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Cal opened his locker with a clang, shoved away the random shit tossed in there, and lazily grabbed his history textbook, the one with a ton of colored post-it notes sticking out of it. The halls were a jumble of footsteps, and chatter, a million different types of indistinguishable noises all merged into one. Pure calamity. It was high school. He combed his fingers through his hair to fix his bangs in the small mirror attached to the interior of his locker door. While doing so he made brief fleeting eye contact with a pair of brown eyes, reflected through the glass, walking behind him on the opposite end of the hall.
“Dude…” Rachel tugged at his shirt sleeve “...you know who…Is staring at you…again.” she leaned in and whispered, eyes glued to the mop of brown hair now halfway across the hallway.
“I know…” Cal says, with an intentionally over exaggerated sigh, watching as the brunette disappeared into the sea of students. The theatre kid in him was really shining through. Too much Hamlet. The girl beside him was practically swatting away cartoon hearts. “...I think he may be the one…think he’s staring out of love—or lust?” he adds, like he's reading the backside of some raunchy romance novel, before slamming his locker close.
“Neither, it looks like he wants to kill you…or worse.” she laughs out, reaching into her own locker in search of her red sweater.
“Oh…well do you think my corpse has a chance…” he jokingly inquires, eyes watching the girl as she puts on her hoodie and zips it up halfway. She gives him an unamused look clearly not impressed with his melodrama.
“What the hell, are you serious? There's no way—he looks like he’s going to tell you not to come to school tomorrow.” she shakes her head disapprovingly.
But then she really looks at him, studies him, and realizes that maybe it’s not all just theatrics and jokes. Especially with the way he's leaning against his locker, notebooks and textbook hugged to his chest, all schoolgirl in love. He watches in real time as her smile drops. Pure disgust paints her face at the fact that he's fixated on the weirdest most off-putting boy in the whole school. Far too fascinated to the point that rose-tinted shades cloud his judgement from the other boys supposed "evilness".
“Awww what—he doesn't even seem that scary, he seems harmless. Maybe he just has a bad case of like—resting bitch face?” Rachel's eyebrows fly upward in response, eyes plastered with pure concern, over Cal’s newest hallway crush.The worst of the worst hear me outs she’s ever heard in her life.
“Andre Kreigman is just a bitch. Nothing redeemable about that guy. He’s pure evil, trust me.”
Cal frowned, Rachel probably knew more about the boy than he did. She was more in the loop with gossip, ever so knowledgeable she was about the inner workings of high school drama. But whatever rumors circulating around had to be some kind of gross exaggeration. People loved to talk. She made it sound like he killed animals for fun and wanted to move on to bigger and better things, human targets. Like Cal was the deer the hunter was looking at through the scope of his rifle, red dot right at his head, it was way too far-fetched of an implication.
“I never should have watched that documentary with you, it's like you've got a thing for those serial killer mass murderer weird quiet types now because of it.” she sighs.
He isn't sure how watching crime documentaries and his hallway crush on some mysterious off-putting boy are related. That's like saying emo music is subliminally telling the youth of today to cut their wrists, like no, those kids were probably doing that way before listening to Ohio Is For Lovers.
“What…No I don't." Cal smiles, nervously laughs, because what the fuck does she mean by that.
He argues that correlation does not equal causation (most of the time) but pleads that Rachel will find it in her heart not to mention that documentary she made him watch. The one that made his morals (already hanging by a limb) and attraction (already of a questionable taste) go askew. Hopefully, she also wouldn’t bring up that whole J.D. from Heather's thing. Remembers how horrified Rachel had been at his confession, one he accidentally slipped out as soon as the film credits started rolling. It wasn't even shocking to her that maybe he found guys attractive, but shocking that said dude, was fucking J.D. from Heathers. All that geeky shit about chaos killing the dinosaurs and society this and that, was horrid, but the delivery was awesome though.
“You so do! Remember when we watched Heathers and every time Christian Slater showed up on screen you—”
Great. Cal was about to protest, defend his pubescent crush on Christian Slater's character with his life. It was a dark time in his formative years, coupled with an ever growing morbid fascination with all things of a concerning kind. Homosexuality aside, J.D. was just extremely attractive, charming even, and just very alluring to Cal who had spent so long being preached about all that holiness and righteousness Sunday bible school bullshit. But Rachel made a stop gesture with her hand, preventing him from even uttering a single word to defend his honor.
“—and do not start again with that ‘I can fix him’ crap! Rumor has it that Andre’s been sent to the principal's office, multiple times, on account of violent hate speech…Whatever that means…Steer clear if you value your life.” Rachel warned, before slamming her locker a bit harsher than she normally would. Her usage of finger air quotes to get her point across was amusing.
Wow. She must really hate this Andre dude. Why?
Maybe he was a little hateful, homophobic, misogynistic, or whatever. But every other dude in Connecticut was, they were just really good at hiding it. They said some really prison sentence worthy shit in the locker rooms though. Additionally, way too many “proudly homophobic” dudes had come up to Cal at parties tipsy asking him some bullshit like “Hey, you're pretty for a dude, are those rumors about you being a good lay true?”.
New Stratford was suburban hell. Your star quarterback was asking the awkward emo kid for an under the bleacher handjob or some locker room head. While also shoving kids into lockers for “acting gay”. Some real insane deflection going on.
But, meaningless sex and adultery was way better than some jock beating up his girlfriend in anger cause he’s secretly a fag and can’t cope, or being another football player locker room rape statistic. Which was funny, but not funny, and Cal knows his morals aren't in the right place. Is aware he has an odd sense of what's right and wrong. One that he desperately and actively tries not to make apparent.
Rachel's warnings, unfortunately, made this Andre Kriegman all the more alluring. Dick from a nerdy off-putting dude who wanted to kill him, awesome, he desperately needed that. Was salivating at the thought, daydreaming about it even.
