ST 30 Kisses #18 Say Ahh
Title: Hide
Author: hlfbldprincess
Pairing: Sweeney Todd/Nellie Lovett
Rating: T
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Prompt: 30 Kisses #18: say ahh.
Word Count: 2,771
Disclaimer: All I own is a computer.
I listen to the sounds of you awakening from sleep every morning.
You don't ever allow me to spend the night by your side. You like to pretend that your eyes are never closed in slumber. To have someone sleep beside you is to trust that someone not to hurt you at your most naked, your most vulnerable, even more so than the act of making love; to let someone see you with your eyes closed is to let them see you at your most human moment possible.
I wish you would let me spend the night by your side, but I do not protest. I indulge your delusion of invincibility, just as I indulge you in so much, because I am a glutton for whatever precious little scraps you throw in my direction, because I cannot risk losing even these scraps. So I am only ever privy to listen to you awakening, never to viewing. Nonetheless, I envision your routine as clearly as if I was beside you, sprawled upon your mattress and allowed to drink in the sight of your Grecian body as much as I like, and not on the floor below, standing in my kitchen and slapping my rolling pin against dough.
Nonetheless, I eliminate one of your indulgences today. One I should have never granted you in the first place.
I listen to the sound of your mattress' spring whooshing as you roll onto your back, disentangling yourself from unconsciousness, then to it creaking as you push yourself to a standing pose. I listen to the sound of your fee thudding against the timeworn floor and crossing the room. I listen to the sound of your wardrob wheezing its doors open the wheezing them shut again. I listen to the sound of your nightshir vssshing as it drops against the floor, then th vssshing of your trousers and day shirt upon your skin as they are pulled on. I listen to the sound of your feetthudding against the timeworn floor again as you cross over to your bureau, my body tensing:
Because I know that the usua snicking of your razor being revealed to the world will not come.
I listen to the sound of your silence. A silence longer than even you normally are capable of enduring.
Then comes an unfamiliar sound: crash. I wince and beat my rolling pin harder than necessary into the dough.
But the crash is just a prelude. Soon comes a torrent o smashes plonks thumps knocks booms fssshs clangs whumps pows slams buffs khlops chhhks bangs, a symphony of destruction too clamorous to distinguish individual instruments or chords.
I close my eyes as your thunderous opus continues on the floor above. I tell myself not to panic. I prepared myself for an upset; I knew this would not be easy.
But it will be fine. Everything will be fine. You just need some time to adjust, that's all. I must remain firm in the meantime and not hand back your indulgence. I must not break. This ravaging of your home and yourself in search of what I have taken from you will end eventually, as soon as you realize what you have lost will not be returned and that you do not need such an indulgence to live. This period of destruction will climax and lead to serenity.
My wait will be worth it.
Your orchestra of throwings and pushings and breakings continues into the morning, an unending drone in my ears and cannonade in my walls. Customers ask questions and give me strange looks; I fib up something about our cat catching rabies and being locked upstairs for the protection of us all until we can work up the heart to shoot it.
An hour later, your concert ends.
My hands still. I tilt my head towards the ceiling, waiting for it to resume.
It doesn't. It doesn't resume in a minute, nor ten. It doesn't resume in one hour, nor two - nor all day. I do not keep still all this time, of course - I continue in the shop as usual, chatting up customers and selling pies - but I keep waiting.
And you keep your silence.
I refuse to rush up the stairs to your shop and check on you, only venturing up once at midday to deposit your lunch upon the balcony (noting with a thrill of terrified hope that your 'closed' sign hangs from the door), for you will notice if I break this routine of delivering meals and then you will suspect me. I wonder if I should enter your shop to try and help you, but I am afraid. Not of getting caught in the storm of your anger, but of getting caught in your pain. Of relenting on what I had vowed to do and indulging you yet again.
No. I will hold firm.
As the dinner rush at my shop begins to wind down, allowing me to prepare supper for us, you appear in my doorway.
I nearly solidify right where I am - grater in one hand and bread in the other - but force myself to inhale and continue grinding the bread, letting the crumbs fall into a bowl. "G'evening, love. I'm afraid dinner's not quite ready yet, but you're welcome to sit here and wait - you could dine down here with me and Toby, for once, 'stead of all by your lonesome upstairs - "
Slam.
