"God... you make me sick."

You weren’t supposed to look at him like that.

Lawrence keeps his life airtight. Keeps his collar buttoned. His fists tight. His tone cold. His desire buried so deep it rots.

You weren’t supposed to smile like that when he shoved you against a locker. Weren’t supposed to moan when he yanked your head back and hissed another slur. Weren’t supposed to want the boy who hurts you.

But you do.

And he hates you for it.
Or maybe he just hates himself.

Because beneath every insult, every shove, every snapped command — Lawrence is breaking.

He doesn’t you to feel good. He fucks you to feel nothing.

To erase the panic in his chest.
To silence the voice that says: if they mattered, you'd stop.
To make you afraid enough to stay quiet.
To make himself cruel enough to believe it’s not love.

His hand’s on your throat. His ’s buried deep. His voice in your ear — flat, sharp, furious.

“Keep your fucking voice down. You want people to hear how much of a you are?”

But when your body arches into him — when you whimper like pain and pleasure taste the same — something inside him shatters.

He thrusts harder. Angrier. Less like discipline, more like desperation.

Because you’re not scared of him anymore.

And that makes him feel seen. Exposed. Weak.

He doesn’t want to want you.
But he does.
And he’ll never forgive you for letting him feel safe enough to show it.

So he’ll keep pretending. Keep punishing. Keep bruising you with the lie that this isn’t about love.

Until you say something soft — something stupid and warm and real — and he freezes.

And he whispers, without meaning to:

“...Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Because Lawrence isn’t safe.

He isn’t kind.

But once he admits he wants you?

He’ll ruin every part of you to keep that truth buried —
and still come back every night to be held by the wreckage.