No Mistletoe Required

It was all too over too soon. She'd pulled away, he'd pulled away, and then they'd played the blame game. At least the blame wasn't hurled toward each other. But each made a point of identifying each erotic stimulant they'd come into contact with, which had made it impossible to ignore the other. By the time they were done... they were quite sure what they'd had was orchestrated sex, and anyone would have done as a partner.

Naturally that didn't sit too well with Spike. He paced back and forth in the long red silk robe while his clothes lay drying in front of the fireplace. She was wearing the only other article of clothing in the closet, a black silk robe, thigh high. When she'd reached for the red one, he'd snarled and grabbed it. There was no bloody way he was going to wear something that feminine!

"What's the point of this... this place? I mean clearly it’s built for sex, but why? Why isn't the owner using it, what the bloody hell are we doing here?" He threw her a dark look, "this wasn't some plot to get me into your clutches, was it?" ‘Course not, her frosty glare was answer enough. He went off in another direction, heading for the Christmas tree near the window.

It was quite picturesque, what with the snow caught on the panes, and the lights flickering. He played with one of the clear balls on the tree, then took a closer look. Inside, there were dolls or some sort of holographic projection of a couple making love. Having sex. Their desperate movements reminded him too much of what had passed before and he turned away. Seeing every one of the balls depicted some sort of sex, he shook his head and moved away. "Nothing's sacred anymore."

Buffy moved to the front door again, peering out into the darkness. “Sacred, schmacred,” she replied dismissively. “Christmas has been commercialized for years. Not sure why you’re worried about some glass ornaments….” The snow had stopped falling, and crystalline sparkles glittered across the blanket of snow covering the meadow. It was a perfect picture of a winter night suitable for romance and love by a roaring fireplace. And the two of them had all of the elements they needed, from big fluffy bed to big furry rug. But why?

Was this really Taliaferro’s cabin? And if so, whoa, did he ever have some scary taste in interior decorating! But what if it wasn’t? She was starting to think there might be some kind of lust spell over the whole place, and not just the bath water. Why else would she have fallen into Spike’s arms –okay, fallen onto his face, and then over the back of the couch— with so little protest? None at all, in fact, which just wasn’t like her! There had to be dark forces at work!

And, she had to admit, those dark forces certainly knew how to dress a lust-object vampire. Hard as she tried to focus her attention on other things, the awareness of Spike draped in red silk was always at the front of her mind, and impossible to shut out of her eyes. He was reflected in the window glass, the frames for the paintings, and the strategically placed mirrors. The lingering smell of sex in the air only added to the tortures her imagination conjured up; what it would be like to take him into her mouth through that silk, to lick and suck until the fabric was soaked through by her mouth, his eagerness.... And then to ride him in front of the fire, slowly, torturing them both with delayed gratification, tantalizing teasing and—

Abruptly, she turned away from the door. “I have to get out of this damned place,” she exclaimed, but then modified her tone, afraid that whomever enchanted the place had other tricks in store for that kind of attitude. “I mean,” she amended sweetly, “honey,” she said through her teeth in a cloying tone, “look how pretty the woods are. Wouldn’t you like to take a romantic walk with me?”

His gaze narrowed and shifted to her. "Stepford wife look doesn't become you." He wasn't daft, but if she thought the powers forcing them together had romance in mind, she needed to take a good look around the place and at what had happened between them. His personal feelings inside, they'd turned into animals seeking only one thing.

"But honey," she gritted out, "I really want to take a walk." Because if she didn't get out of the damned cabin she'd throw him down and do every naughty, titillating thing in every piece of art work, every statue, every decoration. She'd whimper and she'd beg and she'd plead for something he didn't have and couldn't ever give her.

"Come on, Spike." She scooped up her boots and socks, and yanked them on. The rest of her clothes were still far too snow-soaked to put on, so the scanty black silk robe it would have to be. Not exactly hiking attire. "Come with me." She held out her hand to him. It trembled. Have to get out of the door as soon as he takes it, or god knows what else I'll let him take.

"It's cold outside. You're not dressed, and I'm not flouncing about like a bloody poofter," he said looking down at the robe.

And still she stared at him. Indecision. "Not going out into it." He took her hand and tugged the door open. "Can sit on the porch for a bit."

Outside, he stared at the sky. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

The moon was huge, like a Jupiter come to visit Earth. The meadow had shrunk to the size of a postage stamp, and the forest loomed over the little cabin close as a tempting whisper. “No way, no way the moon grew like that in any normal winter night! And the shrinking meadow… and hello, forest!” Buffy indicated the spooky changes all around them, and felt the hair on the back of her neck rising. “I think we’d better see how far we can get.”

Releasing his hand, she moved down the porch steps, and onto the snow. It crunched beneath her feet. “Well, at least there’s no blizzard,” she commented, arching an eyebrow at him. “No wicked magical weather driving us back inside this time.” Without checking to see if he was following, she slogged out into what was left of the meadow, and approached the edge of the trees. She rounded the first one, and came immediately back.

“Houston, we have a problem.”

"Was afraid you'd say that," adjusting the skimpy robe, Spike walked into the snow in his bare feet. Right... just because you were cold to begin with, didn't mean you couldn't get any colder.

He reached her side and stared at the black void surrounding the forest for as far as the eye could see. "This wasn't here when we got here. I walked a lot further than this," he said the obvious and stuck his hand out into the dark space. It was colder than the snow. He stuck his foot inside, and found there was no ground to step onto. "I'll climb down," he offered, when a tremendous force slammed into his arm and knocked him onto his ass in the snow. He rubbed his arm, "you don't think there are sharks in there... I hate sharks..."

