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Matt feels a tightening in his gut, a restlessness he can't shake.

Well, he could. Oh, he could.

He could imagine Tom, and Edd, and Tord pinning him down, taking turns on him, calling him worthless and a slut and whore, their voices and bodies rushing all together -- and he feels that burning in the center of his legs trying to push them apart.

But, no.

Lame. Write hooks, remember? 

Matt knows something is wrong when he imagines

I throw the page away. It doesn't hurt to say anymore, but it seems too crass, too on-the-nose. I'm a Writer and it was years ago (and no, it's not what you're thinking of); I should have some kind of tenderness, a subtlety. The kind that leaves you sick while reading without devolving into exploitation.

Eventually, I crawl across my stone cage and find the page, smoothing it out over my thigh. The blood hasn't yet dried.

 The easiest way to get over someone is not necessarily to get under someone else, as Matt has always cheekily been told -- no, it's to wipe them off the face of the earth.

Metaphorically will do, for the more cowardly in the audience.

Which is why, when Durdam Lane's Clown Collusion Committee agreed to try being a Clown Collusion (Poly)Cule, he'd taken them to the same restaurants, the same booths, piled pillows and air mattresses in their living room and even watched the same movies.

The same fantasies start again, the same shame, same dark knot in his stomach. 

"If you start quoting Carter again," a familiar voice from the shadows, "I'm gonna kill myself."

I run towards it, nearly falling over myself as my bare feet slip on the wet, mossy stones of my cell, but by the time I reach the bars and call for him Patryck is already gone.

Matt knows well how to play them. Unfortunately playing them all at once is like trying to play the guitar well while attempting the oboe and xylophone with your feet.

For instance: these checkered shorts would naturally draw Tom's eyes, but aren't quite short enough to shove the curve of his ass, nor any of his sex, nor flexible enough to push aside, which is what Tord likes. But this other pair of white boxers were a gift from Edd, a souvenir from his favorite musical (discovered only too late that even their largest size ran too short for him, rendering it a permanent Dicks Out look), the "I Have Maggots In My Scrotum" emblazoned in crimson along the ass.

If only Edd hadn't ripped his slutty shorts -- which was an accident, sure, but that fact had all the comfort of knowing someone only accidentally ran over your kid.

"Matt, come on!" Tom's yell from down the stairs. Tord is popping popcorn on the stove, Edd breaking open their newest 24-pack, Tom laying out the last of the blankets in their over-spilled nest -- two air mattresses, pillows from every bed, blankets and sheets and some of Matt's stuffed animals if the occasion has been borne out of stress.

“Hold on a minute!” Matt calls back, but his reprieve is short-lived. When Tom says they won’t wait forever, Matt throws his clothes down on his bed, striping himself even of his underwear and signature t-shirt, and marches downstairs stark naked. 

“What?” He snaps at Tom’s widening eyes, Tord’s wolf whistle; “I thought you were tired of waiting on me.” A pause, wherein Tom rolls his eyes (as foretold by that familiar movement of brow bone) and everyone but Matt turns towards the television, the only source of light in the room. 

Matt clears his throat. “I’m waiting.” 

Edd cocks his head.

“You’re more than welcome to thank me for gracing you with my unadulterated beauty.”

Tord flashes a thumbs-up without looking away from the screen. “I have a chub.”

I’ve been trying to write this stupid fucking gangbang for two months. First it started out as sort of a sequel to that one fic I named after a Weird Al song, where Matt comes home stressed and wants the other boys to run a train on him to make him feel better.

Then it was an idea I stole from a kink blog named after Nancy Friday’s groundbreaking 1973 book of women’s sexual fantasies, My Secret Garden: Matt the cheerleader pet to the whole football team. Or like Tom was the captain of a rival team or something, who honestly cares. I'd kept them as adults, a throwback fantasy of Matt's recreated at home, the only things wrong the lack of a tour bus with a center aisle wide enough to comfortably fuck in, and I speaking through Tom's mouth to tell Matt he wasn't comfortable with fucking him in a real cheerleader's uniform. 

From that latter effort came this scene: 

Matt preens when Tom's round tongue piercing catches on his clitoris, earning a laugh from Tord, a wolf whistle from Edd and Paul.

"You like that, baby boy?" Tom asks, pulling his face away. Matt nods, face turned away.

"What do you say?" Tom prompts, slipping a finger into Matt's pussy, searching for the spot that makes Matt's hips jerk. "Say, Yes, Daddy, I like tha--"

"Yeah yeah yeah," Matt nods. "Imagine I just said all that."

They all laugh.

Tom finds the spot and Matt moans, trying to close his legs only for Paul and Tord to hold them open, kissing along the tender skin. Tom kisses Matt's sex, swirling his tongue around as he pumps his finger into him.

