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ON A TYPICAL FRIDAY NIGHT I AM: scum

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Sometimes Skov says no when what he really means is god, please, yes.

Swan, angry, sharp Swan with his rough skin and ruined knuckles, seems to know this. He carries a lighter in his pocket and razors in his backpack.

Skov sends him a text in the middle of English because his skin feels too tight and jerking off in the bathroom didn't help.

Skov: heyy hot stuff, got anything sharp 2 share?

Swan: srry got a test

Skov shuts off the screen and stands up.

Meyers, his English teacher, doesn't even say anything as he leaves. No one dares say shit to him anymore. It should make him feel better, secure in what he's tried too hard to accomplish, but instead he just burns harder without a wall to throw himself against.

Kavinsky's smoking outside the Latin building on Skov’s way out, Proko stealing drags as they talk. Skov hesitates as he passes them but doesn't approach until K catches his eye.

“You look like shit,” says Kavinsky.

“Not as shitty as you,” says Skov, which is true. Kavinsky looks like he hasn’t slept all week and hasn’t eaten in longer. His fingers don’t shake around his lighter, though.

"Skipping?" says Prokopenko, giving Skov a once over. Skov nods. "Need something to take the edge off? I got some new shit from Jiang, it's in my room, help yourself."

"I'm good," says Skov. He mostly just wants to drive, to try and outrun himself.

“If you say so,” says Proko. The air hangs awkwardly between them.

“Don't forget: my place tonight,” says Kavinsky, just as Skov starts to walk away. “Bring something hot.”

So Skov stops at his dorm long enough to grab a bottle of Fireball and sets out. He almost gets lost in the speed of it, taking tight corners through the mountains, blasting music loud enough to give himself a headache, but it's not quite enough. Not by himself. He’s too eager for the sun to set, can’t keep his eyes off the clock long enough to sink into the bass.

Despite that, Skov still misjudges the time, gets too far from Henrietta and ends up at Kavinsky's house half an hour after everyone else. Before he even gets to the door he can hear them, talking too loud and playing shitty music out of even shittier speakers. The sound of it rolls over him, and Skov can feel some of the tension leech from his shoulders.

He drops into the party next to Jiang and is immediately offered a joint. They’re sitting on the floor in front of the couch, for some reason. Chips, a discarded controller, several empty bottles and a few full ones litter the carpet around them. A vaguely familiar video's playing on mute, something with a lot of fast cars and gunfire.

“You’re late,” says Prokopenko, head rolling back, sprawled across from him. “Thought you weren’t going to come.”

“Yeah right,” says Skov. These nights are the only reason he’s still in Henrietta.

Yeah right, ” Jiang echos, voice high and mocking. Skov can’t tell which of them is the target. Proko kicks Jiang in the shin, and Jiang laughs, full-throated and rich. He's already been stripped down to boxers and binder.

“You’re such a fucking lightweight,” says Swan, sitting next to Proko. He nods to Skov, the hint of a smile on his mouth.

"Fuck off," says Jiang.

“Where’s K?” says Skov. Proko jerks a thumb towards the door.

“Gimme a drink, Skov,” says Jiang, pulling at Skov's backpack. He oozes around the floor like a cat; it’s reluctantly appealing.  

“Yeah, why be drunk when you can be plastered, right?” says Swan.

“Fuck you,” says Jiang, with a roll of his hips that manages to be equally ridiculous and suggestive.

Skov surrenders his bag; Jiang spends too long trying to figure out the zipper before Proko steals it from him. While they argue over the contents, Swan greets Skov with a fist bump, his grey eyes not quite as flat as usual.

“Hey,” he says. “Get lost?”

“You know me,” Skov says. Swan doesn’t quite grin; it’s more a quirk of the lips, but it’s enough to make Skov feel hungry.

“Glad you didn’t miss the show,” Kavinsky says, appearing in the doorway. Swan’s eyes go dark.

“The show?” Skov says, and tries to ignore the way his stomach clenches. Anticipation. Fear. Desperation. Everything at once.

“Yeah man,” says Kavinsky, stretching his words. “You’re the star.” He waltzes closer, draping himself half over Skov, too heavy. His eyes are bright with something chemical.

