Pairing: Spike/Lindsey/Angel/Wesley
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I'm not Joss
Warnings: slash, light BDSM
Summary: Set sometime during AtS S5, and in flagrant disregard of actual timelines. Spike has a problem and turns to Angel for help. Don't look too hard for a plot this time, folks, cause it ain't there.

This is my Secret Santa gift for kasmodia , who wanted "Spike/Angel, Spike/Lindsey, Spike/Rudolph the red nosed Reindeer/the Grinch/ Ebenezer Scrooge/you get the gist." I hope this fits the bill!

Archivist's Note: This story pairs Spike with almost everyone except Xander, but I have archived it as it seemed to me a kind of Prelude to Spander.



Venom for the Holidays


by
Whichclothes


The need was tangible, a part of his body like a limb, like his aching cock, like the balls that throbbed between his legs. It seared him like the soul had. He whined deep in his throat and strained against his bonds, arching his groin up uselessly into the air.

“Stop it! You’ll hurt yourself on the manacles and I don’t want bloodstains on my sheets.”

Under other circumstances Spike would have at least rolled his eyes, but now he only whined again and shuddered and looked at Angel imploringly. Angel pretended he didn’t see. But the mattress dipped as the big pouf sat next to Spike.

“Wes is working on it. He should have an answer pretty soon.” Angel frowned down at him. “You haven’t fed in a while. If I take the gag out, can you drink instead of…making noises?” He looked uncomfortable, probably because the noises Spike had made were mostly loads of crying and begging for relief.

Spike considered Angel’s question, at least as much as his desperate mind could consider anything right now. Then he shook his head. No, the need was greater than hunger right now.

Angel sighed. “Okay. Then I’m gonna go back to my office and read over that—“

Spike made a strangled sound. He didn’t want to be left alone. Company at least distracted him a bit from the demands of his body. Of course, if the pillock had at least had a telly, that would have helped as well.

Angel looked at him—carefully keeping his glances to Spike’s face—and sighed again. Then he toed off his shoes and scooted around so his legs were on the bed and his back was against the headboard. If Spike stretched his fingers he could just brush against the silk of Angel’s shirt, and he did, because any touch now was better than none. Angel must have noticed, but he didn’t respond.

“How come you always get yourself in these situations, Spike? Anyone else, they go to a bar, they have a couple drinks, they go home. They don’t get attacked by a ravening, sex-crazed demon.”

She hadn’t been ravening. She was pretty, actually, if you could overlook the fur and the antlers and the shiny red nose and—all right. Perhaps she wasn’t so pretty. But it had been ages since Spike got his end away, and she was there, and nothing else in the demon bar that night had been remotely shaggable. It was Christmas Eve, always a slow night even for demons. So he chatted her up and they were having a nice friendly snog when she fucking stung him with her tongue.

He’d backed away, knocking over his chair, and she had stood and put her hands on her hips. “You’re a vampire!” she accused.

“Bloody right I am! What the hell did you do to me?”

“I was going to mate with you, of course. But that won’t work—you’re sterile!” And with an annoyed flounce of her skirts, she marched away.

Spike had stood there for a moment, rubbing the outside of his mouth, and then he felt his cock begin to harden. Fine, he’d thought. I’ll drink away whatever that bitch did to me. But by the time he’d had only a single shot of Jack, his dick was straining uncomfortably against his flies, and he found himself eyeing the Fyarl a few seats away speculatively. That’s when he knew it was time to get help.

He’d nicked one of the pouf’s cars that evening—a sleek little black Avanti—and he nearly crashed it as he tried to wank and drive back to Wolfram & Hart at the same time. The wanking gave him no relief at all, and by the time he’d pulled into the garage he’d been snarling while tears of frustration coursed down his face. With enormous effort he’d managed to get himself tucked back into his trousers, and he’d headed straight for Angel’s office, growling menacingly at the few people he passed on the way. Harmony had gone home long ago, so Spike had simply stomped straight inside. Angel was seated at his desk, as he often was nowadays, and barely looked up as Spike entered. But then Spike threw himself against his grandsire so hard that he knocked the chair over, and began to desperately hump himself against the shocked older vampire.

“What the fuck?” Angel had exclaimed, vamping out and struggling to get out from underneath Spike.

“Can’t help it,” Spike panted. “Need to shag now. Get your bloody kit off.”

