Random Chaos

Seriously, I don’t know what I’m going to do with this one at all. I’m sure everyone remembers the muse rant from before. Now, it’s time for yet another muse rant, and this time, I’ve got no say in what happens whatsoever.

I’ve been trying to keep my muses on track so that I can finish the Vincent/Cid fic that I’ve been working on for over a month now, but it seems that they have other ideas right now. I blame my habit of frequenting art threads on Gaia. If I hadn’t fallen into that old habit of mine, I wouldn’t be in this bind, now would I? No, I would not. But I did, and so I am in this bind, so I’ve got to do something about it.

Or rather, my muses have decided to do something about it. For the past two weeks, I’ve wanted to write a ficlet with a rather cracky pairing – Yazoo/Zack. (I did say cracky, and you can’t say I didn’t warn you.) It’s all thanks to seeing that pairing done visually.

It is in times like these that I wish that my muses weren’t so effective with visual catalysts.

For two days, I’ve been on a writing frenzy. It hasn’t been according to my own plans, however; it’s been according to what my muses tell me to do. Oh, sure, that’s how it always goes, but at least sometimes I get to set up the ideas and then I let my muses run off with them. This time, my muses have been the masters of the universe, and they’ve been cracking the whips at me to get me to write faster. I’ve been writing the YxZ fic for two days now.

Yes, I said ‘fic,’ and not ‘ficlet.’ The fact is, my muses have been on a roll as of late. They’ve somehow gotten me to somehow manage to write four parts for this fic already, and it looks like it’s going to be a fairly decent one. I’d planned a one-shot, just to get the bunnies out of my system, and it hasn’t worked so far. I mean, three chapters in eighteen hours…that’s psychotic. What seems to be worse is that they’re on the same kick today. I’m already up to two chapters in, and it doesn’t seem to be slowing down any time soon. (The fact is, I’m working on it as I write this right now, letting my muses get their say in so that I can get the next two done in the space of two hours without a food break.)

Now that I think about it, I probably would have gotten more done yesterday if I had taken fewer food breaks.

What the hell? I just seriously contemplated cutting food out while I work, didn’t I?

These muses…they’re dangerous.

I’m wondering if I should post a few teasers every once in a while. I don’t know where this is going yet. I’m writing as though in a trance, and it is as new to me when I write it as it is to someone reading it. In fact, I went through what I wrote a few hours ago and it was like I was seeing it for the first time. It’s as if I blanked out for a few minutes at the computer monitor and then lo and behold! Fic chapters! The muses have turned me into a literary berserker, it seems.

I must be having an auditory hallucination. I keep thinking that I’m hearing the Hymn of the Fayth out of nowhere. I know I must be, because I’m hearing a single voice…and the rendition that I’ve heard is a full choral arrangement, not a single voice. A single, penetrating middle-soprano, cutting to my very soul.

Heh, I bet I must sound really dark right now. Rightly so, however, given the thoughts that I am having right now. I guess I should explain. Yes, that would be the logical path.

It’s 5:59 PM, as I write this. And right after a serious altercation within the walls of this project apartment. Gods, how I hate it here. I’ve finally made up my mind to get out of here as fast as I can. But that is off the subject.

It started off simply enough. I was simply attempting to read a book. An Anne Rice novel, which was making my mind have evil slashy thoughts, when I am told that I have been called by someone in the house. Not quite believing it, I nevertheless rise from the beanbag chairs and check it out to see what’s going on. This is when I find out that the summons was a hoax, crafted by my stepsiblings. I nearly lose my temper here, and barely resist clouting them all one good upside the head, instead choosing to return to my roost on the chairs and try to finish reading.

That is when evil stepbrother decides to burst into the room and yell at the top of his lungs, and I quote: "Evil idiot lesbian!"

