Noctisardor Bypass life is about creating yourself.

It hadn't been easy finally departing from Moonspear, but the time to do so had come and gone well before Figment had decided to make his move. He had given so many hugs before he left that it felt as though his legs wouldn't have the strength to carry him off. But, they did in the end. And while he was happy to be moving forward, there was a heaby ache in his chest from the piece of his heart that he left behind.

Fig still wasn't entirely sure where he intended to end up. He knew there were packs in the Valley here and while he'd been warned that there was conflict amongst two of them, he still was drawn to return. For the time being, he was content to wander until the tides scooped him up and steered him to where he was meant to go.

At that moment, he was busy satisfying his thirst at the river that ran through the bypass. He had left Moonspear with a gratifying full belly, so while hunting was usually an enjoyable pastime, he felt no need to pursue it then. A nap was beginning to sound rather appealing, but the idea seemed lazy to him. So, after lifting his head from the stream, he stepped forward to dip his toes in the chilly water to wake himself up a bit before moving on.

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---

She is pretty sure screwing your therapist is frowned upon.

Much more than that, a major conflict of interest. She has no desire to be a mother. He knows her deepest insecurities. And the rational part of her mind agrees with this. But the secret, much more prevalent part is impelled by it, and as she witnesses him bathe from her hidden roost in the ninebark thicket she cannot help but imagine how it might feel to be beneath Fig.

It’s sick, she knows.

That’s why she stays undetected in her sweep of root, hoping she is not far enough along for him to smell her. And, simultaneously, hoping for the opposite.

The dichotomy of women.

lol that warning <333

Fig didn't sense right away that he was not so alone in the Bypass as he'd thought. He was distracted by the stream, which he moved into only as far as it took for the water to reach his ankles. He stopped then and wriggled his toes on the rocky ground that made up the stream's bed, shutting his eyes then and taking a deep breath. He stood still for a couple of minutes, re-centering himself and trying to live in the now when suddenly, the now had his eyes popping back open to look down at the stream that flowed past his legs.

It was their little nibbles that drew his attention. Fig could've sworn they hadn't been there before, but they were certainly there now—minnows, hundreds of them swarming around his feet as they tried to take a bite out of his toes. "Aren't I a little big for you guys to take down?" he said to them with a smile and a gentle wag of his tail, "I admire your confidence, but this borders on delusion."

He’s talking to himself.

His name is Fig and he’s talking to himself. Suddenly she’s not so concerned about being the mad one. But through a heedy leer it becomes apparent his jest is meant for whatever lurks beneath the glossy brook’s surface. She cranes against the reeds for a better look and though cannot see much afar the play of light, she’s endeared, and equally as entertained- is this how he whiles away the hours? Engaging with inarticulate things. She giggles.

And immediately flinches at her own omission, shoving her nose down between two forepaws and staring wide-eyed at the dirt, frozen still.

Did he hear? Did he not?

And which does she want?

That was the moment Fig sensed he was not so alone in the bypass.

The noise was small and soft, but his hackles came to attention in prompt response. He twisted his head to look back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. He didn’t see anyone, but he was certain he’d heard them. He glanced down at the minnows still scurrying around his paws and bid them a silent apology as he sloshed away from them, sending them bouncing about in his current.

”Is someone there?” Fig asked what might possibly be thin air. The noise had struck him as innocent, not threatening. He would keep his guard up regardless, but he didn’t feel the need to approach it defensively. ”Please don’t tell me I’m both hearing things and talking to myself…” he added, smiling to himself.

She’s tense, smothering her maw deeper between her paws even as her lips pull higher. His face drifts closely now, over the flowering brush. When she looks up there’s a flicker of coal and a pair of green match flares in the sedge. He cannot know he is fire.

He does not see her. She might hold her breath and hope that he will move on. She is certain he means to, and a little voice urges her softly to let him go.

So of course, she doesn’t, and instead uses her nose to push through the little white blossoms until just her chin crests the sweep of leaves.

“Sounds clinical,” She warns, “I’d be willing to diagnose you… for a price.”

The flowers she emerged from must have masked her—a fact Fig tucked away for safe keeping as it seemed like something that could come in handy during a hunt one day. He stilled when he heard her moving, but smiled broadly once he heard her voice and saw her face. No wonder he hadn't been too alarmed by the sound. He'd recognized it.

"Sunflower," Fig said fondly, his tail waving against his haunches. He considered what she'd said and then shook his head. "I'm afraid it might be too late for me," Fig answered her, "I'd be interested in hearing your opinion, though."

