Fic - Of Kings and Common Men
This was written for spring_spangel but I'm posting it early for various reasons.
Goes AU after Shells.
Of Kings and Common Men
It’s raining. Not the quiet peaceful rain of summer afternoons but the thunderous downpour of spring. Water cascades down the window, washing off the sill and adding to the torrents already threatening to turn the narrow street into a quagmire. William, driven from bed by the sounds coming from the adjoining room and bored senseless by the tiny two up, two down cottage they’ve ended up in, stares blankly at nature unleashing her rage at the ground.
This was supposed to be a short trip, nothing more remarkable that a quick reconnaissance mission to check out some rumours currently circulating around New Manchester about a new cult. Of course that’s before they found the portal and realised a cult was the least of their worries.
Still, there’s no point in getting worked up about it. It isn’t like him worrying’s going to stop the bad things Wes hinted are coming. Sighing wistfully, he runs a finger down the glass, chasing a raindrop.
“Having fun?” a voice asks.
He shrugs. “Not as though you’d notice,” he says, knowing that the words can be interpreted two ways.
“Feeling left out then.”
The window seat next to him sags and William glances sideways, taking in ruffled hair and dark sleepy eyes. “Good night?” he asks.
Angel nods. “Yeah, I guess. Closed my eyes and didn’t dream.”
It’s all they can ask for. And more than they had before the shanshu.
“Breakfast?”
“What is there?”
“Bread and cheese. Same as usual.”
William sighs again. There used to be better food, fast food; pizzas, burgers, fish and chips. But that was before. These days it’s what you can beg, borrow, or steal from the homesteads along the road. “Okay,” he says. “Need a hand?”
“I’ve got it.”
That leaves William with nothing else to do but watch the rain and remember. Twenty years since the end of the world as they’d known it. Nineteen since Illyria stepped in to fill the vacuum left by the destruction of half a hundred world governments and two thirds of the global population. Now they have peace, of a sort, though mostly it smacks of Stalinist Russia rather than any kind of utopia.
The rain continues to fall, the mud clogged pathway outside now a churning beck. Perhaps the sky’s crying, William thinks. It seems a decent enough explanation and one that fits neatly into his current maudlin state of mind. Too soon, a hunk of dry bread and cheese that’s showing the cracks of being left out too long is shoved into his hand. He takes it without uttering a word of thanks.
They choke it down, following it with water that tastes earthy and sour. Probably rainwater, William reflects, since there’s unlikely to be any fresh plumbed into such a small place.
“What now?” he asks once he’s done his duty and eaten up like a good boy.
“Guess we get to brave the weather and try to track down this portal,” replies Angel, frowning unhappily at the rain now drumming thunderously against the glass.
“Figures.”
“Or we could stay here and let what’s left of the locals get eaten up when they manage to summon a G’nash Frikkar.”
“Not sure they’d notice.” The few people they passed yesterday all had the same blank look only humans in a state of total despair could achieve. William’s getting used to it.
“Whatever.” Angel dusts crumbs from his rough woollen trousers; still the neat freak despite the global lack of Armani and hair gel.
“You gonna go get her or shall I?”
“All yours,” Angel says as he starts stowing what’s left of the food in the packs. “She’s less likely to shove you off the roof for fun.”
“Morning’s performance not all it might have been, huh?” William asks snidely.
Angel stares at him and it’s then that William sees the bruises showing under his collar and cuffs, the hollow expression in Angel’s eyes.
“Why the fuck didn’t you ask for a hand,” he snaps.
With a shrug Angel starts packing again. He doesn’t need to say anything ‘cause the answer’s obvious. Angel would have included William if Illyria were in the mood to allow that; it wasn’t like they didn’t regularly tag-team her in an effort to keep up. If Angel hadn’t, it’s because their God-King had other ideas.
Respecting Angel’s silent privacy, William heads for the door and the covered stone steps curving up to the roof. Standing stock still in the rainstorm is Illyria, face turned to the heavens, eyes open. God only knows what she’s doing. Communing with the clouds as far as William’s concerned, like she does with plants.
“Ready for the off?” he asks from the shelter of the small porch.