And my favorite part of any good orgy fic, the moments where the sub is floating contentedly under the water of their own mind, bodies without difference, nerves singing with pleasure. Edd, Tom, Tord, Paul, Patryck, and Yanov (having been forced to relinquish his mascot costume)

You're so amazing, Matt...

Shit, Matt -!

You feel so good...

C’mon baby, you're so fuckin' pretty when you cum

You take so fucking well.

Matt feels so beautiful and wonderful and light as he drinks in the praise.

Here’s the last piece from that doomed effort:

Matt squeezes Tom's hand, finds the center inside himself, the fountain with sparkling clear water and the smell of lavender. Tom nuzzles his nose against Matt's as the others' hands run down his shoulders -- "Just breathe, baby. We're here. You're safe."

It isn't really what he needs to hear -- though in all fairness, what does he need to hear?-- but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless. 

One of my friends finds it very funny that I cry during sex. To be fair to her, I cry very easily; I usually cry with laughter before the rib pain can even begin to set in.

One day (a million days later, two hours later, who knows anymore, who can find the energy to care), Patryck brings me a small tin lunchbox, pushing it through the bars -- hissing at me to be quiet as I snatch it out of his grasp and pry it open, a wild beast ribbing open the ribs of a rabbits. A sandwich -- turkey and cheese with a little mustard; a fruit roll-up; a small plastic bag of carrots. 

I can’t suppress a laugh. 

“What’s so funny?” 

I can’t tell him the real reason, I’m shoving food down my throat so quickly I start choking, and he grabs at my shoulders, making me put my back to the bars so he can try and hit me as best he can. When I’m done I loll my head against the rusted steel so cold against my skin, feeling where my spine swerves to avoid the bar that should align perfectly with it, feeling his fingertips gently climbing my exposed ribs. Everything under his touch feels like fire, but I force myself still, nails in the palm of my hand.

It hurts too much to talk. He whispers something foreign under his breath as his fingers travel up, brushing past the tangled coils of my hair. “How long have you been here?” he asks, a disgust in his voice I think (hope) isn’t directed at me. “Do you know?”

I laugh at the incredible pain in my jaw, a sharpness that radiates up into my scalp and down into the base of my throat. Reaching up into my mouth with dirty fingers and pulling from my molar a shard of thick, bloody glass.

 I’ve rarely given a fuck about foreplay; I’m not going to be able to ride this desperation/sleeplessness/self-loathing forever; let’s just get it over with. 

Tord is, of course, the first to start groping Matt. Patting his knee for Matt to sit, whispering in his ear as his arms twine around Matt’s lean chest. Before long Edd flops himself off the couch, bouncing the other three boys damn near off the mattress - but Edd grabs onto Tord’s arm and yanks them both close to him. “My turn to sexually harass Matt.” Matt purrs as Edd nuzzles into one side of his neck and Tord the other, their hands spreading over his pecs, his thighs. 

Tom flips himself onto his stomach, chin in his pillow. What are they watching again? 

“Too much for you,  Jehovah?” Tord asks. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Matt is about to say something when Tord starts to kiss down his stomach, making him squeak. They settle in, a sheet pulled up to their shoulders -- Edd lazily kneading Matt’s ass in one hand as the other props up his head, Tord’s nose on Matt’s clavicle, his lips feeling the beat of Matt’s heart. 

I keep losing my train of thought. Gimme a minute; there are footsteps coming down the corridor. I take the scrap of paper across my thigh 

(Well I don't see why I have to be punished because your drinking makes your dick soft. 

It takes Tom a minute to recover enough to say Strike one. Edd laughs for longer, ruffling Tord's hair as Tord swallows around Edd's cock. God, Matt.

Tord just chuckles. Much as he can with Edd's thick length down his throat),

shoving it into the crack in the wall, Sade hiding his sins in the walls of the Bastille. 

It's just Patryck. Meal, bismuth for my stomach, bottle of water and a tiny squish of mouthwash in one of the little bottles I'd find so often amongst my mother's shoes. Whenever he crouches down to hand me [my][our?] lunch box, I'll reach out and let my hands linger over his skin, those small wrists, those long, slender fingers. He meets my eyes but never has all that much to say.


The last thing I really remember before waking up here is going onto the gangbang section and clicking on something new. Finally, I so foolishly thought, something without the rape tag! My naive heart’s cock roared to life. 

Within five minutes it revealed itself as a proto-omegaverse incest story, and I cried myself to sleep. 



Let's skip to the good part. 

