#chapter 9

[mdzs-mangatranslation]

CHAPTER 9 ✨

Mangadex ◦ Kagane ◦ Download .CBZ ◦ Chapter index

To Gusu we go!

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[jaewonthewriter]

Female Body's Inspection Agency

FBIA: Daily Protocol

By Jaewon

⬅️Previous Chapter

(Wordcount:1K+)

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Chapter 9: Yunjin’s Pre-Comeback Lower Body Resilience Assessment

The sealed envelope from the FBIA Decisions Bureau arrived at 7:05 AM. Director Park’s precise script detailed the assignment: "Huh Yunjin (LE SSERAFIM) – Level 3 Comprehensive Pre-Comeback Lower Body Resilience Assessment. Emphasis on thigh strength, flexibility, and external fluid response testing due to powerful dance choreography and stage performances. Senior Inspector Park Gunwoo assigned. Agent Kang and Agent Lee to assist with positioning and full documentation. Special thigh protocol authorized."

Senior Inspector Park Gunwoo reviewed the file in the preparation room. Yunjin’s powerful vocals and commanding dance presence made this evaluation particularly important. The FBIA wing maintained its calm, professional atmosphere—soft lighting, controlled temperature, and absolute privacy.

Agent Kang entered first, broad and efficient. “All preparations complete, Inspector. Extra warming oils formulated for thigh application and lubricants ready.”

Agent Lee followed, tablet in hand. “Miss Yunjin has arrived. She reviewed the full protocol, including the special thigh method. She appears confident and prepared.”

Park Gunwoo nodded. “Reconfirm consent at each major transition. Bring her in.”

Yunjin entered the examination suite with her characteristic sharp confidence mixed with graceful poise. The LE SSERAFIM member’s long hair was tied back neatly, and she held the white robe closed with elegant fingers.

“Inspector Park Gunwoo, Agent Kang, Agent Lee,” she greeted with a polite bow. “I’m here for the lower body assessment. The new choreography is really testing my thighs and stamina.”

Park Gunwoo offered a reassuring smile. “We’ll verify everything thoroughly, Yunjin. The Bureau requires a complete Level 3 protocol with a special thigh endurance test. Full sensory mapping using fingers and tongue across every body part. Consent is yours throughout. Do you agree to the full protocol?”

Yunjin nodded firmly. “I consent to everything.”

“Understood. Remove the robe and lie face up on the table.”

She let the robe fall gracefully, revealing her tall, athletic, and curvaceous body: full, rounded breasts with sensitive nipples, a toned waist, powerful and thick thighs honed by intense dance, shapely hips, a smooth shaved mound, long legs, and elegant feet. Her skin glowed healthily under the warm lights.

Park Gunwoo began the visual assessment, circling slowly as Agent Lee documented. “Excellent lower body tone. Strong, flexible thighs with high muscle definition.”

He started palpation at her neck and shoulders, fingers pressing deeply to release tension. Agent Kang supported her upper back. Park Gunwoo’s tongue traced her collarbones and both armpits with slow, thorough licks. He moved to her breasts, cupping and kneading them before licking long wet stripes underneath and sucking the sensitive nipples. Yunjin’s breathing deepened into soft, melodic moans.

After detailed torso and back checks (with Agent Kang assisting turns and Agent Lee applying warming oil), they reached the lower body. Park Gunwoo parted her powerful thighs. Agent Kang held one open firmly. His fingers spread her folds, stroking every ridge and sensitive crease while his tongue delivered long, dedicated licks from entrance to clit and back. Yunjin touched herself as instructed, rubbing her clit in rhythm until she trembled and squirted powerfully across his tongue and fingers in warm, clear waves. He guided her through the intense climax with continued gentle licks.

After a short recovery period and gentle cleaning, the special thigh protocol began.

“Special thigh resilience and external fluid response test now,” Park Gunwoo announced professionally. “This evaluates thigh strength, flexibility, and skin response under dynamic pressure — critical for your choreography. You will perform thigh stimulation on me while I continue full-body sensory mapping. At climax, I will release on your thighs. You will then spread and massage the fluid for complete absorption checking. Consent confirmed?”

Yunjin’s cheeks flushed, but her voice was steady. “I consent to the special method.”

With Agent Kang supporting her back and positioning her legs, and Agent Lee providing specialized lubrication, Yunjin reclined comfortably. She pressed her thick, powerful thighs together around Park Gunwoo’s hardened length. The thighjob began with smooth, controlled movements — her toned muscles squeezing and sliding along his shaft as she rocked her hips. The warm, soft-yet-firm pressure of her thighs created an enveloping sensation.

Park Gunwoo continued the sensory mapping, licking across her breasts, neck, shoulders, and down her toned stomach while she worked. Yunjin’s thighs moved with impressive control — squeezing rhythmically, sliding up and down, occasionally adjusting the angle with dancer-like precision. The slick, warm friction built steadily between her powerful legs.

After several minutes of intense thigh stimulation, Park Gunwoo felt his release approaching. “Climax phase.”

Yunjin kept her thighs pressed tightly together as he came, thick warm ropes of cum landing across her smooth, toned thighs and inner surfaces. She continued gentle squeezing motions to draw out every drop, then, as instructed, used her hands to spread the fluid thoroughly — massaging it into her skin, along the curves of her thighs, and into the sensitive inner areas. Park Gunwoo assisted with his fingers and tongue, spreading and licking the mixture while checking skin absorption and resilience. No adverse reactions were noted; her thighs showed excellent response.

The session continued with posterior lower body checks: thorough ass kneading and spreading, deep cleft licking over her tight hole, backs of her powerful thighs, behind the knees, and full foot worship — sucking each toe individually and licking the soles firmly.

The comprehensive session extended well over two and a half hours. Yunjin lay flushed and glistening, every body part having been meticulously inspected, licked, and checked.

Park Gunwoo helped her sit up and draped a fresh robe around her shoulders, gently cleaning any remaining fluids. “Outstanding results across all metrics, Yunjin. The thigh protocol confirmed exceptional strength and flexibility. The squirting and external fluid response show strong overall resilience. You’re fully cleared for your comeback activities.”

Yunjin looked at him with hazy, satisfied eyes, lightly running her hands over her still-sensitive thighs. “Thank you, Inspector Park Gunwoo… and the team. That was incredibly intense, especially the special thigh method, but I feel so much stronger and more prepared now. My legs feel thoroughly cared for.”

Agent Kang gave an approving nod. “Protocol executed perfectly.”

Agent Lee finalized the report. “All data transmitted. Rest those powerful legs well, Miss Yunjin.”

As she prepared to leave, Park Gunwoo walked her to the door. “The FBIA is here to support your performances. Contact us if any tension returns.”

Yunjin offered a bright, confident smile. “I will. Thank you again for the thorough check.”

The door closed softly. Park Gunwoo cleaned up methodically, reflecting on the specialized adaptations required for different members.

Agent Lee remarked lightly, “Her thigh control was impressive. Tomorrow’s order should be arriving soon.”

Park Gunwoo checked the secure tablet as a new notification appeared. “The Bureau continues without pause.”

End of Chapter 9

(No Polls because female idols always win in poll and probably Not Daily Update of FBIA because I don't have ideas what I'm adding to inspection and I avoid becoming repetitive chapter - Jaewon)

[childrenofthelightcomic]

Children of the Light- Chapter 9, Page 26 < Previous | Next > Start Reading Content Warnings If you like conflicts of interest, please consider supporting me on Patreon! Story and Art by @saltnpepperbunny

[meerers24]

POV you realize you might have caught feelings for your guard dog

Just a little chapter 8 highlight before I disappear sadly because of college 💔

[saberstarart]

MIDAS Chapter 9 - Stranded lullaby✮⋆˙

⬅ previous chapter ✮

“I feel like… you may need to explain some things to me, Grian. You ran off in such a hurry and—I-I’m starting to think..” Mumbo trailed off, “I might have jumped to conclusions.” A small chuckle leaves the angel, soft and sweet. He looks out to the void, a small smile creeps across its lips. “You have so many questions. I’ve always liked that about you.” Mumbo hesitated for a moment, his voice spoke softly. “You… You’re not Grian, are you?”

