Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue: Andrealphus

“And furthermore, I—” Andrealphus gasped mid-sentence, his talons curling around the arms of his chair. Fuck fuck fuck! He needed to keep talking, if only so no one would hear that rather unsubtle buzzing... “I h-Ave a proposal!”

Too loud. Too shrill. Too conspicuous.

He did have a proposal, didn’t he? Something about raising tariffs on the agricultural goods exported out of Wrath? His brain —his big, beautiful brain— had been reduced horny mush and there was only one insufferable bird to blame.

“Do tell us about this proposal, Marquis.” Vassago smiled. So equable, so insouciant, so damned sweet.

The absolute bastard.

Andrealphus picked up his notes and adjusted his reading glasses on the gently sloped cere above his beak. He was a Marquis of Hell, dammit. He could handle Vassago’s little games. “Yes, the tar—iffs!” He choked on the last syllable as the persistent vibration intensified. Andre jumped up from his seat, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure. All he succeeded in doing was shifting the damned egg-shaped toy and igniting an entirely new set of nerve endings. His eyes desperately scanned the page in his hand but the words had gone all blurry in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with his poor eyesight.

“Marquis Andrealphus?” Sitri tilted his feline head, a knowing glint in his vivid pink eyes. “You were saying? About the taxes?”

Collusion. Conspiracy. Connivance. Fuck that smug cat all the way to Heaven and back!

One palm slapped onto the table and the other hand crumpled the proposal in his fist as Andre swallowed a whine. “Mmmhmm... there certainly are, um, taxes? And um...”

‘Um um um?’ For fuck’s sake, he sounded more moronic than Stella!

Ooooh, that’s it! Think of Stella and Stolas. Think of eating caviar with a metal spoon. Think of flat champagne. Think of—

“Perdón... is everything alright, Andrealphus?” Vassago rested his cheek in his palm, the very fucking picture of nonchalance. That superior little dip of his beak would haunt Andrealphus’ dreams. “You don’t look so good.”

Andre’s eyes dropped to Vassago’s hand, resting so very casually on the long council table. He lifted his thumb and made a show of clicking the remote barely concealed by his gloved hand. A show meant only for Andre, in spite of their rather large and esteemed audience.

He struggled to keep himself upright, all of the joints in his legs buckling beneath his silken skirts as the intensity of his pleasure became blindingly sharp and yet still nowhere near enough.

His gaze flicked back up to meet those amused rubies hiding behind absurd yellow lenses and he bit back a desperate mew. How fucking dare he look so composed and vainglorious while the evidence of Andre’s complete lack of composure was running down his fucking thigh!

Vassago’s mouth pulled into a grin, one brow lifting expectantly, and Andrealphus would be twice-damned if his infuriatingly beautiful macaw didn’t look enticing like this, smugly celebrating his victory over Andre’s willpower.

Wait. His macaw?

The final blow in Andre’s public humiliation coincided with that unsettling slip-up. His resplendent tail feathers, his pride and joy, lifted and fanned of their own accord, rustling for everyone to see. For everyone to witness might be more accurate, since they danced and twitched in the air behind him for Vassago and Vassago alone.

“Excuse me!” Andre blurted, still clutching the paper as he strode from the room with as much grace as he could muster... while attempting to not let his thighs touch at all, one hand sweeping over his backside to urge his plumage back to something approaching decency.

Vassago’s boisterous laughter followed him down the corridor even after the council room’s doors swung shut behind him.

Fists balled at his sides, Andre made for his office as swiftly as he could. Each step was delicious agony, pressing the toy so close to where he wanted it but not quite there. He didn’t trust himself to do magic in this state, which meant that he had to take the actual stairs like some sort of magically impotent peasant.

Could Vassago not have left him a shred of dignity?

There was absolutely nothing dignified about trying to climb stairs in heels without tripping over his skirts and clutching a vibrating egg in his cunt.

He flung his office door shut, ice crystalizing around the lock. Andre all but collapsed onto the top of his desk, hiking up his skirts unceremoniously and groaning with relief as he pulled the buzzing thing from himself with a long, steady tug of the attached string. When the toy finally popped free, it did so with a humiliating fount of slick.

Andre wanted to throw the damned thing against the wall. To crush it in his palm to a thousand little pieces and then fling them right in Vassago’s handsome face. He would be disciplined for that, of course. The thought sent a ripple of arousal through his guts right to his core.

Perhaps later. Just then he needed release , and even that would earn him Vassago’s ire. Still, what the Prince didn’t know, couldn’t hurt Andre... not that he minded a little hurt now and again.

He clutched the still-vibrating egg desperately and used it to circle his cunt, gliding wetly over each swollen bump and ridge as Andre’s thighs trembled with the onslaught of pleasure. Productive pleasure, the kind that would bring this to a swift conclusion so he could get back to fucking work.

His eyes fell closed and he pictured Vassago, self-congratulatory little smile and all. There were no complicated fantasies, no scenarios dreamt up in his mind or remembered from heated nights past. Just that familiar face and the steady pulse of the toy working in tandem to drive him right to the brink of bliss.

*CLICK*

Andre’s eyes snapped open as stardust coated his immaculately clean floor. Vassago held the remote between two fingers, the egg utterly still now and lamely pressed against Andrealphus’ opening, the blunt lifelessness of it robbing him of that final push over the edge.

“Did I say that you could take that out?” There was no smile this time. No playful little head tilt, only the stern promise of punishment well deserved. The prospect of getting any work at all done today just flew right through the stained glass window behind his desk.

“N-no,” Andre squeaked.

“No, what?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Bueno.” Vassago took a step forward, pinning Andre to his desk with those fathomless eyes. “Now, pajarito... I have cleared my diary for the afternoon. I can see that we aren’t remotely done yet.”

Andrealphus groaned at the pun, momentarily dragged back from his prurient fantasies by the reminder that this lubricious, immensely powerful demon was in fact an utter goofball at heart. “Honestly, Vass—”

One strong hand closed around the fine bones of Andre’s wrist, squeezing far too tightly. The pain clouded his mind, the incredulous line of his mouth softening with a pleasant gasp. Vassago leaned even closer, somehow looming over Andrealphus in spite of the not insignificant height disparity that favored the peacock. It was a cliche to be certain, but Andre adored the way that he towered over Vassago in the council chambers or at court and then positively crumbled beneath him in the bedroom.

