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SoHo in the rain

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Summary: 10x100 drabbles. Chamber/Spike. Flipping POVs. Pre-manifestation. Pre-Season 1.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Marvel Universe > X-Men > Spike-CenteredDitzCatFR2111,0101151829 Jan 0529 Jan 05Yes

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DISCLAIMER: The X-Verse belongs to Marvel and Spike belongs to Joss Whedon. London belongs to itself.



1. Spike.

It had been a smoky pub where I’d seen the boy first. Some noisome little pesthole in Soho, and just like the song, it had been raining. London in the rain, and all it meant the pollution closed in. No romance in it. Dru’d been off having one of her spells where she wasn’t fit to live with, and I’d taken a night off, leaving her with some smarter then average minions. Live bands were usually good for a laugh. And I’d seen *him*. Lean body in black and moving with the music wantonly, crow harsh voice singing out loud.

2. Jonothon.

Bloody pisser of an evening, rain bucketing down when we got to the grimy place we had the gig in. Had a time keeping the amps dry, getting everything and everyone inside out of the rain. Gav had whined his way over the tune up, until we started to play. And then there was only the music. Carrying me up and letting me loose. Guitar in front of me and leaning in to the mike to sing of darkness. Scream it, rather. Band’s rather punk. And then I saw him. Bleached blond, down in the front. And I wanted him.

3. Spike.

Our eyes met, depthless brown in the white of his face and eyeliner streaked on thickly. He had a collar on and jeans so tight they were pornographic. Seal brown hair I could wrap my fingers in and lips made for sucking cock. I could see something answer my wordless question in his eyes and he threw his head back, arched his back and belted out the lyrics of the song he was playing with passion. Always been a sucker for brunettes. Punk crossed with Goth and I could see a nipple piercing through the thin material of his shirt.

4. Jonothon.

Did I know what he was? No, of course I didn’t. Clued up real quick when I found no pulse under my fingertips and he was so cold. But we’re not there yet; he bought me a drink after the show and made a point of watching my mouth. Gayle was out of town. I was lonely and horny. He was attractive and dangerous. The scar over his eyebrow was fucking hot. When he asked me if I wanted to go around the back and show him the dressing room, I said yes. Got up from the table and left.

5. Spike.

When he shut the door behind us, throwing back curses to the jibes of his mates, I kissed him hard, hands already on his arse and grinding my hips against his. He tasted like cigarettes and jaded innocence under my questing tongue. He was hot, mortal and very young. And angry. You could feel the rage that thrummed off him. “I want you to blow me,” I whispered into his ear, fingers searching out the piercing I’d seen on his nipple and twisting. He moaned and dropped to his knees, hands going to my belt. God, he was so gorgeous.

6. Jonothon.

I’ll admit it, I like girls just fine. But when I’m with a guy, I want him to take control. He didn’t disappoint. Something coppery in his mouth, overlaid with cigarettes and booze. Maybe he’d cut his lip earlier; it’d account for the taste of blood. He pounced as soon as I got the door closed, teeth grating violently in our first kiss and canny fingers finding every hotspot on my body. I dropped to my knees when he told me what he wanted, fumbling for a moment with his belt and then undoing the buttons of his fly. Fuck.

7. Spike.

The first hint of warm breath on my erection and I fastened my hands in his hair, watching the loose waves curl around my fingers before forcing him to take me in his mouth. Only rape if the victim is unwilling, and I’d pegged the boy for a bit of a masochist straight off. Watching his lips close around my cock and then the gulping swallow as he took me deep into his throat was probably as close to Nirvana as I’ve ever been. Tight, rippling heat. And then he moaned loudly, as I started to fuck his mouth hard.

8. Jonothon.

I knew I was going to be speaking hoarsely the next morning as he used my mouth, unwilling tears glittering in my eyes as his fingers gripped harder on my hair. I put my hands on his hips and let him thrust down into my throat as he wanted. I didn’t want to stop him. After a bit, he pulled out and I got up unsteadily. Without another word, I bent over the makeup table and dropped my jeans, spreading my legs as much as I could. Not that far, but enough. I rested my head on my arms, waiting.

9. Spike.

His skin was as pale as a vampire’s, but I knew he had mortal blood thumping through his veins. There was a faint trace of fear underlying his scent, and I found a tube of slick in my coat pocket. I wasn’t planning on killing him, so no need to take him dry. I prepped him roughly with a few fingers, then slid lube over my aching cock and entered him with one hard thrust. He arched under it, moaning. I kissed his neck, just under the curve of his ear and fucked him hard and fast. No words describe.

10. Jonothon.

When it was over and we were cleaning up, we finally exchanged names. Spike. Had a bit of a natter and a cigarette, me talking through a bruised throat. Even if it had been bruised in the best possible way. He said he was planning on heading over to the states. Sounded interesting, but London is and always will be my home. Of course, in a few months my mutation manifested and I ended up in Yankee Land anyway. Funny old world, innit? I never saw him again, and I lost the scar of his bite when my throat exploded.

The End

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