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Mikey got new boots. Knee-high, leather, platformed boots. As if he needed to be any taller.
He looks like a whore, and a dungeon-dwelling submissive’s wet dream– all long legs, black leather, and buckles. Gerard can almost see him wielding a riding crop.
He made sure Gerard was incredibly aware of his new boots the second he’d stepped into the living room, stupidly proud of himself, strutting around and showing them off with a sway in his hips that definitely wasn’t there before. Or maybe it always was, and Gerard had been making an effort to not notice it, for his own sanity and wellbeing.
Gerard thanks god that Mikey’s not the stupid, vulnerable teen he once was, because if he’d gone out looking the way he did, like fresh meat and victim-bait, while wearing those boots? He’d never have made it back home.
He’s safer now. Taller, stronger, more capable of defending himself. He carries a pocket knife with him, the one Gerard gave him. It was his once, his initials are carved into the handle. It makes him feel sort of sick in the head when he thinks about it, sick with the thrill of knowing Mikey walks around holding a weapon brandished with his name. A claim staked on his baby brother. Or at least, on his brother’s safety. He can settle for that. It’s plenty to fuel his fantasies, prime esoteric jerkoff material.
He’s safer, from strangers and creeps on the streets and at the bus stop, but not the creep that lives under the same roof, that he spends every day of his life with. Still, Gerard’s not like the men that preyed on Mikey. He's never been a threat to him.
He’d never hurt Mikey. Unlike most creeps, he has no intention of actually locking the poor boy up in the basement with him. He thinks about it often, though, chaining Mikey to his radiator and spending his days staring at him, making a kept boy out of his little brother in a literal, non-financial sense. He’d never let Mikey go. Thought crimes aren’t a thing. He isn’t hurting anyone by thinking about doing vile things to Mikey. The kid’s safe, just not from Gerard’s thoughts.
In these boots, he’s definitely not safe from Gerard’s thoughts. Horrifically sexualizing Mikey, despite his best efforts not to, violating and violent images continue to manifest in Gerard’s head with every second Mikey continues to command attention towards his footwear.
“What do you think?” Mikey finally asks, after his third cat-walking lap around the room.
“I think you look like a scene queen puked on you.” Gerard manages, staring down at his sketchbook, where he’s been mindlessly doodling disembodied legs in knee-high boots. Entirely unrelated.
Mikey snorts, rolling his eyes. “Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you.”
Gerard just hums an affirmative, because, yeah. He totally would.
Mikey fake-gags, which doesn’t really help at all. Gerard grips his pencil a bit tighter.
“Seriously, though. What do you think of ‘em?”
Gerard doesn’t look up. “They’re fine, Mikes. They’re great. If you like ‘em.”
Mikey scoffs, then whines in that frustrated way he does, the little brother way that always gets him exactly what he wants from Gerard. “You didn’t even look at them!”
Gerard does look up this time, and Mikey’s fucking pouting at him. God, he is fucking weak. He couldn’t deny Mikey anything if he tried. It’s no help that he doesn’t try.
He swallows, collecting himself, and carefully peeks down at the boots. Just a glance, because anything further, and he’d be fucked. He probably is anyway, because that tiny, split-second glimpse was plenty, just enough to see the way that the leather clings to Mikey’s long legs, the cut of it right below his knees.
It’s exactly the right amount of time to linger on the egregious amount of buckles going down the front of the boots, to stare at the shining leather and glinting metal, undoubtedly high quality. Well made. Only the best for Mikey, of course.
He imagines how it’d feel under his fingers, on his tongue– how he could make it shine brighter with his saliva. How the leather’d taste, the grit and grime of it flooding his senses and making his head spin.
More than that, he pines. He longs, yearns to plant his thighs on either side of one of those stupid boots and grind his cock against the toe, the sole, Mikey’s fucking leather-clad ankle, any of it, just as long as his dick’s dragging over the cool, sleek material. Just as long as he’s humping his baby brother’s boot, clinging to his leg and whining like a kicked mutt.
