A/N: mehmehmeh... This is borderline M-rated. So you be warned. And.. I really guess that's it. I fail at these kinds of things.
The sinful fingers would comb through his golden locks, sometimes when reaching the end of one, the long, pale digits would twirl the silken gold, before slowly releasing it.
Through the process Matthieu would lay, staring at the unforgiving white walls, eyelids never once shielding his violet orbs.
He would take it.
He was a child, old enough to understand what his papa was doing to him. Old enough to understand the immorality of it. Old enough to understand that he was being stripped of everything that once classified him as a human being, and instead being turned into something classified as a toy.
And yet he would take it. Let the fingers made of turpentine wash away the paint that made is innocence.
He would never cry. He would whisper to himself in the back of his mind, "He'd never hurt me."
Reassurance.
It was bad reassurance, but it was just enough to pull him through.
He would lay and take it. Let those gentle, deathly hands defile him.
Sometimes he would lie to himself. Tell himself that the fingers would for once only explore the vast silken-gold waves of his hair.
His dreams would be shattered when bony, stained hands would travel further.
Moar A/N: Yes. Very very short. But I need verdicts, dammit! :D