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Westminster, 1309
The king was bored.
This was not a hugely unusual occurrence; Edward II was not the most politically engaged of monarchs. He preferred his diversions of music and art to serious work, and while Aziraphale could certainly sympathise with the king's point of view, it did make his own job rather more difficult.
He was supposed to be encouraging His Grace towards the light. But while Edward needed little encouragement to attend services, and his faith seemed not to waver, his behaviour outside of the Palace chapel still left something to be desired.
It had been hoped—by Aziraphale as well as most of the court—that with his…friend Piers Gaveston away in Ireland, Edward might have settled down to the serious business of ruling. But instead, the king was restless. Fractious. His wife, Isabella, was still a child, and while he had entertained several mistresses, he had quickly grown bored with them all.
And so, over the last few weeks, Edward's attention had landed on Aziraphale.
It was understandable, in a way. Aziraphale was relatively new at court and had been attempting to gain the king's confidence. To somebody missing their lover, the attention might have seemed like interest of a different sort.
Not undeservedly. Edward was tall, muscular, and decently attractive. Charismatic enough, in his way, and generous when it occurred to him to be. Had Aziraphale actually been a human courtier, in search of either power or companionship, he could certainly have done worse.
"You'll sit by me, won't you, Sir Aziraphale?" Edward beckoned him over, the question no more than a courtesy. If the king invited you to sit, you sat. "I think you'll enjoy the minstrel this afternoon. He—oh, what now?"
There was a commotion at the door; the kind of commotion that Aziraphale had become increasingly familiar with over the centuries. He tensed, trying to ignore the hot, tugging sensation in his stomach that signified the presence of his hereditary enemy. The little burst of something like hellfire, lower down in his groin.
Crowley strolled into the hall, with that same careless sway of his hips that made him seem as at home here in the Palace as he was in a crowded market, or a quiet inn. His cotehardie was black silk, needlessly extravagant, and his black hose were a stark contrast to the brightly-coloured legs of the courtiers who watched his entrance.
His eyes were obscured, as they usually were, with dark glass, but Aziraphale could tell that they found him instantly, though only the slightest raise of Crowley's brow gave it away. Madness, really, to know one's enemy so well, but in the three hundred years since they'd come to their Arrangement, they'd spent rather a lot of time together, if you added up all the clandestine meetings. And even before that, they'd run into each other rather more frequently than simple mathematics might suggest was likely.
It was…familiarity, that was all.
"Your Grace." Crowley prostrated himself in front of the king, with a flair that covered the fact that his bow was only just deep enough not to be an insult. "My name is Sir Crowley. I have come as an emissary from the Earl of Lincoln."
"Have you, now?" Edward gestured for Crowley to rise. "Well, join us, Sir Crowley, and perhaps after the entertainment is done, we shall see what the Earl has to say to me. Do you know my advisor, Sir Aziraphale?"
Crowley's eyes flickered over to Aziraphale, the question clear. Would Aziraphale acknowledge him today? Or would he rather pretend they didn't know each other at all?
"We have…met," Aziraphale answered for him, perhaps foolishly, for it seemed Edward had not missed the look between them.
"I see. I look forward to hearing all about it, once the entertainment is over." Edward's attention shifted easily towards the minstrel, waiting nervously for permission to begin. Aziraphale risked one last glance in Crowley's direction—even at the royal court, the demon couldn't seem to sit correctly—before he, too, turned to the minstrel, though it couldn't be said the music had his attention.
Aziraphale knocked on the door to Edward's private chambers that evening with apprehension. He had never before been summoned here, but one could hardly ignore a direct command from the king. Even if he doubted that it was advice Edward was after.
Still, he had not expected Edward to be the one to open the door. Or for him to be in a state of undress, down to only his fine shirt and breeches.
"Aziraphale!" Edward exclaimed, dropping the formal title which Aziraphale had never actually earned. "Won't you come in?"
