(Or, you know, not, because that appears to be all our Victor-y goodness for the night.)

Umm. So, here be (in the next post) my slashficathon entry. Which I just now wrote, as I spent the time I should have been writing it hanging with, amusingly, the person I was writing it FOR. So, for our very own, if absent, Herself, I wrote

Last Rites

Riley/Spike, to her specifications. Which were that they compete over Buffy, have some of that rimming, and then fuck.

Things used to be simple. Black and white. Good and Evil. G-d and Country. Boys and Girls.

Black and white got him bruised and battered and damn near killed when they collided in a haze of grey and made the line between Good and Evil get fuzzy. He's stopped going to church, he's not sure how he feels about his country, and even if he knows how he feels about the girl, his feelings aren't the ones that make or break things.

Riley looks over at Spike, and realizes he envies the enemy almost as much as the enemy envies him. Spike is Psych 101 simple, driven by his id. He wonders again why they've let this particular Hostile live. Buffy'd probably tell him it was "complicated" or something like that, some excuse that rings false to Riley's ears. And everything Spike's said tonight is true.

Buffy doesn't love him. He's not monster enough for her. "I'm the guy," he says again, trying to put more strength in the words. "I'm the guy, and it eats you up, doesn't it?"

A shrug and the bottle's tossed back Riley's way. "Course it does. She deserves better than you, you know."

The whisky stings, cheap and bitter in his throat, but he drinks it anyway. He stares at Spike, who stares back, cocky even through the obvious pain, teeth bared in a pleasant sneer. Riley feels old, tired, lost, and he takes another swallow, tosses the bottle back to Spike. "Kiss my ass," he says, wrenching his head around so all he sees are the dark stone walls.

He hears the clink of glass on rock, and knows Spike's set the bottle down. There's a rustle, a muffled groan, and then soft words without breath are hitting his ear. "Well, if that's the way you want to play it."

He's not prepared for Spike suddenly twisting him around until he's flat on his stomach, or for Spike's hands tugging at his pants until they're off and discarded, and he's sure as hell not prepared for the feel of a cool, damp mouth on his ass. He feels a rush of adrenaline and a surge of something that might be need as the mouth goes lower, hands parting his cheeks and that tongue going where tongues, in Riley's world, were never meant to go.

It's not the first time a vampire's made him hard, just the first time one of them took this route to get him there. Spike probably doesn't think Riley has it in him to go this low and enjoy it, but Spike doesn't know him very well. Flickers of motion over tender skin fly through him like electric shocks, and he starts to shake and sweat. He lashes out blindly with his feet, connecting and sending Spike off balance, and, more importantly, off of him.

Sprawled on the floor, sneer intact, Spike laughs at him. "You still smell like her, which I guess makes you the next best thing."

With a growl, Riley pulls Spike up and looks him dead in the eye. "And you're small and blond." It takes a moment for the implication to sink in, and while Spike's busy puzzling it out, Riley returns the favor with the pants. "On your knees, Hostile," he orders.

Spike drops, but not without another bark of laughter coming out of him. "Didn't know you had it in you."

"I don't," a pause as Riley bends down between Spike's splayed thighs, his still-hard cock brushing against Spike's raised ass. "But you will."

Reasonable's now more than just a couple exits back: it's crossed the state line and gone into hiding. This is stupider than going to those vampires, stupider than falling in love, stupider than anything he's done since leaving Iowa, and he doesn't care. Riley pushes his cock inside Spike's ass, knowing full well that it's as big a mistake as he could possibly make, as low as he could humanly go, and that it still won't be low enough.

This is something else he's never done, never thought of doing; Spike shifts to take him in deeper like it's something he's done any number of times. Riley finds himself thinking clinically about the differences between what he's doing now and what he's used to doing. It's primarily a difference in sensation; this is tighter, forcing him to go slower, to hold back when holding back is the last thing he wants to be doing.

Riley closes his eyes and tightens his grip on Spike's shoulders. He can feel the sharpness of bone through his palms, digging into the skin. Can feel the slide of his own sweat against skin that only gets wet by artificial means. Spike smells like smoke and whisky and nothingness. Oblivion. Riley stops holding back.

When it's over, he collapses, like his body can't hold up under the weight of his actions. Spike slides out from under him without a word, and from the corner of his eye, Riley can see him walk over to where he left the bottle. He picks it up, takes a swallow, and offers it to Riley, who has pulled on his pants and managed to sit back down on the ratty couch. Riley takes it, trying to wash the memories out of his brain.

"Well, now I know what she's so willing to give up, and I can't say as I blame her." Spike's in full control again, and Riley's stopped wondering how that happened.

"Fuck you," he says, finishing off the whisky and throwing the bottle to shatter against the wall.

"You already did that. Wonder what Buffy would say if she found out?"

As a threat, it's not particularly effective. "You wouldn't tell her, and even if you did, it wouldn't change things." Riley faces the knowledge he's tried to avoid, and tastes the truth in his next words like poison even before he forces them out. "It's over," he finally says. "You've seen to that."

