All About Spike

Chapter: 1  2  3  4  5  6

Forgive Me
By Herself

Sequel to Who Am I?; part of The Bittersweets Series


In the kitchen she helped him out of his shirt, and gasped when she saw the marks she’d left on his skin. Spike wouldn’t meet her eyes, but he let her apply unguent and bandages to his neck and shoulders while he drank the blood she’d warmed for him out of a glass.

Of course she thought of the night when she’d bandaged Angel’s wound in this same room. Yesterday she’d have been sure the girl who’d done that was someone else, not her, that it was another of the denatured memories, emotionless, they’d somehow stuffed into this reanimated head. In the last couple of hours, like a fog lifting, the feeling that her inner joins were faulty had begun to dissipate. The same girl who’d been with Angel in this kitchen, was here with Spike now. All that had elapsed since then was still painful, but not an unbridgeable chasm anymore.

There was such relief in this. Still, she couldn’t pretend she’d not done what she’d done. As she fixed the last bandage, smoothing the tape under her fingers, she murmured into his ear. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Spike tipped his head back, so for a moment his cheek was pressed against hers. Then he drained the glass.

“Shall I make tea? Something to eat?”

He shook his head. His expression was still wary, but instead of avoiding her, as he had on the porch, she noticed how he followed her with his eyes as she moved around the kitchen putting things away.

In her room, he set the box down on the floor by her bed, and rose right into her waiting kiss. She whispered into his parted lips. “What would you like? Guaranteed cruelty-free.”

There was a pause. Then he whispered back. “Whatever you fancy, pet . . . as long as you look at me all through. Want to see you seeing me.”

“I wish I had some candles,” she said, turning off all the lights but the one by the bed where he was already stretched out. “Would you be more comfortable on top, or . . . .”

With a laugh, he caught her around the waist. “No, my queen. Climb up. Give us a kiss first. Give us two.”

As she made love to him, barely moving except to flex around him inside, looking down into his eyes, smiling at him so he would smile too, Buffy thought of the other men she’d had. Not of the aftermaths, but just of the moments like this one, when she’d ridden them and seen them and loved each one thoroughly in the moment. Angel, after he’d taken her maidenhead and before she’d taken his soul, had lain on his back and smiled at her while she explored him. At last she’d lowered herself, with shy gingerly movements around her soreness, onto his cock for a second round, while he squeezed her hands in his massive ones. Parker had looked so beautifully glassy-eyed and innocent from this vantage, and Riley had had a particular indulgent, libidinous look he kept for the times when she rose and fell on him, hands on his shoulders, gazes locked. She could allow all these bittersweets to press right up against her, to tease and lick and nip her like puppies. They were Buffy’s memories, and she was Buffy.

Buffy found again.

They’d none of them been right, those men, and they’d left her.

Whereas Spike was right in a category of rightness she’d not known existed until tonight, and he would not go. She’d caught him in time.

It was late afternoon, and Dawn would be returning from her friend’s house. They’d have to get out of bed soon, dress. But not just yet.

She’d asked, and he’d shown her, told her about, everything in the box. She knew now that the square of blood-dappled linen marked not a kill, but his sexual initiation at Angelus’ hands, shocking and brutal and ecstatic by turns. She’d blushed as he described it, then murmured, “I don’t know why I was surprised. . . . He’d told me, not that, but what sorts of things he’d done.” She knew he kept the stocking to mark Drusilla’s erotic thrall over him, though it was severed now, and the cracked doll head as a remembrance of her madness. That the trophy of the Chinese Slayer commemorated not just his triumph over her but his attainment at last of Dru, after twenty frustrating years of being kept from her by Angelus. He explained how for two decades all his Grand-Sire had permitted him to do was mind her, clean up her various messes, keep her out of Darla’s hair. How he’d not been allowed to bed Dru—but was often there in bed while Angelus had her. Had them both, turn and turn about. Made to watch while he damn near turned Dru inside out . . . made to hold her down while Angelus gave her to strangers he’d met in the streets, men he’d eviscerate after they’d spent all the spunk that was in them . . . made to go down on her until his face ached and she’d fainted away and allowed no release until Angelus fucked him on his knees. He told it all not to hurt her, but because she’d seen those postcards, and was ready, at last, to hear all the truth. She seemed to listen with her eyes, which were huge, and which she kept bravely fixed on his as he told the story.

