muse.

It’s the third day of your writing challenge.

You sit at your desk — fingers perpetually suspended over the keyboard — on occasion, they descend to bang out a few lines. Then, Ctrl + Z.

It’s been over three hours, so you check the word count.

88 words.

You want nothing more than to crash out — react in some significant way. A colorful statement with several utterances of the term, ‘fuck’. A middle finger or two or twenty to the sky. Anything to make the universe aware of your immense dissatisfaction. Instead, there’s only resignation — you sag, and the tension seeps out — total defeat.

There’s a rustling sound behind you. Then someone peeks over your shoulder.

An Yujin.

Together, you stare at the screen and assess the product of all that time and effort.

Several lengthy moments of quiet pass between you. Then, she hesitantly speaks up.

“Nice.”

You give her a look. “Be honest.”

“Wow! You’re slow as fuck.” She immediately blurts out.

You slump onto the table, face buried in your arms. You respond, muffled. “Too honest.”

She sighs and hovers over you, combing her fingers through your hair soothingly.

For a while, you sit there and just focus on the gentle comforts of her hand.

“I set out to write and post every day.”

“Yeah.”

“I already failed.”

“I mean — yeah.” You glare at her with a pout. “But it’s fine.” There’s a pause as neither of you says or does anything else — nothing but her hand on your head. Suddenly, you feel the hand stop and pull away. Instead, there’s a nudge to your shoulder, then a poke to your left cheek.

You swat at the perpetrator. She laughs, adoringly.

She points at you. “You don’t actually have to write everyday y’know? If you’re this stressed out, what’s the point?” And she did have a point.

“We need less clickity clack and more plipity plap.”

Crickets.

“What. The fuck?”

Yujin giggles at your response. And you’re still reeling from the absurdity of what was said.

Then she smiles all-reassuring — and tugs at your arm. “C’mon, you should take a break.”

“But—”

She shushes you, a finger pressed to your lips. As per usual, you listen dutifully.

“No buts.” A swift retort. Yujin then stands to her full height, pacing around. “Besides, why write about me when I’m right here?” She does a half spin and faces you with a cute head tilt — wide stance, hands on hips.

Carefully, you think about it. Then shrug, “It’s fun.”

“Not for me!” She protests. With some healthy indignation, she stomps over and looms over your hunched form. Rather intimated, you peer up at her.

The space between you is tense. Knowingly, you brace for impact.

Within seconds, the atmosphere shifts. Without warning, she drags you out of the chair. You’re unsure if she’s just that strong or if you simply submitted to her, but you’re thrown onto the bed.

You yelp.

And suddenly you’re on your back — and Yujin’s straddling you.

Her thighs settle comfortably around your hips. A sultry gaze cast down, full of want, directed at you.

You start to say something, but sense the unintelligible garble surfacing and gulp it down.

She’s light — but the intensity of her desire and the weight of her attention bearing down on you makes it impossible to do anything — only lie quietly and wait.

Then she gradually descends towards you, setting a torturous pace. Only when you can feel her soft exhales and heavy breathing — sending shivers down your whole body — does she speak.

“I’ll give you something to write about,” Yujin murmurs into your ear.

You lean away from her, at least as far as you can when she’s perched right on you.

Heat crawls up your neck. "I—I don’t write about that stuff.”

A hand gently, but firmly, comes beneath your head and turns it back to face her own.

“But you read lots of it.” She whispers, all low. Before averting her eyes — finally a bit shy. “And do.. do lots of it.”

“No—Now, hold on—”

You feel something soft traveling south, then stopping, palming something stiff.

Yujin hums in approval. And her lethal touch detaches from you. You whine — pathetic, but warranted.

Then she’s tying up her hair.

Your pants fly off.

Her lips are over you, parted.