Shell Games (NC-17...no, seriously)

[Mabus]

I'm going to take a bit of a gamble and post this. Frankly, I find having written it a bit embarrassing. It kept bugging me and obstructing my other writing, though. I figure I may as well see what people think of it here.

Disclaimer: All characters involved are property of Joss Whedon. He might go hide his eyes in a corner and have a good cry, though. That or laugh his ass off.

Setting: DeadWarVerse (post-Chosen, ignores comics); sometime between "And Having Writ" and "Refuge of Lies".

Rating: NC-17 (hot sex...I hope)

Characters/Pairing: Xander/Illyria, interspersed with Xander&Willow friendship scenes for exposition

"It's like she's just going through the motions," he mumbled. "Like she's not really there. Like she's not even a she...just an it."

Willow shrugged. "Yeah. It's like that."

He wanted to leap from his chair, shouting. That wouldn't be fair, though. He only spluttered. "But you told me--you set me up with--why would you, if she's--?"

"It's also not like that." Willow's lower lip crinkled briefly beneath her teeth. "She doesn't have to do the things we do, Xander. If Illyria hiccups or shivers or yawns or even just breathes, it's voluntary. So, yeah, you could say it's not 'real' when she does it. She doesn't feel happy and the corners of her mouth just pull up because she feels like smiling. Her eyes don't just tear up if she's sad. She has to decide. She makes it happen. But that also means she makes it happen for a reason. It's more like, um, talking.

"She's telling you something, Xander. If Illyria kisses you...she means it."
*****
Illyria has little patience with television. She will peer at it, studying, searching for understanding. Sometimes she sits through three-hour movies and then watches them again. But once she has learned what she wishes to know, she walks away, even if only fifteen minutes and a quarter of the show have passed. Commercials irritate her--unless they are what she has chosen to watch. This year she recorded them and ignored the Superbowl.

Xander is reasonably sure she isn't paying attention to the Borg Queen. "Data understands me," the cybernetic monstrosity lilts, but the God-King's eyes are unfocused.

"She has delusions of grandeur," he mentions. "Data's about to betray her, and then she's going to get the flesh melted off her exoskeleton." Illyria doesn't usually care about spoilers. Sometimes she even appears to enjoy them. Anyway, he thinks she's seen this one.

She seems perfectly comfortable, bent at the waist like that, her gaze directed--if anywhere--at an equipment console to Captain Picard's right. It wouldn't be the first time she's commented on props as if they were extrapolations of real technology. "Your speech is errant. An exoskeleton would contain its flesh within."

Geez. "Sorry. I admit to not getting into advanced college grammar. Or college at all." Not for the first time, he wishes she'd wear something less distracting. If she only called people out for coming on to her, that'd be one thing, but she treats involuntary reactions the same way. She's most likely not even really aware of the direction her behind is aimed. That suit, molded to her body like that....

"It is in the form of your words. Exo. Without." She glances back at him, her eyes a painted-over window. "Must I demonstrate your own language?" He nearly chokes; a long segment of deep red leather--if leather is the word for it--has disappeared from her armor, revealing swathes of pale and darker blue flesh. Specifically, the segment directly over her--

She frowns as if he has failed to understand a joke. Then, very deliberately, winks at him.

The "nearly" officially vanishes from that statement.
*****
"I get it, Will, but...um, stop me if I start to get TMI. When we...the first time...and suddenly she just stopped reacting. Until it was over."

Willow chuckled. "That's not 'too much information'. That's 'almost no information.'" Then her face smoothed over, immediately serious again. "You thought she was faking."

"You've gotta admit, her timing was sorta off. Then she made up this lame excuse about Fred not knowing much about sex, so she didn't know either."

"I think Fred knew more than she let on," Willow said with a smirk. "Xander, think about it from her point of view. Illyria's, I mean."

"I know who you mean."

"Well...um, good." Her brow crinkles. "She notices more than we do. She can think about more at once than we can. But she's not infinitely intelligent. She has limits."

"Which she complains about being a lot closer than they used to be, not that I could ever tell." Where the heck was Willow going with this?

"What she showed you was her choice, Xander. But I told you--everything's voluntary to her. You can't take that as meaning she's lying to you." She studied his face, obviously detecting the absence of comprehension. "You had her attention, Xander. All of her attention, which is to say, lots and lots. Something like a continent's worth. I think you distracted her so much that she...forgot, until after."

"Forgot to come?"

"No. Just forgot to tell you. Probably because she came."