She turns towards him, rotating slowly on one heel. It never ceases to amaze him how she never changes. It’s been twenty years, yet she’s still as beautiful as she was the first time he saw her, beautiful like a pistol or an ice storm. And omnipotent, being the God-King.
“You will remain here,” she announces. “The wet has spoken of the wheres and hows. You and the other human have nothing to contribute.”
Half of William, the bit that’s experienced at being at Illyria’s beck and call, wants to nod and back away, possibly with a small genuflection for good measure. But the rest, what’s left of his Spikiness, the bit that’s kept him fighting all these years, immediately digs in its heels and opens its mouth.
“Then why drag us all the way out here?” It wasn’t like they didn’t have tons of stuff to do back at the capital, like integrating the Watchers with Illyria’s government. And wasn’t that a barrel full of laughs.
She cocks her head, a gesture William still finds disconcertingly snakelike, and fixes him with a glare. “You dare question my will.”
When he doesn’t answer immediately a cold wet hand grasps him around the throat and lifts him from his feet. It’s not so much cruel as implacable, the same hold a person may use on a recalcitrant puppy. He’s drawn closer until his face is only inches from hers, until he can clearly see into the icy depths of her eyes.
“I should remove your entrails and use them to decorate my battle armour,” she hisses.
It’s a pisser but she can do exactly that. The way she bends time and matter means she can do pretty much what she wants, and keep you alive through it. Means she can starve and beat and her victims’ll keep bouncing back like bloody weebles. Means that, despite the changing seasons, the ones close to her don’t age a fucking day. There’s an irony hidden in there somewhere, William often thinks.
“Can’t-can’t breathe,” he gasps, tugging pointlessly at her wrist, ‘cause yeah, now he needs oxygen. Would be too sodding easy otherwise, wouldn’t it.
She drops him from a foot above ground and he staggers, one hand to his throat, the other against the wall, holding himself up.
“You will remain here. I shall return for you once the portal is no more.”
“’Less the fucking demon eats you,” William mutters under his breath. Thankfully she ignores him, stalking past and down the stairs without a backward glance. He follows after her just in time to see the air shimmer as she twists time around herself and goes off to do whatever it is she needs to keep her kingdom safe.
She’s gone by the time the door opens behind him revealing Angel kitted out in his cloak with a pack over his shoulder, ready to leave. William pushes past him, back into the damp cottage. “Might as well put your gear away, sunbeam, we’re on cheerleading duty again,” he says as he slumps into his window seat.
For a second Angel doesn’t move, he simply freezes in place in the doorway, though his shoulders are eloquent enough that William doesn’t have to see a face to know what Angel’s thinking. It’s the same thing he is.
“How long?” Angel asks, voicing their joint concerns.
“No idea. Her fucking stuck-up majesty didn’t see fit to say.” Last time she left them, it’d been three months before she deigned to return. Apparently she got distracted chatting to an oak tree.
See the problem with Illyria is, she doesn’t get how difficult it is for a couple of blokes to just sit around and wait. It’s not like they can just nip down the shops for a loaf of bread any longer. Not in this post apocalyptic hellhole she’s created anyhow. Nope, they’re gonna have to scrounge what they can from the locals and probably end up beating them off when they finally buy a clue and come to take revenge.
“Well, crap,” Angel says, letting the pack slide to the rough tiled floor.
There’s not much else to be said. Running isn’t an option. They both tried that soon after she took over and that’s when they discovered the rest of the world was actually worse than Illyria’s domain. Turns out the demons had a field day out there before she clamped down and starting chomping away at their numbers. There’s nothing left of the US. Not hardly a surprise considering it all went tits up in LA. Always was too close to the hellmouth in William’s opinion. Like building a nuclear power station next to an oil refinery. Asking for trouble really.
Though on the upside, there are precious few demons to worry about these days, their God-King’s seen to that. Of course the ones that are left have sued for peace and god help any humans still living in their realms if their masters manage to round up the tribute. No matter what the government says, it’s not cultural relativism. Privately William reckons Illyria gets a buzz from the hunting when she pays her mates a visit.