"Fuck off,” says Skov, halfheartedly pulling away. Kavinsky leans harder, one hand trailing down Skov’s side. He pushes Skov's shirt up and rubs little circles over his ribs. Despite himself, Skov’s skin starts to warm. Swan watches, purpose written in the tense set of his shoulders.

“What?” says Skov, glancing over to Swan. He has to swallow once before he can get it out.

“Skov,” says Swan. Skov looks down, and he can almost feel the razor digging into his thigh. “Come here.”

Jiang whispers something to Proko, and they both laugh. Skov tries to ignore it. Kavinsky runs a hand through Skov's hair, tugging hard. “Swan says you’ve been holding out on us.”

“Swan’s a dirty fucking liar,” says Skov. Swan’s looking at him, waiting. He hesitates. His stomach twists, not unpleasantly.

Kavinsky tilts his head, reminisce of a hawk, or something else that rips the soft bits out of tiny creatures. “I don’t think so.”

“Skov,” says Swan, again. “Come here.”

Skov goes. Swan pulls him into his lap, forcing Skov’s knees wide, facing him. Swan’s hands are hot and spread over his hips, fingers digging into his jeans. Skov can feel Kavinsky kneel behind him, and there are hands on his thighs.

“Do you remember your safeword?” asks Swan. Skov nods, mouth dry. "Tell me." Swan narrows his eyes, not a request.

“Safeword,” says Skov, because he doesn’t believe in complicating shit.

“Shit,” says Jiang, and the hand on his thigh tightens. “How come you never play with us? We know you’re not shy.” Skov squeezes his eyes closed. He realizes then that he’s boxed in, a boy on every side. His hips twitch; he can’t think, all his blood has been redirected to his dick.

“Don’t be a coward,” says Prokopenko. “Open your fucking eyes.”

“We’re going to have some fun,” says Kavinsky, breath hot on Skov’s neck. He shivers.

"You good with that?" says Swan.

"Yeah," says Skov.

"You gonna make us work for it? I can see you itching for a fight man. You gonna give us one?"

"Yeah," Skov says, again.

Then he pushes back, catching Kavinsky in the jaw with his elbow, pulling himself out of Swan's grasp.

Kavinsky starts laughing, backing off enough for Swan to get in and grab his arm. Skov struggles and writhes, almost pulling free.

He fights hard and dirty, using nails and teeth as well as his fists. He almost escapes twice, before one hand or another catches in his hair or his shirt and pulls him back. He swears at them, on autopilot, and gets backhanded for his trouble.

There's a little bit of time when he's not sure what's happening, when he's fighting on instinct alone, before he gets pinned belly up, Swan and Jiang's hands holding him down.

Skov twists, tries to sink his teeth into Swan's shoulder but a hand-- Proko's-- grabs his jaw. Skov snaps anyway, pressing his legs closed. His eye aches and his mouth tastes like blood. It's an auspicious beginning.

"Easy boy," says Swan, pinching at his sides. Skov jerks, and in his moment of weakness, Swan shoves a knee between his thighs.

"Fuck you, no--” Skov groans as Swan drags his hands over the crease of Skov’s jeans. God, his mouth is so dry, he’s panting already, his cock achingly hard. Every brush of Swan’s thumbs through denim is hell. “Don’t, don’t--” he pushes his hips up, craving more. Someone’s hand curls around his hip, pressing him back down.

“Shirt off,” says Swan, and he pulls away. Skov arches his back and all but rips his shirt over his head. His hair falls into his face, dark and messy, and he can see Swan watching him.

His tattoos curl around his ribs, a precise scrawl of angry, snapping teeth and the squeal of tires on asphalt. Around them, mixed in, are his scars. Some are burns, recent and pink with new skin; others are raised and white, intricate designs that he personally liked better fresh.

Skov watches Swan watch him, and feels like he’s being hunted.

“Tie his hands,” says Prokopenko. “Don’t want him to get away.” Skov shudders.

“Yeah,” says Swan, and catches something tossed over Skov’s head. Handcuffs. “Turn him over.”

