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“Yes, yes, terrible shame about Stolas, teeerrible...
“Well, you know, I’ve always said to myself: Andrealphus, your singular flaw is that your heart is just TOO BIG! Cut me and I bleed compassion! Go on! Do it! I mean, don’t actually, but...
“Of course, this is all for Stolas’ own good. If anything, this is an OPPORTUNITY for him to atone for his mistakes.
“Someone has to think about young Octavia and what kind of example this is setting! I know, I know; it will be hard work, taking the girl under my wing, but what’s an uncle for? Her poor mother has been worried sick by all of this!”
The clunk of the heavy door echoes... and Andrealphus is finally alone in this empty corridor. Or, at least, he’s away from the prying eyes of anyone who matters; these side entrances to Satan’s courthouse are typically reserved for the lower-class help. Andrealphus’ upright posture slouches. His face finally relaxes from the benevolent smile that had been hurting his cheeks.
Ugh.
“Erm!” An imp servant, busy scrubbing the floor tiles, boggles up at him. “M-my Lord?”
The bucket clangs off the wall, catapulted by the toe of Andrealphus’ designer boot. The water freezes in an outraged arc, ice spikes almost skewering the imp.
“GET OUT! OUT!” Andrealphus screams abruptly, the sound ricocheting around to follow the imp’s retreating back. Feathers roiling, chest heaving, Andrealphus seethes and seethes...
And breathes.
Okay, he tells himself. Let’s think logically about this. So, the trial went slightly fucking sideways. Stolas showing up was a given, but his bullshit gambit of selling the court... whatever crap that was... Andrealphus hadn’t quite anticipated THAT.
Really, getting rid of the filthy creature who sullied Stella’s marital bed would have been a far neater and tidier end. He has no doubt that executing Bucko would have prompted the kind of Stolas meltdown that only an eternal banishment would fix. Emphasis on the eternal part, thank you.
But, one hundred years? A measly one hundred years: it’s barely the blink of an eye! What was Satan thinking? Possibly the most irritating thing about (former) Prince Stolas – out of his MANY flaws – is that he has no idea how lucky he is. No doubt for a Goetia of a lower rung, the punishment would have been much more permanent.
The ice fractals covering the marble walls and floor begin to slowly recede. Andrealphus unclenches his jaw and his fists. This is okay. It’s all okay. In fact, this is progress. A lot can be achieved in one hundred years.
He straightens his robe and begins to walk. His boots click beneath him.
The fact is: Andrealphus has Stolas’ palace. He has his resources, his money, his research. And, listen, Andrealphus really could not give two shits about stars or planets or all the boring ways in which they fly around the universe. But observing the skies... it’s a princely job. Moreso than conjuring Hell’s blizzards. As far as the Ars Goetia are concerned, Stolas holds an important role.
Well, held. Everything he had is Andrealphus’ now. Hoo hoo!
Including Via.
Andrealphus’ mind whirls a mile a minute. He slows his step to compensate. Octavia is undeniably bright. He’s going to have to think Very Carefully about how to play his hand from here on out. Keeping Stella in line is already a full-time job, bless her gorgeous, empty head. The damage control is real.
But now, they have a serious problem on their hands: how to capitalise on this next century. Or, even, how to turn a century into—
BANG!
“ANDREALPHUS!” someone gasps, punctuating the slam of the door as it explodes open. “¡Alto! What was that back there?”
Andrealphus doesn’t have to turn around to know precisely who that is.
“Not right now, Vassago, I’m very busy.”
The door swings shut again. Heels tap-tap-tap: rapidly approaching footsteps.
“I’m sure you are, cabrón, making more schemes!” A rough hand seizes his shoulder. Andrealphus squawks as he’s turned, beak-to-beak with a furious face.
Oh, Vassago is mad.
“Calm down.” Andrealphus extracts Vassago’s talons before he can shred the exquisite satin of his coat. “Must you always be so dramatic? No one died!”
Vassago folds his arms. His white-gloved fingers tap an irritated pattern against his own elbow. “I just want to know why!” he bites out. His red feathers are bristling. “I KNOW there’s more to all of this than anyone is letting on! ¿Crees que soy estúpido?”
“You know I can’t understand you when you mumble.”
“Andy.”
Ah. There it is. So, a second ago, Andrealphus was a cabrón – a name which usually coincides with Vassago being upset about some perceived, ridiculous slight. Now, though, Andrealphus is ‘Andy’.
“Well? Which is it?”
Vassago squints behind his glasses. “What?” He shakes his head; he refuses to be deterred, as is typical. Honestly, he’s like a hellhound with a bone. “Andy, what have you done?”
“What I’ve done is for the greater good,” Andrealphus says primly. “It was hardly some master machination, I’m sorry to say – really, Stolas has done this to himself. The moment he invited that imp between his legs, he set himself on the road to banishment. You heard him in there.”
“But, Stolas—”
“Is a fool. And a bad husband and father.”
Ooh. That felt good. Beneath his coat, Andrealphus subtly squeezes his thighs together.
They’re very close. Vassago has a habit of getting all up in his face. Andrealphus is treated to a front-row view as a tinge of crimson plays across Vassago’s beak and cheeks, vibrant as his feathers. He is prettiest when he’s angry, truly.
“You can’t say that so easily!” Vassago protests.
“Of course I can.” Andrealphus shrugs. “Stella is my sister. Her happiness is my business.”
Andrealphus doesn’t get Vassago. His sense of justice is way off-kilter, for one thing. He also gets upset at the drop of a hat. He’s not yet mastered the noble art of letting it all out in one, big tantrum, behind closed doors.
Closer still. Andrealphus can smell Vassago’s shampoo: citrus, with something faintly herbal in the undertone that’s far from unpleasant. In fact, against Andrealphus’ better judgement, he can’t help the way his pulse starts to pick up. Still, the scowl Vassago gives him is truly baleful.
“I’d say this isn’t you... but it is. I see you.”
