𝕶𝖊𝖑𝖑

Holland doesn't need to see it to know where Kells hand is going. He feels it tracing over his own skin, his scars, and then he feels the subtle bump of his fist against his stomach. A growl starts in his throat and Holland bites down around the the muscle of Kells shoulder; it's almost a permission to bite him harder if he wants to.

But in the meantime, his hips roll faster, bucking harder into the others entrance when he feels him clench around him like that.

"Harder," he groan around saliva damp skin.