He shudders at the thought, feeling half-nauseated, which only makes for a pathetic, perverted ouroboros of arousal.
The boot thing is nothing new. He’s licked plenty of boots in his time. He was a fucking kink club regular at Mikey’s age, he’s been around the block. He knows what he likes, and he likes leather. He likes boots. Which is exactly why he’d been making such an effort to not look at Mikey’s boots, because wanting to fuck his brother is bad enough. Wanting to worship his brother’s boots is, somehow, worse.
He squeezes his eyes shut, taking a deep, steadying breath, and forces himself to meet Mikey’s eyes again, prying his gaze from Mikey’s stupid whore-boots. He’s certain he looks insane right now, he can feel how warm and damp his face is, he’d broken a fucking sweat looking at his little brother’s boots and imagining them between his legs.
Mikey looks at him expectantly, and Gerard has to really try and make his voice come out sounding normal. It almost works.
“They’re great, man. They look good on you. I like ‘em.”
Mikey studies him a moment, inquisitive eyes boring into Gerard’s own shame-riddled ones. Scrutinizing, as if he’d heard Gerard’s thoughts. God, he’d have to kill himself if he and Mikey actually had that creepy cryptophasia shit going on. The longer Mikey stares, the more Gerard starts to worry that maybe the kid can actually hear what he’s thinking.
His face goes all amused then, though, in that subtle way it does. His eyebrows lift just slightly, a smile threatening to pull at the corners of his lips and sabotage the poker face he’s got going on. He looks Gerard up and down, a quick thing that makes Gerard feel like he’s on fire, freezing and melting simultaneously, his sweat going cold and clammy.
He looks almost sultry, and Gerard should be shot.
“You barely even looked at them.” Mikey muses.
Gerard grits his teeth. Yeah, thank fucking god. “I so did! I saw them, I fucking see them, dude. They look good, okay?”
Mikey’s fully grinning now, shaking his head.
“Nah, man. I think you need a closer look. Really take ‘em in. Gotta be thorough, can’t be walking around a fashion disaster, can I? I’d ruin your runway-queen legacy.”
Jesus, for the way Mikey’s standing right now, with his hip cocked to the side and a devious grin on his face? He’d ruin his legacy just to see only this sight for the rest of his life. He’d ruin his whole life for the slightest chance to touch Mikey, to touch those fucking boots.
“Right. Thorough." Gerard agrees, distracted.
Mikey giggles, and then he does this weird, stupid thing, where he steps impossibly closer, crowding Gerard back against the couch and propping his foot up on the cushion. He leans in, so his knee is just about level with Gerard’s face. Unavoidable. Trapped, like a caged animal.
Gerard certainly feels fucking caged, cornered by the exact thing that’s been making his dick throb in his pants for as long as he’s been aware of it, since Mikey’d stepped into the room with those awful, slutty boots.
He stares up at Mikey, frozen, horrified to look even slightly to his right, because if he does, he’s not confident he’ll be able to stop himself from craning his head down and kissing every single buckle from the bottom of Mikey’s ankle to the top of the boot.
Mikey tilts his head. “Go on, look’at ‘em.”
Gerard could cry. He keeps his eyes locked firmly on Mikey’s face, defiant for Mikey’s sake more than his own. “Mikey–” He tries, to no avail, because Mikey just shakes his head again.
“Look at them, Gee.”
Gerard does a stupid, jerky little nod and finally lets his eyes slide to the side, to Mikey’s propped-up boot in all its glory. Close enough to touch, taste, to drool all over and lick clean. He sighs, shuddery and involuntary, feeling his face burn brighter.
He turns back to face Mikey so fast he gets dizzy.
“They’re really nice, Mikes.” He croaks out, sounding small and strained. Weak.
Mikey hums. He watches Gerard, watching the heaving rise and fall of his chest, how his shifty eyes are looking everywhere but at his boots, lip worried between his teeth.
Then, he grabs Gerard by the chin and turns his head back, forcing him to look.
