My Left Foot

Dawn's first attempt at fanfic.

**Warning: Do Not Read unless you are over 17 years old. If you are younger than 17 but married with kids, your life must really suck, so go ahead and read it.**

[Encounter set season 6 after DMP; NC-17; Buffy and Spike belong to Joss and ME, not me. TMBG belong to themselves. Nothing illegal here.

      Buffy walked towards the crypt after her shift at the Doublemeat. She pulled a few stray strands of her hair behind her ear knowing it reeked of grease. The obtrusive smell of burgers and fries adhered to her body like sweat. Even her tennis shoes, after two cycles in the washing machine, were saturated with the odor. She had given up.

      That Sunday morning had begun tolerably well. She slept late. She was starving when she woke, one of the first normal emotions she'd felt in ages and for once ate breakfast at home. Dawn wasn't at home that day and subsequently was not bothering her. Then, two o'clock came. She suddenly felt very sleepy, but had to be at the Doublemeat by three. Buffy forced herself to go into work. It was a slow afternoon which mistakenly lulled her into hoping all she had to do was stand up until midnight.

     As the students from the visiting school Marching Band left to load the bus in the DMP parking lot, and the requisite band member parents, who arrived by the car load, slowly trickled out of the resturant, Buffy thought about yesterday. The way Spike had banged her up against the wall outside on her break. On her way to clean the bathrooms for the second time that day, she thought about how stupid she was and how Clorox might make something sterile, but it couldn't make it clean. Finally, it was over and she could leave. She tried not to think about her intended destination, she tried not to think at all.

     Spike sat in front of the TV laughing at Hank Hill and admiring the VCR on top of it. Lucky for him, things sometimes fell off the Best Buy truck, accidentally on purpose . He looked over his shoulder as Buffy silently walked in. She didn't shove the door open with her usual passion. "This can't be good," Spike thought.

      "Slayer, thought you'd be patroling about now," Spike said as he hit mute on the remote control.

      Buffy didn't answer. The only light in the crypt was the TV as she walked toward him. She unbuttoned the hideous orange and white striped shirt. As Spike sat in the chair, she took off her shoes and the orange pants without showing any emotion. Spike watched her intently, but she never once made eye contact. In a red lace bra and baby blue cotton bikini panties, she walked toward the chair.

      "Run out of matching clothes, I see."

      She looked into his bright blue eyes as she kneeled down in front of him, but didn't say a word. She put both hands on the knees of his black jeans and looked down. For a moment, she thought about resting her forehead there and crying.

      Spike knew she was disturbed, an empty person in a constant state of pain. But on this unpredictable and destructive path, she had sought him. Buffy was suffering and in her nocuous emotional state, she reached for Spike. Though it was not what he envisioned, after a year and a half of chasing her, she was coming to him now. "I comfort her," thought the poor deluded bastard as he reached over and pulled the clip out of her shoulder length hair.

      "One of the good things about being a demon, pet, is you can stop wearing underwear."

     "God, would he ever learn to keep his mouth shut," Buffy thought. She needed silence.

      She had learned a long time ago not to cry in front of soulless vampires. All the way to the crypt, her stomach had quivered and heaved, like she was going to break down, but no tears welled up. She actually wanted them to come. She wanted to fall down, cry and die, in that order. That would be a relief, but still, no tears came. And with Spike around, they never would. Not because he made her happy, anything but happy. What he did was make her feel like herself. In a strange way, being with Spike brought back a few old Buffy emotions. Anger, lust, the thrill of the kill, although suppressed, they were there before she died. Now, they were, he was--her only connection to her old self.

      She reached up and unbuttoned his black jeans, and he took in a deep pointless breath. As she unzipped them, his cock was already getting aroused. She watched it - long, pink and hard - spring up. Smooth skin with beautiful little vein patterns across it, filled with stolen blood, stolen life, just like her own.

      "I guess you don't want to talk."

      "I never want to talk to you," Buffy said flatly and truthfully, as she pulled his dick up tight with her left hand. She rubbed it against her cheek as she put her face into his groin and breathed. Rubbed her nose on his soft hair and cool skin. A faint smell of Spike lingered there, little of smoke and a hint of man, but maybe that was just her imagination. She placed one gentle kiss on his skin above his pubes, letting her tongue make little circles on his perfect skin, before the hard sucking and biting began. One hand was on his hip trying to grab his bare ass with his stupid jeans still on. His hard cock, held tight in left hand, was aching for her to do more. She licked the tip in a way that said this is the only thing I want from you.