"Oh." Xander considered that a moment. "I'm going to go out on a limb and think that's good."
*****
"Nothing is of interest," she says. "I tried to inflict violence on a demon earlier this morning but found it unchallenging."

He tries to take that in stride. It doesn't mean he's the last thing she thought of doing. Really, it doesn't. "How do I take this off you?" There are no obvious seams to her armor; the gap she made has closed again.

"I will remove it as before."

She makes as if to concentrate, and he puts his hands around her left wrist. "Don't." Her eyes are dangerous, intrigued, puzzled, all at once. "There's no mystery that way. I mean, sometimes that's okay, but we can let it take time. Build the tension a little."

Illyria shakes her head. "It cannot be removed in the manner of your garments." Because there really are no seams. Right.

"Okay," he tells her. "So let me try this." He pulls his clasped hands along her wrist, drawing them up as if pulling the edge of a glove. She examines his motions--then, for a change, seems to understand. Texture changes beneath his hands; something hard, if pliable, gives way to soft, feverishly warm flesh. Skin the color of summer sky appears at the trailing edge, continues past her wrist, up onto the back of her hand. Her fingers emerge, nails dark and shiny as obsidian, and perhaps as sharp. The second "glove" follows. "How was that?"

"It consumes the time." Not good. "Is there no urgency involved?" Oh.

"Yes, there is." He puts her hands on his waist, against the hem of his shirt. "The more time it takes, the more urgency. The more urgency, the better." She is tugging his shirt upward, very slowly. Very much too slowly. "Well, to a certain point. Which is not a pun."

"For something you claim is natural," she says, tossing the shirt aside, "this is a very complex ritual." He moves his hands upward from the top of her hips, armor vanishing under his touch. The skin here, he thinks, is exactly as hot as the skin on her hands. There's something abnormal about that, which, under the circumstances, is perfectly fine with him. Likewise the cool-seeming milky paleness of her neatly toned belly, shading through robin's-egg to the blue of a dark sky around on her sides, streaked narrowly with darker markings. The hairless hollows beneath her arms are perhaps midnight; her nipples, an abrupt indigo set in nearly white flesh.

"We like it that way," he suggests. "Although, given we don't have to think about it much--"

"It seems uncomplicated to you." For the first time, he can detect a scent to her, something he can't quite put a name to because it doesn't belong here. It's too clean, too sharp. He nuzzles his mouth against her neck, searching for the source, and feels muscles tensing beneath.

It's like the odor of a summer storm. "Ozone," he remembers. "You smell like ozone." Faint, growing stronger, he thinks, somewhere down past her collarbone. "Is that--?"

"It is...a byproduct of motion. Or emotion. Normally, I suppress it, else I could be tracked." Very carefully, she takes hold of his head and presses, bringing his eyes around to meet hers. "I can substitute human musk, if this distracts you."

"No," he says, wondering what else she can change. "This is...it's interesting. I like it." Wondering whether his agreement means he's growing comfortable having feelings for a demon, or just avoiding the issue.

"Your body's odor pleases me as well," she says without a hint of irony, and makes a first attempt at biting his nipple. "Have I tickled you?"

"Uh-uh," he chuckles. "Just...Willow wasn't entirely right about something, that's all. That's good. Careful with the teeth, though."

"It seems I recall," says Illyria as nails, duller than he thought but still quite keen, slide down the slope of his back, "that speaking of others during this act is considered impolite."
*****
"If she's like that, though," he wants to know, "how come she's interested at all? I mean, what makes her want to be turned on if she's not turned on?"

"I dunno for sure, Xander." Willow blushes faintly. "It's not like I asked her all about it."

And if she had, she probably wouldn't want to explain how that topic came up. "Sorry."

"I do have a theory, though." Her eyes unfocus a little. "Illyria doesn't have needs or drives the way we do. I don't know where her energy comes from, but she doesn't need to eat, or breathe, or sleep."

"Yeah. So this is the same?"

"Kinda. I think. But Xan...remember the KFC incident?"

He'd brought home a large bucket of fried chicken, intending it for what was left of the Scooby gang, then stepped into the kitchen to get out the two-liters. "When she ate the whole bucket and asked if there was more."

"Uh-huh. Her body's still set up to have all the same kinds of responses a human body would, if she wants. Not getting hungry doesn't mean she can't enjoy eating. She likes taking hot showers even though she doesn't get sweaty or sore. I figure any physical pleasure we can feel is good for her too."

"But she doesn't--?" Xander's head hurt. "What difference does it make, then? I'm sorry, not getting the drift here. The drift is drifting away from me."

