onto Arthur, his eyes growing very blue. “Is that…? Is he…?”
“He is correct,” Arthur said, gliding over the liberties that Crowley had taken with that title. Lancelot had always seemed content with the simple notion of royal assassin. But if an epithet was what it took to secure Aziraphale’s enthusiasm…
“But we… we could stay at Camelot indefinitely?” Aziraphale said, sounding as if this was something he hadn’t dared hope for. “I can be with Crowley, but still be a knight, and fight for you, for justice, for Camelot?”
His eyes glimmered as if they might fill with tears.
Crowley made an impatient squawking sound. “Sounds like it,” he declared, as if hoping his bluster would eclipse the emotion in Aziraphale’s voice. He paced, back and forth. “Great! Corrupt souls for me, and all the righteous chivalry you can stand. And a cottage thrown in - the least you can do, I’d say - but anyway, we’ll take it. Deal!”
Instead of reaching for Arthur’s hand, he wheeled away, pacing all around the darkened room. He was breathing quite hard.
Aziraphale was exhibiting no such frenetic movement. He blinked his piercingly blue, slightly watery eyes at Arthur. “But it can’t be that simple,” he said, searching now. “There must be restrictions… Rules, caveats…”
Arthur could almost hear him, as if Aziraphale were somehow speaking directly inside Arthur’s head: There must be a catch. There is always a catch.
Arthur grinned. “Nothing extraordinary,” he said, making his voice casual, as if this weren’t the heart of everything. “Obey me, respect my law; do not squander this demon’s power nor use it to your own ends.”
Aziraphale’s face showed he knew the significance of this. “I’ll gladly swear to it.”
Arthur waved a hand, dispelling the formality. Oaths were best made in daylight, unsullied by lust or wine. “Then I don’t think we’ll have a problem.”
“But won’t people notice if one of your knights moves in with this, ah, handsome stranger?” Lancelot asked, hiking an eyebrow at Crowley as the demon swept back into their midst.
Crowley waggled his eyebrows right back.
Ah. Yes. “Perhaps,” Arthur said, allowing his voice to become more delicate. His pulse started to race again. He wet his lips, speaking with care. “But I expect they’ll be more focused on me and Merlin.”
Merlin’s focus zeroed in on him. “What do you mean?”
Warmth tingled through Arthur’s chest. Now he’d allowed himself to think about it, he really wanted this.
“I should ask you first, of course,” he said, and cleared his throat, settled his shoulders. He reached for Merlin’s hand, squeezed it. “Merlin. Please, give me your honest answer. Would you agree to becoming known as the king’s consort - as my consort - throughout our land?”
Arthur felt the collective attention sharpen, but all he cared about was the wild look that flew into Merlin’s eyes.
Merlin stared. “But that’s. In Camelot? That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“It… it…”
It was an uncommon delight to see him lost for words, Arthur had to admit. “Why not? Is it not at long last time to dismiss the ruse? For all our sakes! Fie to scandal! What’s stopping us, really?”
Merlin’s mouth opened and closed. “The… the Court?
“It’s our Court,” Arthur said. He’d prepared this. He’d been trained in speech-craft since he was nine summers old, and yet this, he’d felt a need to prepare. “It’s our Court and we have proven ourselves already. We have years of their loyalty and they know our devotion to the land; they’ve seen how it has flourished under our rule. And as to our union—some will have guessed already, and some won’t care. And… those who do care will probably be more upset about the magic.”
He’d judged this carefully. Watching the sequence of words play across Merlin’s face - sparking disbelief, then alarm - was its own sly and tender joy.
Merlin’s reaction didn’t disappoint him. “The what?” he croaked.
“The magic,” Arthur said, looking around their stunned assembly as if for confirmation that he wasn’t inventing words. His lips curved. “You don’t think I can visit my sister’s island of sorceresses without seeing the powerful appeal, do you? Not just martial power, but—everything.”
He’d had a lot more to say but the evolving expression on Merlin’s face was captivating, making him forget his words.
