#mr. mussels | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

velidewrites · 1 year

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Summary: Nesta is having the worst time on her vacation—until she spots a handsome stranger in a restaurant. Lucky for her, he's determined to show her a good time.

Pairing: Nesta x Cassian

Word Count: 7.3k

Warnings: Smut, mature language, Mrs Archeron

Read on AO3

The only source of light in the restaurant were the candles, laid atop each table and flickering whenever the evening breeze dared to gently whoosh inside. There were no windows in the space—the climate here was warm enough to not have to bother with such things—so instead, someone had opted to carve rounded, open archways into the sandstone walls. Every now and then, the wind would find its way in, prompting the small flames into a dance that threatened to smother their enthusiasm for good.

Such cruel fate had been suffered by the fire burning over at Nesta’s table, its only remnant the thin swirl of smoke that was now slowly trailing upwards. Nesta’s eyes, however, remained fixed on the blackened wick, as if she could still feel the soft flame casting shadows over her face.

It had only been seconds, and yet the wax had already begun freezing into place as it dripped down the candle’s ivory length. To Nesta, though, the moment had somehow managed to extend into eternity—a fate even more cruel than the flame’s unfortunate death. Right now, she would do just about anything to simply evaporate into the nightly air.

A light click sounded somewhere near her side, and time resumed in an instant. A symphony of voices poured into her ears—conversations in too many languages to discern, tangled between the music playing quietly from the speakers hung in the gap between the back wall and the ceiling. Everything became too loud, too rushed, like an impending wave of the sea, the same kind that was now crashing into the shore overlooked by the restaurant. With a will of their own, Nesta’s eyes squeezed shut, as though shutting off one of her senses could somehow ease the fervour of the other, and she quickly blinked, realising there were too many gazes on her to allow an escape into her own head.

When her eyes opened again, her candle was burning anew. The fire rose from from the spent wick, resuming its dance as if never interrupted at all.

Nesta blinked one more time before finally looking up.

The waiter stood over their table, a sleek, electric lighter in his hand. He flashed her a smile, his perfect set of white teeth nearly brighter than the flame itself.

“Are you ready to order?” he asked in a thick accent. Nesta thought it made his question sound like a song. Rich and lovely—each word enunciated, each syllable important.

She opened her mouth when another movement caught her eye—a glimpse of lustrous silk, reflecting the light softly. Pink.

Nesta’s mouth closed with a flat exhale. Elain always managed to select the perfect fabric for the occasion—as if she could somehow predict how the setting would best compliment her outfit. Indeed, her own pencil skirt and a sleeveless top were no match for her sister’s dress, which could probably challenge the very sun with its own gleam. Nesta’s all-black ensemble, on the other hand, seemed to suck in all the light.

Seated to her left, Elain’s brown eyes narrowed as she scanned the menu carefully. “Do you have any vegetarian options?” she asked, brows creasing in worry.

Another movement—opposite from Nesta, this time. Her eyes darted to its source, just in time to catch the wave of their mother’s dismissive hand.

“She’ll have the octopus,” she told the waiter, whose own frown mimicked Elain’s before he quickly jotted down the order. “We’re at the seaside, after all.”

Elain’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“My eldest will have the calamari,” their mother continued, gesturing to Nesta. “Grilled, not fried. And the mussels for me.” And with that, she returned her gaze to the menu.

Elain cleared her throat pointedly, though the sound was hardly acknowledged as the woman flipped onto the last page, already examining the restaurant’s wine selection. Their mother did not deign to look up as Feyre spoke.

“I’ll have the salmon, please,” she said quietly, something strained in the back of her throat.

All the numbness Nesta had carefully cultivated in her chest prior to this evening vanished at the sound, a fire much more angry than the candle’s filling her instead. A ruthless, icy flame.

Her fury must have been evident in her eyes, because before Nesta even managed to make her feelings about mother’s obvious dismissal perfectly clear, Feyre’s slender hand wrapped around her wrist.

Nesta’s head snapped toward her little sister.

It’s not worth it, blue-grey eyes told her, even as their mother continued to question the waiter about the bitterness of the local wine.

Nesta swallowed. Hard.

Then, she looked to Elain—who shook her head quickly, honey-brown curls shifting over her shoulder.

Fine, then.

Nesta let out a deep, deep breath, and did not stop until all the fire was out and that familiar numbness filled her again.

She never thought she’d say this, but Nesta missed New York. Missed her apartment, however small, and the peace and quiet it offered on days like these—days when she felt forced to exist in the moment, to flow with its relentless current. She would give just about anything right now to be able to curl up on the grey couch in her living room and disappear under her favourite, plush blanket. She’d left a book on the coffee table beside it—she meant to bring it along for the journey, but it seemed that her mind had been too preoccupied with the destination to remember. The story—four hundred pages of her favourite romance—would have been the perfect escape for this occasion.