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Andre Kriegman was what people classified as a “loser”. Though that implied that he "belonged" to that group.
He was part of track, science club, and the school's newspaper, but truthfully in no way shape or form did he actually “fit in” amongst the other losers or science nerds. Surrounding himself with other people did the opposite of cure his alienation. He was friendly with them but it’s not like they asked him to hang out or actively tried to include him in anything outside of club activities. It’s not like he wanted to either.
Socially outcasted from even the losers, life was great. He had no meaningful connections. No real friends outside of some in-class acquaintances. And worst of all girls fucking hated him. Girls were disgusted by him. His chances of getting a girlfriend was zero, as in never happening, ever.
He hated school, hated his classmates, hated his parents, hated his teachers, hated his fake ass brother, and he hated his shitty minimum wage job. He hated everything and he was certain the whole world hated him back. The only exception was his cat, and even then sometimes even Mel seemed like she was out to get him. He hated the way his school was swarming with jock assholes, always praising them for insignificant shit, it made him sick. He wondered why girls settled for moronic boys like that. Why was he all alone while assholes on the wrestling team, the gayest sport in all of existence, had a plethora of friends and girls lining up for them?
A detrimental amount of his free time was spent behind the screen, on a specific site with a green four-leafed clover as a logo. It's not like there was anything interesting going on for him in the outside world anyway.
It made him feel normal, knowing there were like-minded people out there. People just as wronged by society, who hated what the modern world was becoming, just as displeased by music and pop culture's steady decline. People who also saw just how hypocritical, fake, and full of shit everyone else was. A place where it was actually acknowledged that human kind was doomed and facing complete ruin. In fact some people online were doing way worse than him which made him feel a million times better about his life.
It was on a forum where he got the idea, a way to make his mark on society, and he had his perfect target.
Cal Gabriel’s existence made his blood curl. The boy was public enemy #1. He was this thin blonde boy, breakable looking, girl pretty almost but he obviously wasn't a girl. Always had his blonde hair stupidly flat ironed, side bangs and all, his whole wardrobe was made up of band tees, a complete emo fag. Like a razor to the wrist, box dyed black hair, myspace profile away from being one of those insufferable attention whore Hot Topic wearing mega faggots. On top of that he was in theatre, and band, yet somehow infuriatingly popular.
He didn't fit any of the popular kid clichés or stereotypes but he was well known. Had weaved through a multitude of high school cliques, and somehow got along with most of them. At least half the girls in their grade thought he was really cool or super cute. It made no sense, why were girls into a guy who was practically one of them. He had no muscle, wasn't in any sports, and looked kind of delicate. Andre had definitely seen him walk the mile or completely ditch gym class in favor of smoking a cigarette or hanging out with the stoners. Nor did he seem all that smart or academically gifted. He didn't seem like the type that was exactly radiating with confidence either, so what was the allure?
The boy probably wore as much makeup as the girls he dated and definitely weighed less than them, which was just sad. He was a total fag. He could not for the life of him understand the appeal. Dating this dude must be like gaining another girl friend, like you could share clothes, makeup, and tips on how to puke up each meal you eat.
Cal Gabriel represented everything currently wrong with the current high school social climate.
Being the quiet kid had its perks, because people would spill secrets and gossip about some insane shit right in front of him and pretend like he wasn't even there. Unfortunately for them he happened to be nosey and had nothing better to do but eavesdrop.
The rumors about Cal Gabriel were some of the most intriguing. Often about him rejecting some girl or being seen with a new girl outside of school. Lucky him. The ones that made his eyes pop out of their sockets were hushed rumors about him fooling around with other boys. It really took emo fag to a new extreme. But specifically a rumor about him blowing half the football team, made him accidentally waterboard himself while drinking from the school water fountain.
What kind of fucking rumor was that, it was insane, and confusing. If Cal was so into dick then why the fuck was he taking all the girls, he was just plain greedy, pure evil. It pissed Andre the fuck off. His distaste towards the boy only grew, the way he smiled, the way he walked, the way he talked, he hated it with such an immense passion like nothing he’s ever felt before.
So, Andre had anonymously dropped a thread and consulted the trusted forums, and well it was decided. Cal Gabriel was a problem, a stain, and Andre would do society a favor and rid the world of one more faggy emo kid. He didn't know where, when, or how exactly. But when the opportunity arose, he would definitely beat the shit out of him, slit his throat, videotape it all, and upload it online. He was absolutely set on it, ecstatic, like his life finally had a purpose.
He had blood soaked blonde hair and pale skin horrendously bruised in his sights.
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It was sheer luck. Or more like Cal convincing his teacher to tweak the seating chart because his “eyesight was worsening” and needed to be closer to the board, that Cal and Andre ended up as seatmates. They were therefore, not so coincidentally, assigned as history class partners.
“Hi, Andre…” Cal chirped out, hands nervously clutching the strap of his army green messenger bag. It made an obnoxious jingle-jangle clanking noise, from all the pins he had on it, when he placed it on the floor. “...looks like we’re partners.” he said with a small smile while pulling the chair out from the desk to sit in.
Andre looked stunned, whipped his head behind him, scanning the general vicinity of their desk area, unsure if the blonde was talking to the right person. If he had the right seat.
“Me?” Andre dumbly asked, eyebrows raised, blinking furiously, a finger questioningly pointed at himself.
“Yeah, I don’t think there’s any other Andre Kriegman’s in this class.” Cal tilts his head to the side and lazily grins, amused by Andre’s confusion.
“Shit…my bad—I didn’t think you knew my name...” Andre half mutters, a bit flustered, probably realizing that he sounded a bit lame, and hadn’t meant to voice the thought. A hand flew to rub at the back of his neck, before grabbing his pen and doodling something on his blank lined paper. Eyes completely averted from Cal’s face.
