Remy Cruze pins Jay Austin against the wall, his tattooed forearm gripping the back of his head while Jay strokes himself with rough, desperate strokes. The dark hair of both men contrasts with the starkness of the scene, their bodies angled in a way that makes the act feel both intimate and. No words are needed, just the way Remy’s grip tightens as Jay’s hand moves faster, the only sound the wet slap of skin against flesh.
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