Then hands are on him, the three others, picking him up and turning him over, stroking over his skin, keeping him pinned. The carpet smells like cigarette smoke.

Swan kneels behind him, too close, his knee nearly brushing the curve of Skov’s ass, pressing his thighs apart. He wrenches Skov’s arms back and Skov can’t help the way he grinds down, desperate. The handcuffs are cold and they sting a little. Swan pulls at the chain, making sure they’re steady, and Skov can hear his own pulse.

“Fucking nice,” says Jiang, as Swan sits back. Skov tests the cuffs himself, making as though to roll away. Swan stops him. “You should write your initials in.”

“Fuck,” says Skov, body jerking. Kavinsky puts a hand over his mouth, hushing him.

“Ours too,” says Prokopenko. “Collaborative work, yeah?” Jiang laughs.

Swan strokes his shoulders, too light, and Skov goes rigid. He can barely breathe. Swan traces over his skin, and Skov knows he’s picturing how his initials would look, red and raw and bloody.  

“Maybe next time,” Swan says, and the others groan.

“Killjoy,” says Kavinsky.

“You should hit him, then,” says Jiang, undeterred. “He likes that.”

“Yeah?” Like he doesn't know.

Kavinsky pulls his hand away; Skov tries to bite as he does so, but misses. He feels less like a boy and more like a wild animal the more they touch him.

Skov hears the telltale sound of a belt being unbuckled and twists to watch Swan pull his off. He meets Skov’s gaze and folds the belt once, so the plain leather side is facing outward. He leans forward, puts a hand on Swan’s thigh to keep him still. Skov is shaking.

Swan strikes him once, hard, across his ass.

“Fuck--” Skov’s hips jerk, and he groans low. The others laugh and jeer; Swan hits him again, and the leather bites him even through the jeans. Again. Again. Skov tries to bury his burning face in the carpet. Again. He can hear Swan’s heavy breathing, closer than Jiang’s catcalls and Proko’s laughter and Kavinsky sly, cruel jibes. Again. It stings hot and he can feel the bruise already forming, can feel his cock twitching and dripping in his jeans.

“Christ, he’s fucking melting.” Again.

“I bet he’s wet as a fucking girl, and you haven’t even touched him.” Again.

“Pull his jeans down, I wanna see if he’s bleeding.”

Swan pulls his jeans down. Jiang whistles.

“Dirty,” Proko comments. Skov’s face burns; he hadn’t bothered with underwear.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, mostly into the carpet.

“Here,” says Kavinsky. He tosses something to Swan. “Just for you.”

There’s the sound of a cap being popped open, and cold fingers on Skov’s skin.

Swan works him open and it burns, more than usual, something to do with the lube. Skov squirms and presses back against Swan’s elegant fingers.

“Yeah,” says Jiang, voice rough now. “Pull his hair man.” Swan does, pulling back until Skov’s back curves painfully. There’s the sound of a phone camera. Skov shakes.

Then Swan pulls away, and there’s the sound of a zipper.

His cock is thick and it hurts when he presses in, still pulling Skov by the hair. Skov gasps, tears of pain beading at the corners of his eyes.

“Fuck,” groans Prokopenko. Swan slams into him hard, skin slapping against his already bruised ass. Skov clenches around him, panting, his throat exposed to the room at large.  

“His mouth ,” says Jiang, half a moan.

"He's tight," says Swan, low and rough. "Tense as hell. Shit, Skov, don't you ever relax?"

"Fuck," Jiang echos, with feeling.

Swan starts to fuck him, slow but hard, grinding against all the right places, and Skov is squirming against him, pathetically desperate for anything Swan gives him. He feels like he’s being burned alive, heat pulsing through his skin until he wonders if he’s going to turn to ash.

"Nice," says Kavinsky, pulling Skov's hair until his cheek is pressed to Kavinsky's thigh. Skov can feel his dick through his jeans, and mouths at it.

"There you go," says Swan, with a particularly brutal thrust of his hips. Skov groans, and feels Kavinsky's dick twitch.

"Fuck his mouth, or let me," says Prokopenko.

"Fuck off, you'll get your turn," says Kavinsky, as he unzips his jeans. Skov moans at that, can’t help it, voice shaky and high.