“We’ve had classes together all year. Of course I know your name.” Cal laughs, hand flying to cover his mouth by reflex. It was a mannerism he hadn’t been able to unlearn. One he tended to do when he felt like he was smiling too wide and his braces were too out in full display. Andre just briefly glances at him and nods in response.
The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him. He definitely knew a little more than Andre’s name. Knew what kind of car he drove, what time he usually arrived at school, and what time he usually left. Memorized his daily class schedule by heart, his birthday, where his locker was, all the clubs he was part of…and also his home address, his track jersey number, and what areas of the school he frequented…
It was kind of stalkerish, he’s aware, but it’s not like he was actively doing anything bad with the info. It was just like…fun facts… to keep in mind? When talking to the boy? Which he hadn't done until now…and messed with the seating chart…in order to do so…
Truthfully, Cal could care less about the history of whatever the hell they were learning about in class. He was way too preoccupied sneaking glances at the boy beside him diligently taking notes. Sometimes his sleeve would rise up like half a centimeter, revealing pale untanned skin, a faint farmer's tan from sports. And it made him feel all skittish. Almost feral, like he had to be held back or he would attack the boy mid-class and gnaw at his skin.
Rachel had jokingly described his hallway crush on Andre to be what she called an extreme case of “maybe you’re just ovulating”. He hadn't really paid attention to biology class so he had no idea what exactly she meant by that. But if she was implying that he needed the boy in a subconsciously biologically reproductive way, then yeah she was probably right. He needed to “mate” with Andre, immediately, like real bad. Till the bed frame breaks. And it was driving him off the walls insane.
He was going through a dry spell of sorts, had been bored of any sexual or romantic opportunities that had been thrown his way, combined with and maybe in part due to the fact that he was extremely unhealthily fixated on a certain someone.
Andre had a few blemishes on his cheek, a minor case of dark eye-bags, and a really nice nose. Or more like his nose just really fit his face, as strange as that sounded. He was the type of boy who was in the midst, maybe more so the tail end, of growing into his features. Somehow equally boyish and mature looking, maybe on account of his serious demeanor. Cal really really really liked the way the boy's eyebrows tended to furrow anytime he concentrated on something.
He must've spent the whole class period ogling at the boy. He hoped it had been subtle, though he wasn't too worried. The brunette seemed like the oblivious type anyway, he wasn’t even aware that Cal knew he existed.
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“Uhh w-when are you free? To work on the history project…or we could—hang out and play video games or something if you want to—my parents are visiting relatives in Germany, so my house is like…super peaceful…" Andre stuttered out, he was facing Cal but he wasn’t looking at him, eyes darting anywhere and everywhere else but his face. It was obvious that he was staring at something right behind his head and not actually at him.
Cal was a bit taken aback. He fully expected the whole rest of the semester to be dedicated to getting the older boy to warm up to him, charm him with his good looks and amazing personality, and then slowly become friends. But, hang out at his house, parents gone, first day talking to him? Were the heavens above working in his favor or was this situation screaming stranger danger. It was oddly suspicious, and maybe Rachel was right about the other boy being weird way beyond normal weird. Like total creep, borderline criminal activity, needed to be put into a straitjacket weird.
He knew that it wasn’t uncommon for those with bad intentions to observe, study, and pick their victim(s) beforehand. He had felt eyes on him for quite some time, unmistakably knew they were Andre’s. If it wasn’t out of lust, it had to be out of bloodlust.
He could hear Rachel’s voice echoing in his head, warning him about rape and murder and all the sick creeps lurking in the shadows. He’s not sure why she often warned him about all that stuff, he’s not a girl, but it must have something to do with his apparent “gayness” and “feminine quality”. She could have just straight out told him to be careful because he was a faggot and a twink who sometimes messed around with other men. No need to sugarcoat it. The world of men was always violent and dangerous and about dominance and sex and conformity and overbearing testosterone.
“Really? Sweet, I'm actually free today after school—” Cal cursed himself for his apparent eagerness, they had just properly interacted for the first time ever, and he already wanted to know what Andre's bedroom looked like. “—or uhh tomorrow if that's better. ” He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, before reaching into his bag and pulling out his red notepad, handed it to the other boy along with a pen. ”Here, write down where you live so I don’t forget."
He had Andre’s home address engraved in his brain. Knew he lived a walkable distance from him, didn’t even have to ask. He was just trying to seem normal about it all.
“Either is fine. I mean, I think it’s better to get the project done early—but just show up whenever I guess.” Andre shrugged, looked up from the notepad he scribbled his address in, to quickly peep up at Cal. Eyes widening in slight surprise when he took note of the boys slightly pink dusted face as he handed it back. He then glanced at his watch, hurriedly shoved his things into his backpack and waved a quick goodbye.
Cal was left feeling dumbfounded. His heart wildly thumpered against his chest. Fuck, this was way too much, way too fast. Was he going to finally get laid by the boy of his dreams? Or was he recklessly putting his life on the line? Come tomorrow morning would his missing poster be plastered everywhere, would his body even be found in an identifiable state? Both possibilities sounded equally as exciting.
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There was an immense likelihood that Andre had fucked up his whole kill on video plan by coming off way too strong.
If Cal’s flushed face was anything to go by, the boy had definitely been taken aback, weirded out, had agreed to come over only out of sheer politeness. The perfect opportunity to get close to the boy arose thanks to history class assigned seating and some project due next week. And while it was the exact ideal set of circumstances he’d been praying for, he had to go ahead and fuck it up big time. He had to be the stupidest soon to be murderer ever. There probably should have been some more planning, some more manipulation, a bit more deceit before luring the blonde into his home.
