Gudio Plaza grips John Brachalli’s hips, his tattoos stretching taut over corded shoulders as he pins him against the mirror, lips crashing into his in a bruising kiss. The dark hair on both their chests presses together, the weight of Plaza’s body forcing Brachalli’s back flush against the glass while his hands dig into the muscular frame, fingers tracing inked lines. The air is thick with the sound of their breath and the wet slap of tongues, Brachalli’s arms locked around Plaza’s waist as he tilts his head back, exposing his throat.