Sunflower.

She feels the fever elevate towards her head, unfurling along the curves of her cheeks, embarrassed for half a breath that he might be able to see just how the term endearment affects her. It’s at that moment she decides to cross the marked line. Future consequences feel so far away when he is looming so close.

“Hi, Fig,” she peers up at him with a sheepish grin before bounding up through the abloom plumage, landing in a cloddish heep and giving her coat a good shake to free it of pollen.

“Perhaps,” her tail is spun playfully, mirroring his own, ears tipping forward.

“C’mon, wanna go for a walk? And you can tell me what you’re doing all alone out here- talking to yourself?” She taunts and lifts to spirited paws, with every intention of leading him deeper into the lush dell between the married peaks, where she might better lure him to her.

He didn’t know about that bit, yet.

Fig failed to notice her reaction to the term of endearment he’d given her so innocently not too long ago. He also failed to notice the scent of her season, his nose too clouded with flower petals and his mind too occupied with excitement at running into her again. And, perhaps subconsciously as of yet, excited about some other things.

”Sure,” he agreed easily, stepping into place beside her. She seemed to be in a very cheerful mood, which Fig found to be both charming and infectious. ”I was actually out here searching for new friends,” he commented lightly, ”All I seemed to be able to find were minnows. Fun to wade around in the water with, but no skills whatsoever when it comes to holding a conversation.”

”What brings you to the bypass?” Fig asked, turning to look at her only to realize he had never really looked away, ”I didn’t expect to run into you again, though I’m certainly not complaining.”

“New friends? You’re about a two day’s journey North of that. There are three packs in the southern valley, though none this far. Afraid the only wolf you’ll find up here is me.” And she was leading him further Northeast by design.

Her steps with him are bright but her mind is entirely elsewhere, pervaded with thoughts that they might touch and how tall he is beside her flank. There is a danger in this game she plays, but maybe that is in part why she likes it.

“You are not from here then? I assumed you were native to the valley,” She asks, her questions twofold. That she might satisfy her curiosities about the dark man, and at the same time provide a little distraction. Maybe then he will not question why she is leading him through wildland on footpaths overgrown with nettles that seize at strands of their fur and roots that threaten to trip them up. To the innermost depths of the willowed wood.

“Um,” she draws, conjuring a sensible answer to his innocent question while ducking beneath a low-hanging branch. “Camping.” Camping?

It was truthful, at least.

”I can live with that,” Fig replied with a smile. He wondered suddenly if this would be considered flirting, and if she’d think him a creep for it. But it was a factual statement—he was perfectly content to have her as his sole companion so far north of the valley’s packs.

”I was born on the other side of the Barrier Mountains to the West,” he explained, ”I’ve never spent much time this far East, not until recently.”

Fig noticed the trail they took was indeed growing more congested, and yet it didn’t occur to him to question her. He was enjoying the conversation, and his mind was too busy wondering if he’d come across an opening to ask how she’d been doing with the problem she’d originally spoken to him about. His mind was also a little busy trying not to notice how often his shoulder brushed against hers as they walked.

Her answer drew a bemused little smirk to his face. ”Camping?” Fig repeated, tilting it into a question as he quirked a brow at her.

Her eyes taper as she secretly studies him from the corner of her vision. Was he… flirting? She couldn’t be sure, and wouldn't trust her judgment now, reacting more with her body than her mind, which was loured by his nearness.

“I think I might like to see the West, someday,” she murmurs a little wistfully. She’d never seen a place so beautiful as the valley, and wonders what more of the world there was to see before the day got dark.

“Why did you leave? Do you have family there still?” She turns to Fig, the graze of his inky guard hairs against hers sending a forbidden ache up through her limbs. A root catches her distracted paw and she nearly stumbles. This was ridiculous. It's never going to end gracefully. She tries to return focus to the trail.

“Yeah you know, get up North and breathe the fresh air, see the sights.” That answer didn’t exactly make sense but it was less of a mouthful than ‘fleeing home to prevent unwanted pregnancy, only now seeing you makes me want to be.’ She hoped he wouldn’t dispute it.

Eventually thready underbrush gives way to a gently sloping veld, the trees bathing their dark pelts in dappled sun that shifted with a cooling breeze. This must be the place. It was lovely, maybe she didn’t have to lie about camping out being the sole purpose leading her North.

“Let’s rest here?” she’ll suggest tipping her nose up to look into the willows overhead.