“There’s a woodstack round the back,” William says as he gets up. “You clean out the hearth and we’ll see if we can get a fire started.” The damp chill wasn’t so bad overnight but if they’re staying they need to make the place a bit homier.
While he’s outside William has a dig around in the overgrown garden and finds a few potatoes left buried in the vegetable bed. They’ve been frosted and are starting to sprout, but baked with some of the cheese, they’ll make a pleasant change to stale bread.
Angel’s brushed out the hearth when he gets back and, between them, they manage to get a decent fire started. It’s ironic how the skills learned from the chambermaid in his childhood have ended up being useful again.
They luxuriate in front of the flames, making the most of the heat while it’s free. Sooner or later they’ll have to fight for it.
Silence rules. After so long they’ve grown used to keeping their own counsel and really there’s not much left to be said. The world has moved on, past the Powers that Be, past slayers, past vampire champions. A world ruled by a God-King has no use for such things.
Sleep claims them both simultaneously, enfolding them in peace and dragging them, dreamless, away from the cares that weigh heavy on both their souls. As their bodies sag, the air in the corner shimmers then pulses, a stuttering colour that disgorges two figures; Illyria, with Wesley a dutiful two steps behind.
“They are an infinite source of irritation,” says the God-King, stalking towards the sleeping men. She makes claws of her hands and directs them towards the two in front of the fire. In his sleep, William sighs and rolls over, wrapping his arms around Angel and resting his head on Angel’s chest.
Illyria frowns. “I would see them happy and yet they fight themselves. Why would they do this thing?”
“Perhaps they’re unsure of your reaction, holiness,” Wesley says taking position to the other side of the hearth.
“I have not forbidden them intercourse,” she says, her crooked fingers drawing Angel’s hand from the tatty rag rug to lie on William’s tousled hair.
“Neither have you granted them permission,” Wesley explains. “The unfortunate consequence of absolute rule.”
A quizzical expression crosses Illyria’s face and she lifts both arms. “I shall make them play for my amusement,” she says as Angel rolls, covering William with his body, and they begin to kiss. Despite their actions, their eyes remain closed; they’re unaware.
Wesley sighs. “Do you remember our conversations about free will?” he asks.
The bodies slump, puppets with their strings suddenly cut. Illyria stands, still staring, but the cold sense of mischief is gone from her face. “But free will makes a stink of their unhappiness,” she argues.
“What does the future tell you of them?”
Illyria closes her eyes, swaying slightly as though in the grips of a vision. When her eyes flick open, they contain a heat Wesley has learnt to be wary of. “That things will change. That eternal frustration will be banished and these beloved creatures will find solace in each other.” She turns to look at Wesley, her expression one that contains more of the body’s previous occupant that its current one. “Watching would not interfere with free will.”
“No,” he answers, laughing. “But it would be an unwarranted invasion of privacy.”
For a moment Illyria doesn’t move. “I wish to observe them consummating their desire.”
“Allow them time, holiness,” Wesley says, laying a hand on her armoured forearm. “They have precious little else.”
Illyria looks disappointed, casting hopeful glances back at her sleeping humans as she moves away.
They return to the corner. Air shimmers around them and they are gone, leaving the room unchanged except for the figures before the fire.
William wakes with a familiar ache between his legs. What’s less familiar is Angel’s weight on top of him. Resisting the initial instinct to punch his way free, he takes a moment to really look at his old grandsire. Despite Illyria’s influence, the past few years have left their mark. A faded scar now runs from the corner of Angel’s eye to the top of his cheekbone, put there by his first demon encounter after the shanshu. It had taken them both a while to get used to being human again.
His fingers tangle in shoulder length hair, combing out the snags. It’s peaceful with nothing but the fire crackling to disturb them.
“You’re hard,” Angel mumbles against his chest.
“I am at that,” William answers, grinning to himself.
Angel lifts his head, squinting sleepily. “Want me to do something about it?”
“You offering?”
A glint of mischief flashes in Angel’s eyes then he slides downwards until his breath burns hot across the sliver of skin where shirt and trousers have parted company.