He kept going, smiling helplessly now as Merlin gripped his fingers hard enough to hurt. “And if there’s something that means everything to you, then I want to bring it into the open. I want to find you scholars, allies, invite the wild back into our midst—I suppose a Guild will be necessary? Perhaps a devoted centre of learning? I know you know of others with magic, those who won’t come forwards, or can’t. So! We will need to amass forces, and form alliances, and ideally seek my sister’s blessing… It may take considerable time. But there is no one better than you to coordinate it all, of that I’m certain.”
“You are gripped by delirium," Merlin breathed. His eyes were sparkling like polished jade. “This is a terrible idea. Terrible, foolhardy and—”
“Ours?” Arthur supplied, and then his arms were full of warm, joyous wizard. And he knew, then, that however foolhardy this next chapter of their endeavours proved to be, they would be pursuing it, wholeheartedly, together.
Chapter 30: Night 12: CROWLEY
Summary:
Crowley needs to reclaim his angel, now.
Notes:
If you’ve made it this far you probably don’t need a CW for rough sex or demon cock, do you?
Chapter Text
Crowley watched the wizard and the king embrace. Foolish mortals, always setting themselves up for a harder battle than necessary. Why they would risk losing their vastly advantageous situation for some lofty ideal, Crowley would never understand.
Then he saw that Aziraphale had his fingertips pressed to his mouth in a reaction of unadulterated adoration, and felt something grudgingly adjust in his temperament.
Sweet? he asked, making it as sardonic as he could.
Aziraphale gave a fervent little nod. Awfully!
And you… like that?
Very much.
Hmph, Crowley said, without much rancour.
Merlin stopped kissing Arthur long enough to tug him to his feet. “We—ah—we are going to bed,” Merlin announced, and all but dragged Arthur out of the room; Arthur called something that sounded like goodnight back over his shoulder, but it might have been a strangled laugh.
Percival watched them go, then rubbed the back of his neck. “I might turn in as well,” he said, barely pausing before he looked innocently at Lancelot. “Coming?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Lancelot grinned. “Hope so.”
“Ha!” Percival cackled, delighted anew. “And here I’m trying to treat you like a gentleman…”
“You must treat me as your heart dictates,” Lancelot said, then glanced at him from beneath his lashes. “Or… as other parts dictate…”
“Upstairs,” Percival growled.
They were left alone.
Crowley contemplated Aziraphale for a moment, at ease in his comfortable armchair before the hearth, as hasty footfalls trod across the ceiling, laughter becoming distant as doors slammed. Aziraphale’s blond hair was alive with firelight, glowing a wispy pale gold. He was beautiful, captivating. Crowley could stare at him for hours.
But he didn’t want to limit himself to staring.
“Oh,” Aziraphale said happily, as Crowley crossed to him in two long strides and climbed into his lap. “Do you want to go upstairs too?”
“Eventually,” Crowley said, lowering his face to kiss him. First I want to make you mine again, right here, right now.
I never stopped being yours.
Crowley nuzzled along his jaw to bury his nose in Aziraphale’s neck, taking a deep breath. The mingled smells of the others were still discernible beneath the intoxicating, heavy scent of Aziraphale’s skin.
Good, he muttered, and nevertheless set about claiming him once more, running his mouth down Aziraphale’s throat, sucking his collarbones through his jerkin, sliding the fabric up so he could nibble his way lower unimpeded.
Aziraphale sighed and pushed up against him, melting with pleasing readiness under Crowley’s touch. Crowley slithered down, shifting backwards until his knees hit the floor, pushing Aziraphale’s legs apart. And—yes, that was what he sought, the fat push of Aziraphale’s cock against his cheek, trapped beneath his britches once more.
Oh, Crowley… The internal whimper of him was an invigorating force. Crowley ripped apart the britches with his fists, tearing the fabric open and lowering his mouth in one swift movement.
“Oh!” Aziraphale cried, out loud now and glorious for it. Crowley wanted him bleating, shouting, calling out his name.
