Category: The sick ramblings of my mind
Rating: PG
Summary: See title
Feedback: Uhm... do I hafta? Even I know this is a silly piece, but... ladywitch79@hotmail.com Be gentle.
Notes: I was trying to find inspiration for a new piece, and was going through old files the other day, and found a number of unfinished pieces for a couple of other fandoms. So I have an over-active imagination, so sue me!
Evil Tiff is mentioned with her permission. It's a FK thing.
Beta: Are you kidding? I'm only sending this because... well, see the title for an explanation.
Archive: Gahd, if you want it, take it. Though I can't imagine anyone would, 'cept for Amber at the up and coming www.templevoices.com, if only to show the JediPrudes that even a List Mom can act like a twit.
Disclaimer: <takes a deep breath> George Lucas owns the Jedi, Davis/Panzer owns the Immortal and the Watcher, and Sony/Tristar own the two Vampires and the Coroner. And Countrywide Home Mortgages owns me as well as my first born child. Please don't sue me, since I don't even own the computer this was written on...
What the Muse wants
What the Muse needs
When the Muse is happy
I feel free.
And I'm thankin' you
For givin' me the
Feedback that I need!
(Someone's been listening to teeny-bopper radio too much)
What the Muse Wants
~~~*~~~Libby stared blankly at the blinking cursor.
She blinked.
She went back to staring at the blinking cursor.
"Please?" She begged. "Pretty please, with chocolate sauce on top?"
There, of course, was no answer.
Libby turned around, and huffed in disgust at the empty chair in the corner. Of course he had to be gone right then, when Libby needed him the most. With a frown, Libby resolved to write Qui-smut ASAP.
>POOF!< "Hey, babe! What's up?"
Libby smiled evilly; it worked every time. "What's up, is I'm trying to write this story, and you're not helping me. Hell, you're not even in the same ROOM as me!"
The Muse, who looked suspiciously like a certain black-clad Jedi Knight, gently ushered Libby out of her chair. Taking her seat, he read over what she had written so far.
"Well, I see your problem, babe," he announced, his ego inflating to the point where Libby could barely breathe.
"What?"
"This is the wrong story all together. You're supposed to be working on that nostalgic piece I gave you a while back. I mean, you're almost finished with that one! And this… pointless drivel… is not going to help you finish."
"But I don't wanna write the last part on the nostalgic piece. You know I'm gonna cry when I do. Why won't you just let me write this smut?"
"Because it's not what you promised me, babe. You have a contract to fulfill," he leaned back in the chair, and grinned. "So put up, or shut up."
Libby took great pleasure in tipping the chair backwards, and seeing the Muse's black-clad legs wave in the air for a moment before he disappeared, and re-appeared on the other side of the room. His usually perfectly coifed blonde hair was mussed, and he had a dust bunny hanging from his left elbow.
"What was that for?" He asked, indignant that anyone would even think about abusing him.
"Don't call me babe, and don't bring up contracts. I have readers screaming for a sequel to that bit of fluff you gave me months ago, and they want it NOW. It's your fault for not finishing it, anyway."
"Hey, don't blame me, ba… Lib," he said, picking the dust bunny off his sleeve. "If you had a longer span of attention, I would have been able to finish the thought before you bounded off with it."
Libby glared at the Muse.
He glared back. Then he got distracted by the way light came through the sun catcher hanging in the window.
Libby sighed, and went back to her post in front of the computer. She was bound and determined to write the smut piece, with or without the Muse's help. But, therein lay the problem - without the Muse's help, all Libby would wind up with would be mindless babble.
"I giveth," the Muse snickered from just behind Libby's left shoulder, "and I taketh away."
Libby turned around slowly until she and the Muse were nose to nose. She looked at him evenly from over her glasses, daring him to keep making wise cracks. The Muse grinned at her, and if Libby hadn't been so annoyed with him, she might have taken notes for her next piece.
"You know," Libby said, an idea occurring to her, "I don't have to put up with you."
The Muse shrugged gracefully, the snug black fabric of his shirt shifting over sinewy muscles. "True. But then, you wouldn't be able to write. Then you would be miserable."
"Who said I wouldn't be able to write?"
The Muse rolled his eyes. "Hello, McFly! No Muse, no inspiration. No inspiration, no writing!"
Libby smiled, and the Muse quaked in his knee-high black boots. "I only said *you*. Don't tell me that you actually believe that you are my only source of inspiration?"
"Well... uh... that is..." he stammered, backing up a couple of steps.
"I suppose I ought to introduce you to the others, hadn't I?"
"Ghnnnagh..." Was all he could manage.
Libby nodded, as though coming to a decision. "Yes, I should. Oh boooooooys! Come on in here!" She called out.
The door opened, and in walked two other Muses. One of them, who was tall, dark and muscular, and had long curly black hair, was wearing a kilt. He sauntered in, perfectly at ease with his own body, and totally aware of the bit of drool hanging from Libby's mouth.
"I thought you might like this," he said with a hint of laughter in his voice, "maybe even enough to finish that story you haven't touched in nearly two years."