[Commission by d0_n0t_disturbb] [song for this chapter] [alt song]

Grian ran as fast as he could. 

He never stopped. Never did he rest until he made it all the way back home. His legs began to ache, his lungs were on fire. Opening his front door he slammed it firmly behind him. Grian’s back rested against the door as he slowly slid down it, hugging his knees. He couldn’t help the small sob leaving him. How on earth did he manage to let it get this bad? How did he not see the signs? He should have stayed with Mumbo, he shouldn’t have avoided him for weeks on end. But isn’t that what he was doing now? He just left Mumbo alone to fend for himself, leaving him with more questions than answers. God, he just hoped Mumbo didn’t think he hated him. He wanted nothing more to help, but how could he? Grian lifted his hands, staring at his fingers. His clawed hands seemed to blur through the tears. Yet, for a moment, just for a moment, he could see his fingers fizzle into pixels. No matter what he did or didn’t do, it was only getting worse. He couldn’t stop it. He never could. He would answer for his transgressions. And the worst part is that he's come so far. If he were to run away now, all this work would have been for nothing. It could have been minutes, or maybe hours. Grian sat in silence, taking a moment to breathe. For now, he just needed to be alone. A soft familiar glow emanated in front of him. Grian whispered. “I… I want you gone. I don’t care what happens anymore, just… Just leave.” His home remains still, “If that's what you want, Grian.” 

and quiet.

Season 6, a week before the end of the season. 

Grian stumbled, his landing shaky. His wings were barely used, and the way he flew was practically like a baby bird. Grian knew it would have made it a lot easier to get around, but why would he use a gift the Watchers have given him? If anything, they were just a physical reminder of what he had done—the damage he caused. It made him feel better to use them as little as possible. Luckily for Grian, he felt a brief respite. This world sure had death, but the people inside were immortal. For a moment, just for a moment, Grian forgot what it was to lose someone permanently. This world allowed him to indulge in his creativity without punishment. Allowed him to build bonds without fear of breaking them. Reaching behind himself, Grian grabbed the tips of his wings. He slid them back between the slits of his sweater and made sure to keep them concealed as best as he could, then he kicked the dirt from his boots. Xisuma had cordially invited Grian to his base which was luckily right by his own; It was just a short fly over the ocean. It was a picture of perfect vibrant blue, and the air held a humid warmth. It was the middle of Summer, though Grian didn’t know if there were such things as time or calendars. They seemed to be just vague concepts here. When no one ages, why would you need to track time? “What even is ‘the end of a season’?” Grian mumbled to himself, tapping his heel onto the ground. “That's a good question, Grian! And a reasonable one.” “GAH!” Grian yelped. He almost falls over as a reaction. “Oh! My bad, wasn’t trying to scare you!” Xisuma let out a chuckle, “My base is pretty big so I wanted to lead you around. You ok?” He lifted his armored hand, holding it out. “Yeah! I'm fine!” A small chuckle left Grian, clasping his hand around the other and giving it a firm shake. The two began to make their way inside of the large pyramid structure. Strangely, despite its large design, it was able to keep itself floating on the water. Grian wondered what determined what made a block able to float in the air and which had to obey the rules of gravity. Though if he asked, he probably wouldn’t get a straight answer. It was game logic, wasn’t it? Xisuma's hands were placed behind his back, his footsteps sauntering. “So basically, us Hermits throw this big event called ‘the end of a season.’ With a world with infinite resources and unlimited creativity, it kind of gets cramped, yes?”

“Well, now that you mention it..” Grian hummed, recalling how restless the Hermits have been seeming lately. They created a whole golf course, they had a huge civic prank war, they even made a minigame district. He was inclined to agree that it felt like they were growing too big for their home. “This isn’t our first season you know, there have been many times we have outgrown our homes. Soon after, a portal appears. We all decide to leave our things behind and go see what's new for us.” 

The two stop for a moment, standing over one of the bridges that connected Xisuma's base together. The sun was held high in the sky, no clouds in sight. Xisuma continued, “You know Grian, I have the inkling you know this feeling.” What? Being cramped inside of a box so tight that you had to escape? Desperate to see what the world had to offer, to see if you had a higher purpose? To escape home and to start a new life where no one knew your name? No. No, Grian had no clue what Xisuma was going on about. A nervous chuckle escaped him. “You didn’t find Hermitcraft by accident, did you? Where were you before here?” A small curious hum escaped Xisuma, turning his head to look at Grian. Grian hesitated. “I… Before I came here, I was in an endless void. I wandered for hours until,” He trailed off, watching as the waves crashed into the bridge. “Until I ended up here.” It had been years at that point, so long that the void felt like a dream. Those moments were so blurry, he could barely recall them. All he could remember was how safe he felt once he entered the Server. “Well I think you were brought here for a reason, Grian.” Xisuma kept trekking on with Grian not too far behind. They were both led into a large main room, a large screen sat on one of the walls with redstone wiring hooked directly into it. Steam and hisses emitted from the large machine, struggling to maintain itself. This must have been some sort of makeshift computer, though it was a bit rudimentary. “Xisuma, uh, what would you call that?” “Hm?” “That, uhm... big device, up on the wall.” “What? Oh, this thing?” Xisuma shuffled around, placing his hands on his hips as he looked up. “That's my redstone input device. It's high tech! Don't you think?” “Oh, so it's like a computer?” Grian hummed. Xisuma returned a confused expression, making Grian mumble, “Erm, never mind! Don’t listen to me.” In the center of the room laid a large, white, circular table. Xisuma rolled out a large map on top of it. He spread it with his hands to fold out the corners. Using his index finger, Xisuma begins to point at parts of the map. “Here, at spawn, we should have a mycelium biome. Monsters can't spawn in there, so it would be a lot safer to start off with. That way we could build our shops without issue,” Grian watches with interest, his brows furrowed. Xisuma continued rambling about certain biomes in the distance. He explained that exactly every single one expanded into different islands in the ocean. It makes sense, but what is Xisuma exactly getting at? “You think you can do it?” Xisuma perks up, a smile on his face. “What? ME? Like—you want me to find something like this?” Grian takes a step back for a moment, his eyes back on the map. It's been so long he’s not even sure if he could get back to the void. “You found Hermitcraft, did you not?” Xisuma straightened his posture.

Grian opens his mouth to speak once again, but instead a sigh leaves him. He looks back down at the map. Xisuma was right, technically. “Fine.. I’ll see what I can do.” Grian affirms. Xisuma begins typing something in the communicator on his arm, the keys clicking and lighting up as he does, “Alright, I've got to check on one of my farms.. Think you will be ok here for now?” “Of course!” Grian’s lips pulled back, forcing a smile. Though it quickly dropped as soon as Xisuma made his exit. Reaching over to the map, Grian rolled it into itself. For a moment, he faltered. How on earth was he even supposed to get back to the void? It had been so long since he used any of his powers, he wasn’t even sure if he could. The void seemed so far away in memory and distance. Despite the seemingly impossible, its presence was clear in Grian’s mind. He closed his eyes as he tried to put the pieces of his fuzzy memories together. Stars, glittering and gleaming. The worlds inside of them are filled with hope and creativity. How heavy his feet dragged for miles as he searched for the perfect home.