Spike had never seen a vampire look quite so astonished. “Need to—Spike! We don’t…we haven’t….”

Spike had mewled with frustration as Angel rolled him over, pinning Spike’s arms over his head. At least their bodies were still in contact, though, and Spike thrust his pelvis upward as much as his grandsire’s weight would allow him. “I know, berk!” He did know. They hadn’t been intimate for well over a century, since the bad old days when it was Angelus and there were no souls in sight. “Help me!”

They’d fought for a few minutes then, but it wasn’t really much of a fight, as Spike was much more interested in fucking Angel than hurting him, and Spike kept moving into Angel’s grip instead of out of it. Soon Angel had him face down on the carpet, his wrists held tightly against his shoulderblades while Angel sat on his lower back and demanded an explanation. Crying because he couldn’t even get any friction against his cock like this, Spike had choked out his story. After that, Angel had managed to get Spike into the lift and then up to his penthouse. He’d tossed Spike onto his bed, and Spike had momentarily rejoiced in the hope that the ponce was going to give in to his pleas, but then Angel had stomped out of the room. Spike had stripped off his own clothes so he could tug at his leaking, painful cock, but then Angel came back in with an armful of bondage gear—Spike was too overwrought to wonder why Peaches had the stuff so handy—and cuffed Spike’s wrists and ankles to the bed frame. He’d shoved a ball gag in Spike’s mouth, too, and Spike didn’t even really mind because he’d been ashamed of the pathetic pleading he’d been doing.

Angel left him trussed up and writhing, while Angel went to ring Wesley for assistance. At least he hadn’t told Fred, Spike thought with relief. This was humiliating enough as it was. So now they were on the bed next to each other, and Spike was moaning and thrashing as much as he could. Angel’s great forehead was furrowed, and Spike knew exactly what thoughts were whirling around inside—pillock was wallowing in guilt over the fact that he was turned on by Spike’s predicament—and Spike badly wished his grandsire would allow himself to do something about the impressive erection that was now tenting his own trousers.

“I wish Wes would hurry up,” Angel muttered and, despite his distress, Spike snorted. Old Broody feeling sorry for himself when Spike was the one burning up here. Well, Angel or Angelus, the world always did revolve around the big sod and his problems. “I’ve got enough to worry about right now as it is, without…this.” He waved his hands vaguely in Spike’s direction.

If Spike had been able to speak, he would have pointed out that Angel might feel more relaxed if he’d get a leg over. Spike had no idea how long it had been for Angel, but years of unresolved sexual tension couldn’t possibly be making his unlife any easier. Even before tonight Spike would have been willing to help Angel solve that little problem, had Angel only asked. After all, Spike wasn’t likely to make his grandsire perfectly happy, and the old man always had been rather a treat.

Spike whimpered and bucked. Christ, if he didn’t get his dick in something soon he was going to dust!

The buzzer on the door sounded and Angel leapt off the bed. He returned a moment later with Wesley, who turned an interesting shade of red when he caught sight of Spike. Spike was past caring.

“Yes, erm…quite,” Wes said. “Angel told me of your predicament, Spike. You’ve been infected by an Ihnor demon, it seems. There are no male Ihnors. To reproduce, the females must mate with another species, and they generally prefer humans. They poison their chosen human and bring him back to their nest. He becomes incredibly, erm, aroused, you see, enough to service several of the demons.”

“That’s great, Wes,” Angel scowled. “How do we stop it?”

Wes shifted uncomfortably. “Erm. Apparently the only way is for the victim to climax several times.”

Spike made a sound that Angel properly interpreted as meaning he wanted the gag removed. Angel complied, and Spike said, “Tried wanking, Percy. Couldn’t get off.”

“Yes. Well, according to my source, the climaxes must occur with other people…or, of course, demons. Makes sense, as the point is to impregnate the creatures.” Even his ears were the color of a stoplight. They’d be lovely to nibble on, Spike thought.

Spike bit almost clean through his tongue to stop himself from begging Percy to suck him off. His own blood tasted bitter and off.

Angel rubbed at his forehead. “And if he doesn’t?”

“He’ll continue like this indefinitely.”

Spike groaned.

“Does it have to be Ihnors he’s with?” Angel asked.

“No. Any species will do. And either gender, actually.” Spike could have sworn he saw Wesley’s mouth almost twitch into a small smile at that.