Gerard makes a strangled noise, trying to fight Mikey’s hold, but Mikey just squeezes his face tighter, holding him securely in place, so he gives in and just stares. Wide-eyed, open-mouthed, like a fucking idiot. A creepy, disgusting, wannabe-inbreeding idiot.
“You like ‘em?” Mikey asks, and it takes Gerard a second to remember that typically, when people ask you questions, they want an answer. He nods, as best he can in his restraint.
“Y’wanna touch ‘em?”
Against any volition of his own, Gerard keens, and that seems to be enough of an answer for Mikey, because he makes a pleased noise in response.
“Go ahead. Touch ‘em.”
And Gerard does. With permission granted, he reaches out with trembling hands, his touch hesitant at first, gentle, just trailing his fingertips over the leather. Feeling out the material, mapping it. The barely-there phantom sensation isn’t nearly enough, but he shivers nonetheless. He needs more, but he needs to ask first.
He looks back at Mikey for approval, for some fucking reason. And for some fucking reason, Mikey gives it to him.
“Yeah,” Mikey breathes, looking miles away. “Yeah, you can do better than that, though, right? Don’t you wanna feel ‘em?”
He does. He so fucking does. His palms settle on the sides of Mikey’s calf, fingers locking together on the underside. He strokes down the front of the boot with his thumbs, tracing over the straps and buckles, taking in the sensory difference of leather and nickel.
The cold metal sends shockwaves through him, traveling from the pads of his thumbs into his veins, electrifying and entirely too overwhelming for what he’s doing– touching Mikey’s boot. Jesus, his dick jumps with every brush over the material, skin sliding smooth against the slick surface.
He’s panting. He fucking knows it, he can hear it. He’s shaking too, he thinks, shivering in Mikey’s grip, and suddenly, he feels pathetic. Tragic, ashamed, and horrifically turned on.
He whimpers, and Mikey releases his face. He falls forward, his forehead hitting Mikey’s knee, and his lips are so close to pressing against the boot that he just lets it happen, like he’s leaning into a fucking kiss. The leather feels infinitely better on his mouth than his hands, so much closer, more intense. He gets an all-consuming urge to kiss it.
The wires are already crossed in his brain. He’s already going to hell, so why not take the express lane there? He rears his head back slightly, tilting to the side, and presses a chaste kiss to the smooth side of Mikey’s boot.
His hips give a tiny kick, and he’s so out of it by now that he can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed by it, or to even pray that Mikey didn’t notice. Really, he hopes Mikey did, and that he’ll pull away and call Gerard a creep and never wear these awful fucking boots in front of him ever again.
But no, Mikey doesn’t seem disgusted at all. When Gerard’s lips purse and fucking kiss his boot, his breath hitches at the visual. Complete submission, unbidden.
“Jesus.” Mikey whispers.
Gerard whines in response. He needs to apologize. Mikey said he could touch, he didn’t say Gerard could do this. He really, really should, but he can’t, because now he knows how the leather feels on his lips, and he can’t fucking stop. He’s addicted now, kissing Mikey’s leg over and over, quick and desperate, feverish.
He gets away with it for a lot longer than he thought he would, a lot longer than he should, before Mikey fists a hand in his hair, wrenching him away from his boot. Gerard whines again, distraught this time, like a wounded animal.
When forced to look Mikey in the eyes, after kissing his boot, his senses come back to him in a flood. His eyes go from dazed and lidded to wide and frantic, his heartbeat picking up and pounding so hard it hurts, so loud he’s sure Mikey can hear it.
“I’m– holy fuck. Mikey, shit, I–” He’s trying to apologize, or explain himself, or say something, but the words don’t come out in any intelligible way. It doesn’t matter anyways, because Mikey yanks at his hair, shutting him up and talking over his pained shout.
“Jesus,” He says again, looking awe-struck. Not horrified, or disgusted, or any of the things he should be, but genuinely fascinated. “You like ‘em that much?”
Gerard nods before he can think about it. “I- yeah. I do. I really fucking do.”
“You like kissing them?”