Well shit. Because when I signed up for the slashficathon the e-mail I got said to write Angel/Wes, and when I look at the list here it says I was to write Andrew/Wes. ARRRRRRRRGH...

But I have 16 hours and, oh, 11 of those I'M AT WORK!!!! Goddamn. I suppose that's what I get for not checking up livejournal entries for folks I've not friended.

FUCK!

Beautiful, Victor. I agree with you that writing Dru-voice is scary. Am has some notes on a Dru I think is going to be spectacular, whenever she gets the story finished. hint. hint.

Apropos of the conversation of yesterday, I've spent way too many hours writing smallville fic recently, which seems rather pointless to me, except as fun and a way to be writing. Huh, I mean it didn't feel valuable. (Which makes me wonder now about what i mean by valuable because fun and writing practice should be considered valuable) Anyway, because of that, the house is edging towardy pigsty and last night's dinner was, to be kind, uninspired.

My point is that, before I married Greg, I would have been hearing my mom's voice in my head (and at times in my life, of course, in person) telling me that I was wasting time, neglecting my responsibilities and plainly lazy and selfish, i.e., deena = evil.

Last night, climbing into bed at 3 and trying not to wake Greg, I realized that he wasn't at all unhappy about the writing, even though it wasn't world-changingly-valuable, in fact, he was proud of me for doing it, and he didn't care that the housework had slid or that dinner was boring or that I stayed up way too late. The babies were healthy and happy and I'd gotten to be creative, and even if he never read it (maybe especially if he never read it *g*), he would remain convinced it was the best smallville chloe/lana fiction out there and that it brought a lot of people pleasure, and that it was, indeed valuable just because I chose to do it.

Blew me away to realize it. The boy is good for my mental health.

That's sweet, Deena. It really is.

I've got the first bit of my Andrew/Wes done, and I'm going to throw it out here for comments by whoever feels moved to help me with a beta. Thanks.

The Parvo demon struck out with its left claw, rudely separating Wesley from his axe, and nearly his hand. Andrew let out a shriek - a manly bellow, he quickly assured himself - that blew through his flute and caused an impossibly shrill note. The demon clutched his slimy teal head and roared in anguish.

"That's it, Andrew!" Wes shouted as a long blade shot from his wrist sheath. "Keep him off balance. Gunn, Fred, get behind it."

Andrew beamed, pleased at the recognition from Wesley. "He's so cool," he thought. "He's got the dangerous edge of Timothy Dalton mixed with just the right amount of Pierce Brosnan's smooth, sophisticated good looks. What a Bond he'd make." He stared vacantly into the distance while the fight raged on unchecked.

"Andrew, play the bloody flute!"

He started at the shouted order, fumbling for his instrument while the trio of fighters battled for their lives. Wes was swinging the blade furiously, but made nary a dent in the dense scales of the monster; Gunn's axe seemed likewise useless. Fred darted forward and jabbed at the demon's back with her taser. It jerked as electricity arced through its body. Unfortunately, this made the creature all too aware of Fred; it spun around and advanced on the woman as she coolly loaded her crossbow.

"Andrew!" Wes shouted while diving forward to hack at the swinging tail he now faced, "Flute! Blow!"

"I can't." Andrew's whine was almost as high pitched as his shriek - manly bellow - but tragically did not have the requisite wind power to produce a note. "My mouth is dry from all the bellowing and adrenaline."

Wesley abandoned his fruitless attack and grabbed Andrew by the shoulders, shaking him. "Just pucker up and blow!"

Andrew obediently pursed his lips, but the flute produced little more than a squeak. "I think I need a Zima."

"Oh, for…" Wesley shook Andrew once more, then pulled him forward and ground their mouths together. Andrew gasped, and Wes took advantage of his parted lips, darting his tongue in to sweep the younger man's mouth, dampening lips and teeth and tongue with warm saliva. He pulled back, Andrew gaped at him, mouth hanging open in shock, lips red and slickly wet.

"Blow."

Andrew's eyes darted downward, his jaw dropping even further.

"The flute, Andrew." Andrew continued to stare at Wes with dreamy eyes. "The magic flute." Andrew looked up at Wes speculatively. "Your instrument. That you are holding in your hand. That you play with. Oh, for …" Wesley released Andrew's shoulders and pulled the wooden flute out of Andrew's grasp, waving it in front of his face.

"Ohhhh. That flute."

"Andrew, just play a bloody tune so we can kill this bloody demon and bloody well go home."

Off-key piping filled the cavern and the distracted demon was handily dispatched.

the distracted demon was handily dispatched

This is the only part I don't love. I think it should be more fully fleshed out.

Love the rest.

Okay, fleshing.

I like it, Victor. But I can't imagine Buffy saying "unearthly fiend" seriously -- not without me knowing why she'd changed so.

Okay, here's the rest of the fic, including a slightly fleshed out demon slaying. Please let me know what you think, because I need to finish it today. (did I mention it has to include a Monty Python quote?)"Andrew, just play a bloody tune so we can kill this bloody demon and bloody well go home."