He has to imagine the false feeling of a floor beneath his feet carrying him above the countless universes. Hold yourself high, Grian’s mind whispered, Be above all and see all that is meant to be. 

Opening them, Grian was met with a familiar dark emptiness. A sharp gasp escaped him, his eyes widening. The lack of light jarring. In the distance, flickering lights twinkled. It seemed that the thought alone brought him here… though, if he was being honest, he didn’t think that would work, either. Turning around showed a familiar crystal, much larger now than what was. Was this Hermitcraft? Hesitantly, Grian placed his palm onto the surface, and it gave a low buzz in response. The air around him felt like static. Pulling his hand away, sparks followed. Looking through the surface revealed Xisuma walking over to one of his farms. 

Grian’s index finger tapped against the crystal, swiping across it. The view now stopped on Mumbo, who was now looking at his base with confusion. It seems he was having trouble with the sudden appearance of a lot of chickens. Mumbo hunched over, desperately calling the chicks over and trying to grab them. A small giggle left Grian. After taking in the environment, Grian began to trudge himself through the thick air. The space now felt different—colder, lighter. Grian lifted his legs, making a mental note of how it felt. Last time he walked it felt as though it was through a sandy dune, but now it was like walking in a deep pool of water. Grian pulled open the map, straightening it out for reference. It would honestly take ages looking through each individual star, who knows when he would find another perfect world again. Walking through the waded air, Grian noticed that the stars began to shift. They all moved from their spots, until there was a definite line formed. Grian’s brows scrunched. He began his investigation, curiously inspecting each one of the stars. One in particular intrigued him, pulling it closer as he tilted his head. A few unfamiliar faces appeared and the world was dark. ‘Is it just me or is the moon big?’ Grian hummed. It reminded him of a game he played once long ago. What was it again? Frustration began to hit him as the name slipped his mind. He wondered if games like that were being made anymore. Honestly, he wished he knew. Continuing down the path, a star gleamed brightly, almost calling out to him. It looked to be exactly what they needed, biomes and all. Looking up, Grian gazed at the other stars that now laid far away. He wondered how many other worlds there must have been. Reaching out to the star it shrank in size small enough to hold in the palm of his hand. Peering into it, Grian watched himself and Scar talking. It seemed to be going well for a moment, before they ultimately shuffled awkwardly away. A small sigh left Grian. He knew it was going to be hard to reconnect with Scar after what happened, especially since he knew Scar wasn’t his own to begin with. Scar had different memories, different aspirations… yet there was still some need for connection. Grian desperately wanted to at least reconvene with him. Maybe one day he could tell him what happened. The gem in Grian’s hand began twinkling with a sudden brilliant glow. Slowly, that brightness enveloped him, leaving him back in the Hermitcraft server. Grian’s eyes squinted at the sudden adjustment, groaning as he wiped his face. Clatterings of armor echoed through the halls as Xisuma made his way back. “Did you figure it out?” His footsteps came to a halt, “Oh gosh, you alright?” “Yeah! Yeah, no. I’m fine.” Grian grumbled as he stood up, still wiping his eyes. He held up the gem for the other to see. It glittered in the sun, “Here, is this what you needed?” Xisuma leans in a bit, inspecting each facet for a moment before giving a pleased expression, “Yep! That's exactly what we were looking for.” “So… What do we do with it?” Grian raised a brow. “Oh, don’t you worry, me and Doc will figure that part out.”

Season 10, a week before the end of the season. Left at his door step, Mumbo couldn’t help but idle mindlessly. Everything was going so well, now it felt as though he let everything slip through his fingers. All of that trust, all of the effort he went through. Was it for nothing? No. No, Grian just needed a moment. There was no way he wouldn’t come back. He wouldn’t just leave Mumbo here again, Grian wouldn’t leave him to just figure it out all on his own. Right? This thoughtless idle made his legs begin to ache. Now that he had the time to think about it, his whole body was aching. He must have exerted all of his energy. Mumbo's brows pinch. When was the last time he slept? He honestly couldn’t remember. It must have been days ago. Sluggishly Mumbo’s legs began to move, it felt as though he was dragging through water. Lethargic, the word came to him. He felt lethargic. Stumbling through his home, he rested his hand against the wall for support. Mumbo attempted to comfort himself, ‘Sleep. I just need some rest.’ he repeated in his mind over and over as he trekked forward. He wasn’t sure how long he would be able to keep going like this. Tears welled in his eyes. He was supposed to be better now, yet he just felt as sick as before. Though this time it wasn’t from the illness, he was sure of it. He opened his bedroom door, left with the mess of papers on his ground–an empty spot where Grian was supposed to be. The room felt so cold without his warmth. Couldn’t Grian have at least stayed for a moment? Listened? Explained himself? Was it wrong that he was starting to become frustrated with this cycle? No matter how hard Mumbo tried, it felt as though he kept driving Grian to run away. Mumbo's anger quickly twisted back into guilt. Mumbo’s feet dragged across the floor, his eyelids drooping. Ever so slowly, he climbed onto the soft safety of his bed-sheets. His body felt like cement, he could barely move. A small sigh escaped him as he was able to finally rest. Rest… I just need some rest, Mumbo repeated to himself as he felt his eyelids flutter shut.

For a moment, he would rest his eyes. Then, when he wakes up he would figure out what to do from there. Even despite Grian running away, he knew they would be able to mend their relationship. Though he was sure Grian wouldn’t want him chasing him again, especially after everything he did. This cycle was starting to become tiring. Mumbo groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb, his head was starting to hurt now. Opening his eyes, he was left with nothing but darkness. Wait. Was he asleep? Using his elbows, he pried himself from the bed, looking out seeing nothing but a sea of emptiness. This felt familiar at least. His dreams had been left with nothing but dark for the past few days. Or was it weeks? Everything was starting to blend together. Peering over the edge of his bed, it seemed like you would fall for miles. A small whimper escaped Mumbo; one wrong move and he could slip into it. The only thing that broke him out of the thought was a small sniffle echoing through the darkness. Mumbo snapped up, his eyes fixated on a familiar figure. 

It was hunched over, sitting in the middle of the floor as he looked into the distance. Hugging its knees, its wings spread wide to hide itself. The angel lifts his hand and waves it into the air, a mirage forming out of the stars. It seemed to be reminiscing, a soft expression on its face. Mumbo looks up to see Grian sitting in some alien location. None of it seemed familiar. Bright white walls and luminescent lights held above. Grian was surrounded by a grey box and sitting in front of a box-like device… Wait. A computer! Mumbo remembered Grian talking to him about it once. Something about a job he used to do? Behind Grian, the angel stood overlooking his shoulder. He pointed at the computer screen as Grian typed. Perhaps it was giving him suggestions. The two smiled and spoke to each other before the angel waved his hand in the air, making the vision fade away. A small huff left him. 

Mumbo returned his gaze to the floor below, or rather the lack thereof. He swallowed the lump of anxiety in his throat, sliding his feet off the side of the bed. Hesitantly, he planted them onto the cold floor. The surface was wet and standing up made his legs shake. Looking down he noticed the floor dipped a bit, the surface tension reminding him of water. With wobbly legs and arms outstretched, Mumbo managed to balance his way to the lightened figure. His nose scrunched as he desperately tried to not look at the nothingness below. Eventually, he landed next to the angel. Mumbo bounced on the floor as he sat beside him. The angel snapped its view to Mumbo, its eyes opening wide in surprise. It didn’t expect to see him in this place so quickly, much less at all. Midas looked over at the bed with uncertainty before shaking it off. Inside the void they remained silent, but they sat comfortably. Mumbo shuffled around, adjusting his posture.