William shivers, reflexively bringing his hands to Angel’s shoulders. Angel shrugs him off and places them firmly on the floor with enough pressure to hint they should stay there. Some things never change; once a control freak, always a control freak; it’ll take more than the apocalypse for Angel to give that up.
“Tell me what you want?”
“You,” William gasps, his hips pumping when a finger’s dragged up his length. “Please, Angel.”
And William will always get led around by his dick. On such certainties the universe rests.
“Since you ask so nicely.”
The buttons on William’s trousers are popped open one by one, heat from the fire combining with Angel’s mouth to make him shiver almost uncontrollably. He has enough presence of mind left to lift up so his trousers can be tugged down and off, and to open his legs so Angel can rest comfortably between them.
His cock jumps as Angel nuzzles his belly and he fists his hands into the rug to stop himself from grabbing onto anything less appropriate, like Angel’s ears so he can fuck his face.
“Christ, please,” he murmurs as the teasing continues. Kitten licks around his base and balls; just enough to make his dick wet and his foreskin draw back.
“Blasphemer,” Angel says then shifts. As warm wetness encloses his cock head, William groans, his mouth dropping open as he fights the urge to thrust. That’ll get him nowhere and he knows it. All he can do is lie there and let Angel do as he wants.
Fingertips play across his sac, a gentle drumming rhythm designed to make William’s toes curl. And they do. He opens his legs further, lifting them a little, reacting to every suck and brush of teeth and tongue. It’s excruciatingly careful, painfully slow. Each dip of Angel’s head seems to take an eternity, yet it’s going to end almost before it’s begun.
The gush of liquid heat from his balls takes him by surprise. William cries out, stiffening as he comes, his hips held in place as Angel pulls off him, letting spunk land in scorching droplets over his belly and chest.
Angel’s inside him when he starts to recover, friction hardly tempered by spit and come. It’s close to too much. He’s still sensitive but Angel’s as considerate as he can be, bearing his own weight so William’s cock is spared a grinding. But still, each thrust presses up against his balls, each penetration slides over his sweet spot.
“Wait,” he gasps, wanting just a moment, a second to catch his breath and maybe, possibly, catch up.
“Can’t,” Angel replies, voice strangled with desire. “Need to… Oh Christ, Will.”
A mouth crashes down and William feels it take him, tongue forcing past his lips, penetrating and making him open up. He shudders, a full body sensation, discomfort turning to overwhelming pleasure.
“Fuck,” he cries out, his body now welcoming every twist and pound of Angel’s hips. His fingers dig into Angel’s shoulders. More bruises, but these well earned. His ears sing with blood, the good side of being human. His breathing is needful, harsh, desperate, like his heartbeat. Like Angel’s heartbeat, thumping against his chest.
“Will!”
Angel’s hips stutter and jerk. William curses him and drives his heels home into Angel’s backside, wanting, needing, more to send him over the edge a second time. He gets what he needs in the form of a fist tight round his cock, milking him of his orgasm even as Angel freefalls into his own.
They come and come down together, wrapped around each other, sticky and content.
“Love that,” Angel murmurs into William’s neck. It’s as close as they come to saying the other. Neither of them trusts quite that much. Maybe in another century the words will change.
“Hm,” William replies, wriggling to get comfortable under Angel’s weight and sliding his legs down muscular calves. “Reckon she’ll be gone long enough for an encore.”
Angel props himself up on his elbows. “She was last time,” he says. “Three months of nothing but your ass for company. Could be worse.”
With a snort of amusement, William shoves him to one side and takes a moment to appreciate being able to breathe and move. Beside him, Angel’s doing the same thing. For a long while the only sound is their struggle to normalise their bodies and the fire, then Angel says, “We should tell her. And Wes.”
“Why? So she can get off watching us? I don’t think so,” William answers. They have the same conversation every time, and every time he balks at losing this last small part of himself to the God-King.
He glances over, sees a pensive expression on Angel’s face and reaches out. Taking Angel’s hand and twining their fingers together, he sets out his case like he did last time.
“Angel, it’s none of her business what we do with each other. Long as it doesn’t get in the way of what she wants.”
