Lawrence being moody and uhh... 'romantic,' in his weird Lawrence way, while reader sleeps
Contains lots of angst and somnophilia, with imagery of gore, necrophilia, and decay
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Lawrence stares outside, spotting the faintest hint of sunrise on the skyline.
You're asleep. Have been for a couple hours already. Sometimes your sleep schedules unalign, and he gets a taste of what his life used to be like. Before you arrived.
It's⊠lonely.
He used to like being alone, but he doesn't know how to anymore. Right now, he misses you. You're only a few feet away, but he misses you.
He thinks about how someday, you'll be gone. Inevitably, someday, you'll leave him. Whether of your own volition or not. It'll probably be his fault. It always is. He always ends up being too much. Too weird, too creepy, too intense, too withdrawn, too angry. His default state is to repulse others. No matter how hard he tried when he was younger, it always ended in him being alone.
So he stopped trying. And for the most part, it worked. His life was better that way. Until you came along.
He thinks about much he'll miss you. How he feels like a part of him is missing whenever he's away from you. It aches to be at work or at the store without you. Even when he's upset with you or you're upset with him - and he's done horrible things to you, he deserves every bit of betrayal and hurt from you - it feels impossible to be separated. Your souls feel enmeshed, intertwined. Hopelessly tangled in tight knots, strangling each other, always burrowing into each other tighter and tighter. Scar tissue encapsulating a foreign body within a hard, sinewy casing of flesh. Impossible to ever escape.
How could he ever live without you? How had he lived for so long without you? You've burned him with the blistering light of the sun and opened his eyes to something he thought he was never capable of. He could never un-open them now. It's impossible to go back to life before you, now that he knows it's possible to have this kind of bond with someone else.
His soul will rip apart when you leave. He'll be left a massive open wound, exposed and raw, impossible to close. So big and deep it'd be foolish to think he could ever fill it. Forever carrying around your ghost. Subtly but irreparably changed from the man he used to be.
He doesn't want you to die.
Everyone else he wishes death would come for faster, but you he so desperately wants to shield from it. His awareness of death's omnipresence used to be a comfort. One of the few reliable truths in this cruel, confusing world. But now, it serves him anxiety at every opportunity. The thoughts of everything that could happen to you. Of all the different ways it could happen. The scenarios that scare him the most are the ones he'd cause. Where he makes a mistake. Where he loses control of himself. Where in a moment of weakness and indulgence, he goes too far.
A sudden surge of emotion tightens his chest and burns his eyes. It's going to happen someday. He wants to hold you so badly, hold you tight in his arms and never let go. He wishes he could keep you safe inside of him. He wishes you could merge into one being so that you would always be with him, that you'd only die with him.
He wants to lean over you and sniff deeply, engrain your scent into the folds of his brain permanently like a tattoo. He never wants to forget. Every aspect of you branded into his mind. He has pictures of you, recording of your voice, but smell is so ephemeral. It's something that can never be recaptured, and it'll be the quickest to fade.
The sky is light blue now. The sun hasn't quite risen yet, but the city is beginning to wake up. He rises and stands over the bed to stare down at you. Your soft, relaxed expression. Your curled up body and your messy hair. Your lips ever so softly parted.
You're a thorn digging itself deep into his side. You're the roots of a weed penetrating him, spreading through him, sucking him dry. You're a colony of maggots nestled under his skin, devouring him.
He wants to touch you. But he doesn't want you to wake up. He wants you exactly like this, in this sweet and special moment. Alive and unconscious. In this transitionary state of dawn, the light feels so cold and lonely. He aches to feel your warmth so badly. He wants it so badly he can't stand it.
Ever so gingerly, he eases his body into the bed next you. You shift and make a small cute noise, but don't wake. Slowly, he settles and enjoys the sound of your breathing. He could listen to it forever. The soft rise and fall of your chest. The puff of air in and out of your nose. Imagining all the folds and branches of your lungs expanding and contracting with every breath. Your diaphragm diligently driving the whole process. The draw of oxygen, the exchange of gases, enriching your blood.
He wants to slice open your wrist and press his own slit wrist together to mix your blood. He wants to share blood and lymph, all the little channels of fluids merging together and spreading into each other. He wants to share everything. All of your fluids, all of your organs, all of your skin. Cut open both your bellies and splay everything together. Share one breath, one pair of lungs, one heart. Splice together your bodies until you're one.