"Xander, what part of your body is worked up when you want to see Phantasm? Is it a different part from when you want to watch Apocalypse Now or Terminator? Did you get born with an organ that tells you to when to play football?"

"I guess...it's all in my head?" His hands were on his temples; the tension faded. "So it's never, um...urgent to her."

"That's exactly the right word! Because there's no 'urge', see? But it's never not urgent, either."

"So, just any time it occurs to her...hey. Surely you're not saying what I think you're saying."

Willow thought about that and giggled. "Yup. She doesn't ever need satiating. She's literally insatiable. You lucky dog you."

"Are you sure I'm gonna survive this? Cause if not, I'm taking you out of my will."
*****
"Sorry," he tells her. "I'm not trying to, ah...affront your Highness."

"I asked," she says, hinting at a shrug. The gesture is not entirely accurate and does interesting things to her small breasts. "You responded. No affront is taken. Only your customs have been violated."

"Which isn't any concern of yours."

"Indeed not." Illyria is unfastening his pants. It seems somehow wrong that this creature should be familiar with zippers. She's certainly being very familiar with his. "Am I taking sufficient time to maintain your sense of urgency?"

She lets them fall along with his boxers, allowing him to step out. "You're doing fine." Better than last time, though in fairness that was even more unexpected than this. He'd stuttered and stammered his way through that encounter and still isn't certain how he managed to please her when he wasn't all that satisfied himself. "Surely you can tell."

Illyria wraps slender, burning fingers around his ****. "This is entirely outside your command?" He gulps and nods, trying to maintain what fragments of control he has. "And it does not offend you, that your own body will not submit to your will?"

"It's," he begins, and has to swallow hard; all the moisture in his mouth seems to have been recalled for reuse elsewhere. "It's par for the course, being human. Careful there."

Her fingers slip away, leaving him a little relieved and very much disappointed. Or is that the other way 'round? To regain his composure he reaches for her "pants". Illyria twitches the corner of her mouth--a smirk? maybe--and bats his hands aside. "Then it does not bother you not to be in control." She turns sideways, studying his reaction, and slides her fingers a little way down the lowest portion of her stomach, causing an angled section of armor to melt after them. "I believe this is the proper motion, correct?"

What the hell has she been watching? "That's it. And now you bite the side of your finger and moan a little. No, hold the pants there and use the other hand." Maintaining the witty banter isn't easy, but he's had a great deal of practice. "Okay, the urgency is going to get out of hand if we're not careful here, and you're not even finished undressing." She could get a better reaction if she were to-- As if reading his mind (as, he suddenly but dimly recalls, she can sort of do), she turns to one side and bends as she slides her hands down her legs, revealing herself ass first and only then turning back to let him view the rest. "I see that's your natural hair color," he quips weakly. The neatly trimmed tuft is indeed striped blue and black, the same as the long straight locks covering her shoulders. Below that, as he saw before, are folds a shade of indigo even darker than her nipples.

"There is," she informs him, "nothing natural about me."

Yeah, he knew that by now.
*****
"So how'd that work? Did the Old Ones only just have kids when they decided to?" In Xander's experience, demons usually tended to be just as turned on as humans. Sometimes a lot more. There were definitely urges involved.

"I...don't think they did. Ever, actually." Willow tapped fingers on her lip, thinking. "From what I read, the Old Ones predated sex and gender. There were a lot of variations, but most of them were closer to 'it' than 'he' or 'she'. Illyria's actually adjusted pretty well, I'd say. They had plenty of different ways of spreading their essence, and most of them didn't make babies. Or their own kind, really, at all. They were immortal, remember?"

"I guess it sucked to be them."

"I don't think they'd have seen it that way. The Old Ones spent all their time at war with each other, so making more would be kinda dumb. It's not even that unnatural, really--us vertebrates are the wacky ones for having two fixed sexes."

That's not really something he wants to think about. "Wait--does that mean she was a virgin before me?"

Willow rolls her eyes. "Sure. Except she has all Fred's memories of sex and Fred's body. And that dead army of hers--all her spawn. Or maybe grandspawn or something. She just hasn't reproduced the human way."

"I'm happy to just be technical about it," he tells her with a grin.

"She might have had sex with Wesley or Spike," Willow points out. "Or someone we don't know. Don't let it go to your head. Oh, and speaking of reproduction--"

Alarming much! "Wait, she can do that? With me? But I didn't...I...."

