✿˖˚ ༘𐙚 > // syn: you’re hiding in a closet to escape the storm of death that ravages your high school when a boy joins you. Maybe arousal is a shared coping mechanism, because you're agreeing to lose your virginity to one another. After all – you could die at any moment.
wordcount: 9638
rating: rare -> 🔞big fat dead dove
warnings: noncon/dubcon, kissing, sex (p in v, oral (m receiving)), dom andre, sub reader, school shootings, restricted vision (lack of light), blood/death, heavy degradation, threats, bad pun courtesy andre, edging/orgasm denial?, guns, knives, gunplay?, knifeplay??, mention of body carving, biting, slapping, overstimulation (just a little), lowkey switch reader at the end
a/n: makes more sense if you read the website; it mentioned the clogging of a revolver and that gave me an idea. i don't condone/enjoy school shootings + sa
The nausea had bled out of his body, but the image was still emblazoned into his brain – blond hair haloed by still-warm blood.
His hands are shaking, but he can hardly feel them, slowly numbing from an unyielding death-grip on his metal killer turned weightless by shock.
Andre shoulders through the exit of the library, bursting into a locker-lined hallway, eerily empty. A haunting squeal of slowing doors, seconds from shutting, was a distant scratch on his adrenaline-strung conscience.
Piercing the fog was a harrowing announcement from whoever — police, SWAT, National Guard — commanding compliance in strong, furious shouts.
"Drop your weapons, we have you surrounded," they crow, like it can breathe life into dead bodies.
Swelling with pride, he turns on his heel and sprints down the hall when he catches an "Andre Kreigman, you are under arrest!"
He forces his legs to take two steps for every thought of outcome flashing through his brain – a courtroom, a police shootout, a dead end, a life sentence, an electric chair, his brains blown out, coating the school hallway, dripping down a locker like thick, red paint.
Searing pain infests his lungs, his legs scream for respite, but Andre compacts it into a ball, locks it away, and continues the breakneck pace down deserted halls, past countless familiar classrooms.
His heaving breaths and rapid, heavy footsteps are a grand cacophony, announcing his flight down the hallways he used to walk down, used to get jeered at by passersby.
White-knuckled, Andre's hands shake in rage and terror — that fucking, shitty little revolver. Why the fuck didn't he sabotage it? How the hell could he have forgotten?
The army of two was now an army of one – Cal was dead, and it wasn't by his own hand – all because of the most idiotic, minuscule slip-up. Andre faintly realizes he'll die in this building, too.
He shoves that thought down with the rest of it all and snaps an arm out to grab the corner of a locker, swinging into a sharp right turn. The police boots may have faded, but the shouts of invisible men ring in his ears.
They were looking for him; he was going to be caught and everything, everything that he'd been building – all the meticulous planning over months and months, secretive enough to make the FBI weep! – It was going to shit. All because of a fucking gun.
Metal catches Andre's eye – "janitorial closet," reads the winking plaque.
In said closet, after enough sobs to put a baby to shame, sat you, legs drawn up, head resting on your knees, making a list of people you'll find and tell how much you're grateful for when, or maybe if, you get out alive. In pure terror, you recall your unfinished English essay.
And Andre is thinking: maybe he could formulate a new plan, or kill himself, or anything-
Blinding light heralds a bursting open closet door. You can't even scream because shock and terror and a flood of overstimulation short-circuit your brain — all you can think of is that hot metallic scent – blood – paired with something dark and acrid – gun smoke.
The pool of pitch black returns, along with it, a cold noose of fear wrapping around your throat. This was it, then; the shooter had found your little hideaway, and you were going to die. You slam your eyes shut, imprints of the hallway's light flaring with your vision's movements, counting the final seconds of your life, counting the faces you'd never see again.
Your count reaches twenty when the panicked tempo shifts from terror-induced final moments to, sure enough, counting the heaving breaths of your fellow coward – shooter or student – until they steady out. Your opened eyes are met with a familiar darkness, betraying nothing.
That sharp tang in the air, reminiscent of a bucket of coins, stains your lungs. A loud sigh from your closet compatriot breaks the silence, smooth and steady breaths following in its wake.
Blood is what you're smelling — your brain jolts to life at a realization: they could be hurt. Between explosives and multiple shooters, there are a million routes to injury.
"Are you okay?" you blurt before your mind can catch up.
"The fuck-" a hoarse, masculine voice, weighted with fatigue and delirium, stops as quickly as it starts.
Silence. It appears he stopped breathing so loudly.
He was a boy, then. His voice wasn't immediately familiar, but it was a big school, after all. Your brow furrows — there’s a minuscule sliver of chance he's one of them, but no matter how many times you repeat the odds, doubt skirts your mind.
Unbeknownst to your concerned psyche, Andre is racking his mind – it appears you don't know who he is, or maybe you do and are putting on an act, or maybe you're genuinely concerned. The question remained: Does he shoot you? What if you don't deserve death – but what if you do? Shooting you would alert the cops, give death a head start – but he's gonna die anyway, isn't he? Shit.
You clarify, "I smell blood."
"Wh-," he clears his throat, "What?"
"Were you hit by the shooter?" You press, "Are you hurt?"
Your soft, gentle tone caresses a thought to life – one that frequents all heads of teenage boys, one that Andre buried deep for today, one that slowly dislodged itself over the adrenaline-pumped, gore-painted course of Zero Day.
He’s a virgin, and god, he wants to get laid.
"Um," the boy in the dark stammers, "I'm uhhh" a pause, as it dawns on Andre what his predicament entails.
You are trapped with him – trapped with a guy and his gun in a dark, isolated closet where nobody would come looking. It's a one-in-a-billion probability, or perhaps a final reward for lasting this long.
As the seconds drag on, you wait patiently – not in anticipation, but with concern and understanding. His delayed responses could entirely be a shock response.
Something sinful spins itself from the sharp and dangerous corners of Andre's mind — he didn't want to force you into having sex, albeit the thought made him darkly aroused. Still, he needed to fuck at least once before he died. And god, it was so tempting to terrify you, threaten you, manhandle you, force you down and-.
"No," the closet guy sputters out a clipped response, "yeah, no, I'm- I'm fine."