Aziraphale should have refused. Edward was the only person in the room; his servants and attendants all dismissed for the evening. There was nothing appropriate about this invitation—if it was an invitation, and not a politely delivered command—and Aziraphale knew it. It was not angelic to dally with humans, particularly ones he was meant to be encouraging away from such behaviours.
But…Aziraphale had been on edge since Crowley's appearance that afternoon. They hadn't spoken yet, not more than the careful pleasantries in court. He wasn't entirely sure why Crowley was there, or why he hadn't mentioned this the last time they met, just before Aziraphale had joined Edward's court.
And he shouldn't care, obviously. Shouldn't want to see Crowley. Shouldn't be feeling warm and prickly all over just at his presence in the palace, shouldn't have spent the whole afternoon half-hard in his breeches.
"Your Grace—" he began, still unsure what he planned to say next, if it was rejection or submission.
"Please, Aziraphale." Edward laid a hand on Aziraphale's forearm. "Edward."
"Edward. I shouldn't…"
"Nonsense. I am the king, you know, and I say you should do as you like. Of course, you are free to leave, if that's what you want."
That was the problem, wasn't it? Aziraphale wasn't supposed to want things. Wasn't supposed to let his corporation crave the touch, the closeness of another. Especially when the touch he truly desired wasn't that of the man whose bedchamber he was in.
He let Edward guide him further into the room, with the hand on his arm like a burning brand, the heat spreading through him. Let himself be pressed up against a wall, that hand sliding from his arm up to his jaw, Edward's other hand planted against the wall beside his head.
Aziraphale had never been kissed before, not like this. Yes, there were cultures where a press of lips was a greeting, a thanks, a benediction. But this was not any of those. This was all desire, open-mouthed and hungry, Edward's tongue finding its way between Aziraphale's teeth. Aziraphale had never kissed, but Edward surely had, and he did so with all the confidence of a king.
A whine rose in Aziraphale's throat, and Edward swallowed it down, pushed his thigh between Aziraphale's legs and, oh, the sweet relief of that pressure—
"Ahem."
Two thoughts struck Aziraphale at once: they had not closed the door, and that feigned cough was dreadfully familiar.
His instinct was to spring back, to deny everything, but there was cold stone at his back and Edwards well-muscled body at his front, pinning him in place. Edward's mouth was still on his, drawing back almost lazily to greet his visitor.
"Sir Crowley. You received my invitation, then?"
"I did, Your Grace." Crowley's face was inscrutable behind his sunglasses, even to Aziraphale, giving no sign of what he thought about Aziraphale's indiscretion.
Aziraphale shouldn't have wanted him to be jealous. They had no claim over each other, after all. They were strictly platonic enemies.
But he would have been jealous, were their positions reversed.
"I've had some more thoughts about the Earl's proposal," Edward carried on, as if his body wasn't still pressed against Aziraphale's, his hand now resting possessively on Aziraphale's upper arm. "And how I might…persuade you to give a more…favourable report to him."
"Oh?" Crowley leant against the doorframe, shockingly casual in such company. "And how might you do that, Your Grace?"
"I believe I have something you want."
"Do you?"
"You don't fool me, Sir Crowley. You've been watching him since you got here. I know how two men look at each other, when they want what they're not supposed to."
"Eh," said Crowley, shrugging.
"Am I not consulted on this?" Aziraphale objected, trying to order his thoughts. Edward's leg had not moved, and was still a hot pressure against Aziraphale's swollen prick.
Edward laughed. "Oh, but you want him too. More than you want me. You've been avoiding my advances for weeks, and yet the moment he comes along…"
Aziraphale couldn't deny it. If he hadn't been so agitated by Crowley's presence, he would surely have found some way to turn Edward down again.
"What exactly are you proposing, Your Grace? In return for my favourable report?"
"I may be the king, but I know how to share. I'll even allow you the first bite of the apple, so to speak. As long as I get to watch you take it."