"Don't bite," growls Swan, snapping into Skov hard enough to make him cry out. He shakes his head, accidentally rubbing his jaw against Kavinsky’s thigh.

"Fuck," groans Jiang, and Skov can hear the slick sound of him touching himself. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens his mouth.

Kavinsky just about shoves his cock down Skov's throat, holding him steady with both hands in his hair and thrusting shallowly. With Swan behind him, fucking him forward, Skov has to just to ride it out, fighting his gag reflex every time Kavinsky gets close to his throat.  When he fails, chokes on it, Kavinsky just laughs and does it again. Then he pulls out, grinding idly against Skov's cheek.

"Too much for you?" he jeers. In response, Skov turns his face and sucks at the head.

"There you go," says Proko, and squeezes Skov's ass. Skov gasps, clenches down, and Swan swears loudly. His thrusts get faster, more erratic, and Skov tries to match him, rocking between him and Kavinsky.

"Come in him," says Jiang. "I wanna fuck him wet and dirty. Fuckin--"

Kavinsky pulls out, wrapping his hand around the base of his dick, presumably to keep himself from coming. Skov pants, missing the distraction, his own balls hot and tight, fucking himself on Swan in desperation.

"Yeah, yeah," says Swan, and he grabs Skov's hips, pulls him back hard. Skov can feel Swan’s cock pulsing as he comes.

He makes a sound he'd be embarrassed about any other time, trying to hide his face in the carpet as he takes it.

"God," Swan groans, bending over Skov and briefly pressing his face against Skov's back. He gives a few more half hearted thrusts before pulling out. "You want him next, Jiang?"

"Fuck yeah," says Jiang, and they shift. Skov feels hollow and empty while he listens, his pulse in his ears, his dick hanging hard and almost painful between his thighs. Jiang rubs the head of his cock between Skov's cheeks, teasing him. The silicone feels different than flesh, more unforgiving. 

"Want it?" he asks, just barely pushing in. "Gotta say please."

Skov has to swallow twice before he can reply. "Please," he says, and his voice barely sounds human. Jiang breathes in sharp, then relents.

His cock isn't as big as Swan's, but it's still good, he fucks hard and fast and deep, purposely digging his nails into Skov's hips. Skov tries to pull away and Jiang jerks him back. He rubs the skin stretched around his cock, then dips a finger in, just to see. Skov bites down on his bottom lip. 

"Sloppy enough for you?" Kavinsky asks, stroking himself lazily in front of Skov's face.

"It will be," says Jiang. "You like that, babe?" He digs his nails in harder, and Skov knows he's going to leave marks, it fucking hurts, and he wants to come so bad he could fucking cry. "Oh, fuck, fuck, yeah you do."

"Proko, get over here," says Kavinsky, shuffling to the side.

"Gonna make him suck both at once?" asks Swan, and Skov can't help his groan.

"I am now," says Kavinsky, and Skov clenches around Jiang, making him swear.

"How can you still be so tight?" Jiang pants, working in a second finger. "You gonna be this tight for K? For Proko?"

Skov's stomach clenches, and he almost sobs, face burning.

"Say the word and it stops," Swan reminds him, quietly. Skov shakes his head, lets his legs fall open another increment.

"That's our boy," says Prokopenko, and a gentle hand runs through Skov's damp hair, angling him forward. "Doing well man."

Kavinsky presses in on his other side, almost grinding against Proko. Skov can't get his mouth wide enough so they take turns, trading him back and forth, until finally Kavinsky moves back and lets Proko fuck his throat. Skov shuts his eyes against the burn, choking and gasping when he can, and Jiang groans again, speeding up, chasing the friction of his harness against his clit.

He pulls out when he comes, holding Skov open with one hand, the other shoved into his boxers. Sweat and lube drip down Skov's thighs, almost burning.

"Gonna fuck you now," says Kavinsky, bending low to make sure Skov can hear. "You ready?"

Skov bares his teeth in a half-assed show of defiance, clenching around nothing, desperate out of his mind. Jiang's still rubbing his thumb over Skov's hole, dipping in and out. Skov tries to press himself back into it.