"Blame Joe," Libby said with a wave of her hand, and a fourth muse appeared. This one had close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and walked with a cane.
"Heya, Libby," he said with a voice like molasses over pecans - sweet, deep, and just rough enough to make Libby's knees go weak. (Good thing she was sitting down already)
"Hi," she managed weakly.
The third muse, a tall, blonde, and impossibly pale young man, knelt beside Libby's chair. "Libby," he said, angst written all over his angelic features, "I thought you were mad at me! Is everything all right? I didn't offend you with that last idea, did I? I did, didn't I? I'm sorry, it's just that with LaCroix and all..."
"What about me?" Libby turned, and saw not one, but TWO more muses standing in the door. The small room was starting to get mighty crowded.
The regal, blonde man in an all black Armani suit, who was as pale as the Muse kneeling beside Libby's chair, seemed to glide into the room. "What about me?" He asked again, and the Muse at Libby's side stood up, anger written in every feature.
"He means," Libby interrupted before a Muse brawl broke out, "that you stopped talking to me at a very inopportune moment in that novella the three of you begged me for."
"Hey, don't look at me," the only female Muse in the room piped up, blowing a bit of curly auburn hair away from her eyes. "I would have been perfectly happy killing zombies with Evil Tiff and the gang, but *somebody* came to me, begging for a plot twist."
Libby stuck her tongue out at the Female Muse. "So I watched too many episodes of 'Santa Barbara' when I was young. That kind of psychological scarring stays with you for years, you know."
All six of the muses looked around nervously. "Don't worry," Libby assured them, "I don't have any more of you guys. Except for..."
"I was wondering when you would remember me, Little One," the Muse said, squeezing his way past the Muse in the kilt and the Muse in black Armani on his way to Libby's side. His long brown hair was shot with silver, as was his beard, and he had to hold his long robes close to avoid catching them on the kilted Muse's katana. "Force, you have a rather large number of us, don't you?" He commented quietly.
"Not as if she calls us anymore," the angsty angelic Muse complained bitterly. The others muttered in agreement.
"And why is that, Little One?"
"Ahh…" Libby said uncomfortably, "I don't think that's a question you two want answered." She jerked her head towards the Muse she had been arguing with earlier.
"But I most certainly do," the Armani clad Muse purred.
"Busy?" Libby squeaked, the half-lie sounding weak even to her.
"But you have not been too busy to write... Oh," the Muse in robes said. "I see."
The Muse in tight black began to snicker. "So do I. Oh, babe, this is rich! So, when are you going to finish that nostalgic piece we were talking about?"
Libby didn't have to look at the other Muses to know that they were know regarding the Muse in robes and the Muse in tight black with red-hot jealousy in their eyes. Well, among other things. She put a hand on the two pale Muses' arms.
"Please don't have them for dinner, guys. You know how I am about losing a Muse," she begged.
The Muse in the kilt had his katana drawn. "What if I just run them through? While they're down, you and I can have a little chat about unfinished romance/mystery/adventure fiction."
Libby shook her head. "Sorry, tall, dark, and Immortal. These guys don't get back up."
The female Muse and the Muse with the cane cheered. The others just looked at Libby in unmasked shock.
"You mean they're not... but you've always..." the angsty angelic Muse stammered.
"Had a thing for shows and movies where the main character is a handsome, angst-ridden Immortal?" Libby supplied.
"I do not suffer from such a Human emotion as angst," the Muse in Armani said loftily.
"Yeah, sure, whatever. 'Sides, you're not the main character, anyhow."
The Muse in tight black had moved to stand next to the Muse in robes. They were both fingering metal cylinders that were clipped to their belts, as though contemplating the various escape routes.
"Look," Libby said, "that's not why I called you here today."
"Then what for?" the Muse with the cane demanded. "To give me a pager so you can call me when ever it's convenient for you? So I can help you when you need it, and you don't have to worry about returning the favor?"
The female Muse was looking at him like she had just found her soul mate. Then, she turned to Libby, and whapped her up the back of the head.
"Ow!" Libby exclaimed, rubbing her head. "What was that for?"
"Don't even think about that kind of crossover, babe. The last crossover you put me in, you left me..."
"Shhh..." Libby said frantically. "I never posted that part!"
The female Muse glared at her.
"Anyway," Libby said, "moving along. I called you here, because I was wondering if you guys would like to help me write a series or two of fiction. These two," she jerked her heard at the Muses in tight black and robes, who had almost made it out the door, "don't seem to understand that I would like to at least have a selection of ideas to work from."
For a moment, silence filled the room. Then all six Muses burst into laughter, disappearing one by one, until only the Muse in robes and the Muse in tight black remained. They looked at her expectantly.
"Oh, fine," Libby huffed. She turned around, and pulled up the nostalgic piece. "But this doesn't mean you're forgiven."
Large hands started massaging Libby's shoulders, and she leaned into it with an appreciative purr. While the Muse in robes rubbed the knots of tension out, the Muse in black knelt beside Libby's chair.
"I'm sorry, Libby," he said, " but you know how things can be. At the very least, we can help you with this ending, and give you some appropriate help with that piece you were asking for earlier..."
<End>