Crowley cocked his head, considering, then lifted a hand and snapped his fingers. Edward froze in place, bracketing Aziraphale against the wall with his suddenly unmoving limbs.
"Naughty little angel, aren't you?" Crowley mused, pushing himself away from the doorframe and taking a few sauntering steps towards Aziraphale and the motionless king. "This what you get up to when I'm not around?"
"Not…generally, no." Aziraphale couldn't look away from him, couldn't blink. "Never, in fact."
"And do you want to now? Admittedly, you looked about ten seconds from falling to your knees when I interrupted. But appearances have been known to be deceiving."
"I…" Aziraphale could smell Crowley now; he had come so close, the sharp, musky smell of him overwhelming Edward's more human scent. It stopped the thoughts he was desperately trying to form in their tracks.
"I suppose he's not bad looking. I've had worse. Could be fun. If you want to."
Lord, but Aziraphale wanted. Edward, yes, but Crowley above all else.
"He's…he's the king," he said eventually. "It wouldn't do to…displease him."
"Oh, no, of course not." Crowley saw right through him, of course, he always did. And was kind enough not to point out Aziraphale's hypocrisy. "As long as you're sure, angel."
"Are you?"
"Aziraphale. This king of yours is offering me everything I want on a silver platter, and all I have to do is tell some stuck-up arsehole some nice things about him. I've never been so sure in my life."
Aziraphale's heart did something very complicated in his chest. "Then…before you…Will you kiss me?"
Crowley's smile was razor-sharp at the edges, but when he leant in, his lips were impossibly soft. Aziraphale was still trapped by Edward's stiff body, could only move his head to meet Crowley's, and it was unexpectedly thrilling.
And the kiss…Edward's kiss had been astonishingly good, but it had been a prelude to sex, nothing more. Crowley kissed him like he was something precious, something to be treasured and savoured and cared for. Aziraphale's whole body ached with desire and something softer, something he tried not to think too much about as Crowley pulled away.
With a sway of his hips, Crowley was back in the doorway, another snap of his fingers bringing the world crashing back to life. Edward's breath was suddenly hot and loud against Aziraphale's cheek, his body suddenly warm with his thudding pulse.
"I accept your most generous offer, Your Grace," Crowley said, bowing his head. "How would you like me to begin?"
Edward leant in to lick a stripe up Aziraphale's neck before pushing himself away from the wall, leaving Aziraphale suddenly cold in his absence.
"I want to see him. And you. Strip each other."
It would hardly do to disobey such a direct order from the king, after all. And Aziraphale had been longing for another look at Crowley's long, lithe body for centuries. His hands shook as he unbuttoned Crowley's cotehardie, and Crowley's own hands were almost reverent as he removed Aziraphale's tunic.
They shed the rest of their clothes under Edward's watchful eye, letting them fall to the floor without care. Who could spare a thought for wrinkles in their clothes when there were acres of pale skin revealed? When Crowley was bare before him, perfect, his long cock at attention between his legs?
"Beautiful." Aziraphale had nearly forgotten Edward, but the king appeared beside them now, a possessive hand on Aziraphale's chest, a thumb sliding over the sensitive bud of his nipple. He touched only Aziraphale, but he spoke to Crowley. "There's oil on the side. Lay him on the bed and prepare him, however you like."
Honestly, Aziraphale was beginning to suspect that Edward just didn't want to do the work, but he was hardly complaining. Not when Crowley's hands were on him, guiding him to the bed and down onto his back. Pushing Aziraphale's thighs apart so Crowley could settle between them.
This time, when Crowley kissed him, there was nothing gentle about it. Aziraphale kissed back eagerly, devouring Crowley as he was devoured, revelling in the taste of his mouth, the press of Crowley's body atop him. He rolled his hips, seeking that sweet relief that he'd had from Edward's muscled thigh, nearly drowning in pleasure as his cock rubbed against Crowley's.