The small sigh tells him he’s won, at least for now. Tomorrow, of course, is another day.
Goes AU after Shells.
Of Kings and Common Men
It’s raining. Not the quiet peaceful rain of summer afternoons but the thunderous downpour of spring. Water cascades down the window, washing off the sill and adding to the torrents already threatening to turn the narrow street into a quagmire. William, driven from bed by the sounds coming from the adjoining room and bored senseless by the tiny two up, two down cottage they’ve ended up in, stares blankly at nature unleashing her rage at the ground.
This was supposed to be a short trip, nothing more remarkable that a quick reconnaissance mission to check out some rumours currently circulating around New Manchester about a new cult. Of course that’s before they found the portal and realised a cult was the least of their worries.
Still, there’s no point in getting worked up about it. It isn’t like him worrying’s going to stop the bad things Wes hinted are coming. Sighing wistfully, he runs a finger down the glass, chasing a raindrop.
“Having fun?” a voice asks.
He shrugs. “Not as though you’d notice,” he says, knowing that the words can be interpreted two ways.
“Feeling left out then.”
The window seat next to him sags and William glances sideways, taking in ruffled hair and dark sleepy eyes. “Good night?” he asks.
Angel nods. “Yeah, I guess. Closed my eyes and didn’t dream.”
It’s all they can ask for. And more than they had before the shanshu.
“Breakfast?”
“What is there?”
“Bread and cheese. Same as usual.”
William sighs again. There used to be better food, fast food; pizzas, burgers, fish and chips. But that was before. These days it’s what you can beg, borrow, or steal from the homesteads along the road. “Okay,” he says. “Need a hand?”
“I’ve got it.”
That leaves William with nothing else to do but watch the rain and remember. Twenty years since the end of the world as they’d known it. Nineteen since Illyria stepped in to fill the vacuum left by the destruction of half a hundred world governments and two thirds of the global population. Now they have peace, of a sort, though mostly it smacks of Stalinist Russia rather than any kind of utopia.
The rain continues to fall, the mud clogged pathway outside now a churning beck. Perhaps the sky’s crying, William thinks. It seems a decent enough explanation and one that fits neatly into his current maudlin state of mind. Too soon, a hunk of dry bread and cheese that’s showing the cracks of being left out too long is shoved into his hand. He takes it without uttering a word of thanks.
They choke it down, following it with water that tastes earthy and sour. Probably rainwater, William reflects, since there’s unlikely to be any fresh plumbed into such a small place.
“What now?” he asks once he’s done his duty and eaten up like a good boy.
“Guess we get to brave the weather and try to track down this portal,” replies Angel, frowning unhappily at the rain now drumming thunderously against the glass.
“Figures.”
“Or we could stay here and let what’s left of the locals get eaten up when they manage to summon a G’nash Frikkar.”
“Not sure they’d notice.” The few people they passed yesterday all had the same blank look only humans in a state of total despair could achieve. William’s getting used to it.
“Whatever.” Angel dusts crumbs from his rough woollen trousers; still the neat freak despite the global lack of Armani and hair gel.
“You gonna go get her or shall I?”
“All yours,” Angel says as he starts stowing what’s left of the food in the packs. “She’s less likely to shove you off the roof for fun.”
“Morning’s performance not all it might have been, huh?” William asks snidely.
Angel stares at him and it’s then that William sees the bruises showing under his collar and cuffs, the hollow expression in Angel’s eyes.
“Why the fuck didn’t you ask for a hand,” he snaps.
With a shrug Angel starts packing again. He doesn’t need to say anything ‘cause the answer’s obvious. Angel would have included William if Illyria were in the mood to allow that; it wasn’t like they didn’t regularly tag-team her in an effort to keep up. If Angel hadn’t, it’s because their God-King had other ideas.
Respecting Angel’s silent privacy, William heads for the door and the covered stone steps curving up to the roof. Standing stock still in the rainstorm is Illyria, face turned to the heavens, eyes open. God only knows what she’s doing. Communing with the clouds as far as William’s concerned, like she does with plants.
“Ready for the off?” he asks from the shelter of the small porch.
