Wrapped With A Bow

Xander's taken to keeping turtlenecks in his closet.

But he only wears them the day after a special occasion.

When Wesley's hands have left their shape and span over the skin of his throat, so that Xander can reach up any time, anywhere, and feel those bruises under the fabric with no one the wiser.

Except Wesley.

When Wesley catches Xander fingering the bruises, his eyes burn, and Xander's dick takes a leap of faith that it's gonna get some more attention.

And soon.

It's Wesley's birthday, and there was no special occasion the night before, so Wesley's looking at him funny over the restaurant table, because Xander still can't keep his fingers off the neck of his turtleneck.

And the silk ribbon he's tied around his throat beneath.

It's so girly.

But at the same time, he knows it's what Wes wants, and Jesus, how sick have they gotten together by now that Xander's come to like it, having the life choked out of him while Wesley rides his cock dry and hard. And where's the line? Xander remembers the old saying how kinky is using a feather, and perverted is using the whole chicken, but where's the line? How sick have they gotten that Xander needs it, craves it, and that only after those nights does Wesley seem a little more like himself? A little more calm.

A little more optimistic.

Xander tells himself that it feels good, and he just wants to die a good death when he goes, and there's not much better in his mind than dying on a mind-blowing orgasm instead of chewed to bits by the nasty of the week.

Good deal.

It's not even a dominant/submissive thing. Xander just likes being choked these days, and Wes likes to do the choking. It gives them both what they need.

So they're sick. Who cares?

Xander realizes he's touching his throat again, sliding the fabric of his turtleneck back and forth along the smooth grain of the ribbon because even that feels nice.

Wesley's eyes have gone all dark and hard when he reaches across the table to catch Xander's hand, hold it strong enough to leave him with a bracelet of bruises, and Xander gasps, because it's not enough, but it's something.

"Show me," Wesley orders quietly, so quietly that the people at the next table don't even glance their way.

"Happy birthday," Xander manages to say without stuttering. He licks his lips, and tugs the collar down until Wesley can see the edge of the ribbon, watching his pupils dilate, and biting back a moan as Wesley's fingers tighten on his wrist.

Because the ribbon's both the wrapping and the gift.

Silk's pretty strong.

Wesley lets go abruptly and returns his attention to the menu. Xander drops his hand to his lap, and closes his eyes, fingering the bruises forming around his wrist with his eyes closed.

When did he get so messed up?

"I'm going to fuck you tonight," Wesley says, still in that quiet gravel voice that shoots straight to Xander's groin, and he's too focused on Wesley to even look around to make sure nobody's staring at them, nobody heard. But Wesley's going on, casual as he reads his menu, and Xander's dick does another jump as he realizes that this isn't casual. This isn't every day. This is a first.

After almost a year, and enough kink to make him sure he could never look Willow in the eye again, Xander still hadn't had a cock up his ass. In his mouth, sure. He knocked that one off the list in High School.

But this. Still makes him nervous.

"Problem?" Wesley asks, and he's working that English villain voice again, and all Xander can do is shake his head. "Good."

Because it's Wesley's birthday. And hell, he can have whatever he wants.

Xander plans to just sit there and wig out quietly in the back of his own head. "I thought you didn't top," he said finally, and dammit, loudly enough for the people at the next table to stare at him in shock. Xander could feel the blood rushing to his face, and oh good, at least it wasn't rushing into his dick anymore because a napkin is only so much disguise.

Wesley only raises an eyebrow at him, sips his scotch. "What ever gave you that idea?"

Xander clamps his jaw shut, because he just knows anything he says will come out loud. Too loud. Instead, he says, "It's been almost a year."

Wesley continues to stare at him silently.

"And you haven't," Xander clarifies.

Wesley reaches across the table then, resting a hand on Xander's shoulder, but his thumb rests in the hollow of Xander's throat, rubbing back and forth over his windpipe, back and forth over knit and ribbon making Xander close his eyes and grow hard under the table again. "I've been saving it for a special occasion."