I glance up: you've stepped out of the doorway just enough to let the door fall closed, body rigid and taut. Eyes upon me.
"Well, sit down, make yourself comfy," I say as I brush the last of the bread crumbs into the bowl and bustle to the cupboards.
Thud, thud. Thud, thud. don't need to look at you to know the sound of your approaching footsteps, even and firm, always in matched sets of painfully slow twos.
I rummage around a bit before finding what I'm looking for: sugar, flour, and salt. "I'm making suet dumplings tonight, how's that sound? - we haven't had 'em in a while, so I figured it'd be a nice - "
I spin around and nearly slam into your body, inches away from mine. I gasp and reflexively jerk backwards, slamming into the counter instead, wincing.
"Jesus, love," I pant, clutching the ingredients to my chest, "y'could try announcing your presence when you come up behind me like that, eh? Didn't realize you was that close."
Unconcerned with my distress, you look down at me, eyes lusterless, mouth a single hard cut across your face.
"My razors are missing, Mrs. Lovett," you say.
"I - missing?" I say as I dive around you and return to my counter, setting the items upon its surface, rubbing a hand over the small of my back in pain. "What d'you mean? What're you talking about?"
"Missing," you say from behind me. "Gone."
Gritting my teeth, I resume cooking, adding the sugar and salt to my mixture of chopped suet, beaten eggs, and grated bread. "That - that just can't be, love - you never leave them out of your sight. I'm sure they're around your shop somewhere - "
"They're not."
" - nonsense, darling - " I pat flour over my hands " - you must've just misplaced them - "
"I didn't."
" - well - don't fret - " I began to work my hands into the concoction, forming it into little balls " - I know they'll turn up soon - "
"They won't."
" - really, love, this's silly - " I continue shaping the dumplings, praying that I can keep up this façade, trying not to worry about the fact that I cannot see nor hear what you are doing as you stand immobile behind me " - it's not as if your razors could've walked off on their own, after all - "
"They're gone."
" - well - and even if your razors are gone - " I bite my lip, wondering if it's too soon to say it to you, knowing that this will either break you or restore you " - 's'not the end of the world, love - you can always take up a new profession, or buy new ones - "
No reply.
I pluck a bit of dumpling between my fingers. "Here, love, have a taste of this 'fore I pop them into the oven to see if it's any good." Grinning, I begin to turn to you. "Say 'ahhh' - "
Fingertips descend upon the back of my neck before I can even start to pivot in your direction. My hands still and my breath catches: how did I not hear th thudding sounds of your approach?
Your body presses against mine: your torso pushing into my back, your legs arcing against my legs, your head beside my head. Your hair fondling my cheeks.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you, pet?" you murmur into my ear, teeth grazing over its rim. "For me to buy a new set of blades?"
I swallow my shudder but can't stop my body from instinctively fitting itself against yours. The bit of dumpling plunges, forgotten, onto the floor. "Don't - don't know what you're talking about, love - but if you've lost the old, well, not much else to do but buy some new ones - I'm only being practical here - "
You bite down on my earlobe. I gasp at the exquisite pain and close my eyes. "Love," I protest with my mouth, but my body leans further into your touch, "the customers - someone's going to see us - "
"Yes . . . always bein practical, aren't you, Mrs. Lovett?" you growl into the side of my throat, as though you did not hear this last remark. Your hand is still at the base of my neck, fingertips indenting my flesh in both pleasure and threat, as your other crawls across my waist. "Simply wasn' prudent or me to obsess so much over those old razors . . . no sensible f me to regard them as confidants . . ."
"R-right," I pant, relief and joy rising like a tidal wave inside of me. It's working! I never dreamed you would warm so quickly to the idea - it's more than I ever dared hope for . . .
"And what a waste," you whisper, your lips journeying down the length of my throat, your fingers scrabbling up my stomach, scratching tingling patterns along my skin even through the layers of dress and undergarments. "What waste, all that time I spent with them . . ."
My head falls helplessly against your shoulder. "Yes . . ."
Your hand wanders further upward, nearing my bosom; your mouth travels back up my throat, along my jawbone, so close to meeting my lips, as you breathe, "Time that I could have spent with you - "
"Oh, love," I gasp, my eyelids opening - my gaze locking upon yours, eyes inches away from my face - lips inches away from a proper kiss -
A smile ghosts over your face and you tip your head towards mine -
And your wandering hand dives beneath the fabric of my dress and between my breasts.