I slam the door in his face, intentionally trying to hit him with it as hard as possible, and then force my weight against the door to attempt to hold it shut. Just my rotten luck that I have lost a lot of strength over the summer, and therefore I am about as effective at this task as would be a goose-down pillow. I try to do this for a while longer, eventually deciding that it would be far more efficient to bar the door with something heavy. The computer table…perfect. I attempt to hold the door shut—note carefully the word ‘attempt’—as I pull the computer table over with one foot carefully, but the thing catches no less than five inches from where it would serve a purpose. I remember that there is an outlet behind the furniture, and that the machinery is still plugged in. I let a string of random, barely coherent expletives escape me as I look for another plan. That plan doesn’t get created, though as he busts back in with some more random insults that would normally not even bother me, but dammit, I’m trying to fucking READ in there. Damn kid, he thinks he’s some sort of star just because he broke his arm. Sometimes, all I want to do is to wring his neck, and not slowly, at that. This was one of those times.

I attempt to reason with him—which consists of me trying to finish a sentence while he tries to pin me and beat me up—it’s sad that I can be taken down by a nine-year-old—and very quickly lose my patience with him as he starts throwing expletives about like he’s some kind of boy-scout-aged thug. That’s the part where I attempt one more chance at that maneuver and try for another civilized option.

I keep to that strategy for about three seconds before I grab his good arm, twist it behind him, clap a hand over his mouth, and remove my grip from that other arm swiftly to attack a bundle of nerves in the neck, in the manner of someone trained to deal crippling blows quickly, and soon he’s a whining, writhing mass at the top of the stairs. I swear, the next words from my mouth are pure poison; I can actually taste something vaguely alkaline as I say, "You idiotic, barbarian child. You need to get the hell out of my way and leave me the hell alone, or next time I really will hurt you. This? Ha, this was nothing. Now shut the hell up, idiot." I slam the door shut again and attempt to return to my reading.

I have about three minutes of peace here, before he runs to one of his sisters about the entire thing—of course leaving out the assault on my sanity—and soon she’s pulling the exact same bull, and I take a similar strategy, this time using the force behind a wiry, bony palm to deliver crushing pressure to the ribs and push the wind she needs for her argument right out of her chest. I continue, "You think you’re big stuff now, just because you’ve got the start of a pair. Well, I’m grown, and you need to know your place around me before I really DO get violent here." I remove the hand as quickly as it had been applied, and she kind of loses her balance against the wall. She recovers quickly, though and prepares a string of random insults for me. And I slam the door in her face.

Just then, the little barbarian decides to have a say in the whole thing, and I deal almost the exact maneuver as before, this time focusing on the other side, but still carefully avoiding the broken arm—you know, as not to get into big liability issues—and send him to the ground again before returning to the bedroom.

Right after it’s all (relatively) quiet on the other side of the door, I let loose with the singular longest string of obscenities that I’ve probably ever used in my life.

It’s quiet enough to finish my reading, and I do, and it’s still quiet for about fifteen minutes. So I decide to lie down for a second or so, catch my breath.

The fact is, I’m out of shape. Horribly so, in fact. That simple altercation, where I was in charge for most of it, had me fighting for breath. And though I didn’t have chest pains or anything like that, I was exhausted. So I decide to rest.

That’s where I hear it. Out of nowhere, I’m hearing a single mezzo-soprano voice bringing the Song of Prayer to my ears.

Without warning, my thoughts change direction rapidly. I realize just what has happened out there, what I had done, what I was dangerously close to doing, and it floors me. (Or at least it would have if I had not already been on the floor. ^^;;) I let my thoughts run where they will, not bothering to direct them in any specific direction. …And I can see myself carefully torturing each of those kids, beating them senseless, giving them as many lashes with a whip until they were bloody and begging for mercy at my feet—any and all assorted torture and punishments that I have either dreamt of dealing, or relived through nightmarish recall. It hits me that when I was doing all that, I hadn’t felt a speck of remorse or guilt—still don’t—and I had, in fact, rather enjoyed myself. Immensely, even.

The melody runs through my mind again as I ask the ceiling, "What the hell’s happening?"

Another string of random expletives before I stand up and open the window; it’s suddenly gotten way too hot in here.

Then I flop back onto the beanbags, vaguely remembering that those things are prone to blowing up if you sit on them too fast, and let my mind go where it will.

"What am I? Have I become some sort of beast?"

