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Never Summon While Drunk

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Summary: Summoning while intoxicated can have some... unforeseen consequences. Good, bad and downright freaky. Various members of the Council find this out the hard way. Formerly a one-shot.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Multiple Crossings > GeneralIgnotusFR151019,26617619,62330 Nov 0923 Mar 11No

Willow's Weirding Way, Andrew's Agony

Notes: This is just a little humorous (at least it's supposed to be) one-shot that I just had to type out. I'm not sure exactly where this idea came from. And I'm not entirely sure I want to know. Also, I don't hate Andrew.

EDIT: Right. So much for the "one-shot" part.

Timeline: Any time Post-Chosen. But maybe before the beginning of season eight, when they're just getting used to the Scottish castle.

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel are the property of the brilliant Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy Inc. and whomever else. I claim no ownership over any of the other universes represented here. I do not own any rights nor do I have any type of permission from the lucky people who do.



Willow ducked her head, letting her hair fall forward quite effectively hiding her face. The reason for her attempt at hiding stood in front of her, glaring and tapping a foot.

“What exactly possessed you to do this?” Buffy asked. “Or was that it: possessed?”

Willow looked back up and stammered out, “I, well — it was all Andrew’s idea!”

“And you listened to him?!” Buffy asked. It was a valid question. Andrew, while enthusiastic—very enthusiastic—wasn’t someone who you let do things willy-nilly.

“I was drunk! It seemed like a good idea at the time when he told me what he wanted to do. I just… forgot about it all the next morning,” Willow replied sheepishly.

“How do you forget something like that?” Buffy pointed down to where a large chunk of the ground had given way to reveal a trapdoor.

“I was really, really drunk?” After what had just taken place, the hazy memories of the night in question slid to the forefront of her mind. Her expression turned thoughtful. “Apparently he had some of the girls build the chamber and the access to it already and they just needed the, um, contents. I had wondered why Andrew suddenly decided to make margaritas. They were pretty good too. Though I’m still wondering how I could work so much power while drunk. Never drinking that much again, that’s for sure. Still, even though he was just plying me with drinks to get me to agree to this, you have to admit, it came in handy.”

Buffy glared.

“Come on Buff,” Willow pleaded. “If this wasn’t here, that first wave of demons would’ve probably overrun us and got a lot of the girls killed.”

She of course was referring to the demons whose bodies currently littered the area around the front door and entrance hall of the castle. Many of the junior slayers were running around checking bodies to make sure they were dead. As well as collecting any weapons or other items they may have had on them. Waste not, want not.

“Fine. I’ll admit, it was useful in this instance, but,” she pointed to the trapdoor a few feet away. “Tell Andrew two things, first: get rid of it. And second, that if I hear anything to do with Star Wars come out of his mouth again, I'll sew it shut!”

“Buffy…”

“No Willow!” Buffy said. “I don’t care how useful it could be in the future, we are not going to have a trapdoor on our front doorstep!”

A demonic scream drifted up through the opening at their feet. Something large snarled and growled and the scream was abruptly cut off. A slow and steady crunching was heard shortly thereafter.

“Where in the Hell did you even get a Rancor beast anyway? They don’t exist!”

Willow blushed and shrugged. “When I performed the summoning ritual I was, as I’ve said, drunk. You kind of forget certain things are supposed to be impossible or not exist. How do you think I got a freaking lightsabre?” She held up the item. She had been using it to great effect in defending the castle from the group of vicious demons that had tried to invade.

Buffy eyed the sabre and Willow warily. “Yeah, about that… why did you have to get a red one? Andrew was already calling you Darth Willow, now everyone else will too.”

Willow huffed. “I didn’t mean too! After I got the big guy there,” she pointed towards the pit where they could hear a large gulp, “I was thinking how cool it would be to have one so I decided to get one and repeated the ritual once Andrew and the girls left to relocate the Rancor. I always liked the design of Vader’s better than the others so… that was the one I got.”

“Right…” Buffy was looking at the charred remains of a demon in the castles entrance hall. “And when you threw bolts of lightning from your hands?”