There’s no one around. The gormless imp servant is gone. It’s only the two of them, here in this empty, echoey corridor. Their current situation brings to mind many a previous stolen moment, usually following an argument just like this one. Andrealphus’ blood can’t actually run hot, but metaphorically speaking...
“Yes,” Andrealphus agrees. “Aren’t I awful? Whatever will you do with me?”
Vassago, his sometimes-lover, puffs himself up bigger and more imperious. “I should leave you here to stew in the misery of your own making! Whatever happened back there at the trial, no good will come. Whatever your plan is, Andy, mff—!”
This is the best way to shut him up, risk of a bite notwithstanding. Andrealphus licks into Vassago’s mouth, lets him feel the chill of his tongue. Vassago, on the other hand, is always warm; Andrealphus feels like he’s melting when Vassago brings his hands to his waist.
His shoulders are first to collide with the wall, then the back of his head. His crown is knocked askew. Andrealphus pants at the livid press of Vassago’s body against his.
“Tramposo,” Vassago snarls – and then, because he clearly wants Andrealphus to understand, “You cheat! How dare you?”
He’s right: Andrealphus is a cheat (and a swindler, a rogue, whatever else you may wish to call him) when there’s something he really wants. He’s ambitious and he has excellent taste, what can he say? In fact, right now...
After the day Andrealphus has had, he could let off some steam.
“I’ll make it up to you.” As expected, the moment he says it, Vassago’s glare drops to watch his mouth. Andrealphus always could drive an excellent bargain.
The door to a nearby broom closet is shoved open, spilling them both into the confined space. Vassago is rough, but Andrealphus gives as good as he gets; Vassago hisses when Andrealphus rips open his jacket to scratch none-too-gently up his chest. Their beaks collide. Shed feathers litter the floor between their skittering feet.
In the darkness of the closet, Andrealphus casts an ice-white orb of light to hover over them, illuminating the planes and angles of his lover’s body. Vassago is a pain in the ass on a good day, but he is physically rather lovely. Hmph.
“Fuck, fucking... I want...” Andrealphus can’t quite finish his thought. Whatever’s happening here – whatever ALWAYS happens when he’s alone with Vassago – he’s not in control. Perhaps that’s the point. This is the one part of himself that no one sees.
No one except for this infuriating man, for some reason.
“You should get on your knees,” Vassago says, high and mighty even as his clothes are hanging off him like the petals of some wilting flower. He’s magnificently dishevelled already. He’s pushed his glasses up on top of his head, looking hungrily down at Andrealphus’ hands as they open Vassago’s fly.
Vassago’s boots hit some shadowy corner, tossed carelessly aside. Peeling down his pants, the vibrant red feathers of his thighs almost – almost – disguise the flushed centre of him. But even in the dim light, Andrealphus knows his goal. No matter how many times they’ve already done this, Vassago seems shocked by Andrealphus’ mouth every time. Now is no exception; there’s a harsh intake of breath from above Andrealphus’ head when he leans in and parts him with his cool tongue.
“Ah...”
Bliss. Andrealphus’ eyes roll back as he gets to work, teasing Vassago’s cloaca with long swipes, getting firmer on each pass. When he finally pushes in, he stifles his groan into his lover’s eager puss. So what if he’s drooling a little; it only eases the way. Vassago is hot inside and already wet – though certainly not nearly as soaked as Andrealphus himself. He intends to correct that.
Down here, between Vassago’s legs, Andrealphus can almost forget about all the chaos. Stolas who? There are hands on his head, pushing his crown off to run through his feathers, and Vassago’s groan is oddly musical when Andrealphus hits a good spot. Andrealphus keeps his head in place, keeps swirling his tongue even as he fights his own pants down. Curse this fashionable tight fit.
When he finally gets to his underwear, they’re all but ruined. Andrealphus gasps into Vassago, squeezing his eyes shut at the new rush of slick beneath his fingers. Andrealphus’ own cloaca is dripping and swollen. He’s cold to the touch, as always, but he can feel his heart beating in the slick folds.
“Mph!” Andrealphus almost chokes as a leg presses between his own. Above him, Vassago’s half-lidded eyes have taken on a steely look.
Yes, he seems to say, smearing his feathers and then the soft scutes of his bare ankle with Andrealphus’ juices. You can ride me.
That’s... that’s... Before he can stop himself, Andrealphus’ thighs clamp together, grinding down. Overstimulated, huffing for air, his head swims with heady pleasure. When he angles his body just-so, Vassago parts him, catches him exactly where he needs it.
“Andy,” Vassago sighs. One hand is fisted in the feathers at Andrealphus’ nape; the other pets up his jaw. “Andrealphus, Andy – ah!”
The scent of sex intensifies. Vassago’s head falls back, tendons in his neck standing in high relief. Andrealphus stares right up the lovely length of him as he thrashes and squirts, cloaca clamping down around Andrealphus’ tongue. His squeezing thighs muffle Andrealphus’ own cry as his whole body tenses, following Vassago off that ecstatic cliff. His tail fans out behind him, shivering right up to his feather-tips as he rides the wave of pleasure, pushing a burbling cry into his lover’s core.
Slowly, Vassago’s leg bends, extracting from underneath Andrealphus. His foot comes up to rest carefully, firmly on his shoulder, pushing him back.
Andrealphus is floating.
Lucifer, he needed that. He tenses with a little aftershock when he sits back too squarely, his tender backend connecting with the dirty closet floor.
Above him, Vassago straightens up, pulling up his pants. The sound of his zip is businesslike; this won’t be the last Andrealphus hears about today’s courtroom drama.
“Vassago.”
Don’t sulk, he’s about to say, but Vassago has already grabbed his boots. He strides out into the courthouse corridor, and Andrealphus is alone.
“Stupid... fucking... shitting...”
Bzzzt!
“AUGH!”
As though sensing his attitude, Stolas’ stupid book sends a jolt of static up Andrealphus’ arm. His muscles seize. His perfectly-coiffed feathers spring out of shape. The grimoire drops to the floor, thudding down at the foot of the gigantic telescope that dominates the palace observatory.
In Andrealphus’ mind, he gives the wretched thing a good stomp.