Cal would definitely be asking their teacher for a change of seats as soon as possible. There was no way he'd step a foot near Andre’s house, probably had a multitude of other things he’d rather do. Like go to high school parties, football games, and dates with girls Andre could only get with in his dreams. He wanted him dead, wanted to punch his pretty face, and break all his bones one by one.
So much for becoming internet famous and getting fan mail from hot girls while in jail. Maybe he should just join the military instead, be the first kid on his block to get a confirmed kill. Another cog in the American military industrial complex…yeah….maybe not…he’ll just stick to watching war films…
Andre hears his doorbell ring and fully expects that new horror movie he’s been waiting for to finally be waiting for him on his front doorstep. God bless Blockbusters DVD-by-mail service, it prevented him from having to interact with insufferable stoned out teenage cashiers with equally as revolting film recommendations.
But instead he’s opening the door to a blonde in beat-up converse, bootcut jeans with the bottoms frayed and dragging, messenger bag slung across his shoulder, and a black shirt with the most outrageous text he’s ever seen. Across Cal’s chest read “i'llstopstabbingwhenyoustopscreaming” with some hard to make out band logo on the sleeve. Jesus Christ, what kind of music were kids these days listening to. It sounded like some shit straight off of liveleak. When were bands going to get the memo that trying so hard to be edgy, just made you look corny as fuck.
What ever happened to listening to American Football, the Beatles, Cap n Jazz, The Pixies, Radiohead, Nirvana, The Rolling Stones, or Joy Division? Long gone were the good old days of music. Hot Topic and all that faggy new popular shit on MTV was poisoning today's youth, emasculating today's generation of men.
He’s in a weird state of disbelief, so caught off guard by the other boy's attire, that his mind is delayed processing the shock of Cal actually showing up. Before he can fully comprehend it all the blonde is putting his converse on their shoe rack, running around his house chasing Mel in some attempt to pet her, and smiling at his baby photos lining the hallways. And then they're somehow in his bedroom and Cal’s commenting on the comics on his bookshelf, the posters on his walls, and raving at his video game collection. It felt nice, really nice, and Cal was infuriatingly a lot more pleasant of a person than he believed. He found himself actually smiling, laughing, and enjoying the other boy's company more than he’d like to admit.
It dawned on him that this must be what it feels like to have a real friend. It was too bad that Andre was set on killing him. Planned to lead him away to the woods not too far from his house, where the blonde would meet his demise, and the older, his infamy.
It’s unfortunate, if things were different they could’ve actually been good friends.
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Cal was splayed over the brunette’s navy blue sheets, lying on his stomach, feet raised and kicking the air ever so often. He seemed fine with invading Andre’s personal space, maybe too comfortable doing so. His notebook and pencil abandoned on the bed as he flipped through the pages of an old MAD magazine. He had given up on working on their project like an hour ago, and was asking a million random unrelated personal questions instead.
Andre was at his desk, nose in his history textbook, jotting down notes for their project. All while also psyching himself up to ask Cal to “go on a walk” or “show him something” conveniently in a secluded place in nature.
Glancing at the blonde on his bed all cat-like, hem of his shirt sometimes bunched up to reveal his studded belt and dip of his back, felt strangely pornographic. Did he want to kill him, or fuck him, what the hell? He shook his head at the thought, decided to instead intensify his focus on doing his homework. It was Cal’s fault for looking so girly, his hair was too long, and he was way too thin, it was messing with his head. If he squinted it almost looked like a girl, with short hair, was lying on his bed. He had to die, now, Andre had to kill him, now, as soon as possible.
“Hey, Andre what’s this?” the brunette snapped his head toward the boy. Cal was horrifyingly holding up some porno magazine. Fuck. He probably left one tucked between the crack of his mattress and bed frame again. Andre jolted out of his chair.
“Dude. What the fuck—Don’t touch them Jesus—” Andre reached for the magazine, only to trip over his own bed, and knock something over on his floor.
“Girls with guns…military themed porno…interesting taste you have…” he snickered.
Andre’s head was going to explode from embarrassment. He tried to snatch the magazine from the boy, but it was unsuccessful. They wrestled over it, Cal had the magazine in the air, out of reach. He was surprisingly ferret-like, good at worming around and evading. Andre somehow fails to overtake him. How the hell he managed to lose knowing he had to be a bit stronger, bigger, and taller, than the other boy he really doesn't want to know. In a strange unaccounted for twist of events, he ended up being the one pinned down, the blonde on top of him with an especially sinister grin placed on his face. Porno magazine thrown into the air and falling to some random part of his bedroom in the process, he hopes that the pages aren’t creased.
“So, Andre, when are we going to fuck?” Cal said leaning closer, way too close, kissingly close almost. What the fuck was happening?
“What.” Andre said, stunned, and backed up as far away as possible from the other boy, back slamming against his bed’s dashboard with a thud.
“Isn’t that why you invited me over with your parents gone and what not.” Cal frowned, still way too fucking close. Andre could see the metal glint of his braces, and the freckles splattered across his nose, and the faint remnants of eyeliner on his waterline he hadn't fully wiped away. He wasn’t sure where the fuck to look.
He slowly shook his head no. He was not planning on having sex, didn't even know the other boy thought that, totally unaware that was even a possible situation the two of them could end up in. He was sweating bullets and so so so fucking confused.
“Oh…were you just planning to film some amateur snuff film…fuck my corpse or something?” Cal said, whatever weird blank face he was wearing unchanging, like it was an unconcerning genuine normal question. It was in fact not at all a normal question, and definitely not one that should be asked in the manner Cal was asking it, the way you ask your mom what's for dinner. It was creepy.
“Dude–w-what the fuck—are you talking about?” Andre felt his breath catch in his throat. None of this was going as planned at all, and somehow what Cal was proposing sounded way fucking worse than what he actually planned to do. Necrophillia? What the fuck. What kind of person did Cal think he was?