      She sucked his cock with more vigor than she'd had for anything in days. All her strength and intensity focused on him. His beautiful body, sharp and needy, quivered as Buffy savored him. Deep, long strokes with her mouth and then twirling her tongue around the head. Her left hand moving up and down, tight around the base. She knew how to play him and could inflame him with a look and a growl. Her mouth on him this way tampered with his universe.

     Spike's cold hands were on her back, unfastening her bra. His hands slid firmly up and down her back, massaging her muscles and making her spine tingle. With a light touch and soft caress, his hands moved to her side and slowly up her body. As his cold fingers stroked the edge of her breast, she moaned, needing more. He watched her, wanting her to look up, but knowing she wouldn't. She went down on him like a woman on a mission. Her only thoughts were of him, tasting him and wanting him.

     Buffy felt her body becoming warmer, almost burning between her legs. She wanted to be touched so bad and hard. She moved her knee over to straddle his leg. Her clit then rubbed against where his boot met his jeans. Her left hand held his dick tight as the right clutched his muscular ass. He felt her hips moving against his leg, and he straightened his leg. He lifted slightly and rubbed it between her thighs to the tempo she set with her hips and mouth. Beneath her breast, she could feel his quads tighten as he jostled her, moving his leg faster and giving her a ride. She had sweat forming on her back now, even in the cold crypt. She breathed the same air in and out in his crotch. The air, and his crotch, were more than warm, but not quite hot. He ran his fingers through her stringy, tangled hair. She hadn't brushed it before she came over. He knew she probably hadn't even brushed it today.

     He held her head tight now in his hands. She was moving faster, her hips and her mouth. She reached down with her right hand, inside her panties to stroke her warm, wet clit even harder. Spike was lifting his leg off the floor now, and Buffy was clinging to it. His foot, flexed and wedged up against her ass, kept Buffy from sliding off his leg. The way his dick, in her mouth, kept her from sliding back into the grave. She started to spasm, deep and intense. She slowed her hand, yet her climax continued with each stroke zooming out through her entire body. With Spike's leg tight between her thighs and his cock in her mouth, down her throat, she continued to cum. Spike was on the edge. As her climax ended, she raked her teeth slowly across the underside of his cock. He came. She swallowed and licked it clean. He breathed quickly in and out, staring down and refusing to let go of her head.

     Buffy slid her head down off his lap and sat on the floor. She felt her bra swinging above her hard nipples. She reached back, hooked the clasp, and pulled it down over her breast. As Spike watched her, he slid off the chair and knelt beside her.

     "Buffy, don't," he said softly.

     She stood up and walked to her clothes. "I really should go," she said as she pulled up her pants and gathered her shirt.

     "But you didn't---"

     "I did, actually and I should...." her voice got softer and she didn't even finish the sentence, just slipped her feet into her Skechers.

     Spike was in front of her now and grabbed her hand with his.

"Lie down with me, Buffy. Please---" he said softly as he leaned in with his lips close to her forehead. She could feel his breath against her as he spoke. "Let me make it better. Let me fuck you."

      He put his right hand on her face and pulled her close with his left. She stood there frozen, letting him hold her. Both arms were around her now and as he gently rocked her back and forth with his body, she melted against him. She closed her eyes, rested her head against his shoulder, and let him support her. For a moment she felt so peaceful, she was almost asleep standing up.

     "Look at us," Spike said. She suddenly opened her eyes and her body became tense.

      "...Dancing," he whispered.

She pushed his arms down and walked toward the door, suddenly feeling worse than when she walked in, if that were possible.

      "Buffy," he called, realizing what he'd done and knowing he couldn't stop her now.

     She paused at the door but wouldn't turn around to look at him. "She stopped," he thought. This was it. This was his one chance to stop her. She was listening. "Think, think," Spike thought to himself. Say something to make her stay. He knew 'I love you' was wrong. But what? I'll help you. I need you. Don't kill yourself. All these options flashed through Spike's head.

      "You suck dick like a pro," he muttered.

As the door slammed behind her, Spike kicked his chair over. He picked the remote up off the floor and threw it at the wall. The TV suddenly started blaring "Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know." as Malcolm in the Middle began.

     "God," Spike yelled, then picked up a whiskey bottle and drank. "I hate They Might Be Giants."