“I feel like… you may need to explain some things to me, Grian. You ran off in such a hurry and—I-I’m starting to think..” Mumbo trailed off, “I might have jumped to conclusions.” A small chuckle leaves the angel, soft and sweet. He looks out to the void, a small smile creeps across its lips. “You have so many questions. I’ve always liked that about you. So curious. You always want to understand everything from the inside out.” Mumbo hesitated for a moment, his voice spoke softly. “You… You’re not Grian, are you?” The angel perked up at the voice, turning his head to meet the others. His expression twists from a tender gaze into something melancholic. “I was… once.”  Placing his head on his hand he continued to look out into the vast night sky, “We used to be so close but now... Now, I'm pretty sure he hates me.” There was a bit of awkward silence, Mumbo fidgeting a bit as he struggled to find the right words. “He's a bit tricky, isn’t he?” A small smile tugged on his lips as he peeked over at the angel. A chuckle left him. “Sometimes I worry about the same thing.” . Mumbo leaned in a bit, curiously looking the creature over. Its hair fell over his nose, just a bit longer than Grian’s. Now that he had a better look, the differences began to stand out. They were like similar ideas yet disconnected. “My name.. is Midas,” The angel looks over, his hair drifting softly as if it wasn’t affected by gravity. His brows pinched, looking almost ashamed of the name. “at least, that’s what they call me… I’m Grian’s desires.” Mumbo whispers the name to himself, taking a mental note. He feels like the name is faintly familiar, but he can’t quite place it. Maybe he heard it in a story before? Wait. His desires?

Midas couldn’t meet Mumbo’s eyes, “I’m... I'm so sorry for not explaining earlier. There's so many things I know that I just don’t know how to say them…” His words trail off, “But you deserve an explanation.” Standing up, Midas outstretched his palm to Mumbo. Their fingers interlocked. Midas’s hand was that of static, a warmth emanating from him. Every aspect of him was comforting, maybe even familiar. Lifting Mumbo up, the two walked through the empty void. As Midas grabbed hold and held Mumbo’s hand, he guided him through the stars without pause. Looking down did Mumbo notice now that he was holding onto Midas, each step seemed to glow beneath them. The “floor” beneath their feet rippled with each step.

“Your world, in a way, could be described  as a story. When a story is written, it's to feed our emotions, helps us to feel something. Words can be added to a page, I can even write other stories, but this one has to play out… The story has to come to an end.” Midas voice became quiet, “You could even call it fate..” Mumbo was left wordless, his grip tightening on the other’s hand, squeezing it. There was a twinge of fear sitting deep within his chest. Mumbo’s nose scrunched as he started putting the pieces together. “You’re saying,” A shaky exhale left Mumbo, “Midas, am I meant to die?” Midas couldn’t answer. There was hesitation, silence crawling its way back. “Every action, every little thing has led you to this moment. And I know it may seem scary, but something extraordinary is about to take place.” Midas’s view is certain, unwavering. Knowing. The being turns around and fixes his hold on Mumbo. Mumbo falters as Midas places both of their hands together, now both hands interlock. “Everything I've given you. It's come true, right?” Mumbo gives a small nod. “Then, do you trust me…?” Mumbo’s brows furrowed, an uncertain look on his face before nodding again. Midas lets go of one of his hands and stands beside him. The two trek along the path of stars, glancing at each one. There were so many different stories being told, Mumbo watched each one with interest. His head cocked to the side as he saw worlds that never thought to be possible. He stopped at one in particular, gazing into it. Was he a huge computer in this one? 

The two end at a star that was much larger than the others. It towered over them, the light emanating from it overwhelmed them. Mumbo gazed into the crystal, looking as he saw a reflection of a much younger version of himself.

“This is when I first joined Hermitcraft! That was so long ago… It somehow it feels like I'm reliving it.” Mumbo's tail began to sway. He leaned closer and saw himself talking to Xisuma about spawn. Looks like they were discussing how to decorate. He placed his palms against the flat surface of the crystal.

“Every world is happening all at once. You’re experiencing it right now.” Midas peeked over Mumbo’s shoulder, watching curiously as the Hermits conversed. Looking out to the sea of stars, Mumbo couldn’t fathom seeing how vast it really is. It was a wonder as to how someone like Midas wouldn’t be lost in a vast void. Then again, with how easily it was able to guide him through to this star, he guesses that the being was familiar with this area as whole. “Does that mean that there's more? Other Hermitcrafts? One where I'm not sick? One where Grian and I..” The star glows on his fingertips. It becomes brighter, and brighter— Midas grabs hold of Mumbo’s shoulders, prying him away. It’s uncharacteristically frightened, soft hands that almost attempted to ground him. “I'd be careful if I were you! Those things are really tricky to work with. Only watchers can really control them, it barely worked when Grian tried to! I can’t imagine what would happen if a mortal were to mess with it.” Midas holds Mumbo close, from behind. “In all honesty, you shouldn’t even be in the void.” “Wh—hold on,” Mumbo lifted his arm, trying to get a good look at the angel, “Grian Isn’t a Watcher?” “Well, he was supposed to be! B-But… Uhm...” Midas's brows creased. “Something happened. I can't quite remember..” “Midas..” Mumbo's tone shifted to a more pleading one, “Please, I need you to be honest with me.” “I promise, I am! That was my whole purpose! I was supposed to make Grian into a watcher, but,” Midas’s grip got tighter, hugging Mumbo. “He doesn't even want to talk to me anymore. I’ve been trying to reason with him. It's like part of my memory has been locked away. I’ve tried asking what he remembers, but he doesn’t want to remember. He doesn't even want to,” Midas makes a vague gesture, “Want.” A small frustrated huff left Midas.He pulled away from Mumbo and looked into his golden eyes. “At least you listen to me... You actually enjoy the gifts I give you, even if they don’t go according to plan.” Midas’s expression turns sheepish, crossing his arms. It was a bit jarring to see Grian like this, so vulnerable and honest. Open yet shy. Midas was a walking contradiction. Mumbo couldn’t help but feel a bit flustered—or even a bit intrusive. It was like he was seeing a side of Grian that no one was allowed to see, not even himself. It was a private show, just for Mumbo. A small amused hum left him. “I won't lie, I didn’t expect to turn into a fruit bat. Weren’t you supposed to turn me into a vampire?” His tail began to sway side to side.

“Hey! It’s not my fault—It wasn’t supposed to happen like that!” Midas's nose scrunched as It playfully nudged Mumbo, making him chuckle. There was a time once where Grian was like this, happy and carefree. Knowing what Mumbo does now, it must have taken a long time for Grian to get there. He remembered how isolated Grian seemed when he first arrived, and how fast he warmed up. Midas’s warmth reminded him of what Grian could be, the dark void being a violent reminder of how cold Grian had become. Returning his view to the vast night sky, Mumbo couldn’t help but wonder. His feet shimmied slightly.  Mumbo's voice was soft. “Midas, you said that only Watchers could control these, yes? And there's a world out there where we're happy.” Mumbo extended his hand, their fingers interlocking. Midas’s hand seemed to phase into his own, “How does one become a watcher..?” Midas watched him for a moment, his eyes locked and unwavering. “It's… a bit hazy,” Midas’s brows furrowed as he began to recall, “When you make a deal, your soul becomes shattered like a piece of glass. You become broken and eventually need to recollect those pieces.” A chill ran up Mumbo’s spine, letting out a shaky exhale. Was he willing to risk that? “But you—you’re different. Somehow you’re here. Mortals shouldn’t even be able to traverse through the night sky. Mortals shouldn’t even be able to see me, much less talk to me.”Midas’s hand squeezed Mumbo’s as he began to think outloud. “Since our souls became one, maybe you wouldn’t need to shatter… Instead of Grian, maybe I could become part of you. You’ve already been using me this entire time..” Midas held Mumbo closer. “We made a deal.” Midas affirmed, “I've given you anything you wanted and more. You just have to tell me what you desire.” “What I desire..?” Mumbo repeated with a whisper. 