Fig pondered her comment about wanting to visit the West for a moment. His initial reaction had been to offer to take her one day. More specifically, to confess how he’d love to show it to her. That reaction surprised him and got his mind wondering. First borderline flirting, and now this? What was he thinking? When had the switch flipped in his mind from thinking of her as a random stranger to …what?

Baffled as he was by his reactions to her, he was quiet for longer than he’d intended to be, so most of what she said went without response other than a nod until they arrived at their destination, a cozy nest beneath the long, sweeping arms of willow trees. Very… secluded.

”My family is mostly at Moonspear now,” Fig answered finally, ”We have… a complicated relationship.” He smiled in an attempt to reassure her (or perhaps himself) that it was fine. ”How are things going for you?” he asked, alluding to their last conversation as he settled onto his haunches to rest, as she’d suggested.

He is silent so long she fears she’s bored him- or otherwise he’s caught onto her wicked scheme. But when she looks over he’s unreadable, a lambent gaze that foretells nothing, until finally resuming with a half-smile.

“Family’s hard,” is her simple reply, if only it were so plain too to navigate. She didn’t know Fig’s experience, and as much as she wishes to pry, she gets the feeling he’d rather not analyze it in this moment. So she is quick to answer the question that follows.

“Pretty well. Hey, I used your technique the other day. Imagined I was a bunny- worked wonders,” a nervous smile flashed. In truth, not everything was peachy for her in Kvarsheim either, but she doesn’t want to mull over the problems that awaited her upon return. She wants to consume the beauty of Fig as he settles down before her, and for the first time she can see him clearly: rangy and shadowed- the kind of wolf you’d be  foolish to cross. But there is something soft in his face, a boyishness he hadn’t quite outgrown  or maybe she sees it only because, even if they were strangers, she knew him to be funny and kind. And her therapist.

Into the mead she sinks, staying close, almost touching, so he might feel the draft of her breath on his neck. She’s out of her  depth and the boldness of such a move, however small, quickens her heartbeat. She recalls the alluring Riverclan woman with the sway in her step  and how all eyes were moored to her, and so lays down in what she believes is a similarly pleasing way, crossing her paws just so, allowing her tail to spill behind her, pretending to be casual even as the rush of blood in her ears was deafening, and couldn’t he hear it too?

She’s always been rather tactless, and there was no exception here. So before she has the greater sense to backpedal, or jump up and flee, or apologize- she meets his eyes with her own.

“You got a girl waiting for you back in Moonspear, Fig?”

Fig was grateful Tauris didn’t pursue the conversation about his family. He would’ve told her whatever she wanted to know—it was only fair after she’d shared so much with him. But he was reluctant to relive his hurt so soon. And even more reluctant for her to find out how unwell his mind actually was and for her to think he was all talk.

Her answer to his question brought him back from the precipice of his own sorrows. He laughed softly, pleased to hear she’d used his trick. ”I’m glad,” Fig said, his eyes on her as she settled in, ”It’s pretty handy. Even when it doesn’t help me go easy on myself, it usually lightens my mood.”

Fig was in the middle of thinking up another question for her when he felt the ground beneath him suddenly shift. Her move didn’t go unnoticed, though he didn’t consider for one second she’d meant to do it. He felt his heart begin to thump a little quicker and harder in his chest as a pleasant tingling slipped through his stomach. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye as she stretched out in the grass, but soon found his head turning in full to meet her gaze.

Had she always been so… he couldn’t even think of the right word. Beautiful. Stunning. Gorgeous. None were right. None were enough.

Fig’s ears perked and his eyes widened slightly at her question. That was about when the earth fell away, and though he would look back on that very moment as the one when he’d been ensnared—the poor fool had been intoxicated from the moment she’d emerged from the brush with flower petals in her hair. Otherwise, he would’ve realized long ago that she was in season and he might’ve made the wiser choice and walked away.

Breathtaking. That was the right word.

”No,” he said, unable to look away.

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At some point during play, the game got serious. Graceful moves had gone rigid. Sweetness turned to fire. The way he was looking at her sent another dizzying surge through her core. This was real. Very much real, Fig was real, she was real, what’s between them was real and if this went further there’d be very real consequences. She had no right to claim him. Even if he seems willing, she’d been dishonest. It wasn’t fair, responsible, or rational.

Well, she didn’t want to be any of those things. It’s Fig she wanted. His taste. His mouth on her.