"Good," you sag in relief. While the terror has left your system now, that gut instinct of "run away" lingers like a loose string on an old shirt.
Another question arises, and you straighten up. "Is he gone?"
Confusion evident in his still-weary voice, Closet Guy manages, "Who?"
"The shooter. Or shoot-ers," you add, "I heard there were two."
Silence.
Maybe he muttered something, but it was more likely the shifting of his body, or your mind playing tricks on you. Finally, he answers, "Yeah. One of them, anyway."
"Oh." A face flashes through your mind, too quick for you to realize it was paired with worry.
Once more, silence consumes the dank room, your curiosity (and anxiety) growing by the second.
"Did he have dark hair?" You blurt.
"Uh... y-" he clears his throat, "No. He was blond."
Several emotions barrel at you – a medley of panic, excitement, fear, shame, and disgust, to name a few.
"I see." You hate the relief in your voice and take a second to compose yourself.
You continue your interrogation, "What happened to the other one?"
He hums in thought, not answering immediately.
Because good god, how Andre wants to explode in a grand reveal, to hear you scream and collapse into sobs and beg him to spare you, to fuel his god complex as you pleaded you'd do anything, absolutely anything to survive this. But he knows that could come later.
Eerily calm, he states, "Can't say."
And you can't help but admit how attractive his voice is – strong and masculine, yet deep, warm, soft, and with a slight rasp — you dare not think about how good it would feel if he spoke into your skin.
You did allow yourself to, metaphorically, close your eyes and imagine it was that boy — the distant and lonely brunette you'd been crushing on for the better half of a school year. Given the circumstances, you couldn't help but admit this situation was quite intimate.
Reeling your mind back from its wandering, you start, "There's probably a light in here – should I turn it on? Just so we can see eachoth-"
"No." His snappy response was a gunshot against your muted voice, killing the light demeanor.
"Uh, actually, good idea." A dry chuckle creeps from your lips to cover embarrassment (and disappointment).
Several beats of silence amplified the awkwardness. Desperate to escape the void of sound, if only to distract yourself from imminent death, you fire another question.
"Where were you when the shooting started? Why haven't you escaped yet?"
Closet Guy starts, “Uhhh,”
Then stops.
And continues, "I... I don't remember, it's sort of a blur, but um, I was trying to get out, yeah."
He pauses again, but there are more words on his tongue.
A strained exhale sounds from his direction, followed by, "God, don't get scared or anything."
"I won't, promise."
"Okay, well, I was running to escape and- and I turned the corner and saw..."
"Someone dead? Injured? Crying for help?"
Your morbid words feed Andre's ego.
"Worse. Him."
"Shit."
You know exactly which "he" Closet Guy was referring to. His words bring a slurry of emotion that, unfortunately, wholeheartedly distracts you from the thud of what could only be the sawed-off butt of a shotgun coming to rest on the floor.
You're so preoccupied with dissipating panic that you realize you haven't yet asked the following key question: "Where?"
"Down the hallway, by the chemistry room."
"Good lord." You take a shaky breath, "And that was my next class, too."
"Damn."
"I didn't finish all my homework, anyway."
You two share a morose, humorless laugh.
Silence.
Nothing sounds from outside, but every breath you take transforms into a distant scream, a footstep, a muffled gunshot. You force down a pathetic whimper before it escapes your lips.
"We're gonna die, aren't we?"
Closet guy heaves a long sigh in response. "Hope not. We'll see." He truly is calm. You once read something about shock-induced apathy.
You can feel tears pricking your eyes; you blink them away.
"Anyone you're gonna miss?" At Closet Guy's question, surprise shifts your features. He follows up with "I'll miss my parents," before tacking on, "Maybe."
You try not to dwell on his odd answer, instead sighing to cover a voice crack and reply, "Do you want the list? I've been working on it for the past fifteen minutes."
A sardonic chuckle comes from his direction, the sound warm, rich, and sending butterflies into your gut. You curse yourself; now really wasn't the time for that stuff.
"Well, a boyfriend?" Closet Guy begins, "Or girlfriend, if you're into that."
Your eyebrows quirk at his brazenness, and a single laugh bubbles up from your gut and blossoms into the space. You sourly remind yourself not to do that – too loud.
"I'm single," you retort in a humored monotone. "And you?"
"That makes two of us."
"Oh."
He mutters, "Well, this is awkward," but you cut off his next words.
"Are you a virgin?" you quickly add, "I'm one, if that makes you feel any better... um..." you trail off, cheeks burning hot enough to melt metal.
The silence chokes you.
God! What is wrong with you? WHY DID YOU SAY THAT?! At this point, you'd rather the shooter come in here so you didn't have to live with your embarrassment-
"Me too," Closet Guy's baritone rang into the silence like a church bell.
"Huh?"
"I'm also a virgin."
"Oh."
And then a stretch of silence, but it was a different type. Within nonexistent lines stood an undertone of possibilities — the kind that makes your cheeks heat, makes you squirm with embarrassment and excitement.
It ends when he begins, "I have a... proposition, of sorts."
You nod your head in encouragement, before remembering you can't see shit, and quickly manage, "Which is?"
"Well," he cleared his throat, "we're probably gonna die, right?"
You frown at the truthfulness of it, but something about the way he said it wasn't exactly serious – making light of it, if anything.
Just barely above a whisper, your "Yeah" shatters the silence.
"And we don't know who each other is, right?"
"Mhm." Against your own conscious thoughts, electricity begins to steadily build itself in your gut. You were subconsciously anticipating his next question.
"And I don't particularly want to die a virgin, do you?"
"Ye- what?"
Discharged sparks flew across your body in a shiver, and you could feel the heat radiating from your cheeks. Sure, you knew it was coming, but you were still sorely shocked.
"Shit, sorry," he sheepishly breathed, evidently embarrassed. "I guess I got ahead of myself-"
"No, um, well- yes, but uh I mean-" You halted your useless blubbering to gather your thoughts. It appears that mortal terror can drag out a bold, reckless mentality.
Before you can catch your running mouth, you've admitted, "You're fine – and I don't either." A smile cracks your face sans permission. Is he smiling too?
Closet Guy's voice returns, whispered into the dark, carrying the question that really didn't need asking.
"So, can we?"