He wanted nothing more than for Grian to come back, to make amends. He wanted nothing more than to be free of this illness. If he understood Midas correctly, he would be able to kill two birds with one stone. Mumbo would be a Watcher instead of Grian. Grian would be free of his chains, and Mumbo would become immortal. If he wasn’t destined for anything greater than death, why wouldn’t he take the risk? Grian was all he could ever really want, more than life itself. And if death was inevitable, why not have a bit of fun? Why not aim higher? Instead of immortality, he would ascend godhood.

Mumbo leaned in closer, their noses almost brushing against each other. Every movement drew Midas closer, their hands faded into one. Mumbo’s lips twisted into a smile as he dipped Midas, almost in a dance.

“Make me a god.”

Grian had sat long enough. He wiped his face of dried tears as a shaky sigh left him. There was only so much time to sit and reminisce on things that once was, to mourn what peace he had. If he waited too long, he would lose everything completely. Grian’s fingers trailed up his face into his hair, holding his head in his palm. He needed to just take a moment to assess the situation: Mumbo was definitely not going to get better, but leaving him was out of the question. He was relying on him now. His blood was Mumbo's lifeline, and to avoid him would be the same as killing him. If Grian asked help from the others, would they too be brought into all of this? He gauged his options. Either he kept at this alone and Mumbo dies in the process, or Grian reached out to other Hermits and possibly end up hurting them as well. God, why did everything have to be so complicated? Grian’s tail began to whip back and forth in annoyance. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the note Gem made for him. She was good at this world's magic, wasn’t she? Maybe she would be able to figure out what to do from there. Grian’s wrist flicked instinctively to create a rift. He tossed the note into the open and watched  it flutter to the ground. Opening his palm, sparks of electricity glittered into the air with a fizzle. His brows pinched. Leaning down, Grian grabbed hold of the note, attempting once again to make a rift. Where on earth was his inventory? Why wasn’t it working? No, no, this can’t be happening right now! Grian stood up in a panic, thousands of questions ran through his mind. 

Did Midas disappear? Did he take away his ability to access his inventory? He didn’t have time for this! Grian began to move without thought, pulling open his front door—not even making an attempt to close it. Grian’s feet thumped against the pavement, his boots kicking up a dust path behind him. He struggled for breath, lungs begging for air. Grian had already ran so much, the only thing keeping him going was adrenaline. His whole body felt numb. No time to think, no time to feel, he had to act. He had to do it soon or everything he worked so hard for would slip through his fingertips. Slamming his body onto the veterinary clinic door, it shoved open and allowed him to stumble inside. His eyes met with Scar’s; Grian’s eyes widened in fear. He was moving off of pure instinct, he didn’t even stop to think about what he would say or what he would do once he saw Scar. Grian stammered, his head becoming light. “Grian?!” Scar shoved himself up from his seat. Grian called out his name, his vision beginning to blend and blur together. What was this feeling? Slowly, the world began to fall. The room turned over onto its side, and Grian landed onto the ground with a thump. His body relaxed onto the ground with a shaky sigh, and his view began to fizzle out into black. The floor had never been more comforting. Despite the muffled shouts and yelling, Grian slipped into a comfortable slumber. 

[every-ciel-and-sebastian]

[shepherdsofhaven]

There's no way we can just spit De Vespe in the eye 😭

I pride myself on giving you the choice to do some unhinged shit if you want to 🤣

[queerfanfiction]

Love Notes (Ch. 9)

Larissa Weems x musicteacher!Reader "The Knock Beneath" words: 5,145

AO3 link

Later that night, you wake with a start, heart pounding so violently it feels less like a heartbeat and more like something knocking from the inside of your ribs.

The remnants of a dream—no, a vision—cling to your senses. The greenhouse again. That menacing light pulsing in the darkness, breaking through the ruined panes. Only this time, there is something inside it. 

A figure? A presence? It’s leaning forward as if separated by an unseen barrier, pressing close enough that you feel the shape of its wanting without ever seeing its face.

The feeling of searching, reaching, returns tenfold. The urgency sinks its hooks in the space beneath your sternum and pulls. You sit up too fast, breath shallow, one hand fisted in the blanket as if bracing for an impact that never comes.

Just then, an arm slips around your waist—warm, insistent, instinctive. Larissa lies beside you in fractured moonlight, still half-asleep, her face softened by the kind of peace she so rarely lets herself keep. Her hold tightens with quiet certainty, drawing you back before panic can take root.

Even unconscious, her first instinct is to bring you closer. To ground you. To promise safety without saying a word. A wave of affection ripples through you, strong enough to momentarily drown out the echo still buzzing under your ribs.

You let yourself melt into her, forehead resting against the slope of her shoulder. The scent of her—clean linen and jasmine—wraps around you. Slowly, reluctantly, your body remembers how to be held.

Your eyelids grow heavy once more. The vision fades. You let the warmth stay. Larissa’s warmth stays.

And eventually, you fall asleep again.

—

The next morning, your head throbs dully, and behind every sound there is a faint shimmer of something else, as if the world was poorly tuned. The radiator clicks in the corner, and the noise scatters into your skull like tiny bells. Outside, students cross the grounds in uneven clusters, their voices rising and falling in overlapping waves.

Too loud. Too sharp. You wince before you could stop yourself.

Larissa’s arm tightens immediately. Larissa is awake before you. You know this because you can feel her watching you, her presence a quiet weight in the room.

“Darling?” Her voice is thick with sleep, lower than usual, the kind of sound that should have been illegal before breakfast. “What is it?”

You smile despite the discomfort. “Nothing. Just… everything is a bit much.”

She shifts at once, propping herself carefully on one elbow. The movement brings her face close to yours, her expression soft and serious in that devastating way she has when she is trying very hard not to panic. Her eyes search you, taking in the tension around your mouth, the hand still pressed against your chest, the way you are trying not to breathe too deeply.

“The sensory spillover?”

You nod. “Either that or the radiator has developed a personal vendetta against me.”

Her gaze flicks toward the offender in question. “I’ll have maintenance look at it.”

“Larissa.”

“What?”

“You cannot send a maintenance request because your almost-girlfriend was personally insulted by a radiator.” The word slips out before you could catch it.

Almost-girlfriend. Your mouth snaps shut.

Larissa goes very still.

The morning seems to hold its breath with you. For a horrible second, you wonder if you have stumbled too far too quickly, if the tenderness of last night was made safer by exhaustion and fear and the aftermath of a near-death botanical incident. Maybe daylight makes everything harsher. More complicated. More real.

Then Larissa’s lips curve.

“Almost?” she repeats, arching one brow with exquisite precision.

You stare at her. “I’m sorry, is that the word you’re taking issue with?”

“It does feel rather noncommittal.”

A laugh bursts out of you, immediately followed by a groan as your head pulses in protest. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. I’m medically fragile.”

“Convenient.”

“I nearly got psychically fondled by a cursed greenhouse yesterday. I deserve some consideration.”

Larissa’s amusement dims slightly at that, concern moving back into place. Her fingers lift to brush a strand of hair away from your face. The touch is so gentle that it nearly undoes you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Her arm remains around your middle, warm and certain, and the quiet between you feels different than it used to. Not empty. Not awkward. Full, somehow. Waiting.

Then a knock sounds at your door. You both freeze.

A second knock follows, brighter and more enthusiastic.

“Professor?” Enid’s voice chirps from the hallway. “Are you awake? Principal Weems said there’s a faculty meeting this morning, and also Yoko said the greenhouse looks like it lost a fight with a rabid octopus, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead!”

You close your eyes. Larissa closes hers too, though for a different reason entirely.

