While I am AFK this week, you may enjoy this category from the vault: If Famous Authors Wrote Fanfic.
What if Dan Brown worked on his Angel headcanon?
In the splendid dome of the Taj Mahal, a beautiful young blonde reached out for him.
“Angel! You are as slow as your 240 years would indicate!”
Angel laughed laughingly. He tried to catch up with her, but the tiled room began to tilt. He looked up, and the beautiful woman had been replaced with a ravening Fook-Demon!
Angel Angelus awoke with a start from his troubling nightmare. Before he could gather his mental thoughts, slim but athletic Cordelia walked in with the morning’s folded newspaper.
“Angel,” said Cordelia, tossing her lustrous but professional hair. “We have a problem.”
Or if Ayn Rand shipped Buffy?
Buffy turned to him in stark disbelief.
“You can’t be serious,” she said, like a child just informed that her family was moving to the Midwest and could not, no not even if she was very good, take their cat. “You’re the most powerful vampire that ever lived. The sire of all sires. You cannot… you simply must not go on strike! Why would you leave when Sunnydale needs you most?”
Angel crossed the room before her and leaned against the desk. The room was dark and silent as he withdrew from its pack a black cigarette with a foil gold band. He lit it deftly with a match, not flinching at the sulphur or the flame as it set in relief the gaunt angles of his face. The room filled with the smell of cloves.
He spread his palms, not with condescension, and not without pity, but with the mien of a periodontist whose patient’s surgery could have been avoided through regular flossing.
“Who is Anya Harris?” he said, a plume of smoke encircling his sculpted cheekbones.
Man, I need to watch more Buffy.
Hope you’re having a lovely day.