And you're making an affirmative noise, fuzzy with excitement, thinking a little too much about fantasy and not enough about reality.
"Well then," his voice was huskier now, and you can practically feel his heated gaze examining you – even if you can't even see one another.
Your good humor is evident in your voice when you muse, "I feel trashy about, well… a closet, of all places."
"We can pretend we're lovers," he smoothly fires back, triggering a ripple of adrenaline.
An exhaled laugh on Closet Guy's end preludes your frankly cheesy, soft-spoken response — "We can also pretend like it's our last night on Earth."
You're grinning ear to ear now, embracing the darkness so nobody can see you smiling like an idiot.
Quiet fills the space for a second before a specific and abrupt sound, that of shifting fabric, makes your head spin; he's standing upright now, and you scramble to follow suit.
The sudden shift after sitting for so long makes you dizzy, and you shake your head to brush the feeling away.
But the action clears your head in more ways than you'd hoped — with a strike of anxiety, you realize what you've gotten yourself into.
What the hell was going on right now?
You've so stupidly given into delight and delusion to escape fear, agreeing to do the deed with a total stranger. It had all gone by so incredibly quick that you hadn't even the time to second-guess yourself. You clasp your hands together tightly, doubt beginning to swirl into a typhoon.
But the idea of walking out the door, right to the shooter, sends cold veins of fear straight into your gut.
Your racing train of thought crumbles as a brush of his breath sets fire to your neck. He was closer now, much closer. Damn, he was quiet. The copper scent was more pungent now; suspicion taps at your skull, but the fortification of lust is too thick for logical thinking to pierce.
"Last night on Earth," he mumbles, voice coming from just over your head, "Wouldn't that be hard to imagine." Your cheeks are still burning, and anticipation rushed under your skin, building pressure primed to explode. Maybe this ordeal isn’t so bad.
An unanticipated perk of flirting with someone you can't see — you can imagine them however you like.
The decision came quickly; your subconscious pushed the face of a certain boy right into your mind's eye. You'd always wanted to get close to him, but he was so distant, withdrawn, far away. He never said any more than he needed to.
In these close quarters, it wasn't hard to envision him – brown hair you'd love to run your hands through, chapped lips you've yearned to kiss. All you could think of was what if, just what if, you shared this closet with that particular brunette boy.
You tentatively reach your hands to blindly survey the closet, almost flinching when your fingertips meet a linen shirt over warm, solid flesh. You hear him sigh – a soft, drawn-out breath.
To say you'd be destroyed by the truth is a wholehearted fallacy — the dirty, sick side of it all is that you know exactly what your fantasy entailed; the one you feared and the one you wanted were one and the same. You could hardly care less – you two will never meet, and he'll be gone by the end of it, and you'll get over your little crush.
Your fingers travel up his abdomen, nails just barely touching down to map his figure. Finally, they come to lie flat on his chest, and you place a palm over his heart. His heartbeat is as fast as yours — a fact oddly comforting.
You murmur, "I'm, um, sorta nervous."
Closet Guy hums as your hands, palm down and fingers splayed, inch up. "Don't worry, I am, too."
Finding his shoulders, you rest your hand on them and snark, “bet I’m more nervous than you, though.” From your angled arms, you figure he was just a little taller than you.
Your elbows slacken when Closet Guy takes a step closer. “Oh come on,” his voice retains that monotone, but you can tell he’s amused, “you act like you've done this a million times before."
"Well, I guess I'm moving fast, but I mean..." You trail off, and he mutters a "yeah" to fill the silence.
Your hands travel back down to his chest, about to move to his back, when hands, frigid and rough with calluses, envelop your own. The temperature forces you to bite back a gasp, although it escapes as a sharp inhale.
"Sorry," a soft, sheepish laugh bounces off invisible walls of cleaning supplies. "I forgot – my hands are probably freezing."
"It's fine," you whisper, "I'll warm them up." How strange it is to be so caring with someone you don't know.
"Couldn't have said it better myself," a soft murmur responds — you weren't aware you'd spoken aloud.
His hands, bitingly cold, untangle from your own, carefully and hesitantly travel down and settle on your sides. You reach up, your nails brushing against his neck eliciting a sharp inhale, and you find his face, cupping his cheek, and rise, gently turning his head to the left. You remove your hand to press a soft kiss where your palm lay seconds ago.
His hands rise to take your face, chilling fingers bringing you closer until you could feel his breath, hot and humid, tickling your lips. You close the distance without warning, hearing him inhale deep through his nose as he returns your kiss in full, his hands slipping to your shoulders.
His lips are chapped and inexperienced, like he's unsure how to move, where to put them. Your hands come up to his face and guide him, cocking the stranger's head slightly to deepen your kiss.
You brush his bottom lip with your tongue, hesitantly asking for entrance as you'd felt done before. A second barely passes until you're exploring each other's mouths; he tastes like metal, gunsmoke, and adrenaline.
The kiss is messy, awkward, and obviously his first, but you didn’t care (not like you have more experience than him); every so often he gives a soft, contented hum that rumbles on your lips.
One of his hands separated from your side, reconnecting at the back of your head and pushing it forward to crush your lips against his in a sudden show of hunger. Your teeth click together, and one hand moves on its own to come to the back of his head and run through his hair; it's short, soft, seemingly already mussed up, and a little wet around the hairline — he’d been sweating. A pang of sympathy runs through you.
His other hand runs up the left side of your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake to experimentally squeeze your breast. A low, quiet moan leaves your lips.
Still feeling each other's bodies, you begin to slowly step back, heading towards the closet wall on which you'd been crying your eyes out moments ago, lips parting, brushing, reconnecting, and your back hits the wall-
Clatter! The jarring noise forces you to separate, freeze in place; some cleaning supply must have fallen. The outside was unresponsive.
Closet Guy kisses the tip of your nose, and the knot of fear begins to untangle. "Don't be so hasty," he murmured, "He could be right outside."
"Exactly my point," you hiss back.
Taking the break in your kiss, you lower his head until his nose brushes yours, and move until you're cheek to cheek.
"I'm gonna take off my pants now," you explain; the response is a nod.
Swiftly, you wriggle them off, pressing against the wall for support, and drop your pants like they burned you. A soft noise signifies their destination on the floor; you begin to slip out of your shoes, but there's hardly any time for it.
