There’s gasping now, heavy and wet, lips and tongue channeling the sound into thick bursts. He loves it when this pale beauty forgets, even for a little, that breathing is an unnecessary conceit. Head back and chest heaving, lost in the feeling and the need. . . And if he were to close his hand around mouth and nose, just like that, pinching down—
The muffled yelp and immediate thrashing make him laugh. Bright blue eyes glare in outrage, but the pupils are still wide and dark with lust, unfocused and glazed despite the indignation. His toy is beautiful like this, dark brows a shocking contrast over layered shades of white. A hint of pink in the skin, yellow in the hair. . .moonlight shimmering from his eyes. . .
“Stopped.” The word is grunted, body still shuddering and grasping at air it does not need. “Why?”
“I wanted to.” He can hear them, upstairs, the Master with his court. Willow is there, petted favorite at the moment, kneeling at withered feet. He can see her eyes, inside his mind, green and adoring and cruel. It makes him harder. “You breathe.”
“Yeah, so? Do lots of things.” Darker white on the hands, tempered with shiny-cold calluses, red blood and nicotine yellow mixing on the palms. They reach for him, sliding around his spread thighs to tug on the balls that rest so close. “Like that, huh?”
“Didn’t say you could move.” He sounds like Willow, now, dropping subjects because everyone knows who he means, anyway. It’s cute on her, but he knows it’s less so on him. Doesn’t really care, not when he’s buried inside something tighter and wetter than she’ll ever be. “Up.”
There’s a flash of hatred and the wandering hands raise to grip the headboard again, face smooth once more. Statue-like, if he’s not careful. Because statues don’t feel, and that just won’t do.
“Better,” he grunts, pulling out until he’s almost completely free before sliding back inside. He doesn’t ask if his toy likes it, even though he knows he does. Willow doesn’t like that. She thinks it’s disrespectful for a toy to like what’s done to it. But she has Puppy for that. He likes watching her with Puppy, the smell of her overpowering the acid tang of Puppy’s pain and hatred.
But Xander doesn’t like to play with Puppy, only to watch her. He likes playing with other things.
Growling lightly, he leans down, trapping his toy’s cock between them. It’s leather bound, like always, something that his toy hates. The leather is black and old, cut from a coat that once held meaning. It still does, actually, but Xander likes this meaning better. “Mine.”
Another flash, a hint of fear bleeding into the anger. Not enough, though. Not yet. He drags fangs down a tense neck, blood welling up behind him. A surge of arousal blankets both fear and anger, those expressive eyes closing while the neck arches up. His toy likes pain, enjoys each cut and burn that Xander gives him. Much better than Puppy, stinking of righteousness.
He moves faster, wanting to hear his toy pant again. He loves that sound, loves what it means. His toy won’t pant when Willow takes him, no matter how fast she orders him to move. He’ll scream, of course, and bleed wherever she likes. He’ll even come when commanded, a trick he’d learned before he ever came to Sunnydale. But only Xander makes him want it.
Balancing on his forearms, Xander licks up the blood, depositing it on pink lips. They’re so soft and delicate, like a woman’s. His toy hates that comparison, always throwing out his chest and rolling his hips to show off his hard, black-encased cock in response. It’s a game, words and motions, so ingrained that his toy barely thinks about the strings anymore, just dances when he’s told.
Darker pink of the tongue, licking lips clean before searching for more. His toy has a very agile tongue, something else he came with. Xander enjoys the kiss, lets his toy delve deeply within his mouth while he pushes even deeper in his toy’s ass.
He can feel the leather rubbing against his belly, turning the skin red and raw with friction. It’s nice, but he wants something else. Rolling onto his back, he laughs while his toy scrambles to stay with him, hands automatically gripping the manacles dangling from above. He watches the way the lithe body twists and writhes for a moment. Such a pretty thing, his toy.
“Mine,” he says again, just to see that little flash. It’s all his toy will do, anymore. Not since the Master drained Drusilla for her seer’s blood, and decreed her lover fair game. “You’re mine.”
“You won me,” was the sardonic response.
Xander slaps him, raking his nails down his toy’s chest. Pink lines rise in his wake. “Mine,” he says again. Starts thrusting his hips up hard, wanting to see bruises, hear the swallowed moans. When they start, he grabs his toy’s cock, stroking the leather with his fingertips. His toy hates that, more than anything else, but he loves it, too. He needs to belong to something, does his toy, and needs the touch of whoever takes him. Xander likes that a lot.
“Do you want to come?” he asks, considering. Wondering if he needs to pull the string.
He doesn’t, because his toy starts babbling, words flowing like wine, rich and dark as he begs. His toy is very good at begging, something not even Puppy knew. Maybe he’d leave him in Puppy’s cage for a little. Let the two of them settle their differences. . .
Xander grins, stroking harder as he tries to guess which would win. Puppy was stronger and more experienced, but his toy had fresh blood whenever he wanted, and a master that would praise him if he won.
“Thank you, Master,” his toy gasps when the leather is unfurled at the tip, exposing a purpling head. Moaning, he moves faster when the head is stroked, nails scratching along the slit until a single drop of blood balanced on the edge.
“Mine,” Xander says a final time, smoothing the blood back into his toy’s skin, nodding permission. His toy immediately arches back, panting and gasping and shuddering around his master’s cock, using his orgasm to milk Xander dry and sated.
When Xander returns to his mind, a soft tongue is lapping his belly clean, two eyes gazing up at him adoringly, his cock still sheathed. “Good boy,” he says, petting his toy’s hair. “Make me cum again, and we’ll go play with Puppy.”
The we made his toy grin almost as broadly as he used to.