In reality, this grimoire is both powerful and extremely expensive. He settles for placing it down on the table next to him with a warning glare.
He’s been here for hours, alternating between the observatory (fumbling with this fucking telescope) and the study (desperately searching for a guide to the aforementioned fucking telescope). It’s a testament to needlessly complicated machinery, gauche with its cogs and gears and crystals that don’t even have the decency to be in a tasteful colour.
Andrealphus had wondered whether the grimoire contained any secrets. Perhaps some sort of activation spell? But it seems it’s full of nonsense. He’s read it cover to cover several times in the days since Stolas’ trial and banishment.
None of this makes any sense. The mirrors are correctly calibrated. It’s pointing up; what more does this telescope want from him? The last thing Andrealphus needs is to go back to the Goetic Council with his tail feathers between his legs. Oh, sorry! Yes, I realise I was supposed to take on Stolas’ responsibilities, but it turns out I’m a fucking simpleton!
Andrealphus can’t throw the grimoire... but he can throw his teacup. The contents have turned to ice before they hit the pillar across from him, shattering with the ceramic.
His scream, trapped inside for so long, feels good to unleash. The sound of his anguish echoes off the high walls.
“Uncle Andrealphus?”
Andrealphus whips around. Of course, she arrives at the most inopportune moment. He straightens his spectacles, smoothing down his ruffled feathers.
“A-ah! Octavia! What are you doing here?”
The girl shuffles across the constellation-patterned tiles. She has none of her mother’s grace, but she’s young. There is time yet to teach her proper etiquette. And get her a decent haircut.
“I heard a commotion, so.” Octavia peers up at the telescope. “Are you having problems?”
“Problems? Oh, sweet girl, no. I am taking all of this with the utmost seriousness, Via. You know you can rely on me, especially now that your father has abandoned you.”
Octavia drops her gaze at that. She picks at the sleeve of her unsightly sweater, worrying a thread loose. Even since learning that Stolas is alive, she has an aura of moodiness about her that’s quite unseemly; she’s sure to bring the atmosphere down at parties. Andrealphus clears his throat.
“Ahem! What I mean to say, is that everything will be taken care of. Including the stargazing duties.”
Which are irritatingly MANDATORY, despite being a massive waste of my time...
“I’m always happy to help, if you need it.” Before Andrealphus can stutter out a protest, Octavia climbs the steps and leans into the eyepiece. She hums to herself thoughtfully, peering through.
“As I said,” Andrealphus insists, “everything is taken care of. There’s really no need—”
Clunk.
Octavia pulls a lever, starting a chain reaction of clockwork up the telescope’s length. The creak of an aperture opening at its tip makes Andrealphus choke on air. Was that...?
“The lens cover was still engaged,” Octavia says kindly. It’s hard not to see Stolas, looking at her now. She’s certainly every inch his daughter. It makes Andrealphus’ stomach curdle. “I used to hang out in here all the time with Dad. I’m... I was in training to be an astronomer.”
Hm. Andrealphus forces a smile; it’s what the poor girl needs right now. “Well, I think you are quite magnificent as you are, Via. An inquisitive mind is a wonderful thing, but sometimes it can rather distract from the here and now!” He places a hand on her shoulder. “Speaking of: I think your mother was waiting for you in the parlour.”
“Oh.” Octavia’s brow creases. “Okay.”
“Thank you, my dear, for your assistance. It won’t be necessary again.” Andrealphus strides back over to the table, picking up the grimoire. It seems to feel heavier and heavier every time. “And... in fact, Octavia... you need not come by the observatory in future. The machinery is rather dangerous. Lots of moving parts. I would be so worried about you if you were tinkering in here on your own!”
The girl’s beak parts in surprise. She blinks up at Andrealphus, looking for a moment like she might argue – though, of course, one stern look and she knows better.
“Yes, Uncle Andrealphus...”
Shit. Perhaps that was a bit too far. But he can’t have the child poking around in here, under his feet. And besides, if Octavia gets too comfortable in Stolas’ shoes, maintaining control of the estate will be an even more distant dream.
Andrealphus puts his smile on again. “Call me Uncle Andy. We’re under the same roof now. We should be good chums, you and I! I’ll see you at dinner?”
Octavia says nothing. There’s a wariness about her, but she nods.
“Excellent. Now run along – your mother hates to be kept waiting!”
Already peering into the telescope, Andrealphus only hears Octavia’s footsteps as she leaves. Above him, the evening sky opens up, just barely dark enough to reveal its mysteries. Galaxies swirl. Nebulas pulse. A comet streaks past, somewhere in between Heaven and Hell, on its way to destinations unknown.
Yawn. It’s all frightfully dull.
The sound of the door opening again sets his beak on edge. “Octavia, sweetheart, I TOLD you—”
“A visitor is here for you, Lord Andrealphus,” a familiar voice calls out. It’s the imp butler, their head of staff. When Andrealphus looks up, the little creature is standing in the doorway (smartly upright, as always, as though he’s forgotten his lowly status).
“I haven’t the time for guests right now. Send them away.” Andrealphus is about to turn back to his work, when the imp is nearly bowled over by the sweep of a purple-gold tail.
“Andrealphus! It’s been a while.” Vassago peers down at the imp he’s nearly sent flying with his flamboyant entrance. “Oh! Please excuse me!”
“Don’t talk to the staff.” Andrealphus clicks his fingers and the butler leaves. His pointy tail is the last of him to disappear and then the door closes behind him. “It’s been barely a few days, Vassago; what do you want? I have important matters to attend to.”
The observatory is tiered, with the telescope stood on a raised platform. It feels good to look imperiously down on Vassago. A few flecks of snow drift down now through the open shutters. Since Andrealphus moved to the palace, the weather here has naturally taken a turn for the colder.
Vassago brushes a snowflake from his lapel. He looks curiously around, taking in the (admittedly messy) observatory, the desk piled high with books and scrolls and star charts. “I’m just stopping by to make sure all is okay. Stolas has yet to appeal Satan’s decision, so...”