“Why,” you whisper, “is she like this?”

“I ask myself that daily.”

“Professor?” Enid calls again, louder. “I brought tea! Well, I borrowed tea. From the faculty lounge. Actually, I think it was Professor Briarwood’s, but he never labels anything, so legally—”

“I’m alive!” you call, voice cracking slightly.

“Oh, good!”

There is a pause. Then, with horrendous timing, Enid adds, “Is Principal Weems in there too?”

Larissa’s eyes open. You stare at each other. The silence is damning.

From the other side of the door comes a very small gasp.

“Oh my god,” Enid whispers, clearly not quietly enough. “Okay. Cool. Normal. Faculty business. Very professional. I’m leaving the tea outside the door and walking away like a mature adult.”

A second later, you hear frantic footsteps retreating down the hall, followed by a distant, muffled squeal.

You cover your face with both hands. “I’m resigning.”

Larissa’s mouth twitches. “Your resignation is denied.”

“You can’t deny my resignation.”

“As your employer, I absolutely can.”

“As your almost-girlfriend, I think that’s abuse of power.”

Her expression softens, amusement giving way to something warmer. “Almost again?”

You lower your hands slowly.

Larissa looks entirely too pleased with herself for someone whose hair is adorably mussed and whose reputation has just been compromised by a teenage werewolf with no volume control.

Your heart does something embarrassingly acrobatic.

“Fine,” you say, quieter. “Girlfriend, then. If that is… if you want—”

“Yes.”

The answer comes before you finish the sentence. Your breath catches.

Larissa seems briefly surprised by her own swiftness. Color touches her cheeks, delicate and lovely. Still, she does not look away. “Yes,” she repeats, more softly. “I would like that very much.”

For a moment, the hum in your chest disappears entirely.

You lean forward and kiss her.

It is meant to be quick. A gentle punctuation mark. A thank you. A good morning. But Larissa’s hand comes to the back of your neck, and her mouth softens under yours with a small exhale that ruins every responsible thought you have ever had. You melt against her, fingers curling into the sleeve of her sweater, letting the kiss stretch until your lungs remind you they have practical needs.

When you pull back, her eyes are still closed. You have the terribly self-satisfied thought that you could get used to seeing Larissa Weems undone in little ways.

Then the radiator clicks again, and you flinch.

Larissa’s eyes open immediately. 

The softness does not vanish, exactly, but it changes shape. Her gaze sharpens, tracking the discomfort you had almost managed to forget.

“Does it still feel as though something is there?” she asks.

You consider lying. You want to. Not because you think she cannot handle the truth, but because you hate the way fear sharpens her features. You hate being the cause of it.

Still, after everything, hiding feels like a poor way to begin.

“A little,” you admit. “Not as strong as last night. It’s more like… residue. A bad note still ringing after everyone has stopped playing.”

Larissa’s jaw tightens. “We’ll speak with Douglas again before the faculty meeting.”

“We?”

“Yes,” she says, as if the word is obvious. “We.”

You try not to savor it too visibly. She must notice anyway, because her thumb moves once across your cheek, a small and tender betrayal of her composure. “You are not handling this alone.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” you say softly.

Her eyes hold yours, and something unspoken passes between you. Not quite a promise. Not quite a confession. Something steadier than both.

Only then does the memory of the night return in full.

You stiffen.

Larissa notices instantly. “What is it?”

“I—I had a dream,” you say. “Or maybe a vision. I’m not sure.”

Her eyes snap fully to yours. “A vision?” Her tone is controlled but thin, stretched with worry. “Of what?”

You swallow and sit up beside her, the sheets pooling at your waist. “The greenhouse. But… there was something inside the light this time. Like a shape. It felt like it was… calling out. Searching again. Stronger, I guess.”

Larissa inhales sharply, and the sound seems to echo in the stillness of your small room.

“I see,” she murmurs, though her body has gone unmistakably rigid.

You gently touch her hand. “Larissa… I’m okay. I just wanted you to know.”

Her gaze softens only slightly before she exhales a long, controlled breath. “Thank you. And I will endeavor to remain calm—truly—but I am not fond of the idea of anything attempting to imprint upon you, especially not in sleep.”

The phrasing sends a shiver through you. Protective. Territorial. Afraid.

She clears her throat and pushes a hand through her hair. “Regardless, this confirms what I feared. We cannot treat this as an isolated incident.”

The vulnerability she allowed last night retreats behind a carefully rebuilt wall of professionalism. But you know her better now—you feel the subtle tremor beneath the mortar.

“Tea,” she decides, glancing toward the door. “Then infirmary. Then meeting.”

You sigh. “And here I was hoping for more kissing.”

Her gaze flicks to your mouth. “Behave, and I’ll consider it.”

You groan and let yourself fall back onto the pillow.

Larissa rises with far more grace than anyone should possess after sleeping in someone else’s bed, smoothing her hair into place with a few practiced motions. It doesn’t fully obey. A few loose waves remain stubbornly at her temples, softening her in a way that makes you want to pull her back down and keep her there.

Instead, you watch as she collects the tea from outside your door with her usual authority, as if there is nothing at all unusual about the headmistress of Nevermore Academy retrieving contraband tea from the corridor after spending the night in the music professor’s quarters.

When she returns, she hands you the mug first.

You look down at it. A sticky note is plastered crookedly to the side in pink ink.

SORRY IF I INTERRUPTED SOMETHING!!!! Also not sorry because this is very exciting. Drink tea. Don’t die. — Enid

Larissa reads it over your shoulder. “Good Lord,” she murmurs.

You laugh until your head hurts again.

Within the hour, Larissa ushers you to Nurse Douglas and the emergency meeting with trusted faculty members.

—

Nurse Douglas does not look surprised to see you.

This is annoying.

He is in the infirmary sorting small glass bottles into a cabinet when you and Larissa arrive. The second the door opens, he glances at you, then at Larissa, then down at the careful way her hand hovers near the small of your back without quite touching.

His eyebrows lift. “Eventful night?”

“Professional follow-up,” Larissa replies.

You choke on air.

Douglas looks at you. “Uh-huh.”

Larissa’s hand finally lands on your back, perhaps in warning, perhaps in support. You cannot tell which. Both feel equally thrilling.

“I’m experiencing heightened sensitivity,” you say quickly, desperate to regain control of the conversation before the nurse can make another observation. “Sounds are sharper. The imprint is still there, but faint.”

Douglas’s expression sobers at once. “Any visions?”

“No.” The answer comes too fast.

Larissa notices. Of course she notices. Douglas notices too. You hate observant people.

“Not exactly visions,” you amend. “More like… impressions.”

Larissa steps closer. “What impressions?”

You look at the tiled floor. There is a small crack near the leg of the examination table, thin as a hair. You focus on it for a second too long.

“When I woke up, before everything else got too loud, I thought I heard something underneath it all. Not words. A rhythm. Almost like something knocking from very far away.”

Douglas exchanges a look with Larissa.

You lift your head. “I hate when people exchange looks about me.”

“It may simply be residual resonance,” Douglas says, reaching for the same pearly crystal he used the night before. “Your abilities interact with vibration and matter. If that energy tried to imprint on you, it makes sense that your system would interpret it through sound.”

“And the knocking?”

He holds the crystal near your sternum. For several seconds, nothing happens.

Then it flickers. Not violently this time. Not the angry hornet buzz from before. Instead, the runes pulse faintly in uneven intervals.

Three quick flashes.

A pause.

Two slower ones.

A longer pause.

Three again.

Larissa’s face goes very still.

Douglas frowns. “That’s new.”

You stare at the crystal. “Is it… communicating?”

“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion.”

“That is exactly the kind of thing someone says when they think it might be communicating.”