I yelp and jerk away, clutching my arms over my chest, blurting out, "The customers, Mr. T, for God's - "
But I cut my indignant protests short when I see you laughing. When I realize you know the true reason I lurched out of your arms - a reason that has nothing to do with the customers.
A reason that you now hold in your hand.
"An unusual place to keep a razor, Mrs. Lovett," you muse aloud, cupping your razor in your palm and stroking it lovingly, an embrace for your long parting even though the metal can never embrace you back. "One that certainly never occurred to me, at least."
I swallow down the hard mound forming in my throat: I only tucked the one razor between my breasts because I wanted to have something of you against me all day.
Because I wanted you to stroke me as lovingly as you do those damn blades.
"Where did you stash the others?" you ask, petting your razor with overflowing adoration.
I don't answer.
"Come now, Mrs. Lovett," you say calmly, eyes still upon your belove friend, caressing the thing as intimately as though it were another woman in your bed - as thoug this oman did not stand two feet away from you. "I will find them eventually - but I think you'd prefer that I didn't demolish your quarters as I did mine while searching."
"Inside one of the pillowcases on my bed," I whisper. "Furthest pillow back on my side of the mattress."
You don't need telling twice: you're out of the room and racing down the corridor before I can so much as blink.
Which is a blessing in disguise, really. Because when I do blink, I can no longer hold back my tears.
I slump against the kitchen counter, body shaking, salt water dripping from my eyes and onto my tray of unbaked suet dumplings.
It had been a stupid idea from the start, taking your razors, I chide myself. There is no place I could conceal them that you wouldn't eventually find. You're as united to those stupid things as to a soulmate: I could stash them halfway across the bloody world and you'd still be able to find them, tied by some inexplicable bond.
Not to mention that it's completely irrational of me to be jealous of inanimate objects, of all things.
The way you treat them is not inanimate though . . . the way you treat them is more human than how you treat me - or yourself.
I shouldn't be mad at you. It's myself I should be mad at - for always letting myself get swept up in your falsehoods. Those tender fingersweeps across my flesh, the murmured words of how you would have rather spent the time with me than your razors - an open admittance of your love for me - everything I ever wanted in the palm of my hand - everything I ever wanted - everything -
Everything gone . . .
Your indifference I have made myself immune to. Your deliberate cruelty - your purposefully letting me taste what I yearn for, only to take away not only the wine and the wine glass, but my tongue as well - I have no defense against. No barrier against my teardrops plummeting into our dumplings.
"Mrs. Lovett?"
I jump up in alarm. "Oh! - Mr. T - you again - " I swipe the back of my hand across my eyes, but you have already seen the sobs I normally work so hard to hide. Thinking fast, I flash you a grin and offer the explanation of, "Chopping up a few onions for the dumplings, is all."
You don't grin back. You just look at me, arms secure around your box of friends, mask of apathy twitching as though struggling to comprehend something you have perhaps never realized.
I'm out of ideas for disguising the fact that I've been crying. But maybe, if I just go on as usual, neither of us have to acknowledge it. Maybe we can both pretend that I'm terribly good at hiding both razors and tears - when in truth, I can apparently hide nothing.
Clearing my throat, I resume shaping the conglomeration of ingredients into dumplings, hoping a bit more salt than usual won't spoil the flavor. "Anyway, dinner'll be ready in about three quarters of an hour, love - "
Fingertips descend upon my chin and lift my head up to meet yours across the counter.
Then your lips fall upon mine.
There are no seductive murmurs or caresses this time. No hands wandering over stomach and breasts, no teeth nipping earlobes, no innuendos, no lusting growls into flesh, no lies that I yearn to be truth.
Just one kiss on the lips over a kitchen counter laden with salt water dumplings.
You give me no spoken apology as you leave my kitchen, not even a soul-bearing glance. But as th thuds of your footsteps echo upon the stairs leading to your barbershop, I notice that you have left a single razor on my counter, right next to the dumplings.
I open my mouth to call out to you, tell you that you have forgotten a blade, but I close my lips before I make a sound: you would never leave behind one of your friends by accident. This is intentional.
Lips trembling, my fingers close upon your razor and place it between my breasts. My heartbea thumps against your metal skin and it is almost more intimate than having you sleep beside me.
