Emotion is a very complicated thing. Love coexists very easily with hate; respect and loathing have often been bedfellows in the soul of man. It's ever so simple to hate someone, but it's harder for someone to acknowledge that at the very moment that their palms itch for the hot, steamy flow of their enemies' blood, their skin also aches to glide against the warm skin stretched over that sweet blood, lithe muscles, and sense dead heart. Not everything is about liking or love.

Sometimes it's about fucking.

Spike fucks the Slayer because he can't fuck his sire, because she is his, because she is a cunt, because she is a convenient hole, because he craves every smell and odor of her disgustingly human flesh covering his undead body, masking the lingering smell of decay and death.

He can never have her, she will never turn to him with that simperingly soft smile on her face, half-tragic, half-hoping, her head cocked up to meet a head higher up. She's never tender sweetness and gentle movements to Spike. He has her skin, her flesh, the sinewy muscles wrapped around the strong bones, the molten hot cunt, the tight velvety grip of her ass, her crisp white teeth on his cock; his sire has everything Spike can't touch. Those things don't exist in a material form. Buffy has a heart, bruised and torn, though resilient, but Spike's only hope of holding it would be to rip out of her tiny ribcage.

But he can fuck her.

Spike fucks her up, he fucks her down. He fucks her in her room at night, covering her mouth tightly with his hand as she screams her pleasure, his throbbing erection pistoning into her grasping cunt. He waits for hours in closets and unused classrooms at the university till she comes out of a class, and the instant they spin into a space at least semi-private, the peroxide blonde vampire drops to his knees, shoves her tiny skirt up, her black lace panties down, and sucks her clit into his mouth, nibbling and suckling till she grunts and slumps over his body.

He watches her wake up, tracing the too prominent bones in her shoulders, dipping his thumb into her half-open mouth before trailing it down to a pebbled nipple. Spike's sire wakes up alone, cold and lost in a frozen personal hell, caught between a steaming mass of humanity and his own hellishly still nightmares, blood, demons, and things the fucker can never have. Spike wakes up in tangle of unconscious Slayer. So, when Spike drinks in her stirring form, the sunlight creating a landscape of golden curves and dusky shadows as it skates across her still nude form, he wallows in the delicious knowledge of what he has appropriated from his sire. Before he leaves, he carefully puts legs into pajama bottoms and a slim torso and arms into a soft fuzzy pajama top. So no one will know. No one.

Only Spike can touch her the way she needs to be touched. Nothing remains of the sweaty, impetuous, impatient, and too quick touches of her human lovers. Bumbling boys, full of hot blood and hot spunk, desperate to touch her, fill her, make her theirs, so ignorant and human they could never smell the stink of Angel that permeates her skin, her blood, her soul. It's almost as if their cells merged when the idiotic pair fucked, when he viciously fed off of her, when they spent every moment so close people couldn’t see two separate beings but rather some sort of sick Siamese twin.

Spike fucks her. He touches her, and she feels pleasure, her vaginal muscles contract, her hips buck, she even smiles as she orgasms. But her smile so quickly disappears that it's more a phantom muscle tick than anything real.

She doesn't feel love.

They fuck because Spike is convenient; he's cold and hard in all the right places, he knows precisely how to make her come so hard, so fast her breath and heart stop for just a second.

An intense, angry hunger eats up every last bit of Spike until he caves in and pops his cock into her hole with a soft sigh, knowing that he belongs there, knowing that there, nothing can ever hurt him. Buried so deep inside her he almost thinks he could touch her heart with his manhood, Spike has a part of the Slayer that his sire will never have again. Inside his most hated enemy, his sire's mate, he finds peace.

For once, he feels something. Be it hate, be it love, or be it lust, at least he can still feel.