She leans into him, the corners of her smile curling, the barest breath from him now. The need to close this scrap of distance is maddening, like she has an ailment only he can cure. His scent stirs no memories. He is entirely new, mysterious, exciting.

“I’ve got my diagnosis, want to hear it?” she whispers into the fur at his cheek “I think you need a little fun…”

And yet... she knows Fig deserves honesty. She knows that moment of fun will alter her life forever.

Fig’s brain seemed to have evacuated his skull at some point during this encounter. Which was unfortunate because it meant he had no ability to use his better judgment since he hadn’t any clue it was gone. Something else drove him. Something more powerful than the cool logic he was otherwise guided by. Something instinctive, primal. No level of intelligence could’ve brought him here. This was a place of sensation, touch, emotion, and the blood pumping rapidly in his veins.

Tauris teased, but Fig could hardly hear her words. His other senses were too full of her. It’s like when you’re driving through a storm and you have to turn the radio down in order to see better. He was too full of the sight of her, her scent, her touch, the feeling of her so close. He heard her voice, but it was a hum that completed her surrounding of him. He was flooded by her.

A low growl tumbled from Fig’s chest like a purr as he moved to meet her grazing, exploring nose with his own. He reached for her, sweeping across her cheek to her neck. He was a kind, gentle, patient man, but desire dulled those qualities in him to the point where if this was going to stop, it would be on her to pull away. 


She perhaps could stand at the edge of the pool still and choose not to jump in, but he was already drowning. And he didn’t particularly want to be rescued.

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Anticipation alone could not have prepared her for his first touch, the electricity he sets loose with his muzzle that smooths a path down her cheek into her neck. Eager; roving; like she is some uncharted place for him to traverse. He knows where to touch and her body responds automatically, filling in her inexperience with instinct, meeting his need with twice her own. His nuzzles are torturous, drawing out anticipation with excruciating pleasure.

She turns her lips to him, stroking where she can reach, first his chin, his jaw, then tracing down into his defined chest, all the places she’d been admiring from afar and imagining covertly how they’d feel under her tongue. Against him she arcs herself as a swift pang runs through her, biting the inside of her cheek to slow down, hoping the pain alone might keep her sane.

It doesn’t, her blood sings for him, fervent with her own fierce, demanding need to reach the same heights he was seeking.

“Fig,” her voice is husky with desire, but her mind gives a last ditch effort to come clean before they’d lose themselves entirely. “I’m in heat.”

That one made him pause.

Fig didn’t move away from her, but he did hesitate at the word. Heat. It was a word he knew well, for he had no desire to risk the consequences that could come of it. Figment didn’t want to be a father. He’d spent too much of his life with others as his primary focus. He wanted to live for himself, which he knew simply wouldn’t be possible if he became a father. He didn’t want that burden. He wanted his independence. His freedom.

But gods how he wanted her.

”I don’t want children,” Fig said quietly, his voice strained.

But after another moment, he relaxed as he surrendered. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to control or restrain. He wanted to be alive. He wanted this moment with her.

”I can’t let you go…”

Fig pressed himself against her, holding her close, leaving kisses on her muzzle, her cheek, her ear, her neck, her throat. All the while murmuring…

”Sunflower… Sunflower…”

Sunflower…

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Then stay with me…

As in a dream her eyes close, responding to his ardent kisses, carrying away with shared persuasions, pushing urgently into him. She feels the vibration of his words against her neck.

Sunflower.

She shivers and presses her tongue to his lips. It’s the closest she’s ever been to anyone before. It’s not close enough…

He does not want this. Not truly. The knowledge lingers there amid her ache for more of him. It dissipates with each caress, yet she cannot ignore it. What does she want? It is not put into words. Most of it looks like Fig, the rest seems so inconsequential now.

But she does not want to be his regret.

“Fig,” She moans and parts from him, abandoning the blaze of his touch. Unable to even lift her head, knowing one look is all it will take to reignite what’s between them. “You should go.”

Neither can wager what will happen if he stays.

Fig nearly lost all ability to think when he heard his name gasp from her lips, but it came rushing back to him when empty suddenly flooded the space between their bodies. He moved to follow her, but closed only an inch before he caught himself. She had disengaged, and while his brain frantically tried to kick itself back into gear to figure out why, it was silenced when she uttered those terrible words.

He stared at her, surprised, devastated, and almost panicked. The rational part of his mind could see clearly what this was, but someone had slapped duct tape over that guy’s mouth so he could only mumble quietly and incoherently in Fig’s ear. His passion had taken over, and that part of him felt absolutely certain that he was losing the love of his life, that he couldn’t let her walk away for even though he barely knew her, he’d never be whole again without her.