[Elsewhere]

Chester looked at the basketball sized bubble on his table and wondered if he'd have to smack the vampire again. "Bad bad boy, trying to get out." Soon, there wouldn't be any possibility of that. "Come on.... go back inside and have more sex for papa."

He licked his lips as he thought about how intense the last time had been. He hadn't jacked off so hard since ohhhh 1908. These two would quickly become his favorite couple. Now if only they'd go back inside and fuck some more...

But noooo, they had to stand there like morons in the snow, chilling all their bits and nattering on about how the place had shrunk. What kind of hot blooded person –all right, the vamp was cold-blooded, but still—could walk away from the fantasy setting he’d crafted in the bubble? And who would want to? His own little world of personalized live pornography….

Just thinking about it was getting him hard again. “Back inside,” he growled. “Papa wants to play.”

[Inside]

"A shark," she asked incredulously. "You think a shark is out here in the woods In the dead of a totally non-Southern California winter jus so it can stalk your hand as it appears in the gaping void of something that's out there? Talk about your irrational fears," and she pulled him back to his feet.

"But it sure was something strong to knock you on your ass. I don't think climbing down is such a good idea. Maybe if we look through?" She stepped up to the viscous nothingness, and looked over her shoulder at Spike. "Don't take this the wrong way, or anything, but hold me." She rested her fingertips on the cold slick stuff, and got ready to lean in for a better look, just as the snow started to fall again, gentle flakes stirred by a frisky frosty breeze.

"Bit late to get all shy and demure with me, yeah?" He slipped his hands around her waist… her narrow, firm waist, so warm. "Go on then,” He leaned forward to allow her to do the same.

Fighting the distraction of Spike’s hands… his strong, clever, hands and agile fingers… gripping her waist, and him leaning against her –not far different from the position over the couch which still had her system humming, Buffy tried to focus on the wall of nothingness in front of her. But it was really difficult, when she knew there was nothing between her sex and Spike’s but two flimsy silk robes, easily tossed up and out of the way....

Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward. The substance didn’t really give any support, so she was dependent upon Spike to hold her safely. Now there was a damned oxymoron! There was never anything safe about the way Spike held her!

Just as Buffy’s face was about to press through the –whatever it was—the snow started to fall in earnest, and the wind picked up, no longer frisky, but ferocious. The snowflakes grew even larger, and were whipped into a wild swirl around the pair of them.

As the wind kicked up and things became less visible in the flurry, he pulled
her back and dragged her back to the cabin, ignoring whatever it was she was
yelling. The wind snatched her words from her mouth anyway, even if he had been listening, he wouldn't know she was demanding he let her go.

He pushed the door shut against the winds and turned around. "Inside time,
unless it's another bath you're wanting," his gaze lingered on her curves so she could not miss his meaning.

It was self-defense that had her voice going sharp and mean, and she snapped out, “Only to wash your touch off of me, Spike.” Flushed from a disturbing combination of anger, embarrassment, and desire, she stomped past him, short black silk swinging furiously with her strides. Once to the tub (drained and cleaned, and when had that happened?), she snatched her soggy clothes up from the floor and hauled them back to the fire to dry.

She spread them out for maximum surface exposure to the crackling flames, refusing to meet Spike’s eyes as she did it. What she’d said wasn’t fair, and she knew it, and knowing it made her feel guilty, which made her even more cranky. But it was only Spike! Those were dumb feelings! She stared into the flames, and blamed them for the heat in her cheeks. And her groin.
That hurt. Even if he should be used to it. Even if he was a hardened vampire who had more than a hundred years on her. It hurt.

He'd keep his hands off her, that what he'd do. Even if she looked so damned
hot by the firelight, even if her body knew better than her heart and it wasn't shy about asking. But that didn't mean he had to have temptation in the line of his sight. He strode to the window, and looked out at the expanse of white. Nothing to see. Nothing to do. Except for... yeah... that was part of the set up.

Desperate for distraction, Buffy scrambled to her feet. “There’s got to be something to do here that’s not all about –being manipulated,” she said in frustration. She headed first for the magazines, but remembered what Spike had told her about them. Sneaking a glance at him, she paused for a moment to admire him, white skin, white snow; blue eyes, platinum hair, heart’s blood silk. Muscled and beautiful as a statue. He didn’t even have to be looking at her for her heart to leap into her throat. Her mouth went dry, and she turned hastily away toward the bookshelves.

Even if he couldn't feel her stare, it wasn't as if the window didn't reflect her slow inspection of his silhouette... all of it. He'd bet she'd like to blame it on this cabin, but she always looked... whenever she thought he didn't know, or other time when she forgot they weren't an item.

He took a deep breath, crossed his arms and continued to stare out the window. "When you find it, tell me."

“Will do,” she replied, trying like crazy to keep her eyes on the book titles. Some of them were simply too obvious to even pick up, but there was one there that looked dull enough. It was called The Pearl, and was a compilation of some Victorian magazines published over about a year in the late 1800s. She took it to the plushy loveseat and opened it at random, beginning to read.

“This one’s Victorian,” she commented. “Should be dull, right?”

She tucked her legs up under her, and rested her head on one hand as she idly turned the pages, not really concentrating. The fire felt good on her bare legs, and the chill from the second time outside had completely faded away.