Wesley and Angel both stood looking down at Spike, as if he were an interesting museum exhibit of some kind. Very interesting, actually, because now not only was Angel sporting an obvious hard-on, but so was Wesley.

“Would one of you just get to it, already? You can bugger me if you want, I don’t bloody care. Just…please!”

The other two exchanged quick, nervous glances. And then Angel’s brow cleared and his mouth dropped open. He’d clearly had an “aha!” moment. “I’ve got an idea. Wes, come with me.”

“Oi! Stay here! You have to—“ Spike’s protests were cut off when Angel popped the gag back into his mouth. He had to content himself again with twisting his torso and growling curses into the plastic.


***

There were noises in the other room. Grunts and muffled curses mostly, the clanking of metal against metal. “Hey, Wes, can you hand me that…yeah, thanks. No, a little tighter. Yeah, like that. Okay.”

Angel came back into the bedroom a moment later, and Spike whined and thrust upwards.

“I’ve got a solution to your problem in the next room, Spike. I’m gonna unchain you now. No, um, attacking me, okay?”

Spike nodded. Fine, he’d shag the bloody Grinch if he had to.

Angel leaned over him to unlock the cuffs. That big, once-familiar body so close to him made Spike wild, and he thrashed and struggled frantically.

“Just a second, Spike!”

It took ages for Angel to fumble the restraints open. As soon as he was finished, Spike leapt to his feet and staggered through the door. If he’d hesitated at all he’d have been throwing himself at Angel again, tearing those posh wool trousers off him, and he’d promised not to.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the other room was the Christmas tree. It must have been there when he entered the flat, but he’d been too busy fighting with Angel to notice. It was fake—wise vampires didn’t keep pointy wooden things hanging about their homes—but tasteful, with the ornaments all in silver and white. Spike had no idea what Angel was doing with the thing in his flat, but it did look nice.

Nice enough, in fact, that for just a brief moment he forgot his predicament. And then he noticed the second thing, and was reminded quite forcefully of his situation. A man was in the room, a human. He was stark naked and bent over some sort of metal contraption so that his legs were spread, his arse was high, and his head was low. His ankles were chained to the base of the metal thing and his hands were cuffed behind his back. He was struggling, trying fruitlessly to free himself, and making incoherent noises that let Spike know he was gagged as well. Spike couldn’t see his face from this angle, but he didn’t have to—he recognized that arse. In fact, for a few weeks he’d had rather intimate acquaintance with that arse, although he’d been misled as to its owner’s name.

Angel came up behind Spike and removed his gag. “He’s all yours.”

Extremely unpleasant memories flooded Spike’s mind of a bathroom, and a Slayer who was suddenly just a scared girl. He backed away, backed into Angel, as a matter of fact, not trusting himself to get any closer. “I can’t…. He’s….” He swallowed and shook his head. “Can’t.”

Wesley stepped out of the shadow where he’d been standing, watching. “Just a moment, please.” He walked over to Lindsey, bent over, and unbuckled the leather straps on back of the man’s head.

Lindsey had gone very still when he heard Spike’s voice. Wesley said to him, “Spike is in rather a pickle, Mr. McDonald. He needs very badly to have sexual congress with someone. I know the two of you had…relations…before. Are you willing to allow him to continue, or shall we return you to the basement immediately?”

There was a brief pause. Then a rough voice said, “Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay, man. I’m…. Go ahead.”

It was all Spike needed. He darted forward and set his palms on the warm, firm globes. “Slick,” he groaned. “Where’s some bloody slick?”

He heard Angel’s hurrying footsteps and, a moment later, a plastic tube was being placed into his hand. Spike was shaking with need by now, but he managed to fumble the lid open and pour quite a bit down Lindsey’s crack. He put some more in his own palm and stroked it over his aching organ, then hurriedly thrust a finger into Lindsey’s hole, urging the tight muscles to loosen. Lindsey gasped quietly.

“Can’t wait,” Spike said. “Don’t want to hurt you, but—“

“It’s all right. Go for it.” God, Spike loved his voice, the smoke and honey tones of it. He’d loved it back when he thought his name was Doyle, and it was part of the reason Spike had shagged him then. Well, his voice and his pretty face and the lovely arse that he now held in his sticky hands.

Now, Lindsey’s words were all the encouragement he needed. He took his cock in his left hand, touched the head of it against Lindsey’s twitching little hole, and, excruciatingly slowly, pressed inside.

