Metaphysics of the Provocateur (The Long Ago and Far Away Remix)
Remix Author: Amy/Fox1013
Original Story: Metaphysics of the Provocateur by Doyle
Summary: The hunter becomes the hunted. In a way.
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Angel
Spoilers: Angel season 5
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there were monsters and demons and things that go bump in the night. There were princesses kept in tall towers and handsome princes that stormed the towers to save them, and villagers who watched in awe.
But all of that faded away, and the groups grew together until they were almost one. Not so much once upon a time; it's just now. Not so much far, far, away; this is Los Angeles, and anything goes.
Doesn't take much anymore for the monster to be the prince to be the monster in a blink of an eye. Doesn't take much for the demon to be a wolf to be the prettiest princess in all the land. The girls in the ivory tower were Chosen, but not her. That's okay, though; the princess was chosen for something else. She traded her tiara for a beret; gave up the spotlight for a secret.
She has claws. She uses them.
The princess is an artist, and in her mind's eye she paints them both, light and dark blowing across the canvas, subverting the norms as the princess is the dark one, and the demon the one gleaming and pure.
His name is Angel. But he doesn't look like one.
If she painted him, she'd have to put him in something else, she thinks. An important ritual (symbolic) (Armani) suit doesn't fit who he is. Or maybe it's just that she could never paint it right. The whole point is how well the suit doesn't fit; how much subtle movement is part of the look. To put him on canvas in that would imply that the suit fits, and he's much more likely to pull at the tie when no one's watching and deny it when you ask. A prince is a prince is a prince, but this one's something more.
Colors don't fit him. Pale white, dark black, blood red. That's what he should have, but that's her. That's her dresses, her pants, the clothing she wears in the studio, the outfits she chooses each morning. The princess should be bathed in sunlight and goodness, but she leaves that to him instead.
Nina's stopped counting how many times she's shown up in his castle (his office) (his home) and she's found him and pulled him with her, into the shadows, into the sun.
She likes the element of choice and she likes it better when it's hers, because those moments are few and far between. She's feral and that should be an advantage, but he's more than evenly matched.
She paints him in her head, then, paints every second of their interactions. He pushes up her skirt, big cool hands on her thighs, thumbs stroking in slow circles that make her claw at that stupid tie. She imagines choking him. If it's light and dark, then, and he's supposed to be dark, then what does that make her?
She's never been a good girl, not even before the wolf took over. Back when Angel was a demon and she was a princess she was still the one all in black, and now that she's not all her three nights a month the gray is muddled even more. Good girls probably don't walk out of ceramics class because they have a hungry, burning space inside them that says they need to be fucking their boyfriend right now. Or maybe they do, but stopping at home to change into that dress and bringing herself off and walking into his meeting knowing he'd smell what she'd been doing - that was just mean.
She likes mean. It makes her feel like the evil witch. And maybe she's got a little of that in her, too.
She knows the door's not locked. All of his man servants (his minions) (his lackeys) had barely closed the door when he was on top of her, too busy to think about details like locks and doors and Keys. Even when two seconds ago, they were all that mattered.
She thought she was the dragon, but she's the one about to be burned.
His costume comes apart in her hands, shirt and tie dissolving into ribbons with her special, special strength. She tosses them aside and clutches at his belt and when she rips off the belt they fall backwards. The tiny sharp points of his swords (weapons) (pens) dig into her back and she just moans.
He tells her to relax, and he's on her, then in her, two fingers knuckle-deep as his thumb circles her clit. In. Then out. She rocks her hips impatiently.
It's a fairy tale but better as he's laughing, smirking, there. She fists one hand in his hair (he moans in pain but she knows him better than that) and she locks the other around his wrist. She's trapped by his weight on her, can't even move to fuck herself, and in about six seconds she's going to be frustrated enough to find out what werewolf bites do to vampires.
Yes. This. Now.
He's still smirking when he asks her what she needs, and for a moment she doesn't answer. He's smirking. She's silent. What does she need?
He remembers everything that happens, from the days of conquest to the defeat of dragons to the Civil War. He knows everything, everyone, back millions (thousands) (hundreds) of years. He won't tell her about it, not anything she wants to know at least, but night one they got drunk and happy in his Firebird and he told her about fucking Baudelaire. Poetry and opium, high on blood and sex and just plain high.
She must be such a child to him. She must need to be rescued.
"I need you," she says, feeling hoarse, feeling stupid.
And there's a moment, as she comes, when she doesn't feel like her skin wants to crawl away from her bones, when the moon isn't the only thing in her sky, when the storybook settles in Los Angeles and things are almost as it seems; and she has to wonder if the blood's like that, for him, because he lifts her hand, examines the bloody crescents of her fingernails, and when he bends his head to lick he won't look at her. She moans.
He's still dark.
Just like her.
In the olden days the princes rescued princesses from the evil demons, just to ravish them in the towers. She doesn't need to wait for someone new.
Her happily ever after is all in the dragon, anyway.
The End
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