"Whoa, not so close," says Proko, lightly tapping him on the jaw.

Then Kavinsky's elbowing Jiang out of the way, lining himself up, pressing in.

He’s not as big as Swan, or as rough as Jiang, but he fucks hard. Skov tries to give as good as he gets, writhing and arching, forcing his stiff muscles to cooperate. He thinks he might be bleeding.

“God,” says Proko, and he comes all over Skov’s face. Skov screws his eyes shut, feels the hot wetness smear over his left cheek, knows that it's caught in his hair.

“Fuck,” says K, stuttering to a stop. “Fuck, I need-- someone take the fucking cuffs off, I want him on his back.” He pulls out and it hurts worse than Skov expected, the sudden lack of sensation. He can hear his own pulse in his ears and he’s so close, so fucking close, the emptiness feels like torture. He’s aware, in a small part of his head, that it’s almost over, that this is a good thing, but he can’t make himself focus.

In the end they manage to move him, Swan holding his arms back until Kavinsky can slide in again. Skov feels swollen and used and every fucking thing hurts, he can feel every new bruise and ache in his skin.

“Let him go,” says Kavinsky, “I want to feel him fight.” It’s that easy; Swan doesn’t even hesitate.

Skov scratches out, wild and desperate and barely held down, hands all over his skin. They hold him down, spread him apart, and K’s cock burns and throbs inside him. Skov just barely manages to arch himself up, biting at K’s neck, shoulders, the hands trying to hold him back, and the friction of Kavinsky's stomach against his dick is heaven.

“Come on,” he snarls down at Skov, thrusting in hard. Then K strikes him across the face, open palmed.

Skov choke on a moan, hips curling up, and he comes so hard it splatters across his chest.

“Yes, fuck, fuck yeah,” Kavinsky says, thrusting in deep as Skov clenches and tenses around him. He rolls his hips, not pulling out, bucking against Skov’s bruised ass like he’s trying to split him open. Skov writhes, stars in front of his eyes. It feels like relief, like absolution.

When Kavinsky comes, thrusting in deep, it feels like victory.

Skov loses a little time, just riding it out, on the floor of Kavinsky’s house. He blinks back, barely conscious, to find Jiang riding Swan right next to him, all inelegant desperation. He’s watching Skov while he does it, face flushed. Swan’s face is in his hair, his jaw working like he’s whispering.

Kavinsky's spooned up behind Skov, soft cock still in his ass, which is a lot less disgusting than he thought it would be. Still. Skov rolls away from him despite the aching in his literal everything.

Then Jiang swears, loud and desperate, head rolling back as he comes, or Swan comes in him, or both. It’s hot, but Skov feels so wiped he doesn’t even stir.

Proko comes into focus then, a rag in one hand, a water bottle in the other. He helps Skov sit up, letting him lean against his chest. Skov sticks a little, which is disgusting. (He doesn’t regret it.)

“Thanks mom,” Skov manages, after taking a few swallows of the water. Proko makes a face, pours some of the water onto the rag, and hands it over.

“It’s K’s turn next,” he says. Kavinsky, basically a pile next to him, makes a sound that could be agreement or a challenge. It’s difficult to tell when his face is pressed into the carpet.

Jiang slithers down, pressing his face against Skov’s shoulder. Skov hits him with the rag. Jiang breathes out hard, but doesn’t move.

He feels heavy all over, grounded. Wrecked to pieces. Like he needs to sleep for a year.

Swan reaches over, strokes Skov’s sweaty hair back. Skov blinks at him, and Swan strokes his thumb over his cheekbone. It’s almost tender. Skov lifts his top lip in a half assed snarl. Swan grins.

Prokopenko says, “I call first shower.”

“Nnn,” Skov protests.

“Yeah, you didn’t take anything up the ass, you can fucking wait,” says Jiang, half slurring. Proko makes to stand and Skov flings himself over his legs to keep him down.

“I’ll spray you with the hose,” Swan offers. “Shower all at once.”

“Fuck off,” says Jiang.

“Someone order takeout,” says Kavinsky, muffled. “I’m fucking starving.”