She turns towards him, rotating slowly on one heel. It never ceases to amaze him how she never changes. It’s been twenty years, yet she’s still as beautiful as she was the first time he saw her, beautiful like a pistol or an ice storm. And omnipotent, being the God-King.
“You will remain here,” she announces. “The wet has spoken of the wheres and hows. You and the other human have nothing to contribute.”
Half of William, the bit that’s experienced at being at Illyria’s beck and call, wants to nod and back away, possibly with a small genuflection for good measure. But the rest, what’s left of his Spikiness, the bit that’s kept him fighting all these years, immediately digs in its heels and opens its mouth.
“Then why drag us all the way out here?” It wasn’t like they didn’t have tons of stuff to do back at the capital, like integrating the Watchers with Illyria’s government. And wasn’t that a barrel full of laughs.
She cocks her head, a gesture William still finds disconcertingly snakelike, and fixes him with a glare. “You dare question my will.”
When he doesn’t answer immediately a cold wet hand grasps him around the throat and lifts him from his feet. It’s not so much cruel as implacable, the same hold a person may use on a recalcitrant puppy. He’s drawn closer until his face is only inches from hers, until he can clearly see into the icy depths of her eyes.
“I should remove your entrails and use them to decorate my battle armour,” she hisses.
It’s a pisser but she can do exactly that. The way she bends time and matter means she can do pretty much what she wants, and keep you alive through it. Means she can starve and beat and her victims’ll keep bouncing back like bloody weebles. Means that, despite the changing seasons, the ones close to her don’t age a fucking day. There’s an irony hidden in there somewhere, William often thinks.
“Can’t-can’t breathe,” he gasps, tugging pointlessly at her wrist, ‘cause yeah, now he needs oxygen. Would be too sodding easy otherwise, wouldn’t it.
She drops him from a foot above ground and he staggers, one hand to his throat, the other against the wall, holding himself up.
“You will remain here. I shall return for you once the portal is no more.”
“’Less the fucking demon eats you,” William mutters under his breath. Thankfully she ignores him, stalking past and down the stairs without a backward glance. He follows after her just in time to see the air shimmer as she twists time around herself and goes off to do whatever it is she needs to keep her kingdom safe.
She’s gone by the time the door opens behind him revealing Angel kitted out in his cloak with a pack over his shoulder, ready to leave. William pushes past him, back into the damp cottage. “Might as well put your gear away, sunbeam, we’re on cheerleading duty again,” he says as he slumps into his window seat.
For a second Angel doesn’t move, he simply freezes in place in the doorway, though his shoulders are eloquent enough that William doesn’t have to see a face to know what Angel’s thinking. It’s the same thing he is.
“How long?” Angel asks, voicing their joint concerns.
“No idea. Her fucking stuck-up majesty didn’t see fit to say.” Last time she left them, it’d been three months before she deigned to return. Apparently she got distracted chatting to an oak tree.
See the problem with Illyria is, she doesn’t get how difficult it is for a couple of blokes to just sit around and wait. It’s not like they can just nip down the shops for a loaf of bread any longer. Not in this post apocalyptic hellhole she’s created anyhow. Nope, they’re gonna have to scrounge what they can from the locals and probably end up beating them off when they finally buy a clue and come to take revenge.
“Well, crap,” Angel says, letting the pack slide to the rough tiled floor.
There’s not much else to be said. Running isn’t an option. They both tried that soon after she took over and that’s when they discovered the rest of the world was actually worse than Illyria’s domain. Turns out the demons had a field day out there before she clamped down and starting chomping away at their numbers. There’s nothing left of the US. Not hardly a surprise considering it all went tits up in LA. Always was too close to the hellmouth in William’s opinion. Like building a nuclear power station next to an oil refinery. Asking for trouble really.
Though on the upside, there are precious few demons to worry about these days, their God-King’s seen to that. Of course the ones that are left have sued for peace and god help any humans still living in their realms if their masters manage to round up the tribute. No matter what the government says, it’s not cultural relativism. Privately William reckons Illyria gets a buzz from the hunting when she pays her mates a visit.
