Buffy the Vampire Slayer Preferences + imagines/one shots

Spike Imagine - London

1998. London, England. 

"She even tastes like a vegan," Spike sneers, dumping the body behind a bunch of bins - and it's the funniest thing I've heard all night. 

I tilt my head back and cackle carelessly, showing off my crooked teeth to the black sky, the sound raw and unfiltered. 

Spike's grin is bigger than mine as he pulls me close for a sloppy kiss. I can taste a trace of vegan-girl on his lips, and I tell him how she reminds me of charity shops and soya. 

I am very drunk. 

As I look around the streets and shops, I realise how prominent the vampire scene is in London. Being back here after all these years is better than I could've ever expected. Camden comes alive at night with the unalive, all types of vampires and hell creatures gather, sharing beers and stories. Rock music blasts from speakers and the air is pleasantly warm for a British evening, tangy with blood and smoke. 

Spike was unsure about coming when I first proposed the idea, but he is undeniably in his element. More Billy Idol than ever, all black leather and safety pins and bleached hair. He's so beautiful.

We emerge from the alley and dip into a pub with linked hands; the demon behind the bar looks exactly like Clem.

 I'm torn between ordering another drink or sneaking off with Spike to make out in the loos. Spike gives me a smirk and I know which option he's set on.

He drags me by the hand, through the wooden door to the unisex toilets. He steps into a stall behind me and wastes no time thrusting me up against the wall. I grab his hair and kiss him like I mean it. Feeding from a wasted college boy after three drinks was probably not the best idea. But how can I care when I'm making out with my super hot boyfriend, thousands of miles away from Sunnydale, away from the slayer and her slayerettes? How could I possibly give a damn when he's kissing my neck and unbuttoning my jeans?

"Spike," I groan.

"You're so perfect," he replies.

When we stumble out of the pub, we instantly get engulfed by a rowdy crowd of punk vamps (who are clearly high out of their minds). I clutch Spike's hand tight, not wanting to get separated.

We escape to a small bridge, just on the outskirts of the festivities.

Spike lets go of my hand to grab the railing, peeling black paint chips and scatters at his feet. A cold breeze tickles my cheeks and although I'm very dead, I feel the most alive I have in centuries.

"WOO!" Spike howls up at the sky and I belly laugh. He must be feeling it too. "Home sweet home." he says with a sparkling grin.

I gaze up at the midnight sky too, smiling, until something drops straight into my eye. I frown, wiping at my face with the back of my hand.

"Good old England." I mutter as the raindrops fall faster.

Before I know what's happening, it's chucking it down. 

Just as I feel annoyance brewing, Spike's hearty laugh brings me back to the present.

"Baby, it's raining," he says.

"I noticed," I reply.

He whips off his jacket and holds it over both our heads. We look at each other for a moment, before we're running, in sync, back to our hotel.