Title:  Out of My System
Author:  Kat (KallieRose)
Pairing:  Anya/Spike.  Mention of Anya/Xander
Rating:  NC-17
Spoilers:  Season 6 Buffy, Entropy
Disclaimer:  Lots of other people own the characters and the show.  Not me.  I own nothing. Trust me.
Summary:  Anya and Spike meet shortly after their coupling at the Magic Box.
Dedication:  To Feen.  Sorry this took me so long, but I've been hellishly busy.  I hope you're feeling better.  Come visit us sometime  :-)
Note:  Thanks to Gabrielle for the beta.  What would I do without you?
Another note:  This is not a pairing that I usually write, so I hope I did okay with the characters, Anya in particular.  Please give me feedback and let me know what you think.

Out of My System

"We'll have sex until it's out of our system," Anya had told Xander, hoping that it would prove true.  Thinking back, there must have been some part of her that had thought it was a good idea.

But it had never really worked.  And now, looking back at the past through the lens of her experience, she knew why.

Men were simple creatures.  They had a penis, and they wanted someplace safe to put it.  It didn't particularly matter where, as long as the receptacle was relatively willing and not completely, frighteningly ugly. 

So she had become Xander's safe place.  Anya could see that now.  It had never been about love, not on his part.  Safety and comfort had been the motivating factors in their relationship.  Xander had wanted safe, regular sex.  And Anya had wanted to be important to someone. 

Xander had seemed as good a 'someone' as any.  Better than most.  And she should know.  There had been lots of other men before she and Xander had become serious.  But no matter how interested they had seemed in her mind and her emotions, it all came down to panting and needing and dark rooms with smelly beds.  Sex, devoid of emotion. 

But Xander was different.  Or so she had thought.  Like an ever-patient parent, he had always been there for her.  Chiding her, guiding her, showing her what it meant to be human.  So she had stayed with him, learned from him, slept with him, and thought that she was living life the way a human should.  Or at least learning to.

Everything about being a human was so damn confusing.  What she could say, what she couldn't say, what she should say, and how she should say it.  Things that came naturally to a human through decades of playing with others were unfathomable to her.  Propriety and tact were things that shifted like quicksand depending on your perspective, and the nuances never failed to make her feel wrong and stupid. 

But Xander would take her in his arms and kiss her, reassuring her and teaching her, and all the insignificant little details would melt away.

Until the day came that he left her at the altar, and what should have been her reward turned to ashes in her mouth.  She had played his game, lived life the way he had taught her, done everything she was supposed to.  And in the end, it still wasn't enough for him.

The shock and humiliation had sent her running back to the one thing that would never disappoint her:  vengeance.

And then there had been Spike, a bleach-blond road bump in her search for retribution.  Oddly enough he had been the one to hand her a final victory over Xander, severing the remaining ties between them with a shocking finality.

He had also made her feel more alive in those few minutes than Xander had in all their years together.

Which was why she was standing in front of his crypt in the middle of a cold, dark night, wondering whether she should take that final step and knock on the door, or turn around and run like hell as far and as fast as she could.

The decision was made for her when Spike yanked the door open suddenly, the blast of air ruffling her hair and making her blink quickly.  She stared at him, took in the half-unbuttoned jeans he wore, and the absence of his shirt.  His hair was mussed, perhaps from sleep, and her mind went off on a tangent, wondering how it was that he managed to dye his hair blond, and yet have it remain so soft. 

Her hands tingled at the memory of how it had felt between her fingers as she had combed them through his hair.  Surprisingly, it had been soft and natural, not at all the stiff and rough texture she had expected.

"Spike-"

"Anya-"

They had spoken at the same moment, and then both had stopped, unsure of what to say.  Their relationship had changed last night in a strange and indefinable way, and that brought them both to a point where silence seemed to be easier than words. 

Spike was the first to break the quiet.  "C'mon in, if you want."

"Thanks," her words sounded soft and breathless to her overly critical ears.  Who was that talking?  It certainly wasn't the 100+-year-old vengeance demon who had cursed thousands of men and could withstand any horror life tried to deal her.  It almost sounded like the fragile human woman who had been left at the altar.

He turned and went back inside, leaving her to follow if she chose.  His face sported a multitude of colorful bruises, one eye swollen almost shut while the other was ringed in purple and blue.  Xander had left his mark on the vampire, and in some ways Anya felt it was her fault.  Xander had lashed out at Spike because of her.  Even if he no longer wanted to marry her, for some reason he still considered her as his own property.  She didn't understand, certainly didn't agree with it, but it seemed to feel true to Xander at least.