"Victorians dull? Only in hindsight." He shook his head, knowing exactly where that book of hers was about to lead, and relishing the thought of her surprise.

"Well, they sure are using long words," she said crankily. "Are you sure these are even English? Weren't Victorians in England?" She kept her eyes glued on the page, refusing to let them be tricked into staring at Spike again. Silently, her lips shaped the phrase that was giving her the most trouble. Gam— gam— uh— how— chang? Could that be it? And what was this other one, 'salty quim'? Some kind of cooking book? Did she have a really wordy Victorian recipe in front of her?

“Spike, is this a cookbook or what? I can’t understand half of the words they’re using here. What the heck is a gamahauche? And a quim?”

Spike coughed and turned around. He'd been expecting something like this... but not this. "Quite simple really, gamahauche is what I gave you in the shower... and may I say it was a pleasure pleasuring your quim?" He watched her cheeks flush, reminding him of how she looked during the heat of the moment.

Shocked, Buffy looked up into Spike's angel-blue eyes. "Guess this isn't a cookbook after all," she said weakly, her insides twisting with fresh desire at the memory of how he'd tormented her in the shower. Fucked her over the couch. Made her beg.

She stood and shoved the book violently back into its place on the shelf, then stood straight, arms crossed over her bosom to hide the aroused peaks of her breasts behind the black silk. Who knew that being around so much smut could turn her into such a ho? She completely blamed the environment. There was no way that she could want Spike this badly. Probably anyone would have done. Maybe even Xander.

She choked back a semi-hysterical laugh. No, probably not.

"No, but not all types of cooking are done in the kitchen." He walked across the room, stood next to her, so close he could feel her body heat emanating through her robe. He could hear her heart kick up a notch, and the way she sucked in her breath made him want to turn her chin up and kiss her. Instead, he put his hand out and used his index finger to slide the book out of its place on the shelf. "Let's see what we have here. Sounds better if one knows ... English," he mocked.

He leaned against the shelf and thumbed through the book until he found a passage that seemed interesting and began to read. His voice went down an octave, his accent changed back and forth as he read the dialogue of a rakish Earl and the naive lower class maid he wickedly seduced. "'Come now my dear, did no one tell you part of your duties includes the dusting of the ruby head?' The earl took her dainty hand and placed it on his throbbing ivory implement of terror and desire. 'There now... rub my dear, be sure to dust every bit.'"

Fascinated by the changes in Spike's voice, Buffy just listened. When he paused, she found herself wanting to hear more... or maybe to do a little dusting of her own. She licked her lips and forced herself to sit on the arm of the loveseat instead, and said lightly, "I dunno, still seems pretty tame."

"'Your Lordship?' Her hand trembled as she touched him in the place she had always wondered about but had never seen. It was scary, but also soft and silky... and it grew. Her eyes went round as the Earl gave a guttural cry. She withdrew her hand, 'Did I hurt you?'

He grasped her hand and put it back. 'Don't stop, and I won't stop...'

'What?' she asked, trying to move away as he thrust his hand under her skirt and touched her secret place, causing it to weep... with a pleasure that was sharp and tart. 'Don't stop,' she begged, giving him what he wanted and starting to make sounds that were foreign to her ears."

Abruptly, Buffy stood and snatched the book out of his hand. What Spike was reading had become far less disturbing than the effect his velvety upper-crust accent was having on her, and she had to make it stop, right then. Besides, the gapping of his robe, exposing chest and rippling belly, was far too distracting.

“Not to your taste, I take it?" he asked, licking his lips. He realized this was a dangerous game, and he was quite possibly playing right into the hands of the owner of the cabin. But how could he not tease her when she was so serious, and trying so hard to ignore him?

"Nope," she said, dropping the book to the floor. But he was. Oh, god, was he ever to her taste. Her eyes dropped of their own accord to his beautiful chest, and lower to his stomach.... "Never heard you sound like that before," she added before she realized that he might take it as a compliment. Which it totally wasn't!

She wrenched her eyes back to his face, and felt an overwhelming urge to lick where his tongue had licked. She leaned closer, and the silk of their robes whispered together.

"No? Then there's much about me you still don't know, isn't there?" He wondered if she'd do it, bend that far and kiss him. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he gave a somewhat mischievous smile.

"'Tell mee not of youre starrie eies,
Your lips that seem on roses fedde,
Your breastes where Cupide tombling lyes,
Nor sleepes for kissing of his bedde.'"*

"No more words," she hissed, driven to desperation by that rubbed velvet sound, the perfect shape of his lips as they formed the lovely words. She had to make it stop, or the spell would have her completely, she just knew it. So Buffy brushed her lips across Spike's, feather-light, and trailed kisses down his sculpted chest and stomach, touching him only with her mouth, teasing through the silk as she had imagined doing earlier—and lower.

His chest rumbled. No, he wasn't laughing at her at all. But she had cracked, and that made him happy. He put his hand behind her head, running his fingers through her silky hair, hoping she wouldn't pull away too fast... not when her feathery touches were doing things to him that no one else could.

Everywhere that Buffy had trailed her lips, she followed with her tongue, licking and sucking across both bare skin and red silk, still using only her mouth. Laugh at her, would he? She'd show him who had the power and the control in this pairing! Sharp, surprising nibbles alternated with long, slow strokes of her tongue, hot breath blown across wet skin. Her tongue delicately darted beneath the edge of the silk, and her teeth teased it aside, giving greater scope to her torments.