Author: hlfbldprincess
Pairing: Sweeney Todd/Nellie Lovett
Rating: T
Fandom: Sweeney Todd
Prompt: 30 Kisses #18: say ahh.
Word Count: 2,771
Disclaimer: All I own is a computer.
I listen to the sounds of you awakening from sleep every morning.
You don't ever allow me to spend the night by your side. You like to pretend that your eyes are never closed in slumber. To have someone sleep beside you is to trust that someone not to hurt you at your most naked, your most vulnerable, even more so than the act of making love; to let someone see you with your eyes closed is to let them see you at your most human moment possible.
I wish you would let me spend the night by your side, but I do not protest. I indulge your delusion of invincibility, just as I indulge you in so much, because I am a glutton for whatever precious little scraps you throw in my direction, because I cannot risk losing even these scraps. So I am only ever privy to listen to you awakening, never to viewing. Nonetheless, I envision your routine as clearly as if I was beside you, sprawled upon your mattress and allowed to drink in the sight of your Grecian body as much as I like, and not on the floor below, standing in my kitchen and slapping my rolling pin against dough.
Nonetheless, I eliminate one of your indulgences today. One I should have never granted you in the first place.
I listen to the sound of your mattress' spring whooshing as you roll onto your back, disentangling yourself from unconsciousness, then to it creaking as you push yourself to a standing pose. I listen to the sound of your fee thudding against the timeworn floor and crossing the room. I listen to the sound of your wardrob wheezing its doors open the wheezing them shut again. I listen to the sound of your nightshir vssshing as it drops against the floor, then th vssshing of your trousers and day shirt upon your skin as they are pulled on. I listen to the sound of your feetthudding against the timeworn floor again as you cross over to your bureau, my body tensing:
Because I know that the usua snicking of your razor being revealed to the world will not come.
I listen to the sound of your silence. A silence longer than even you normally are capable of enduring.
Then comes an unfamiliar sound: crash. I wince and beat my rolling pin harder than necessary into the dough.
But the crash is just a prelude. Soon comes a torrent o smashes plonks thumps knocks booms fssshs clangs whumps pows slams buffs khlops chhhks bangs, a symphony of destruction too clamorous to distinguish individual instruments or chords.
I close my eyes as your thunderous opus continues on the floor above. I tell myself not to panic. I prepared myself for an upset; I knew this would not be easy.
But it will be fine. Everything will be fine. You just need some time to adjust, that's all. I must remain firm in the meantime and not hand back your indulgence. I must not break. This ravaging of your home and yourself in search of what I have taken from you will end eventually, as soon as you realize what you have lost will not be returned and that you do not need such an indulgence to live. This period of destruction will climax and lead to serenity.
My wait will be worth it.
Your orchestra of throwings and pushings and breakings continues into the morning, an unending drone in my ears and cannonade in my walls. Customers ask questions and give me strange looks; I fib up something about our cat catching rabies and being locked upstairs for the protection of us all until we can work up the heart to shoot it.
An hour later, your concert ends.
My hands still. I tilt my head towards the ceiling, waiting for it to resume.
It doesn't. It doesn't resume in a minute, nor ten. It doesn't resume in one hour, nor two - nor all day. I do not keep still all this time, of course - I continue in the shop as usual, chatting up customers and selling pies - but I keep waiting.
And you keep your silence.
I refuse to rush up the stairs to your shop and check on you, only venturing up once at midday to deposit your lunch upon the balcony (noting with a thrill of terrified hope that your 'closed' sign hangs from the door), for you will notice if I break this routine of delivering meals and then you will suspect me. I wonder if I should enter your shop to try and help you, but I am afraid. Not of getting caught in the storm of your anger, but of getting caught in your pain. Of relenting on what I had vowed to do and indulging you yet again.
No. I will hold firm.
As the dinner rush at my shop begins to wind down, allowing me to prepare supper for us, you appear in my doorway.
I nearly solidify right where I am - grater in one hand and bread in the other - but force myself to inhale and continue grinding the bread, letting the crumbs fall into a bowl. "G'evening, love. I'm afraid dinner's not quite ready yet, but you're welcome to sit here and wait - you could dine down here with me and Toby, for once, 'stead of all by your lonesome upstairs - "
Slam.
