A/N: I wrote this during my Soil 100 lecture. Consider it a self inspired challenge fic. I finished it within the 50 minute mark.


The student is tired. The night previous she didn't try to sleep until nearly 1:00 am. Her classes started this morning at 8:00, and it is now, by her watch, 9:30. She stifles a yawn, fidgets, and casts a glance around at her fellow students. They are all, more or less, in varying states of stupor, listening to the ongoing monotone in the background.

"A Chernozemic soil profile should show the distinct structures in all three horizons ..."

A yawn launches a surprise attack, and caught by surprise she is helpless to resist. She wonders if, in the darkened lecture theatre, anyone would notice if she curled up beneath her seat and gave into her weariness. Somebody coughs. She shakes her head to dispel the idea and tries to focus on what her professor is saying.

"... can clearly see that the A horizon in a Luvisolic profile shows signs of elluviation.Remember that term for your quiz ..."

She wishes someone would pull the fire alarm. God, this is boring. Normally she can handle it; normally she pays attention. Not today, however. Her head has been feeling terribly heavy all morning, and so she surrenders to gravity and does a faceplant onto her heavy black zipper binder. Eyes closed, she continues half heartedly to listen to the lecture.

"... One of the four parent materials is lacustrine, or lake sediment. You may want to highlight that, because I can guarantee it will come up later ..."

She sighs, lifts her head, and secures her highlighter from her pencil case. Just as she is about to mark the text recommended, something catches her eye. Two rows down, sitting beside the kid with the ten gallon cowboy hat that she has uncreatively dubbed Tex, there is a person taking notes with long, long hair. Long, long silver hair. And that's not all. This person is wearing pieces of what must obviously be armor. She then notices this person is a man.

Her mouth has gone dry suddenly, and she stares befuddled at the back of his shiny head. Of course she recognizes this man – she's written hours upon hours of fiction based on his renown. So seeing him here, her groggy brain deduces, is nigh impossible. Still staring, she comes to the conclusion she is hallucinating; after all, there are over ninety students in this room, which has no ventilation, and she is guessing that at least seventy five percent of said students are suffering from some degree of morning breath. The noxious fumes are to blame for this, she decides, and with a satisfied nod she begins to highlight her notes.

"... red mottles found within the B and C horizons of a profile are clear indications of a fluctuating water table ..."

Suddenly there is movement beside her, and she looks over only to find that her lungs have gone on strike. The object of her fiction is now sitting at her side, calmly writing down notes with a Bic ballpoint pen. Flabbergasted, and wondering faintly if the abundance of vitamin C she'd taken this morning for fear of illness was affecting her sanity, she reaches out with one finger to poke the man beside her. Her index comes into contact with something solid, something clad in thick leather, and she swallows. She pokes again. And once again. She fails to notice that the object of her concern has fastened his irritated eyes upon her.

"Pardon me," A baritone voice drawls, and, slack jawed, she pauses in her prodding to raise her gaze. Very vivid green eyes are regarding her with the same look one might give unwanted toilet paper found upon one's shoe. She pinches herself abruptly and with enough force to make a noise of pain. Several people around her glance over to assess the problem, and apparently seeing nothing of interest, returned their glassy eyes to the front of the theatre.

She now has a dilemma – run screaming out of the room, erstwhile giving everyone of her classmates cause to mentally note she's slightly unstable, or try and deal with the situation calmly. She chooses the latter option, feeling rather lightheaded, and turns her attention to the six foot two, two hundred pounds of solid alabaster muscle occupying the seat next to her.

"I ... you ... what?" She mumbles.

The man exhales; an elegant snort. "You'd think," he says petulantly, "that after all you've written, you'd be able to form a coherent sentence."

Thoughts on the way down from her brain to her mouth have derailed somewhere, and all that remains is garbled nonsense. She stammers out a question, and the man, flicking a stray piece of silver hair away from his face, answers haughtily. "I'm here because I'm your muse, of course. I can't really think of any other reason to surround myself with ..." He pauses, and casts a disgusted glance about the room, "this."

He waits for her to say something, but her vocabulary is still in the process of being rescued and put into order. He sighs again, and rolls his eyes skyward. "Fangirls." He mutters, and scorn drips from that one word.

"M-Muse, eh?" She finally manages to stutter, and closes her eyes as she realizes how every unintelligent that sounded.

"Yes, eh." He sneers. "I'm here to inspire you, of course. And believe me, you need it lately."

She bristles, and he smiles with no small amount of condescension. "Ah yes, struck a sore spot, have I. No matter. I'm here, and my presence shall simply inspire you. So hurry up and write something. I have better things to do." He mutters something after that that sounds suspiciously like "rape and pillage", but she can't be sure.

And so, at his directive, she turns her notebook to a fresh page and stares at it. And stares. And stares. Alas, nothing creative is coming to her. Her muse is taking notes again, and suddenly her hand itches with the urge to run itself through his impressive mane of silver hair. He notices the offending limb creeping towards him, however, and makes a sound somewhere between a growl and "I think not!" and so her hand falls back to her side.

What to write, she wonders, and then a wicked grin lights up her face. She'd always wondered if she had the nerve to do it ... She scribbles one sentence down. Noticing the movement, her muse leans over and reads it aloud, "Cloud ran his hands down the sculpted muscle that was Sephiroth's chest, and the silver haired warrior rumbled his pleasure ..."

"That," he curtly informs her, "is not what I had in mind. I have no time for this."

And with that, he's gone.

Nonplussed, she smiles down at the words on her paper. Inspiration, indeed.