He was made to be loved. Everything about him was adorable, delectable, utterly kissable, from his crooked smile to the way he shyly ducked his head to the gentle waves of brown curls that dropped down to frame his face just so. Wiser heads might have predicted the outcome, might have known what would happen when something so pure of purpose is created.
"After all," he would remark in the later years, often with crimson rivulets trailing down his perfect fingers, "adoration is adoration and worship is worship. Does it really matter how you got it once you have it?"
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