Fic by Author  Era  Pairing  Rating  Title

Title: Metaphysics of the Provocateur
Author: Doyle
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Angel/Nina
Rating: NC-17
Note: My prompt was tables being turned, the weaker partner becoming the more aggressive one.

She could paint the two of them, light and darkness across the canvas, but she's silently promised to throw herself out the penthouse windows in a fittingly art-chick attention-seeking suicide if she even thinks the word 'chiaroscuro'. And anyway, it doesn't fit: the vampire's supposed to be the one in the dark, gothic, brooding, romantically lit in monochrome. Angel wears Armani (badly, pulling at his tie when he thinks no-one's watching) and at three twenty-nine in the afternoon his desk's directly in the sunlight and she sends papers and in-trays flying as she drags him into the sun with her.

If he's the dark one, she thinks as he pushes up her skirt (big hands cool on her thighs, thumbs stroking in slow circles that make her claw at that stupid, stupid tie and why do people wear so many clothes) then that makes her the light side, the good one, and that's not right.

Nina's never been a good girl, not even before the wolf, so she doesn't have much experience to base this on, but 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 knows the door's not locked. Angel was too busy to remember, on top of her practically before the last lackey was gone.

The tie and shirt come apart in her hands. Must be that enhanced werewolf strength. She tosses them aside and clutches at his belt and for a moment she growls in frustration at her (paws) hands because she can't remember how to work her (claws) fingers.

Rips off the belt and they fall backwards, pens digging sharp little pains into her back.

"Relax," Angel says, thumb circling her clit as he slides two fingers inside her. And out. And she rocks her hips impatiently.

The bastard's laughing at her. Smirking, anyway. Fists one hand in his hair ("ow." "Shut up," she snarls and she can feel him get harder) and locks the other around his wrist. But 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.

Then Angel looks down at her, smirk faded to that not-smile of his, and he brushes the hair back from her face and says, "What do you need?"

Angel remembers the civil war. Old enough to be her great-great-whoknowshowgreat-grandfather. Won't tell her much about his past, not the stuff she wants to know, but the night they got drunk and happy in his Firebird he told her about fucking Baudelaire. Poetry and opium, high on blood and sex and just plain high.

God, she must be such a child to him.

"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; 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.