I glance up: you've stepped out of the doorway just enough to let the door fall closed, body rigid and taut. Eyes upon me.
"Well, sit down, make yourself comfy," I say as I brush the last of the bread crumbs into the bowl and bustle to the cupboards.
Thud, thud. Thud, thud. don't need to look at you to know the sound of your approaching footsteps, even and firm, always in matched sets of painfully slow twos.
I rummage around a bit before finding what I'm looking for: sugar, flour, and salt. "I'm making suet dumplings tonight, how's that sound? - we haven't had 'em in a while, so I figured it'd be a nice - "
I spin around and nearly slam into your body, inches away from mine. I gasp and reflexively jerk backwards, slamming into the counter instead, wincing.
"Jesus, love," I pant, clutching the ingredients to my chest, "y'could try announcing your presence when you come up behind me like that, eh? Didn't realize you was that close."
Unconcerned with my distress, you look down at me, eyes lusterless, mouth a single hard cut across your face.
"My razors are missing, Mrs. Lovett," you say.
"I - missing?" I say as I dive around you and return to my counter, setting the items upon its surface, rubbing a hand over the small of my back in pain. "What d'you mean? What're you talking about?"
"Missing," you say from behind me. "Gone."
Gritting my teeth, I resume cooking, adding the sugar and salt to my mixture of chopped suet, beaten eggs, and grated bread. "That - that just can't be, love - you never leave them out of your sight. I'm sure they're around your shop somewhere - "
"They're not."
" - nonsense, darling - " I pat flour over my hands " - you must've just misplaced them - "
"I didn't."
" - well - don't fret - " I began to work my hands into the concoction, forming it into little balls " - I know they'll turn up soon - "
"They won't."
" - really, love, this's silly - " I continue shaping the dumplings, praying that I can keep up this façade, trying not to worry about the fact that I cannot see nor hear what you are doing as you stand immobile behind me " - it's not as if your razors could've walked off on their own, after all - "
"They're gone."
" - well - and even if your razors are gone - " I bite my lip, wondering if it's too soon to say it to you, knowing that this will either break you or restore you " - 's'not the end of the world, love - you can always take up a new profession, or buy new ones - "
No reply.
I pluck a bit of dumpling between my fingers. "Here, love, have a taste of this 'fore I pop them into the oven to see if it's any good." Grinning, I begin to turn to you. "Say 'ahhh' - "
Fingertips descend upon the back of my neck before I can even start to pivot in your direction. My hands still and my breath catches: how did I not hear th thudding sounds of your approach?
Your body presses against mine: your torso pushing into my back, your legs arcing against my legs, your head beside my head. Your hair fondling my cheeks.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you, pet?" you murmur into my ear, teeth grazing over its rim. "For me to buy a new set of blades?"
I swallow my shudder but can't stop my body from instinctively fitting itself against yours. The bit of dumpling plunges, forgotten, onto the floor. "Don't - don't know what you're talking about, love - but if you've lost the old, well, not much else to do but buy some new ones - I'm only being practical here - "
You bite down on my earlobe. I gasp at the exquisite pain and close my eyes. "Love," I protest with my mouth, but my body leans further into your touch, "the customers - someone's going to see us - "
"Yes . . . always bein practical, aren't you, Mrs. Lovett?" you growl into the side of my throat, as though you did not hear this last remark. Your hand is still at the base of my neck, fingertips indenting my flesh in both pleasure and threat, as your other crawls across my waist. "Simply wasn' prudent or me to obsess so much over those old razors . . . no sensible f me to regard them as confidants . . ."
"R-right," I pant, relief and joy rising like a tidal wave inside of me. It's working! I never dreamed you would warm so quickly to the idea - it's more than I ever dared hope for . . .
"And what a waste," you whisper, your lips journeying down the length of my throat, your fingers scrabbling up my stomach, scratching tingling patterns along my skin even through the layers of dress and undergarments. "What waste, all that time I spent with them . . ."
My head falls helplessly against your shoulder. "Yes . . ."
Your hand wanders further upward, nearing my bosom; your mouth travels back up my throat, along my jawbone, so close to meeting my lips, as you breathe, "Time that I could have spent with you - "
"Oh, love," I gasp, my eyelids opening - my gaze locking upon yours, eyes inches away from my face - lips inches away from a proper kiss -
A smile ghosts over your face and you tip your head towards mine -
And your wandering hand dives beneath the fabric of my dress and between my breasts.