He sucked on Aziraphale’s cock, finding it more fully filled his human mouth—he wasn’t able to envelope it with ease any more. Instead he encountered a tight stretch to his own lips, then the tickly resistance of his throat, a seismic shiver rushing through him when he tried to forge on anyway. His eyes watered and he pulled back, spluttering.
Begrudgingly, he sucked only on the tip for a while, getting his breath back. At least Aziraphale was already reduced to a mumbling moaning wreck, pawing Crowley’s hair. That was something. And he tasted incredible, the succulent head of his cock emitting musky, salty droplets of fluid that made Crowley’s mouth fill with saliva. He swallowed and sucked, sinking gingerly down lower, getting around halfway down the shaft before he got stuck again.
How do you manage to do this? He hadn’t planned to ask. It just slipped out.
I… what? Oh don’t, please don’t stop!
This, Crowley said, with a demonstrative suck that made Aziraphale groan. He bobbed his head, activating that same occlusive reflex that made his head swim. He didn’t technically need to breathe but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from gagging. He swallowed hard, pulling back and panting around the head of his cock again.
This bodily form thinks it’s going to choke if I go any further.
“Ohhhh,” Aziraphale said, a breathless understanding dawning. “Oh, um, well, yes. That can happen.”
I want to swallow you to the hilt, Crowley complained, trying again.
“Ah! N-needless to say, what you are doing feels incredible,” Aziraphale babbled, throbbing hard between Crowley’s lips. “But um, what you were asking, there’s no trick, I just… I like that feeling. I like pushing through. I like—uh—”
His voice stuttered into a groan as Crowley renewed his efforts, sucking and swallowing, working his jaw as best he could to accommodate as much of Aziraphale’s length as possible. He wrapped his hands around the shiny-slick base, squeezing and feeling it flex in response, before sidling one wet finger down behind Aziraphale’s tight drawn-up balls, seeking his entrance, finding it, sliding inside.
“Ohhh,” Aziraphale cried out again, shuddering within his grasp. The tight clench of his arse around Crowley’s finger felt like an invitation.
He added a second finger and sucked harder, feeling Aziraphale’s hips lift off the seat.
Say it. What do you like?
I… oh, Crowley, I’m so close, I just—
Ssssay it out loud. Say what you like.
“I like choking on your cock,” Aziraphale gasped out, hips heaving beneath Crowley’s weight, lifting and sawing helplessly. Crowley crooked his fingers and felt the explosion of pleasure through Aziraphale’s mind.
Yes, Crowley said, tasting a complex flood of salt as Aziraphale started to come, trembling shoves hitting the back of Crowley’s throat. He swallowed hard. And I’m going to enjoy using your mouth to its fullest, just as soon as we get this cottage of ours—you’re going to wake up with me sitting on your chest, pinning you, the first thing you’ll see is my cock above your face, and you’ll open for me, you won’t have any choice, I will use your pretty mouth until you’re gasping and choking and—
He realised his own cock was throbbing dizzily hard, and eased off a little.
And you’ll thank me for it, he finished lamely, conscious that Aziraphale’s own thoughts back to him were all disjointed, warm, haphazard fragments, wrapped up in a cosy glow.
Crowley sat back on his heels, licking his lips as he surveyed the boneless wanton form before him. Aziraphale was sprawled in the armchair, his cock lying against his belly, lurid pink against his fuzzily furred pale skin, poking out of the ruins of his britches. The rest of Aziraphale’s body was glistening, in disarray. His hands were softening from their clawed rictus on the arms of the chair, his eyes closed.
Knelt here before the hearth, its warmth was seductive. The hammering of Crowley’s pulse along the line of his own cock was becoming difficult to endure. He felt sweat prickle over this human skin, and longed to shift, to change. To inhabit his own skin, fire-blooded and hot-headed, sleekly armoured, power curling off him in endless red-gold eddies.
He contented himself with dismissing his remaining clothes back into the ether, and shivered as warm air played over his bare back.
“Turn over,” Crowley said, barely recognising his own voice. For a moment he thought Aziraphale was too insensible to obey.