“Such petulant behavior, mi querido. Have I perhaps not been giving you enough attention?”

The grip on his wrist tightened and Andrealphus had to fight to keep the slick egg in his own grasp. Vassago’s free hand rose to caress his snowy cheek, the gesture almost uncomfortably sweet. Hot and cold, firm and gentle, pleasure and pain. That was the way things had always been between them and though Andrealphus would rather be plucked bald than admit it out loud, it was perfection.

“Allow me to rectify that...” That tender hand grasped the back of his neck abruptly and Andre was falling. Falling into cloying, humid warmth and silky soft sheets and the overpowering aroma of Vassago.

He landed on the Prince’s bed, already a disheveled mess as stardust sprinkled his feathers and the weight of Vassago settled between his thighs. He feigned irritation, sweeping his hands over his arms to rid himself of the tangible remnants of his lover’s magic. There was absolutely no reason for Vass to know how he refrained from changing his crisp, blue sheets when they met at his estate and the shimmering residue lingered on them or how he admired their golden sheen on his cool-hued plumage after a particularly vigorous romp. Not when all Andre ever left behind in return were puddles of melted ice and the light, floral scent of his preening oil— which Vass hated. He imagined the linens here were changed quite promptly as soon as he took his leave, not that it mattered.

What Vassago did when they were apart was no concern of his, he reminded himself. That was the nature of their arrangement. Shared desires, separate lives. And it suited Andre just fine.

Andrealphus was yanked back to the present by Vassago’s high, giddy laughter at his bratty little display. That was another of their little idiosyncrasies that Andre secretly enjoyed: his own deep timbre often overpowered Vassago’s boyish squawking during their debates but that wonderfully expressive voice of his belied a deliciously ruthless mind. “I wouldn’t bother, mi hermoso. You are going to get much messier before we are done...”

Vassago was many things, most of which irritated Andrealphus to no end. Obstinate, often obnoxious, relentlessly cheerful, and idealistic to a degree that seemed an outright act of hubris —or ignorance— in Hell... but he was no liar.

Andrealphus was absolutely filthy.

He could feel the pull of Vassago’s drying release tugging at the feathers between his shoulder blades and— ugh, had he really gotten cum in Andre’s perfectly coiffed headfeathers?! He shifted his shoulders, doing his level best to scratch the itch between them against the restraint of the cuffs around his forearms that kept them stretched and pinned against his lower back. More agonizing than the denial of his own relief had been Vassago’s resolute refusal to use Andrealphus for his own. Listening to the wet glide of Vassago’s own hand bringing himself off between rounds of relentless teasing had been a special kind of torture, one that pained not only his body but his pride. Andre knew how beautiful he was, how desirable, how much attention his slender, pleasing frame and sharply lovely features drew from his admirers, Vassago among them— but he ached for the Prince’s explicit approval all the same. He hadn’t so much as seen Vassago since he’d been flipped onto his belly, much less been allowed to touch or taste. He had even denied Andre the pleasure of his melodious moans, cumming with a soft grunt and then resuming his assault on Andre’s cunt like the intermission had never happened.

That was a fucking hour ago.

Andre whimpered around the silicone ball, his slim thighs twitching against the subtle insistence of the spreader bar. His skin itched beneath the downy feathers between his legs, coated as they were with layers and layers of the sticky evidence of his torment. He had been so close this time but it had long since stopped being a surprise when Vassago withdrew the toy at the absolute last moment before he tumbled over the edge. No matter how quiet he was, no matter how still, how obedient, Vassago still seemed to know right when he was approaching his climax and cruelly left him wanting.

Drool dripped down Andrealphus’ chin. His jaw ached and he had long since stopped trying to swallow around the ball gag, letting himself salivate freely onto the tackily colorful floor. His head hung off of the edge of the bed and he had been staring at the intricately patterned ceramic tiles for so long that he was beginning to actually like them; probably just the blood rushing to his head. His thoughts were becoming pleasantly fuzzy, Andre’s voracious mind temporarily content to simply follow the swirling patterns in front of him and fully submit to the control of the demon who remained stubbornly out of view.

He felt... good. The pain in his jaw and shoulders blurred, melting into the static hum of his empty little skull. Safe, mindless, trusting... all foreign sensations to the Marquis. Such delights he’d only found in Vassago’s bed, beneath the skilled ministrations of those torturous hands and his unyielding patience.

Andre’s body went lax when he heard the toy switch off once again, his neck slumping to allow his head to hang freely as his limbs seemed to pool on the sheets, more liquid than solid in this state. A gentle hand slid over the slight curve of his hip, talons scraping his skin pleasantly. His moan was more of a gargle behind the ball pressing his tongue down against his mandible but his pleasure was still evident and it earned him a little giggle from his Prince. Andre’s heart skipped and leaped, blood thrumming in his ears and darkening his face.

“Still so hungry for attention...” Vassago huffed against his shoulder, the heat of his body blanketing Andre’s bound and displayed form. “Pero your attitude has certainly improved.”

The pattern in front of his eyes blurred and his mind flashed white, empty and warm and clear. There was nothing outside of this room, this moment. Nothing but the slick, tapered head of Vassago’s cock pressing into his embarrassingly sopping cunt and it was utter bliss. He was full and desired and complete. One smooth thrust and the barest peck of a kiss at the back of his neck was all it took for Andrealphus to unravel, pulsing around Vassago as his pent up release gushed over both of their thighs.

Another of those cute, knowing giggles, this one a little breathy as it burst across the nape of his neck. Vassago pulled out completely and plunged in once more with a lurid squelch, pulling a guttural sound from somewhere deep in Andre’s chest.

“Good boy.” Vassago, cock nested achingly deep inside Andre, unfastened the gag. He eased it from Andrealphus’ beak, thumb rubbing gentle circles on the apex of his jaw on either side as the gag plopped wetly to the floor, forgotten. “That’s better.” Andre turned his face into Vassago’s hand, dark talons curling around his chin and lifting the dead weight of his head. “Don’t hide from me, pajarito. I want to hear you...”

