No Mistletoe Required

(A/N: Co-written with vikingprincess)

(Characters: Not ours, Joss' - we’re just playin' with 'em)

(WOOT - this got nominated for a Loves Last Glimpse Award!)

(Part 1 of 2)

Summary: Devotees of pornography commission spells designed to "trap" and "keep" special pets for their viewing pleasure. What might happen if one such person trapped Buffy and Spike in a snow globe?


Cautiously, Buffy entered the abandoned warehouse. She was supposed to meet a contact there, though being fair, 'snitch' was probably a better word. And it totally sucked that she kept having to evade Spike just to get her job done. It was just like back in Sunnydale, that year he kept following her around and around... showing up on patrol, lurking around her house. It was way beyond old!

The warehouse was dead silent, and dead cold. Nothing quite as much fun as stalking the bad guys in an unheated building in the middle of winter --even if it was only an LA winter! Quietly, she paced deeper in. She was supposed to meet the contact in the abandoned office part.

Spike melted into the shadows of the warehouse, hesitated a brief moment, and slipped inside after her. It was all good and well that she'd put their past behind them... even he had done that, cause yeah... only so many kicks in the teeth a vampire could take. But that didn't mean he wouldn't be at her side when something tried to take her down.

He had a bad feeling about this. He'd had a bad feeling in his bones for weeks, that what she was working on posed a danger. Unable to give her facts, point to specifics... he'd made a fool of himself. He knew she thought he was after her, that it had nothing to do with her investigation. But she was wrong.

Yeah... he kept telling himself that, even as her reached her side. "Fancy meeting you here, Slayer."

Buffy rolled her eyes in disgust. "Damnit, Spike, I told you to quit following me! This contact is a very very nervous type... and he's going to tell me how to get to Taliaferro's cabin, so you need to just take a hike!" Irritated, she shoved at his shoulder. "Merry fucking Christmas –now get lost!"

"And ho ho ho," he shoved her right back, "see that you don't fall on your arse. Told you earlier, this doesn't feel right."

"Oh, yeah, 'cause I'm so going to take the word of a vampire on feelings," she scoffed. "Just... go hide somewhere. I don't have time to argue with you!" Her head snapped away from him as a short, round figure shielding a flashlight beam with most of his fingers came in the back of the warehouse. "There he is," she hissed. "Go away."

"Come now, I can play non-threatening sidekick," he gave an irritating smile and then put on a phony meek look for her contact.

As the man neared, the light in his hand blinded Spike for an instant. He put one hand over his eyes, and pushed Buffy with the other.

Utterly surprised by Spike's sudden attack, Buffy went flying, and all of her attention was on him when someone she hadn't even ever noticed introduced her temple to a two-by-four. Soundlessly, she fell into unconsciousness.

* * *

It felt like someone had taken a sandblaster to his head. Having such a thick head, that really meant something. As he opened his eyes, he realized he was surrounded by something cold, and wet, seeping into his clothes.

Whatever it was, it appeared to bring him around quickly, and he sat up, then stood to get out of the snow. Snow in Los Angeles, no... that was wrong.

He shook the powdery stuff off, and looked up at the perfect moon. Too perfect, too full. There had only been a sliver of a moon when he entered the warehouse. Right... trees... snow... more bloody snow... "We're not in Kansas anymore."

He trudged forward, scanning the area even as he tried to work out what happened. Buffy had been right there with him, but where was she now?

He started to call her name, and then he listened... listened hard and isolated her heartbeat from that of the creatures that seemed to live in the forest, and all the other sounds. "Buffy!" he yelled, rounding a tree and finding her sitting down, leaning against it.

He dropped down, "you all right, then? Buffy?" Humans didn't like the cold. He didn't like it either, but at least it didn't turn him pale and bluish around the corners... oh wait.…

She was cold down to her core, and her head hurt something awful. "Not so much," she croaked, hugging herself fiercely and trying not to shiver. "Don't expect I'll say this again any time soon, but I guess you were right." She closed her eyes, exhausted and numb.

"Don't expect I'll let you forget any time soon," without a by your leave, he hauled her small frame up over his shoulder, put one hand firmly over her wriggling ass, and marched through the snow.

"Hey," she protested with a bit more energy. "I was just resting my eyes. You can put me down. No, really. Put me down." Doubling her fists, she tried to whack him in the kidneys. But her fingers were too cold to fold properly and the angle was bad. And she really was tired. Not so cold anymore, though. Starting to feel all warm and comfy. Little teeny warning bells in her head tried to sound off, but she couldn't figure out why.