“So you thought you would poke your beak in.” Still, Andrealphus can’t help but wonder... would Stolas be stupid enough to appeal Satan’s decision?
He probably would. Not that it would do a fat lot of good, besides causing trouble. But trouble IS Stolas’ speciality.
“Estaba preocupado – c-can you blame me? Someone has to keep an eye on you!” Vassago climbs the short set of steps, skimming a hand up the wrought-iron railing. His expression is adorably concerned. “Andy, there’s... whispers.”
That catches Andrealphus’ attention. He’s no fool: it’s often the quietest of voices that one really needs to watch out for.
“Whispers of what?”
“Of you being a cuckoo.”
There’s a sharp pfff! as Andrealphus’ tail fans abruptly out behind him. His feathers fluff out with such force, it nearly knocks him off-balance.
“Excuse me?”
“An earthly bird,” Vassago explains. “It lays its egg in the nest of a rival.”
“I know what a cuckoo is, Vassago, give me strength...” Andrealphus pinches between his own brows, trying to stave off the oncoming headache. “Honestly, one tries to do a good turn and stand by his family, and he gets called an ugl—”
“They say you are putting off a political match by focusing on your sister,” Vassago continues, pointedly ignoring him. “That usurping Stolas’ power will mean you are free to avoid marriage. That, as Stella’s elected guardian, you believe you will have a legal stake in the heir – young Octavia – and so you will do as you please.” He shrugs, but his face is irritatingly sympathetic. “That is what they say.”
Oh.
Andrealphus’ beak grinds together. “And who, precisely, is ‘they’?”
“Bah. There are a few voices. Most are not on Stolas’ side, after what happened at the trial. But you should know: there are a few of us who have realised that something is afoot.”
“I see!” When Andrealphus steps forward, his feet leave frosty prints on the tiles. He pokes a finger none-too-gently into Vassago’s chest. “And amongst these whispering voices is YOU.”
“No—”
“No?! You’ve just said—”
“I am listening out,” Vassago corrects him grimly. “So I may learn the truth, seeing as you’ve decided that you do not trust me. I, for one, wish to know the facts before I choose to act.”
Andrealphus believes him. In a strange way, they’re two sides to the same coin; Andrealphus himself doesn’t like to do anything without ample plotting time. Still, all of this talk is making actual steam rise off the top of his head. Not least... because of the kernel of truth Vassago is poking at.
Some think that being at the top of the pecking order is hard. The power. The responsibility. The constant threat from those who would see you fall.
But the truth is: being from a lesser Goetia family, the expectations are actually all the higher. Being the eldest, you’re expected to climb.
The look Vassago’s giving him right now is... it’s sickening, actually. Nauseatingly apologetic.
He’s not checking up on me, Andrealphus realises, feeling his stomach lurch unpleasantly. The bastard is checking IN. He’s suddenly very aware of the tall windows around them, providing an unobstructed view of sunset over the gardens... Really, anyone could look in and spy on them.
“Stop.”
“¿Qué?”
“FEELING SORRY FOR ME! Don’t fucking do it!”
Vassago blinks rapidly. “I’m—”
“Have I, in all the time you’ve known me, EVER asked for your pity? Hm?” Andrealphus doesn’t wait for an answer. “No, I fucking well have not!”
Andrealphus doesn’t want this. He doesn’t like this; this isn’t what they do. In a decisive move, he seizes Vassago by the wrist. It prompts a babble of whatever nonsense language he speaks, but Andrealphus closes his ears.
“Come with me. Now.”
“Andrealphus!” Vassago squeaks as he’s half-dragged. “¿A dónde— ah!” He trips down the last step and Andrealphus holds him up. It’s not to be nice – it’s just that he’s had quite enough of all of this.
How about you shush for once? he thinks furiously, striding to the exit. Vassago stumbles behind him, following across the observatory. In the doorway, Andrealphus lets go. The staff talk. The two of them don’t need to be mistaken for ‘holding hands’ or something equally as juvenile.
Vassago may be a prince by good fortune at birth, but Andrealphus has all the trappings of princeliness now too. He leads Vassago down the long hallway, past the manicured hedges beyond the windows. Andrealphus’ portrait looks down its beak at them. Together, they walk beneath the crystal chandelier and across the sweeping foyer; past the grand dining room with its hanging orrery; past the lavish lounge—
“ANDREALPHUS?” Stella shouts. “IS THAT YOU?”
Andrealphus pauses. Next to him, Vassago has his go-to expression during a close encounter with Stella: deer in the headlights.
Clearing his throat, Andrealphus calls back, “Yes, it’s me! I’m—”
“GOOD, BECAUSE I’VE BEEN WAITING FOREVER!” Though they can’t see Stella from this angle, something clunks against the wall next to the open doorway: a high-heeled shoe. “UGH! I’M GOING TO FIRE THAT USELESS STYLIST! EMERALDS ARE SO OUT RIGHT NOW!”
“Quite right you are – listen, I have something to take care of, so you get on the firing and I’ll see you in the morning!”
“WHAT?”
He doesn’t wait for whatever’s coming next, busy leading Vassago away up the (ornately crafted) staircase. The last of the sunset filters in through the stained glass, silhouetting them both as they go.
“Where are you taking me?” Vassago finally demands. “What— oh.”
They’ve come to the guest wing, where Andrealphus’ personal quarters are currently set up. The rooms are spacious – though certainly not as large as the master suite or even Octavia’s bedroom, but that’s a matter for another day. Still, the four-poster bed, heavy mahogany desk and wall-to-wall wardrobes are impressive. Slung over the privacy screen in the corner, there are several of Andrealphus’ robes, each embellished with intricate embroidery and beading. Vassago peers around, taking it all in.
Honestly, a pissing contest is probably beneath Andrealphus. But damn, does it feel good to see Vassago’s eyes widen in astonishment.
“Whatever the voices are saying,” Andrealphus says, closing the door behind them, “I’m fine. I’m better than fine, in fact.”
Look around. Look at everything I have. Look at everything I’ve WORKED FOR.