As Vassago set a quick and brutal pace with his hips he kept Andre’s face gently cradled in his hand. Andrealphus let him hear every baritone groan and gasp, loudly broadcasting his pleasure as Vassago gave him everything his body had been yearning for. He could let him see that much, at least: the way only he could make Andre unravel like this. The way he knew Andre’s body inside and out. Only him.

What Vassago could never know was the ache that he couldn’t touch no matter how deeply he thrust. He could never hear the way Andre sang softly to himself after their trysts, could never see the smile that he had to force down each time he thought of that goofy laugh.

He didn’t need Stolas’ insight to know that love was not in the stars for Vassago and himself. He’d known the limits of this from the very start, and he was content.

Because he must be. There was simply no other choice.

Chapter Text

Vassago

To say that what they had was perfect would have been a flagrant lie. Andrealphus was prickly, arrogant, bigoted, vindictive, and theatrical to a fault... and Vassago had been head-over-talons since the peacock was seventeen years old. Nearly a century had passed since then, the decades rolling by in the blink of an eye as the mundanities of day-to-day life amongst Hell’s ruling class droned on and the adventures of his youth alluded him. Vassago would never forgive his father for having the audacity to die and pass on his titles and inane obligations, truly.

The only bright side of being tethered to Satan’s court had been him. Such close proximity. Such brazen behavior from the Marquis who had always been far too bold for his station.

Vassago hadn’t stood a chance.

He could remember their first night in vivid detail. Andrealphus’ baby sister had just been betrothed to a Paimon’s little owlet and the Marquis had thrown a lavish ball to celebrate the fruits of his machinations. The Lady Stella, untitled and unknown, had just landed a Prince— and she would be neither consort nor mistress but wife. Vassago had never asked Andre what he had done to secure such a match. Frankly he didn’t want to know. Paimon’s reputation was less than savory and though he knew that he wasn’t the first to grace the Marquis’ cool, silken sheets he couldn’t bear the thought of any hands on those pristine feathers but his own.

There was no fanfare, no grand courtship. Andre had given him a single look, just one sultry glance over the rim of his champagne flute as the festivities began to wind down. Then the host took his leave, slipping through a discreet side door of the ballroom... a door left slightly ajar behind him. An invitation that Vassago tripped over himself to accept.

Vassago followed him through the twisting corridors, secret passages intended to allow the servants to be as invisible as possible. At each turn he would catch a flash of cyan plumage that compelled him to walk faster, his heart hammering and his breath coming in visible little bursts in the wake of frosty air that trailed behind Andrealphus. Finally he spilled out into a bedchamber that could have doubled as a meat locker, the chill creeping past his feathers and biting into the skin beneath.

Andrealphus stood in the middle of the room like one of his ridiculous ice sculptures, tall and poised and bitingly cold.

“Your Highness...” He turned slowly, the stole dropping from his shoulders to reveal the snow white feathers that seemed to cover his entire body. In court he was always so buttoned up, so restrained. Seeing him in such a revealing gown had kept far more blood in Vassago’s trousers than his brain all Lucifer-damned evening.

“Marquis,” he replied curtly, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.

“I’ve been watching you. More importantly, I’ve been watching you watch me.”

Vassago cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowing behind his crowned glasses. “Have you, now?”

“Mmmhmm. I don’t think you like me very much.” Andrealphus’ mouth quirked, humor dancing in pupil-less eyes.

“Astute observation.”

The Marquis feigned a pout and Lords, Vassago ached to know if his mouth was as cold as the rest of him. Or was there some heat deep inside, a flame that he kept secreted away? A treasure waiting to be unearthed... 

“It must be so frustrating for you...”

“¿Escuchándote?” Andrealphus blinked, momentarily thrown off. Vassago couldn’t help but smirk as he translated... more or less. “Listening to you squawk.”

Andrealphus took two long steps and suddenly he was so close that Vassago could smell the champagne on his breath. “Well, yes. But that’s only half of the problem, isn’t it?”

Vassago willed his body not to react to the proximity. “Must I gaze into the future to find the point?”

“I irritate you so,” Andrealphus’ eyes flitted over his face and then slowly, pointedly, trailed down his torso, “and I don’t think your cock has gotten the message.”

The Prince blinked rapidly, shocked by the blunt words from the otherwise polished noble... and by how immediately and completely the appendage in question reacted. He felt himself swell and thicken against his own thigh and embarrassment burned high on his cheeks, much to Andrealphus’ amusement.

“Did you think that I wouldn’t notice? How you shift in your seat whenever I’m close... how little those trousers of yours leave to the imagination?” Andre leaned down to whisper against the feathers concealing Vassago’s ear. “What are you thinking, I wonder, when we’re meant to be focusing on the needs of Hell’s poor little citizens.”

The way he taunted Vassago with those final few words, mocking the macaw’s frequent protests against his popular one-sided and exploitative policy proposals— anger swelled alongside arousal and Vassago had to tuck his hands behind his back to avoid wrapping them around that beautiful throat. “Usually about you choking on me until you are silent,” he replied with remarkable composure considering how wild his mind was running about that very subject.

Andrealphus, teary eyes wide and throat bulging. Drool dripping down his chin as he took more and more and more...

Apparently the very idea was enough to temporarily quiet him and Vassago pressed his advantage, tilting his head to meet the Marquis’ eyes. “You know that you are beautiful. This isn’t news, nor is the fact that you are obnoxious and arrogant. Half of the council chamber probably pictures shutting you up in a similar fashion.”

“But they aren’t here, are they?” Andrealphus purred. "They're all still out there, oblivious and drunk and so very, very boring."

Vassago huffed softly, his patience wearing thin. “What do you want from me?”

“Need I draw you a diagram?” Andrealphus reached up with both gloved hands, delicately plucking the glasses from Vassago’s face. “How about we start with you ‘shutting me up’?”

The macaw’s hand moved quickly, snatching one of Andrealphus’ dainty wrists and gripping it tightly. He was so comparatively cold to the touch that Vassago was surprised his grasp didn’t sizzle. “I’ve no interest in bedding someone who is fucking my crown, not me.”

