AN: I'm...not sure where this came from, exactly. It's not really canon. In fact, it's probably comes across as more self-inserty than anything else, but I couldn't stop thinking about this kind of story until I wrote it out-and if you read on, you'll see why that was a problem for me. Okay, carry on!

TRIGGER WARNING:
Rape, sort of.
Definitely undertones of not-totally-consensual sex.
Also some death, but no gore?

"I have long stopped asking why the mad do mad things."
Constance Langdon

"Do you believe in God?" The boy's face is close to yours, so close you can see the peach fuzz on his cheeks and chin, where it sticks up through the grease paint.

You remember this boy. You'd had an art class with him last semester. He sat across from you, but never looked up, and spent every class period working silently on his projects. One day you both reached for the scissors in the middle of the table, and your hands touched. You didn't go all tingly or anything stupid—it was just a hand, after all. But his skin was warm, sort of rough, and he didn't pull away right away. In fact, you were probably just imagining things, but it almost felt like he brushed his thumb along your wrist, along your fading scars. The corner of his lips curled up in a wry sort of smile .

You let go of the scissors first, lowering your eyes shyly. There had been something about his face that had both intrigued and intimidated you, some kindness in his eyes tempered with a darkness in his smile that made your stomach tighten.

Now, though, you're crouched fearfully under your desk, not so much for the meager shelter it provides you with but for the way it's making you feel: small and invisible. It had even kept you safe for a short time—just long enough to watch him kill the rest of your classmates and your teacher before dropping to his haunches right in front of you. His eyes are trained on you. You can feel them boring through your skull. Vaguely you remember that you're not supposed to make eye contact with dangerous predators, but you can't look away. If you hold his gaze, you tell yourself, that sharp, demanding, chilling gaze, maybe he'll see you as human and spare you.

The cold muzzle of his rifle jams against your shoulder, and you sink your teeth into your lip to keep from crying. "Do you believe in God?" His voice is sharp, but patient, maybe even a little amused. You draw in a long, slow breath. Don't show fear. Unblinking, you shake your head ever so slightly. If you look away, you're dead.

"No." Your voice is barely even a whisper, the words catching on the fear in your throat. "How can I?"

Something in his face changes, hardens, and he rises to his feet. Now you whimper and lower your head, waiting for the bullet to rip through you, but nothing comes. Instead, you see that he is offering you his hand. After a moment's hesitation, you place your hand in his. It's better than the gun, anyway.

He pulls you over to the teacher's desk and you try not to look as he kicks the teacher out of the way. Your stomach is tightening again, this time with nausea and fear, as he presses closer to you. He's still clutching his gun in one hand, but he snakes the other around the back of your neck, squeezing softly, even reassuringly? You're frozen with panic, but he doesn't seem to notice, even when he presses his lips to yours. Like his hands, his lips are warm but a little rough, and it doesn't make sense, but when his tongue flits out to trace your lower lip, you open yourself to him, grant him entrance.

You tell yourself it's survival, that he's holding a gun and that if you don't do what he wants, he's going to kill you. The scary thing is, you're not so sure that's the whole truth. When he caresses your cheek, your skin erupts into goosebumps, thrilling at the touch. When his teeth tug at the tender flesh of your lower lip, you find yourself holding back a moan. You're not stupid. You know that he could press that gun to your head at any minute now, that some sick disturbed make-out session among his other victims isn't necessarily going to save your life. But your heartbeat isn't racing quite as quickly as it was a few minutes ago, and that blinding panic has receded somewhat.

When he pulls back for a breath, you find yourself speaking without intending to. "I don't want to die a virgin..." What do you think you're doing here? This is incredibly, recklessly stupid, not to mention extremely fucked up.

"Me neither," he replies, giving you that same smile as the one in the art room. Then his lips are crushing yours again, his free hand gliding along the curve of your waist, then tugging at the bottom of your shirt to pull it up over your head. After a few more minutes, he turns you around so your back is to him, and then his mouth is moving along the back of your neck, his teeth sinking into one of your shoulders. The pain is sharp, and you can't hold back the whimper that escapes as he breaks through your skin. The seconds seem to stretch into hours, but still he's not letting go. You're about to start pleading, wondering if he's changed his plans and has just decided to kill you then and there, when the pressure lessens.

"Promise not to touch the gun," he orders, smoothing his lips along your new wound. "I won't hurt you if you don't touch it."

"I promise," you swear shakily. Your heartbeat is speeding up again. What have you gotten yourself into. "I won't do anything, I promise." And you mean it. Some crazy, disturbed side of you truly means it. You're going to stand here and go through with this not knowing if he plans on killing you right afterwards.

"Thank you," he whispers, and you hear him set the gun down on the desk. Then both of his hands are on your hips, fingers slipping past the waist of your jeans. Deftly, he unbuttons your fly and tugs them off in one swift movement. His left hand makes its way up your inner thigh, to the crotch of your panties. You can't be wet, you tell yourself, not in this situation, but it doesn't really matter. His fingers now slip past the elastic, to part your lips and slide inside of you. The friction makes you gasp. "We don't have much time," he whispers in your ear. "This is probably going to hurt."

You nod slightly—what else can you do?—and his fingers disappear for a moment. When you feel him inside of you again, there's less friction, like he put his fingers in his mouth or something. He lowers his mouth to your shoulder again, but the other one, and this time he merely pulls some of your skin into his mouth, sucking on it like he was trying to give you a hickey or something.

