[ a dark, throaty hum escapes his mouth as bond takes him down, his eyes going half-lidded to watch, fisting a hand in bond's short hair, tilting his hips. bond is good at this—perhaps not as good as sévérine, but then again, she's had most of her life to perfect the skill—but bond's enthusiasm, his resolution, his mouth more than makes up for any clumsiness. silva's breath leaves him in a quiet whisper as he caresses bond's hollowed cheek with the backs of his knuckles, watching his own cock disappear behind those lips and into the hot, wet cavern of james' talented mouth, a parody of affection and kindness.
it's a beautiful sight, seeing him on his knees, and silva murmurs his approval, those fingers finding the back of bond's neck again—and, after a moment, unceremoniously shoving him forward even further, eliciting another sharp inhale through the nose. ]
No hands, [ he chides, his grip iron against bond's skull. ]
no subject
it's a beautiful sight, seeing him on his knees, and silva murmurs his approval, those fingers finding the back of bond's neck again—and, after a moment, unceremoniously shoving him forward even further, eliciting another sharp inhale through the nose. ]
No hands, [ he chides, his grip iron against bond's skull. ]