Andrealphus clicked his tongue against his maxilla. “Presumptuous.”

“If I’m wrong, I will apologize.” Vassago stepped closer, pulse rushing as they pressed chest-to-chest. “Am I wrong?”

“I have sacrificed a great deal for power and station. You aren’t wrong about that.” The faintest flush darkened Andrealphus’ face, gone so quickly that Vassago wondered if he imagined it. “I thought perhaps I could allow myself this little indulgence. A guilty pleasure. A treat.”

Vassago's feathers ruffled at the implications, quite literally. “I’m a Prince of Hell, not a dessert.”

“No, Your Highness. You are the whole meal.”

Andrealphus had kissed him with his whole being, throwing himself against the Prince as he wrenched that fragile little arm behind his back. A single mew into his mouth was all that it took for Vassago’s restraint to crack.

All that it took for him to tumble head-first into the cold with no hope of seeing sunlight again.

Vassago was not bereft of imagination, but his wildest fantasies couldn’t have prepared him for just how compatible they were. Andrealphus only grew more bold, more insolent. Every slight in court was foreplay, each snide, bratty little remark pointedly meant to fan the flames of Vassago’s desire until they were behind closed doors. In the bedroom —or bathroom, or office, or broom closet— Andrealphus was his, only his. To discipline, to reward, to pleasure, to possess. To touch.

To love.

And he did, truly. Through the tantrums and drama, through the vicious barbs and endless attempts to push him away, Vassago had loved him. For twenty-five years, Andrealphus had been his world.

That world had come crashing down around him when Andre turned that cruel, calculating mind on Stolas. On his own niece. Watching Stolas step up to the block for the man he loved while the man Vassago loved looked on so smugly as though everything was going to plan had broken something. Irreparably.

Andrealphus’ cool elegance in the face of Vassago’s fury after the fact only widened the rift between them. He had thought himself capable of loving the person Andre was but maybe even Vassago had his limits... not that the affection went anywhere, of course. It still festered, gnawing at him day and night as he slept in his big bed alone, the sheets next to him warm to the touch instead of chilled by Andrealphus’ presence.

All of that to say that yes, Vassago had been the one to choose this. To end things. To give himself some distance. To teach Andrealphus a lesson, perhaps.

He hadn’t for a moment considered that perhaps Andrealphus’ bed wouldn’t be quite so empty in his absence.

Vassago motioned for the impish bartender to refill his glass. The tiny demon was wearing a crisp blue uniform, shirt closed tight around his neck with a little snowflake. Even Stolas’ staff was unrecognizable, swept up in the blizzard that was Andre.

“Make it a double,” he grumbled, sliding the short glass back towards the imp until he filled it to the brim.

“<Why are you even here, my friend?>” Sitri slid onto the empty stool next to him with feline elegance, his sharp suit a distinct contrast to Vassago’s disheveled state. He had attempted to make the rounds and be sociable but everything from the centerpieces to the music felt like a slap in the face. This ballroom felt like being swallowed whole by Andre’s questionable taste and Vassago had quickly found his perch at the bar on the periphery of the dance floor. After drink five he’d lost his jacket, six and he’d rolled up his sleeves. Now he was on drink number eight and even the bartender was giving him sympathetic looks, which apparently meant that it was time for Sitri to save the day.

He wanted to tell his friend to get fucked but instead he just sighed, shrugging as he lifted the glass to his beak. “<I am a masochist, it seems.>”

There was a playful little spark in his magenta eyes. Sitri found innuendo in everything, so he could hardly expect the Prince of Passion to keep his mouth shut. “<We both know that isn’t true. So I’ll ask again: what are you doing here?>”

“<I don’t know,>” Vassago lied as Sitri ordered himself a drink. Perhaps his first of the night, judging by his composure. “<I thought it would be more noticeable if I didn’t attend...>”

“<It’s cute that you think there’s a soul in this room that didn’t know about the two of you.>”

Vassago’s snort was entirely unbecoming and illustrated his point perfectly. “<Because I give a fuck about them.>”

“<Ahh. You meant that he would notice.>” Sitri dropped his chin onto one hand, smiling. He had never cared for Andrealphus, never approved of Vassago’s affections. Sex, he often said, was one thing, but having feelings for someone like Andre would just result in heartache. "<Or is it that you hoped he would notice and were afraid to be proven wrong?>"

How smug he must feel now. Vassago could practically taste the implicit 'told you so' in the air between them.

“<I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of declining his invitation.>” Vassago winced through a too-large sip, forcing himself not to cough.

Sitri’s tail swished behind him playfully, wings fluttering. “<And how is that working out for you?>”

“<Poorly.>”

“<Let me portal you home, Vass...>” His friend put a hand on his arm, his expression softening. The kindness was both appreciated and wholly unwelcome. Vassago didn’t want to be comforted. He wanted to be miserable, and he was succeeding with aplomb.

“<Why is he doing this?>”

Sitri huffed his indignation, retracting his hand. “<Andrealphus has always been ambitious. You knew that—>”

“<Tsk. No, not what he did to Stolas.>” Vassago drank again, reflecting on the last time he saw Stolas. The ex-Prince had actually seemed... happy. He had his daughter back, after a fashion. She was eighteen now and though she could do little to help change Satan’s mind about her father’s sentence, she and Stolas were working through repairing what the trial had fractured between them. It was heartwarming to see, in spite of how it all came about. Oh, and Stolas and the love of his life were finally on the same page. Must be nice. “<That... was horrid, but frankly I should have seen it coming. The moment he filed for divorce Stolas’ fate was sealed. There was no way Andre was going to let his sister be left with nothing.>”

“<Mmm. Your forgiveness really knows no bounds.>”

“<That’s a nice way of saying that I’m an idiot.>” An idiot for him, anyway.

“<Your words.>” Sitri sipped his own drink. “<So if that’s not what you meant, then what has you so... out of sorts?>”

“<That.>”

Sitri’s eyes followed his across the ballroom, landing on the host holding court of his own in a throng of adoring sycophants. That gown alone would have been enough to drive Vassago to drink, the deep cowl neck exposing his luxurious chest to all of Hell while the back dipped even lower, flirting with the soft feathers at the base of that beautiful train. Things that had once been Vassago’s alone on display, tempting and enticing all of the men who vied to take Vassago’s place in Andre’s bed.