You've got to keep your eyes closed. If you open them, you're going to see your classmates all around you, you might see that you're standing in a pool of your algebra teacher's blood, you might realize what exactly is happening and lose it. So you keep your eyelids clenched tightly together, even when you feel him shifting behind you and hear a zipper unzipping.

"I was never going to hurt you," he whispers in your ear again, as he slides your panties off of you and positions himself at your entrance. "I think we're the same person." One hand moves to tightly cover your mouth as he buries himself inside you with one quick movement. The pain is sharp, almost fiery, and you cry out, but it's muffled by his skin. You worry that your legs won't be able to support your weight much longer, that you'll collapse and piss him off and that you'll die half-naked and surrounded by other dead kids. This was not how you imagined your first time would be.

"You're shaking," he observes, his breath hot against your ear.

"I'm scared," you answer truthfully. He puts his arms around you and knocks your elbows out from under you, so that you're forced to lie face-down on the desk. The plus side, though, is that now you're less likely to fall. He slows down, still moving within you, but more gently now.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeats, and there's a rumbling in his voice now. He slides one hand down your side again, over your hip, across your belly, and circles your clit slowly. Something's building inside of you, and it grows with every thrust, every time he fills you with his cock. "Fuck..." He sinks his teeth into the skin of your shoulder again, sucking, tugging, biting. "Are you close?" If your head were clearer, you might find yourself marveling at the fact that a mass murderer cares about whether you're getting off with him, but all you can really do is nod your head and press back against him with a whimper. "Good." He slips his free arm around your belly now and lifts you up off of the desk to hold you against him, supporting you even as he fucks you harder.

When you come, it's almost a surprise, it hits you so hard. Your knees give out and he lowers you back to the desk again, driving still deeper inside you. You're almost screaming, you realize, wailing out your fear and pain and pleasure and the nerves and the knowledge that this boy won't be getting out of here alive. He comes shortly after you do—you can tell because his movements get jerky and he grunts out his pleasure against your neck. He doesn't move for a few moments, just stays there pressed against you. You can feel his heart pounding against your back, and you remember that he's just a kid. You're both just kids, but when the police come for him, they'll probably kill him. There are tears on your cheeks, but you're not sure what they're from.

When he slides himself out of you, you can feel his seed seep out too, dripping down your inner thigh. You can't move, but he reaches down to pull up your panties and your jeans. They're uncomfortable now, soaked as they are with his cum, but you say nothing. He pulls on your arm to turn you around to face him again. You can't meet his eyes, but he brushes his thumb across your cheekbones, under your eyes, trying to erase the tears.

"Did you only do that because of that?" he asks. He jerks his chin towards his gun and picks it up again. You answer with a shake of your head, which may or may not actually be the truth. Why did you do that?

"Why are you doing all this?" you venture, hoping your voice will be soft enough and small enough that it won't make him angry enough to shoot you. He smiles, but it's not like the one in the art room. His eyes are sad.

"Because I'm crazy, silly," he answers, tracing with the muzzle of his gun the same path his hands were taking only minutes before. "At least, that's what they're going to say later. I'm crazy. Or I was bullied. That's what they always say." His mouth covers yours, insistent, probing. Your heart is aching and you're not sure you can put words to it, but it probably has something to do with the sirens outside. He hears them too, and you know he hears the boots in the hallway, but he keeps kissing you, keeps holding you tightly against his body. "You should tell them I raped you." He sounds sad, or maybe just wistful, but then his face turns to stone again, and he smacks you.

Hard.

Before the pain is through exploding behind your eyes, he is kissing you woefully, stroking the same place he's just hit you. "I'm sorry you were at school today." A wry smile.

"I'm sorry you were here too," you reply. At least now you have a legitimate, physical reason for those tears. "Please, go peacefully. Don't make them kill you. It'll work out, won't it?" You both know it won't. He kisses your forehead, smooths your hair, then steps away. Your body feels cold and weak without his there now. A set of footsteps stops in front of the door, and you hear one of the men shouting.

"We both know it won't." He lifts his hand as though to smack you again, and you cringe away, and it's like he changes his mind. Instead, he takes a few strands of your hair between his fingers and quickly yanks them off of your head. You're so numbed by now that you hardly even feel it. "Get under the desk and stay there until one of those heroes rescues you, okay?" He looks up as the door slowly creaks open. "Don't want you to get caught in the crossfire." With that, he pushes you roughly to the ground, and you skitter backwards until you're hidden under the desk. The door slams open, and the room fills with male voices, tense with anxiety. The boy says nothing even as the men circle him, their guns probably trained exactly on his heart. Someone shouts for him to drop his weapon, and you find yourself praying to the god you can't believe in that he'll do as they say.

Instead, the next thing you hear is shouting, followed immediately by a volley of gunfire that forces you to cover your ears. Your world goes dark for a moment, surrounded as you are by death and explosions, and when you come to, you realize that there is a man crouching in front of you, and that you are sobbing, wracked with shivers so deep that your muscles have already started to ache. The man is asking you if you're hurt, what you saw, if the boy said anything to you, but you can't speak. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Later, when the officers and the reporters and your parents have all finally left you alone for the night, you'll go up to your room and look in the mirror at the wound his teeth left on your shoulder—maybe one of the last pieces of him left in the world—and you'll find yourself hoping that that scar will stay with you for a long time.