Stolas fucked his life up because he didn’t appreciate what he had. Andrealphus, on the other hand, has the sense to understand this place’s worth.
“Now, you can fuck me before you leave,” he tells Vassago plainly. Dancing around is doing them no good. At the end of the day, what they have is a secret tryst for the bedroom and no further – and right now, here they are, in Andrealphus’ quarters.
Vassago chokes.
“¿Cómo?” he squeaks out, feathers standing straight up along the back of his neck. For all Vassago’s smarts, he can sometimes be rather thick. Andrealphus helps him along by removing his own shirt.
By the time he’s freed his head from the turtleneck, Vassago is on him.
“You are infuriating,” Vassago tells him, against his throat. The words buzz against his skin and Andrealphus laughs bitterly.
“I was thinking the same of you.”
Clothing falls, flumping to the floor between them and then leading a trail over to the bed. By the time Andrealphus tumbles down onto the silk duvet, he’s fully naked. His tail spreads out underneath him. He can see Vassago staring; he stretches luxuriously, thrilling in being on display.
This is their familiar territory. They push and pull, rolling around until the sheets are rumpled and the duvet has been shoved almost onto the floor. Vassago’s weight on him, over him, holding him down – it makes Andrealphus throb.
He’s put up enough of a fight for his ego. Andrealphus lifts his leg, tilting his pelvis eagerly up towards Vassago. The feathers of his inner thighs are already damp as his natural slick smears. Vassago can smell it, Andrealphus knows; his lover’s eyes are blown huge and dark as he positions himself on top. Kneeling upright over Andrealphus in the messy sheets, he grinds down...
There’s a wet sound, a hint of suction from the cloacal kiss as Vassago’s opening meets his. The flesh catches for a second before parting with a pleasurable pop that makes them both shiver. Underneath, Andrealphus gasps and arches; there’s one hand on his thigh and another on his collarbone, holding him right where Vassago wants him.
But while Vassago may be in the driver’s seat, it’s Andrealphus who has the reins. Together they set a punishing rhythm, hips moving, grinding Andrealphus into the mattress until he can’t contain his moans. He seizes a fistful of Vassago’s feathers, directing him to move faster, harder.
He should thank the universe for Goetia anatomy. Looking down between their bodies, he pulls his tummy in concave to see where they’re joined. His clit peeks free of its hood to stand desperately out; it’s a hard, swollen little nub. There’s a bright spark of pleasure every time they connect. Around it, his folds are blushing pink, warmed by Vassago’s heat and contracting with every breath.
When he lifts his gaze to Vassago’s face...
“Ah...” Andrealphus’ knees tremble, barely managing to claw back from the edge as Vassago looks down at him. His face – usually so open, earnest, gentle – is shadowed now, his gaze dark with want. He’s in just as much of a state as Andrealphus is, his pussy searing hot against Andrealphus’ cool skin. Why, then, does he look so in control when Andrealphus is falling apart?
Slowly, Andrealphus’ death-grip on Vassago loosens. He falls limp, surrendering, his raised leg supported by a slender but strong arm as he lets Vassago take his fill. A low, avian growl rolls from Vassago, trailing out into a higher, singing note with every nudge of their most sensitive parts.
If Andrealphus was Vassago’s wife, this would be right where he’d be. Probably every night, until he was round and swollen with their egg – and then every night thereafter.
The thought is as obscene as it is impossible. Andrealphus’ legs jerk helplessly, crying out as he turns his face away. He’s drooling into his pillows. His tail spreads underneath him in a shivering blanket as he starts to seize up.
“Andy,” Vassago sighs, eyes huge and unfocused in the dim light. His head lolls back, chest heaving.
They finish almost together; Vassago spills over Andrealphus in a hot rush, still grinding and grinding and grasping him close. Andrealphus has no choice but to follow him, hurtling over the edge with a wrecked gasp.
They lie together afterwards. It’s rare that they do this, seeing as most of their meetings have to be speedy. But here in the privacy of Andrealphus’ quarters, he lets his mind and body slow. Side-by-side and looking up at the gauzy canopy of the bed, they’re close enough to touch at the shoulder and the hip.
“What will you do now?” Vassago asks finally. The question makes Andrealphus jump; he thought Vassago had drifted off to sleep, he’s been so quiet and still.
“I suppose I’ll... work myself down to the bone, as usual.” There is much to do. He’s here, but his position is far from secure, not with the clock already ticking down on Stolas’ banishment. There’s also:
“And Octavia? What will you do with her?”
“Well, I’d thought about grinding her bones to make my bread,” Andrealphus quips, but when he turns to lay on his side, Vassago is looking at him with utter seriousness. “Oh, spare me the theatrics. Vassago, the girl is quite safe.”
“Safe where? Is she here at the palace?”
“Of course she is. Where else would she be? Down a well?”
Vassago says nothing. He doesn’t have to.
Raising up onto his elbow, Andrealphus casts an icy orb to better glare at him. “Really? You think so poorly of me. You think I would harm a child.”
It’s not a question. And look, Andrealphus knows that he has a somewhat... ruthless reputation, but this accusation is particularly absurd.
“I think that you have yet to tell me the truth,” Vassago corrects him. He has to shield his eyes against the light as Andrealphus all but beams him in the face. It brings to mind the old crime shows, where the grizzled detective shines a lamp in the face of the suspect. At least Andrealphus looks pretty as he does it.
“You need not trouble yourself with Via’s welfare. No harm could possibly come to her – not now that her deadbeat father is out of the picture, anyway.”
The silence is downright frosty now, something Andrealphus knows all about. But with Vassago not jabbering on for once, there is time for Andrealphus’ mind to tick, turning this new information carefully over.
The realisation comes barely two seconds after he registers the weird, tight feeling in his chest.
“You’re not here for me,” he says slowly. “You’re here for the girl.”
Wow. Goodness, what a fool Andrealphus has been. His face prickles across his cheeks and the top of his beak. He extinguishes the light before Vassago can see.
“Andy—”
“You should leave.”
In the end, tellingly, Vassago does as he’s told for once.
