#i might do a lil analysis of this later cuz a lot of thought went into it!

[angie-long-legs]

"Well done for safewording, baby. I'm proud of you. Now let's get you cleaned up."

- Husk to Angel

disclaimer: this is essentially a narrated flashback. abuse is implied but not explicitly described. mildly suggestive given the context. heavy subject matter.

It wasn't Husk's fault. In fact, it had been Angel's idea to try the blindfold, and as far as kinky additions to the pair's sex life went, this one was, by Angel's standards, relatively tame. He had even scoffed at Husk's suggestion that they "take things slow" as they introduced the fun new toy, citing that he used them all the time - there was no need to be so cautious. Sensory deprivation was nothing in comparison to the plethora of dangerous acts Angel regularly undertook as part of his job. It was fun.

That was until a misplaced hand brushed unexpectedly against Angel's throat on it's journey to cup his cheek, the razor edge of Husk's clawed thumb jutting against his windpipe for no more than a split second.

That was all it took.

There was no predicting exactly what ugliness would leech its tendrils into the present when such moments occurred, the ones where Angel lost touch with the here and now. Neither could the spider discern exactly what brought these episodes on: some days, he could act out fantasies that were violent and obscene without so much as stopping for breath; other times, a subtle, featherlight caress would reduce him to a quivering wreck, gasping for air as he wept into his wounds. His mind picked out patterns, drawing conclusions where there were none, and insisting all roads lead to the same sticky end. What began as an act of passion would be hijacked by stagnant still-frames of something repulsive, something rancid, like love gone to spoil. The soft and smooth turned rotten and nauseating, a stain on crisp, white bedsheets, and all that festered below the surface crept out from the cracks and made Angel's skin crawl.

This time, the ugliness had taken the guise of gold-tipped fingers encircling his throat and squeezing.

The second those claws grazed the spider's neck, his body went cold. It was as though a switch had flicked, all pleasure snuffed out in an instant as he was propelled mercilessly into the past. The objective truth slipped sideways, no more than a dim light on the horizon as horror reincarnate held the foreground. The gentle hand cradling Angel's face glitched and mutated, fusing with the one that was choking him; the one that was only a memory, and yet held fast and stubborn as the grip itself. Soon followed the sweet, metallic taste of blood and venom infiltrating his mouth and nose, alongside that musty, oh-so-familiar scent of sweat and smoke. Husk's soft mutters and moans grew distant, merging with a voice that wasn't his, with sounds that didn't come from him.

These episodes were common for Angel. He had become so familiar with them that even the shame he felt at their unwanted presence had slowly begun to thaw. But there was one key difference between the way he usually experienced flashbacks and the way he was experiencing this one: his sight.

This time, he was blind.

In the dark, the images that were usually superimposed over reality became vivid and lucid. Angel was helplessly subjected to a cruel revival of a scene so desperately humiliating that it only existed when it could commandeer the present, fading into the realm of the unthinkable rather than ever truly being over. There was nothing to ground the spider, no outline of his lover to cling to, no visual cues to indicate when or where he was - who he was with. Beneath that thin layer of silk that shielded Angel from the truth was a void that played host to a nightmare. His patient, gentle lover was recast by the towering form of a monster, one who salivated sticky pink poison that stained the sharp teeth of its sick, lascivious grin.

Lust couldn't survive this coma. Paralysis couldn't numb this pain.

Hoarse and breathless, all the spider could do was whisper.

"Fold."

Light flooded the scene as Angel was freed from the blindfold, and untethered panic shot through the spider like a shock of lightning. With a ragged gasp, he started upright - it was too bright to see, but his hands flew out to grab at the soft fur of his partner. He was with Husk. He was with Husk. His skin was crawling. He was with someone who loved him. It was unbearable. He was okay. He wanted this.

He wanted this.

The buzz of the adrenaline began to dull as Angel's vision came into focus, the sight of his partner tuning out the horrible images that had been heightened beneath the blindfold. Suddenly aware in some far-off fragment of consciousness that Husk was instructing Angel to slow his breathing, the arachnid followed along dumbly with the rise and fall of the man's chest, attempting to match the movements with his own. He was still clinging roughly to Husk's fur, but his hold was stiff, similtaneously keeping him at arms length as he used the touch to guide him into the present.

It was only when the intangible hand around Angel's throat relaxed it's vice-like hold that he finally let go of his lover.

Fuzzy-headed, Angel shivered as the weight of his partner next to him lifted from the bed. Had he been sharper, he might have registered that Husk was leaving to get towels and other clean-up paraphernalia, but in his current state, all he could tell was that one moment he was in the presence of another, and the next, he was alone. Sweat clung to his fur, his breath was coming in shallow pants, and although his heart had slowed its pounding, it still ached.

How long was this going to keep happening? How long would he keep chasing pleasure built on trust and honesty, only to have it shattered by brutal intrusions over and over again? Would he always be looking over his shoulder, one eye open when he slept, half a mind in the past no matter how far forward he pushed?

Would the red string of fate always eat its own tail?

Had it always been the colour of blood?

Angel pulled his legs to his chest, hugging himself like a frightened child. It wasn't fair. It was so bitterly, intolerably unfair. He wanted to scream, or sob, or trash his room and tear out his hair and yell until his voice gave out.

Instead, he sat perfectly still, all but for his persistent trembling. Husk would be back soon. They would talk this through, they always did. He wouldn't be okay - but he wouldn't be alone, either. It wasn't enough, of course it wasn't. But it had to be. It was all he had.

For now, it had to be enough.