One's off before his hands are on the back of your thighs, and he rubs the tent in his pants against your clit.
Caught off guard, you moan, "Andre-!"
Your arousal falters, stomach turning when you realize what the fuck just came out of your mouth. Andre was the shooter, and here you are whimpering his name like a freak-
"Fuck," he kisses your collarbone, "say my name again, babe."
You couldn't tell what scares you more, Closet guy- Andre's response, or the warmth between your thighs exploding into a twist of enthusiasm.
Electric shocks prickle when he kisses your neck; hot pain shoots into your nerves – he bit you rough, warm, wet mouth on the same place he'd so gently kissed, teeth sinking into the soft, tender skin like a clamp of bruising needles.
Your body clenches to fight a barrage of unfamiliar sensations plaguing it; his hands run up and down your form, hungry fingers half-consciously mapping you out, wholeheartedly stealing your warmth.
Reeling with confusion and fear, you snap your hands away from Andre's body and press them flat against the dusty wall while he rolls his hips into yours again, the tip of his erection rubbing your folds, and you bite your cheek to shut out a moan. Fuck.
Your mind is in overdrive, trying to gather thoughts and sort delusion from reality. Maybe you imagined his response, and he wasn't the Andre?
You flinch when he lays a gentle kiss on your pulse, and his fingers dig into your thighs while he ruts against you; your mind goes silent and fuzzy, hands flying up to dig their nails into his back as he sort-of-fucks you through your panties, clothed cock nudging your clit with each move of his hips.
Arousal and self-loathing overtakes you – you're fucking loving this. Moans slip through your lips despite your efforts to stop them, syncing with Andre's soft, strangled groans — a certain, fluttering pressure starts to build in your core, and your cheeks turn hot again with recognition.
Shifting from the background was that nauseating scent of blood and gunsmoke, choking you like a vice. Realization barrels into you with terror and repulsion — that metallic albatross scent is that of others – bodies you'd recognize.
The primal opposites of fear and pleasure clash against each other in a wild war, swelling with each slow rock of Andre's hips, each squeeze of his hands, each whiff of human blood.
Andre gently kisses your jaw, as if you're a fragile and precious thing he'd hate to break. His hips slow to a stop, and his mouth trails up, halting in front of your lips, brushing them feather-light. He's so horrifically kind and safe that the blood smell is amplified tenfold.
How can anyone act like this after taking the lives of innocent people? You lose your composure and sob.
"What? What's wrong?" His whisper is filled with care and worry as he draws back, grip hesitantly relaxing.
"Did I hurt you?" A finger brushed your outer thigh, and now that you really thought about it, his voice was familiar. "Is it too much?"
Hands at your sides, you ball them into fists. It's disgusting how, not even ten minutes ago, this same boy was stalking the halls, gunning down students like it was all a sick game. He'd stood over the lifeless bodies of sons and daughters and laughed.
Andre's hands had left your body – where were they right now? Reaching for his gun? Maybe you don't even get the same treatment. An image flashed in your mind's eye: your picture in black and white, contrast pumped up for drama, paired with big, blaring letters — Iroquois highschool’s slut strangled by shooter.
You try to draw in your panic, not to hyperventilate, take deep, controlled breaths, but your throat is closing and your eyes are starting to sting.
His hands come to rest on either side of your face, index finger brushing your face, cradling your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and fury. Like the fires of hell, his body heat surrounds you; you wish he were dead. He begins to speak-
You cut him off, “Do you find this funny?” Voice hardly above a whisper, it carries more weight than any scream. The venom, pure anger and hostility shocked even yourself. "You're really-" a pause, a breath.
When he stammers out a genuinely confused "Uh," you've regained your composure.
"Good fucking lord, Andre." Your voice is an empty monotone. At the use of his name, his hands drop away, and you are left suspended in infinite obsidian, with only the wall to ground you, at your back and under your palms.
Your arousal is gone (you repeat like a mantra; if you say it enough times, it'll come true), all you can feel is a head hot with anger, and a gut cold with fear. Shame begins to close its sharp jaws around your neck – a warning of tears to come.
"I'd say you're a good liar, but you haven't really done much to fool me," you mumbled, going on about how you're such a fucking idiot.
The silence spoke volumes.
Being met with a lack of response snapped you out of moping; you realize what you've done. You're a mouse within the claws of a cat, no place to run except the hollow gates of death.
For every millisecond that passes, the steep incline of fear contracts your stomach more and more; a whirlwind of panic, terror, shame, regret, and sorrow melts your train of thought, sung wild and unrestrained. If you could, you would instantly take back those words, live life in ignorant bliss – or rather, live in general.
You felt the hot stinging of tears rising in your eyes. You really should have stayed quiet and blamed Andre's slip of tongue on fantasies. But you've made a big mistake, and now, nothing but judgment awaits.
The soundless dark pushes a hyper-awareness of every part of your body, and the terrifying lack of Andre's presence. His silence ensures a disappearance into the closet; he is invisible, untouchable, and unmerciful. A little over seven seconds had passed since you last spoke, but it felt like years. He is so, so quiet.
Whispering, shifting fabric brings a rush of terror, matched evenly with something you denied the existence of – excitement.
Clink. Tink, Clack. Breaking the silence was those metallic noises, ten times louder in the capsule of sightlessness. Your gut drops when you realize what they belong to.
You jump at a sudden, stinging, inanimate cold – that of metal – pressing against the bare, tender skin of your left inner thigh, inches above your knee.
This was it then — the same gun that snuffed out the lives of your classmates, cutting away everything they've ever been, everything they could have been, was about to claim you as well.
Goosebumps flutter up your skin, and you tightly squeeze your eyes closed again, wishing this thing away, wishing for anything other than monotonous black.
What you received was worse — blood misting the walls, blurring in your tears and turning to red wallpaper as you dropped your backpack and desperately sprinted down once-familiar hallways, now an entirely alien hellscape, searching for any sort of respite.
"I was so damn close, too," Andre snaps. You rip your eyes open. His tone is incredibly comical — the humorous mix of sarcasm and disappointment would have made you giggle if the threat of death was not hanging around your neck.
"But you're right about one thing," his voice filled the closet, syllables wrapping around your windpipe.