There’s a smart rap of knuckles on the bedroom door. It creaks open enough for the impish face to peek in:
“Lord Andrealphus. As requested, your bath is ready.”
It’s about fucking time. Andrealphus rises from his fortress of pillows with a groan. The imp servant leaves without being dismissed; the staff know well enough that the Lord of the house expects them to anticipate his needs. And, right now, Andrealphus wants nothing more than to be LEFT ALONE. THANK YOU.
It’s been almost three days since his rumble with Stolas and his ridiculous rescue crew. Even with the drapes half-drawn, light filters in icy-white through the statues and sculptures outside. The redecoration of the palace had been an important part of staking Andrealphus’ claim here... but now, even the tasteful décor can’t lift his spirits.
Goetia healing aside, Andrealphus is fucking sore. His face in particular is tender to the touch after Stolas punched him to the ground like they were having a common bar brawl. Barely two minutes in the world of (Andrealphus shudders) ordinary folk, and Stolas has already stooped to fighting like one. Barbaric!
Andrealphus glides across the room, pulling the soft plush of his robe more snugly around himself. He’s on two baths a day to try to alleviate the pain as his body heals. He definitely expended more energy than he intended, puppeting the ice dragon.
The servant waits dutifully at the bathroom door. Trickling water can be heard from out here in the corridor; it might have been soothing to Andrealphus’ frayed nerves, if he wasn’t on an absolute hair-trigger of tension lately. He steps up to the door and the imp opens it for him—
“You,” Andrealphus says suddenly, when he takes more than two seconds to glance down at the creature. “Are you... Did you do something different with your hair?”
“I started yesterday, My Lord,” the new butler says. Andrealphus is astonished: it’s a completely different imp! She knows not to look at him when she speaks, keeping her eyes steadily forward. “Lady Stella dropped my predecessor from the main balcony. I believe there was a problem with the caviar.”
Ugh. Andrealphus imagines the old one must have made quite the mess upon landing. But, no matter. He has a new policy now: something about circuses and monkeys... whatever. Anything unimportant is officially NOT HIS PROBLEM. He’s got enough on his plate without worrying about Stella bullying the staff. Let her have her fun.
“I wish to be left in peace,” he tells the new butler. She’s new; he’ll show some grace, he’s not a monster. “If anyone calls for me, inform them I am not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
He pauses as he steps through into the steamy room beyond. “By the way, I like a hot tea when I retire to my quarters in an evening. Chamomile.”
“Noted, My Lord.”
Hmph. Well, at least someone here gives a shit about him.
The claw-foot tub is ostentatious in both size and design. You could fit two of Andrealphus in here. The bubble jets are its best feature by far, intended to massage away aches and worries alike. Since seeing Stolas’ old bath, Andrealphus of course needed something equally as impressive (if not more, he thinks to himself, thanks to his superior taste).
Candles flicker. Bubbles spill over the tub’s brim, smelling pleasantly of peonies. The plug has small holes in it, allowing for the faucet to run and run to maintain the temperature. Currently: hot. Steam rises from Andrealphus’ bare shoulders as he shrugs off his robe, his naturally chilled body meeting the heated air with an indulgent shiver.
As always, his mind turns inwards as he sinks down into the water.
It’s fair to say that he’s in rather a lot of trouble, as much as he’s been keeping an outwardly level head about it all. Since the fight, Andrealphus hasn’t smashed so much as a teacup, though internally he’s done quite a lot of screaming.
Octavia is no longer speaking to him. She’s been curt with Stella, only answering when spoken to, but she outright leaves every room Andrealphus enters.
Not only that, but the very PUBLIC spat with Stolas and crew won’t have improved Andrealphus’ reputation with the other Goetia. He’s dreading the next ball, whenever that’s scheduled for. The days meld into one another. He thought he detected a new planet yesterday on Stolas’ wretched telescope, but it turned out that a passing bird had defecated on the lens.
In summary, it’s all a mess. Andrealphus sinks down with a heartfelt groan, letting the water envelop him. It’s almost hot enough to scald, but it’s therapeutic. The sting is grounding. It helps to distract him from the worrying thought of Vassago’s reported whispers and whether or not they have reached King Paimon yet.
Let’s not think about THAT.
There has to be a way forward. There is always a way forward, another rung for one to get a foothold on. The first step is certainly Via. This little misunderstanding is the reason why Andrealphus hasn’t turfed the girl out of her childhood bedroom yet. The timing is absolutely not right.
Perhaps she’d like a gift. What are teenagers into? Andrealphus thinks back to his own youth, but it seems so distant. Perhaps Via might enjoy a new embroidery hoop? Or perhaps a violin? Or maybe a violinist, to follow her around and play for her.
He’s pondering the merits of strings versus brass when a noise at the window jolts him from his thoughts.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Andy?”
Andrealphus sits up. Suds slosh. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Tap, tap, tap! More insistent this time, the sound persists. Behind the frosted glass, there’s a wobbly but familiar shape. It’s long and slender, red with a hooked point in the centre of its white face.
“Fuck off, Vassago.”
“Andy! I need to talk to you!”
“Then why not send a telegram. Or a carrier pigeon.” Andrealphus sinks back down into his bath. He’s not about to get up. If Vassago doesn’t have the decency to use the front door so he can be turned away like everyone else, then—
Ssssshing!
Starlight beams through the keyhole and the window bursts open, panes rattling. Vassago steps down off his magical platform, bringing with him a cold burst of outside air. His glasses immediately fog over from the steam.
“Andrealphus?”
There is a withering glare. “You always did have terrible manners.”
“Ah! There you are!” Vassago removes his glasses with one hand, closing the window again with the other. “Are you alright? I heard—”
“Ah. More whispers, then! How wonderful!”
“Hm, well. ¿Cómo digo esto? Ah... well, I saw it on Sinstagram.”
“WHAT?”
Reaching into his pocket, Vassago fiddles with his phone. When he shows Andrealphus the screen, there’s a video playing: a tasteful wide-shot of the palace, and in front of it...