Fig took a breath to steady himself, searching for her eyes again. He didn’t know what to say, how to explain that he needed to stay. He would respect the space between them if that was what she wanted—he just couldn’t stand the thought of not being near her, of looking around and not being able to drink in the sight of her.

”I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear,” Fig said after a few dozen heartbeats, ”I won’t touch you again. I just… I don’t want to leave you. I don’t think I remember how.” A small smile flickered across his lips, though the words he’d spoken could not have been more true. He’d walked away from her once before in the Grove and it had been fairly straightforward. To walk away now would be like ripping the knife from his gut to bleed out beneath the willows.

There is hurt in his voice and it stakes her.

She lifts a paw. She intends to take a step. It’s one that will carry her towards him, to kiss him, to learn him, to join them as one. To spend one night with him, or longer. To give herself to him. To create something: a family. To live a life parallel to his.

“And if I told you I wanted you to touch me?” Her eyes seek him now. Longing is far more pressing than fear. He burns brighter than her resolve. How trivial it would be to call this lust, when she is seen and not just looked at.

His words are fervent, her inhale is sharp, unbidden. How much of this is the pull of their bodies? Would anything remain when the week has come and gone?

She never takes that step. Her paw is returned to the ground.

“It’s not that. I don’t want children, either,” her voice is small. “But I don’t trust myself with you.”

Figment saw her paw lift and in spite of her better judgement, he eyed her with eager hope that she would come back to him. She didn't move any further, though, simply tempted him with a comment that made his heart race. He swallowed thickly, unable to bring himself to answer.

His brows lifted in surprise when she made her own confession—one that aligned their desires in another, unexpected way. He didn't know very many women that didn't want to be mothers. To have found someone that seemed to want a similar future. That was funny and charming and intelligent. Fig suddenly found himself looking at her a little closer now, wondering if there was more here than just what they might have in this singular moment.

"I don't trust me with you either," Fig admitted slowly. He searched her face after a moment of hesitation, knowing he should go, but still rooted to the spot. "But... Maybe I don't need to trust me," he continued, "Maybe I can just trust you and you can trust me. And that way, we'll both be able to... resist. I know I certainly don't want to do anything to break your faith in me, so..."

It was backwards nonsense. He knew it was a reach, but Fig didn't care. He gave a little shrug as he finished, his expression asking for her thoughts though no further words slipped his tongue.

He lays a feast at the paws of a starving creature and asks her not to take a bite. It was a reckless proposition, truly, to think two wrongs in this case might make a right. He should have had less credence in her control that was wilting with every second in his presence, and which she feared no small distance would bolster. Not to mention, she did not know how long this would last. They’d been together an hour and it was tormenting. How was she supposed to ignore him for days on end? But for foolishness or pining- she wanted to buy it.

Because she did imagine him leaving. And maybe that scared her more than pregnancy.

“Ok,” she relents quietly, meeting his eyes and velvet smile with fading hesitance. “It's like… a game.” A game of pretend you don’t want sex so badly. Fun.

She was tirelessly competitive and framing it this way in her mind was helpful. But- where would they sleep? How would they stay here together in such an intimate space with one track minds and not go crazy? She hoped Fig had answers. Because she had none.

She took a ragged breath that fought for composure and sat in the grass across from him, curling her tail over her feet.

“You should know, I'm gonna win," She grins in a desperate attempt to find a way to laugh about this. Though, in part, she felt she already had won- Fig was staying.

Tauris agreed to his suggestion, making a quip about turning it into a game that she was determined to win. Fig smiled at this, though he couldn’t relate. He wasn’t a competitive creature, so it didn’t have the same ability to strengthen his resolve as it did hers. In fact, not even his comment about not wanting to break her trust had the effect he’d hoped for.

Silence stretched between them, then. Fig searched his mind in hopes of finding something to help break it, but his brain was almost entirely void of any thoughts other than ones he was supposed to be stomping out. He wanted to ask her about herself, her childhood, her hobbies, her favorite color, anything at all to start a conversation. But the words didn’t come. His body didn’t want him to talk, and so it held his brain hostage—stuck a sock in its mouth and shoved it into a trunk so it couldn’t stop him when he did finally part his lips to speak.

”Or…” Fig said, his tone as suggestive as the small, playful smile on his lips. His body was tense as he held it back, but one look and the shackles would break. Consequences be damned.