“Dont play dumb. Are there any other…what did you say on that 4chan thingy…” Andre’s heart dropped to his ass, “...blonde emo twink fags in your history class…whose throat you plan on slashing, that I don’t know about?” Cal inquired, and Andre cringed hard at the fact that Cal was quoting his fucking 4chan thread.
“S-shit…How’d you–”
He was caught insanely off guard, felt immensely violated, and ashamed. Whatever was said online was not in any way shape or form meant to be brought up in the real world, or read by anyone else but him and randoms on the internet. Especially, when a good portion of his recent online rants were about how much he hated Cal, how much he wanted to kill him, all in gruesome detail. He was definitely going to be sent to jail for attempted murder, a failed one at that, and there was no glory in that. He was so fucked.
“Stumbled upon your impressive knife collection, there’s a camera under your bed conveniently near some zipties, very obvious—and I looked at your computer when you went to the bathroom.” Cal explained, and was listing each thing off with his fingers, it made Andre feel stupid.
“But…my computer was logged out…I’m sure of it…how’d you–” He asked, puzzled, and really quite frankly creeped the fuck out.
“Password was your birthday.” he bluntly interrupted.
“How the fuck—do you know my birthday?”
Cal just shrugged and didn't respond. It was unnerving. Something straight out of a nightmare. What the fuck was wrong with Cal Gabriel, genuinely what was wrong with him, what kind of mental condition did he suffer from, and how many of them? He knew his birthday, knew his plans, shit what else did the boy know, his social security number? How long has he known, what kind of agenda does this guy have?
“If you knew this whole time why didn’t you leave—or—or say something?” Andre was beyond confused, and knew his voice was embarrassingly cracking when he asked.
“I wanted to be friends…and maybe also get laid…don’t really care if you were planning to murder me...”
What the fuck. What the fuck. Everything was going horribly wrong. He thought he’d have the upperhand and Cal would be the one trembling in fear and begging for his life. But Andre was the one about to piss his pants.
His “perfect victim”, was actually his worst fucking nightmare, and trying to fuck him, get in his pants fuck him. Hanky panky. Pop his cherry. Do the dirty. Cal was fully aware, maybe painfully aware from the start, that Andre was planning to kill him. Had even snooped on his computer and seen every foul mouthed comment and gruesomely violent thing he typed about him. And yet he wanted to have sex with him, was adamant about it, unfazed by it all, despite knowing it wasn't some empty threat.
Even Andre, homicidal intentions aside, was weirded out by the whole situation. It was a whole mindfuck. His previous image of the popular, well-liked, sweet, and shy, Cal Gabriel, was completely shattered. It was all utter bullshit. The boy was absolutely psychotic. Beyond depraved. Fucking off the rails crazy. Jesus fucking Christ you really cannot judge a person based on appearances. There's some really crazy shit happening in some people's minds. Andre’s flight or fight senses were screaming at him to get the fuck up and run away, immediately, but he was pined to his own bed and frozen in shock.
Something insane was definitely going on in Andre’s mind, and in his pants, because despite the odd circumstances he felt his dick stir at the mention of having sex. The boy was also straddling his lap, which didn't help at all. He honestly felt flattered that someone would go through all this trouble to try to be his friend and also try to get into his pants. It was almost like killing two birds with one stone. A cure to his loneliness and lack of romance. He was sure he’d die a virgin, and had cried over the realization way too many times. Knew he would probably leave this earth bitchless, friendless, and virtueless. He was a weak man, he didn’t have to think twice about the offer.
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“S-shit–you’re easy.” Cal smiled all fox-like. Freakishly overjoyed, like some kid at a candy store, as he roughly pressed himself against the other’s crotch. A pitiful whimper escaped Andre’s mouth at the contact. His own hard-on rubbed against the other boys’ through the scratchy fabric of their jeans. The friction of denim on denim painfully agonizing, discomfort bordering on pleasure.
As Cal slid his hips back and forth the brunettes lap he felt his stomach twist in arousal.The sight of Andre below him struggling to remain composed with each drag of his hips made him feel rabid. He was flushed pink, arms thrown over his face like it was all too much, hips clumsily bucking up into Cal’s ass to chase more friction.
There was a dark patch growing at the crotch of his pants, the fabric there looked especially strained, it had to hurt. Andre was way too worked up by just a bit of dry humping, embarrassed by it, and biting down into his bottom lip in some futile attempt to mute his shaky moans.
He traced the outline of the boy's dick through his jeans, fingers touching dampened fabric, and Andre shuddered, hips stuttering. It made Cal huff out a laugh. Way too easy, and eager, like any little touch was enough to make him cum his pants. Blatantly virginal and inexperienced. In Cal’s eyes he was perfect.
Cal hurriedly unbuckled Andre’s belt, fingers struggling with the zipper of his jeans, eventually tugged them down, and freed the boy's cock from his boxers. It was flushed pink, weeping, so hard it looked painful. Cal stared at it a bit wide eyed, had expected the boy to be average, because why the fuck would some nerdy loser be complaining about getting no girls, while being hung? The casting couch is calling.
He loosely wrapped his hand around the boy experimentally, hand barely able to fully wrap himself along the boy's length. He’d be lying if he didn't feel a little bit envious.
“You're bigger than I expected…” he trailed off, and watched as Andre’s dick twitched in his hand at the compliment. It was cute. Cal spat into his palm, used the gross sticky glob, to wrap spit-slicked fingers around the boy's length.
Andre had given up on his attempts to stifle the sounds escaping his mouth as soon as Cal began jerking him off. The blonde was practically drooling at the boy's whimpers, and groans that followed each movement of his wrist.
“You’re really pent up aren't you? Maybe girls would stop thinking you’re a loser if you weren’t such a virgin.” he venomously barked out, hand speeding up its motion, Andre whined and bucked up into Cal's hand, dick shiny with spit and precum.