He buries his nose into the nape of your neck and sniffs deeply. Your scent sparks little fires all over inside of him. He wants to split you open here with a knife and stick his finger in. He wants to dig in with his tongue, feeling the bumps of your vertebrae and into the base of your head, up the hole where your spinal cord meets your brain. Pressing his mouth as far into your skull as he can, licking up all your blood and juices. Slurping up into the base of your brain. Drinking your essence like jelly.
His hand drifts down between his legs. If he's careful and keeps his motions small, he shouldn't wake you.
You're pulsing against your skin. He can see it on your throat, under the thin skin covering your carotid artery. It keeps pulsing, moment after moment. If only his other hand was free to put his finger over it and feel it, feel the pressure of your blood inside its walls. Feel you pulsing inside your shell, radiating heat out from your center. He wants to feel every process that keeps you alive. Wants to feel it from the inside, how hot and pronounced it'd be. Hold your very heart in his hands and see the power of it beating, all the chambers pumping in a rhythm. Watch it work perfectly in sync with the rest of your circulatory system, keeping you alive.
He doesn't want you to die. But you'll be so beautiful when you do.
Your blood slowed and spilled out from your veins. The life-like flush of your skin paled and ashen. The perfect, permanent stillness. So pretty in every stage of decay. His gentle strokes quickly become faster and more vigorous as he imagines how your body would digest itself, how you'd stiffen and blister. Your skin molting and body bloating. Your face full of maggots and collapsing in on itself.
Another pang of emotion hits him. He'd kiss you and love you as much as he could in those first couple days, while you still look like you. Trying to commit everything to memory, every little detail of your face and your feel and smell and taste even while they shift and morph as decay claims you. Savoring every last moment he has of you, even though you will already gone.
And then he'd take tokens of you to keep. A lock of hair, sealed inside a plastic bag. Make trinkets of your teeth and finger bones. Photos of your insides to remind him of parts he never got to know before. Your skull, lovingly cleaned and preserved so that he can still kiss your head when he gets lonely.
The bed is starting to shake a little from how how fast and hard he's stroking himself, but it feels so good he doesn't want to slow down. He's getting so close, just a little longer-
You stir a little again, and he freezes. It's⊠exciting to be doing this right against you, while you have no idea what he's doing. The idea of you waking up makes him nervous, but it's also sending jolts of pleasure through him. He keeps going and bucks his hips into his hand a couple times. It's enough to send him over the edge.
His orgasm ravages through his body while he cums on his stomach. He keeps stroking and bucking his hips as he rides the waves of of residual pleasure. He bites his lip to keep his moans silenced, but you're moving a lot now. It seems he woke you.
"Lawrence�" You murmur softly.
"Shh," he whispers, trying to suppress his aroused breathlessness. "Just go back to sleep."
"âŠWhen did you come to bed?"
He manages to snag his shirt off the foot of the bed with his toes and flicks it up to himself to wipe up his cum. He's not nearly as worried about disturbing you now that you're awake. "I just did."
"Mm⊠you're warm. You feel so niceâŠ" You voice is so soft and gentle and quiet. You press your back up against his body and nestle into him. His stomach is still sticky from the cum, but you don't seem to notice or care.
For a moment he hesitates, then wraps his arms around you and spoons you tight. The warmth and euphoria of the afterglow feels better than it ever has before when he gets to hold you. He's so happy you're here. You fit like it's where you belong.
Someday, you'll be gone and dead, and he'll miss you. He'll miss you so much that it'll destroy him.
cw: stalking, lawrence being lawrence, reader comes onto him, gender neutral reader, i was iffy on how i wrote him but u guys seemed to rly like how i wrote him so i hope i did him justice again!!! this is sfw :) enjoy!! <3
He had a tendency to notice the smaller things. The cracks in his clay plant pots. The tape wearing off the side of the box heâd lifted into the truck, which had gum stuck to the metal ramp. The exact number of sesame seeds on his fast food burger while he sat in his car and ate. The places where the sky changed from deep blue to the beginnings of a sunrise on his way home from work. Little things couldnât hide from him- eyes would carve out anything anywhere, regardless of how they tried to hide in the cracks. He kept mental lists of everything. His mind was a steel trap- everything not only stayed, but was known- memorized- as if he were a grade school student studying for a test. There was no way to hide from him. Heâd learn it all.