Obey, that word—Crowley had objected to that word on Arthur’s lips. Yes, fine, he appreciated that Aziraphale was sworn to obey Arthur in some puerile human sense, their rule of law, their governance—but Crowley was the one that Aziraphale must obey, Crowley was his true master. Aziraphale had given himself to Crowley, body and soul. They were bound. Mortal kings could come and go, but Crowley was here now, superseding all else. Aziraphale was his.
With another whimper Aziraphale turned over, knees slipping to the ground, his chest pillowed against the padded velvet chair. This indulgent artifact of human wealth, that Crowley could disintegrate with one click of his fingers, was nevertheless serving its purpose right now.
The britches wrenched down easily enough, baring Aziraphale's rounded arse, his thick thighs, binding his knees together. That worked.
Crowley seized Aziraphale’s arse in both hands, groping and thumbing the crease of it as he felt his own power surge inside him. This sublime body was his, was Crowley’s, to use as he wished; his to exert his will over as often as he pleased. Whatever extreme he desired, Aziraphale would rise for him—he knew that, on a fiery fundamental level. Aziraphale’s hunger matched his own.
And right now that meant Aziraphale would be wanting to be fucked just as hard as Crowley wanted to fuck him.
He spread Aziraphale’s cheeks and looked down at his impressive human cock riding above Aziraphale’s quivering slick hole. He’d fingered it a little open, but it was closed again now, a smudge of pink mostly hidden. It would be so easy to plunge inside, he knew, could see Aziraphale was shivering and arching his spine already, wordlessly presenting to him. Begging, with his posture, to be taken.
And that wasn’t - quite - what Crowley wanted.
Biting his lip, Crowley allowed just his cock to change. He didn’t let his demon form fully take over, only the cock - accompanied inevitably by the base of his abdomen going to scales, his fingernails sharpening, and the searing prickle of wings trying to bud between his shoulder blades - but the rest of him, he held fast, kept the human form kneeling between Aziraphale's legs. The cock felt incredible though, flaring hot and huge, so heavy and sensitive it made his breath catch. It was grossly out of proportion now to the rest of him, but there was no one else watching, no one else down here, only Aziraphale.
Always Aziraphale.
Crowley held his cock with both hands, squeezing a little bit but mostly supporting its weight as he angled himself into position. His thumbs rubbed over ridges that made him sweat with pleasure—the demonic sensitivity scorching through his human body was a heady combination.
He aimed the thick red head against Aziraphale’s hole, wetting his lips as he stared down. It looked… impossible. Too big. He’d seen himself penetrate Aziraphale many times before of course, in the dreamscape, Aziraphale’s body taking everything he’d forced upon it; and he’d felt it earlier, that tight enclosing heat, slick and wonderful as Aziraphale valiantly rode him… But earlier Crowley had not seen it, he’d been covered in other men, his line of sight restricted, his thoughts divided in several directions.
It looked impossible but it was not impossible. He nudged the domed head against the slick pucker of Aziraphale’s hole, feeling its token resistance, and wavered under a building urge to push and not stop pushing until he was fully sheathed in his arse. Strength was not the problem. One neat shove would do it, leave Aziraphale gasping as Crowley drove home.
He might really hurt him though, came the thought, too quiet and private for Aziraphale to hear.
Hm.
Crowley paused, then snatched the salve from the ether once more. He added a thick layer to both of them, watching its silvery viscosity melt against Aziraphale’s exposed skin, dripping in shining runnels down his cock.
He thought about earlier, when the burly knight had claimed his mate by spending all over him—could that suffice? It had its appeal, and he could certainly imagine Aziraphale’s streaked backside, the way his hole would twitch and shine as Crowley’s essence splashed hotly over him.
But no, right now that would not suffice. On the deepest, most primal level Crowley wanted to push into him, claim him from the inside, sink to the hilt and feel him struggle to take it all. He needed to end the night - end these twelve nights - like this, unequivocally taking back his prize.
But still, he hesitated, because if that would prove injurious, then—
Do it. Aziraphale’s internal voice was a punched out breath.