The macaw’s stomach flipped, the potent whiskey threatening to return to the bar.

“<I see.” Sitri hummed softly, his claws clattering thoughtfully on the bartop. “<Surely you didn’t expect him to stay celibate forever? It’s been months since the trial...>”

Vassago’s fist tightened around his glass, resisting the immediate and near-overwhelming urge to smash it into the face of one of his few true friends.

"<We're immortal, Sitri. I don't think a few months is a lot to ask.>"

"<I'm just saying that a few months without when you're used to a banquet of physical delights can be... challenging. But then who am I talking to? You're just as pent up as he is. I can smell it all over you.>"

“<Of course you can.>" Vassago swept a hand down his faceplate and over the bulbous curve of his beak. If the blatant ire in Vassago’s tone bothered Sitri, he certainly didn’t show it. "<I don’t know why I’m talking to you of all demons about this.>”

“<Because I know what I’m talking about? There is a vast spectrum of physical passion. Some born of lust, some of love, some of loneliness, and some —like whatever is going on over there right now— born of spite.>”

“<That’s very helpful, thank you.>”

“<My point is: he’s baiting you. Don’t bite.>”

Vassago looked back across the room to where someone was lighting Andrealphus’ cigarette for him. A thousand memories bloomed in his mind, a spark of starlight igniting the tip of a cigarette as Andre’s mouth closed around the end of the holder clutched in his long, elegant talons. An insincere ‘thank you, lover’ slipping from his beak along with a few sultry curls of smoke.

And those eyes. Those beautiful, terrible eyes that were now fixed on him from across the ballroom as he all but draped himself on his would-be suitors shoulders. Vassago tried to pull his gaze away but it only flicked over to the face of one of the nothing Lordlings, his sharp avian features so confident. 

As if he could please Andre. As if he could meet his needs. As if he even deserved to try.

“<You aren’t listening, are you?>”

Vassago knocked back his entire glass in one gulp, rising from his barstool on unsteady legs with narrowed eyes. “<No.>”

Vassago slumped into his favorite reading chair, one hand over his face as the room spun around him. His memories were a little spotty but he knew that he’d cracked that irritating, jumped-up Lord’s beak with his fist and that it had been damn satisfying.

Sitri had gotten him home, handing him off to his staff who had ushered him to his room with water and food and all manner of suffocating doting. He shooed them away with uncharacteristic curtness, slamming the door and finding his way to this spot. His favorite, where he would spend countless hours reading. Sometimes with Andrealphus spread across his lap, glasses perched on his beak and his tongue slipping out as he worked on one of his dizzyingly complicated calculations. Honestly, who did maths for fun?

Andrealphus, that’s who.

Lucifer, he was beautiful tonight. Every night, but especially tonight. That rich, aubergine dress skimmed the lean lines of his body the way Vassago’s hands used to, soft as satin before digging his talons into the meat of his thighs just to hear his little bird chirp. Those noises still seemed to echo off of the tiles and beams of his room, reverberating hauntingly as Vassago sunk further into his well-worn armchair. He roughly untucked his tuxedo shirt from his trousers, unbuttoning it slowly as he indulged in his own misery with more memories.

Andre spread out on his sheets, every limb manacled and stretched to the point of discomfort as Vassago overwhelmed him with pleasure. He could taste the rush of Andrealphus’ release on his tongue, see the deep navy blue flush of his swollen cunt, feel the way he twitched and contracted around his fingers.

He was hard. Inevitable, he supposed. Vassago may have been the one holding the leash, so to speak, but there was no denying that Andrealphus had him well conditioned. A glance, a whisper, a moan and Vassago was throbbing.

His drunken mind was still a swirl of lusty memories and he let his shirt fall open, reaching down to squeeze himself through his trousers as his heavy eyelids fell closed. Floating somewhere in a hazy, liquid place between consciousness and the other thing, Vassago imagined Andrealphus on his knees between Vassago’s boots. Andre would squeeze and tease and pout as Vassago re-read the same passage again and again, pretending to ignore him until slender, ivory fingers unfurled him from his trousers and briefs.

Vassago groaned as his own hand, fingers thicker and shorter, wrapped around his shaft. He spread the ample precum down his length, the Andre in his mind lapping at his slit and letting his saliva drip down to ease the glide of his hand. He stroked himself slowly, imitating Andre’s shockingly, frustratingly gentle grip until the coals in his belly were stoked to a blaze. Vassago was back at the party tonight, his fist colliding with that presumptuous prick’s face. He turned his predatory eyes to Andrealphus and his prey was immediately in his arms, gazing down at him like he was the only one in the room. The only one in the universe.

He swept a table clean with one arm, sending one of those obnoxiously perfect centerpieces crashing to the marble floors in a shower of stardust. Andrealphus was eager, climbing onto the table and hiking up his skirts. Dripping. Waiting. Wanting him. Vassago flipped him onto his belly, pressing his face down onto the smooth tablecloth and driving into his cunt in one stroke. He fucked his fist wildly, imagining the way he would punish Andre with his thrusts, driving him to climax after climax until he was a pleading mess in front of all of Hell’s elite.

No one would dare look at what was his again, not with anything but envy. He would claim every inch of his body in front of every idiot with a title if he had to, damn what the Marquis' narrow-minded father would have thought.

Vassago wanted this moment to last forever, the perfect picture in his mind of Andrealphus quaking beneath him, completely lost in the pleasure. Of unraveling him completely.

Fuuuuck!

With a long whine Vassago burst across his own belly, stroking himself through the aftershocks as he struggled to cling to the fantasy. Soon, too soon, he began to deflate and nauseating, drunken reality came crashing back down around him. His torso was streaked white and tears slid over the feathers on his cheeks as he struggled to catch his breath, closing his eyes against the spinning of the room.

Andrealphus wasn’t his, not really.

But he would be.

