A/N: I'm sure this fic will get minimal attention seeing as S/B is all anyone wants these days, but I just can't keep my hands off of S/Ay. They manage to be sad, tender, angry, passionate, empty, and hot as hell all at once; you'd have to be deaf, dull, and blind to not see the potential.
Disclaimer: Spike and Anya are Joss's babies. Lucky bastard.
Spike cannot remember the last time anyone touched him like this. Hell, he's not even sure anyone's *ever* touched him like this. He's been slashed, bitten, scalded, bruised, broken, sprained, whipped, hung, beaten, spit on, and choked during sex, but no one's ever done to him what Anya's doing now as he slides her skirt farther up her legs and immerses himself in her heat. She's kissing him --gently, without drawing blood or rattling his jaw-- stroking his face, running her fingertips over his temples and cheekbones, tangling her fingers in his hair --but only to feel it slide beneath her touch, not to yank his head around until he cries out in submissive pain-- whispering to him, his name, her pleasure, pleading, thanking; good, sugary things instead of degrading slanders and perverse, sadistic hisses.
Not that he has anything against sadism and perversion, but really, a century's worth of sex without tenderness can do a number on a bloke's self-esteem.
This is new, he thinks, being able to stroke and taste and talk and please without worrying when the next blow is going to come and cut him down again. Her hands are warm on his cold body as they slip beneath the duster and undo the first few buttons of his shirt. Not raucously ripping it open, but cautiously, carefully baring his skin to her. She brushes her lips against his chest, his neck, then guides his face down to hers and reaches up for a cool, whiskey-flavored kiss. He exhales needlessly into her mouth, breath stale and empty, and notes that she doesn't flinch away. He really likes this woman.
******************
Anya has lost herself in sensation. She's not thinking, not about Xander, not about ruined weddings, or about torture and evisceration. The only thing she's aware of is the comforting pressure of Spike's body pressing her into the table. Pressing into her. His mouth on her face, her collarbone, her lips, her shoulders, each touch distinct and separate and gentle. Her nerves are gasping from the contact.
She'd always imagined that Spike would be a rough, wild lover, much like any demon would in the throes of passion, ramming, roaring, ripping. But now here he is, reflecting her tender, reassuring movements, trying his best to comfort her, make her feel sexy and wanted and good. He's doing an excellent job, she thinks, and lets out a soft cry as his hand wanders between them, under the red satin of her bunched-up skirt. He certainly knows what to do with a girl.
Anya is dizzy from the liquor and the frantic pumping of her blood; the world has faded to white around the edges. Spike keeps catching her eye, drowning her in a pool of cerulean vulnerability; he seems a little shocked that she doesn't avert her gaze. She wonders absently who's beaten him into such a state of shame.
Things are starting to spin now. She closes her eyes and holds on tight to handfuls of leather, mouth falling open as everything begins to throb and burn. He's clawing at the table, groaning, kissing her, losing grace as he toes the line and falls over the edge. A rush of cold inside her has her taut, stretched, and shuddering around him.
It's over.
******************
A fine layer of fatigue settles over the two broken-hearted demons like ashes. Spike's head comes to rest on Anya's shoulder, his tousled hair absorbing some of the moisture from her sweat-glistened skin. Her arms stay twisted in his coat, unable and unwilling to move from their spot against him.
They're both coming down slowly, allowing only bits and pieces of reality to seep in at a time. Even through closed eyes, the lights in the shop seem too bright and harsh to open up to, so they stay closed. Awkwardness is on the tips of their tongues; their mouths stay closed, too. The only movement is the gradually steadying rise and fall of her chest.
Eventually, Spike summons the will to pull out and off of Anya's inviting body. He does so slowly, hesitantly, not wanting to break the placidness that they'd both needed so badly. He extends a hand to her and helps her down off the table, then turns away to pull his pants and belt back into position. Her sweet scent is all over him.
Anya slides the thin black strap of her bra back up over her shoulder and picks her top up from the ground. She lets it fall idly over her mostly bare torso, covering nothing but her skin. Both parties are feigning modesty, she sees, glancing over at Spike. He straightens when he feels her eyes on his back, but does not turn around until he finishes buttoning his fly.
Quietly, he says, "I should, um," and motions to the door.
She nods, forcing her lips into a smile. Just pretend everything's all right. "Yeah..."
He returns her smile, eyes flitting from the floor to her face. "All right, well... I guess I'll see you."
She nods again. "Yeah."
He takes a step backward, then starts to turn to go. But Anya reaches forward and catches him by the arm before he can take another step.
"Yeah?"
She looks up at him, and --tentatively-- she puts her arms around his neck and hugs him. A sigh of relief escapes her as he returns the embrace, holding her close to him. "If you need anything again..." she murmurs.
He understands what she means. "You too."
She rubs his back affectionately, and he plants a kiss on her forehead.
"Thanks," she says softly.
He nods. "Same to you." And they pull apart. "Goodnight, Anya."