It’s—my true form, Crowley admitted, staring down at the bulging crimson phallus straining to push against Aziraphale’s soft, defenceless pink hole.
I know! It feels like hot iron, there’s nothing else like it. And I want it inside me.
You do? It might hurt you.
Fuck me, Crowley.
In an instant Crowley’s desires sharpened, deepened, grew claws. Beg me.
Please, Aziraphale said immediately. Please, Crowley, please, fill me up with it, use me, give me all of it, I need it, I need you.
Crowley made a decidedly un-demonic noise, and obeyed.
Chapter 31: Night 12: AZIRAPHALE
Summary:
Aziraphale gets his happy ending.
Notes:
WE MADE IT. Massive, eternal thank yous to Pepper, Calli and Ginger Cat for the many, many hours of encouragement and enthusiasm without which this story would still be languishing in the WIP drive. I still can't quite believe it soared past 200k, but apparently that's what happens when you try to write a queer Arthurian legend with a heavy dose of monsterfucking...
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
If the others heard, Aziraphale didn’t care. The yowl that escaped him when Crowley pierced him, his unmistakably demonic cock invading Aziraphale’s body without mercy, crushing him over the beleaguered chair and giving it to him harder than ever—they could have powered another dark ritual entirely on their own.
Aziraphale scrabbled with both hands to brace against the back of the chair, arching against the onslaught. He couldn’t—be—happier—fuck, that was deep. Crowley’s hips slapped against his arse each time, the heated battering of it erasing all memory of those who’d come before. There was only Crowley, Crowley’s infernal cock stretching him, reaming him until he couldn’t imagine walking ever again.
I love you, he thought blindly, loudly, a desperate internal shout.
I know, Crowley hissed, nails digging into Aziraphale's hips, holding him at just the right angle to plunge to the base on every stroke, punctuating every syllable of his reply. I—love—you—too.
Fuck me, Aziraphale whimpered, spreading his knees as best he could, fingers stretching wide, just trying to open for him, body and mind. Give everything, hold nothing back, let Crowley claim every inch of him, everything he was and would be.
"This is what you need," Crowley growled, out loud, leaning in close as he pounded him. Crowley's fingertips were hot iron; his breath on the back of Aziraphale's neck was a lick of flame. Aziraphale's body could barely take the force of Crowley's cock being driven into him, rocking him in rhythmic shudders against the chair.
"And you need it from me," Crowley continued, voice harsh with effort. "Those humans provide some entertainment, they can sate you to some extent, briefly overpower you—but only I command your full surrender."
"Yes—"
"And you," Crowley said, as he worked himself relentlessly in Aziraphale's arse, "are the only one I need. Ohh, you're so perfect for me. Perfect, and mine. Aren't you?"
"Y-yes."
Yes. "And I want to show you that," Crowley said, redoubling his pace, his voice reverberating with the vigorous movement of their bodies. "Show them all. Would you like that? I want to leave my mark on your skin before I finish inside you - claim every inch of you - inside and out."
Aziraphale's voice gave up; he was panting too hard to make words.
Yes, fuck, Crowley, please do it.
"Do it?" Crowley demanded, a growl now. "Spend inside you, fill you up? Or mark you, like I did your king?"
Both.
"Say it."
"P-please," Aziraphale gasped. "Mark me, like Arthur, I want it, do it, and—and finish inside me, please, make me—all yours—oh, fuck," he quavered, as Crowley seized him harder, slamming deep and staying there, grinding his hips.
"Be still."
Aziraphale trembled despite the low order, pinned twice, first by the depth that Crowley had pushed, second by the sudden deliberate touch of Crowley’s tongue to the nape of his neck: describing a deft, curving shape. It felt like a dance of hot light over Aziraphale's skin, and he could feel the red glow spreading beneath, like it had on Arthur’s tongue, but bigger, bolder, deeper.
Crowley finished his snakelike sigil and Aziraphale gasped as the sting of it flared all at once, a blazing tang of magic sinking into his skin.