"I'll put you down, when we get there. Look, nice little cabin, welcoming light, and smoke... don't tell me it's the one you were asking about," he shifted her slightly. "Any idea what happened?"

"Yeah. Someone distracted me and I got hit on the head by something big and hard." Her tone was dry. "And yeah, I suppose it could be Taliaferro's place, but why would they drop us practically into it? Doesn't make any sense," she grumbled.

"Maybe you're getting what you wished for. Have any stakes handy?"

"Of course I--" and she ran a mental check. Hadn't been after vamps, only had one stake in her pocket in the warehouse, and it wasn't there now or it would be digging a hole in her hip. "—don't," she finished flatly. “SOMEbody took it.”

"You make the best friends, don't you." He dropped her onto the porch and stared into her eyes. "Say it again."

The blocks of ice formerly known as Buffy's feet weren't doing such a good job of holding her up. Hating to do it, she grabbed hold of Spike's leather trench coat, just so she wouldn't fall over. "It again," she mumbled through numbed lips. Carefully, she stomped first one foot, and then the other, trying to get some feeling back into them.

Over Spike's shoulder, she could see a pretty snow-covered meadow, surrounded by pines wearing coats of winter white. "At least it's a pretty piece of nowhere," she commented absently. Concentration was a bit difficult, and standing was becoming no easier. Millions of perfect stars sparkled in a sky lit by an impossible full moon, and that was wrong too, somehow. "When did the moon get full?"

"Don't know, unless we've been out for a few weeks?" That thought didn't give him the warm fuzzies at all. He pushed the door open, and put his hand behind Buffy. Whether she admitted it or not, she needed help. "C'mon Slayer, you can come back out to smell the roses later. Let's see what we have to kick out of this place, and get you warm."

“That idea doesn’t totally suck,” she rejoined weakly, preceding him into the cabin. Behind them, sparkling snow flakes the size of quarters began to fall from the night sky.

She didn't get much beyond the door, though, and even her numbed brain had to goggle at what it saw inside. This was no rustic cabin. This was a nymphomaniac's love nest: erotic statuary and paintings, a wide white fur rug in front of a fireplace laid and ready for lighting, a bed big enough for a platoon of vigorous porn stars, open cabinets of erotic toys whose names she didn’t even know, a bathroom with an extra-wide extra-deep tub, and no doors anywhere to block any view.

Abruptly, she tried to turn and walk through Spike to get back outside. "I'm so not staying here."

He blocked her way, and was still looking around. "I haven't seen something like this since..." feeling her sharp gaze, he changed his mind about completing that thought. "I'd say it's a honeymoon hotel, except not so innocent."

He closed the door behind him. "Can't leave until you get warm. Maybe we'll find some extra clothes for you before we try to find a way out. Or a phone," there wasn't a chance in hell of that. He wasn't that stupid.

"Fine. Let's light the fire, get me warm, and get the hell out of here." She fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone, but came up empty. "My phone's gone. Stake and phone both." A bit anxiously, she looked around. If there were a phone, it was hidden away... or disguised as something disgusting.

"Whoever it is, they've made it warm and welcoming, might not need that stake, or we can make more," he pointed at a coffee table. Then took a second look at its mosaic top. "This fellow here has quite a stake," he joked, turning to see her reaction to the realistic oral sex scene that was depicted. "And doesn't she look a lot like..."

Buffy looked before she could stop herself. "Someone paid money for this crap?" But it was, um, pretty. Yes, that was it. Pretty... suddenly realizing that the girl in the mosaic was a petite blonde, and that the ripped guy with blue eyes really did have an impressive... stake, she jerked her eyes away and headed for the fireplace. "Gotta be matches somewhere," she mumbled, resting a hand on one of the iron forms holding the wire screen in place. Glancing at it, she snatched her fingers away as if the iron had been red hot.

The artist had even included throbbing veins and exceedingly realistic ridges and dips on the cast iron phallus. One of a matched pair, she noted, her cheeks flaming.

"C'mon Slayer, nothing you haven't seen before," he drawled at her discomfort. In a few strides, he'd made it to the tub, started the water, and was at her side, starting the fire.

She would have made some kind of scathing reply, but her teeth started chattering uncontrollably. Perversely enough, even though she was out of the snow and freezing wind, she was feeling colder and colder now.

As soon as the fire caught, he turned and took her hands and started to rub them. "I might not be warm, but I know how to create friction, yeah?" One corner of his mouth was turned up in a knowing grin.

She suffered his attentions for a moment or two, then said, teeth still chattering, "S'not working too well...."

"Never complained before," he gritted out, pulling her hands out in front of the fire, and glancing over at the half filled tub.

