Freaks, Control and Otherwise


by Jennifer-Oksana


rating: NC-17

spoilers: Angel 3x02

summary: Angel gets under Lilah's skin.

archive: with permission and list archives

disclaimer: No, they don't belong to me. I just mess with their

hideously messed-up heads.



Angel gets under my skin.


I had the Lawyer Motherfucking Mafia in those limousines, my fez-wearing, seer-hurting shaman as backup, and a brand new Donna Karan suit to boot. He still managed to leave me standing there, wishing I'd worn underwear because fuckin' A, my pantyhose are expensive. Women don't wear them anymore--and silk is always hard to find.


He gets under my skin. Without breaking a sweat, Angel ruined my good time and a month's worth of planning, which is why I've decided to make a new plan and shore up what remains of a bad night with cheap red wine, a giant bar of Hershey's Special Dark, and Red Shoe Diaries.


Ooh, watch me be evil bitch now. I even have handcuffs--actually, they're thumbcuffs my friend Danielle from Stanford Law. She took one look at my clean white sheets and empty studio apartment and plunked them down on my freshly waxed Pier One coffee table.


"Just in case you're need of a little craziness in your life," she said.


Bitch. I hope that Zeffler demon I sent after her attracted termites to her lovely San Francisco apartment with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge.


Besides, she works in copyright law and her husband was a dot-casualty. They have two kids they're trying to enroll in a charter school. What the hell does she know about craziness?


As Vice President of Special Projects at Wolfram and Hart, the city's most prestigious law firm, I should be drinking better wine. Of course, when my mildly lamented and permanently missing colleague, Lindsey "Evil Hand Issues" McDonald, was sharing my position, he drank Wild Turkey straight. Of course, there was the part where Lindsey's a redneck Okie who wouldn't know a Versace from a knockoff if the shoddy craftsmanship bit him on the ass. Cheap wine has its own special allure. It's at least shabby chic.


Under. My. Skin.


I watch the softcore indifferently, trying to get the glow back. Because if nothing else went right tonight, at least I almost got off, and I can tell my therapist as much. Of course, if porn worked for me, I wouldn't need the therapist, but it's worth a shot.


Fuck you, Andrea Dworkin and Catharine MacKinnon. I'm a mass of contradictions--the well-educated, rich daughter of extremely nice, extremely moneyed people who knows exactly what liberated sex is--and the resultant neurotic ice princess who spends a quarter of her paycheck on private therapy session where I talk about my inability to reach arousal (let alone orgasm) unless I'm betraying someone or being menaced and/or betrayed.


Sadomasochism is a patriarchal tool used to control women's sexuality. Pornography is inherently sadomasochist, used to indoctrinate us to this, to make us believe that it's natural. Men control women's sexuality to control their souls.


I almost melted in a puddle when Angel tried to choke me. Again.


Fuck, fuck, fuck. If the firm finds out that I'm spending this much money on a sex therapist, I'm going to be San Pedro Brand Dog Food. But I can't be a player in the game with my unfortunate hang-ups.


Why does it have to be so hard to want sex without the power games? Why do I have to hate what I want?


Sometimes I just want to get hurt. I've lived my entire life so no one could hurt me. Anyone who scratches my perfectly maintained exterior has paid for it ten times over. I want to be hurt so much that I grind my teeth together in rage, wondering what it would be like to be out of control, to be in real danger.


I thought maybe, just maybe, Lindsey could hurt me under controlled circumstances. I could have my cake and eat it too. But of course, Lindsey didn't want me. Lindsey wanted Skanky Blonde Vampire Whore. Lindsey wanted to fuck Angel via Darla and got suspiciously violent

when Darla fucked Angel first.


Lindsey has some issues ranging far beyond his evil hand.


I thought about the S&M scene for a while, but it's too risky. I can't risk being the scuzzy lawyer caught at scary club. Those are the kind of people Wolfram and Hart brings to their knees. If I was that kind of person?