“Castigarrin demons are afraid of lightning! It was a bit of psychological warfare.” Willow hastily defended her Sith-like actions.

“You know Willow,” Buffy said, shaking her head in exasperation, “I’d believe you more if you hadn’t been cackling like the Evil Emperor when you did it.”

There was a pause from Willow. “Um, that was some more psychological warfare?”

* * * * *

Andrew ran up to his room in excitement. When he had asked Willow for permission to create a trap by the front entrance in case any annoying Jehovah's Witnesses… er, that is, in case any hordes of demons tried to invade (yeah, that’s it), he never expected her to, not only give him permission, but to actually use his description of Jabba the Hutt’s Rancor pit—which was his initial inspiration for the trap—to conjure up a real live Rancor! He had only said after he was done describing the pit that it would be so cool if they really could get a Rancor. If they existed.

And it turns out that not only had she summoned a Rancor, but she’d gotten herself a real frakkin’ lightsabre!

He had always wondered how in the world she was able to summon something that didn’t exist. And thanks to the conversation he had overheard after the battle earlier this morning, he had his answer: alcohol. And if some drunk summoning made her able to bring forth fictional characters and items…

As he closed and locked the door to his room, he clutched the bottle of whiskey to his chest. He wasn’t that much of a drinker—just the occasional Margarita or Martini (shaken, like James Bond)—but for this, he would make an exception. He was nowhere in Willow’s league in power or ability, but if alcohol somehow tricked the mind and magic into doing things it shouldn’t… well, it worked for Willow.

An hour later, Andrew could hardly stand upright. His stomach was rebelling at the amount of alcohol he’d poured down his throat and his actions were sluggish and uncoordinated.

Perfect.

Carefully, he picked up the transcript he had made of Willow’s little ritual and went to the circle he drew on his bedroom floor.

One of his obsession besides Star Wars was Star Trek. And despite the assertions of certain people to the contrary, he was quite straight. Well, mostly straight. There were a few men he wouldn’t mind getting to know better… Right. Back to the conjuring. He, like many other young men who were fans of the Voyager incarnation of Star Trek, had a small thing for Seven of Nine.

Now, he knew that he couldn’t just summon Seven of Nine to his bedroom and expect her to immediately like him, despite his effort to spruce the place up with candles, Barry White, champagne and satin sheets, or the dashing figure he cut wearing the red silk kimono. So he had taken the precaution of getting a bonding spell prepared along with a small lust and attraction spell that would activate once the summoning was complete. That would do the trick nicely.

While normally Andrew would view what he was trying to do as morally (and legally) wrong (basically, getting a sex slave that must do anything you say), this was Seven of Nine. There must be allowances made for some things.

His nausea increasing and fearing that he might vomit up all the alcohol he had consumed before he was able to even start, Andrew set about performing the ritual.

His motions were wild and erratic. His speech slurred and nearly incoherent. It was just like he remembered Willow doing it. He was confident he would get his Seven of Nine. He reached the end of the ritual and there was a bright flash of light. His already pounding head didn’t take very kindly to this sudden luminosity. He collapsed to his knees and leaned forward, throwing up all his poor stomach had to offer.

He brushed off his mouth with the sleeve of his kimono and looked up, expecting to see his buxom blonde Borg gazing down at him.

Instead, what he found were seven figures clad in black robes, large broadswords sheathed at their waists, looking around his rooms in surprise. One, then the rest of them started screeching horribly. A high piercing sound.

As Andrew clapped his hands over his ears, he realised his mistake. He had gotten his Seven of Nine all right. Seven of the Nine Ring Wraiths from the Lord of the Rings.

As one, they stopped screeching and Andrew looked up to see all of them gazing at him intently. While he couldn’t see underneath the hoods he could still tell. The Wraiths encircled his kneeling form. It was then that Andrew realised the true extent of his situation. The bonding spell hadn’t enacted. He couldn’t command them. The lust and attraction spell, however, had both gone off without a hitch.

Why had he decided to put a silencing ward around his room? Andrew thought as his eyes widened. The seven Nazgûl started unfastening their cloaks.

“Oh crap.”
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