Larissa’s voice cuts in, low and controlled. “Could the pattern be involuntary? A magical aftershock?”

“Possibly,” Douglas says, though he does not sound convinced. “But it’s too regular for ordinary residue.”

The air around you seems to thin.

Three. Two. Three.

You feel the rhythm now, not as sound but as pressure. Like fingers tapping against the inside of a locked door. Your stomach turns.

“It feels like it’s trying to find the right frequency,” you whisper.

Larissa’s hand closes around yours.

Douglas lowers the crystal immediately. The pulsing stops.

“Then we don’t encourage it,” he says. “No power use. No resonance work. No attempts to listen closer. If something is knocking, Professor, you do not open the door.”

You want to make a joke. Something about hospitality. Something about how Nevermore has very strict guest policies. But Larissa’s fingers are tight around yours, and for once the humor lodges in your throat.

“What do we do?” you ask instead.

Douglas hesitates.

Larissa’s posture shifts, sharpening. “Nurse Douglas.”

He sighs. “You document everything. Sounds, dreams, patterns, physical symptoms. We compare it to whatever remnants we can safely collect from the greenhouse. And we ask someone with more knowledge of botanical spellwork than I have.”

“Professor Briarwood,” Larissa says.

Douglas makes a face.

You blink. “Isn’t he the botany professor?”

“He is,” Larissa replies in a tone that suggests this is not necessarily a reassurance.

Douglas hands you a small notebook from a drawer. “Write everything down. Even if it seems insignificant.”

You turn it over in your hands. The cover is plain black, the pages cream-colored and thick. It looks absurdly serious. Like a diary for haunted academics.

Larissa takes it from you, opens to the first page, and writes something in her elegant script before handing it back.

You look down.

No strange magical knocking without supervision.

Underneath, she has signed her initials.

You press your lips together to avoid smiling too broadly. “Are you prescribing me rules now?”

“Yes.”

“Is that allowed?”

“I’m the headmistress.”

“You keep saying that like it ends every argument.”

“It often does.”

You want to argue. Truly. On principle.

Instead, you tuck the notebook carefully into your cardigan pocket and let her lead you toward the faculty meeting.

—

By the time you arrive in the conference room by Larissa’s office, the mood has shifted. The warm intimacy of your bedroom is gone, replaced by Nevermore’s familiar atmosphere of measured tension.

The room has the uneasy energy of a dinner party where everyone knows the host has hidden a body but no one wants to mention the smell.

The room is filled with a select few whose discretion she trusts implicitly. Professors sit around the long oak table in various states of concern, exhaustion, and poorly concealed curiosity.

Professor Briarwood has actual leaves stuck in his beard, which suggests he has already been poking around the greenhouse despite Larissa’s instructions. Ms. Alvarez from Divination is wrapped in a shawl patterned with constellations, her eyes half-lidded in that unnerving way that makes it impossible to tell whether she is sleepy or communing with forces beyond comprehension. Professor Parris from History keeps tapping his pen against the table until you consider using your powers to somehow explode it.

You don’t.

Larissa stands tall at the head of the table, now in a cream blouse and knee length skirt. Her posture is impeccable despite the exhaustion still clinging to her frame.

When you enter, her gaze flicks to you briefly—checking, affirming, softening for the barest heartbeat before returning to its steely focus. It warms you more than it should.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” she begins, voice steady. Every conversation dies instantly.

It is one of Larissa’s more unfair talents, commanding a room without raising her voice. The faculty straighten as if pulled by invisible strings. Even Briarwood stops picking twigs from his sleeve.

“As many of you witnessed last night, we contained an emergent magical phenomenon in the eastern greenhouse grounds. The situation, however, is not resolved. Until further notice, no student is permitted within fifty yards of the greenhouse. Faculty access is restricted to those I explicitly authorize.”

Briarwood raises a hand.

“No,” Larissa says. At that, he lowers it.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Larissa continues. “We need to determine whether the event was an isolated magical eruption, a delayed consequence of Joseph Crackstone’s resurrection, or something deliberately introduced onto school grounds.”

At that, murmurs threaten to ripple among the table.

You feel it before you see it—the subtle change in posture, the tightening of shoulders, the faint spike of fear moving through the space. Nevermore is accustomed to danger in the same way old houses are accustomed to drafts. Still, Thornhill’s betrayal leaves marks. You can hear them now in the silence between breaths.

Ms. Alvarez’s eyes open fully. “It was deliberate.”

Everyone turns toward her.

Larissa’s expression does not change, but you see her fingers tighten around the edge of the table. “Explain.”

The divination professor smooths one hand over her shawl. “I went near the perimeter this morning. Not inside,” she adds quickly when Larissa’s gaze sharpens. “Near. There’s a residue around the eastern wall. Not the greenhouse’s magic. Not the school’s. Something placed.”

Briarwood frowns. “A seed?”

“An invitation,” Alvarez says.

The word moves through the room like cold water.

Your chest hums.

Three. Two. Three.

You press a hand to your sternum.

Larissa’s eyes snap to you.

You shake your head slightly, trying to reassure her, but the pressure has returned. Faint. Insistent. As if something has heard its name spoken in a crowded room.

“What kind of invitation?” Mr. Parris asks.

Alvarez looks toward the windows, where the ruined greenhouse stands somewhere beyond the walls. “A door left cracked open. Something on the other side noticed.”

Your mouth goes dry.

Briarwood pushes his chair back with a scrape. You flinch at the noise.

Larissa notices that too.

“I need to see the remains,” he says. “If something was introduced, the root structure will tell us.”

“You will examine samples brought to you,” Larissa replies. “You will not enter the greenhouse unsupervised.”

“With respect, Headmistress, plants do not prefer committee work.”

“With respect, Professor, neither do I, and yet here we are.”

A few faculty members wisely look down at their papers.

You love her a truly unreasonable amount.

Briarwood huffs but relents.

Larissa turns to you then, and the shift in her expression is subtle enough that no one else would recognize it. Professional concern softens at the edges into something intimate. “Professor, you were closest to the source when it collapsed. Can you describe what you felt before it was severed?”

You sit a little straighter.

The room’s attention swings toward you. You hate that part. Being observed makes the hum feel louder, like whatever residue lives beneath your sternum enjoys an audience.

“It wasn’t just anger,” you say slowly. “At first I thought the plants were panicking. Like they were being forced to grow past what they could handle. But when we got closer to the mass, it felt more… focused.”

“Focused on what?” Parris asks.

You look at Larissa.

She gives you the smallest nod.

You exhale. “Me, eventually. Or my abilities. I’m not sure. It reacted when I tried to harmonize the vibrations around it. Like it recognized the method.”

Briarwood’s frown deepens. “Recognized?”

“I know how that sounds.”

“No,” he says, more serious now. “That is precisely the problem.”

Larissa’s gaze moves to him. “Elaborate.”

Briarwood leans forward, the leaves in his beard trembling with the motion. “Some botanical curses are not self-sustaining. They require a carrier, a sympathetic force. A song, a spoken phrase, blood, grief, memory. If this mass responded specifically to resonance work, it may not have been attacking randomly. It may have been waiting for something compatible.”

The room blurs slightly at the edges.

Compatible.

You swallow. “That’s a horrible word.”

“I agree,” Larissa says, voice hard.

Nurse Douglas steps forward with his crystal in hand. “My examination supports that,” he explains, nodding toward you. “Their abilities repelled most of the interference, but not all of it. Something attempted to connect to their resonance frequency. Remnants linger.”

Another professor, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, leans forward. “Which means the spellwork wasn’t seeking life. It was seeking… amplification.”

Amplifying what, though?

Alvarez tilts her head, studying you in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Have you experienced dreams?”

You hesitate.