"I'm sorry about Xander," she said quietly, watching as he turned to face her in the open space of what she supposed would be considered his living room. 

Spike shrugged, managing not to wince while he did it.  Wouldn't be manly, he told himself. 

"So what brings you here," he asked, wondering if it was pity, or anger, or something else entirely.

It was Anya's turn to shrug, trying to play it cool.  "Don't know," she admitted, her eyes skittish as they roamed his place, never settling long on any one feature. 

"I just..." the words petered off uncomfortably.  "You just--you made me feel alive.  More than I ever have before.  I don't understand why."  The statement was raw and unrehearsed, an effort to show him a little of who she was, underneath all of the layers she wore to fool the others.

He winced at the words, ones he'd heard before from the other blonde, the one who hated herself for enjoying what he did to her. "So if this follows true to form," he said, a slight sneer in his voice, "you're here to tell me that I'm a soulless demon, and you'll never dirty yourself with me again, right?"

He could see the hurt and confusion flow through her, little bits and piece of her usual self-confidence dissolving before his eyes.  Her head bowed, and the scent of saline reached him.  He had no doubt that she was beginning to cry.  He had guessed wrong, apparently.  She wasn't like the other one.  This one he could hurt with his careless words.

Feelings of guilt assailed him.  She had come to him, just like Buffy had.  Cautious, curious, unsure.  Maybe wanting more, maybe not.  But she was not Buffy. 

"Sorry, pet," he muttered gruffly, finally giving in and taking the steps until he stood in front of her.  His hand reached out and touched her chin, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly across her skin.  He lifted her head up until he could see her eyes, glittering with tears she refused to set free.  "Sorry," he said again, feeling silly.  She needed to hear the words; he could feel it like a drumming in his skull.  Deep down he knew that Xander was the one she really wanted to hear it from, but maybe the words were more important right now than who was saying them.

He moved unhurriedly, his mouth closing the space between them with deliberate slowness.  The objection was hers to make, if she chose.  But she didn't.  And when his lips moved against hers gently in a gesture of comfort and understanding, she met them with her own, opening her mouth in acquiescence and acceptance.

Strong arms moved up to circle her neck, pulling her closer to those amazing, full lips.  Her body melted into his, her chest pressing hard against his, the nipples pebbling and brushing tantalizingly against his bare chest.  She moaned wordlessly, her hands winding around his hips and down to his ass.  Strong arms tried to pull him impossibly closer, then finally settled on brushing hungrily over the denim that covered his ass.

"Should we?"  Her words were muffled, and more of a formality than a serious question.  She wanted this, wanted him, and the feel of his hardening cock against her lower abdomen told her that his body, at least, had no objections either.

Spike pulled back a bit, tilting his head a little to the side and looking into her eyes.  "Up to you, pet.  I think you already know my opinion on the subject."  He smiled, that 'naughty boy' smile that he used when he was doing something that he knew was going to get him in trouble later.  But right then and there, he didn't care about the trouble, or the consequences. 

A protest had been made, for form's sake more than anything, and now Anya was ready to get back to the kissing.  Her hands moved up to cup the back of Spike's head, fingers threading through his hair as she lowered his lips to her neck. 

Spike knew the game, had studied his cues.  His lips caressed her throat and neck, raining kisses and nipping skin between blunt teeth, blazing a trail of sensation from her ear to her collarbone, back down to the hollow of her throat.

She threw her head back, her face slack and her eyes closed, her neck stretched out before him like a banquet.  The temptation was almost more than he could stand.  But he managed to keep the demon under control, if only because he knew that biting her would set off the chip, and a blinding migraine headache tended to put him out of the mood. 

Instead of biting, he nuzzled in closer, his tongue lapping at the taste of the skin while his teeth scraped lightly against it.  Her moan of satisfaction was his reward. 

The gentle teasing with teeth and tongue were driving Anya wild, but now she needed more.  She broke away from him for a moment, eyes wide and dazed, breathing labored, heart pounding deafeningly loud in her ears. 

Spike wondered if she had changed her mind.  Would she bolt, wrapping her tattered dignity around her as she ran?  But again he misjudged her, he realized, as she knelt before him, grabbing his hips to steady her quivering knees.  Hands attacked the remaining buttons of his jeans, yanking them down despite his warning yelp of, "Hey! Careful there!" 

She had seen him naked before, last night at the Magic Box, but it had been through an alcoholic haze, the likes of which she had not experienced in years.  Now she was sober, and his cock was *still* as impressive as she had remembered.  Unbeknownst to her, a sigh of satisfaction reached him as she took in the sight of him.