There, Crowley said with satisfaction. Irrefutably mine.
In a momentary flash, Aziraphale saw what Crowley was seeing: his own sweaty skin painted with an indelible-looking black sigil, throbbing hotly at the nape of his neck, beneath the damp curl of his cropped white hair. The surrounding skin looked an angry pink, but already the pain was transmuting into a flush of warmth that made Aziraphale's already racing heart pound harder.
Not… transient?
No. Crowley started to move again, so slowly it was almost a punishment in itself. Now no matter who I share you with, they will all see you belong to me.
I think they saw that already.
Now they will know it. A harder thrust was accompanied by a rumble of pleasure, intense enough that Aziraphale almost didn’t notice the sudden scent of scorched fabric above his head.
His focus jerked up.
His own fingertips were glowing.
Aziraphale stared. With all they'd been through, everything that had happened in this room, he didn't know if he could believe his eyes right now—but blinking a few times changed nothing. All his fingertips were shining a warm, rosy gold that was tingled furiously and was making the fabric of the chair start to smoulder. He coul smell it. It was impossible. But it was definitely starting to burn.
Aziraphale sent out an alarmed pulse of internal query, unable to make a coherent sentence as Crowley - apparently oblivious to this development - picked up his pace even more. Aziraphale balled his hands quickly into fists and the sparks died out, leaving a speckled scorched trail across the fabric.
“Mm, oh? Ohhhh. Yes—that can happen,” Crowley said out loud, indistinct against a backdrop purr of yes, angel, yes, that's it, you take me so well—“Transference.”
“What?" Aziraphale gasped. "Is that… is this… Crowley, is this actual magic?” His fingertips were still tingling against his palms, a luminous flexible potential. Its power seemed to increase with every slam of Crowley’s hips, the charge between them burning brighter and hotter.
Crowley seemed more amused than awed by this turn of events. “Yes… when the vessel is so willing,” he said lasciviously, grinning against Aziraphale’s neck, and Aziraphale swore he felt the little glowing snake sigil wriggle, “especially one so—” Crowley grunted with effort, thrusting harder. “—astonishingly unmagical to begin with, there’s always a chance it will take.”
“But that’s—that’s—”
“Power of your own,” Crowley agreed, panting against his neck, moving his hips with renewed determination. “My little gift. Now brace yourself, because I’m going to give you some more.”
Aziraphale moaned helplessly, and complied.
Crowley's climax was another battering ram, the shoves of Crowley’s hips so hard they rang in his ears, and then a locking, undulating motion as Crowley filled him with his scalding tide.
Oh, angel, angel, Crowley was moaning, his internal voice thickened and shattered at once, throbbing inside Aziraphale as he groaned out his climax. The golden wave was a deluge now, sweeping Aziraphale away, the sensation reaching his fingertips and leaving a sheen of power beneath his skin. It was the same glow he'd felt a multitude of times in his experiences with Crowley, but this time instead of dissipating - it lingered. He could feel a thrumming, swirling energy inside him, illuminating corners of his body and mind he'd never known before.
They stayed that way for a long time, Crowley’s face resting against Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, Aziraphale’s body beset with shivery warmth. The raw potential of it was fluctuating with every breath—coalescing and then flickering out, simmering and surging, fading off only to explode anew elsewhere.
When Crowley finally pulled out, his arms were already gathering Aziraphale close, guiding him off the chair to slump together on the hearthrug instead, a naked messy heap of tangled limbs.
Aziraphale tipped his head back to look at Crowley, slightly above and behind him. In his post-coital haze Crowley looked lustrous, dewy. His hair reminded Aziraphale of a sunset over a lazy river, gleaming in every imaginable warm hue, begging to have a hand dipped beneath its glossy, rippling surface.
“You are so…” he started, and Crowley blinked down at him, golden eyes shining with reflected firelight and something sweeter, deeper, more ancient than that. “…perfect,” he finished, and craned up, and kissed him. "And mine."
Crowley kissed him back, more tender than he’d expected. Just right.