Piping music filled the cavern, each off-key note further weakening the demon. Wes and Gunn moved in, weapons unerringly trained on newly exposed vulnerable flesh. Within minutes the monster lay dead in a pool of iridescent grey ichor.

• **

Wesley sat back in his obscenely comfortable office chair, contemplating the Gordian knot that his interpersonal relationships had become. As if it wasn't hard enough working with a soulled vampire whose son you had kidnapped, a half-crazed physicist, a romantic rival for the aforementioned half-crazed physicist, an undead ex-lover who persisted in hanging around despite the beheading, and all the evil lawyers; then he had to show up.

Andrew. With his insane cheerfulness and stunning ability to almost-but-not-quite get killed. With his annoying chatter and marvellous baking skills. With his innocent eyes that followed Wesley with abject hero worship. Though that last, Wesley had to admit, had been incredibly flattering at first, of late it had changed into something that made Wes slightly uneasy; something familiar. It had become, he realised with an unpleasant surge of memory, the gaze Fred had used to turn on Angel. The 'Handsome Man Saved Me From Monsters' look.

"Well," Wes thought, "I'm just going to have to have a talk with Andrew. Set him straight about his little crush."

The discretely closed doors of his office burst open to admit Andrew, in full dramatic mode, trailed by security staff.

"We have to talk." Andrew was trying to pull his arm away from a guard.

"It's not a particularly good time, Andrew." Wes motioned for the guards to remove the intruder.

"We have to talk about the crush you have on me!" Shock must have loosened the guards' grip, because Andrew stormed further into the office.

"My life," Wesley thought, "could not get any more surreal." He nodded to the guards and continued aloud, "You can go, gentlemen. Your assistance is not required."

He waited until the guards had left, closing the office doors behind them, before speaking again.

"Andrew, I assure you, I do not have a crush on you."

"Yes you do."

"I do not."

"You kissed me."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did!"

"I didn't."

"You put your lips on mine and you put your tongue in my mouth and you moved it around and that's a kiss."

"I was just moistening your mouth so you could play the flute."

"No you weren't."

"Yes I was."

"No you weren't."

"Oh, I'm sorry, is this a five minute argument, or the full half hour?"

"What?"

Wesley realised that he was enjoying himself hugely. He could not remember the last time he'd had more fun. "Because if it was the five minute argument, your time is up."

"That was never five minutes!" Andrew's voice was perilously close to a full-blown whine.

"Yes it was."

"No it wasn't."

"I'm sorry, but your time is up. I'm not arguing anymore."

"What are you talking about, Wesley?" Definitely whining now. "Is this some sort of British humour?" Wes could hear Andrew spelling it with a 'U'.

"I suppose it is."

"Oh, it's like that Monty Python guy."

Wesley looked at Andrew, trying to decide if he really wanted to get into explanations, then realised he really had no choice about the matter. "Monty Python is not a person, it's the name of a troupe of comedians."

"Right, like that strange walking guy."

"Silly."

"It sure was - when he walked like this - " Andrew began to mince and lumber around the office in a massively misguided imitation of John Cleese's Minister, finally tangling his legs together so badly that he stumbled into a chair, tumbled over the desk, and landed square in Wesley's lap. Air was pushed from Wes' lungs in a huge gasp and he curled over Andrew, reflexively tightening his arms around the youngster. "It was - " Andrew looked up at Wes adoringly, "really, really - " he licked at his lips "silly."

Wesley stared down at Andrew, letting himself enjoy the trust and worship the young man offered.

"It's okay, Wesley." Andrew lifted a hand and patted a stubbled cheek comfortingly. "It's okay for a man to have a crush on another man."

"And what," Wesley thought, "can you do but lose yourself in such a wonderfully kind person." He smiled and lowered his head to kiss Andrew, quite thoroughly.

They slid to the floor in a graceful twist of limbs, hands moving slowly, exploring each the other.

When he felt slender hands fumbling with his belt Wesley couldn't help but laugh. "Are you here to book a vacation, or would you like a blow job?"

Andrew paused in his quest for zippers. "We're going on vacation?"

Whoa, soooo much to talk about.... I need to keep it quick.

For him, there is always someone dying in the distance.

That line floors me. But you need to check your tenses and bits and bobs. Here:

Him, nursing a growing, aimless rage. Her, more free than he had ever known her.

Surely that should be He, nursing and She, more free?

“It was so different then,” she thought, “so unlike the unearthly fiend that had murdered Angel. It was human once.”

Like ita, "unearthly fiend" rings wrong. But the tense is off, as well. "that had murdered Angel" needs fixing.

But this section is amazing.

Plei - no, never mind, I'll just be over there, whimpering. You rock.

Elena, the James Bond references cracked me up. And this?

Wesley sat back in his obscenely comfortable office chair, contemplating the Gordian knot that his interpersonal relationships had become. As if it wasn't hard enough working with a soulled vampire whose son you had kidnapped, a half-crazed physicist, a romantic rival for the aforementioned half-crazed physicist, an undead ex-lover who persisted in hanging around despite the beheading, and all the evil lawyers; then he had to show up.

Take the second "l" out of "souled" and it's out of the park, honey.