Hi, apologies first to Quinara for invading her day, but I was supposed to post yesterday and by the time I was ready, I realized I didn’t have posting access and our lovely mod was unavailable. She gave me permission to post today and I have only one story so hopefully the invasion will be brief.
So, a little silly, smutty fic for you…
Title: Fashionable Ladies And Gents
Author: Laure Alexander
Disclaimer: Nothing about BtVS belongs to me; it’s all Joss; I’m just playing with his characters and making them do naughty things.
Distribution: Please ask first. Will be at my site Meandering Muse some day.
Word Count: 1582
Summary: Spike has no clue why Buffy is suddenly interested in what women of quality wore two hundred years ago, but he really likes modern bras.
Author’s Note: Written for The Good Old Days prompt at seasonal_spuffy. I’d hoped to write more, but, hey, smut! Oh, and in my world, Spike was sired by Angelus in 1798 and he was the third son of a baron, just because… (and because Joss said he was two hundred years old and called Angel his sire, dammit, in School Hard, and I’ve been writing this fandom from just a few months after that episode originally aired).
“I thought women back in your day wore these massive hoopskirts.”
Looking up from his book, Spike gave her a quizzical look. Buffy sat cross-legged at the other end of the couch, her laptop open and her face twisted in confusion.
“What day? I’ve had a lot of days, Slayer.”
“Um…when you were turned?”
Spike let his memories drift for a minute, then shook his head. “Women’s fashions shifted around the time of the French Revolution to a more slim look. Less frou frou.”
She turned the computer around and he glanced at the image. The dress was slender with a slight flare at the rear-end, with a flattened chest and high waist. “That’s a bit later, if I recall. Probably early nineteenth century, but close enough.”
“Huh. Did women back then not have boobs?”
Snorting, he shook his head. “Sweetheart, if I could explain the bizarre choices women have made over the centuries where fashion is concerned, I’d probably be a billionaire from selling my advice to men.”
Buffy laughed and scooted over to him so they could both see the screen. She clicked on another link. This one had a big pink hat as well as a pink dress. Next to the female outfit was a man’s suit in black wool with a brocade waistcoat.
“God I hated breeches.”
“I dunno. I think you’d look sexy in them.”
“They remained court dress even into the twentieth century, velvet and heavy as hell. Thankfully, once we dumped Angelus and his soul, we never went back to London and I think I burned my last pair in celebration.”
Buffy rolled her eyes. “So, when did real pants come into existence?”
“Trousers,” he corrected, “and around the 1820s, I think. I vaguely remember being very happy to change fashions. The dullard stuck with breeches for another decade at least.”
Another eye roll was directed his way at this allusion to Angel. “I still think you must have looked very sexy in breeches and stockings.”
“Why the interest in two hundred year old fashion? And, no, I never wore a wig that big,” he added as she pointed to the image of one. “Or a stupid birthmark. I tended to wear either my natural hair in a queue or a small wig of one.”
“Isn’t that a line?”
“It’s a short braid or tail. De rigeur for the military of my era. I suppose I did it in rebellion against my father who wouldn’t let me go a’soldiering.”
“Why not? Wasn’t that a big deal career back then for younger sons?”
“Second sons,” he corrected with a sigh. “Third sons traditionally went into the priesthood.”
Buffy burst out laughing and he glared at her. “Oh my God, you’re joking! You a celibate monk?”
“An Anglican priest is allowed to marry. I was expected to do that, too. Several things to thank the prick for. I was probably only about six months away from caving into my father’s demands and my mother’s sighing over my wastrel ways.”
“And here you are, still a wastrel,” she teased.
“Well, it’s not like you’re making a fortune on your underground, edgy poetry.”
“Pretty much not supposed to.”
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty and my IWC salary keeps you in beer and porn.”
He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Think I’m pretty, eh?”
Setting the laptop down on the coffee table, Buffy slid onto his lap, facing him and laced her fingers into his hair to kiss him. “The eternal bad boy look you’ve got going really does it for me.”
Wrapping his arms around her, Spike easily stood and carried her into their bedroom where he dropped her on the bed, grinning as she bounced. As he started to pull off his clothes, she sat up and tugged her top over her head, then reached for her bra hooks.
“No, leave it on.” The bra was pink and lacy and damn sexy.
Buffy arched an eyebrow at him, but shrugged and wriggled out of her jeans. “You want the panties to stay on, too?”
