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Title: Absence of Light, Absence of Sleep (An LJ Snippet)
Author: Lar
Pairing: Angel/Lindsey implied
Rating: R
Setting: S2
There are shadows on the wall of the bedroom, black in grey. Outside the window, something twitches itself on the screen, a rustle-bump of wing or leaf, soft and quick. Lindsey doesn't look. The shadows are not going to become monsters. The noise outside is not the brush of fingers on the latch.
Nothing is coming to get him.
This fact keeps him up through the night, a waiting without end. Nothing is coming to get him, there will be no more midnight visits that begin with him shoved against the wall and strangled by a hand at his throat. That end with him dragging himself to the shower to wash off sweat, and come, and blood.
He lies in his bed, the sheets undisturbed by the weight of another body pinning him to them. No torn edges. No threads frayed from the constant friction of movement, knees and back rubbing over and over in the same rhythm. Push and shove of hip to hip, cock to cock, the flip to his belly and the stretch and ache of being penetrated; no more of that to disturb the smooth cotton, the soft valley of material between his thighs where they rest, slightly spread.
He is an offering, sacrificial lamb willingly laid upon the altar, eagerly baring his belly.
//his neck, the pulse of carotoid, gush of heat beneath the thin skin, begging to be pierced//
Soft and vulnerable. Hard and aching.
Nothing is coming for him, and he cannot sleep.
-End
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Author: Lar
Pairing: Angel/Lindsey implied
Rating: R
Setting: S2
There are shadows on the wall of the bedroom, black in grey. Outside the window, something twitches itself on the screen, a rustle-bump of wing or leaf, soft and quick. Lindsey doesn't look. The shadows are not going to become monsters. The noise outside is not the brush of fingers on the latch.
Nothing is coming to get him.
This fact keeps him up through the night, a waiting without end. Nothing is coming to get him, there will be no more midnight visits that begin with him shoved against the wall and strangled by a hand at his throat. That end with him dragging himself to the shower to wash off sweat, and come, and blood.
He lies in his bed, the sheets undisturbed by the weight of another body pinning him to them. No torn edges. No threads frayed from the constant friction of movement, knees and back rubbing over and over in the same rhythm. Push and shove of hip to hip, cock to cock, the flip to his belly and the stretch and ache of being penetrated; no more of that to disturb the smooth cotton, the soft valley of material between his thighs where they rest, slightly spread.
He is an offering, sacrificial lamb willingly laid upon the altar, eagerly baring his belly.
//his neck, the pulse of carotoid, gush of heat beneath the thin skin, begging to be pierced//
Soft and vulnerable. Hard and aching.
Nothing is coming for him, and he cannot sleep.
-End
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