My mind continues to wander about. The nature of humanity, it seems is one of extremes. Violence seems to be one of these extremes. When you think about violence, you think wars, military, what seems to be going on in the world at large right now. Human beings seem to be given to extremes of violence, some more than others, and that it seems that some of it is inherited. Whether it is inherited through spirit or blood is irrelevant. What makes one different from the other is the action taken on these tendencies.

I can remember when I thought violence an ANY form was an atrocity. I wouldn’t even pick wildflowers, so extreme was my view. I don’t know when it happened exactly, but that extreme pacifism vanished almost completely at some point. I mean, look at me, an admitted sadomasochist, and apparently with a tendency to blind rages.

I still won’t uproot a wildflower from its bed, but I seem to enjoy inflicting pain on others.

What kind of beast am I?

I’ve got an image in my head. I’ll try not to go into too much esoteric jargon to relate it. A figure, skin as pale as bleached ivory, arms bound in chains to the ceiling. Bandages falling in a bloody heap from his body to the floor, bloody cuts on his face, chest, and legs, which are also bandaged and clad in ragged jeans. Silver hair makes a striking contrast with the blood, and the eyes, they are the same shade of crimson as the blood.

THAT is how I feel right now. Uplifting, I know. But it isn’t like I can just flip a switch and be bright and sunny inside.

Regardless of how it looks to people on the outside.

I don’t know what happened. I don’t have any fracking clue. But I got home yesterday and rain into the receiving end of one of the classic rants of this household. Did I mention how much fun it is to be stuck living at home with hardcore Bible-thumpers when you’re a pagan whose favorite spiritual practice is evocation?

Uh…yeah. Things get bad quick with that sort of combination.

But when I got back home, the first thing that I noticed was that I was RAVENOUS. Not just hungry, but ravenous, and I needed food—oh, somewhere around three minutes ago, as far as my stomach was concerned. So I started looking around.

"What’re you looking for?" my dad asks me as I’m searching the cabinets.

"FOOD." An honest answer, straight to the point…and rather reminiscent of Fujin, from FF VIII. Not that you could blame me. I’d missed the chance to get at the hot water on campus to fix instant ramen noodles and hadn’t eaten. At all. All day. And it was almost seven o’clock. He points me to the leftovers and I grab a plate and start loading it down, and look for tea…since there’s none made already, I reach for the teakettle to heat water, getting two teabags, my stevia extracts, and a spoon. Because I can’t have hot tea without a spoon, you know. Then he asks me this question:

"What is that stuff that you drink? That milk, what was it?"

I answer through a mouthful of noodles and steak. "Skim." I’ve been trying to cut back on meat, but I had the damnedest craving for beef that day—like I had all week for some reason—so it was being shoveled into my mouth at the rate of approximately sixty miles per hour. "But you bought two-percent. Eech." I’ve never liked two-percent milk. I can taste the fat in it. Tastes spoiled, and it makes me gag on a good day. "SKIM. Not two-percent."

This is where my stepmother decides to speak up. "Yeah. You’re not drinking that anymore."

This is the part where if I’d been drinking tea they’d cue the spit take. As it was, I had a mouth full of what was now an empty spoon, which I promptly dropped to the table with a loud clatter.

"Wait a minute. What??"

We proceed to an explanation that I am underweight (not so, according to the last assessment that I’ve gotten) and that I don’t have enough body fat (again, not so) and need to see a doctor. I am also informed that I:

—need to get off of this diet (What diet?!?!),

—stop drinking pomegranate juice (nuu…)

—stop drinking my various teas, and

—every meal that I eat after this point will be VERY HEAVY, meaning in layman’s terms that they’re trying to fatten me up.

…wtf?

I tried to reason with them, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. They’re convinced that I am a sickly little critter and they have appointed themselves the ones in charge of this task.

And it didn’t stop there. Right after that series of rants, I find myself on the receiving end of what is basically an ‘anti-sex’ rant. Well, THEY called it a conversation. Sure, if conversations consist of one person just nodding or shaking their head and the other two basically ranting on and on about a given topic. (Well, I guess that could be considered a conversation when it comes to politics, anyway ^^;;) But that’s basically what it was, and I didn’t have a thing that I could do about it. It just went on and on and on…until the subject changed to ‘anti-sex rant with race of partner as focus."