Chapter Text

Andrealphus

He woke with a dry-throated groan, the taste of last night’s indulgences thick on his tongue. Andrealphus’ head snapped to the opposite side of the bed, sending his mind swaying with a seasick slosh. The profound relief of an empty bed was all that kept the canapes that had served as his dinner last night from making an encore appearance. As the night returned to him he could recall a sticky, indulgent fumble with two of Stella’s obnoxious hangers-on in a darkened corner but mercifully he hadn’t been desperate enough for company to actually ask anyone to come to his bed or worse still, to stay.

Had he even managed to muster an orgasm for their unskilled hands? He couldn’t recall being that gracious, even as inebriated as he was... Ah, well. If he was a bit poorly this morning, Vassago must be feeling absolutely dreadful. The thought put a little pep in his step as he pulled himself from the cool comfort of his bed.

An ice bath, a thorough preening, and a touch of magic had him looking just as flawless as ever. He chased the lingering headache and nausea away with a few herbs collected from Stolas’ beloved garden. Well, when there had been a garden. Andrealphus walked onto the balcony of the room that had once been the scene of Stolas’ monthly indiscretions, smirking up at the luminous sigil bearing his name. His delightful niece had flown the proverbial coop the moment she came of age, insisting that anywhere was better than the palace. Stella had raged but Andrealphus had cowed her with a few sharp words. Let the girl run to her daddy. She would be back, he had no doubt. In the meantime he would continue his steady assimilation of all that once belonged to his disgraced brother-in-law, bit by bit.

He pulled his near-transparent cornflower blue robe up over his shoulders and tightened the belt as he stared down at the formerly lush gardens, now a labyrinth of glacial sculptures and jagged shards of ice, perfectly symmetrical from this exact spot.

Flawless. Exact. Beautiful.

Perhaps it wasn’t all that he deserved, but it was a damn fine start. And all it had cost him was— everything.

Andre’s breath caught in his throat, coming out in an uncomfortable cough that hid his reaction from his audience of absolutely no one. Damn Vassago and his childish pride! Why was he being so abysmally stubborn about all of this?! If last night was any indication there was no way the Prince could deny that he still wanted Andre. More than that, even. Craved.

He knew the feeling. He felt it last night, watching Vassago simmer and stew in the consequences of his own actions, scarlet eyes blazing with lust and rage while his crest fanned and bristled with territorial hunger. To be the subject of that single-minded anger, to feel the brunt of Vassago’s disappointment not in words but in actions... in the language that they both spoke so very well. Andre had spent half of the party absolutely dripping.

He felt it now, his body hollow and his chest full. This ache was different. Oh, he was mind-numbingly horny of course, but this was a pricklier kind of want. Loneliness. Yearning. He delighted in his fantasies of what Vassago’s eventual capitulation would look like —at what punishments were in store for Andre’s neglected body— but what occupied his mind this morning was the blissful after. When Vassago would pet him and smile and tell him how good he had been.

Those brief but languid mornings when Andre felt at ease. Accepted. Loved.

So much of him wanted to end this abominable anticipation, to swoop in and tell a distraught and hungover Vassago that he was forgiven for putting his paltry morals between them. That Andre would obediently take his licks and then things could get back to normal for fuck’s sake!

But that wasn’t the plan. And Andrealphus was already running late...

Ever irritatingly assiduous, Vassago followed him up the stairs, taking them two at a time with little hops to keep up with the peacock’s long stride. Andrealphus walked faster, lifting his skirts to keep them from getting caught under his swiftly moving heels. He could have simply magicked himself to his office of course, but then how would the persistent Prince have given chase?

“You can’t even look at me, Andre!”

He paused on the first landing. He couldn’t make it easy for him, but surely he could give Vassago just a moment to catch up... “I don’t want to look at you, Vassago. There is a subtle but important distinction that you are clearly not getting.” Andrealphus couldn’t resist a peek over his shoulder, offering his handsome stalker a sharp smirk. He was so brilliantly beautiful that it physically hurt. The bastard. “Perhaps it’s the language barrier?”

“Mierda. Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Vassago deadpanned, his usually melodic accent clipped and flat. He stopped on the second to last step before the landing, embellishing the height difference between them and leaving Andrealphus feeling deliciously powerful as he turned his body sideways and looked down his sharp beak at the Prince. The fall from this height, metaphorically speaking, would be quite something... “Will you at least tell me what I’ve done to earn your ire this time?”

Andrealphus clicked his tongue in dismay. Did he really not know? Was he so drunk he forgot? What a waste of a perfectly staged public outburst! “You made an absolute fool of yourself last night. I know that you have some absurd, sentimental little soft spot for Stolas but really Vassago, first your cawing in court and now this? Acting like a lunatic in front of—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Vassago pinched the cere above his bulbous beak and let out an irritated caw. “You think last night was about Stolas? ¡¿En serio?!”

As a rule Andrealphus detested surprises... though perhaps not this one. Vassago had folded almost too quickly. Andrealphus felt warring swells of disappointment and elation. “If it wasn’t an idiotically kind-hearted attempt to get me to help Stolas —as if convincing Satan to change his mind is something that I could do— then whatever could it be?” His fantasies began to run wild, unfettered and dizzyingly romantic. His luxurious plumage rustled and he tilted his head coquettishly, cyan eyes wide with faux innocence. “Do you simply get absurdly drunk and pick fights just for fun these days? Are you that bored without me, Vassago?”

“Ante todo: you were drinking too, and I’ve seen you tipsier than that on a Tuesday afternoon—” Vassago ascended another step, closing the distance just a bit more. Andrealphus found his heels perplexingly immobile under the weight of Vassago’s red-hot stare. He avoided those eyes, looking everywhere but at Vassago’s face. He couldn’t let the macaw see the want in his own eyes. Not yet.

Andrealphus pressed a hand to his chest, tilting his chin and letting his smile curl upwards, wide and oh so self-satisfied. “Well, I can handle my drink,” he said as though he hadn’t had to fight down his own breakfast, even with the aid of Stolas’ precious plants, may they rest in peace.

Vassago ignored the interruption entirely and Andrealphus had to bite back a pout. “—y segundo: I have made my feelings about what you and your sister did to Stolas—”

“Please. He did it to himself, and that was months ago.” Andrealphus should know: he’d borne the bruises of Stolas’ wrath afterwards.