“Ask me now, pet, because we won’t speak of this again,” Spike said, when he saw her eyelashes dip and her lip quiver.

“Was . . . was it always rape?”

“No, love. And even when it was . . . after the first time . . . it wasn’t. What it always was, with Angelus, was complex.”

He told her that the boy in the boater hat and spectacles was William, standing on the riverbank beside his best boyhood friend, who’d died the next year of typhus, aged twenty-one.

“My God . . .” Buffy said, touching the picture with reverent fingers, “everybody you ever cared about . . . .”

“Why do you think I didn’t fight my Dru when she found me in that alley?”

“What were you doing in that alley, anyway?”

He didn’t answer. Truth-telling was necessary, and even pleasant, but there was no point going too hog wild with it. Still thought he’d given Cecily what she deserved, silly cow, and at least he’d seen to it that she hadn’t died a virgin.

But there was no need to tell Buffy about any of that. He’d give up Wu Xia’s hair to please her, but didn’t intend to tell her the provenance of the duster, although she’d asked if he’d kept anything of Nikki’s. No way was he giving that up, would feel naked without it. Anyway, wouldn’t do to let Buffy think he’d gone too tame. She seemed different now, easy and glowing like he’d never known her, but the last few weeks had taught him well not to get too relaxed around her. This sweetness now didn’t mean that they weren’t still Slayer and Demon. Eventually, Spike thought, they might yet fight to the death. His death. Or hers.

“How long have we got before the Niblet’s expected?”

“An hour, hour-and-a-half, probably, because she’s always late. Which I really need to speak to her a—“

Spike put a finger to her lips. “Buffy. There’s something I want you to do before we get up.”

His solemnity touched her at once; her expression darkened. “What?”

“Want you to fuck me.”

“Didn’t we just, all afternoon—“

“No, I mean, with—again. Properly.”

“Oh.” She flinched, and dropped her eyes.

“You didn’t get rid of it, did you?”

“No. No, it’s—But wouldn’t it hurt you?”

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want it. Please, Buffy.”

Standing with her back to him, she felt his hands tremble as he tightened the straps, and couldn’t tell if it was with nerves, or desire. For her, it was almost all nerves. Why did he want to do this? Was it another example of his endless macho, trying to prove to himself that he was tough?

“Spike, maybe we—“

He turned her to face him on the bed, and slicked the thing up with a handful of lube. Glanced up at her face, and then at her belly, and smiled a small tight smile. “Still think you look gorgeous with that on. You’ve got no idea. Come on.”

“How . . . how should I do it—?”

He was so different in this aspect. Presented with his back, Buffy felt almost as if he was brand new to her. The way the hair grew on the nape of his neck, and the neck itself, surprisingly slender and vulnerable. She dotted kisses between the bandages, ran her tongue down into the dip between the shoulder blades. Traced the spine with just the tip of her tongue as he sighed. His skin was so white; he smelled, as always, of leather and cigarettes. Without perspiration, he had so little scent of his own; sometimes she missed getting a snootful of funky male musk. After a fuck, his cock gave her back her own scent, slightly transposed. Even so, his asshole, which she’d never given any thought to before invading it the other night with her fingers, still frightened her a little as she moved towards it with her mouth. She’d never done this before, with anyone.

He was clean there, as everywhere. The skin was reddened, still a little swollen, but it didn’t look as bad as she feared. When she kissed it, poking her tongue a little way in, he thrashed and groaned.

She started. “Oh! I’m sorry—!”

