Joey Mills grips the trophy like a trophy, his dark hair slicked back over a body built for brute strength, while Logan Aarons, bearded, tattoos crawling up his arms, watches with a smirk as he sprays something between them. They strip in slow motion, the couch creaking under their weight as one pins the other down, fingers digging into smooth skin, before Logan flips him onto his knees, the spray bottle forgotten. The air thickens when Mills takes him from behind, the couch groaning as Aarons arches into it, his tattoos glinting under the light.
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