So it was only a matter of time before he learned the softness of you. From the moment you woke up to the moment you went to sleep, you carried a gentleness with you throughout the day. He noticed it in the way you smiled at everybody as you walked by, even when they gave you weird looks. He noticed how youâd pick up all the worms on the sidewalk when it rained. He noticed how youâd sit there and take being the brunt of the joke with your friends as long as it would make them crack a smile. He learned you like the back of his hand.
You were never violent. Youâd pick spiders up with a cup and paper and toss them outside. Youâd leave her food scraps on the balcony of your apartment for birds. You once literally gave someone the shirt off your back, walking back home in the blistering cold in an undershirt because you gave away your hoodie to a girl whoâd been complaining behind you in line at a cafe that she was unprepared for the weather..
He didnât see why everyone seemed to hate you. You seemed like a kind person. You were misunderstood- just like him.
Maybe thatâs why he was so drawn to you. Nobody really understood you. The difference in you two lay in how you carried yourselves, though. He hid from the world. He scorned it. He hated it and those who inhabited it, just as the world hid him. You seemed to never give up. You kept trying to insert yourself in places where nobody wanted you, just to see if you could make it better. But you could never make it better. That was the sad thing. You were blind to it. The cruelty of the world was no stranger to you, but you tried anyway.
It was admirable in a laughable sense. He almost felt bad for you. You were so naive, so stupid. Maybe thatâs why nobody seemed to like you. You were too nice. Your stupidity irritated him. He considered passing close to you once or twice, say something, do something, but in the end, he always found himself walking you home about 400 feet behind you. To keep you safe. Yeah. You needed him. You didnât know it yet, but you needed him. He was the lesser of evils, he knew that. You didnât. But he wasnât concerned with that. He knew what you needed.
You never quite noticed him. Youâd see him around, sure, but it was only ever in passing. He seemed to have a permanent booth at the bar you frequented. That was about it. He never struck you as odd- just a tired guy with bags under his eyes trying to drink the day away. Youâd smiled at him a few times, but heâd always scowl. Thatâs when you stopped trying.
But he didnât. He didnât stop trying. Heâd always be there- in the corners of her vision, haunting you like a ghost, a gentle but watchful eye as if you were his favorite movie playing on repeat. You were fascinating. He was fascinated.
And that was that.
And he held himself back. He was brave. He was good. But it got harder and harder every day. Eventually, his permanent place at the bar got closer and closer to you. Youâd start seeing him in more places. And something in you began to shift.
Youâd always liked blondes. Youâd be lying if you said his fixture in your peripheral vision wasnât something youâd stared at once or twice in the bar, drinking with your friends while you hardly paid attention and stared at him. You didnât know he was staring back, bangs covering his eyes. Youâd developed a little crush on the guy, so seeing him more often was a welcome thing in your world. One night, you happened to get just drunk enough. Heâd been staring down at his untouched drink, picking at the skin around his fingernails when suddenly something collapsed in the booth in front of him.
His head snapped up so hard you couldâve sworn his neck would crack. You jumped at the sudden movement, as did he when recognizing who you were. You blinked a few times at each other. His eyes were blown wide open, terror and confusion in his vision as if youâd just caught him doing something very, very bad.
âH-Hey. Didnât mean to startle you.â You said, sinking down in the booth, grimacing slightly. âJust wanted to say hi. I-Iâve seen you around. You seem cool.â
His mouth hung open in a wordless, soundless gesture. You kept going. He wanted you to stop. He wanted to make you stop.
âSorry, Iâm, like, hammered.â You laughed under your breath and leaned over the table. âSorry. Um, look, I-â You breathed out from your nose, not looking him in the eye. Meanwhile, he was making the most uncomfortable form of eye contact you think youâd ever known. He was stripping every layer of your brain away and was reading you like a book, even though he already had that book memorized. You were too drunk to notice.
You continued. âI-I think youâre really cool. Thereâs something interesting about you. Can-â You looked up at him with a nervous grimace of a smile. âCan I take you out sometime? Like, dinner? Or anything? I donât care. Anything. You can pick. Just- Ahh, fuck.â You rested your forehead on the table. You were making a fool of yourself, you knew.
But he didnât say anything. He was still staring up at you wide eyed, as if he couldnât believe this was happening. Disbelief worked its way through his system like a poison, shutting down organ after organ until you stood up.
âFuck, sorry. Sorry for making you uncomfortable. That was odd. I didnât even introduce myself or ask for your name. Iâm sorry.â You stood up, still refusing to look him in the eyes. As you began to walk away, though, you heard a low voice behind you. A deep voice that cut through the chatter of the bar right to you.
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