Summary: Is that "history" a bit more recent than Andrew thinks? Probably not, but what the hell. Let's pretend.
Timeline: Mid-"Storyteller". Spoilers up to that episode.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. 20th Century Fox Corp owns everyone but me.
Distribution: Please ask first - firstname.lastname@example.org
Note: This came about in chat one night when little_bit mentioned the theory that Buffy and Spike may be "Sculdering It" this year (which as a non-X-Files fan I had to be told meant rutting like crazed weasels offscreen). Hey, it could happen. Plus, the cigarette? And that rosy flush on her cheeks? C'mon. Work with me here.
Feedback: Always welcome.
Completed: March 2003.
"They're all outside," he whispered.
"Not all..." She glanced at the door, wishing she'd fixed the lock.
"S'alright...they know we're talking...won't come in..."
Her lips grazed his temple, quick breath soft on his ear. "Talking?"
He grinned, tightening his hold on her ass. "Among other things..." One hand traveled up and under her blouse to caress the silken arch of her lower back.
"Mmmn..." She rolled her head backward and eased down into his lap.
His head banged against the bedside. "God--"
"Shh." She caught his words in her hand, casting another quick glance over the plateau of her just-made bed. "Loudmouth."
He kissed her palm and placed it on his chest. "Your bloody fault."
"What, this?" Bunching his shirt material in her fist, she pulsed her interior vaginal muscles.
"Fuck--" he whispered, eyes rolling back.
She smiled, loving how much he loved this... wishing they had time, hours, days like they used to -- but here, now, she had to make haste... war on the horizon, potentials flooding the house, risk of being discovered at an all-time high. Not that she'd be ashamed, but this was her private life -- their private life. Only she and Spike could truly understand it. And with such little time for privacy and pleasure these days, keeping it to themselves seemed like the right thing to do. At least they were partially hidden here, sitting on the floor by the far side of the bed. If they had to, they could crawl into the bathroom before being seen. Not like the other night, when they wound up in the coat closet...
Danger was, she was getting to that point where she usually stopped caring about appearances. Wanted to stay here forever and ever, fucking him -- world be damned. Not today, not now...try to stay...focused...
Groaning, he raked his fingers through her hair, loosening her pony tail, letting her soft tresses fall and splay over her shoulders.
Licking her lips, she angled her thighs upward... and crashed down again, gasping as she felt the blunt stab of his cock deep in her middle.
Hands trailed up her sides to her waist, encouraging her mounting tempo.
"Spike..." One hand clutching the nape of his neck, she ducked the other under his t-shirt as she kissed his lips and ground into him rhythmically.
A growl slipped, airing out of his nostrils. Nothing better than this...
Moaning softly into his mouth, she disengaged her trapped hand and wrapped both arms around his shoulders to hold on for the ride.
For a second, they smiled at each other, at the secret they shared, until she quickened the pace, making him hiss and lose focus.
Wringing him mercilessly, she leaned forward to lock her chin in the crook of his neck.
He clutched her hair and kissed her head, savoring her fragrance, relishing the heated, blissful sounds she made.
She rocked faster, clasping tighter, beginning to shudder and shake...
He shoved a hand between them and massaged her most sensitive spot -- always so wet, so swollen for me...
"Love you," she breathed against his ear. "Love you, love you, love you, oh god..."
Eyes shut, mouth agape, yelp catching in her throat, she climaxed--inner walls throbbing, fresh fluid emerging, coating his balls and suckling his cock.
Gritting his teeth, he gripped her thighs and lunged upward, swallowing a groan as he came.
Gasping, she relaxed her grip and whispered again, "Love you."
He lifted her head to gaze at her, capture her lips again. This was about the thirtieth time she'd said it, and it still hadn't gotten old.
"Breakfast break!" a voice shouted from the backyard.
Their foreheads touched. A mutual sigh.
She smiled. "Starving."
One more kiss, and he nudged her up.
Uncoupling and sitting back on her heels, she reached for a tissue on the bedside table to swab herself with. Then she moved forward to clean him off. "Got Buffy juice all over you."
He smiled. "Like it that way."
"That's because you're gross," she shrugged, and tossed the tissues into the wastebasket before lying back to shimmy on the jeans that still hung from one ankle.
He zipped his pants, closed his buckle and watched her.
Swaying slightly as she stood up, she bent over, shaking out her hair and flipping it back. "Obvious?"
He smirked. "Completely."
He wiggled four fingers wrapped in her elastic ponytail band. "Specially since you were wearing this to start."
"Oh, crap," she took it and swept her hair back. "I might as well have my shirt on backwards."
"That can be arranged."
"Talk about obvious, bed head. Here." She bent to smooth his hair back.
He grasped her hands, looked in her eyes.
A quick eyeroll paired with a sweet smile. "C'mon." She helped him up.
He took his coat from the bed and slid it on, watching her pretty behind move as she reapplied lip gloss in the mirror.
"Okay," she breezed, pulling at blonde tendrils as she turned to face him. "Fresh as a recently-ravaged daisy."
"You were the one did all the ravaging."
"I could do some if you want. We could give it another go, top of the mattress this time -- bit of the old squeak-and-creak..."
"Bad boy." Weaving her fingers behind her back, she stepped up to rest her head against his chest. "I have work to do. Doom to report."
"Right," he sighed, instead of saying Don't go. "Apocalyptic SlayerVision -- now with hundreds more beasties set to jump out of the seal. You ready to face the flock?"
Touching her hair, he said softly, "You can do this, pet. One of the reasons I love you."
"Hey." She craned her face toward his. "You're moody and frustrated, remember?"
"Right, 'cause I'm not getting any. How's this?" He made a face.
She chuckled throatily. "A little less constipated maybe."
"No worries," he shrugged. "Anyone gets suspicious, you can always distract 'em with one of your 'Something's Coming But It Sure as Hell Ain't Me' speeches."
She gasped. "That is not why I make them!"
He followed her out the door. "So it's to shut their yammering gobs for a few minutes?"
She thought for a second, and lifted her browline. "Sometimes, yeah."
"Works for me." They walked down the stairs in silence.
As they rounded the corner into the dining room, he pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his coat pocket.
"Spike!" she hissed, stopping in her tracks and holding the pack down.
"Moody and frustrated," he murmured, brow knit. "Remember? Goes either way."
She sighed and let go. "Fine."
With a wink, he strode ahead to a room teeming with estrogen -- two resident poufters not excluded -- and put on his best scowl. "Look at this place. Damned girls' dorm is what it is."
Lighting his cigarette, Spike stole a glance at his lover -- fresh as a recently-ravaged daisy -- and suppressed a happy smile.