Descending from "I don't feel good" into "I feel like a shit sandwich"

[apiphile]

LET US PLAY A GAME.

I have no idea if this is going to work.

Give me ANY NUMBER, and I will open a BOX O' HOT

Comments

[swear_jar]

Box 0. (Or not, if it is far too late).

[apiphile]

He practices, because no one becomes perfect without practice. There have been so many nights of holding a lit match to his fingertips that the smell of phosphorous makes him sweat along his upper lip in anticipation of the pain.

Lawrence's hand is always steady, and his features composed with a grim smile quirking his lips upward. He has practiced with a mirror. It's not so much a matter of not letting the pain show as not letting the effects of the pain show - the pain, after all, is normal. Not minding the pain is a trick which, though he will never tell anyone and certainly not the likes of William Potter, isn't really a trick at all, either.

Hiding the stirring beast in his chest, the stern flutter in his stomach as he brings the lit match to bear on his skin, feels the heat and the pain like a minute sun, a desert in his hand, that is the trick. The trick is to not mind rather than the abject opposite of mind, the trick is to be noncommittal, uncaring, instead of eager.

Lawrence practices not minding, though in the dark

[swear_jar]

lk :AYSD IAdASDL;asd;asd THIS IS PERFECT AND WONDERFUL.

[apiphile]

IDK I COULD WRITE ABOUT LAWRENCE BEING A A SEXUAL DEVIANT PRETTY MUCH FOREVER?

[swear_jar]

because underneath not minding his stomach still flutters and his chest still stirs and his body yearns for the flame, and for the agony, like lovers yearn for each other.

AND THAT IS RIDICULOUSLY GORGEOUS.

I totally vote you write about it forever. Or uh, at least for slightly longer.

[apiphile]

Yeah but sooner or later I'm basically going to be writing me + god complex.

[prologi]

Wow, this is gorgeous.