It was for the children. Well, not the children exactly. It was for her.

The black shimmers of his creation danced above their heads. They laughed and clamored to touch it. He kept it out of their reach. One by one their parents came, and they left. Then it was just her, smiling, watching the lacy wings soar through the sky.

He let it land on her hand, and she bit her lip but did not flinch. He admired her for that. His butterfly burned her. Melted into her skin. She belonged to him now. And they both knew it.

--

This is probably the creepiest drabble I've ever written, because it wasn't supposed to turn out like that.

None of my characters were excited about this prompt. Finally, Corby piped up with "I'll make a butterfly! It would be very entertaining to children." And I said "Okay!" and let him go at it.

I literally never suspected I would end up with a butterfly-shaped burn mark on the back of my left hand.