"You like?" Spike asked teasingly, and smiled at her when she nodded silently, her eyes glazed with lust as they stared up at him.  He stepped out of the jeans and kicked them across the floor. 

Anya licked her lips in anticipation, one hand moving from his hip to his cock, grasping it gently and traveling its length.  Spike moaned his approval, encouraging her to go further. 

She grasped it at the base and took him into her mouth, first the head and then the shaft, with excruciating slowness.  When another moan and hands in her hair confirmed that Spike was enjoying himself, she moved her mouth back to the tip, swirling her tongue around the sensitive tip. 

Her warm mouth caressed his cock, engulfing it and then pulling back.  The difference between the moist heat of her mouth and the cold air around them was making him harder, his body's confused actions to the stimuli definitely working in his favor.  It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep from framing her face with his hands and slamming in and out of her mouth until he came, but instead he grabbed her shoulders, pulled her to her feet, and pushed her back against the sarcophagus. 

His hands were impatient, grabby, as he pulled her blouse over her head and slid her pants down.  At the sight of her underwear his demon rebelled against his restraint and ripped the flimsy scrap of satin from her body, throwing it into the shadows.

He leaned into her, his arm grabbing her leg at the knee and hiking it upwards, the other knee coming up on its own until they both curled themselves around his waist.  The force of his body pressing her back against the sarcophagus was all that held her up, but the thought barely entered her mind before Spike thrust himself into her, the powerful thrust pinning her solidly against the sarcophagus and drawing a low moan from her lips.

"Fuck, Spike, why do you have to be so damn good at this," she muttered against his neck, her lips seeking his.  He continued to thrust in and out of her, picking up speed as he went.  He seemed to go deeper and deeper each time, touching places within her that had never been touched before.  It was almost as if all the times with Xander had simply been a prelude to this. 

Some distant part of her felt regret at her betrayal of the boy she had thought she loved, but that part was small and quiet and stupid, and she didn't listen to it for long.  Instead, she concentrated on the waves of pleasure that had taken control of her body.

Spike's fingers brushed softly against her breasts, and she broke her lips away from his to moan, "More," into his ear.

In answer to the request, his hands concentrated on her left nipple, running lightly along the areole before plucking gently at the tip.  He varied his attentions, first one nipple and then the other, until she never knew what to expect, or where to expect it.  It was driving her mad, and building up the pressure in her lower abdomen and she knew that any minute now, something was going to explode and white-hot heat would flow through her body, leaving her satisfied and replete.

Why did he have to be so good at this?  Spike pondered the question as he played her body like a well-tuned instrument.  He knew exactly where to touch her, how long to prolong the contact, and how it would make her feel.  Over a century of sex and lovemaking, for to him they were two entirely different things, had taught him what to do and how to do it.  But he also knew that an answer like that would make her feel small and insignificant and probably kill the mood.  Besides, the question had really been rhetorical in nature.

He read the signs his body gave him and knew that his orgasm was imminent.  His hips grew impossibly faster, thrusting up into her as deeply and quickly as he could without hurting her.  Oh, she would have bruises tomorrow regardless, but nothing that a few days' rest wouldn't take care of.

Her babble came in continuous waves now, phrases like 'oh, so good,' and 'more, damn it, more!' filled the air.  He watched her face as she came, her eyes closed, face tense, her lips slightly parted as a wordless yell filled the air, ringing off of the stark walls of the crypt.

Spike's orgasm hit then, as her muscles squeezed and rippled around him, and he came with a roar, continuing to thrust as he emptied his essence into her. 

They held their positions for a moment, Anya catching her breath, while Spike simply enjoyed the feel of her warm body pressed against his. 

Anya's legs released their hold on his hips, coming slowly to the ground.  They buckled slightly as her full weight came onto them, and she would have sunk to the ground if it weren't for the grip of Spike's cool arm around her waist. 

Looking ridiculously like two drunk humans, they pulled their bodies slowly to Spike's couch, Spike falling down first then pulling Anya to lie on top of him.  His grip was somehow comforting, making her feel both safe and cared for, and it didn't take long before sleep overcame her tired body.

Her last thoughts before slipping into blissful unconsciousness centered on the fact that they would have to do this again.  She craved the feel of his body against hers, and knew that what had happened tonight had not changed that. 

Maybe if they slept together often enough, she could get him out of her system.  It sounded like a plan, at any rate.

The End

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