"I didn't even need to tell you I wasn't the shooter," Andre tsks with dissatisfaction; you can envision the cocky grin on his face as he continued, "you just assumed I was some guy.”
You whimper when his shotgun's icy snout began to rise up and down like it was his fucking index finger. "Well, know what?" Andre chuckles darkly, "Maybe you wanted this whole thing to happen – I mean, you hid instead of running, didn’t you?"
You're trying your best to force down the sobs clogging your throat, all while a stupid, naive part of yourself squeals that he wouldn't kill you because you're different.
"You were probably soaked at the thought of me catching you, yeah? What are you, a fucking whore?" His words were a knife of shame twisting inside you — they hurt, but they held truth.
Your heart stutters when a calloused thumb brushes your lower lip, holding your breath when an exhaled, breathy snicker caresses your cheek.
The metallic taste in the air was overwhelming, threatening to choke you until you collapsed into an unconscious pile on the closet floor. It was so tempting to breathe it in until you couldn't breathe anymore.
The gun shreds your thoughts when its stone-cold, solid, possibly-bloodflecked end begins, at an impossibly slow pace, to ease itself up, a centimeter at a time. Another sob slipped from you as an image of the inside of your skull, painting the closet walls, shies into view.
Andre hums. "You know, I might not kill you." His voice was near and far, impossible to pinpoint, and dripped with humor and savagery. His thumb moved, knuckles brushing your cheek.
"But I don't need you in... perfect condition, either." You let out a shaky breath at that. Visions of dark red gore teem in your brain.
On the verge of breaking, you cowardly grovel, "God, no- please, I'll do what you want, Andre. I'll do whatever you want, I promise." The gun stills, burning like a hot iron.
Your only reply was his free hand – the very same you once relished the touch of – slowly, terribly slowly, beginning its transit. Starting at your racing pulse, it inches its way down your body; a suffocating mix of silence and sightlessness multiplies the feeling tenfold.
His fingertips nestle against your pulse, traveling down your neck, before grazing your collarbones and dragging down your chest. He just barely bumps your tits, knuckles dragging over the peaks before his entire hand comes to slide down your lower abdomen, fingers splaying as it stops to rest upon your hip bone. No matter how much restraint he shows, a raw hunger riots behind his touch.
Andre hums, the sound low and satisfied. His thumb snakes under the cotton and lace of your underwear to rub circles into the connection of your thigh and torso.
"'God,' huh?" His patronizing tone cradled violence, a brazen contrast to the light circles of his thumb. "I'm right here, sweetheart."
Blinking away tears, you press farther into the wall like you can escape him, but feel/hear Andre readjust to remain in the same position. Panic was spreading its adrenaline-venom through your veins, mind frantically switching between Andre's breath brushing your ear and the shotgun all but branding your skin.
He sighs again, voice jumping down an octave. "I won't bullshit you – I'm still gonna fuck you," his grip tightens slightly, "and I promise," he pronounces every word with forceful clarity, "I will take my sweet time, bitch."
You wrack with a silent sob, realizing too late that Andre felt you do so.
"Aw," he coos, "scared of me? I don't bite." You feel his mouth, hot and wet, leave a sloppy kiss on your shoulder. The nose of the killing machine began to move again, creeping up centimeter by centimeter. Against the tender skin of your thigh pressed the rough fabric of Andre's cargo pants and, with a jolt of your heart, his erect dick.
"I'll make something clear," he started, thumb still circling, lips brushing your earlobe, "obedience. Don't scream, or I'll blow your head off. I have practice with that sorta thing, now." He gives a breathy laugh, and your gut turns with disgust and despair.
In a wicked impersonation of his earlier persona, a gentle, soft voice murmurs, "Be nice and you might get out of this alive. You'd want that, right, baby?"
You don't know what's worse – his silence or his speech.
Andre snaps, "I asked you a fucking question, bitch."
"Y-" you inhale sharply upon a voice break, replying, "Mhm."
That sardonic, mocking tone returns, and he draws out "Thought so."
As an afterthought, Andre adds, "Good sex counts for something, too."
You resist the urge to slap him.
He turned his head to press his mouth into your cheek and smiled against the soft flesh. "I'm your god now, aren't I?"
"Yes, Andre."
He drew his head, his entire body back, save for his thumb that stopped circling, and the gun, almost at the dripping sensitivity between your legs.
"Andre what?" His bark sent sparks through you; arousal or fear, you couldn't tell.
You asked yourself, "What? Andre what?" over and over because your life depended on it.
But you draw blanks; all you can focus on is that cold metal digging into your thigh – tears threaten to burst free.
Finally, you mumble, "I don't know."
"Sir."
"What?"
"Andre, sir."
You nod, but solemnly remember he can't see it. All you want to do is go home, or maybe kick and scream and run out of this damned closet.
Instead, you huff, "Yes, sir."
"Good," Andre drawls.
The gun nudges your leg expectantly. "Spread 'em," he commands.
You do.
The barrel slams into your cunt, cold metal burns against the hot tenderness, and you impulsively cry out and squeeze your thighs together. He shoves a leg between yours, his hand on your hip, giving you an endearing squeeze. Your hands fly to his sides, grasping fistfuls of his shirt.
"Shhhh," Andre whispers from somewhere far away, "Don't want the shooter catching us, right?" He cackles, deep and loud, manic and feral. Your eyes sting at the humiliation; you wish this could all be over.
The shotgun remains nestled in your underwear, shaking with Andre's laughter – you flinch with every jerk of the barrel. When his howls come to a close with an obnoxiously loud, satisfied sigh, the gun begins to circle.
Slowly, horribly slowly, the edge sharply prodding your clit with each pass – once, twice, thrice – you jolt every time the metal digs into your sensitivity.
He murmurs against your temple, "Does that feel good, slut?"
Your mind fizzed over, helpless brain welcoming the static, letting your morals slip down the drain. The noises you had been stamping down began to break loose – gasping, moaning, whimpering each time the cruel metal jabbed your clothed sensitivity, inhumanly solid.
"Well, shit," Andre's entertained voice rises over your noises, "I knew this school had some nasty girls, but I didn't think there was a bitch who wanted to be fucked by a gun."