Well, not really 'good' part. The part after that, after Tom has swelled and his flesh all turned to scale, after all the boys have shoved Matt's face into the air mattress and left him dripping between his thighs, god damn I don't even know what time it is anymore, writing is objectively the worst art form aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ----


Matt gives a garbled moan as Tom wraps his arms around Matt’s chest, rocking them both back onto his haunches. An electric shot of pleasure as his shift in weight forces the not in just that little bit deeper, brushing it over his g-spot. 

Matt sighs, tipping his head back against Tom’s broad, purpled chest. It’ll be over soon. Ten or fifteen minutes at the most. He can feel that growing lump at the back of his throat, but he forces himself to swallow it down. Wait, just wait

Think of it like being fisted. 

But I've never been fisted before!

If Laurel can do it, so can you. 

Tom nuzzles his rough nose into Matt’s neck, purring contently. 

“I’m gonna go ahead and start patching Matt up,” Edd says, pulling himself up by the couch arm. The cuts along the inside of Matt’s thighs have mostly started to scab, but it’ll be nice to have Edd kiss him along each one before smoothing a butterfly bandage over it. 

It's not self-harm if you nutted to it.

“Shouldn’t we shower first?” Matt asks. 

“I was gonna get the Neosporin and all that together." 

They would've had all that done beforehand -- it's been suggested multiple times -- but none of them have yet to jump the hurdle of their own laziness. 

Tom mutters an apology into Matt's skin as Tord spreads his thighs even further apart, the insides burning with the strain. Then Tom chuckles darkly; “Are you still horny?”

Tord tries to lean forward, but Matt pushes his head away. “Stay back, you brute!” 

You brute -- Matt’s version of so make me . Tord laughs, grabbing onto Matt’s hand and kissing it when he tries to shove him again. “What? You’ve got like ten more minutes left before Tom can pull out. Lemme kiss you.” 

“I’ll die.” Matt tries to close his legs. “What do they say in your stupid shows? You’re gonna ruin my pussy?” 

“Yeah, -- oh no, you’re gonna ruin my pussy, I’m going crazy! Onii-san-senpai, it’s rubbing inside me! That’s actually the real reason why I prefer raws,” his words burst with another laugh; “I don’t actually mind the pixels much at all.”

“Didn’t you show me one clip that was just the girl yelling ‘dicks’ over and over?” Matt asks. 

“I have no idea why you watch you that shit,” Tom adds, to which Tord rolls his eyes;

“I don’t need to justify myself to you, Jehovah.” 

They can hear Edd closing cabinets, so Tord pushes Matt’s legs up by his knees, darting forward to wrap his lips around Matt’s clit. Matt hisses, too much, too much, so Tord mutters an apology and switches strategies, kissing gently between Matt’s folds, face growing hot again at the taste of him. Tom groans as Matt starts to write again in his grasp, his body flexing around the swollen knot, hot coals heavy in his stomach.  

Tord and Tom share a look. Tom winks. 

Then grabs Matt’s thighs and pulls them apart, black nails scratching new red lines as he starts to grind up into Matt’s body. Matt cries out, throwing his head back, arms twisting back to grab onto Tom as the stimulation starts to crash over his head. He can hear but not really process the sound of Tord jerking himself off, of Tom’s hot breath in his ear, Good boy, such a good little slut…

Edd finds another empty cabinet, shakes his head. 

Matt’s body jerks wildly, actually managing to pull halfway off Tom’s knot briefly before Tom is holding him back down. It’s good and it hurts and his mind is white static as Tom stretches him beyond his limit. Tord is moaning into his skin, kisses growing faster as he tries to chase Matt’s high alongside him. 

Matt cums with a soundless scream. He holds forward, held up only by Tom’s thick arms as he struggles to breathe, whimpering pathetically.

“Matt,” Tom asks. “You alright?”

Tord looks up as he’s wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand, and feels a tear land on his cheek.

Oh! Before I forget: for anyone wondering how I’m writing this in blood, I’ve gone from using my fingers to gently scratching the page with the bones of rats whose throats I’ve ripped out with my teeth.

The blood is a permanent stain now, seems like, but honestly it feels good just to have some kind of tool in my hands again. Going so long without some kind of writing utensil, such a staple of my Before life, was probably only making my hourly crying spells worse, like when people in the hospital go too long without chewing their food. 

I nearly started bawling again when Patryck snuck me a pencil (!) some hours ago. And some new paper in the form of a tiny green memo pad. I'd told him that if he'll come a little closer I'd suck his dick in gratitude, but he'd only moved to leave. 

The next time Patryck comes round, I smile at him, wide and shit-eating. He raises his eyebrows; his face has been looking more and more severe these days. But it softens as he raises a finger at me. "Don't do it."

I stick my tongue out. 

"Don't quote her. I'll hang myself, I'll do it." 

I laugh, and almost say Sounds like you want to, but instead I say, "There is a big secret about sex: most people don't like it."