Whoever filmed this, it was from far away and high up. But Andrealphus’ eyes widen as he watches a tiny, matchstick version of Stolas crack a tiny, matchstick version of himself solidly across the face.
Lucifer, he thinks, stunned. This is bad.
“I think it was some kid with a drone.” Vassago pulls the chair over from the vanity table, sitting next to the bath. “Look, now it’s the bit where he smashed you with the ice statue—”
“Okay. OKAY. Just— delete it.”
“I can’t. Someone else posted it.”
“Then we’ll get them to delete it.”
“It’s been shared ten thousand times and counting.”
Andrealphus jerks like he’s been electrocuted. Lurching up half out of the bath, his shoulder twinges painfully. “AGH! Ah...” He collapses back again, defeated.
He can’t catch a break. What is wrong with him? It’s as though some higher power has it in for him, thwarting his every move. Humiliation is around every corner. Andrealphus might just be the unluckiest soul in all of the seven rings, he—
“Andy! Are you okay?” Vassago is at his side, touching his arm, his hand. He’s firing off a rapid string of syllables that make zero sense to Andrealphus. When Andrealphus goes to shrug him off, Vassago is annoying undeterred.
“Would you stop that?” Andrealphus bites out finally, pausing Vassago in his concerned tracks. “I told you before; I don’t need your coddling!”
Besides, he thinks sourly, wouldn’t you be better off worrying about someone else, Vassago? Stolas’ daughter? STOLAS himself?
From the look on Vassago’s face, he knows Andrealphus is sulking. His gaze keeps straying to Andrealphus’ beak, for some reason.
“What is it now? Did no one teach you that it’s rude to stare?”
He jumps, stunned into stillness when a firm but gentle hand cups his chin. “Wait just one moment. Déjame ver...”
Before Andrealphus can gather the presence of mind to slap his hands away, Vassago has turned his sore face one way and then the other. “Hm,” he says, with the gravity of a doctor giving a difficult prognosis. “I thought so. Your beak. It is slightly crooked.”
‘Crooked’, he says, in his accent that’s simultaneously charming and exasperating. One syllable.
“Marvellous,” Andrealphus croaks out, feeling a mad laugh bubbling up. “Crooked! That’s precisely what I need! HAH!”
He doesn’t even try to hold it in.
The room is rocked by the blast of glacial energy. Smoke rises as the candles are extinguished. Steam crackles, droplets freezing in the air around them and instantly turning to snow. The bathwater is frozen solid. Even the flow from the faucet turns into a long icicle.
From elsewhere in the palace, there is a faraway BANG and shouts of alarm as a pipe bursts.
Andrealphus sighs. Another repair bill, then. He closes his eyes, frozen solid up to his waist in the tub. Next to him, Vassago is mercifully quiet. Good. Hitting actual rock bottom requires focus; Andrealphus doesn’t need Vassago chattering nonsense in his ear right now.
“You should probably leave,” Andrealphus tells him eventually, after a few minutes have passed and his blood pressure has come back down. Calm. Zen. He cracks an eye open (above his crooked beak, thanks for that) and peers over at Vassago.
Vassago gets to his feet. He strips his glove away and holds out his hand for Andrealphus to take.
Ice shivers away, turning to shards when Andrealphus stands. Vassago’s hand is warm in his. His scutes are soft, where Andrealphus has a callus now from trying to manoeuvre the blasted telescope. He’ll order the staff to call his manicurist first thing tomorrow.
Speaking of staff: they’re at the door.
“Lord Andrealphus!”
“Are you alright?”
“We heard the blast, My Lord – is everything okay in there?”
Vassago waits quietly, watching Andrealphus’ face. Andrealphus pushes his wet feathers back, exhaling right from the bottom of his belly. Perhaps he could do with some of the meditation Satan is into right now? Anything that could save his frayed nerves is worth a try.
“I’m quite alright,” he calls towards the door. “Leave me.”
“But—”
“NOW.”
Footsteps draw away, back down the corridor. Andrealphus shakes his head, looking to Vassago where he’s now perched on the vanity. His red legs cross casually, one over the other. The sweep of his tail cuts an elegant shape next to him, cascading down to the floor tiles. Andrealphus might be irritated by how together Vassago looks, how cool and casual... but, honestly, the exhaustion has caught up with him. Andrealphus is too tired to fight it anymore; today is a write-off. He’ll pick himself back up again tomorrow.
“You’re still here,” he points out.
“I am.”
“Are you intending to do something useful with yourself?” Andrealphus sways into Vassago’s space until their hips touch. Crooked beak or not, Andrealphus is still the picture of loveliness; no battering from a bitter rival could change that. Up close, he sees the way Vassago’s eyes blow and shrink when he looks at him, pupils pinning with obvious desire.
If today is going nowhere productive, Andrealphus might as well be fucked within an inch of his life. Hell, he could count it as therapy.
“I think perhaps you need your rest—” Vassago begins.
Booooo! Andrealphus’ brain supplies.
“—after everything that has happened.” Vassago tilts his head. “Come here.”
His body is so warm, even despite the icy wind that whipped through the room barely minutes ago. Chest-to-chest, Vassago wraps his arms around Andrealphus’ shoulders. Andrealphus blinks.
“And what is this supposed to be?”
“Shush and warm up. It will help you get your energy back.”
This is undeniably weird. For a long moment, Andrealphus isn’t sure what to do. If he didn’t know better, he’d say this feels suspiciously close to a hug.
Hmph. A frivolous display of affection. There was never time for hugging and cuddling and canoodling in the childhood home he shared with Stella, growing up. They had more important things to be getting on with (Andrealphus: studying weather patterns; Stella: beating up the staff).
But standing there, hands at his sides, is somehow making the moment even more awkward. Slowly, half-cringing as he does so, Andrealphus mirrors Vassago, placing his hands on Vassago’s back. His spine curves so nicely under his hands. Andrealphus’ fingers sting from the temperature difference, but it feels good to card through Vassago’s soft feathers.