“There’s a woodstack round the back,” William says as he gets up. “You clean out the hearth and we’ll see if we can get a fire started.” The damp chill wasn’t so bad overnight but if they’re staying they need to make the place a bit homier.
While he’s outside William has a dig around in the overgrown garden and finds a few potatoes left buried in the vegetable bed. They’ve been frosted and are starting to sprout, but baked with some of the cheese, they’ll make a pleasant change to stale bread.
Angel’s brushed out the hearth when he gets back and, between them, they manage to get a decent fire started. It’s ironic how the skills learned from the chambermaid in his childhood have ended up being useful again.
They luxuriate in front of the flames, making the most of the heat while it’s free. Sooner or later they’ll have to fight for it.
Silence rules. After so long they’ve grown used to keeping their own counsel and really there’s not much left to be said. The world has moved on, past the Powers that Be, past slayers, past vampire champions. A world ruled by a God-King has no use for such things.
Sleep claims them both simultaneously, enfolding them in peace and dragging them, dreamless, away from the cares that weigh heavy on both their souls. As their bodies sag, the air in the corner shimmers then pulses, a stuttering colour that disgorges two figures; Illyria, with Wesley a dutiful two steps behind.
“They are an infinite source of irritation,” says the God-King, stalking towards the sleeping men. She makes claws of her hands and directs them towards the two in front of the fire. In his sleep, William sighs and rolls over, wrapping his arms around Angel and resting his head on Angel’s chest.
Illyria frowns. “I would see them happy and yet they fight themselves. Why would they do this thing?”
“Perhaps they’re unsure of your reaction, holiness,” Wesley says taking position to the other side of the hearth.
“I have not forbidden them intercourse,” she says, her crooked fingers drawing Angel’s hand from the tatty rag rug to lie on William’s tousled hair.
“Neither have you granted them permission,” Wesley explains. “The unfortunate consequence of absolute rule.”
A quizzical expression crosses Illyria’s face and she lifts both arms. “I shall make them play for my amusement,” she says as Angel rolls, covering William with his body, and they begin to kiss. Despite their actions, their eyes remain closed; they’re unaware.
Wesley sighs. “Do you remember our conversations about free will?” he asks.
The bodies slump, puppets with their strings suddenly cut. Illyria stands, still staring, but the cold sense of mischief is gone from her face. “But free will makes a stink of their unhappiness,” she argues.
“What does the future tell you of them?”
Illyria closes her eyes, swaying slightly as though in the grips of a vision. When her eyes flick open, they contain a heat Wesley has learnt to be wary of. “That things will change. That eternal frustration will be banished and these beloved creatures will find solace in each other.” She turns to look at Wesley, her expression one that contains more of the body’s previous occupant that its current one. “Watching would not interfere with free will.”
“No,” he answers, laughing. “But it would be an unwarranted invasion of privacy.”
For a moment Illyria doesn’t move. “I wish to observe them consummating their desire.”
“Allow them time, holiness,” Wesley says, laying a hand on her armoured forearm. “They have precious little else.”
Illyria looks disappointed, casting hopeful glances back at her sleeping humans as she moves away.
They return to the corner. Air shimmers around them and they are gone, leaving the room unchanged except for the figures before the fire.
William wakes with a familiar ache between his legs. What’s less familiar is Angel’s weight on top of him. Resisting the initial instinct to punch his way free, he takes a moment to really look at his old grandsire. Despite Illyria’s influence, the past few years have left their mark. A faded scar now runs from the corner of Angel’s eye to the top of his cheekbone, put there by his first demon encounter after the shanshu. It had taken them both a while to get used to being human again.
His fingers tangle in shoulder length hair, combing out the snags. It’s peaceful with nothing but the fire crackling to disturb them.
“You’re hard,” Angel mumbles against his chest.
“I am at that,” William answers, grinning to himself.
Angel lifts his head, squinting sleepily. “Want me to do something about it?”
“You offering?”
A glint of mischief flashes in Angel’s eyes then he slides downwards until his breath burns hot across the sliver of skin where shirt and trousers have parted company.