Gerard would laugh if he was capable of doing anything but staring at Mikey. Obviously he does. He nods again.
Mikey hesitates a second. Then, “You wanna lick ‘em?”
Gerard’s face burns, bright red and obvious, and a-fucking-gain, his hips twitch, much harder this time, the shame of it only adding fuel to the fire.
“Please.”
The kindest, most illegal fucking starshine smile crosses Mikey’s face, and Gerard is overwhelmed with unadulterated adoration. Pure devotion, something he’s felt for Mikey since the day he was born, but right now, it’s the strongest he’s ever felt it, increased thousand-fold, just from the slightest change in Mikey’s expression.
He feels like he’s drowning. Or melting. Whatever it is, his head’s a mess, like he’s wading through molasses to form a coherent thought that isn’t just mikeymikeymikey.
“Go ahead.” Mikey coos at him, fucking coos, and it goes right to Gerard’s already leaking dick, and endless cycle of pathetic-disgusting-aroused.
Tears well in Gerard’s eyes. Ashamed, relieved, a mix of both, probably. He leans back down to the top of the boot, his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a stupid dog, but Mikey yanks him back again, clicking his tongue.
Gerard, instantly, feels a pang of wrongbadfuckedup, a genuine fear that he managed to disappoint Mikey while going in to lick his boot.
“No. Start at the toe. Work your way up. Savor it, Gee. Taste ‘em, before they get all dusty and dirty.”
The fear is gone in a second, and Gerard shudders, full-bodied and miserable. “I’d lick them clean.” He mutters, unintentionally out loud.
Mikey’s breathing goes a bit weird at that, and he curses under his breath, before pulling his fingers from Gerard’s hair. “Fuck. Get to it, then.”
This time, obeying his instructions, Gerard leans all the way down, craning his neck in a way that kind of hurts in a dull way, one he can easily ignore if it means he gets exactly what he wants, what he needs.
He’s eye level with the toe of Mikey’s boot now, he can see the barely-there scuffs from first-day wear, the intricate stitching between the platformed heel and the sole, tiny specks of dirt that, by the time he’s done, will be nothing but a memory, a mental trophy of a job-well-done.
He wraps a hand around the back of Mikey’s ankle for stability, shivering at the leather-skin contact, like he hadn’t just been groping the damn thing. His mouth’s watering just at the sight, at the prospect of what he’s about to do– what Mikey’s allowing him to do, his fucking savior.
He wants to worship every part of Mikey, kneel at the altar of his body and blood, be his one-man cult– but he can start with just the boots. He should be grateful Mikey’s even letting him have this, surely he has to know by now that Gerard’s getting off on it. He’d be an idiot not to. He knows Gerard’s sick in the head, and he’s doing charity work, letting a poor sinner get a taste of absolution, of respite.
First, Gerard kisses the toe of the boot. It’s smooth, rounded and curved, and his lips fit perfectly against it. He kisses it once in the center, then once on either side for good measure. Then, he ducks his head as low as it’ll go, as low as he needs to, to lick a stripe up the front of the platform heel.
The feeling is electric. Fork-in-an-outlet electric, fucking electric-chair-execution levels of it. A moan spills from his open mouth as he laps at the sole, tasting dirt, dust, and rubber. With each swipe of his tongue, the rubber goes from a slightly muted grey to a bold black, rubbed clean with spit.
His dick is pulsing in his pants, and he’s genuinely a bit worried that he’ll cum in his pants just from this. No stimulation, not even getting to hump Mikey’s boot. So pathetic and easy for his baby brother that he could cum untouched licking Mikey’s boot clean.
That thought only spurs him on to keep licking. He drags his tongue back up to the toe, licking over the entirety of its surface, tasting leather this time, and that familiarity makes his cock drool precum uncontrollably. His pants are probably visibly wet by now, and he doesn’t fucking care. All he can see, taste, think about is Mikey, Mikey’s boots, pleasing Mikey.