“Who’s the real faggot?” Cal teased, hands suddenly slowing its motions, nails intentionally raking against him, almost digging. Andre winced.
“If you apologize, nicely, maybe I’ll let you fuck me.” he murmered with faux pity, wrist continuing at a excruciatingly slow pace, thumb going to smear the bead of precum leaking at the tip of his cock. Andre’s hands flew to grab at Cal's wrist, to keep his hand wrapped around him, he looked glossy eyed, miserable, absolutely pathetic.
“F-fuck ‘m sorry–I-I didn’t mean it—” Andre choked out.
It was unclear if he actually felt a little guilty about the foul shit he was saying online. Does he feel even a bit of remorse for his (failed) attempt at trying to snuff him out for some amateur gore film? There's a fifty-fifty chance he’s being genuine. Probably just thinking with his dick, saying whatever Cal wants to hear because he wants to get off. He lets the other boy fuck up into his hand anyway, tries to match the pace of his strokes with the boys thrusts, before wrapping his fingers tighter and speeding up his wrist, till the brunettes moaning and spurting all over his own camo shirt.
Cal unbuckles his studded belt, tugs off his own jeans and throws it onto the floor, can hear the sound of metal hitting wood. He's palming his own cock through his boxer briefs.
“Do you have lotion or something?” It takes Andre a second to process Cal’s request, rushes to reach for something on his nightstand, a tissue and a bottle of some generic lotion brand that he tosses to Cal. The image of Andre pumping his own lotion-coated cock while lying in bed, porno magazine in hand, flashes in his mind, and he’s palming himself harder.
“How fast can you get it up again?” Cal asks, generously coating his own hand with lotion, before curling his hand back onto Andre’s dick, while fondling his own through sticky fabric. The answer was surprisingly kind of fast. Andre’s already half hard again from a few lazy strokes, impressively so. Maybe the few pros to being an overeager pent-up virgin. If Cal wasn't dying to get his brains fucked out of him, he would blow him, find out first hand just how fast his refractory period is.
He wipes his grossly slick hand on the bedsheet, before turning around, knees digging into the mattress, and back the slightest bit arched. His face feels hot, knows he’s probably flushed pink up to the tip of his ears, always is anytime he gets a bit embarrassed.
It feels humiliating, always does, it makes him feel like an animal during mating season, something out of national geographic. He’s also really not all that sure how to make such an awkward position look sexy, it’s probably way more attractive when girls in pornos do it. Admittedly, he really doesn't do this very often. Doesn’t make it a habit to come over to some boys house, parents gone, and put his life and dignity on the line, all because he’s horny and desperate to get laid. It’s a new low.
Having his back to the other boy also made him feel all jittery in anticipation, if he was still trying to murder him it’d be the perfect opportunity to do so. It was like a russian roulette of sorts, what kind of impalement would it be, a knife thrusted into him or Andre's dick? He’s trying not to hump the bed at the thought. Was it concerning on Cal's end, to admit that while reading the degrading and graphically violent things the other boy was saying about him online, he wanted to slide his hand into his pants? He’s unsure what that means or says about him.
Something soft hits his head, a pillow is thrown at him, and Cal is surprised by the gesture. He feels the weight of the bed shift.
“Won’t it hurt?” Andre softly asks, all concerned, and it’s paradoxical really.
It was funny, the whole thing laced in irony. Andre was set on murdering him not too long ago, like an hour or two ago. It really doesn't make sense. As a murderer, would you, in the midst of stabbing your victim, worriedly ask them if they're in pain before you continue stabbing them?
There was no way in hell he was going to flutter his lashes, tell him to go slow, or be careful, if that’s what the boy is trying to get out of him. He wholeheartedly couldn’t care less if it hurts, he’s not some girl, he can take it. The other boy can hit him and toss him around, all he wants, and Cal wouldn't give a fuck, or contrarily he’d be hard in his pants asking to get fucked after being roughhoused. Though, he decides not to voice that, more concerned with finally getting Andre's dick in him than being abuse-bait.
“Yeah, probably." Cal snorts. “but it’s fine—I'm used to it…” that's a lie.
The last time Cal tried anal was freshman year with some college dude in a shitty local punk band. The guy had gotten him so high off his mind he had cried the whole time and could hardly remember any of it. They had gone through a bottle of lube and a box of trojans though. Cal’s sex drive during his Ritalin withdrawal era had been, something else, to put it lightly. Enough to permanently scare the dude off, and for his weird circle of friends who were also all predatory and in shitty bands to refer to him as “the nymphomaniac” anytime they spotted him at shows. He wasn't sure if it was a compliment or something that made him infamous in the scene.
”...cmon, hurry up—and just do it already.” he barked out, more so a command, than a request.
He hears the awkward plastic noise of the lotion pump, and slick fingers against skin, Andre’s coating himself with more lotion. It’s a surprisingly considerate gesture. Andre rubs up against the fabric of his boxer shorts, ruts into the curve of his ass, before peeling them off. It feels torturous, and Cal wants to punch him for doing so, it feels teasing. He’s desperate, antsy for it even, but there's no way in hell he’s going to beg for it like some whore, hooking up with this dude was already a bit below him.
The unmistakable prodding of Andre’s mushroom tip pushes into him, stretching him open, and he’s holding his breath trying to adjust. Face pressed into the pillow and hands gripping onto the sheet. Knows he’s probably trembling all over, shaking like a leaf, tears welling at the corners of his eyes, because it fucking hurts.
It’s a splitting feeling, like he’s being torn apart. So painful that it makes his nerves feel all frayed in a way that makes him feel alive. Hurts in a way that bleeds into pure ecstasy, the indescribable type that feels carnal, he’s trying to push himself farther down, but he’s stopped by hands holding his hips.