"Um, probly not. I mean, I'm not sure she has insides exactly. It's all flowy in there. But then, like I said--they didn't do things the human way at all. She might not need a uterus exactly--or even Illyria-genes, some demons don't use DNA--and I think most all of the different races sorta come from some kind of infusion of demon essence with humans anyway, one way or another...."

"In other words, there's no point in birth control because it doesn't work that way to start with?"

Willow shrugs. "I couldn't say. But I think, maybe, with everything else...if she doesn't want to, she won't."

"And if she does?"

"First kiss on the cheek might've been too late."

"Ouch. Thanks for clearing that up."
*****
Illyria's mouth is hot. Attractive-hot. Also sauna-hot. That's a little worrying.

Her tongue traces the little ridges on the top of his palate. One of his hands is cupped around her breast, the other holding her ass. Hers are teasing his hair still; she seems to find it fascinating. No accounting for taste, especially with demons. But it's not like she doesn't have her own to play with.

She presses up against him with what probably passes for gentleness; he has to remove that first hand or let her crush it. It's all good, though; he runs it down her back. He can't feel a heartbeat, still, not even chest to chest, but there's a sort of thrumming motion he doesn't recognize. And heat. Her body burns like a furnace. Maybe it is one, for all he knows.

Sometimes when he touches her where she isn't expecting, she doesn't feel like skin at all. Or maybe she does expect and is showing off. Smooth and hard like plastic. Rough, like scales. But wherever he touches shifts under his hand, becomes what he'd expect to find. He squeezes her butt again--she seems to like that, even with the nails--and feels pure solid become tensed muscle, then relax. What is she, really, underneath? Heat and ozone-scent are the only constants, and she's already told him she can change one.

"Energy is a requirement," she says as if he'd asked, "heat a given. But they can be contained." The breasts pressed against his chest cool to room temperature. To ice. He yelps, and they warm again. "You need only ask nicely."

"I keep thinking you're going to burn me," he confides. "Especially your inside parts. Your mouth. Your pussy."

"Did I harm you before?" He shakes his head wordlessly. "If I desired your injury, Alexander, I would inflict it without preliminary pleasures." Her mouth is on his ear. "Is this pace sufficiently slow?"

Xander laughs softly. "I think I'm ready to move along," he says. Her legs drift further apart. "I don't think you are, though." He runs a hand along her folds, and she favors him with a whimper--if she does it, he reminds himself, then she means it--but they feel no damper than the slightt moist of normal skin.

His carefully-probing finger finds no change, for a moment--a torrent of dry heat--and then she murmurs, "Oh." There is no transition; the friction is instantly gone, leaving slick and damp in its place. "It escaped my mind," she says. She still does not feel quite like what he is accustomed to; the quality is more smooth than wet. But she insists, "Now," and he obeys.

"I thought you would want to be on top," he questions carefully, pushing into her. At first the majority of his **** seems to be immersed only in heat, before he feels her close around him. What is she really like in there? Is there even a true answer to that?

"I will be," she says breathily. "When I so choose. If I am to train you," she continues between his thrusts, "I must first ease your mind."

"Really?" Illyria seems to have no trouble carrying on the conversation. Not so easy for him.

"Or I could shatter your defenses. And yourself." She pauses to moan and shiver. "That would defeat my purpose."

"Which?" ...the world is narrowing to red haze and skin contact.... "is?" Illyria ignores his words, taking one of his hands, half-guiding, half-forcing it to the join between his flesh and hers. "'Lyri'?" Her next moan becomes a sharp inrush of air, a gasp, and he has forgotten to ask whether this is real; he can feel her quivering beneath him, speaking broken shards of his name, and then he is releasing, jetting into her. "'Lyri'," he says again, breathlessly. How did he miss that shortening before? "'Lyri'."

Xander lies atop her chest, slowing his breathing. He still can't feel her heart. She has one, he thinks. Just not that kind. Maybe she really does. Somehow he finds that more disturbing than the alternative. "Was that better?" she asks. "Focus is difficult within the throes." That sounds mostly coherent. Maybe a little spacier than she usually runs.

"You did fine," he says, and strokes her cheek. "Don't try too hard." That clean crispness of her scent hangs in the air. "'Lyri', what purpose did you mean?"

"I make great allowances for your weakness," she says, smiling wickedly. "But now that we are done, you must say my name aright."

"Or what?" He's still draped limp across her body, and suddenly the thought occurs that she could shatter his bones one at a time. At leisure. He shivers.

"You are," she says--is that a playful tone?--"at my mercy."

What the hell has he gotten into now?

"Hey," he mumbles. "Hands!"