La Femme
She is decadence, with all the grace of a queen and the wiles of a whore. Her skin is cream pale and her hair is blonde and he imagines her spread-eagled in the air, suspended by ropes and chains, her body twisting in delicious agony as she is brutally savaged.
He wheezes, his breath catching, and reaches for his handkerchief to wipe his suddenly sweaty brow. Over her fan, she glances at him, and, in that brief moment, he realizes that she is no longer human.
No, the Marquis realizes. She would not be savaged. She would be in charge.
Barfly
New York in a 1950s winter, and the snow drifts down past the fogged window of a small bar, where Angel sits, a glass in his hand, trying to forget what he's left behind.
"That drink looks pretty good," a feminine voice says behind him. "Any chance you'd treat a lady to one?"
He turns, and suddenly remembers who she was. She used to look at men, seducing them through the cinema screen, all bob haircut and smoky eyes, das madchen lulu, das madchen Louise, with the same look she's giving Angel's drink.
He signals the bartender for another round.
Biggest Fan
Screaming girls were de rigeur. And, occasionally, there were screaming guys — all skinny and wearing too tight jeans, swishier than he was.
This one was different. He was huge, a hulking caveman with a cheap haircut, delicately clutching an album in his hands as if he was convinced he would break it with his thick fingers.
"I'm your biggest fan," he stammered as he approached. "I...well, 'Mandy', and...just...yeah...can you sign this?" He held up his album and a pen.
"Sure," he replied, uncapping the pen and holding it above the album. "To who?"
"Oh! Angel...the name's Angel, Mr. Manilow."
The Pitch
He doesn't mean to end up in Hollywood, but, of course, it just sort of happens.
He shares espressos at 3 am with a fast-talking smart- thinking director. He tells him how he's spent so much time focusing on blaxploitation and kung-fu movies, he's in the mood for something different, something in the vein (to use the pun) of all those horror movies he watched as a kid.
Oz nods, and, surreptiously, shows him his hand. It changes from human to werewolf and back again in front of Quentin. Quentin smiles, grabs his notepad, and starts writing his next hit movie.
This Angel/Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Historical story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at http://www.dymphna.net/fanfic/. And you can feedback her at dymphna@dymphna.net.