"Angel," Crowley breathed, too quiet for Edward to hear. The king had taken a seat in a chair at the foot of the bed, watching them with one hand pressed into his lap atop his breeches. "Still want it?"
Aziraphale couldn't recall ever wanting anything more, but he lacked the words to say so, so he only nodded and rolled his hips again, in search of that hot friction. Crowley growled against his neck, nipped Aziraphale's skin with his teeth, and pulled away just enough to reach for the promised oil.
How many hours, days had Aziraphale spent watching those long and dexterous fingers? To have them now, gripping Aziraphale's thigh as it was pushed up against his chest, dipping between his legs to explore where he was suddenly intimately, obscenely exposed.
"Is this what you wanted, Your Grace?" Crowley asked, massaging the sensitive strip of skin behind Aziraphale's bollocks, making him whine and shift, trying to get those fingers lower.
"Exactly what I wanted, yes," Edward replied. "But…a little faster, Sir Crowley? My patience is not infinite."
"Of course, Your Grace."
Had Edward not been there, they could have done this with a wave of a hand, a snap of fingers. But the king was there, watching intently as Crowley's oiled fingers circled the tight ring of muscle, seeking entrance to Aziraphale's body. Aziraphale relaxed into the touch, closing his eyes and breathing through the stretch as Crowley's fingertip breached him.
"Oh," Aziraphale groaned, fingers twisting into the bedsheets for leverage as he tried to push back against the intrusion. "Oh, Crowley."
"Do you think he could take another, Sir Crowley?" Edward asked. Crowley didn't answer, at least, not with words, but a second finger nudged its way inside along with the first. Aziraphale surrendered to it, letting himself moan and whimper and feel as Crowley worked him open.
He didn't notice Edward move, not until the king's mouth covered his once more, teeth tugging at Aziraphale's lower lip. Aziraphale opened for him, fed his groans into Edward's mouth, arched his back as Edward's fingers found a nipple, pinching and twisting it as Crowley found his prostate, the dual sensation nearly enough to drive Aziraphale over the edge.
But Crowley withdrew his fingers, leaving Aziraphale shaking and desperate for more, his whole body straining for it.
"How do you want me to have him, Your Grace?" Crowley asked, running a reassuring hand up and down Aziraphale's inner thigh.
"Hmmm." Edward drew away, and Aziraphale opened his eyes to find the king looking at him consideringly, hungrily. "On his hands and knees, I think. This mouth of his is just far too tempting, don't you agree?" He slid a thumb between Aziraphale's lips, for just long enough for Aziraphale to suck it greedily and whine at its loss.
"I've always thought so," Crowley agreed easily. "He never even tries."
"And what about you, Aziraphale?" Edward asked. "Do you want your friend here to fuck you while I take this pretty mouth of yours?"
Aziraphale's instinct was to deny that he and Crowley were friends, but at this point, that seemed rather silly. And he certainly couldn't deny that he wanted what Edward was offering him.
"Please, my liege…"
"What did I tell you?"
"Please, Edward."
"Excellent."
Edward and Crowley must have exchanged some sort of signal, because suddenly two pairs of hands were flipping Aziraphale over onto his front. Edward pulled him up onto his forearms while Crowley spread him wide, thumbing over his slick hole before pressing his thighs against Aziraphale's buttocks, letting his prick rub into the crease between them.
"Ready, angel?" Crowley murmured, both of his hands wrapping around Aziraphale's hips. "Are you sure?"
"Quite sure," Aziraphale replied. Sure he wanted this. Sure it would change whatever this not-friendship was between them irrevocably. Sure he no longer cared.
Crowley pushed into him, hot and thick, just the head of him almost too much, nowhere near enough. For all the depravity of what they were doing, he was shockingly gentle, giving Aziraphale time to adjust to the stretch, the fullness, before rocking his hips and driving himself further inside in tiny increments. Aziraphale had never imagined how good it would feel, and he'd imagined quite a lot, on his loneliest, most shameful nights.
