So... midnight last night found me parked out behind the public library finishing up this porn and using the library's wireless connection to run it by [info]reremouse on Yahoo!Messenger. Suddenly, bright lights flooded the car from behind.

A few minutes passed (calling in my license plate, no doubt) before the policeman approached my window. He asked what I was doing and I told him (the part about using the internet connection, not the part about writing gay porn, though I should have). He asked me if I was hiding something (because my elbows were back from the way I type while sitting in my car with my laptop in my lap) and I showed him my hands. He asked me some other questions. He asked to see my ID and I showed that to him, too. He called my name in through his radio. I asked him if there was a problem with what I was doing. He refused to say it was a problem, but suggested I go into the front library parking lot (though he warned me that they might find me suspicious there, too).

He went away. I went to the front parking lot. The signal strength in the front parking lot blows. Eventually, I went back to where I'd been before. But I wrapped up my convo with Rere (and the porn scene) pretty quickly and headed on home. The whole thing was creepy. All I'd been doing was sitting by myself in my car with no one else around. I felt like a criminal.

Geez, the lengths I go to to give [info]ladycat777 her belated birthday porn!

The girl in question wanted submissive Spike with reluctant sex and enjoyment. Since I love dominant Xander, I was happy to oblige. Happy belated birthday, baby. Hope you enjoy.

This story is a sequel fic to Fulfilling a Fantasy It picks up maybe a month or so after the original story and takes place well before the other fic in the 'verse, "Goo." I might stand alone okay, but is probably better with the rest. Oh, and it's as non-con as Fulfilling a Fantasy was.

Fulfilling a Fantasy Sequel
If You Want

Savoy Truffle

Make it real.

The words bounce around in Xander’s head the way they have all day. All week.

Make it real.

He’s been thinking about how—the hows, the whats, the little details—and his distraction has made the day long. Made the hours crawl by, turned every phone conversation into an incoherent but annoying buzz in his ear, and the sound of the trailer door snicking shut has never been so sweet. Xander throbs with nervous energy. It takes a couple of tries to lock the door behind himself.

Make it real.

As ready as he is for the work day to be over, Xander isn’t sure he’s ready to go home. Isn’t sure he can do it.

But he wants to do it.

To make it real.

He takes a deep breath and starts for home.


If there were anything left to break, Spike would break it.

Well, except for TV. Which is just as well, since there’s a match on.

Not that he can watch it. Not that he can do anything but growl and pace and worry and wonder and wish there were at least a lamp left. Lovely sound, the shattering of a lamp.

It’s been nine hours. Nine hours since he woke to Xander’s hands on his throat, callused fingertips tracing the silver links that mark him as Xander’s. Nine hours since Xander leaned in, whispered two words in his ear and left.

Two words and the bastard left.

Two words.

”Be good.”

Turns out the order left room for interpretation.

Something it didn’t take Xander too long to realize. It’s been seven hours since the phone rang and Spike was stupid enough to answer.

”Don’t break the TV.”

So the match plays on on the undamaged TV and when Spike hears the key in the lock, he throws himself onto the couch in front of it, arms behind his head, booted feet propped on the arm—the picture of indifference.

“Hey, honey, I’m home. Did you have a nice day?”

From under his eyelashes, Spike watches Xander enter the apartment, watches Xander take off his jacket and place his leather bag on the counter—watches Xander survey the destruction without blinking an eye. Watches Xander smile, the bloody wanker.

“You’re like a disgruntled pet.” Xander tilts his head and laughs. “Actually, I guess you are a disgruntled pet, huh? I was only gone for a few hours. Did you miss me that much?”

Fuck you, Spike wants to say, but he doesn’t want to give Xander the satisfaction… or any ideas. He says nothing. The wanker just keeps smiling.

“Sulking? You’re so fucking adorable.” Xander has to know how much he hates to be called adorable. “Now get your fucking boots off the couch, sweetheart.”

The smile is gone but not the calm, the control. And it sends shivers down Spike’s spine, makes him hard. Humiliates him, makes him burn. Instead of sitting up, Spike reaches down to undo the laces of his Docs, then toes off the boots over the end of the couch, settling back into his insolent lounge.

