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The blade presses against the top skin of your thigh. He massages your shoulder all the way to your open palm with his free hand, cooing you once you wince from the sudden motion of the razor cutting through your sensitive skin.
" dont cry for me sweet girl. "
You nod softly, watching as he drew the razor down your thigh while blood stained his nails. He carefully wrote "pekka" in caps, meanwhile blood dripped down onto his bedsheets. Yet it seemed as if neither of you cared, especially to him as since all he cared about at this very moment was your presence.
You gripped his hand tighter as he kept going, taking his time carving hearts and cuts into your skin until he hit the outer layer of the femur. In his words you were the few percentage of what he saw in human society, not just that but appearance and body not like anyone he's ever been with–you were meant to be his.
He put the razor down, reaching forward to cusp your face and kiss you deeply for his tongue to intertwine with yours. He bit your bottom lip playfully as you pressed against his figure, his other hand that held onto your hand now petting over the areas he cut through which only stung more, but you felt too loved by him to worry a bit.
" i told you it wouldn't be bad. you're amazing. " he chuckled under his breath, the freshly drawn blood smearing over his palm and tee. You smiled timidly while looking longingly in his eyes; during this he reached to run his dry hand through your silky hair. You wrapped both arms around him, falling into the warmth of his chest to ease the pain.