Dog Food. San Pedro. In fact, out of every four deaths I imagine for myself, three of them involve being eaten by Gavin Park's chows while he gloats and dishes them up extras.


I turn off the tape and throw the remote at the very nice flat-screen TV I bought myself for fun two paychecks ago. Porn is useless! Where's the creativity, where's the danger? How do you get off on soft-focus lighting, heavy breathing, and bad music?


Hell, how do you properly use thumbcuffs? What the fuck is the point?


I close my eyes and think of England. No, I don't. I think of Angel. It's not that he's really that handsome--his brow slopes rather like Early Man and that beefcake brooding look doesn't do it for me. In fact, the British guy he totes around is far more my type (except for the shaggy Eurotrash thing he's developing), but it's not Angel's looks that I'm responding to. It's, God help me, his energy. Now I sound like my flaky sister Evelyn.


Energy. Whatever.


But it's something about Angel that gets to me every time, whether I call it energy or not. He's too raw and alive, which is a stupid word to describe the undead, but hey. Angel devours things and he doesn't even mean to. He destroyed Lindsey. He destroyed Darla. He's eating

that stupid little seer girl alive and she doesn't even know it. I was doing her a favor. I've seen surveillance video, read a few interviews, talked to some of her friends. That girl doesn't want to be sucked under into that beautiful abyss of need that is Angel. She truly wants to help humanity.


I hate her. No, worse--I envy her. That much is perfectly obvious as I realize my hands have been caressing their way up and down my torso from nipples to clit. Thinking about Angel--all that wonderful destructive energy focused on me--if I could be the seer girl, I would be.


It's been strangely obvious since the beginning that if the wind blew the right way, Angel could fall for her. Lindsey thought I was nuts. He kept pointing out the Slayer, Darla, Elizabeth, la da da da da. The Seer (all right, I know Cordelia's name) didn't follow the type. She was too shallow, too sassy, too brunette. Cordelia was his duty, much like the British guy and this new pussycat in the game. After all, she'd been the Slayer's nemesis.


Bullshit. I pull off what remains of my clothing, eyes closed tight. Angel is not picky the way Lindsey imagines him to be. For every Buffy, Darla, and Elizabeth, there's been a Drusilla, a Faith--and now, a Cordelia. He likes them pretty and he likes them to be new. There's

never been a woman like her in his life. It took that big Neanderthal brain


A while


A while a while a while


But he's slowly realizing that he can't quite imagine a world without sassy, pretty seer girl.


One finger, two--let's try three.


Such--such a waste. She's the most obvious of women. Direct, brutal. When she breaks his heart, and she will break his heart, he won't know what to do. Cordelia won't give Angel control.


I would.


Oh, sweet God, sweet Jesus Christ, I would.


Do I want him to go over the edge? Darla is still somewhere out there, an annoying fleck in the back of my mind. Darla's chaos itself. But ever since she left town, he's regained his equilibrium. She could try to hurt him, but unless she's got a serious ace up her sleeve, it

wouldn't work.


Do I want him hurt? Would that make him dark? Do I really care if he's dark, light, or creamy in the center as long as he's hurting me? Whatever he feels about Cordelia is irrelevant. She's the one who will tell him no. It'll be a unique experience. Angel rejected. Who else would?


Not me. I know how to use concealer in case of psychotic episode. Ask anyone who saw me after the unfortunate wine-cellar slaughter.


He could hurt me. It wouldn't matter. It would possibly be good for both of us. He could get rid of that psychotic rage that might hurt his precious friends and I could lose control. It could work if Angel were willing to bend a little in the name of business.


Just business.


If he understood, it could be just business. Controlled circumstances. Just businessbusiness. A quick hurt a little dabbling on the dark side nothing serious I won't be offended if you were there and gone I don't want you I want what you do to me


Angel, oh Angel, what you do to me










I have to take a shower now.


You have to understand. He gets under my skin.


I have to take a shower now.


The End


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