The Butterfly EffectBy Snowgrouse
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That's how it began. One flutter of Avon's lashes,
quickly cast down to brush against high cheeks,
revealing his true nature. Then a dark glance,
daring him, mocking him.|
A flick of a hand, a sway of hip, the whisper of a door opening.
For a while, for a moment or two, he could feel it, the moth's wing sweep against his own cheek as he filled Avon, kept him happy, made him smile for a long, long night.
Some moths fed on tears, he remembered, seeing the death's head, and he wanted to rip the wings off Sarkoff's butterflies.
And yet at night, the whisper and the hum was there again, the perversity in Avon's eyes: a plea, a cry, to be raw and bleeding, to be marked.
In the end, he was the one stealing the tears; forcing them out of him just so he'd know Avon could still feel, teardrop for come-drop, Avon's mouth wet and shining.
He'd known it was the last time when Avon clung to him, words of hate on his lips but his eyes and arse yielding, his nails writing farewell letters on his back.
He'd become old, Avon had become old. He wasn't surprised when Avon demanded his life--after all, there was nothing more to give. He saw Avon's lashes fly up again, now in horror, in realisation.
It all ended with those lashes cast down again, in sorrow, having sown bullets where love had sought to grow.
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