A/N: I cannot believe I'm starting yet another story. Zigster, you're a bad, bad influence on me. This began as a fun game over in the Northman thread at the Sookieverse here at fanfic(dot)net. We found a couple of random word generators and were creating little ficlets with the words we got. Of course, they had to involve Eric and Sookie and, well, sex in some form or another. The ficlets have grown into several stories, Linds' What Dreams May Come is an example and, I hope, that soon Zigster will follow suit with something about the Devious Douche (don't ask), Rox with Ericberry and, all the other Eric-variations that have enlivened our days and nights.

The girls all pressured me into turning this into an "actual" fic, so I edited, added to and, massaged the hell out of it, and here it is. It is AU and AH. In the original ficlet, this first "chapter" was inspired by the words, "written" and "ostrich."

As always, I gotta give love to the ladies (and gents) over at the LTAE thread on the hbo wiki and, of course, my girls here at the Sookieverse. You all inspire me, and if it wasn't for you this would undoubtedly never see the light of day.

The title of this fic comes from a poem by Robert Herrick, one of my favorite 17th century poets, which is saying a lot because I'm not normally a "poetry" kind of girl. It is from a poem called The Scar-Fire.

WATER, water I desire;

Here's a house of flesh on fire.

Ope the fountains and the springs,

And come all to bucketings.

What ye cannot quench, pull down.

Spoil a house to save a town;

Better 't is that one should fall,

Than by one to hazard all.

I'd like to thank Gallathea for stepping in and being my beta on this. Now she knows the dirty secret that only Kristin knew: I don't know what the hell to do with commas! Yes, I have a B.A. in English and can't punctuate for sh*t. Oh, and Galla, yes it is so, so wrong, but damn . . . don't tell me you wouldn't go there!

As always, Charlaine Harris owns the original versions of these characters, I just like to take them out and play with them in her sandbox.

Now that my ridiculously long A/N is done . . . please enjoy the show.

I stared at him from the doorway. It was now or never. I could behave like the proverbial ostrich with my head in the sand, or I could "grow a set," as my eloquent brother put it, and make a move.

The first day I walked into his class, I nearly walked right back out again. There, in the back row sat my ex boyfriend, Bill Compton. I know I decided on my schedule before we broke up and, I know he knew what I was taking. I just, for the life of me, could not remember if he had already set his schedule, or if this was some weird Win-Sookie-Back ploy of his. As if.

I shuddered as I remembered walking into his apartment that day. I heard the television blaring from his room and quirked a smile. He always listened to it so damned loud that I teased him that he was like a deaf old man. I opened the door and the smile died on my lips. There was Bill alright, standing over a very naked woman who was bent over the edge of his bed, slamming into her for all he was worth. They were so consumed with what they were doing, they didn't even notice me. At least not until my copy of Pope's collected works hit Bill in the head, accompanied by my shouted "you mother fucker!"

What can I say? My Gran would have rolled in her grave at my swearing, but I was a little pissed.

So I stood there debating the merits of remaining in this class, and decided I was not going to let him have a say in my life anymore, and if I dropped the class because of him, that's exactly what I would be doing. The son-of-a-bitch even had the audacity to smile at me. Well, there was nothing for it. We were both English majors and, therefore, we were bound to have a few classes together.

I turned around to find a seat as far away from Bill as possible when I slammed into a wall. Well, not exactly a wall, but a solid mass of muscled chest. I looked up and found myself staring into the most impossibly blue eyes I had ever seen. They were the blue-white of arctic ice, and they crackled with intelligence.

A huge hand shot out to steady me, and that's when I saw the robe. I let out a small groan as I realized that I'd nearly run down the professor. "I'm sorry." I stammered. His hand moved away and I found myself wishing it hadn't.

Crap. I shook my head to clear it and that's when I realized that the entire class was silent, watching me, and that the professor was indicating a nearby seat in the front row. I nearly died of embarrassment. I slid into the seat, trying to decide what was worse: having my professor think I was some flibbertigibbet, or having the entire class witness my mortification.

The only thing that mollified me slightly was that I'd seen Bill's face when the prof's hand was still on my shoulder. He was not happy. Good. He shouldn't be.

By the end of that week, I wished I had dropped the class. Professor Northman was gorgeous, and I found myself completely distracted by him, by thoughts of his enormous hands and those incredibly blue eyes.

To make matters worse, I was now stuck in the front row, directly in front of him, so he was always catching me staring at him. I couldn't help it, though. I could not take my eyes off of him. At six foot four or so, he had to be the tallest man I knew. He had long, blond hair that he always wore pulled back in a low pony tail at the base of his neck. His hands . . . well, I know I already said they were huge, but his fingers were long and graceful and, despite his size, when he gripped the chalk and wrote on the board, his hand was elegant and smooth.

However, my biggest problem was academic. Every time I was called on to answer a question or bring up a talking point, he seemed to disagree with me, challenging me. We had not yet had an exam, but my paper on the Quixotic Influences in Tom Jones got a B+. I was horrified. I'd never gotten less than an A in any of my English classes.

I vented to my best friend, and roommate Amelia. She immediately told me to seduce him. I was shocked. "Amelia!" I berated her. I went on and on about how misogynistic that was; how doing something like that would be in direct contradiction of my feminist tendencies. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not a femi-nazi, but I believe in making my own way and not having to depend on a man.

Add to all this the fact that Bill was chasing after me after every class, trying to win me back with declarations of his love and whispered reminders of what we had shared. I knew I wouldn't go back to him, but it did something to my insides to hear him whispering in my ear. It made me want someone, and as I sat there in class three days a week, I realized that someone was Professor Northman.

I could not stop thinking about him and what it would be like to seduce him. God, it was so cliché, but he was in my head all the time. I hadn't been with anyone since Bill, and that wasn't helping either. My libido was out of control and the good professor was just stoking the flames. After a month and a half of torment, God help me, I decided to do something about it.

So here I was. I stepped into his office.

Without looking up from his desk, he registered my presence and said in a flat tone, "My office hours are written on the syllabus."

I gulped. "Professor Northman?"

He sighed and looked up at me, his blue eyes blazing into mine. "Miss Stackhouse. Is there something I can help you with?"

Oh man, is there something he can help me with.

I moved to the side of his desk, and he swiveled in his chair, his long legs splayed out in front of him, giving me a wonderful view of him in his tight jeans. Wow!

"I," I almost stuttered. "I was wondering if there was any sort of extra credit I could do to help my grade? I'd be willing to do anything." God, could I sound more cliché?

I saw the corner of his lip twitch in the start of a smile. "Anything?" He asked seductively.

"Anything." I replied. I looked down as I felt the blush begin to sweep across my face and, I noticed that the view had just gotten much, much better.