It felt like the flames were licking around her fingers, not burning safely a couple of feet from them. She pulled back and away from the flames, trying to reduce the pain. "You just weren't listening," she snapped.

"Yeah, I must have misinterpreted 'oh yeah, Spike, more... again.' I'm bad that way." Abruptly, he got up and walked to the bath. "Time to take a dip, and don't worry. I won't try anything, even if someone's pumping pheromones into this place. I know the difference between yours and whatever this is," he turned the faucet.

"I don't need a bath," she contradicted him. "I need to sit in front of this lovely fire that you so thoughtfully lit and get warm on my own. Thanks anyway." Sarcasm dripped from her words, and she turned back to the fire and extended her hands, biting her lip against the searing heat.

"You know best. I'm sure there have been Slayers with missing fingers and toes somewhere in history, what with all the sword fights," sitting on the wide edge of the tub, he looked at her. She was stubborn, but would come to her senses.

Mendaciously, she kept her back to him, pretending that the fire was doing the job just fine on its own. But it wasn't even beginning to touch the deep cold inside her. What the hell was wrong with her? Was it some sort of spell?

"Did you hear me?"

"Sword fights. Yup, heard that part."

"Part about no fingers and toes? Because of the hypothermia, or do those bits mean nothing to you?" He was at the edge of his tether, wanting to shake her and force her to do what had to be done. Not as if she'd be exposing anything he hadn't seen before.

Why was Spike yelling at her? She was getting warm like she was supposed to. At least, she was trying to get warm like she was supposed to. "Why are you yelling at me? I'm trying to get warm. It's just not working."

"And I'm telling you to get into the tub to get warm," he walked over and picked her up bodily again, dropping her next to the tub. "You can be stubborn if you like, but you're not losing any bits from hypothermia, not on my watch. Lift your arms;" when she automatically did, he pulled her shirt off in one fell swoop.

Of course now he was stuck staring at her frilly white bra that hid nothing from his imagination. Cursing lightly, he forced himself to remain impassive as he undid her jeans.

"Hey," she said crossly, "I can undress myself." Standing, she wobbled and nearly overbalanced into the tub, but recovered after a dangerous moment or two. She slid down her zipper, then pushed her jeans over her hips, revealing a lacy white thong. "See?" Her tone was a mixture of crankiness and triumph at her success. She bent and shoved the jeans down further, stopping only when they couldn't go past her boots.

"Oops, shoes," she giggled, and dropped back to the edge of the tub. Her skin was white and bloodless, and her eyes had a feverish gleam to them.

Silently, he helped her out of her boots, very aware that his cheek skimmed over her thighs, and even more aware of her scent. His gaze traveled up her body as he helped her step out of her pants. How many times had they done this before? How many times had she thrown her leg over his shoulder and demanded he pleasure her?

His skin tightened, his body grew warm with the memories, but his heart felt cold. Those days were gone. They were a dream. And the way she was looking at him, all she was demanding was that he hurry up and leave her be.

A spate of shivers wracked her body, bereft now of even the feeble heat held to her skin by the cold damp clothes, and gooseflesh rose across Buffy's entire body. "Awful c-cold in here," she commented shakily. She looked over her shoulder at the tub. "P-probably warmer in there, huh?" She ran her fingers over Spike's cheek. "You're c-cold too." In truth, she couldn't feel a thing, her fingers were so nerveless. "Should warm up."

"Always cold, you just never noticed." He dipped his fingers into the waistband of her thong, then thought better of it and turned his back to her. "Go on, get inside."

"Okay," she replied meekly, pulling off her bra and thong, then pivoting on the edge of the tub and sliding into the hot welcoming water. It felt like searing coals on her skin, and she whimpered a bit at first.

He fought every urge in his body, and refused to turn. Fat lot of good it did him. The smoky mirror across the room showed her in every detail. Who in his right mind would put a mirror right there?

He wanted to close his eyes against the sight of her slipping the thong off, of her petite body, slowly sliding into the tub, her high breasts bouncing as she lifted up slightly to escape the sudden heat. He really, really didn't need to see the steam rising off her body.

He looked away, and there was the statue of Isis giving Osiris head. Teeth gritted, he looked in another direction, gaze dropping to the warm fuzzy rug in front of the fireplace, and sending his imagination to even hotter places. "I'll be back after you're done," he said in a suddenly hoarse voice, rushing to the door and stepping out onto the porch.

One minute there was gently falling snow, the next a blizzard was blowing so hard, the force was enough to push Spike's back onto the door. If he wasn't mistaken, that was... a quarter sized piece of hail struck him, and he escaped inside. "Bloody weather..."