Swallowing hard at the sight of her blond head moving lower and lower, he slipped his hand between them and undid his robe. He would have made a joke about his implement of terror, if he weren't fighting so hard for his control.

She snapped at his knuckles, and bit hard, punishment for his presuming to lead her where she was headed all along. A growl trickled from her throat as she fastened her lips around him, suckling fiercely at his shaft while her tongue lashed across the tip and swirled around the head.

"Slayer!" he growled in response to the pain, which was completely forgotten the instant her mouth closed around him. He surged forward, this time putting both of his hands behind her head, playing with her hair, urging her to take more of him.

She put her hands on his thighs, and forced herself away from the smell and taste of Spike. Scooting backwards on her knees, she stammered out, "--has to be the spell, has to be, has to be..." and licked her lips nervously. But she could still taste his hot smooth skin there, and feel the velvet-covered hardness deep in her mouth and throat. She started to move back to him, then twisted away and was on her feet, at the window again.

"No, not the spell," he started to follow her, wanting to demand she finish what she started, but he stopped in the middle of the room, his sex jutting out with need. He wasn't about to force her; he'd regretted one such act before.

"You don't play fair," he snarled, kicking the coffee table so hard it smashed into the wall and broke into several pieces. A few fertility statues were destroyed with it, but he gained no satisfaction.

He was the one that needed to get out of there now, and he would. His clothes had to be dry. Just as he reached for them, then went up in flames... just the clothes, not the carpet, nothing else. "Bloody, fucking, hell!" he yelled in frustration, watching his clothes get reduced to ashes.

Wide-eyed, Buffy stared as Spike rampaged and broke things. When his clothes caught on fire, though, she couldn't help herself. She burst into laughter; hysterical laughter, true, but laughter nonetheless.

"You think that's funny?" He glared at her, "you could work on your sense of humor a bit, yeah?"

Half pouting, he went and plopped himself down into the soft velvet love seat, nursing his woes... one of them being the maddening woman across the room.

"Hey," she defended herself, "it's not my fault whoever's running this show is so desperate to see us together that they're resorting to shitty parlor tricks. And my clothes burned too, in case you didn't notice. So it's these damned robes or nothing." She let her gaze rove across him, top to toe and back again. "And red is so not your color." It was another lie. She knew it, could recognize it even as it came out of her mouth. He looked good enough to –well, what she had started a moment ago.

"If you're not careful, I'll be taking it off." He stared at her.

"Ah. Probably not a good idea. Let's find something to watch besides each other, huh?" But she stayed warily across the room.

He gave a careless shrug. "Not likely I want anything to do with you now, is it?"

Surprisingly, that hurt. She might not like having Spike always in her business, always sniffing around, never quite giving up hope that they'd become some kind of crazy evil-slaughtering Ward and June Cleaver, but to be dismissed by him? It hurt, and she hadn't expected that.

Softly, she answered, "No, not likely." She went to the wreckage of the coffee table and tossed a few bits aside, finally locating the TV remote. "You want the wand o'power?" TV remote as peace offering. How terrifyingly suburban was that?

He merely glowered, then looked away. What? Did she expect him to get all chattery with her after what she'd done?

"Guess not." She pointed it at the large flat-screen TV, and hit power.

He tried to ignore the telly, and he would have too, if the sounds coming from it hadn't been the sort you couldn't ignore. His gaze flicked to a scene of a woman giving a blow job. That only darkened his mood as he turned accusing eyes toward her.

"Oops," she said, chagrined. She flicked through channels. Fucking against a wall. In a shower. On a bed. On a beach. In a pool. Blow jobs. Hand jobs. Oral sex. Ménage a trois. Ménage a quatre. Ménage with cats. "Oh, my god," she exclaimed, and kept on flipping.

He hadn't been watching. But he couldn't avoid listening. Listening and looking at her. Going hard with thoughts of what they could be doing, instead of sitting here and watching others. Running a shaky hand through his hair, he merely stared. He wasn't going to make an arse of himself. Not again.

Buffy's finger stopped clicking forward of its own accord. The couple on the screen were remarkably athletic, both fair-haired, both... familiar. As the platinum-haired man bent the blonde woman over the couch, her begging voice could clearly be heard from the television, crying out in ecstasy and desperation. The remote dropped from Buffy's nerveless fingers as she stared at the screen.

Everywhere he turned, she was there. Her voice demanding that he fuck her harder, the scene on the telly reflected in the mirrors in the cabin.... him thrusting, her pushing back, clawing at him. And there he was kissing her neck, he'd forgotten that bit. His hand slid under his robe and he squeezed himself. He couldn't help it, he needed release. The scent of sex was driving him crazy, she was driving him crazy, and now there they were having sex in color.

[Elsewhere]

“No, no,” moaned Chester in frustration. “That’s not how it’s supposed to go!” He concentrated on the basketball-sized bubble on his table, one hand working furiously inside his own trousers, and flexed his will.

[Inside]

Buffy’s head whipped around as Spike stealthily reached into his robe, and she found herself across the room, kneeling before him, without knowing how she got there. When she tried to stand, some force pressed down on her, refusing her any kind of escape from what she really wanted to do anyway.

Spike scooted forward, eyeing her warily, and yet unable to stop himself. "Don't play with me, please," he said softly, guiding her head with his hands so her mouth could bring him home. He was so hard, it would take only a little to drive him over the edge.

