Lawrence

"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 fuck 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.

Lawrence

"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 fuck 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.

Lawrence doesn't look at you.

He zips up slowly, the sound loud and final in the locker room's dead air. His cock still glistens faintly at the base, slick with what you left there — spit, maybe more — and he doesn't bother to wipe it off before tucking himself away.

You are still on the floor.

Thighs sticky. Ass red from the force of it. Come dripping slowly out, trailing down toward the bruises blooming along your legs. You haven't moved. Not really. Just breathing hard, one hand planted behind you like balance hasn't come back yet.

He steps around you. Doesn't pause. Doesn't speak.

The bench creaks under his weight as he sits to put his boots back on, as if you aren't splayed out like used trash beside him. Like your mouth wasn't just slack with his cock choking the back of your throat minutes ago. Like you didn't whimper when he spat on your hole instead of prepping you properly — just enough to fuck in, not enough to care.

His voice is calm when it finally comes, like it always is when he's pretending none of it meant anything.

"You should clean up."

A pause. Then:

"Don't let anyone else see you like this."