Xander seems to love it.

“God, you’re perfect. Such a brat. And so mine. All weekend long. TGIF, I say.” Spike doesn’t respond. Xander walks into the kitchen and returns with an open beer, kicks off his own shoes and sinks into his armchair. “And you say nothing. Which is fine, for now. I want you to stand up, take off the rest of your clothes, walk over here, get on your knees and suck me off. Then I’m gonna order pizza and take a shower while you clean up this mess.” Xander pauses. “And then we’re gonna talk. About last night.”

Spike’s body is already on its feet, his hands stripping off his shirt, his jeans. “No,” he says.

Naked, he walks to Xander’s chair and starts to kneel, but Xander stops him.

“Hold on.” Spike holds. “No? You’ve refused to say a word to me since I got home and now you say ‘no’?”

It’s worse standing in front of Xander naked than it would be kneeling, but his mind is taking the order to “hold on” very seriously and he can’t bend his knees.

And he can’t talk about last night. Can’t talk about how, after just one day in Xander’s control, when told to do what he wanted, he’d all but begged Xander to fuck him. He can’t talk about that.

But if Xander orders him, he will.

“Please,” Spike says.

“No and please. Just out of curiosity—because it’s not like you get to say no to anything—but no-please what?”

“Please don’t make me talk about last night.”

“And why wouldn’t you want to talk about last night? Maybe it’s because…”


Xander seems to consider. “And if I let you off the hook, what’s in it for me?”

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“But see, that’s the thing.” Xander reaches out and runs a finger along the side of Spike’s cock. “You already do whatever I want.” Spike’s hard cock. “And you love it. But, wait—that’s what you didn’t want to talk about. Sorry.”

Spike waits.

“I’m more interested in what you want, but I think we might be able to work something out. On your knees now, sweetheart”

Spike doesn’t quite hide his flinch as he folds to his knees.

“Yes?” Xander asks.

It’s not a direct order and Spike wants to say “nothing,” but he doesn’t dare. He looks up.

“Why ‘sweetheart’? Used to be ‘slut.’”

Xander runs his fingers through Spike’s hair. “Don’t you think I like you, Spike?”

That’s an easy one. “No, Xander.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, sweetheart.” Cue creepy smile. “What’s not to like?”

Spike doesn’t answer.

“Does it bother you when I call you sweetheart?”

It does. So much more than slut.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Spike can still lie. He shakes his head. “No, Xander.”

“Good boy. Now, want to remind me why you’re down there again?”

It’s not an order. Spike has full control of his hands as he reaches out, unbuttons and unzips Xander’s pants, works Xander’s cock free of his trousers, guides it into his mouth.

Xander sighs his contentment and Spike focuses in on his task, turning the sigh into gasps, pants, moans… and then back to a sigh again. Spike sits back on his heels as Xander slumps into the chair.

“See, sweetheart? What’s not to like? Want to hand me the phone?” Another non-order. Spike carries it out. Xander orders a pizza. “Now, I’ve got thirty minutes or less for a nice, hot shower. Clean up this mess and drink some blood.”

Xander stands and walks to the bathroom, stops at the door and turns back, looks Spike up and down as Spike takes a broom and dustpan from the closet.

“Oh,” Xander’s eyes flicker over Spike’s hard on, “and you can get yourself off… if you want.”

Spike doesn’t lay a hand on his cock, is as hard when Xander returns from the shower as he was when Xander left. Harder, actually, though he’d never admit it.

Something about Xander’s look says he already knows.

“Good boy.”

The phone rings and Xander buzzes the delivery boy up, takes some money from his wallet on the counter and hands it to Spike. A knock comes on the door.

“Answer that,” Xander says as he settles himself on the couch to watch. “If you want, you can put on pants.”

An order and an offer. A command and a choice. Spike meets Xander’s gaze and holds it for a long second before walking to the door, naked.

The pizza boy does not drop the pizza, the cheesy sticks or the two-liter soda. Clearly a delivery service professional. He does, however, drop his jaw, which makes speech somewhat difficult.

