Warm breath tingled the back of B's neck, and she knew they were there.

A delicate swirl of steam drifted from her favourite cat mug, the tea, a charming distraction, and a plate of Custard Creams appeared next to her laptop.

She took one of the biscuits, ignoring the subtle subtext that they weren't there out of kindness, but as a bribe.

"What do you want?" B huffed. The cursor winked unfavourably on the blank computer screen, the repetitive movement harmonising with the bothersome tick of the clock.

"Not written nothing yet?" They asked, and B's eye twitched. "It's been over two hours."

"If you must know,” she huffed, “I've been trying to decide on a name for my protagonist."

Crumbs replaced another biscuit on the plate. "Tell me then."

"Oh, well," B began; she'd hoped the sudden demand for the name would aid her in making a decision—but it hadn't. "I haven't chosen yet," she said. "It needs to fit, and nothing seems to fit. Do I want a two-syllable name or three? Do I want it to have a specific meaning or—"

"Why don't you just start writing, eh? Add the names after." Their words came out muffled, separated between a string of crunching munches. "We've done it before."

Wood groaned as B fidgeted in her chair. "I don't want to do that."

A sharp gasp cut against B's ears. "Don't you have a plan? I thought we usually map it out before, have it all,"—They pushed a finger into the side of B's head—"plotted out in that noggin?"

"Yes, I do, but—"

"Then write, damn it!"

"I can't, alright!" Heat sparked deep in B's chest and the start of tears burned behind her eyes. "The words, I...I can picture how I want the story to go, from the gentle sway of the trees to the crook in the character's eyebrow. I even have all the dialogue, you know." A hollow snort grumbled from her throat. "And I know you know how we adore writing dialogue."

"I do know that."

"But when I try and write descriptions, actions—"

"—like someone picking their nose."

"It's never as good as I picture; it's never as clear."

"So, what?" Breath tickled her cheek, and she smelt sweet vanilla. She grabbed another biscuit. "You give up?"

"Yes." B pushed the laptop away. It shuddered against the table, and a swell of tea sploshed over the side of her cup; she wiped it away with her sleeve. "I give up. I drop the pen. I unplug myself and the plug. I change the app. I—"

"Yeah, yeah, we get the idea." The laptop edged closer again. The cursor lept, and a soft tapping ticked in the air. On the screen, a word appeared: Hi! :-p

"How about," They said, and B could practically hear the giddy grin in their tone, "I take over for a bit, eh?"

Between the clouded darkness, a thousand and one scenarios involving some kind of bodily fluid and terrible puns flashed through her mind, and B scrunched up her nose. "No. You'll only make it worse. All you do is write a lot about nothing and fart jokes."

"Pardon me, mes amies, but what I write is funny."

"What you write is dumb, and I hate it."

"No you don't." They cooed. A soft finger tickled the corner of her mouth, and she quickly forced a smile away.

"Fine. No, I don't. But what you write is easy, and I want to write something meaningful. Something with vivid scenery, beautiful characters and emotions with metaphors so well described that the reader can't help but gasp in awe and feel the deep truth of the words in their—"

"Genitals!"

"Hearts!" B shouted, and her face flushed. "Jeez, I was going to say hearts! What's wrong with you?"

“Come on,” They purred, and a prickle of goosebumps touched her skin. “take that pirate hat off for a moment and put on your nap cap." Hands interlinked, and a rhythmic pop of fingers cracked. "Take a wink or two, and let me pilot this ship."

"You don't pilot a ship, you sail it. A captain skippers their boat." B muttered.

"Whatever, we don't even like sailing or flying, and don't get me started on learning to drive...” They took a breath. “But anyhoops, please, I’ll be good. Maybe even get us out of this writing rut. Who knows, we could have a sudden spout of lizard muse. Be brave! Let's go all out and go weird, eh?”

B took a sip of her tea and let the not-so-milky beverage wash away the rising irritation of failure. If she couldn't do it, then she might as well let them have a go. She cared too much; she knew that—but what the hell, why not let them go all out and go weird? She might even enjoy a small zero-point-one per cent of it at the end.

She placed the cup back on the desk.

“Do YOU have a story plan then?”

A sudden buzz of enthusiasm sparked through the room, and B felt the knot in her chest loosen.

“Aye, aye! That I do,” They burst, “It involves a dashingly charming stowaway, an equally glamorous first mate, a grumpy cook and a lovely orange ship’s cat named Bread.” The laptop inched closer, and the cursor winked excitedly. “May I?”

Defeated, B bobbed her head, and the keyboard began to type away. Resting in the curve of her chair, B read the words aloud:

‘Sweat dripped down my forehead, and my body collapsed against the ship's walls. Darkness suffocated the small confines of the room, and the lower deck swayed, as did my head.

A gurgle bubbled from my gut and my bowels... well, my bowels did something unforgivable and so stinkingly cruel...’

“What a load of rubbish,” B said, then a grin pulled at the corners of her mouth. “I love it!”

“Even if no one else will?”

With her whole HEART, she said, “Aye!”