Once again Andrealphus’ interjection was dismissed outright. He mewled his displeasure as Vassago plodded on. “—quite clear, pero last night had absolutely nothing to do with your petty ambitions. I still do not approve and have no doubt that Stolas will seek his own vengeance, but what’s done is done. Do not expect me to stand in his way when he comes for you with far more than fists, eh?”

My hero, Andrealphus thought sourly.

“Then pray tell, what had you in such a mood?” Andrealphus said crisply, rooted to the spot as Vassago reached the landing and prowled towards the peacock. He felt his train rustle again and cursed the soft sound of it, knowing that there was simply no way Vassago hadn’t heard. He was tipping his hand; Vassago would undoubtedly know precisely why Andrealphus itched to put himself on display, to command Vassago’s attention with his resplendent feathers and the sharp, cruelly beautiful planes of his face. Not so long ago Vassago spent hours and hours each week fixated on his beauty, on melting those hard edges into something soft and malleable that eagerly responded to every touch. He would work Andrealphus to such heights that the Marquis forgot his own name, but the feeling he missed most wasn’t those strong hands or immensely talented tongue or the weight and heat of him— it was the look in his eyes. The one that made Andre feel like the center of Creation, like a frozen star at the very heart of Vassago’s universe.

For fuck’s sake. Now the dashing idiot had Andrealphus of all demons thinking in overwrought florid platitudes. Ugh.

“Look at me.” That needy whine was gone from Vassago’s voice and his accent thickened with the authority in his tone. Andrealphus was helpless. Compelled . He wanted so much to see that look again and he hated himself for it.

“Fiiiiine.” When he lifted his gaze he saw something altogether new in the limitless red void of Vassago’s eyes. He’d seen desire, anger, amusement, even that elusive tenderness that haunted his dreams... This was somehow all and none of those things. It was hunger, predatory and possessive in a way that made Andrealphus’ frock feel several inches too tight in the chest. He squared his shoulders, doing his utmost to feign indifference as his stole slid down to his elbows.

“H-happy now? I’m looking at you. I must say, I rather expected you to be a bit more green after how much you drank. You must tell me your secre-eeep!”

He was pulled off balance with an undignified cheep, brought flush against Vassago’s chest and then pushed backwards until his lower back collided with the railing.

“You, Andrealphus.” Vassago pressed him against the railing firmly, forcing a bow to his back that put the macaw’s face above his own. “It was you, strutting around and tittering with your suitors like a blushing maiden when you know very well to whom you belong.”

The hand that wrapped around Andre’s back was searing hot; even through layers of satin and feathers he could feel the infernal heat that radiated off of Vassago in waves. It shouldn’t thrill him so. It shouldn’t work. Nothing about them should work and yet Andrealphus had to steel himself against the instinct to absolutely melt in that fiery embrace.

“I-what-you- how dare you?! Unhand me this instant!” he sputtered in a vain attempt at keeping his collective shit together. Vassago, naturally, saw right through the veneer of indignation.

“If you really wanted me to, you know what to say.” Vassago’s free hand slid down Andrealphus’ side to the slight curve of his hip. “Well? Soy esperandote.”

All at once Andrealphus realized that he had won his game and now they were playing Vassago’s. A simmering warmth of his own began to swell between his thighs. They were indeed playing and if Vassago thought he was getting Andrealphus’ safe-word out of him this easily, he clearly had forgotten just how stubborn the bratty bird could be.

“Fuck you,” Andrealphus spat.

Vassago giggled and the genuine delight in it creased around those compelling eyes. The crimson glow of late afternoon filtered through leaded glass and bathed Vassago’s snowy faceplate in red to match his gaudily becoming plumage. He was simply, unfairly, maddeningly gorgeous and Andrealphus was utterly transfixed, even as he tried desperately to cling to his trademark dour expression. Vassago’s gloved hand slid down Andre’s hip to his thigh, parting the slit in his gown as he lifted his leg, denying him the pitiful relief of squeezing his thighs together to ease the discomfort of his steadily soaking panties.

“Sí, sing for me, mi pajarito...” Vassago’s grip on his leg tightened, thumb creeping upwards and rubbing teasing circles on the top of Andrealphus’ thigh.

Andrealphus swallowed thickly, his talons curling into the wooden railing as he fought to regain control of his treasonous body. The body that responded wantonly to the mere thought of Vassago, thighs slicking when errant remembrances fluttered through his mind. Pressed together like this? He didn’t stand a fucking chance.

“I think you’ve made your point...”

The Prince leaned in so close that Andrealphus could smell the peaches and berries on his breath from his favorite breakfast. His beak clicked rapidly as he rubbed his cheek against Andrealphus’ before giving him a sharp, domineering nip on the shoulder. “No, Andre... Estoy apenas empezando. I think that I’ve let your leash get too long.” Motes of radiant golden stardust swirled around them and solidified around Andrealphus’ throat, the warmth and weight of the collar drawing an involuntary gasp from Andre’s beak. A swift yank on the attached leash, however, made him mewl whorishly in spite of himself. “Time to fix that, ¿no estás de acuerdo?”

Andrealphus whined, all of the blood that wasn’t flushing his face running straight between his legs. His cunt twitched, grasping around nothing as another blow landed and a new blue-black welt swelled in its wake. His ass and the puffy rim of his cloaca were a lattice of Vassago’s little love marks, thick stripes of pain that bloomed and faded in an almost soothing rhythm as the crop fell again and again. Andre fought to keep control of his senses, at least the ones he could still avail himself of. His world was darkness, the hood blocking his vision and stifling his breathing and no doubt wrecking absolute havoc on his head feathers.

Curiously, Vassago hadn’t chosen the bed or even the bench for their reacquaintance— instead Andre was trussed up and hooded and deposited face-down on that tired old armchair Vass loved so much, belly against the arm and ass high in the air. The cushions were soaked through with the scent of Vassago, not just of his skin and his feathers and oil but of his spiced cologne and spilled wine and the carelessly cleaned stains of a dozen different tropical fruits. Of the vanilla of decaying books and cigar smoke. Of the musk of his arousal. Andrealphus whined again, the sound turning into a full-throated squawk when Vassago struck him again. He was desperate to press his face into those cushions without the layer of leather between them. He wanted to bottle that scent, to distill it into an essence he could add to his baths and simply marinate in.