Heat floods your cheeks, and you shake your head, making negatory sounds through involuntary whines — yes, it was filthy, this situation, but you couldn't help it. Your defenses are shattered, laid bare for this monster; all you can do is hope he doesn't kill you.
"Probably shaking your head or something, hm?" Andre's hand on your hips digs in suddenly, nails biting tender flesh, and you moan in response. "God, you're pathetic, moaning, getting all wet for a school shooter, riding his fucking gun."
The shotgun continued to rub your wetness while you squirmed and jolted — mortification builds with the pressure in your core.
But it dropped away, and Andre's entire body pressed against yours, crushing you between the wall, his rocking hips replacing the attention at your cunt; you could feel every part of him, feel his chest heave with lustful breaths.
Voice dripping with affection, Andre murmurs like a lovesick boy praising his muse, "You're such a fucking cocktease. Do your parents know you're such a damn whore? No... I bet they don't... people're screaming n' crying outside, know that? They want me dead." His voice drops to an intimate whisper, an undertone of what may be yearning, "You ever fantasized about this, you dirty thing? About me?"
Andre rips his body away, and the gun is back to mercilessly jab into your cunt, nozzle digging in an inch, penetration thankfully muffled by your underwear.
Stars blazing in your eyes, you snap, "Fuck! Andre don't-"
And the snout of the gun is gone, frantic movements and shifting clothes, and it reappears – pressing right under your chin.
You still instantly.
"Just a little reminder, sweetheart." A dry laugh, "Don't want to get a... head of ourselves, right?"
With a sharp clack, the gun drops to its initial position, and resumes its movement. Your moans get breathier as you near a sinful climax, breaths lilting up to a near keening. The barrel becomes increasingly erratic, as if Andre’s having trouble focusing. One more circle, one more whimper breaking the silence, and it freezes for a millisecond – then the metal rips away, your wound body slackening with its sudden absence.
"Fucking whore..." with his cold, murmured words, the orgasm begins to slip away as Andre's mumbles unintelligible nonsense, you catch one: "th' fuck didn't I think of this sooner..."
Dropped, the weapon lands with a clatter; you flinch in response. It was followed by the unzipping of a fly.
Shit. No. No no no-
"No, Andre don't-"
"Shut the fuck up," Andre's hiss is the threat of a bullet buried inside your skull, "And don't you fucking talk back to me."
You close your eyes and whisper, "Yes, sir." He hummed in approval at your use of the term.
"Good girl," his mouth was at your cheek, so sudden and quick, you felt him smile against your soft, virginal flesh. "You ready?"
It was a rhetorical question – there was no correct response, not even yes. A sniffle and shaky breath were all you could do to not burst into tears. That was enough of an answer for Andre.
A cold, thick finger slides to the front of your legs, brushing against your inner thigh, moving to push your soaked underwear aside. Impulsively, you sharply inhale when his fingers push your lips, embarrassment boiling over as his fingers spread your arousal.
He merely hums, his mouth on your shoulder; you could feel the vibrations, amplified to ten thousand, and sending shivers down your body.
"Wet?" Andre kissed your shoulder, so endearing, gentle, full of love. "What, enjoying this more than I am, babe?"
"No, I-"
"Where the fuck'd this come from? You're fucking soaked." You gasp when he digs his fingers in between your legs, spreading your lips and rubbing the length of them, fingers getting coated all too easily by your slick.
In a high-pitched voice, Andre mocks, 'No, I'd never fuck a school shooter, I'm not a slut!" His voice reverts, "Mmmm, I don't think so, honey."
You don't even have time to formulate a response because Andre dips two fingers in and you inhale sharply, push down a whimper as he stretches you out, silently, experimentally prodding your warm insides. He slides them out, as if his invasion were simply an afterthought.
His hands absentmindedly worked off your underwear, the cool closet air triggering a shudder. He hardly pushes them below mid-thigh before his nails sink into the soft, bare skin of your thighs, fingers splaying out and thumbs pointing up to your dripping, exposed sensitivity.
Andre slams his mouth into yours with ravenous intensity – his teeth clicking as he ferally licks and bites your soft, plush lips.
You don't even realize he's holding you in place until he snaps his entire length into you, hips joining, and you scream into his mouth, thick with fear and agony. Your only reply is a groan of ecstasy.
"Holy fuck-" he moaned, "god, this is fucking awesome."
Tears prick your eyes, and you squeeze them shut to block out the pain. It hurt- burned, really. You were terrified the sensitive opening would rip, or perhaps, it already had — down there, feeling anything else other than splitting in two was impossible; pain sabotaged your mind, squeezing the tears from your eyes.
Hands desperately grasping, you search for an anchor against the horrid, foreign feeling between your legs. Settling on his biceps, your nails dig into the skin, forehead pushing against his chest to cope.
His whole body quivers, you feel his dick tremble, and you're so fucking violated, stuffed full, you can't help but moan and squeeze in response. Andre presses his face against the top of your head, uttering a shaky groan.
wetting your lashes, tears of hurt and terror creep from the corner of your eyes as you feel him readjust, shift around in your virgin cunt. It hurts to let him in – he was really fucking thick. You knew first times were painful, but this couldn't be normal. You nuzzle into his shirt, fabric erasing the display of all he’s inflicting.
The head of his cock twitches, and you squeeze your thighs together, barred from shutting him out completely by his hips pressing against yours.
You grab fistfuls of his shirt if only to combat the realization: despite all the pain, pleasure still peaked through. Every movement of Andre's made you flutter around him – and good lord, it feels good when he prodded your insides.
"God- Jesus fffffffuuh-ck," you hear Andre's voice from above you — sounded like his head was thrown back in delight.
"You feel- ugh- fuckin' perfect. God, you're so tight – fuuuck, you feel so damn good."
At his moans, the scenario really set in.
You were being fucked – raped – in a closet, in your school, by a shooter who was having the time of his life. You had no idea when help would come. And you were liking it. The tears spill over, and fat droplets burn your already impossibly flaming cheeks.
Somehow, Andre just knows, like he's aware of your every thought, and finds your chin, guiding your face up to lay his lips on your cheek, kissing them gently, kissing the tears into your skin.