Eyes carefully trained on Spike’s face, the kid extends the pizza box. Spike takes the box and hands over the money. The kid’s eyes drop for a second, then snap back up. Spike notices.

Apparently, Xander notices, too.

“I didn’t have enough cash for a tip. Maybe you want to offer him something, sweetheart?”

Spike turns and sets the pizza on the counter, turns back and steps toward the kid, who hasn’t moved a muscle. The kid’s eyes, on the other hand…

Not to mention some movement on a lower level.

Spike drops to his knees.

Stand up.” Xander’s voice is soft, but sharp as steel. “Your mouth is mine.”

Spike stands.

“But you can let him touch you, if you want.”

Spike stands still.

The kid’s breath roars in his ears. The kid’s lust fills his nostrils.

His eyes track the kid’s hand as it inches toward him, comes to rest lightly on his chest. Shaking fingertips stutter over the silver ring in one nipple, slide across and dare to pluck at the silver ring in the other.

“Look at me,” Xander says.

Both Spike and the kid turn their heads.

“Not you, kid,” Xander says.

The kid’s attention returns to his task. Spike’s eyes stay on Xander’s.

He doesn’t see, only feels the fingers now—still shaking, as they glide down, carefully tracing each line of his abdomen, sliding over the side of his hip, then in along the crease beneath his pelvic bone and, finally finally, up the underside of his cock. Feather light touch.

Xander’s eyes burn and send shivers skittering through Spike’s body, threatening to shatter him from the inside out.

The fingers curl and squeeze.

Spike’s eyes plead.

The kid’s belt chirps.

The kid drops Spike’s cock like it burns… which, of course, it doesn’t. Room temperature, not that the kid’s noticed.

The kid fumbles the cell phone out of its holster, out of his fingers and onto the floor—picks it up again and stares as it continues to chirp.

Xander stands.

“Duty calls,” Xander says, laying a hand on the kid’s shoulder to guide both kid and chirping phone out into the hall. “Have a nice night.”

Xander shuts the door behind the kid, turns and looks Spike up and down. “Don’t move.”

Xander circles behind Spike, takes Spike’s wrists in his hands and lifts them, pushing Spike forward until he’s bent at the waist, hands pressed against the door.

Producing lube from god knows where, Xander enters Spike with slick fingers, takes hold of Spike’s hips and fucks Spike into the wall.

Xander eats the pizza cold.


Xander leans over Spike in the bed—combs fingers through shower-wet hair, smoothes a thumb over shower-warm skin, kisses his almost-sleeping beauty as he unclasps the silver chain collar.

“Come back to me, baby,” he whispers. “Just for a minute, to tell me you’re okay.”

Drooping lids lift and it’s his Spike he sees staring back through blue eyes. His Spike smiles and Xander dips in for another kiss.

“Did I do okay?”

Spike smiles. “God, luv. More than. Perfect. You were born for this. Born to own me.”

Xander feels a flush in his cheeks. “I don’t know. Think I’m good with some weekends and special occasions.”

“Weekend’s not over yet.”

“Yeah, I know. Just wanted to check in. What was it like? Did your memory really pick up right where the last spell wore off? You didn’t remember anything in between?”

“Not a thing.”

“And it’s better this way? Than when we just play, I mean? The magic makes it real?”

Spike hand comes up to curl around his jaw, slide down his neck. “You make it real, luv. Magic just helps out a bit.”

“So, it’s good?”

“It’s bloody fantastic, Xan. I promise. Can’t wait to see what you’ve got in store.”

No one does wicked smiles like Spike, but just now, Xander gives him a run for his money.

“Mmm. Tomorrow I’m taking my pet shopping. He’s gonna hate it as much as he loves it.” Xander steals one last kiss. “See you later, baby.”

Xander fastens the collar back around Spike’s neck and lets his pet sleep.

