DISCLAIMER: Mine. *shrug* Can't keep you from stealing but I will trust that you won't. WARNING: Implied father-lusting-for-young-son. WARNING: Also, it's weird.
SUMMARY: A man watches the object of his affection.
NOTES: 'K, wanted to write something (potentially) disturbing. Churned out this piece. It's weird.
RATED: R 'cuz the guy is lusting for an eleven year old.
I watch him as he sits at his mother's enamel vanity, brushing out his long flaxen curls.
Such a beautiful boy he is. Long, fluttering eyelashes and full, bow-shaped lips made for kissing. Surely he must know what he does to me. Sure he must know. How could he not?
I am certain he was put on this earth to tempt and beguile me. I cannot stand close to him without wanting to seize those lush lips with my own, or tangle my fingers in that impossibly soft blonde hair.
I know I should not think of a child this way. But I cannot help myself. He has captured my heart with his hooded cerulean eyes and his beautiful, kissable lips. A boy like that is made for loving, and I am more than willing.
His back is white and so pale, as if his skin has not been kissed by the sunlight in his entire eleven years. His shoulder blades stand out like the wings of an angel, my beautiful angel. He is my angel, my perfect angel. He is my salvation.
I approach him, emerging from the shadows of his mother's bedroom chambers. The boy does not see me right off, and I sneak upon him with relative ease.
I curl my fingers in his blonde hair and run my palm down the back of his neck. So beautiful. And mine.
The boy stops stroking his hair and sets down the bejeweled brush. He looks up at me with wide eyed innocence. "Papa?"
what the fuck was a smoking?