And there she was... still in the tub, eyes closed, toes peeping out once in a while. Swallowing hard, he bent and picked up some magazine.

Buffy had barely heard Spike’s choked comment, or his retreat from the room. Once her body had started to warm up, she opened her eyes and laid her head back on the edge of the tub. Her view landed on the ceiling, where there was an elaborate Renaissance-style painting. But it didn’t have any angels in it, unless you counted some of the most beautiful non-humans –some, in fact, winged—she’d ever seen indulging in an orgy with so many interlocking parts she wasn’t even sure it was physically possible… at least for humans. Fascinated, she stared up at the painting, and only gradually did she notice the gentle currents of water that had developed in the tub.

At first she thought they might be jets, like in any high-end tub, but they weren’t consistent enough for that. Sometimes they pounded, and sometimes they teased, and they never stayed in one place long enough for any kind of satisfaction. Flushed with more than the heat of the water, she shut her eyes against the distractingly erotic painting to concentrate on the disturbingly arousing currents caressing her body.

Her head tipped back, eyes closed, against the edge of the tub, and she didn’t even realize that she’d spread her legs, or that her toes were curling out of the water at the sensations… but they never came to any kind of conclusion. Just ratcheted her higher and higher like some kind of demonic water nymph sex torture.

The blast of cold air from Spike’s return was a relief from the situation, until he snatched a magazine and straightened again; her hungry eyes could trace the unmistakable, completely familiar shape of his aroused cock, straining and fighting against the black jeans he wore.

A gasp escaped her at the sight, and at the exact same moment, the water in the tub got even more intimate than before, rushing against her swollen lower lips with a heated, forceful caress. She scooted frantically to a vertical seated position in the tub, and moaned, “oh, nooo….”

Every page, every page had her in it. No not her face, not her hair, but it was her body. He'd felt every inch of it from the inside and out, and would recognize it anywhere. And here she was, posing, begging, licking her lips, making him want her tongue to touch him.

And looking up was no relief. The sight of her toes curling, the look on her flushed face as she enjoyed the bloody bath more than she should. And now, showing him the peaks of her breasts. He didn't know how much more he could take as he met her gaze. No, he couldn't meet her gaze, because she was looking at the rock hard bulge in his pants.

Buffy struggled to get to her feet, but the water in the tub was merciless, pulling her off balance with clever strokes and unexpected slaps. It started to slosh over the side as she tried to stand, tried to stop looking at Spike's hard-on, tried to get control of her hormones and a very strange situation.

Finally, she gave in and called for help. "Get me out of this fucking tub!"

Not quite sure what her problem was, other than she might still be weak and dizzy, but knowing full well his own problem, he went against his better judgment and strode over to her side. dunking his hands into the warm water, he gripped her arms and pulled her out of the water.

It was strange, like there was a force holding onto her. He had to pull hard, and when the force let go, her very naked body made hard contact with his. His mind froze over for an instant, even as the heat of her body seeped through his clothes, even as every curve of her body teased him, made him struggle to maintain his composure when all he wanted was to let go... to get into the tub with her and let the water slosh over for good reason.

"That tub," she paused to swallow, very aware of the heat and wet of her skin soaking into the clothes Spike still wore, and of his rock-hard cock pressing against her belly through his tight, wet jeans, "is possessed by some kind of sex demon," she gasped. "And it really, really knows what it's doing."

"You don't say." Now that he knew her excuse, he wanted to know what his was... or did he need one? Fuck... he could smell her desire, and she wasn't struggling to get away from him. She wanted it as much as he did. And if she didn't, it wouldn't take much.

His need was too sharp, the ache in his groin too much to take. Sliding his hands down her slippery back, he cupped her ass and lifted her up, groaning as he rubbed up against her entrance. As she arched against him, he imagined how rough the material of his jeans must feel against her soft skin. Just the thought kicked up his lust another notch. Rocking against her, he pleaded. "Don't make me fight it, don't..."

She caught the moan in her throat back before it could emerge. "Why, are you afraid you won't best it?" But her warmed fingers were tearing at his t-shirt even as she mocked him, aching to touch his skin, to taste it, to lose herself with him in mindless sensation.

But no... he wasn't that vampire anymore. Exercising iron control over his animalistic impulses, he stood still, held her, and shuddered each time her mouth moved over his chest. Each time their bodies moved together. Each time her hands struggled impatiently with his belt.

Unable to take anymore, he gripped her hips and pulled her protesting form slightly away, before lifting her high up over his head, her back pressed against the smooth tile of the wall. Their gazes met, and then she must have understood what he wanted. Her legs settled on his shoulders, and she stretched up to catch onto a chrome bar that went the length over the tub.