Buffy moaned in anticipation as his hands took control of her head, and the sound still thrummed in her throat as she took him deeply into her mouth, surrounding his hard shaft with eager lips and tongue, working him in ways she didn't know she knew. The sense of power was indescribable, and his quiet begging moved her more than any of the more extreme things she'd heard time and again. She kept her eyes open, and turned upward, watching his face.

Gaze locked with hers, he writhed helplessly, his movements jerky and desperate. His stomach clenched as he started to shudder, and still she sucked on him, sending him spiraling higher. "Buffy... fuck..." Throwing back his head and raising his hips, he came hard and fast, fingers digging into the arm rest as he found his release.

When he came to himself, he dragged her up his body. "We're no better than one of those stories in the Victorian porn book."

She leaned against him, aroused and scared by what had just come over her. Bringing Spike had gotten her so hot, if she’d been wearing panties, they’d have needed changing right then, and no mistake. “I know,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. She turned her face into his chest, breathing deeply of his scent, rubbing her cheek against the silk robe that still hung from his shoulders.

He knew from her motions against him, the huskiness of her voice, and her scent, she needed him as bad as he'd needed her. Putting his arms around her, he stroked her thighs and bottom as he sought her mouth with his. He licked across the seam of her lips, then plunged his tongue inside the warm cavern of her mouth. Tongue slipped against tongue, as did their bodies, slow lingering touches.

Breathless and blind with desire, Buffy writhed against Spike, accepting every touch he gave and returning it twofold, desperate to feel him within her again. Her hands caressed the muscles of his chest, skimming over each one, outlining it with her nails, lingering over his nipples and abdomen.

His skin burned everywhere she touched him. Already, his body was responding.... hardening, ready for her. He felt her movements grow wilder, felt her trying to break the kiss, but he refused to allow it. This time, he wanted all of her, and having received some measure of release, it seemed his ability to think and control himself had returned.

Duelling with her tongue, he shifted her, made her straddle him. Raising his hips suggestively, he brushed against her sex, felt her chase him. "I'm right here," he muttered against her mouth, "right here."

Moaning softly into his mouth, she slid herself along him, while his tongue did wonderful things to her mouth. She forgot all about demanding, and just accepted. She forgot all about control and power, and just enjoyed. Her fingertips caressed his neck and shoulder where earlier she had bitten so fiercely, and slid back to lock behind his head. Her breasts brushed against him with every move that she made, and the sensation became a positive feedback loop, oscillating higher and higher with each stroke, each kiss, each brush of overheated skin against cool hardness.

Slowly but surely, they whipped each other's desire up to new heights. He wanted to be inside her so bad, it hurt. Gripping her hips, he positioned her. "Now, luv," and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth as pleasure rocked him to his core when she tightened around him, milked him with every drag of her body. Resisting the urge to roll her over, he distracted himself by moving his mouth down her throat and chest, and let her decide the pace.

She arched her back in pleasure when he entered, gasping at the intensity of the sensations sliding through her from his sex and his mouth, clever along her throat and breasts, and rocked back and forth, slowly at first, but gradually –so gradually!— increasing the tempo and the depth of their movements. Small rhythmic gasps began to come from her mouth, growing inexorably into sensual mewls as the rocking grew deeper and more intense. Her hands slipped from behind his head, along his shoulders and chest, and settled at last on his narrow waist. Her fingers clenched and loosened in time with their movements, but never let go entirely.

"Oh yeah," he groaned, lifting up to meet her thrust for thrust, wanting to be so deep inside her, she could never get rid of him... never forget. He dragged her hard against him, trying to get closer... to get deeper, wanting, needing, panting her name in her ear. He was close, so close... "Buffy come with me," he demanded, moving faster, groping her all over. "Come... "

Buffy pressed herself against Spike’s chest, grinding her hips down further onto each of his powerful thrusts, taking him as deep into her as possible with every movement. His voice tipped her over the edge, the raw need in it, the desperation for –something. “Spike!” She cried out in answer, “Spike, yes, oh god!” Her insides contracted violently around him, completely uninhibited and out of her control, and she screamed her release as she came and came and came, her shuddering, shaking body racked by the amazing sensations.

Long after they were done, they continued to rock against each other, riding the last waves of their passion, holding onto each other. "Beautiful, just beautiful," he muttered against the top of her head, settling her next him and nuzzling her neck. Later, much later, they could bathe in that big tub. But right now, he just wanted to be close, and take a bit of a rest.

Collapsed against Spike, Buffy made no attempt to resist the snuggling, close and warm and unlike anything she’d ever done with him before… at least, until her brain came back to rest between her ears again. Then, she shifted uncomfortably, her self-consciousness jabbing her with little pricks of what the hell am I doing, cuddling with Spike? It wasn’t long before she disentangled herself, threw the short black silk robe back on, and moved away to the window without saying anything further.

She peered out at the blackness, and only gradually realized that that was all there was. No trees, no moon, no field or snow gently falling. Just utter blackness. She headed for the door immediately, and tried to push it open. It didn’t move.

He'd been watching her, every move. She was nervous. Not because of what they'd done, but because of afterwards. She'd allowed herself to be soft, and open... and that was foreign to her. It scared her, but he didn't know why. Only that once in a while, he managed to break through enough to make her forget her fear. "Door stuck? Well, for once I'm with whatever's doing this."

In a smooth movement, he got up and headed for the tub. He turned the shower on.... all four shower heads, and stepped inside. "Join me, or... fight the door, whatever's better for you, yeah?" Already he was soaping himself under the steaming barrage of water, keeping one eye on her.