I yelp and jerk away, clutching my arms over my chest, blurting out, "The customers, Mr. T, for God's - "
But I cut my indignant protests short when I see you laughing. When I realize you know the true reason I lurched out of your arms - a reason that has nothing to do with the customers.
A reason that you now hold in your hand.
"An unusual place to keep a razor, Mrs. Lovett," you muse aloud, cupping your razor in your palm and stroking it lovingly, an embrace for your long parting even though the metal can never embrace you back. "One that certainly never occurred to me, at least."
I swallow down the hard mound forming in my throat: I only tucked the one razor between my breasts because I wanted to have something of you against me all day.
Because I wanted you to stroke me as lovingly as you do those damn blades.
"Where did you stash the others?" you ask, petting your razor with overflowing adoration.
I don't answer.
"Come now, Mrs. Lovett," you say calmly, eyes still upon your belove friend, caressing the thing as intimately as though it were another woman in your bed - as thoug this oman did not stand two feet away from you. "I will find them eventually - but I think you'd prefer that I didn't demolish your quarters as I did mine while searching."
"Inside one of the pillowcases on my bed," I whisper. "Furthest pillow back on my side of the mattress."
You don't need telling twice: you're out of the room and racing down the corridor before I can so much as blink.
Which is a blessing in disguise, really. Because when I do blink, I can no longer hold back my tears.
I slump against the kitchen counter, body shaking, salt water dripping from my eyes and onto my tray of unbaked suet dumplings.
It had been a stupid idea from the start, taking your razors, I chide myself. There is no place I could conceal them that you wouldn't eventually find. You're as united to those stupid things as to a soulmate: I could stash them halfway across the bloody world and you'd still be able to find them, tied by some inexplicable bond.
Not to mention that it's completely irrational of me to be jealous of inanimate objects, of all things.
The way you treat them is not inanimate though . . . the way you treat them is more human than how you treat me - or yourself.
I shouldn't be mad at you. It's myself I should be mad at - for always letting myself get swept up in your falsehoods. Those tender fingersweeps across my flesh, the murmured words of how you would have rather spent the time with me than your razors - an open admittance of your love for me - everything I ever wanted in the palm of my hand - everything I ever wanted - everything -
Everything gone . . .
Your indifference I have made myself immune to. Your deliberate cruelty - your purposefully letting me taste what I yearn for, only to take away not only the wine and the wine glass, but my tongue as well - I have no defense against. No barrier against my teardrops plummeting into our dumplings.
"Mrs. Lovett?"
I jump up in alarm. "Oh! - Mr. T - you again - " I swipe the back of my hand across my eyes, but you have already seen the sobs I normally work so hard to hide. Thinking fast, I flash you a grin and offer the explanation of, "Chopping up a few onions for the dumplings, is all."
You don't grin back. You just look at me, arms secure around your box of friends, mask of apathy twitching as though struggling to comprehend something you have perhaps never realized.
I'm out of ideas for disguising the fact that I've been crying. But maybe, if I just go on as usual, neither of us have to acknowledge it. Maybe we can both pretend that I'm terribly good at hiding both razors and tears - when in truth, I can apparently hide nothing.
Clearing my throat, I resume shaping the conglomeration of ingredients into dumplings, hoping a bit more salt than usual won't spoil the flavor. "Anyway, dinner'll be ready in about three quarters of an hour, love - "
Fingertips descend upon my chin and lift my head up to meet yours across the counter.
Then your lips fall upon mine.
There are no seductive murmurs or caresses this time. No hands wandering over stomach and breasts, no teeth nipping earlobes, no innuendos, no lusting growls into flesh, no lies that I yearn to be truth.
Just one kiss on the lips over a kitchen counter laden with salt water dumplings.
You give me no spoken apology as you leave my kitchen, not even a soul-bearing glance. But as th thuds of your footsteps echo upon the stairs leading to your barbershop, I notice that you have left a single razor on my counter, right next to the dumplings.
I open my mouth to call out to you, tell you that you have forgotten a blade, but I close my lips before I make a sound: you would never leave behind one of your friends by accident. This is intentional.
Lips trembling, my fingers close upon your razor and place it between my breasts. My heartbea thumps against your metal skin and it is almost more intimate than having you sleep beside me.