Kitten.
I would like to state that not only do I not own South Park or any of it's characters, I also do not own the creepy old man. He's a real person. Out there. Watching. Waiting…..:3
"Where are you from?"
His eyes were a dark, troubled blue, even as the man before him opened the car door with a practiced flourish. The cold streets of Denver didn't bother him; his faded jeans doing nothing to cut the biting wind creating a whirlwind of chill in the alley he had been huddled in. He wasn't use to Denver, to long streets that seemed to end before they started and street lights that showed quick tricks and wayward souls in a cheap, filtered light.
"Nowhere. I don't exist."
The man chuckled at the answer, as if the young man was trying to be funny, and ushered him into the car, sliding into his own seat seconds later, the smell of smoke clinging to his every move. The younger of the two sat in silence, aware of his place and his job even before the car pulled into the alley. The man let his eyes wander over long blonde curls, sliding over a scar on the boy's cheek to the orange shirt he wore. He suspected that the boy was frozen; it was so cold out, and yet he wore so little. One large hand lifted, prepared to land on a knee, a thigh, but instead falling on a pale cheek, lifting the boy's face towards him.
"Well, for not existing, you're a very pretty lad."
The blonde closed his eyes, taking comfort in the words of assurance that he was not an ugly, hideous thing. He had hidden his face for so long, scared that he would not be to par for the outrageous standards of the idealist beauty instilled into societies mind. The hand moved, down his neck to dip under his shirt, one broad thumb stroking his collar as he leaned closer, eyes on the boy as if he captured his very soul.
"You have the most exquisite eyes I have ever seen. Open them for me, precious.,"
He opened his eyes, staring at the man seated in the driver seat, the man who held his life in his hands at this very moment. He knew about the hazards of his job; death, disease, arrested for selling love. But it was a living – a living he was rather good at making. He blinked slowly as the hand dragged over his chest to land in his lap, and was proud that e didn't jump as one smooth hand flicked open the button of his jeans without warning.
"What's your name, precious?"
He knew how to please people. He had always known; was surprisingly educated for someone who came from such a small town. He knew the ins and outs of the business, how to play it safe, how to distance yourself. He knew it all, and yet, he was still nervous, still afraid, every time. He depended on being able to do it right the first time, depended on it to buy food and clothing and other things he needed. He moved to crawl over the gear shift, into the older man's lap, pans open and cheeks flushed with an attempted lust.
"My mother named me Kenny," he stated, a soft purr in the night, "But you can call me Kitten."
……blame http://community. because it made me do it