He wanted to let his searing pink blade dance across his skin. That would never be enough; he craved touch, he wanted to discard everything between them; gloves, weapons, everything, and strike the boy with his own hand. He wanted to pierce his soft, unmarred flesh with his just-as-gorgeous nails; his red nail polish would blend perfectly with the blood that flowed forth as he tore the skin of the lovely china-doll boy's face, leaving pretty crimson ribbons in the most grotesque places and making him look as unpretty as he could.

He wanted put his hands on him, strike him, feel him, make him scream and beg for mercy he knew he would never receive. He wanted to put his pink lips on the sunkissed skin, leaving painful, shameful marks that would surely jar the boy as he made his way through life and suddenly recalled the horror he would never be able to escape. He wanted to touch him, let his hands wander along the pretty skin and revel in the just as pretty noises he would make as a dreadful feeling, the spawn of hurt and humiliation, engulfed him. He wanted to scar the boy's heart so much that the lovely flicker in his entrancing blue eyes would disappear and make way for tears. He wanted him to scream and cry like the child he was.

Marluxia laughed bitterly to himself.