She looked back across her shoulder at him, and swallowed back the instant surge of desire. It had to be the room. Had to be. But she hadn’t done anything but curl close to Spike and then check the door. And watch his hot, hard body in the shower, which was doorless and yet designed so no water splashed on the floor. He grew slick and wet, steam rising from his perfect form…. If it wasn’t the room—she didn’t want to think about what it was!

Turning away again, she rattled the door. It opened this time, but only about an inch, when it ran up against something outside. She moved from the door to the window, and slid it up. Blackness. Utter and complete. Leaning down, she thrust her hand out of the window, and yelped in surprise as she barked her knuckles on something crystalline and very, very cold. She squinted at it, and felt a chill run down her spine. Slightly curved, cold, and black as obsidian, whatever the substance was reached up to the roof, down past where there should have been a porch. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, outside but that strange glassiness.

She slammed the window down, and turned back to face him. “Looks like our cage got smaller again,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the pounding water. Her voice was as casual as she could make it, but there was an underlying tremor that she knew she couldn’t hide from his vampire hearing.

"You sure you didn't plan this?" He continued to lather himself as he casually looked at her. "You know, you could have just asked."

Fury drove out fear, at least on the surface. She stalked toward the shower and smacked the water off, then flung a large towel at his face. "No more fun and games," she growled. "No more distraction, no more seduction, no more fucking. Not one second more of giving whoever this bastard is the satisfaction. We're getting out. Somehow." Down in her gut, though, nauseating fear coiled like a black slick of foul oil. And what if we can't?

She snaked out a strong arm and yanked him from the shower. "And you, being older and supposedly more experienced, are going to figure out what this thing is."

"I love it when you're rough and angry," he smiled, drying himself but hardly bothering to cover himself. "Something or someone must be feeding off sexual energy... ours. Solution seems to be simple, which usually means it isn't.” He looked at her, "stop jumping my bones. Starve it."

"Piece. of. cake." She practically spit the words at him. "But I meant this," she added, dragging him to the window and flinging it open again. "Look," she demanded.

"Bloody fucking hell..." he stared at the opening, now sealed with that black stuff. This time, when he tried to push his hand through it, it was denser...harder… it resisted. "It's closing in on us," he said, stating the obvious. "Feels like hardening glue..." Punching at it, he slammed the window shut. Not even one stream of cold air had gotten past the stuff.

He picked his robe up, and put it on, still deep in thought. There was good reason for the dark furrow in the Slayer's brow. Something about this place had been making them forget their problem, he was quite sure of it. And now that she'd managed to get them thinking about it again, he was going to try not to get distracted.

Just as he formed that thought, the telly went on. Both of them avoided looking at the screen, through the volume was a different matter altogether since he couldn't shut it off. Whoever the couple on the screen, they were panting up a storm. Their bodies were slapping together. They were pleading and begging and....

"Wait a moment... it can't be...." He strode up to the Christmas tree and took a closer look at all the globes, then he looked at the screen. Red head with long hair, and some guy with a buzz cut. He started looking through all the globes, until he found one with occupants with that coloring. "Buffy...." he brought it to her.

She plucked it from his palm, careful not to touch him with even a fingertip. Glancing from screen to clear glass ornament, she paled. “It’s them,” she said softly. “What do you bet if we switch channels, we find every pair of them eventually?” She gestured toward the tree. Then, she took a closer look at the contents of the bubble, and at the action on the screen.

They were identical, to every move, every gasp, every moan, and every plea.

“Spike.” For some reason, it was hard to get her mouth and brain moving in synch just now. “Spike, that feed is live.” She handed the globe back to him so he could see for himself. “It’s live,” she repeated in horror.

He looked through the rest of them. "There isn't one for us... not yet. But that's what is happening to us... trapped like them."

Striding to the door, he tried to push through the black material. When that didn't work, he broke the window, but got absolutely nowhere. "Why aren't we already in a globe...why?"

Buffy shook her head. “We already are. It’s just bigger. First it was the forest, meadow, cabin. Then a smaller version. Now, just the cabin. And when you tried to get out that first time, something threw you back, remember?” A chill ran down her spine. “It’s shrinking. Every time we— everything here is oriented toward— “ She broke off, and simply stared at him.

Reaching out, he pulled her robe up around her, trying to cover the creamy smooth skin below her neck. "Stop being sexy, or we're never getting out of here, yeah?"

“Very funny,” she said, “since I’m just standing here trying to figure out how to break an ever-shrinking and apparently unbreakable globe.” But the gentle brush of his fingertips over her collarbone had her thinking of other things in spite of the danger. In spite of the fear, that this was an enemy she couldn’t face, a spell she couldn’t break through, a totally absent ass which she could not kick.

"Not trying to be funny." And he wasn't. He knew the situation was serious. As much as some alone time with her was enjoyable, he didn't want to be someone's little pet hamster playing tricks. "We'll think of something."

* * *

Hours passed, and still, they were trapped. Frustrated, they sat next to each other on the shaggy white fur rug and stared into the fire. That was when he felt it... the pumping in of the pheromones. "It's starting again," he warned her, brushing his mouth near her temple.

His breath stirred her hair, ever so slightly, and a shiver traveled along her neck. “I feel it,” she replied in a whisper. The slow rise of desire, heating her blood, flushing her skin. “Spike,” she warned, her voice throatier already, “spells, wishes… they all come in threes.” Even as part of her winced at the terrible pun, she leaned back a bit, looking directly into his eyes.

“I think we’re out of time.”