It was so soft and kind that you're tenderly reminded of those old black and white movies, those scenes when the two leads kiss in a way that's so vulnerable and soft that you sigh, wondering if you'll ever find someone who loves like that.
Searing needles dig into your cheek, blossoming as your head snaps to the side. You lie open-mouthed in shock, cheek throbbing — he'd slapped you, hard.
"Don't cry, sweetheart," he grits out, kisses your temple, hisses "Don't fucking cry. Be a good girl and take it."
You hiss in pain when Andre grabs your face, fingers especially rough on the tender cheek, jerking it back to center.
Then he gets real close to your ear.
Each word was little more than a hiss of breath, a husky growl, and yet you catch all of them, perfectly, terror growing with each syllable.
"Unless those are tears of delight, don't even think about crying – 'cause you're pleasuring your fucking god right now. I could- will kill you if I feel, even for a second, you're not good enough. I'll blow your head to bits, and you will thank me when we meet in hell. Right now, I'm granting you mercy, ungrateful slut."
You sob at his words, but your lips flutter around him. Terrible, traitorous body.
"What, do you actually like that, fucking freak?"
Shaking your head madly, you repeat, "No, no, I don't," but over the cries, Andre murmurs in a sickly sweet tone, "Yeah, you do, bitch. Now be a good whore for me and take my fucking dick."
At that, he almost entirely exits your insides, and you gain a brief respite. It ends when Andre slams right back in. You all but scream in fear/pain/arousal, hands clawing at his back, gasping for air. You can't smell the stench of blood anymore. You've gotten used to it.
Nestled into you, Andre lightly thrusts his dick – just to feel around. You press your face into his chest, stuttering out a weak, "stop, Andre- sir," against his bloodstained shirt.
"Stop?" he panted, "Why?"
You yelp when his dick exits and slams back in, stars shooting into your eyes. "Stop- ohfuck it hurts- Andre stop-"
"Stop? Really? You don't- hah, fuck, feel like you want me to stop, bitch." he gritted out, one hand dragging up your body to your chest, brushing your nipple with his thumb.
He pulled out again, slammed in, and hit you perfectly — you couldn't take it, arching and moaning as he began a steady pace.
"I'm not killing you, fuck- I'm sparing you, shit, even rewarding you," Andre stuttered out as his hips moved up and down. With each tentative thrust, you felt a sinful orgasm building, a spring winding to its breaking point.
In your delirious state, you somehow admired his self-control. He was just barely containing himself from slamming you to the floor and fucking you hard. The thought alone made your lips flutter. The burning pain was subsiding. That wasn't good. The pain kept you sane.
Over Andre's expletives and your muffled moans, you were trying (and failing) to contain, you catch the shifting of fabric while his hips halt.
And his voice was back, talking against the crook of your neck, just barely understandable, "But I could kill you, if I- fuck, I wanted, if you disobeyed."
A cold, cold metal blade presses against your thigh, moving with Andre's slow, steady thrusts as he starts again, and simultaneously making your stomach drop and arousal rise. "So come on- fuckin' cocksleeve- fuck- don't cry, an' don't tell me t' stop."
His pants form a breathy laugh as he grits out, "Maybe I should carve my name into you – no, maybe just initials. Would you lie, huh slut? Fuckin' lie, say it's someone else?"
You begin to shake, the fear and terror you were shoving down bubbling up. Desperately, you tried to get a handle on yourself, as he boxed you in more and more.
His hand holding the knife roughly grasped your thigh, and you gasp, feeling the blade occasionally brush your sensitive skin, chilling metal rippling goosebumps across your body.
"I bet you would, filthy coward."
And tears are sliding down your face again – as if they ever stopped in the first place.
He stopped again, as if eager to drag this out, and a thumb came from nowhere to brush away a stray tear. Voice gentle, as if comforting a wounded animal, Andre breathes, "Hey, hey, I was just joking." He kissed your temple, "Don't cry."
Once more, his hips begin to move in searing thrusts – disgust overwhelms you at the closet filled with lewd noises of arousal. It appears Andre can’t keep his mouth shut for too long.
"Damn," he hissed between heavy pants, "you're fucking- mnh- takin' me so well, letting this allll happen – bein' raped-" he groans when you clench at his words, "But- shit, it's not really rape- is it? It's only- only rape if you hate it-"
You dug your nails into his shoulders, and he snapped, "bitch you probably like this shit, don't you? Fuckin' cumdump, you get wet over being raped by men? Fuckin' tight 'n whimpering hole."
You were tired of his shit.
"Fuck yes, sir," you moan out, gasping at a particularly hard thrust, and paired by Andre spilling a torrent of curses and moans. You egged him on, spouting whatever sensual-sounding nonsense came to mind.
"I love- ah! love your cock, sir." His dick twitched.
You whimper as the twisting pressure in your core comes to a tipping point, still managing to reach up to pull his head down by his shirt and whisper, "You fuck me so well, Andre."
He buries his face in your neck, breathing hot with moans so loud it was pathetic, he was pathetic.
"Can't wait to be pumped full of you." He groans, the knife slipped from Andre's hold on your thigh, clattering to the floor. You almost miss the noise over your fucked-out haze and the sounds of pleasure.
Head lolling, you whisper a barely audible "I'm your cumslut, sir." At this, Andre pushes your leg up, dick reaching deeper-
He slams against a bundle of nerves hard enough to bruise; you're screaming "ANDRE!" When your nerves become fireworks, stars cloud your vision, and you sink your nails deep into him and bite down hard on his shoulder, tasting blood and relishing in his hiss of pain.
Fucking you through your orgasm, Andre hazily snaps, voice thick with confusion and lust, "The fuck are you doing?!" You only giggle against his bleeding flesh. You hope it hurts.
He let out a breathy laugh, words bleeding into a rambling mess, "Look, at you, screamin' my name, fuckin' murderer's name, fucked-stupid n' drooling... like th' filthy slut you are."
"You're not doing too well yourself-" you inhale when the pain of overstimulation breaches your senses, "Being, the one with the- filthy mouth, Andre."
You pull his face from your neck and bring his lips to yours, joining in a sloppy kiss; Andre happily obliges, licking and biting, breathing hot and kissing open-mouthed, pressing your head against the wall like a fucking animal.