William shivers, reflexively bringing his hands to Angel’s shoulders. Angel shrugs him off and places them firmly on the floor with enough pressure to hint they should stay there. Some things never change; once a control freak, always a control freak; it’ll take more than the apocalypse for Angel to give that up.
“Tell me what you want?”
“You,” William gasps, his hips pumping when a finger’s dragged up his length. “Please, Angel.”
And William will always get led around by his dick. On such certainties the universe rests.
“Since you ask so nicely.”
The buttons on William’s trousers are popped open one by one, heat from the fire combining with Angel’s mouth to make him shiver almost uncontrollably. He has enough presence of mind left to lift up so his trousers can be tugged down and off, and to open his legs so Angel can rest comfortably between them.
His cock jumps as Angel nuzzles his belly and he fists his hands into the rug to stop himself from grabbing onto anything less appropriate, like Angel’s ears so he can fuck his face.
“Christ, please,” he murmurs as the teasing continues. Kitten licks around his base and balls; just enough to make his dick wet and his foreskin draw back.
“Blasphemer,” Angel says then shifts. As warm wetness encloses his cock head, William groans, his mouth dropping open as he fights the urge to thrust. That’ll get him nowhere and he knows it. All he can do is lie there and let Angel do as he wants.
Fingertips play across his sac, a gentle drumming rhythm designed to make William’s toes curl. And they do. He opens his legs further, lifting them a little, reacting to every suck and brush of teeth and tongue. It’s excruciatingly careful, painfully slow. Each dip of Angel’s head seems to take an eternity, yet it’s going to end almost before it’s begun.
The gush of liquid heat from his balls takes him by surprise. William cries out, stiffening as he comes, his hips held in place as Angel pulls off him, letting spunk land in scorching droplets over his belly and chest.
Angel’s inside him when he starts to recover, friction hardly tempered by spit and come. It’s close to too much. He’s still sensitive but Angel’s as considerate as he can be, bearing his own weight so William’s cock is spared a grinding. But still, each thrust presses up against his balls, each penetration slides over his sweet spot.
“Wait,” he gasps, wanting just a moment, a second to catch his breath and maybe, possibly, catch up.
“Can’t,” Angel replies, voice strangled with desire. “Need to… Oh Christ, Will.”
A mouth crashes down and William feels it take him, tongue forcing past his lips, penetrating and making him open up. He shudders, a full body sensation, discomfort turning to overwhelming pleasure.
“Fuck,” he cries out, his body now welcoming every twist and pound of Angel’s hips. His fingers dig into Angel’s shoulders. More bruises, but these well earned. His ears sing with blood, the good side of being human. His breathing is needful, harsh, desperate, like his heartbeat. Like Angel’s heartbeat, thumping against his chest.
“Will!”
Angel’s hips stutter and jerk. William curses him and drives his heels home into Angel’s backside, wanting, needing, more to send him over the edge a second time. He gets what he needs in the form of a fist tight round his cock, milking him of his orgasm even as Angel freefalls into his own.
They come and come down together, wrapped around each other, sticky and content.
“Love that,” Angel murmurs into William’s neck. It’s as close as they come to saying the other. Neither of them trusts quite that much. Maybe in another century the words will change.
“Hm,” William replies, wriggling to get comfortable under Angel’s weight and sliding his legs down muscular calves. “Reckon she’ll be gone long enough for an encore.”
Angel props himself up on his elbows. “She was last time,” he says. “Three months of nothing but your ass for company. Could be worse.”
With a snort of amusement, William shoves him to one side and takes a moment to appreciate being able to breathe and move. Beside him, Angel’s doing the same thing. For a long while the only sound is their struggle to normalise their bodies and the fire, then Angel says, “We should tell her. And Wes.”
“Why? So she can get off watching us? I don’t think so,” William answers. They have the same conversation every time, and every time he balks at losing this last small part of himself to the God-King.
He glances over, sees a pensive expression on Angel’s face and reaches out. Taking Angel’s hand and twining their fingers together, he sets out his case like he did last time.
“Angel, it’s none of her business what we do with each other. Long as it doesn’t get in the way of what she wants.”
The small sigh tells him he’s won, at least for now. Tomorrow, of course, is another day.