drabble and a half
Should be sleeping. Instead, am ficcing. This should really probably be a one-shot, not a drabble, but since it's hopelessly AU anyhow...
Title: The Fulfillment of Desires
Fandom: Angel: the Series
Pairing: Angel/Wesley
Rating: R
Warnings: Rather not divulge.
Spoilers: "Loyalty," "Forgiving," "Deep Down."
Setting: So hopelessly AU (I think). But sometime after "Deep Down." Before anything else interesting happens in S4.
Word Count: 150 according to Word
This time, Angel realized the blood was spiked. The familiar sensation of deathlust, combined with a giddy freedom from morality. The difference was, he didn't particularly care. He'd been looking at Wesley as if he were, well, if not food, at least indisputably disposable since--since. So now he wasn't just not killing Wes, he was not drinking from him, either.
Until the morning (or was it night?) that he came to Wesley (the fifth time) for advice, and Wesley looked mortal, looked irresistible. The effort it took not to taste him, to taste Wesley, partner-friend-betrayer, was too much, and he couldn't remember why he was even trying. The attack was effortless, the first sip unparalleled, the draining impossibly long in its deliciousness, the death almost an afterthought.
From the other room, Lilah, palming a vial of blood, smiled and, satisfied, whispered, "Wolfram and Hart takes care of its own."
Title: The Fulfillment of Desires
Fandom: Angel: the Series
Pairing: Angel/Wesley
Rating: R
Warnings: Rather not divulge.
Spoilers: "Loyalty," "Forgiving," "Deep Down."
Setting: So hopelessly AU (I think). But sometime after "Deep Down." Before anything else interesting happens in S4.
Word Count: 150 according to Word
This time, Angel realized the blood was spiked. The familiar sensation of deathlust, combined with a giddy freedom from morality. The difference was, he didn't particularly care. He'd been looking at Wesley as if he were, well, if not food, at least indisputably disposable since--since. So now he wasn't just not killing Wes, he was not drinking from him, either.
Until the morning (or was it night?) that he came to Wesley (the fifth time) for advice, and Wesley looked mortal, looked irresistible. The effort it took not to taste him, to taste Wesley, partner-friend-betrayer, was too much, and he couldn't remember why he was even trying. The attack was effortless, the first sip unparalleled, the draining impossibly long in its deliciousness, the death almost an afterthought.
From the other room, Lilah, palming a vial of blood, smiled and, satisfied, whispered, "Wolfram and Hart takes care of its own."