Nothing else matters. It doesn’t matter how fucking stupid he looks, as long as he’s got the taste of leather on his tongue and Mikey’s shallow breathing echoing around him, he’s the happiest man alive.
He licks up the buckles, tonguing the metal and straps like a man possessed, panting like a mutt and drooling like one too. He feels saliva spilling down his chin, onto Mikey’s boot, and he licks away as much of it as he can, now tasting leather and himself. Fuck, he’s gone. He’s whining, moaning with every labored exhale, dizzy with arousal and the scent of leatherrubbermetalspit, permeating his senses, violating and exhilarating.
Gerard reaches the top of the boot, right under Mikey’s knee, and he peers up at Mikey for further instruction, his tongue still lolled out and pressed to the leather, freely drooling all over it. He has to look like the most fucked-up mockery of pornographic like this, looking up at Mikey through his eyelashes and drooling on his boot.
Mikey must think so too, because suddenly, his face is bright red, his eyes wide, like he hadn’t expected the sight of his big brother worshipping him to settle hot and heavy in his core.
“Shit,” He hisses, looking between Gerard’s flushed, fucked-out face and his own dickprint, now bulging and obvious in his girljeans. “Stay- stay right there. Stay right fucking there, just like that, shit.”
He’s not going to. Gerard is certain. He can’t think very well at all right now, but Mikey’s not about to whip his fucking dick out, he knows that much for sure.
He’s confident about that, until Mikey goes for his zipper, his hands shaking just a bit. Despite the tremor, he works swiftly, unzipping his jeans and popping the button. He’s not wearing boxers, because he hasn’t done his laundry in a month, so Gerard gets a glorious flash of pale, smooth skin. He didn’t know Mikey shaved his fucking dick hair. Of course he does.
Mikey shoves his jeans down, barely past his hips, just enough for his cock to spring out, inches away from Gerard’s face.
He’s longer than Gerard is, thinner too, but that’s a given. Gerard knows that the thickness of his own cock more than makes up for the length Mikey’s got on him, he knows he walks around with a fucking weapon in his pants.
For the longest time, his normaler fantasies consisted of bullying his cock into Mikey’s lithe little body, watching the boy struggle to take it all, seeing it bulge out in his flat stomach. He still wants that, of course, but now his head’s spinning with the thought of fitting all of Mikey inside him instead, jesus, he’s fucking hung.
There’s familiarity to it too, their dicks are pale and pink in the same spots. Held up side-by-side, you’d know they’re brothers. Blood siblings. Family. God, he’s fucking sick. He wonders if Mikey leaks as much as he does.
Gerard doesn’t get much time to dwell on how much of a sick fuck he is, because as soon as his dick’s out, Mikey’s spitting in his hand and stroking himself, tight and feverish.
And Mikey’s looking right at him. Direct eye contact while he strokes his fucking dick. His eyelids flutter with the pleasure of it, but he stays trained on Gerard’s face, mouth hanging open in a way that would make him look stupid if he didn’t look so devastatingly hot.
“Keep going.” Mikey pants, gritty and strained. He doesn’t need to tell Gerard twice.
Gerard gets right back to it– to his job, he reminds himself, and that makes his face burn hotter. This is his rightful place. This is exactly where he’s meant to be, licking his little brother’s boots while he jerks off to the tragic display.
He lathes at the smooth side of the boot, and without any buckles in the way, he gets much more of a flat expanse to lick and kiss at, to moan into with every swipe of his tongue. Now, Mikey’s echoing his moans, and it feels too good to be true, like a wet fever dream.
“Yeah. Yeah, just– just like that, l-little fucking bootlicker. Should’ve known, couldn’t even look at me when I walked in.”
Gerard doesn’t respond, he can’t, too preoccupied with salivating all over Mikey’s leg, over his nice, new, slutty boots. He just stares up at Mikey, his eyes bleary and pleading, and that seems to do the trick, because Mikey swears loudly, his hips kicking.
He does leak a lot, almost as much as Gerard. There’s a seemingly endless supply of precum beading at Mikey’s tip and drooling down his cock, slicking up Mikey’s strokes and filling the room with vulgar, wet sounds.