“Aside from online jabbering,” Andrealphus says, after a long minute pressed together, “have you heard anything else from the Goetic court?”
Vassago’s hum rumbles through his chest and into Andrealphus’. “More of the same.”
“Cuckoo?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking about this. I fear the noble cuckoo perhaps has a bad rap.” Andrealphus stares into the mirror, at his own foggy reflection. “They work hard for their young, that they might have a better future. Really, it’s the fault of their nestmates that they are not smart enough to decipher the ruse before they’re pushed out. Who are we to point fingers because of a creature’s nature?”
Vassago’s arms drop to Andrealphus’ waist, crossing to hold him a little more tightly. “And what will the cuckoo do when his hundred years are over?”
“Right now, I believe his plan is to drink a lot of wine and have a cry.”
In their reflection, the back of Vassago’s head bobs: a grudging nod. “I believe perhaps this is the most truthful you’ve been with me, Andy.”
Well, shit. He’s right. This could go one of two ways, realistically speaking:
“You’re angry with me, I get it. I’ve been very bad indeed.” Andrealphus only has to turn his head to press his beak to Vassago’s neck. He feels Vassago’s throat bob. “I would understand if you wish to punish me right now.”
“No.”
Andrealphus had been banking on ANGER being Vassago’s preferred feeling about all of this... but alright, he supposes he’ll have to take what he can get. He pulls away, just enough that he can see Vassago’s face. It’s hard to look contrite when you’re really not sorry in the slightest, but Andrealphus supposes his overall pitiful state is probably enough.
“Then, you feel terribly sorry for what a shitheap of trouble I find myself in,” he suggests, quietly. This line is definitely more difficult to trot out. “And you wish to offer me some bodily comfort, to help me forget how humiliating this has been for me.”
“Also, no.”
There is a long pause. In all of the confusion, Andrealphus’ body hasn’t received the mixed signals; he’s ready to go, his heart beating between his legs south of where his lower belly presses against Vassago’s thighs.
Andrealphus frowns. “Um. Then, I’m out of ideas. I’m not sure precisely what you want from me.”
Hopping down off the vanity, Vassago has the audacity to roll his eyes. “For a smart man, you certainly are very stupid sometimes.”
“PARDON Y— agh!” Andrealphus thrashes as he’s lifted up, his bottom connecting with the marble vanity top. His tail sticks out at a weird angle, trapped beneath him.
“Yes: a big, stupid mess. There must have been an easier way to secure your status, no?”
“Not one that didn’t involve sticking it to Stolas,” Andrealphus grumbles.
“Why are you so obsessed with him?” Vassago asks, beaktip running down the juncture of Andrealphus’ neck and shoulder. “He hasn’t done anything to you.”
“His existence is offense enough.”
“He hasn’t laid a finger on you. Or, he hadn’t, before all of this,” Vassago amends, while Andrealphus grumpily touches his poor, bent beak. “And, for another matter: he doesn’t touch you like I do. He doesn’t make love to you like I do. Why are you thinking of him all the time, huh? Andy, me estás rompiendo el corazón—”
He’s laughing. The bastard is LAUGHING at him, long fingers stroking down over Andrealphus’ hips and setting every nerve alight as he goes. Despite the choked sounds of barely-repressed outrage currently stuck in Andrealphus’ throat, there’s a growing puddle of slick beneath him on the countertop.
“Fuck you,” he hisses.
“Fuck you,” Vassago says cheerfully, and kisses him.
Andrealphus doesn’t last long. Maybe it’s the frustration of the past few days or how Vassago has completely disarmed him here, but by the time he’s sitting on Vassago’s hand, his body is practically singing. He can feel his pulse thrum through him, thighs jumping at the pad of a firm thumb against his clit.
They breathe together, panting. Andrealphus actually tears Vassago’s pants in an effort to get at his cloaca in return. He has to slow down for the actual act itself (talons and soft parts are a dangerous mix) and putting on the brakes is a kind of delicious torture. Vassago is plush and wet and hot enough inside to burn Andrealphus up.
It turns into a weird contest in the end. Vassago’s arm works furiously, rocking Andrealphus’ whole body back against the mirror. When the angle means Andrealphus can’t reach him, he presses a foot between Vassago’s legs instead, remembering how he himself rode Vassago back in the courthouse broom closet not so long ago.
“You’d better come for me right now,” Vassago tells him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, already high on victory. “It’s the least you can do, you absolute bastard.”
Andrealphus bristles. “Don’t—” he manages, before his body contracts around Vassago’s hand and he blurts out a warbling cry.
His orgasm is a full-body crash, shaking him from his head to the tips of his toes. Tension releases in an unstoppable flood, mirroring the squirt of his poor, well-fucked cloaca as he comes and comes...
In his blissed-out state, floating, he’s vaguely aware of Vassago pressed against him. There’s a gasp and a wrenching shout, and Vassago rubs his face into Andrealphus’ chest as he collapses onto him.
Andrealphus isn’t sure how long they lie there – himself on the vanity, Vassago half and half with his legs splayed across the floor. Ice shards litter the bathroom floor, glimmering like precious stones.
He’s definitely going to be worse off than when he got in the bath. Andrealphus straightens up with a groan, cradling Vassago’s head in his lap. He smooths Vassago’s feathers back from his forehead.
“I’ll do you a deal,” he says, when he can catch his breath. “Keep coming here to see me, and I won’t bake young Octavia into a pie.”
Vassago’s lids pop open. There’s a tiny squawk of surprise, and then his eyes crinkle with mirth. “Well, I’d better do the right thing, then, and visit again soon.” A pensive look comes over him. “But, Andy... all of this can’t last. Something will have to give.”
He doesn’t say Stolas’ name, but he doesn’t have to, not really. Andrealphus knows that, next time he and Stolas meet, he might not be quite so fortunate.
“If I married you and put a stop to all of this,” Vassago says suddenly, “I’d be doing everyone a favour. Do you ever think about that?”
His hand halting, still buried in Vassago’s feathers, Andrealphus pauses. He feels his heart beating, locked securely away inside his ribs.
“Never,” he lies.