“No, don’t stop—God, your sweet mouth—!”

He went on murmuring while she licked him, and slipping a hand underneath, she found his cock hard and straining. She worked it in her tight grip the way he liked, and hoped he would be content with this, and not ask her to do the rest.

Then he turned onto his side, and peered down at her along the line of his body. “I’m ready. Lie behind me. That way we can—“

She crawled up alongside him. Uneasily aware of the thing springing from her that seemed to poke every which way at once. “Like this?”

“That’s right, pet. Now give me just a little—ah! Wait a bit . . . it’ll go easier if you put your—“ He brought her hand around again to his cock, held it in his while she stroked his length. “That’s good, Buffy. That’s good love. Now, a little more. A little more—wait, you be still, and let me—“

“Are you sure this doesn’t hurt?”

He worked himself back on it until they were spooned together. Then Spike was still, breathing around it, letting it settle.

She could feel his burgeoning excitement feeding back to her through the thing that connected them. Her clit quivered and swelled where it pressed on her. When he turned his head they could look at each other, and kiss.

“That’s good, I’m all full. Now move a bit, pet. Just enough to please yourself, will suit me.”

She began a soft rocking, and as the device did its work on her, pressed herself closer to him, buried her face in the crook of his neck and thrust one leg between his. The whole thing still felt odd and unnatural, fucking turned inside-out somehow, and lonely to have him turned away from her. But she liked feeling his trust in her, his pleasure. His cock filled her hand, and his still covered it, guided its movements.

“Good, Buffy. This is good. What I wanted.”

She raised her head and took the kiss he had ready for her. In his eyes she could see that he was thinking, as she was, of what she’d done to him yesterday, and of what Angelus had done to him long ago. But there was more to it than that: he just liked it, the way she liked having him inside her. That made it easier. She could do this, it was just another way to make love to him.

She realized, as she moved against him, that she’d had two men whose strange connection began before her own grandmother was born. We’ve come full circle, Buffy thought, my demon lovers and me, and didn’t know if that was good or bad or how it made her feel, except that the idea brought out a blush in her whole body.

Spike must have felt it, because he chuckled, and said “You’re so warm,”

“Spike? Do you forgive me?”

“Hush pet. We’re doing this now. Ah . . . just there, that’s good my queen, keep moving . . . just . . . like . . . oh God, you’re hitting it . . . ”

This, she supposed, was all he was going to say about her transgression, but it was enough. She and Angel had forgiven each other with fewer words than that. He rocked back against her, his cock jumped in her hand, and he began to come. Riding the vibration of his climax, she wriggled and spent, clinging to his back.

As soon as he was still she withdrew and wrenched the thing off. It only had two modes: in play or in the way. “Don’t leave me alone back here.”

Spike turned to face her, pulled her into his arms.

“That was lovely. You’ll be pretty damn great at that soon, with a bit of practice.”

“Spike . . . don’t make me.”

“You liked it, pet. I could tell.”

“I like it better when you’re inside me. You know, boy and girl stuff. Instead of

. . . boy and toy.”

“You just haven’t had enough experience yet.”

“Haven’t had enough yet of something,” she agreed, touching his cock that soon stirred obligingly in her palm.

He slid his hand in between her legs.

“Need more kisses, too,” she murmured.

And so they began to do it all over again.

Of course she’d have to talk to Giles, to her friends, find the way to put those pieces back together. Rebuild the fallen bridge to Dawn. Still had the mystery of the chip to solve, and a living to earn. Had to visit Angel. Let him see that things were getting better with her. Tell him why.

The world with all its confusions and uncertainties and choices was going to crowd in on her again, very soon now.

But for now, in bed with Spike, she knew what she wanted, and there was nothing to stop her having it.

Downstairs, the porch boards creaked, and Dawn’s shout reverberated through the house. “Buffy, I’m back!”

Spike paused in mid-thrust. “Slayer. You remembered to lock the bedroom door?”


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