Hardly understandable, he talks through the kiss, and you manage to piece together: "so fuckin' tight, fuckin' perfect... mmh, a real slut for me, t-too" his hips stuttered, thrusts getting unfocused and erratic.
"'M gonna- fill you, bitch," Andre pauses his speech to leave a sloppy hickey in the crook of your neck, his hips becoming increasingly erratic, "or- f-fffuck, or maybe I'll make you- nhm- get on your knees for me and suck the rest-"
A thick, hot liquid shoots inside you, a god-awfully strange feeling, being filled by warm, sticky seed – good, and terrible, comforting and sickening. He pulls out quickly, noisy pants filling the closet air.
His cum seeps from you, and you press your shaking thighs together; Andre, slipping a finger between them, pushes it back in.
Sharp pain rattles you when your knees slam down against the hard floor – Andre had shoved you down. He fumbles to find the crown of your head, then your face, then your lips. His hands grasped your face tightly, and he guided his cock into your mouth as best he could. You felt hot, sticky cum on your cheeks, and he fails to pinpoint your mouth.
Already fed up, your hands travel up his thighs and snatch his dick from him. His hand on your head strokes your hair as you hastily wipe the cooling stickiness off your cheeks.
"Fuck- good girl," Andre praised from above – a god watching from the heavens. You give him a few kitten licks, kiss him tenderly, then squeeze – harsh.
Andre yelps like a dog. Good. That was a nice bit of payback.
Before he could call you whatever degrading name he thought fit, you slip the entirety of his softening cock into your mouth, jaws opening wider and wider to fully take in his thick length.
"OH! Fuck!" Andre snaps, but you’re fast, refusing to stop no matter how overwhelming it is, until his head brushes the back of your throat and you gag, eyes burning as your lips suction around him.
"Give me a warning first- ah, fuck..." His words slip into mumbles as you slip him from your mouth to clean the salty cum off his dick, tongue licking long stripes up and down. You press the tip of your tongue against the slit, eliciting a long, drawn-out groan from Andre.
You hold his cock and kiss all over, other hand coming up to squeeze his balls. God, how many times have you dreamed of doing this? Once more, you've taken his length in your mouth, before you begin to make Andre noisy – bobbing your head, twirling your tongue, following veins.
"O-okay, okay I get it thatsenough-" your teeth brush against him and he grabs your hair, wrenching your mouth away. Air floods your throat, and you let it fill your lungs, breathing out in a sigh in return.
Between pants, Andre snaps, "Fuck.. l-listen to me the first time, whore."
Holding up his sore, overstimulated dick, you murmur against the tip, "You tasted so good, Andre.”
He releases you, breathing heavy and loud into the closet. "D-did I, now?"
"Mhm," you give his head one last kiss before rising up, fingertips grazing his figure to guide you. You lick your lips, savoring the taste of him on your tongue.
You lean forward and press your forehead into the crook of his neck, one arm wrapping around his torso, and the other finding his hand and interlocking it with yours. Andre nestles into your head, rocking unsteadily; you're a little afraid he’ll collapse.
A long, drawn-out sigh escapes him, reminiscent of an athlete accepting a gold medal. In his breath stood a shaken formula of relief, satisfaction, and contentment.
For a moment, the two of you stand there silently, intertwined, breathing each other in, leading one another's breath to steady out. And for a time, you can forget about it all — you're just two teenagers in love, two young sweethearts holding each other in the dark. There's nothing before this, and nothing after, either – just a strong love thrumming in the air, warming up the present, lulling you to cloud nine.
"That question earlier," Andre speaks slowly, carefully, like he's afraid to scare you off, "fantasising about me — did you? Ever?"
You smile against him, shake your head into his torso, "Yes. God, yes, Andre. You have no idea."
“Damn,” He shakes with a light, silent laugh before continuing quietly, "You shoulda told me sooner."
"I was too shy,” you flutter your eyes shut into his warmth, “and I never wanted to bother you." You share a pained, bittersweet laugh, and you give his hand a small, barely noticeable squeeze to alleviate the cold, harsh reality.
A pause, then Andre murmurs, "Wanna tell me your name?"
Eyes still shut, you grin and reply, "Nah, you don't deserve it."
"Understandable," he agrees. There is a newfound kind of purity behind Andre’s touch when his forefinger, middle, and thumb gently lifts your chin up, softly guiding your lips to his.
The kiss is nothing like those of the past – not sloppy in wet in a heated lust, neither frantic and biting in rage, nor awkward or clipped from fear — if anything, it’s a tender goodbye, one that lovers share when they know it’ll be the last time they’ll ever touch each other like this, a kiss to punctuate an end that will more than certainly be the last.
Your lips separate in a nigh hesitant manner. Neither speaks – there is nothing to say. Even then, among infinite combinations of letters, not a single word can fill the void of feeling and description — but there is no reason, no requirement for a label.
Like you’d been living in a vacuum of sound your whole life, you listen to the astoundingly clear noise of shifting and rustling fabric, a zip, as Andre composes himself and leans down, followed by clacking from his shotgun lifting off the floor, and footsteps, each more distant than the last; you realize Andre appeared silent due to the roaring rush of blood in your ears. You may even hear the shouts of parents and teachers and students outside, but right now, the world is confined to a box of black solitude.
With a squeal of hinges, a thin stripe of light spills onto the floor, severing the darkness, outlining a shadow. You’d once labeled it as freedom, a lifeline you grasped for, but now it’s the flagship of a sterile, brutal world you’ll do anything to keep away from.
Affectionately, you call to his silhouette, "I'll see you in hell, Andre.
The figure pauses, twists, and you can tell he’s looking at you. "Shut up,” he snorts, his tone of fondness, humor, and an estranged branch of familiarity.
And then you were bathed in darkness, finalized by the click of a door, sealing you from the outside, if only for a little while. It’s with a hollow pang of depression, it comes upon you how lonely it is. In a fanfare of haunting silence, the ghosts of memories like fresh wounds creep in. But no matter how hard they knock, you don’t allow entry to the disgusting realization of past actions.
You hear a slightly muffled bang, and a thud belonging to something that once breathed, felt, thought collapsing onto cold, high school tiles. Dimly, you think about all the pretty bruises that'll litter your skin tomorrow.
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