Dude. What. The. Fluck.

So it continued like this for another fifteen minutes of them ranting and me nodding or shaking my head ‘no’ whilst I tried to just go on long enough to finish the tea that I’d made. With milk, but again, two-percent. I could taste the fat, for cripes’ sake.

And then I find myself on the receiving end of yet another rant session. This time, it was an anti-homosexuality rant.

OK, now it was time for me to speak up. I wasn’t about to put up with that one for what had to be the fifteenth time this month. I spoke up on one of them, but it was right before I boarded the rail for campus so I don’t know if it got across. So I spoke up, finally.

"Dude. You know, I’ve had it with your homophobia."

I started a chain of events here, with that one sentence.

"I’m not homophobic. I just don’t fuck with gay people."

"He’s got gay friends." And with my step mom’s input, the conversation started to turn into a conversation.

"You sure sound homophobic. You act it."

"Don’t you KNOW? The BIBLE speaks directly against being gay."

And here’s where he paraphrases several verses, a number of them that I recognize as being from the book of Leviticus. Is it just me, or is that the first book where you go when you argue against this? Then he goes into the story of Sodom. And also where I try to zone myself out of the conversation as best as possible, because I can already sense that this rant is going in the same direction as the one that I last spoke up about. Funny, that—you know, how history tends to repeat itself like that.

As it is, I attempt to send my mind to its happy place, which at the moment is very Reno/Rufus…with whipped cream. A funny little story, really. I actually had asked my step-mom the night before what was better…the food-kink being initiated by the redhead (who was top) or the blonde (who was bottom). Of course, I didn’t mention that the redhead was a guy, nor did I mention that the blonde was a guy. Never did I mention the gender of either party, now that I think of it…but I seriously needed the tip, because my muses had made me their faithful little subbie. So I asked. Her verdict: the blonde. But I mentioned that didn’t work since the blonde is bottom…but then it came to me. DURING. (That fic is almost set, by the way.)

As my mind is working on the yaoi-riffic thoughts, he goes into a different stage of his rant. "It’s a sin! The Bible teaches against it!"

"Dad, relax—"

"You know the story of Sodom, right?"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him, because OF COURSE I know it, I went to catholic school until I hit college, and OF COURSE I don’t care because I’m a yaoi fan and I think that two men going at it is damn hot. But instead, I just resist and say, "Yes, I know."

"It’s sodomy, that’s all it is, and it’s a sin! A SIN!!"

My mind grouses that oral sex isn’t sodomy, but the only thing that registers in my mind is the phrase ‘oral sex’ and I get a mental image of where my fic is going, and I have to bite back a case of the giggles, because, well, I wouldn’t want to be grounded or something.

I resign myself to the rant and just wait for it to finish so that I can start writing again, because my muses were asking me to get started on the actual dirty part of the writing, which is getting the smut scene out of the way.

Make no mistake, I’ve got a rant ready for him later on, a nice little counterpoint to his argument against it all. Of course, I have a different background to draw on for this. He pulls heavily on the bible for his logic, and so I will have to go through the teachings of my system. It’s going to be tricky to get it through his head that I see god as a woman. I don’t plan on mentioning any of my favorites, just referring to ‘God’ in the feminine. Although I can mention that in some mythologies homosexuality is mentioned (::cough:: happened ::cough::)

Should be an interesting little debate.

Of course, there’s always "Plan B," which is letting him beta-read an excerpt from the second chapter of my Vincent/Cid fic. There’s a relatively creepy scene where Vincent is confronted by a ‘spectre,’ and the spectre’s actions are…rather creepy and hot. And the spectre is a guy.

Hm…rereading that section has me wondering if I should make that section a little more graphic. Or if it should be saved for later in the fic, because he’s going to be back at least once in this thing. Ah, his reaction when it finally sinks in that I’m having one of the characters basically getting molested by a spectre of the same sex…I wonder if it would be pushing it a bit to go "Isn’t that creepy-hot?" after he picks his jaw up from the floor. (I’m devious XD)

Of course, that’s where he’d plan the intervention, but sitting through it would be well worth the chance to see his reaction.