"Do you…" Aziraphale started, wondering. He trailed his fingertips over Crowley's chest, watched him shiver. "Do you really think I have magic now?"
"It might not last," Crowley said quickly. "And you won't be able to do much with it. As a total novice. You'll need the wizard to give you some pointers."
Aziraphale flexed his fingertips, and concentrated. A visible spark shot across Crowley's chest, before winking out again.
"Or… just experiment," Crowley said, after a moment, sounding like he was suppressing a grin. "Play it by ear. That does seem to work for you surprisingly often."
It was too big to think about right now. Aziraphale found himself yawning, overcome by a sudden engulfing fatigue. He tried his luck. “The finer details will have to wait for the morning. What do you say… carry me upstairs to bed?”
Crowley lifted his eyebrows. “I can do better than that,” he said, and drew a glowing slit in the air with one fingernail, bigger this time. He pushed his fingers in and pulled, drawing the gleaming edges apart, and space itself opened in a shower of sparks.
Beyond, Aziraphale could see the shadowy darkness of his tiny bedroom upstairs.
“Now this feels like cheating,” he said, grinning as he crawled into it. He tasted spice on the back of his tongue, a flicker of something hot over his skin, and then—he was through, in the small bedroom, blinking as his eyes adjusted, feeling his way through cool darkness. His fingertips tingled again.
“‘S not cheating,” Crowley said, padding on his hands and knees after him and flopping down in the bed, arms spreading wide to take up most of the room. The shadows deepened as the glowing lines faded. “‘S making use of our natural advantages.”
Aziraphale arranged himself in the bed next to him by feel, shifting purposefully until Crowley made some more room by edging sideways.
Crowley then seemed to flow into all the gaps where Aziraphale wasn’t, arms and legs wrapping around him, nuzzling in close.
“Speaking of natural advantages,” Aziraphale said, into the darkness, resting his forehead against Crowley’s shoulder. Gosh, he hadn’t meant to mention this. Or maybe he had. “Did you… after Arthur made his offer… did you happen to catch a glimpse of those papers of theirs?”
Crowley went still next to him. “Might’ve done.”
Aziraphale swallowed. “And my… my father’s name is on that list, isn’t it?”
It was a guess based on a precise flare of distaste in Arthur’s eyes as he’d been speaking, a momentary faraway look that had flashed back to Aziraphale with an unmistakable edge of pity. Aziraphale had not known why he suddenly knew that Lucius Morningstar was implicated, but he did. Suddenly. Know.
“Yes,” Crowley said, and shifted uneasily against him. Then, in a swivel of ungainly movement, Crowley heaved Aziraphale closer so that Aziraphale's head rested against his chest. He patted the side of Aziraphale's face awkwardly. His heart was drumming beneath Aziraphale's ear. “Sorry.”
“You need not be sorry,” Aziraphale said. He felt curiously inured to the whole thing. It all seemed so very long ago, now. Another lifetime.
“But we, errr—I’m sure Arthur could be lenient, if you wished to influence his sentencing,” Crowley rushed on. “He seems… eminently persuadable.”
This was a blatant misapprehension of Arthur, at least where matters of the Court were concerned. His rule and his pleasure were entirely separate; Aziraphale knew this, and he thought Crowley knew it too.
“You’ve not seen him wielding the scales and sceptre,” Aziraphale said mildly. “About as persuadable as a tidal wave.”
“I could persuade him,” Crowley said, a glint in his voice like a knife in the dark.
Aziraphale thought about the doggedly resolute, humourless, borderline tedious way in which Arthur pursued matters of justice.
“Actually,” Aziraphale said, “no, I don’t believe you could.”
It was probably why Arthur liked being ordered around so much when they were alone, Aziraphale reflected. Because in the rest of Arthur’s life, nobody else’s word overruled his own.
“In that case, we could send Lancelot,” Crowley said quickly, changing course. “If you’d rather have nothing to do with it. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind reprising his royal assassin role for a single case—if we made it worth his while.”
“Aha! You do listen. But, no,” Aziraphale said, stroking slowly up and down Crowley’s chest with one finger, “that isn’t what I seek either.”
