Response to the gilesxander Octoberfest prompt #9: "BDSM" or "the dominance challenge".
word count: 800-ish
Xander was in the tight leather pants and the boots, and trying not to feel ridiculous. He'd worn the boots many many times, enough that he knew they looked right. The pants, well, they were new. Soft leather, but form-fitting. No creases yet, no scuffs, none of the dings and worn places that would mean they were real and not just a pose, that Xander in fact knew what to do with the flogger hung in his belt.
Talk about another thing he was nervous about. He'd never taken that out in public before. But after the last hilarious-only-in-retrospect mistake, hooking up with that girl who'd thought he was into the handcuffs for the Goth thing not the watching-people-sweat-and-writhe thing, he was going for unambiguous. Unambiguous, serious, dominant, leathersex in motion. That was Xander. No doubts. Go.
And fucked if the pants didn't feel like the sexiest things he'd ever had clinging to his body. Xander ran his hands down his thighs. Yeah. Fuck, yeah.
Xander paid the cover and strode into the Bronze.
No band tonight, just a DJ. Guitar noise, blasting. Darkness, spotlights on the milling crowds. A lot of black, a lot of leather, a lot of flashing metal. College students, a couple of high school kids with anxious and eager faces, adults with more intent faces. Women in groups or paired with men, a few paired with other women. Scattered single men. Men dressed in extreme versions of the uniform, vests and knee-high boots. Giggling tourists. But mostly college kids in goth black and cheap bangles, grinding on the dancefloor.
Xander ignored them all. This had the makings of another bust. Nobody to meet, nobody serious to play with. Never mind any hope of a longer-term thing. He really needed to get a working car so he could drive to LA. He mounted the steps to the balcony. Sometimes he found people up there, people with the hungry look in their eyes that said they needed something deeper than the flash. Men, women, he didn't care.
Quick scan. Ten people, maybe, mixed. All of them older. Wait. Was that? Yes. Giles. Leaning on the railing, looking down at the dancing crowd. He held a beer bottle in his hand, but wasn't drinking it. Giles, here?
He looked out of place. One step to the left of everyone there, clothes not quite right, expression on his face not quite right. Xander took a step closer. It was the set of the jaw that did it. Giles was annoyed by something. The music, maybe. It annoyed Xander, if he were honest about it. Too-fast too-loud death metal was the price he paid for leather nights at the Bronze.
Giles was wearing harness boots, at least, boots Xander had never seen on him before, peeking out from under the paint-stained jeans. And a black shirt, though the signals there were left of center because it was long-sleeved and had three buttons at the neck. Boots and belt and jeans were the concessions Giles had made to the leather dresscode. But there was also no air of poser in him. He was deadly serious about whatever he was searching the crowd for.
A stream of idiotic lines rushed through Xander's head. Fancy meeting you here. Come here often? Or even, Buy me a drink, boy. Though maybe Giles would be trying that last line on him. Top or bottom? Xander studied him. No conventional signals. Which was fine with him. That was bullshit for tourists anyway. But he needed to know.
No, he didn't.
If he wanted Giles, he would take him. And oh yes, Xander did want. The idea of that man, sweating and writhing below him: oh yes. That glare melted, that control stripped, that body shuddering: oh yes.
Xander strode up to Giles, and stopped. He folded his arms. He kept his mouth shut. Giles turned, mouth open as if to speak. His eyes widened in recognition, and Xander thought he might say something for a moment. But then he closed his mouth. His eyebrows came together. Xander held himself poised and still, and waited. He watched that Giles mind work on the problem in front of him, watched emotion flash across the face as Giles took him in.
Giles's eyes were below Xander's waist. On the flogger, on the leather stretched tight across Xander's hips, across his obvious arousal. He looked up and met Xander's eyes. Xander saw his throat working as he swallowed. One breath, two, and Giles hadn't looked away. His pupils were huge, and he was breathing hard. That was fear and desire and utter longing Xander saw on his face. Exactly what he wanted.
Xander tilted his head.
Giles nodded, once, slowly. Then equally slowly, he put his hands behind his back.
Xander reached out, hooked his fingers into Giles' shirt collar, and pressed down. Giles swallowed again, cast his gaze to the floor at Xander's feet, and sank gracefully to his knees.