“God, fuck. Y’re lookin at me now, though, yeah? Lookin at me like I fuckin own you. Shit– I do, don’t I? You’re mine? All mine?”
Gerard chokes on a sob, his hips bucking up into nothing but the friction in his jeans, his hard cock rubbing against the zipper painfully, and fuck, it’s almost enough. It could be enough, but he has to hold out. He needs to cum humping Mikey’s boot.
Mikey fucking growls, grabbing Gerard’s hair again in a violent, forceful grip, and pulling him close to his cock, so close Gerard can smell him, like musk and sweat and unwashed boy-stench.
“Answer me. Fucking say it, Gerard. You’re mine. I own you, I fucking own you, shit–”
“Yours–” Gerard warbles, breathless and gasping, wide eyes flicking frantically between Mikey’s face and Mikey’s red, leaking cock. “Yours, I’m yours, Jesus fucking Christ, Mikey–”
Mikey moans, high in his throat and fucking needy, and Gerard can tell he’s close, jerking himself off like he’s trying to skin his dick, his arm moving so fast it’s blurring in Gerard’s vision, fucking into his fist like he just can’t help himself.
Gerard would laugh at him for being on such a hair-trigger, if he wasn’t even worse off, just as close without Mikey’s excuse of a freight-train-fast fist working his dick. It’s also really fucking hot, knowing he got Mikey this hot this quick, and he can fucking see Mikey’s dick throbbing, pulsing as he thrusts into the tight, wet circle of his fingers.
Rendered speechless for far too long, Gerard manages to find his voice, just in time to torment Mikey with it.
“Look at you,” He says, too loud in his own ears, but he can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t have time to care. “Fucking look at you, Mikes, Jesus. Fucking your own hand, shit, wish you were fucking me like that. Want you to fuck me like that, so fucking bad–”
Mikey cuts him off with a shout, a jarring sound that warps into a downright whorish moan, his eyes rolling back. “Gonna– shit, Gee, gonna cum. Gonna cum on your pretty fucking face, your pretty f-fucking faggot face, fuck!”
Gerard’s eyes roll back in time with Mikey’s, because, fuck, he’s never been this turned on in his life. His dick twitches, desperate and insistent at his brother calling him a fucking slur.
Mikey’s moans go staccato, crescendoing in both volume and lascivity, libidinous and lewd as he spills over his fist, ropes of cum landing hot and wet on Gerard’s face, striping his lips, nose, and cheeks. Gerard almost cums in his pants from that alone, it’s honestly a fucking miracle he doesn’t, because the feeling of his brother’s release on his face is near-orgasmic on its own.
Mikey’s panting, coming down from what must’ve been an intense orgasm, judging by how fast and how much he came, the evidence warm and drying on Gerard’s lips. He recovers much quicker than Gerard would’ve, pulling his jeans back up and tucking his softening cock away, but not zipping or buttoning them, leaving Gerard with the visual of Mikey’s open fly and hairless pubic area.
He pulls his boot away, breaking the death-grip Gerard had on it and making him whine with displeasure. The tragedy is short-lived, because Mikey plants his boot back down, right between Gerard’s legs, the toe snug against his aching, straining cock.
Gerard’s thighs part on instinct, his hips rolling up into the friction, nearly overstimulating after being denied it for so long. It sends sparks through his whole body, collapsed-powerline-in a flood sparks, shooting through him like water down his back.
Once again, he feels right at home like this, grinding his dick against Mikey’s boot, humping it recklessly, harder and faster than he’s ever fucked anything in his life. The inevitable heat that’d settled in his gut after building for so long is right back at that precipice, like it hadn’t ever calmed down, and he’s embarrassingly close, much faster than he has any right to be.
He doesn’t want this to be over so soon, but there’s not much he can do about that when Mikey’s adding pressure to his cock, practically stepping on it with his whore-boots, the buckles clinking with the force of Gerard’s hurried thrusts. And when Mikey starts talking to him, he’s a fucking goner.
