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Summary
Back to filthy scratchy sheets, knees to his chest, he feels flimsy. TV-dinner film flimsy, white trash treasure. Fucked by his brother in a shitty shared motel room because his mouth can’t form the word 'no', because it’d change nothing if it could.
Spit-lubed dick glistening like spit-shone boots, Gerard presses into him and the ache that shoots up his spine is penitence for not having one. The pressure in his guts shows him where he’d keep his courage if he could find it.