A cold wave travels down your spine. Larissa’s hand twitches where it rests on the table. She does not reach for you. Not here. But you feel the desire in the air between you.

Larissa’s voice cools. “Last night, it tried again to connect. Through a dream-state visitation.”

Alvarez’s expression suggests she does not believe the distinction matters.

Your irritation flares. “Just say it if you know something.”

Larissa murmurs your name, quiet but cautioning.

Alvarez’s face softens, to your surprise. “I don’t know. That is what worries me.” She folds her hands on the table. “But when I stood near the greenhouse, I heard a woman crying.”

The room goes absolutely still as faculty members stiffen.

You look down at your hands. Your heartbeat thuds once.

Then again.

Larissa’s voice drops. “A woman?”

Alvarez nods. “Behind glass. Or beneath soil. It’s difficult to explain. The impression was obscured.”

A strange coldness spreads through you.

Behind glass.

Beneath soil.

Your mind flashes with an image that does not belong to you: green light pulsing through dirty panes, a hand pressed against the other side, nails broken, palm streaked with soil.

You gasp.

Larissa abandons professionalism in an instant.

She is beside you before anyone else can speak, one hand on your shoulder, the other at your wrist. “What happened?”

You blink up at her, the faculty room snapping back into place too sharply. “I saw—” You stop, trying to catch the image before it vanishes. “A hand. Glass. Someone trying to get through.”

Alvarez whispers something under her breath.

Larissa turns on her. “If you have something useful to say, say it clearly.”

The other woman does not seem offended. “That was not a vision from the past.”

Your stomach drops.

“What does that mean?” you ask.

Alvarez looks at you. “It means something may still be reaching.”

The hum in your chest pulses once.

Three. Two. Three.

This time, Larissa feels you react. Her grip tightens.

“That’s enough,” she says, nodding once. “We begin by isolating the source residue and preventing any further magical tethering. Professor Briarwood, you and Nurse Douglas will analyze the samples under warded conditions. Ms. Alvarez, I want a written account of every impression you received. Mr. Parris, review all records connected to Thornhill’s tenure, the greenhouse, and any procurement logs from the last academic year. Someone brought something onto my campus, and I intend to know who.”

The temperature in the room seems to shift.

There she is. The headmistress. The woman who can take fear and turn it into orders sharp enough to cut through panic.

Then her gaze lowers to you, and the steel softens.

“You,” she says more quietly, though everyone still hears, “are coming with me.”

You raise a brow, grateful for the familiar shape of teasing even under the circumstances. “Am I being dismissed from the meeting?”

“Yes.”

“Feels targeted.”

“It is.”

You stand because your legs are shaking and you suspect she already knows. The faculty watch with varying levels of concern and interest. You avoid all of their eyes.

As Larissa guides you toward the door, Briarwood speaks again.

“Headmistress?”

She pauses without turning.

“If this is what I think it is, the greenhouse may not be the source. It may be the nursery.”

The word lands heavily.

Larissa looks back.

Briarwood’s face is grave beneath the absurdity of his beard. “Something was grown there. But that does not mean it began there.”

Larissa holds your gaze a beat longer than necessary, something fierce and wordless passing between you. Something protective. Something afraid of almost losing you again.

—

Larissa does not speak until you are in her office.

The moment the door closes behind you, she turns the lock.

The sound is small. Final.

You lean back against the door, all at once aware of the space you are in. Her office feels different now. Not unfamiliar—you know its bookshelves, its polished desk, the media player you once touched with wonder while trying not to think about her mouth. You know the fireplace, the rug, the heavy curtains, the faint scent of paper and tea and her.

But standing here after everything, after waking in her arms, after watching her command a room while some unknown magical force taps at your chest like a patient predator, you feel the strange overlap of worlds. Professional and personal. Safety and danger. Want and fear.

Larissa crosses to you slowly.

“Look at me,” she says.

You do.

Her composure cracks the moment your eyes meet.

“Oh, darling,” she breathes.

That is all it takes.

You step into her arms, and she gathers you against her as if she has been waiting all morning to do precisely that. Your face presses into the curve of her neck. Her hand comes to the back of your head, holding you there, fingers threading through your hair with a tenderness that makes the pressure behind your eyes unbearable.

“I’m okay,” you mumble, even as your voice shakes.

“You are a terrible liar.”

“I’m a very charming liar.”

“You are a terrifyingly self-sacrificial liar with poor self-preservation instincts.”

You huff weakly against her throat. “That feels specific.”

“It is becoming a pattern.”

Her arms tighten.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You listen to her breathing, slow and deliberate, and try to let your own body follow. The hum in your chest dims against her. Not gone, but muffled. As though her presence places a blanket over the dissonance.

“I saw her hand,” you whisper.

Larissa goes still. “Her?”

You close your eyes. “I don’t know why I said that.”

But you do know.

Or some part of you does.

The hand in the vision was slender. Pale. Dirt under the nails. Familiar? No. Not familiar exactly. But charged with significance, the way certain notes in a song announce themselves before you understand the melody.

Larissa draws back enough to see your face. “Did you recognize anything else?”

“Green light. Glass. Soil. It felt like someone was trapped, but…” You frown, trying to untangle sensation from meaning. “No. Not trapped. Contained.”

Larissa’s expression shifts.

“What?”

She hesitates.

“Larissa.”

Her gaze moves briefly toward the windows. Beyond them, Nevermore carries on in strange normalcy—students crossing paths, gargoyles watching from stone perches, the ruined greenhouse hidden from view but not from thought.

“When Laurel Gates infiltrated this school, she had access to the greenhouse,” Larissa says carefully. “She used her position as botany teacher to move freely, to store materials, to cultivate poisons. We searched her rooms and the obvious storage spaces after Crackstone was defeated.”

“But not everything.”

“We believed we had enough.” The admission costs her something. You can hear it. “Wednesday’s evidence, Thornhill’s disappearance, the aftermath of the attack… there were priorities. Injured students. Parents demanding answers. Police interference. My own recovery.” Her mouth tightens. “It is possible we missed something.”

You reach for her hand. “You were poisoned and almost died. You don’t have to make that sound like an administrative inconvenience.”

Her eyes soften, but the guilt does not leave. “If Laurel left something behind—”

“Then she left something behind because she was manipulative and dangerous, not because you failed.”

Larissa looks at you for a long moment.

“You say that with such conviction,” she murmurs.

“Because it’s true.”

Her thumb traces over your knuckles. “I wish truth were always enough to quiet the mind.”

You know that feeling too well.

The office settles around you, quiet except for the distant murmur of the school. Then, from somewhere near Larissa’s desk, a faint crackle sounds.

Both of you turn.

Her desk radio sits beside a tidy stack of correspondence, silent and unlit.

It crackles again.

Your skin goes cold.

Larissa moves first, placing herself slightly in front of you. “That shouldn’t be receiving anything.”

“I thought Nevermore had terrible radio reception.”

“It does.”

The radio hisses. Static fills the office, low and wavering. You clap a hand over one ear at the sharpness of it, but beneath the noise is something else. A rhythm.

Three. Two. Three.

Larissa reaches toward the radio.

“Don’t touch it,” you say quickly.

She stops.

The static shifts. For one terrible second, a voice threads through.

Not clear. Not whole. Just a broken whisper folded into the interference.

“Found…”

The radio sparks.

Larissa yanks you back as the glass dial cracks straight down the center.

Silence slams into the room.

You stare at it, breathing hard.

Larissa’s face has gone pale.

“Tell me you heard that,” you whisper.

“I heard it.”

“What did it say?”

Her jaw works once.

You already know, but you need her to say it. Need proof it isn’t only inside you.

Larissa looks at you, fear and fury mingling in her eyes.

“Found,” she says.

The hum in your chest answers. Not with sound this time.

With recognition.

—

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