Wrote this for Porn Battle IX, so naturally it's R-rated. I'm kind of sad that I was so pressed for time (juggling various contest deadlines) in my first attempt to write Wesley/Illyria, but it can't be helped. Hope you enjoy!
Title: When It Changed
Pairing: Wesley/Illyria, implied Wesley/Fred
Word Count: 638
You can comment either here or in the original Dreamwidth entry, it's all the same to me.
At first -- before Wesley's powers of reasoning took over, before Instinct scurried out of Logic's way, at the very, very first -- this smacked of Lilah Morgan. Lilah, hot and syrupy in bed, tall and regal in the courtroom, sad and puzzled in the dark.
Lilah, braided and bespectacled and not-Fred on his desk. Illyria smacked of her.
The Old One was wearing her blue face and a blue dress of a darker shade -- a long, slim evening dress, not the short perky summer dresses Fred used to wear -- and sitting on his desk just like her predecessor had.
"Your mouth is hanging open," Illyria pointed out, her tone belying a measure of interest beneath her usual detachment. "It's unbecoming."
"Take off that dress. You're embarrassing yourself," Wesley said, because it was tried and true and right then he couldn't think of anything else.
Illyria tilted her head in that otherworldly way of hers. "You are clad in layers and layers of clothing, like a bipedal onion. Do you feel embarrassment?"
Wesley closed his eyes briefly, but did not answer. Illyria jumped off the desk, boots rejoining the floor with a tapping sound, and fluidly unraveled her full height before him. She looked, by all accounts, like a woman. But not like Fred. Like herself, but as a woman.
And that's when Logic finally stepped onto the red carpet to lend Wesley a hand, to clarify to him that --
"This dress doesn't alter me any more than that tie alters you. They're shells outside the shells. I only wear them; I am not them."
-- where Lilah's getup had been pleading 'I could be her', Illyria's was stating 'I won't be her'.
And indeed, it was nigh impossible to think of Fred when she placed a commanding hand on the nape of his neck and kissed him like so. When her blue strands fell against his stubbed chin, impossible to remind himself of Fred's chocolate-brown curls. When she took his hand and put it on her left thigh, impossible.
The dress didn't come off. He only had to sit her in a chair and bunch the cloth up at her waist, and he had full access to her mysterious core. He took small, measured licks at it, and she responded with strange hissing noises. His mind, already stewing with amaranthine daydreams and illusions, had no trouble transforming them into a woman's earthly moans.
At length, the sounds ended and she pushed him to the floor, probably wanting to come on her own terms. The dress hiked up when she straddled him, all proud and icy with a wet-soft-narrow center. As she rose and fell, Wesley rested his hands on her twin curves, and tried not to think of their original owner. Moments later, bucking and groaning and squeezing Illyria's skinny arms... he succeeded.
Splayed flat and still across his body with her dress of endless blue, the God-King must have looked like a grotesque colored tear in an amateur oil-painting.
She closed the door when she left.
Wesley had her there for a little while longer, though. He turned her over and over in his thoughts. Who she was.
What she meant.
The passage of the years had woken him up to this fact: he couldn't let go of Winifred Burkle. It was as much a certainty as that the Earth was round, that vampires burned up in the sunlight, that his Father wouldn't call for his birthday. But he wondered if he might someday clench the fist that held the ghost of her; cluster the fingers; tighten the grip; and let his other hand, tentatively, laboriously, burrow into the folds of another person's dress.
Illyria wondered if she could play at being a person long enough to ever wear a dress again.