She gives him a small wave as he walks to the door. "Goodnight, Spike."
Good luck to you, she adds. Things have changed.
FINIS
Disclaimer: Spike and Anya are Joss's babies. Lucky bastard.
Spike cannot remember the last time anyone touched him like this. Hell, he's not even sure anyone's *ever* touched him like this. He's been slashed, bitten, scalded, bruised, broken, sprained, whipped, hung, beaten, spit on, and choked during sex, but no one's ever done to him what Anya's doing now as he slides her skirt farther up her legs and immerses himself in her heat. She's kissing him --gently, without drawing blood or rattling his jaw-- stroking his face, running her fingertips over his temples and cheekbones, tangling her fingers in his hair --but only to feel it slide beneath her touch, not to yank his head around until he cries out in submissive pain-- whispering to him, his name, her pleasure, pleading, thanking; good, sugary things instead of degrading slanders and perverse, sadistic hisses.
Not that he has anything against sadism and perversion, but really, a century's worth of sex without tenderness can do a number on a bloke's self-esteem.
This is new, he thinks, being able to stroke and taste and talk and please without worrying when the next blow is going to come and cut him down again. Her hands are warm on his cold body as they slip beneath the duster and undo the first few buttons of his shirt. Not raucously ripping it open, but cautiously, carefully baring his skin to her. She brushes her lips against his chest, his neck, then guides his face down to hers and reaches up for a cool, whiskey-flavored kiss. He exhales needlessly into her mouth, breath stale and empty, and notes that she doesn't flinch away. He really likes this woman.
******************
Anya has lost herself in sensation. She's not thinking, not about Xander, not about ruined weddings, or about torture and evisceration. The only thing she's aware of is the comforting pressure of Spike's body pressing her into the table. Pressing into her. His mouth on her face, her collarbone, her lips, her shoulders, each touch distinct and separate and gentle. Her nerves are gasping from the contact.
She'd always imagined that Spike would be a rough, wild lover, much like any demon would in the throes of passion, ramming, roaring, ripping. But now here he is, reflecting her tender, reassuring movements, trying his best to comfort her, make her feel sexy and wanted and good. He's doing an excellent job, she thinks, and lets out a soft cry as his hand wanders between them, under the red satin of her bunched-up skirt. He certainly knows what to do with a girl.
Anya is dizzy from the liquor and the frantic pumping of her blood; the world has faded to white around the edges. Spike keeps catching her eye, drowning her in a pool of cerulean vulnerability; he seems a little shocked that she doesn't avert her gaze. She wonders absently who's beaten him into such a state of shame.
Things are starting to spin now. She closes her eyes and holds on tight to handfuls of leather, mouth falling open as everything begins to throb and burn. He's clawing at the table, groaning, kissing her, losing grace as he toes the line and falls over the edge. A rush of cold inside her has her taut, stretched, and shuddering around him.
It's over.
******************
A fine layer of fatigue settles over the two broken-hearted demons like ashes. Spike's head comes to rest on Anya's shoulder, his tousled hair absorbing some of the moisture from her sweat-glistened skin. Her arms stay twisted in his coat, unable and unwilling to move from their spot against him.
They're both coming down slowly, allowing only bits and pieces of reality to seep in at a time. Even through closed eyes, the lights in the shop seem too bright and harsh to open up to, so they stay closed. Awkwardness is on the tips of their tongues; their mouths stay closed, too. The only movement is the gradually steadying rise and fall of her chest.
Eventually, Spike summons the will to pull out and off of Anya's inviting body. He does so slowly, hesitantly, not wanting to break the placidness that they'd both needed so badly. He extends a hand to her and helps her down off the table, then turns away to pull his pants and belt back into position. Her sweet scent is all over him.
Anya slides the thin black strap of her bra back up over her shoulder and picks her top up from the ground. She lets it fall idly over her mostly bare torso, covering nothing but her skin. Both parties are feigning modesty, she sees, glancing over at Spike. He straightens when he feels her eyes on his back, but does not turn around until he finishes buttoning his fly.
Quietly, he says, "I should, um," and motions to the door.
She nods, forcing her lips into a smile. Just pretend everything's all right. "Yeah..."
He returns her smile, eyes flitting from the floor to her face. "All right, well... I guess I'll see you."
She nods again. "Yeah."
He takes a step backward, then starts to turn to go. But Anya reaches forward and catches him by the arm before he can take another step.
"Yeah?"
She looks up at him, and --tentatively-- she puts her arms around his neck and hugs him. A sigh of relief escapes her as he returns the embrace, holding her close to him. "If you need anything again..." she murmurs.
He understands what she means. "You too."
She rubs his back affectionately, and he plants a kiss on her forehead.
"Thanks," she says softly.
He nods. "Same to you." And they pull apart. "Goodnight, Anya."
She gives him a small wave as he walks to the door. "Goodnight, Spike."
Good luck to you, she adds. Things have changed.
FINIS