Couch Potatoes 3: Joey and Justin "Oh yeah," he mutters, very quietly, and his voice sounds rusty and dry. He gets like that. "ooooh yeah..."
"Joey," Justin says when he starts moving, slick and thick and ... uh, dick. Okay, no rhyming while Joey fucks him. Must be quiet. He licks his lips and closes his eyes.
The couch is rough under his back. Something sharp has come loose and is poking him in between two ribs. Joey thrusts, and he gets poked. And again. And again. Justin can't decide if he want Joey to stop for a second so he can squirm around a little, or ... never ... fucking stop--
This is a cool idea. Really. Cool. Hot. Both. The couch is too short for them, and it's seriously uncomfortable, but who cares? Justin doesn't, not when there's a tidal wave of burning, rushing fucking ecstasy starting in his toes and rolling over his whole body, and he's breaking into a sweat and sticking to the sofa, and Joey might have told him that rug burn could be an issue, but if he keeps moving like that, Justin won't care about that either.
It's sunny, and when he throws his head back over the sagging armrest, the sun hits his eyes, and he has to squint and blink and hey, that doesn't matter either. Joey's hitting a stride, and Justin remembers - like he could ever forget - why they do this. Why he lets him.
It's not often. That they do it. Not often enough, or too often, but when they do, it's like nothing else ever. Joey's good at it. He'd better be, as much practice as he gets.
The couch, though. Chris' back porch, Chris' old couch, the one he keeps out here for the dogs. Joey has the craziest ideas. Justin tells him that: "you're nuts-- ooh. You're nuts, Joey," but his voice sounds breathy and the words come out in a hitching staccato.
Joey's leaning forward to kiss him, and Justin reaches for him, his hands scrabbling over Joey's sweaty back, his own sweaty back sticking to the worn material of the couch for a second, and Joey's still moving over him, moving and making every stroke count and he's sucking on Justin's tongue now, and he might just--
He's always surprised when he comes like this, just like that, a hot flood between their bodies. Joey laughs into his mouth and picks up the pace.
He's too lifted up and dropped down to care about that broken spring or whatever it is sticking into his side. He might not give a shit if it draws blood.
Joey pulls a hand through Justin's hair, twists his fingers through a tangle and holds on, and Justin gasps and pushes against him and his abs are starting to ache, but he can deal, he's good, he's better than good, and Joey shudders and tightens his hold on Justin's hair and bangs into him one last time.
"Yeah," Joey whispers to Justin. Or to himself. Justin breathes with him, slow, long gasps. Joey's heavy on top of him. They're a mess. He's really heavy.
"Joey, dude--" Justin coughs and pushes at him, and Joey lets him up.
"Mess," he says, and they look at each other, look up at the house. The couch. And laughter happens.
But they're too lazy to do anything about it, and they're on Chris' back porch and it's hot and they just fucked until their eyeballs bled, so they just stretch out and let sweat and come glue them together. There are showers and ... whatever they use to clean skanky old couches.
Justin really doesn't care if anyone sees them.
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