Four groans sounded in unison, like some sort of kinky barbershop quartet.

The hot channel gripped Spike like a living glove, and it felt so bloody brilliant, better than anything he could remember. He wanted to pound into it hard and furious, but he had just enough self-control to keep from hurting Lindsey. Even if the bastard deserved it. Instead he rocked his hips, slow and deep, and he reached under the man’s bent body and grasped Lindsey’s cock. He was relieved to discover it hard, although not entirely surprised. He’d known for some time that the lawyer was pretty bent. The restraints, the audience, the general tawdriness of it all—those were all likely major turn-ons for the tosser. Well, and for Spike, too, even if it weren’t for the demon shite in his body.

Spike threw his head back and closed his eyes, and moved faster. He could feel Lindsey moving underneath him as much as the chains allowed, trying to thrust himself back onto Spike’s cock. “Oh, God,” Lindsey moaned.

No. That wasn’t Lindsey, Spike’s muddled brain realized. That was Wesley, who was watching avidly, his face now milk-pale and his jaw hanging open. Spike locked eyes with him as he felt his balls draw up, and then his rhythm was lost as he shot into Lindsey’s clutching tunnel.

He knew right away that it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. The fire still burned inside him, his guts still felt tight and twisted. “Need more,” he panted. “C’mere, Percy.”

Wesley swallowed audibly, and then walked slowly toward him like a man in a trance. Spike reached over Lindsey’s sweating spine, encouraging Wesley to come closer. He almost had his fingers on the khaki cotton of Wesley’s trousers when the phone rang. Spike swore when Wesley froze, just out of reach.

“Yeah?” Angel said behind Spike. He sounded peeved and slightly out of breath. “What? Is Buffy—Oh….But it’s Christmas….Okay….All right….Yeah, just come on by. I’ll tell security to let you in.”

Spike twisted his head to look at Angel quizzically. Angel seemed rather distracted by Spike’s still-pistoning hips. “That was, uh, Xander Harris.”

“Harris? What the bloody hell?”

“He has some problem and says he needs help.”

“Buffy?”

Angel shook his head. “She’s fine. But he didn’t want to go into detail over the phone. He’s gonna come here to talk about it.”

Spike stopped moving for a moment. When Lindsey started to complain, Spike slapped him on the arse, hard enough to leave a pretty red handprint. “Oi. Just a mo’,” Spike said to the man beneath him. Then he turned again to Angel. “Harris is coming here?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow afternoon. He’s about to get on a plane in Glasgow, he said.”

Spike breathed a sigh of relief. In the state he was in, he’d eagerly shag even Harris, given half a chance, and he was fairly certain the boy wouldn’t put up more than a token resistance, either. Spike hoped that by the time the boy walked off the jetway at LAX, the venom would be just an unpleasant memory. All right, not completely unpleasant, he admitted, giving his hips a bit of a twist that made Lindsey shudder. Not completely.

Angel seemed to have forgotten the phone was in his hand. His eyes looked glassy, with little glints of yellow that sent shivers down Spike’s back. “Come on, then, Peaches,” Spike said, low and throaty. “Help a bloke out.”

Angel let the phone drop to the floor. Then with vampiric speed he was standing just behind Spike, and, having retrieved the discarded bottle of slick, was busily spreading it in Spike’s crack, pushing it into Spike’s hole with one blunt finger. Spike rocked back and forth between the twin sensations, and when Angel added a second finger he came again, a ragged cry escaping from his chest.

He’d almost forgotten about Wes. But once his senses returned, the man was still there, his knees inches from Lindsey’s lowered head. Spike curled his tongue behind his teeth. But before he could say anything, he felt Angel’s cock hard and blunt against his entrance and then inside. It had been decades since he’d been buggered, and even longer than that since this particular organ had been inside him, yet the stretch and burn was oddly familiar. It felt brilliant to be filled, to have Angel’s fingertips digging into his hipbones, to feel Angel’s cool breath ghosting over his neck.

“Jesus Christ,” Angel said, with more than a hint of a brogue.

It took a few moments to get the rhythm right between the three of them. Two really, because Lindsey didn’t have much say in what was happening, although he was doing his best to wriggle. Spike stroked the lawyer’s cock again and could tell he was close, so Spike wrapped his fingers almost brutally tightly around the base of it, making Lindsey howl and swear.