There’s not much flesh really there to grab onto, but the brunettes rubbing at his hipbones with his thumbs, meant to be a reassuring gesture of sorts, probably because he’s all trembly. It makes Cal feel sick, crazed, and if the boy didn't get on with it, quit playing sweet, he would, despite what he previously said, wholeheartedly beg for it.
Andre’s pushing himself into Cal slowly, inch by inch, but after some time even he seemed to get tired of playing nice, resolve flattering, because he fully sheathes himself inside Cal with a whimper. Hips pressed flush against Cal’s ass with a loud smack, and Cal’s body is fluttering, spasming, at the intrusion, unsure whether to trap him in, push him out, or suck him in deeper. Doesn't matter because Cal’s chasing the press of his hips, grinding back into him so they're pressed as close to each other as humanly possible.
“Oh f-fuck, god, you’re really fucking tight ‘m sorry.” Andre moans out, hips rutting against his ass, like he can hardly control himself.
It sounds like a line straight from a porno in a really bad way, he’s not sure whether to find it a tad bit awkwardly endearing or call this whole thing off and go home. Cal wonders if Andre’s going to finish inside him right then and there, embarrassingly early. He’s hoisting himself by his elbows to peer behind him, cause Andre’s voice sounds totally wrecked.
To his surprise, the brunette's eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, eyes zoned in on the area where they connect. He’s whining at the slow drag of Cal’s body clinging onto his dick, gawking at the sight, he deliberately pulls out just to plunge back in just as achingly slow, still staring.
It makes Cal feel dirty, he’d slap a hand over Andre’s eyes and tell him to quit looking if he could. The other boy seems fascinated, enamored, in awe over the way Cal looked on his dick. He really doesn't like it, it makes him feel weird, a really inexplicable feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he can't bring himself to protest, bark out a snarky response, or tell the boy to shut up.
“S-shit–it feels good–f-fuck” Andre slurs, barely coherent, he’s babbling.
And this time he’s ramming into Cal with little regard, pace sporadic, hard, way too rough and it's causing him to rip apart at the seams. It’s a particularly hard thrust that makes his knees give in, and his elbows fail to support him. Andre has to hold him up, an arm wrapped around his waist, in order to keep fucking into him. Can feel, and hear, Andre so deep, his balls are slamming against his taint. It embarrassingly makes him feel like he’s being used. Like he’s being treated like some fleshlight.
Cal can feel Andre burrowing himself in his guts like his dick is trying to make a home for himself there, like he’s trying to mold Cal’s insides to fit around him perfectly. Like some messed up human organ puzzle piece. Like they're trying to merge into one. Cal feels ruined.
Best fuck of his life was from some creep who wanted to kill him. A creep he actively pursued. Some whiny incel who complained about how miserable his life was to strangers online, told the internet he’s going to upload a snuff film killing some blond faggot whore (which was him), military obsessed, and just the weirdest most off-putting breed of white boy around.
Maybe he bit more than he could chew, knew he tended to be the obsessive type, but this infatuation was downright wrong in so many ways and even he knew that. It was a future court case waiting to happen. And all it did was make his libido spike like crazy. Holy fuck, he’s never recovering from this, his insides surely won’t. He’s beyond ruined.
“Cal, t-think I can—feel myself–…” Andre breathlessly, pants out, he’s rambling again ”...fuck—y-you’re so skinny—” He feels an arm tighten around his waist while another creeps up under his shirt to paw and press at his stomach before settling at his lower abdomen. Like he's actually trying to feel his dick moving inside him. What the fuck.
Andre is a huge fucking pervert. Who the fuck says something like that. It’s really fucking weird. Cal knows he’s making these erratic gasping noises every time the boy thrusts into him. Andres is probably right, he is kind of thin, and wouldn't be that surprised if he looked down and saw his stomach slightly bulging up and down, especially at the brutal angle Andre has him, with the way he’s drilling into him. The boy’s deep in his insides, in a way he didn't think was even humanely possible.Thinking about it makes him mortifyingly self-respect poured down the drain turned on.
He can dizzyingly feel that he’s about to spill. Come untouched like some girl, facedown in the mattress and hazy because he's struggling to breathe air. Dick trapped between Andre's arm at his stomach, and the sheets; he can't decide whether to rut into the bed or skewer himself further onto Andre’s dick.
Cal fundamentally knows that this experience is forever going to alter him in weird ways sexually, like maybe (certainly) sex won't be the same after this. Wonders if Andre would actually kill him if he made it a routine to show up on his doorstep asking to have sex.
He makes the mistake of straining his neck to peer behind him at Andre, who’s all wild looking, sweaty, and mouth agape. Glazed over pale blue eyes accidentally meet blown out brown ones.
“You're really pretty." the boy blurts out, probably unintentional, too lost in his own pleasure he’s gone dumb, and is thinking out loud.
Cal thinks it embarrassing the way he’s squeezing at the boy's cock, the way he’s practically one harsh thrust to his prostate away from spilling all over the sheets. All because he’s being called pretty, like he hadn’t been told so a thousand times before, doesn't understand why he’s so affected by the comment.
The brunette keeps randomly saying shit. And he wants him to shut up. Really wants him to shut up, because everything that comes out of the older boy's mouth is just stupid and unintentionally degrading. But he also really wants him to keep on talking, like it's Andre’s voice that’s specifically driving him towards his tipping point.
“Is—that w-why you w-wanted—to kill me? ‘Cause you thought—i w-was pretty?” Cal inquires, it's slightly sarcastic, meant to be, but was difficult to voice out. Probably barely audible because of the sheets muffling him and Andre thrusting into him.
The brunette's hips falter, maybe out of shock, or maybe because murder, especially Andre’s plans to slash his throat open on video, was a bold, widely inappropriate thing to bring up. Probably ruined the whole mood by being weird. And when he was so close to spilling. Cal curses himself for letting his own curiosity get the better of him.