Laughing, she slid those off and tossed them at him, rolling her eyes when he caught them and buried his face in them. “Perv.”
“You know it, luv,” Spike leered, then, naked, pounced on her, straddling her hips and pressing her back into the pillows. “Um, I do love this little bit of lace and satin, the way it plumps up your tits.” As he murmured, he dashed kisses over her neck and chest, before sweeping his tongue along the lace framing the top of her breasts. “Never did like those corsets that flattened and squished the bosom.” He nuzzled into her cleavage, making her moan and dig her fingers into his hair.
His lips fastened over one of her nipples through the lace, worrying at it until she moaned again and arched her back.
“Yeah, this is much better.” He switched breasts and, staring down at his head, Buffy squirmed, then pulled his mouth up to hers, drawing him into a deep kiss.
“You made my nipples hard and the lace is scratching them and, Jesus, I want you to fuck me,” she mumbled as she kissed him and ran her hands over his shoulders and down his back, raised one knee and pressed it to his hard cock.
“Foreplay?” he asked, a bit surprised.
Giving him a wolfish grin, Buffy pushed him up, then turned onto her stomach, going up to her hands and knees and wriggling her ass. “Stake your claim, Spike.”
“Jesus, your mouth, woman,” Spike groaned and leaned down to bite her butt, just a little nip with human teeth, but it made her yelp in pain and pleasure and he could smell her arousal deepen. Sliding down lower, he used his thumbs to spread her ass cheeks, then ran his tongue along her cleft, dipping into her cunt, then, as she arched her hips, lapping up to her clit.
“Fuck!” She shuddered and bucked, then groaned as one thumb pressed into her ass.
“So fucking wet,” he muttered before pressing his tongue hard to her clit and thrusting two fingers into her cunt as he pushed his thumb all the way into her clenching ass. A few more minutes of tonguing and fingering and Buffy was moaning and trembling and about to come.
Pulling his fingers free and lifting back up, Spike grabbed her hips and pressed the tip of his cock into her slick body, watching as she opened up for him, dragging him in, not surprised when she bucked back against him and took him all the way to his balls.
“Hard, hard, and play with my tits,” she chanted, rocking her hips.
Grinning, Spike rose fully to his knees and started to fuck into her, then reached around and grabbed her lace covered breasts, squeezing and rubbing them, loving how they rose full and round thanks to the push up bra.
As her pussy muscles clenched around him and her wet heat drove him nearly insane, he shoved his fingers beneath the lace and pinched her nipples until she growled and slammed her hips up, nearly lifting him off his knees with her strength.
With a yell of pleasure, Buffy came and trapped his cock with her vaginal muscles until she milked his orgasm from him as well.
Trembling, they both collapsed on the bed, his fingers still on her aching nipples, his cock still inside her soft, strong body.
Later they lay curled together beneath the sheet, Buffy’s head on Spike’s shoulder, as he stroked his hand along her warm body, and she dozed lightly. When he felt her stir and place a kiss on his neck, he asked the question she’d never answered.
“Why the questions on the old time fashions?”
“Halloween’s next week.”
“No, no way,” he protested in horror. “I’m a respectable vampire. I’m staying in and watching bad horror flicks.”
She rolled her eyes up at him. “We’re going to the masquerade ball at the Slayer Academy. I’m sure I mentioned this a couple months ago.”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t because you knew I’d say no,” he pouted, because he knew agreeing to go with her was inevitable. She’d just keep poking at him until he did. “And I’m not wearing poncey breeches.”
Grinning and rolling on top of him, Buffy straddled his hips and leaned down to kiss him. “I won’t make you wear the wig, I promise.”
“What wig? Do not tell me you already ordered something!”
“Well, then that would be a lie. I’m changing my order to one of those French Revolution style gown though, over the hoop skirt thing, but I’ll forgo the tit crushing corset, just for you, okay?”
“Still not going,” he protested, pouting harder, which just made her giggle, then slide down his body to lick his half-hard dick. “That’s not fair.”
“Love and war, Spike. All’s fair and all that.”
“Damn Frank Smedley,” Spike muttered and arched his hips up as she sucked him down to the root.
“Came up with that stupid quote. All is so not fair…”
“Bitch, whine,” she laughed before deep throating him and making him groan helplessly.
He was so going to that damn party in damn velvet breeches…
Although… maybe he could convince Buffy to be historically accurate and go without knickers, then he could just tup her over a balcony or desk without any fuss…
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/488002.html