Staring down at her, he wanted to take her mouth with his... he did. He wanted to mark her as his ... again, and again. He knew his hunger was reflected in his eyes, he knew she saw it... that she echoed it. One touch of their mouths, and they'd go up in flames again, and again, for all time.

His hand shook on her shoulder, dug into her flesh through her robe. "We can do this... break the cycle. We've done it before," he said hoarsely, pulling her up against him so they both lay on their sides, her back against his chest now. He rested his mouth on the top of her head, pressed it down, only to prevent himself from tasting her elsewhere.

“We can,” she agreed, her voice shaking. One hand curled beneath her chin; the other reached back, pulling his arm across her waist, securing it with her own touch. Their robes slithered together as she held him holding her tightly, her bottom snugged against his hips, her back pressed against his front from shoulder to knee. She didn’t dare move more, for fear the passion would flare again, leaving them burning forever together.

A treacherous part of her deepest heart whispered, and would that be so bad, loving Spike forever? She bit her own knuckles to keep from reaching behind herself, stroking him to arousal. She knew the answer. Her body, her dependable, strong weapon, was the enemy now; it wept for his touch, hot and ready and mindlessly eager.

He heard the sound of her teeth grinding against something. Felt her shift. Every small movement, every twitch of her muscles magnified tenfold against his extremely sensitized body. He closed his eyes as flames licked up his legs, his groin. Gripping her hip, he tried to ignore the ache.

Only his hand moved, from her waist to her hip. His cool, strong grip there made her mind spin with memories of other times he’d held her there… atop him, bending under him, riding, being ridden to shattering fulfillment. She didn’t mean to do it, but her rear pressed against him the tiniest bit, inviting the hardness she felt there to come just a little closer. Her free hand shot forward to tangle in the fur rug on which they lay, trying futiley not to touch, to take, what her body craved so desperately.

The last time they’d lain together like this, he’d died the next day. And she’d left him there to burn, the last thing her heard from her a lie, the last thing he saw her back as she turned away. This time… this time, it would be the end of both of them.

The slide of her body against his turned the ache into a sharp throb. He groaned softly, gripped her tighter... to keep her away from him... to prevent her from moving away. Unbidden, lines of poetry ran through his mind. Not Victorian erotica, but words of love, concepts as foreign to the two of them as forever and ever. He swallowed, his throat convulsing against the nape of her neck. Even that small touch drove him one step closer to the madness that made him want her body and soul.

His gaze fell to her hand... her fingers tangling in the long strands of fur, opening and closing... a rhythm his body understood only too well. He put his hand over hers. "Don't," he said, his voice edged in desperation.

She turned her hand palm upward, her fingers fiercely gripping his. "Trying," she said. "I'm trying." With a painful effort, she lay still again.

"I know," he bit his lip as her fingers threaded through his. She was squeezing his hand, and then he was squeezing hers. It wasn't too long before the fact that their hands were moving back and forth made itself known to his brain and translated to other images... parts moving together.

"Buffy," he was on the verge of tears... and for no good reason, but he was. He turned her around and was met with large eyes, just as pained as his. Her mouth was parted... for him. Her body was fitted to his, cradling him. The will to fight was quickly draining out of him.

“Spike,” she whispered, transfixed by his beautiful angel-blue eyes. Fingers trembling, she traced the curve of his brows, the line of his cheek… the shape of his lips. Her eyes clung to his, which glittered in the firelight.

The sensation of her hands stroking over his face touched him, deep inside his heart. "Buffy, I love you. But you know that," he whispered. "I don't think I can do this... I thought I could but..." he moved his leg over hers, knowing she'd feel how much he needed her. "I don't want you trapped here. Was thinking... a little dusting might be one way to break this spell."

Silently, she shook her head. Maybe if he'd made the offer sooner, or more dramatically, or something... something she could have mocked, ignored, laughed off... hell, she might even have done it. There'd certainly been enough times when she'd wanted to, times when it had been the all-consuming goal of her life.

"It's both of us, or neither," she whispered back. "I won't leave without you."

He was quickly swamped by the need to hold her tight, to make her his. To break. "Did you hear what I said, I can't fight this," he said, running his hand deliberately over her breast, rubbing his thumb over her nipple.. "It's not just the spell, it's me."

She cried out at the unexpected touch, a shaft of pleasure arrowing through her. When she could breathe somewhat evenly again, she answered him. "I know," she said, lifting his hand, kissing the back of it, and laying it back on her breast again. "It's me, too."

"Don't say it," he looked intently at her. He wanted to believe. His entire body was crying out for him to believe. Slowly, he covered her body with his, opening both their robes in the process. "You don't have to say anything."

Fiercely, she shook her head from side to side. "I've spent too long not saying anything, or saying cruel things, or lying to you." She met his eyes again, intimately close and staring down into hers, burning with a fire she'd been unwilling to acknowledge for so long. "I'm through running away, and even if we have to die again, I won't leave you with nothing but a lie this time."

She could feel her eyes stinging with the salt of unshed tears, but she blinked them out and away, and kept her gaze fixed on his. "I love you." She bit her lip, knowing she owed him so much more than just those three words. "Please, believe me?"

He wanted to, so bad. Moving against her, he felt her open to him. "Why now?" he asked, trying to wait to talk before he entered her, but the way she clutched his ass making it impossible for him to fight his instincts. One quick thrust, and he was where he wanted to be... buried deep inside her.