The particularly sharp blow was followed by a tense silence. Andre’s fists clenched and unclenched in their bindings reflexively, keeping the blood flowing and working through his nervous energy lest he wriggle too much and be deemed disobedient. He did so want to behave, he really did.

Even the soft light of the incandescent lamps scattered about the room was blinding when the hood was yanked from his head. Andrealphus’ white lashes fluttered as his gaze roamed wildly, searching for an anchor. His anchor. His Prince. A strong, rough hand grasped the back of his head and another pried his beak open with his thumb, pressing down on his tongue as he immediately began to salivate around the incursive talon. His head was twisted sideways, his cheek against the very edge of the fragrant cushion now as the back of his head was released to instead wind the leash still tethered around his throat about Vassago’s fist.

“Do you remember what I said to you that first night, cariño?” Vassago’s voice was deceptively soft, almost a whisper. “What happens when you can’t cease your squawking, hm?”

If Andrealphus’ quivering pupils formed little hearts as he gazed up at Vassago, stark naked and hard and glorious, well... who could blame him?

He barely had time to groan his assent before Vassago’s hips lurched forward, the entirety of his hot, leaking cock rammed into Andrealphus’ throat as a jerk of his leash tugged him forward to meet the thrust. Vassago remained there, seated deep in Andre’s bulging throat with a contented groan as the peacock instinctively swallowed again and again around the intrusion. “¡Hijo de puta, eso es bueno!”

There was a slight waver in Vassago’s high voice and if Andrealphus had been in any way capable of smiling while his mouth was stretched taut around Vassago’s girth and his beak was poking sharply into his abdomen, he bloody well would have. Instead he simply groaned, sending a ripple through Vassago’s body with the rumble in his throat.

The hand not holding his leash slid along the delicate curve of Andrealphus’ face, caressing softly as he gazed down at the Marquis. “I am going to destroy you, Andre. Body and soul, you are mine and when the ache fades and you start to forget, I will remind you.”

Andrealphus’ eyes smiled, pupils dancing merrily as his gaze positively screamed ‘do your worst’.

Vassago was a controlled lover, patient to an exhausting degree. More than once Andrealphus had broken their roleplay to snap in earnest, reaching the limits of ‘fun’ denial and verging on downright offended. But not tonight. Tonight he had already pleasured Andrealphus with his tongue and fingers several times over, leaving him boneless as he received his lashes. He showed no signs of that trademark patience here, either, thrusting into Andrealphus’ mouth with a wild carelessness that had Andre wriggling against the arm of the chair, his pussy positively throbbing.

Seeing him like this, feeling his wrath and loss of control? The Marquis had never been so smitten.

When Vassago pulled away without his cum in Andrealphus’ throat the peacock actually sobbed. He couldn’t reach out, couldn’t move except to wriggle and whine pitifully as he watched the flushed, spit-slick maroon cock retreat from licking distance. “Your Highness, Vass please—” he croaked, his throat more raw than he had realized.

“We aren’t done yet, zorra.” Vassago was breathing heavily. It was clear that he was trying to hold himself together, and barely succeeding. “I said that I would have every part of you tonight.”

With that the macaw disappeared from Andrealphus’ sight and the Marquis felt... cold. What a funny thing, to feel uncomfortable in one’s natural state, but he did. He craved the heat of him, Vassago’s warmth blanketing him and filling him. Another soft cry left his beak, his brain grinding itself into that desperate mush that was all need at last.

A swift slap against his swollen hole jerked him out of his despair, the flat of Vassago’s palm replaced by the tapered head of his cock. He speared Andrealphus in a few short, stuttered thrusts. Both of their bodies, it seemed, did not want to let go. Finally he worked himself into the oppressive tightness of Andre’s cunt and began to fuck him in earnest, one hand gripping his ass and the other grasping the leash for leverage. He pulled Andrealphus against him again and again, his spine bowed as his head was wrenched back with each tug on his collar. It was brutal bliss and when Andrealphus reached his peak and Vassago spilled himself deep inside he feared that he would never feel anything so sublime again.

“¿Qué es tan gracioso?” Vassago lifted his head from Andre’s chest, one brow raised and a contented smile sloping up one side of his face. He was seated in his chair with Andrealphus perched in his lap, Andre had interrupted his careful preening of Vassago’s crest with a quiet laugh. Not quietly enough, evidently.

“Nothing, my dear. Nothing at all.” Andrealphus pressed a kiss to his head, mouth curling smugly. He simply couldn’t restrain himself, and for once he knew that he didn’t need to. “Only that it took you an absolute eternity to catch up. Really, I thought I was going to have to walk up all of those blessed stairs before your little legs made it.”

Vassago looked up at him. Andrealphus watched pinprick pupils widen and swell in that sea of red, at first dopily confused and then narrowing into something sharp and sinister. “¡Jodete, cabrón astuto— maldito bastardo!” Vassago’s hands were around his sore wrists once more as the chair pitched over backwards and Andre found himself on the cool tiles, surrounded by their mingled stray feathers. A deep, delighted laugh ripped from Andre’s chest, his smile so wide that it ached.

“Oh, don’t be like that!” Andrealphus pecked kisses across Vassago’s flushed cheek. “We both got exactly what we wanted.”

“And what was it that you wanted?”

“You, Vass,” he replied with uncharacteristic earnestness. “Just you.”

The air grew warm and still as they locked eyes; a brief moment of truth. No games. No teasing. No flowery words, only the very real acknowledgement that whatever else they might be, they were each other’s. A matching set, or rather a perfectly mismatched one. There was nowhere Vassago could run that Andre wouldn't find him, and no amount of his frigid self-doubt would keep Vassago away. Stuck together, for better or worse... and most likely worse.

Vassago’s grin was huge and silly and ever so slightly unhinged. Andre’s breath caught, his pulse thrumming. “Careful what you wish for, cariño...”