The End

Sequel Two ~ Goo

Here's a little fic, about 1500 words, that takes place in the Fulfilling a Fantasy 'verse. There's actually an (unwritten) story or three that go in between where Fulfilling a Fantasy left off and this fic begins, so some inference may be required, but I did this now as a belated birthday gift for [info]eliade, who asked for "some romantic slavery and some hurt/comfort and some sex." Hope this fits the bill.

You do not have to have read Fulfilling a Fantasy (approx. 6,300 words) to read this, but it will probably make a difference in how you see the fic overall. If you haven't read the other, do be warned of a continuing dom/sub theme.

(And, yay, I actually wrote something! Thanks to [info]reremouse for helping it not be crap.)

He sees the silver chain around Spike’s neck and gets hard. Instantly. It’s been a long day and he’s tired, but it’s Pavlovian. Spike’s the sex-slave, but Xander’s the one who’s been trained.

Spike can’t really be asleep—can’t have missed the open and close of the heavy front door, the slap of Xander’s briefcase against the kitchen counter, the “Hey, honey, I’m home”—but he plays the part perfectly, not stirring a bit as Xander stands at the foot of the bed and slips off his suit jacket, tossing it over a chair in the corner without taking his eyes off the sight before him.

It can’t be accidental, the naked sprawl, the tantalizing drape of white satin over alabaster skin, as clean and pure as Xander’s thoughts aren’t, framing more than covering, offering more than hiding.

Mine, Xander thinks as he unbuttons and peels off his shirt, peeling off the site manager and trying to don the master persona. Mine, he repeats as the belt slides out of its loops and drops to floor. Mine. He bends over to unlace and slide off his dress shoes, his head hovering near Spike’s naked foot. He wants to take it in his hand, lick along the pale arch, make Spike shiver and squirm. But later. Mine. His fingers fumble a bit at the button of his slacks, but finally the zipper lowers, and the slacks pool at his feet. What would the men at the site think if they knew their supervisor never wore anything under his pants? Xander’s grin is wicked. Hell, what would they think if they knew that he came home to this? His lover. His whore. His slut. His. Mine.

He’s got the headspace now and Xander steps forward and pulls off the sheet in one fluid motion, sparing only a second to admire the perfect curve of Spike’s ass—his ass, all his—before grasping Spike’s hips and lifting, burying himself to the hilt. He goes in easy, so easy, just like he knew he would and he can see it in his mind—Spike’s preparations for his homecoming.

Spike in the shower, cleaning himself from head to foot, inside and out, with the soap that smells and tastes of cucumbers, Xander’s favorite. Spike standing in the bathroom, drying himself just as thoroughly, forgoing the tube of gel—because he knows Xander hates not being able to run his fingers through Spike’s hair—and picking up the tube of lube instead. Spike, with one foot propped on the toilet seat, squeezing the slick onto his fingers and slowly working those fingers into himself, coating every inch of his loosening passage, making sure not to brush his prostate—because Spike knows that Xander is the one who decides when and how he comes. Spike in the bedroom, laying himself out just so on Xander’s bed, arranging the sheet with the eye of an artist, and then waiting. Waiting for his owner. Waiting to be taken.

The images flow through Xander’s mind and they’re working for him. He can feel cock growing and hardening, pressing out against the tightness that surrounds it as Spike writhes and whimpers beneath him, all pretense of sleep gone.

And Spike is trying to work his hips, work himself on Xander’s cock, but Xander holds tight to those hips, holds them still. Because if Spike moves now, it’ll be over for Xander in seconds, and he knows that’s not what Spike wants, needs. But unless ordered, Spike will not be denied, and Xander has no way to stop the internal clenching and squeezing that’s pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

“Gonna punish you for that,” Xander says, but he doesn’t get the tone quite right, so he tries again, orders Spike to beg instead, and starts moving, thrusting into Spike to the rhythm of the desperate pleas.

“Yes… please…. Xander… Xander… don’t stop… please… Take me…. Fill me… Use me…”

And Xander doesn’t stop. Not until he’s taken Spike, filled Spike, used Spike. Not until the orgasm crashes through him leaving his body brainless and boneless in its wake. He collapses onto Spike, but then rolls off slowly, stretching out on his back. Spike curls around him instantly, wrapping and clinging like a jungle vine—in a jungle where vines have raging erections that you can feel pressing against your hip.