“Just like that, Gee, fuck yeah. Didn’t even have to tell you, just that desperate to hump my fucking boot? That’s what you wanted this whole time, isn’t it? Just wanted to rub your stupid cock on my pretty new boots?”
Gerard cries out, his thrusts growing sloppy and uncoordinated, his hips twitching uncontrollably in time with the throbbing of his cock. “Yes, fuck! Needed– needed this, all of this. Needed you, Mikey, shit! So fucking bad, for so fucking long, you don’t even know–”
He’s actually crying now, pathetic tears rolling down his cheeks, mixing with Mikey’s cum as he falls forward, clinging to Mikey’s leg and piledriving his clothed cock onto the sole of Mikey’s shoe. He’s being fucking loud too, way louder than Mikey was, gasping and whimpering, moaning girlishly and spewing nonsense, begging and pleading and a mantra of Mikey’s name.
“Jesus, you’re fucked. You’re so fucked, Gerard, you’re gonna cum like this? Gonna cum riding my foot, with my name in your mouth? My cum on your face? My fucking boot on your dick?”
And that’s it, that’s all it fucking takes. Gerard’s thighs clamp shut around Mikey’s foot, and with a pitiful, drawn-out choking-sobbing-gasping moan, he paints the inside of his jeans– sticky, pathetic, and miserable. Tragic. Perfect. He shakes through his orgasm, tears still spilling freely down his face as he trembles, shuddering with each wave of it, each pulse of cum into his pants.
Shame floods him quicker than the exhaustion of humping Mikey’s boot like a bitch in heat does, amplified by the wetness in his jeans every time he so much as shifts.
Reluctantly, he pries his face from where he’d pressed it against Mikey’s leg, the boot’s leather wet and shining with a mix of spit, cum, and tears. It takes a lot of strength to not lean in and lick it clean. He looks up at Mikey, expecting some sense to have been knocked into him at this point, regret or disgust, but no. Of course not.
He looks surprised. Amused.
“Holy fucking prejac, dude.”
Every seed of doubt and worry in Gerard’s stomach is gone in an instant, because nothing’s changed. He got a facial from his baby brother and came humping his boot, and nothing’s changed. That’s still Mikey, that’s still his little brother, who’ll make fun of him for the stupidest shit, while staring at him like he hung the sun, no vitriol behind his words. Just boys being boys.
Gerard groans, long-suffering and only a little embarrassed. “Fucking hypocrite! I said I wanted you to fuck me, and you came so fast I almost laughed at you.”
Mikey stares at him, an eyebrow raised. “Yeah, and you came humping my boot.”
“You called me a faggot.” Gerard counters, trying his damn best not to sound whiny. He doesn’t do a very good job.
“You liked it.” Mikey shrugs. “And it’s true. You are a faggot.”
Gerard scowls at him. “Fuck you.”
Mikey perks up. “You want me to?”
“Jesus, I am too old to get hard again this fast.”
Mikey cackles at him, pulling his foot away and planting it back on the ground, where it belongs. It feels kind of weird to not have it so close to him, to not see it in his peripherals.
“Get fuckin used to it, old man. I’m young and spry, so we’re gonna have fucking marathon sex forever now.”
Contrary to his previous statement, Gerard’s dick twitches. Fucking traitor body. Good for nothing flesh vessel. “Do I get a say in this?”
Mikey looks him up and down, putting a hand on his hip and cocking it to the side, and it’s fucking rich that he called Gerard a faggot. “Do you want a say in this?”
Fuck, Mikey knows him too well. “...Not really.” He admits, somehow embarrassed after all this.
“Didn’t think so. Get the fuck up, then. I’m not fucking you on the couch.”
Gerard stands up so fast he nearly blacks out, fucking anemia. The sound of Mikey’s laughter keeps him grounded as his vision blurs, and fuck everything in the world, Gerard loves him. He loves Mikey, and Mikey loves him.
Soulmates. Sick, sexed-up-sibling soulmates.