He rested his ear on Crowley’s breastbone, listening for a few seconds to that steady booming beat in the darkness.
Crowley waited.
“I want to be there,” Aziraphale said eventually. “Whatever the king decrees. If he examines all the evidence, weighs it up, and decides upon a sentence—then I want to be the one who delivers it to him.” His voice thickened. “I want to look him in the eyes when he realises he is known.”
Crowley was silent a moment longer. Then sucked in a breath through his teeth. “So - just to be completely clear - it is all right if I destroy him, if that’s what Arthur decrees?”
Aziraphale exhaled on a laugh, and found the air kept coming, shivery at first and then in small gulps and gasps. “Yes,” he managed eventually, when his breathing settled again. “That would be very much all right.”
“Good,” Crowley muttered darkly. Then, a moment later, he made another restless, questioning noise. “Ummm, but in that case… do you want me to go and find him at once, without waiting for a judgement at all? Arthur’s got a very long list there. It might be ages. And I could just… ssshhhck,” he said, a noise that very clearly denoted a sudden and messy demise. “You know, if it would make you feel better.”
Aziraphale snorted. “What part of ‘don’t use the demon’s power for your own ends’ didn’t you understand?”
“Oh. That,” Crowley said, and gave a put-upon sigh. “Well that’s no fun at all.”
“All in all, I’m happy to wait for Arthur,” Aziraphale mumbled, finding to his amazement that that was entirely true. “It’s quite… liberating, actually. Ceding the judgement aspect to someone capable, someone I trust to do it fairly. I… I don’t have to trouble myself with him ever again.”
“I could still eat him though,” Crowley insisted. “Jus’ say the word.”
“Thanks,” Aziraphale said, hiding a smile against Crowley’s chest. “Means a lot.”
He received another face pat, this one less awkward.
Interlocked like this, their bodies were far too hot and contorted to sleep, though even as that thought crossed his mind, another jaw-breaking yawn took over his body. All his limbs did seem to be melting into a satisfied puddle though. So maybe… maybe…
A new thought struck him on the teetering edge of sleep, a soft reverberation at the periphery of his consciousness.
“Crowley?”
“Mmmvv?”
Also almost asleep, apparently.
“Could you make a doorway big enough for, er, half a dozen men and a small herd of prized horses to go back to Camelot tomorrow?”
Crowley made a rumbling noise deep in his chest. “Depends.”
Aziraphale thought dutifully about rituals and power exchanges and Merlin’s rueful need to recuperate before even contemplating tackling the black lake again. “Depends on what?”
“On how effusively you all grovel before me,” Crowley said, smiling with his eyes closed.
Aziraphale chuckled. “I see those courtly etiquette lessons have really bedded in.”
“That reminds me,” Crowley said, yawning himself now. “Need… to start wearing… a belt.”
Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open in the darkness.
“Oh?” he said. He gave a purposeful little shift, so that Crowley’s long fingers skated the base of his spine. “Tell me more?”
He felt rather than heard another of Crowley’s rumbling laughs. “Never change, angel,” he murmured, and started to rub slow circles on his lower back, lower still, lower.
A delicious warmth began suffusing through Aziraphale’s body, filling him with potential once more. “Are you sure? I’ve changed rather a lot since you met me…”
“‘S true,” Crowley allowed, baring his neck as Aziraphale's mouth found his collarbone, nudged upwards. “Then change all you like, but,” he was audibly smiling, “take me with you, won’t you? Or I’ll get horribly bored. I had this quota before, you see… don’t know what to do with myself without it.”
“I can keep you busy,” Aziraphale said, reaching for him in earnest.
“Deal,” Crowley said, rolling them over in the tiny bed so that Aziraphale was precariously on the edge, held up by Crowley’s grip and only that.
Suspended between above and below; secure in Crowley's grasp.
Aziraphale stared up at him and beamed, eyes ablaze with their future. “Deal."
Notes:
*flops down dramatically like Crowley in need of a snack*
THE END
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