“I don't–I don’t know—” He answers, all confused, breath caught in his throat. “—just wanted to kill you...didn’t think—I’d end up fucking you.” He says earnestly, and sounds a bit embarrassed mentioning the sex part, said it in a much more hushed tone than everything else. Cal finds it intriguing that it’s easier for Andre to talk about murdering him than having sex with him.
“That's a bit boring.” Cal shakily laughs, pushes himself back onto Andre, whose breath hitches a bit at the movement.
“What’d you think—I was going to do?” Andre asks all surprised, pace of his thrusts agonizingly slow, he’s mostly letting Cal work himself onto his dick, the younger boy finds it infuriating.
”Thought you were–going to lure me into the woods…” Andres hips slowly work into the blonde, Cal wishes he’d just continue ramming into him without any regard for bedside manner. It’s obvious he’s holding back, more focused on giving him the chance to speak, to explain how he’d thought their impromptu hangout would end.
“...get me on my knees—f-force me to b-blow you...then you’d push me onto the—d-dirt floor…and t-take me…” Andre’s groaning, hips increasingly more erratic, rapid, and more unforgiving than before. Like he’s trying to bury himself deeper into Cal's insides than he already is.
“…you wouldn’t care—if i was crying or b-begging you–” Cal feels his breath being fucked out of him. He struggles to continue. The room is an obscene mix of skin against skin, moans, and gasps, unsure whose is whose.“–begging y-you to stop…You’d p-press a knife—against my n-neck to s-shut me up—” Andre’s moaning his name like a mantra fucking faster and harder into him with a feverish urgency, frantically bucking into him. Nails clawing at his sides and grip on his waist bruisingly tight.
“—and you'd be videoing it all...tell me to smile for the camera—before—” Cal gasps, he’s choking on his own words. Can hardly think, with each hard forceful press of Andres dick to his prostate. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, intense, it feels immoral, sinful, animalistic. Andre’s ramming into him, desperate, rhythm all sloppy, and Cal feels disorientated. “—b-before–you press the k-knife deeper…watch my blood spill out…a-and you w-wouldn't stop–”
He feels Andre pulsing inside him. Hands are suddenly at the curve of his lower back pushing him down, body bent in half while the older boy is fucking him into the mattress. The bed’s creaking, metallic springs all noisy, dashboard repeatedly hitting the wall, and there's a deafening echo of skin slapping. It makes Cal’s flesh crawl, the way he’s being treated violently, worthlessly, like he only exists to be taken and used up. His ears feel just as violated, reminded by each noise in his ear or overwhelming feeling of pleasure that floods his body of his own transgressions, his indecency, of his sin.
He imagines the metallic taste of dirt, hard dense earth below him, knees achingly scraped up raw red, hand roughly pressed against his mouth, and cold sharp steel at his neck. Imagines the white hot flash of pain, and is cumming hard with a sob, head spinning like he’s drunk.
Andre is pounding into him like he hates his guts. A rush of warm liquid fills his insides, body clamping onto the older boy in an attempt to milk him for every last drop, it makes him feel stuffed to the brim, and sore all over, it’s absolutely euphoric. The brunette stays nestled in him till he’s soft and languidly pulling out with a groan. Cal can feel, hear even, Andre’s cum sloshing in him and oozing out, even if he tries to squeeze himself and keep as much of it in as possible.
He jolts at the unexpected feeling of fingers plunging into him, trying to stuff back in the ooze dripping out. Thick fingers easily slide in and out, cum acting as a lubricant, causing lewd squelching noises of a degrading kind. He’s already sensitive, and tender, from being stretched out and fucked by Andre’s cock. His thighs uncontrollably shake at each intrusion of fingers prodding deep inside him.
Andre’s other hand is loosely wrapped around his cock, moving in tandem, with his fingers; it’s pleasurable in the most intense, electrifying, heat pooling, insides twisting way. The sensation is too much. He feels completely at the mercy of the other boy's hands, like a marionette all stringed up. He's stupidly unable to think about anything else but how good it feels. He’s immediately spilling all over the sheets with a choked sob, humping himself into Andre's hand.
The blonde melts into the bed, can barely keep his eyes open, knows he's going to pass out, and doesn't care what’s done to him while unconscious in some potential murderers bed. Part of him wonders if he’ll wake up all disoriented, to heavy panting, and slick noises of skin against skin, with Andre using him in his sleep, like some personal sex toy. Or if maybe he’ll never wake up. Neither possibilities bother him as much as they should, he’d give the other boy full permission to do either one. It was the best fuck of his life, mind shattering organs permanently rearranged sex, he could now die peacefully, preferably by Andre Kreigman’s hands.
“Shit–’m not on the pill.” he sleepily murmurs, tries to the best of his abilities to pretend to sound over the top worried. He's painfully aware that he let the other boy finish inside him, knows it'll be a mess to clean up, but he's savoring the feeling of being used, filled, maybe even claimed. So he doesn’t mind.
“Huh, w-what—what pill?" Andre asks, all concerned, the joke completely flying over his head. Cal can almost hear the comedic whooshing sound effect. If he was a dog, maybe a german shepherd or a dachshund, he could imagine his head tilting and ears perking up.
“Birth control.” Cal snorts, finds his own teen pregnancy joke hilarious, and Andre's obliviousness even funnier.
“You're a dork.” Andre scoffs, though it takes him an awkwardly long time to respond. It was endearing. Cal can feel the corners of his mouth twitch upward into a smile at his reply.
He feels all floaty, blissful, but also sluggishly drained. Already chasing ponies in dreamland while curled up in the older boy's bed. Despite this, he’s still partially tethered to the physical world. Albeit barely conscious, he can without a doubt feel chapped lips pressed to his forehead, and a soft blanket draped over him, before slumber fully envelops him.
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