Her hips arched against him, but then she lay still, feeling Spike deep within her. "Now is all that's left for us, Spike." She trailed kisses over his shoulder and collarbone, paused to press her lips to his, and continued on the other side. He had to believe her. He had to forgive her. But even if he didn't or couldn't or wouldn't... she'd still love him.

Above him, the ceiling faded away, replaced by a glittering curved blackness. The walls far from them were going, too. But even with the trap closing, it was more important to tell him again, again and again, until he believed. "I love you, Spike." There was a catch in her voice, throaty and deep, but her eyes never once wavered from his. "I love you."

He knew time was running out, and didn't know what came next. In that ornament, would they still think... would they talk? Or was it just sex? Would they be someone's art?

It didn't matter so much anymore. She was art to him. As he moved against her, he traced the outline of her face, her jaw, memorizing every detail. Waves of pleasure threatened to make it impossible for him to talk, and yet he did. "About earlier, you said—"

She remembered clearly. Only to wash your touch off of me, she'd said, in reference to the big bathtub. "I lied, then. I want your touch on me forever. It scares me how much I want you, how much I need you. How much I love you." She held him closer, moved against him in a slow dance of luxurious sensation, made more powerful by the emotion she was finally admitting to herself, and to him.

"There are so many things I never told you... like how beautiful you are. How just looking at you, any time, anywhere, makes my heart turn over in my chest. It's scary to feel so much, but I'm done being a coward."

"I love you."

"Yeah?" He lowered his head and kissed her, sliding his hand under her and dragging her thigh up around his waist. For a while, he lost himself in her, in the web of spiraling heat that rushed through his system. Finally, he broke the kiss. Her little pants were driving him to the edge, this was it. "I love you more," he said, kissing her square on the mouth, before lifting her up against him, burying himself so deep and pulling back to start the home stretch. Wherever they were going, they'd be together. It was more than he'd hoped for in a long time.

"Do not," she gasped out between moans and whimpers of pleasure, stroking her hands over and over his perfect back and ass, urging herself higher against him, taking him deeper and deeper within her self. Her soul.

"Not what, Luv?" he asked, straining against her, trying hard to keep his train of thought, even as he chased his release.

Writhing deliciously beneath him, her hips welcoming every thrust, she panted out her reply, pauses becoming shorter and shorter as the intensity of their lovemaking grew. "You don't-- love me-- more than-- I love you," she returned. "Do not! Oh!"

"Oh!" he echoed, burying his face in her neck as they came together in perfect time. This was something that he could always count on... things being right where their bodies were concerned. But now she'd given him hope that maybe, maybe her heart had caught up with her body... God knew, his had long ago.

"Ohhh..." she said again, softly, as their bodies peaked, released, and floated back to reality again. Tenderly, she pressed her lips to his temple, and whispered in his ear, "Spike, I'm sorry. Sorry I was such a coward."

He accepted her apology, moving his temple, rubbing it lightly across her lips. "So was I. For a long time, when I used to just skulk under your window. We're all entitled to live and learn," He held her, moving to try to block her view. Better if she didn't see the world had just gotten smaller and there was almost no room left around them.

She stroked his cheek with her fingertips. "It's all right. I see it. But I'm not afraid any more." Snuggling closer, she said again, "I love you."

[Elsewhere]

Chester leaned forward, avidly watching. His hand pistoned in his trousers; his favorite part was coming next! The bubble on his table had continued to shrink, and the picture in it moved with perfect clarity and sound. Bose wished they could make sounds so real as this! He snorted in derision, but didn't once lose his rhythm. He was about to get a new ornament!

Sure, they were all disgustingly schmoopy, all "I love you" and "I love you more," but that was just some fucking --heh heh, fucking-- bullshit! Love wasn't real! It was what made his snow globe so spell so damned popular! No one could get out, unless the maker let them.

Flabby sides quivering, he came as the bubble contracted to its smallest size, but then, instead of solidifying completely, it vanished with a pop, leaving glitter floating across the table in its place.

"No," he shrieked in fury and disbelief. "Love doesn't exist!!"

* * *

Spike landed with a thud, and a second thud followed... Buffy right on top of him. He stared up at her, and beyond. When he got his bearings, he smirked. "Think you're light as a feather, do you? Not quite ornament size now."

Buffy shoved herself upward, braced on her straight arms, and looked about. They were in the office of the abandoned warehouse space, fully dressed. She looked down at Spike, lying there under her, smirking upward. A frown crossed her face.

"Uh uh... no going backward," he held her tight, "You got that? Even if that's over, we're not," he insisted.

She started, then held him back, just as fiercely. "No, of course not! I love you!" But then she frowned again. "I was just thinking--"

"Don't think... that's when it gets dangerous," he was frowning too. If she snatched everything back now...

She couldn't resist kissing those sexy, pouty lips. "Even if what I was thinking was that we were overdressed?"

"I love your brain," he sat up and took her with him. "Did you hear that cursing? Something about love? You don't think..."

"...love broke the spell?" She smiled at him, completely at peace for the first time in her life. "'True love conquers all', you mean?"

"I'm not that sap anymore," he protested, a smile playing around his mouth. "Happy Christmas."

"That would be 'Merry Christmas', you limey dweeb," she chastised him.

His answer was lost as their lips met and clung together. No mistletoe... no spell... it was just him... and her... and a very, very long kiss.

___________________________
*Darley's lyric "A Song”


(A/N: If you enjoyed the story, please leave FB. Also, we are probably going to write an AU Spuffy related to the holiday season, anyone interested?)


THE END