Xander wants to let Spike take care of that, but that’s not how it goes. Spike wants to wait. Spike needs to wait, to be made to wait. What does that song say? You gotta be cruel to be kind, in the right measure…

But Xander wouldn’t mind just staying like this, fingers threaded through Spike’s ungelled hair, cool, soft skin soothing his overheated body, wet little tongue lapping at his neck. Spike is like a cuddly house pet… with benefits. Still, if they don’t move now, Xander’ll be asleep in seconds and he still owes Spike punishment and, eventually, release. A shower would be nice, but he doubts his legs would support him…

“Bath,” he says and Spike immediately slides his body over Xander’s—and, mmm, sliding is of the good—and off the bed, into the bathroom to start the water running.

“Candles. Bubble bath,” Xander calls out and he can hear Spike setting it all up, watches the light in the bathroom go out, replaced by a soft glow. And it’s a strange life Xander leads these days—getting off work and driving home and never knowing for certain who exactly he’ll find when he gets there.

It takes a bit of cajoling, but Xander eventually coaxes his limbs into supporting him and carrying him into the bathroom. He finds Spike kneeling on the fuzzy bathmat and imagines Spike would like for him to take a step forward, bringing his cock within range of Spike’s oh-so-talented mouth. Spike would like for him to tangle his fingers in Spike’s hair as those lips close around the head and slide down the shaft. Spike would like for him to hold Spike’s head in place while he fucks Spike’s mouth hard and fast. Spike would like for him to come down Spike’s throat or to pull out and come all over Spike’s face and chest, marking Spike as his.

And in spite of its recent workout, Xander’s cock is beginning to show some interest in that scenario, but Xander doesn’t step forward. Instead he tilts his head toward the tub and Spike follows the unspoken command, rising up and then lowering himself into the tub. Xander climbs in after Spike, situating himself between Spike’s thighs, his back to Spike’s front, letting the hot water and the scented steam—along with the strong hands that come up to knead the knots out of his back and shoulders—melt him into a puddle of very contented goo.

When he’s too gooey to sit forward anymore, he melts back against Spike’s chest and Spike’s hands slip down off his back to wrap around his waist and Xander picks up those hands and plays idly with Spike’s fingers, which play idly along Xander’s torso and it’s so perfect… except that it’s not.

Because Spike is still hard, pressing against Xander’s back. And it’s not that Xander minds the feeling exactly, but Spike should be gooey, too. They should be two puddles of very contented goo, boneless and brainless and melting into each other amid the water and the steam and the bubbles.

“Get in in front of me,” Xander says and Spike immediately slides out from behind Xander—and again, sliding is so of the good—then slips back in in front of Xander, giving Xander full access to much more than Spike’s hands.

With slow, goo-like rhythms, Xander nibbles and nips at Spike’s neck as he slides one hand up to tease at the rings at Spike’s nipples and the other hand down to circle Spike’s cock. Whispering sweetly dirty things against damp skin, Xander jerks Spike slowly to the edge, pushing him gently over with one word: “Come.”

Spike tenses, arches and then slumps back against Xander, and now there’s nothing in the tub except two gooey bodies, and a bit of gooey spunk, and it’s closer to perfect, but just not quite there. Xander wants gooey words, too.

He reaches up with both hands and traces his fingers along the collar around the Spike’s neck, from front to back, before unclasping the chain and dropping it onto the tub’s edge in a little coiled pile. He strokes his fingers through Spike’s damp curls as Spike comes back to himself.

“Hey,” Spike says.


“Thought you were gonna punish me.”

Xander shrugs—a motion Spike can’t see but can feel. “Next time, okay? Kinda in the mood for the boyfriend tonight. Disappointed?”

“Nah,” Spike says, picking up Xander’s hands and playing idly with Xander’s fingers, which play idly along Spike’s torso. A silent minute passes and then Spike is out of the tub again and sliding back in behind Xander, arms and legs encircling his lover as he asks, “So, luv, how was your day?”

The End

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