"Oh, fuck, you feel…ngk." Crowley bottomed out with one last shove, his bollocks slapping against Aziraphale's perineum. Aziraphale could feel his harsh, unsteady breaths, an echo of his own, as they both got used to the sheer pleasure of being joined like this. And then Crowley began to move, long, slow strokes that drove right into Aziraphale's core, left his neglected cock spitting precome onto the bedsheets, made him wail with each thrust.
"He's dreadfully noisy, isn't he?" Edward mused. The mattress dipped above Aziraphale's head as he climbed onto it, having apparently retreated to remove the last of his clothing, as unashamed of his nakedness as Adam and Eve had been before the apple. "People might hear."
"Best—ah—keep him quite then, Your Grace," Crowley suggested, still moving his hips with sinful, devastating slowness.
"I believe you're right." Edward's hand fisted in Aziraphale's hair, tugging his head up. Aziraphale's vision was filled with the king's swollen member, standing proud against his belly, leaking profusely. Aziraphale knew he was a hedonist, had known since Uz, the sybaritic pleasure of having something in his mouth would extend to this. He opened now, stuck his tongue out for a taste, trying to ignore the slight pang of disappointment that it wasn't Crowley's cock that would be his first. Absurd, really, when Crowley was fucking him so beautifully.
Edward rubbed the wet head of his cock over Aziraphale's tongue, coating it with the salt-bitter taste of him, headier than the finest wines he served in his court. Pushed it between Aziraphale's lips, thick and heavy, forcing him to stretch wide around it. The king had none of Crowley's gentle care, shoving into Aziraphale's mouth, hitting the back of his throat and making him gag until he relaxed around it.
Aziraphale's moans were muffled now, punched out of him as Crowley thrust into him from behind, blocked as Edward echoed the movement from the front. They found a rhythm between them, rocking Aziraphale's body back and forth, Crowley's hands on his hips and Edward's in his hair, both of them using him for their pleasure.
"Is he everything you dreamed of, Sir Crowley?" Edward asked, a little breathlessly.
"More," Crowley groaned, finding an angle that lit Aziraphale up from the inside and holding him there mercilessly as Aziraphale trembled in pleasure. The onslaught of sensation threatened to overwhelm him, heat building inside him, burning him from the inside out. His whole body tensed, fingers tearing at the rucked-up bedsheets, toes curling as his cock spent in hot rushes. Crowley let out a strangled sound that was nowhere near a word, but kept fucking him through it, digging bruises into Aziraphale's hips.
"Gorgeous," Edward sighed, coming in thick ropes down Aziraphale's throat, pulling back so it spilt over his tongue and out of his mouth. "Let me see him."
Crowley plastered himself across Aziraphale's back, both of them sticky with sweat, and looped an arm around Aziraphale's chest to haul him upright, leaning back against Crowley, with the demon's hard cock still deep inside him.
"Oh," Aziraphale sighed, a sound that was immediately swallowed down by Edward, who put his hands on Crowley's shoulders as he licked the taste of himself from Aziraphale's tongue.
Wedged between the two of them, with one of Crowley's hands squeezing his chest, thumb rubbing over a nipple, Crowley's teeth grazing on his neck, and Edward's tongue plundering his mouth, Aziraphale had to fight to remember that he ought to feign some sort of refractory period. He willed his own prick to stay soft and spent between his legs as Crowley's pulsed hot and deep inside him.
They collapsed as one onto the bed, trading kisses and touches between them. Crowley and Edward took turns tasting Aziraphale's mouth, then leant over him to taste each other while Aziraphale watched, his body heating up again.
Centuries of not being able to speak plainly meant that Aziraphale and Crowley could communicate with a look; by unspoken agreement, they waited until the soft caresses of hands and tongues had rekindled Edward's arousal before allowing their bodies to declare their own.