He bowed his head, and moved his mouth over her mound. A small movement, meant to tease rather than satisfy.

Somehow, whenever she was beating the crap out of Spike, she forgot just how strong he was, but he reminded her by lifting her so that her thighs draped naturally over his shoulders, and her hands latched as if magnetized to the chrome bar above the tub. The motion of his mouth over her sex was taunting, tempting. Too little.

She lifted herself higher, closer, and was shocked to hear her own voice say, "Oh, god, yes!" Her self-control always sucked around Spike anyway, but this-- this was like a desperate addiction that had to be satisfied or she just might die! Muscles bunched and slid in her thighs as she pressed herself closer to the promise of his mouth, slippery wet with anticipation.

Teasing a slayer was hard work, and Buffy was strong. He laughed against her skin, as she moved against his mouth, insistent and demanding. Just how he liked her, wanting him so bad she couldn't mask her actions, or clamp down on her words. Out of control.

He relented and worked his mouth and tongue over her, letting her motions and sounds guide him. His biceps bulged every time he lifted her up, and allowed her to drop back down. The sound of her slapping against the wall drove him nuts. But he went on, and on, licking, sucking, moving his mouth faster, and slower, taking her higher and higher, like there was no tomorrow.

Elevated and clinging to the bar, Buffy had little control over what Spike did to her, for her, with his mouth and tongue and teeth, but that was a good thing. Control meant thinking meant rejecting, and she craved what he was doing like a starving woman craves food. Her thighs clamped demandingly around his neck and head, and her hips shuddered with abandon as harsh sounds tore themselves from her throat. Head flung back, neck taut, she was ridden by her own out-of-control need.

With hot stabs of his tongue, he helped her reach her peak. If he'd been human, he knew he'd bear marks around his neck and shoulders, because when he worked her up this much, the Slayer could be rough.

She might think it was over, but it wasn't. He licked her swollen nub again, just so, and felt her stir under his tongue. It was definitely not over. He let her down, feeling her slide down his body, and gripping her thighs so she could feel the invitation of his erection. His jeans had long ago slid down his thighs and there was no barrier between them now.

Still breathing unevenly, heart thudding and skin flushed, Buffy let go her grip on the chrome bar and trusted herself to Spike's arms as he lowered her against his body. When the head of his cock brushed against her opening, a shiver ran up her spine and exploded in her head, and she willingly impaled herself on him in one smooth motion, then swiveled her hips to lock them as tightly together as she could.

"Fuck me hard, Spike. You know I won't break."

"Oh yeah..." As she closed around him, so tight, so hot, he felt himself surge inside her. "Just don't break me," he whispered against her ear, before thrusting into her as he took a step forward and slammed her back into the wall for leverage.

She rode him... he rode her. They moved blindly from wall to wall, grunting alternately with pleasure or pain. Pushing off each other, pushing into each other. Their breaths mingled, their cries grew hoarse. Time lost meaning. It was just him, and her, and the sensations rocking their bodies.

Buffy savaged Spike's shoulder and neck with her teeth, the only part of her body not desperately occupied with making sure he didn't stop fucking her before she was ready. She didn't --quite-- draw blood, but only because her human teeth were blunt by comparison.

She had no idea what she was saying, if she was even using words anymore, but the sounds all had the same meaning: yes, more, god, yes, yes, yes! The intensity of the feeling might have been scary, if she'd had a brain cell to spare for anything but the tsunami of bliss brutally crashing through her.

Somehow the back of his thighs connected with the soft material of the back of the sofa. "Turn around," he ground out, reversing their positions, putting his hand on her back and pushing her so she was doubled down, over the back of the sofa. Stepping between her legs, he adjusted himself and found her entrance. She was so slick and hot ... so ready for him, he groaned as he pushed inside. Leaning over her back, he whispered in her ear as he thrust and thrust. "Oh yeah... that's it... come on... oh fuck yeah..."

As soon as Spike bent her over the back of the couch and came inside of her again, huge and cool and overpowering every nerve ending, Buffy started to come in irresistible rippling waves of screaming sensation, pushing back against his hips with single minded ferocity. "Harder, harder," she begged, "fuck me harder," whimpering and choking on the words, hands desperately clenching in the soft pillows before her.

Oh yeah... there was no more powerful incentive than her begging him. The sight of her helplessly clutching the pillows drove him harder. By the time they cried out their release, it had moved at least five feet.

Resting against her back, he listened to her harsh breaths and enjoyed the moment.
___________________________
*Darley's lyric "A Song”

(A/N: Please comment if you want the next part posted)