they need this. jerking off alone was one thing--it was pure physical release, a moment of pleasure superseded by the atmosphere of loneliness that led to conception with one's remaining fleshy palm to begin with, and frankly, it did not strongly appeal to james. and, at victor's side nearing twenty four hours of the day, the company they kept made it near impossible to take any time for themself. he would hear, or smell, or see.
besides, they liked it best when something was inside them, and tired of resorting to use of their own prosthetic in favor of a dedicated toy.
victor wasn't a toy. he was a man whom they'd developed particular attachments to, admittedly; a big, strong man who could move them around like a petite ragdoll, who would succumb to the convex of their need and fuck them good. hell, they'd take it raw if he asked, insisted, right alongside the wealth of his tempered rage. they can feel it coursing beneath his skin, adrenaline that landed somewhere between primitive excitement and trembling hunger, like he could devour them whole. that prospect wasn't terrifying, the way it was supposed to be--it was thrilling.
it went against their instinct to survive, the propellant fuel that guided their hand into punishing their students when they'd slipped and made an error that drained their handlers' faith in them. a rifle at the back of the head was a motivating tool.
a loose, breathy exhale marks james' mounting fervor, nerves prickling hot across the thin skin of their face, collecting in their low abdomen. they don't grouse about the shirt; it was begging for replacement, anyhow. their well-toned musculature rises and falls rhythmically, ribs into sectioned abdominal muscles, obliques pressing into victor's as james secures the powerful grip of their thighs about the bridle of his hips. like this, they feel every tipped point of those deadly claws, well aware they were suspending themself like red meat on a hook for him.
as long as the hook was theirs.
' i've never backed down from a challenge in my entire life, Витя. ' james teases, reaching out with their natal hand. they cup the edge of his jaw, affectionately tracing the edge of one spike of a tooth before threading through his sideburns to the long flax of his hair. the spread of their fingers is gentle, affectionate. the hold their legs form slackens only to offer themself with purpose, their prosthetic fingers popping the button that held their jeans in place. ' i don't want to miss out on you. '