This time, Aziraphale sat astride Crowley, caught between him and Edward, stretched deliciously wide around both of them at once. Kissing Crowley, now, or letting Crowley's mouth meander over his neck and chest, sucking at his nipples while Edward whispered filth in his ears or grasped his chin to turn his head for an uncoordinated and filthy kiss. And when he was hot and quaking and whimpering in bliss, they both reached for his cock and stroked him in tandem, until he spilt over their joined hands and Crowley's chest. Aziraphale cleaned his own spend from their fingers with his tongue, groaning at the taste as they filled him with their own.
"You'll stay until morning?" Edward asked sleepily when they finally broke apart and wiped each other clean.
"Of course, Edward," Aziraphale assured him, leaning in for another kiss, soft this time. He was still caught between the two of them, and Crowley's hands lingered on his hips as his mouth brushed against Edward's. "Sleep now, and dream well."
There was more than a mere suggestion in his words; within seconds, Edward was slumbering peacefully, and would not wake until daybreak if all the legions of Hell swarmed the Palace.
"What about you, angel?" Crowley asked, hands urging him to turn over. Aziraphale rolled, as best he could in the confined space between two warm bodies, to face him.
"You know, I've never really picked up the habit? It always seems like such a waste of time."
"Mmm, it has its benefits. When there's nothing better to do."
"And now?"
"Oh, I have much better things to do now, angel. Or one better thing, at least. If you're at a loose end."
Aziraphale kissed him.
The long, dark hours of the night passed quickly…
…splayed out on the bed, his head tipped back over the edge as Crowley used his throat…
…kneeling behind the demon, reducing him to a writhing puddle with the careful application of Aziraphale's tongue…
…bent almost in half under the weight of Crowley's body, legs over the demon's shoulders, each rapid thrust threatening to split him in two…
…curled around each other, both moaning around the other's stiff length, taking and giving in equal measure…
…seated in Crowley's lap, chests pressed together, rocking together as they kissed, like they might never get another chance…
…and daybreak came all too soon. Crowley was curled around Aziraphale's back, nuzzling behind his ear, gentle rolls of his hips pressing Aziraphale forwards into Crowley's hand, building him up to another achingly slow climax, when Edward began to stir.
"You started without me," the king pouted sleepily, and neither of them bothered to correct him, to tell him that they'd never stopped.
"Couldn't resist," Crowley murmured, brushing his lips against the curve of Aziraphale's ear, and wasn't that the crux of it? They'd both been resisting for so long, pulling so hard against the force that tried to bring them together, that it had only taken the fairly obvious manipulations of a spoilt young monarch to upset their precarious equilibrium and bring them hurtling towards each other. Aziraphale still didn't know if they'd be able to restore their previous balance. Was even less sure that he wanted to.
But Edward knew none of this. Knew nothing of them, really. His heart lay with Gaveston in Dublin, his duty with young Isabella, and all else was just a temporary, if thrilling, diversion. All he knew was that Aziraphale was being slowly fucked beside him, and he slithered under the blankets to replace Crowley's hand with his own mouth.
Aziraphale came with a sigh, clenching down on Crowley as he flooded Edward's mouth, drawing the demon's climax from him as the king stroked himself to completion at their feet.
Aziraphale's report to Heaven from King Edward II's court detailed a profound failure: unprecedented demonic intervention had led the monarch to such horrifying debauchery that he was beyond saving, and there was little point in Aziraphale staying at the palace.
Crowley's report to Hell, meanwhile, documented a brilliant ploy by Edward that dashed the plans of the Earl of Lincoln—and those of Crowley's masters—and rendered Crowley's place in the Earl's retinue pointless.
For the meantime, both at loose ends until their respective Head Offices found something else for them to do, Aziraphale and Crowley found something far better than sleep to pass the time.