Spike could hear the click in Wesley’s throat as he swallowed. “Closer,” Spike rumbled.

As if in thrall, Wesley did, until he was straddling Lindsey’s neck. Spike watched as Wes unfastened his flies and lowered his trousers and boxers—navy and white striped—to reveal a long, thin cock, uncut and jutting straight out. Spike licked his lips and bent low, and a moment later the soft skin of the mushroom head was rubbing against his lips, salty and smelling faintly of Ivory soap and laundry detergent. Spike stuck his tongue out and tasted the tip of it, then swirled around in small, teasing circles.

Angel must have liked the sight of it—no great surprise there—because his movements sped up and he began a long string of muttered, jumbled Gaelic and Latin. Spike would have laughed at the perverted old sod if his mouth wasn’t already occupied.

Spike had never shagged three people at once and it was a bit overwhelming. It was hard to keep all the sensations straight—hands at his hips and in his hair, hot flesh around his cock and in his mouth, the bulk of Angel’s wide cock in him and the weight of him pressing behind him. The sounds, too. Skin slapping against skin. Breaths hitching. Two hearts beating fast, sweet blood rushing and flowing through arteries and veins. Moans and grunts and swearing in a variety of accents. The familiar scent of Lindsey, which he realized he’d been missing, and that of Angel, which spoke to him of family and memories and losses a century old. And Wesley’s odor, new to Spike in this form; it was dusty like old books and metallic like a sharpened blade.

Spike rolled his eyes up so he could see the way Wesley had his own eyes screwed shut and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Each time Angel’s thrusts drove Spike forward, Wes’s cock slipped a little farther into Spike’s mouth, until the head of it was against the back of his throat. Spike had long ago conditioned away his gag reflex, and now he swallowed, making Wes tremble and pant.

“Spike—please, man! Please!”

Spike took pity on Lindsey and loosened his fist. Then he began stripping the lawyer’s cock, moving his hand quickly up and down to the same tempo as the other participants’ lunges. “Fuck, yeah, like that, like that,” Lindsey yowled, loud enough that Spike wondered if they heard it downstairs. Not that it mattered to him. Lindsey’s speech devolved into inchoate babble, and then Spike felt the cock in his grip jerk as it sprayed hot spend over his hand and the lawyer’s belly.

Lindsey’s muscles tightened around Spike and that was enough. He was coming, hard as a tsunami, and at the same time he felt thick liquid slipping down his gullet as Wesley climaxed, and Angel slammed home twice more before collapsing atop Spike’s back, pressing all the air from his lungs.

The aftershocks were still rippling through Spike’s body as they disentangled themselves. Spike collapsed onto the carpet, where he lay on his back, finally getting a look at Lindsey’s flushed and slightly dazed face. Angel and Wesley both zipped up and lurched over to the sofa. They slumped there side by side, both looking nearly as debauched as Spike felt.

Wesley cleared his throat. “Did that do it, Spike?”

“Yeah. All sorted.” He slurred his words as if he were drunk, but that was all right. The need was gone, replaced by a round little ball of contentment.

“We should return Mr. McDonald to his cell, Angel.”

“Um, yeah. In a minute.” Angel sounded drugged as well. Or perhaps just sleepy.

Out of the corner of Spike’s eyes, he saw the Christmas tree, festive and sparkling. “You know,” he said, “we could keep him here. Cuff him to the bed, maybe. In the spirit of the holiday and all.”

Even with his head hanging upside down, Lindsey managed to make puppy dog eyes, all soft and pleading. He never could pull off the innocent look, let alone now, while he was bent and chained with Spike’s come dripping out of his reddened hole and down the inside of his thigh. But that didn’t stop him from trying.

Angel and Wesley exchanged quick, furtive glances. “I don’t know,” Angel said.

Spike levered himself up onto his elbows. He deliberately spread his legs, displaying himself shamefully for his grandsire. Angel unconsciously licked at his lips.

“C’mon,” Spike said. “I might have a relapse or something.”

“That’s highly unlikely. My sources say—“ Wesley shut up abruptly when Angel hit his bicep. Rather hard.

“Those sources aren’t always reliable, are they, Wes?”

Wesley blinked. “No. Not always.”

“So Spike could end up feeling the effects of the venom again.”

“Erm, yes. He might.”

“Best to be prepared, then.” Angel smiled. “I think I have enough chains for both of them.”<




The End





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