Frankly, Nesta had wanted to turn back and go home the moment she’d stepped on the plane. Her mood had only darkened when she discovered a raging six-year old was seated right behind her. The child had been intent on making her life even more miserable, opting to spend over half of the ten-hour flight frantically kicking her seat until his legs finally gave out about two hours before landing. The insufferable kid had been carried out by his mother, sleeping soundly in her arms and no longer resembling the devil’s spawn that he was—until they’d reached baggage claim, of course, where he’d taken the carousel for his personal playground, jumping right over her suitcase before Nesta had managed to fish it out.

The air had been warm and humid from the minute she’d left the airport, and it had only grown heavier since then. Not even the occasional breeze seemed to lift it as it swept over her face—as if mocking the beads of sweat that had begun to gather under her hairline. The climate didn’t bother her that much, to be honest—the island was beautiful, after all. The golden sand sparkling in the beaches, the turquoise water surrounding it. The palm trees growing on both sides of every stone-clad alley. Perhaps, in different company, she’d even be able to appreciate this place.

But alas, this trip was not the case. She and her sisters had been putting off this trip for two months now, though none of them had ever voiced their lack of enthusiasm aloud. Feyre would always cite her classes as an excuse, Elain was quite literally elbows-deep in work, and Nesta…after her fifteenth job interview, she was practically losing her mind.

Now, though, with the semester over and summer quickly approaching, the three of them found themselves with a lot of free time and too many missed calls from their mother. And so, when Nesta suggested they get on the plane and get the whole thing over with, neither one of her sisters even tried to protest.

It wasn’t that Nesta didn’t love her mother—they all did, truly. But love was a complicated thing, almost as complicated as the woman herself, and sometimes…sometimes it overwhelmed her.

She did feel guilty, of course. Mother’s health had been deteriorating over the past few years until finally reaching its critical point in early January. Her doctors strongly recommended a change of climate—a place where chaos didn’t thrive as wildly as it did in New York. Somewhere warm—somewhere quiet, where she could live out the rest of her days undisturbed by other worldly afflictions.

All of it was merely delaying the inevitable—even their mother knew that too well. Still, Nesta supposed, a remote island far away from the rest of the world did not seem like the worst place to turn to for comfort. She would have probably done the same had she found herself in a smilier predicament.

Except that comfort seemed to elude Mrs Archeron no matter where she fled—in fact, Nesta was starting to believe there wasn’t a single place on Earth that the woman could truly be satisfied. Even here, surrounded by nature’s radiant beauty, there was something missing. Sometimes, it was her favourite boutique in New York. Other times, the friends she’d left behind there, the weekly card games they always held at the Plaza. And lately, it was her three daughters, who, after all had not visited her in six months.

She’d seemingly forgotten that it had been Feyre who’d helped her move all the way across the world—who’d taken care of all the planning and paperwork until their mother had set foot in her new, beachfront suite. Her youngest sister had missed an entire week of lectures because of that trip, and would later sacrifice her sleep to catch up on the material overnight.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Nesta blinked, the question snapping her focus back into the present. The waiter was long gone—instead, mother had now seemed to engage Elain in a conversation, from the exasperated flush on her sister’s cheeks.

“Nesta,” Feyre murmured.

God, she needed to get it together.

“I’m sorry,” Nesta said carefully. “I got distracted for a minute. You were saying?”

The woman let out a long-suffering sighed. “You spend too much time in your own head, Nesta, and I know very well why.” Nesta’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I’ve always told you should read less—or at least, read something more productive than those silly rom-coms I’ve seen on your shelf.”

Suddenly, Nesta regretted ever inviting her mother to her apartment. She’d only come over for tea once—and apparently, it had been enough for her to restock her ammunition for later.

Forcing a smile which came out a bit crooked, Nesta met the woman’s gaze. Blue-grey eyes, the same exact shade as hers and Feyre’s, stared back, adorned by wrinkles not yet smoothed out by botox. “What was your question, mother?” she asked.

Another sigh, aimed to make her disappointment clear. “I was saying you should perhaps speak to your boss about Elain,” she suggested.

Nesta angled her head slightly. “Whatever for?”

“Mother,” Elain cut in, “I told you it’s not—”

“A job, of course,” she said, dismissing her daughter completely. “You work for a high-profile company.” It was the closest to a compliment Nesta had ever heard fall from her lips. “Surely they could find something for Elain, too.”

“Elain already has a job,” Nesta reminded.

Her mouth twisted in distaste. “A different job.”

“There is nothing wrong with what I do now,” Elain spoke again, her tone sharper now, colder.

Their mother raised a hand, the golden rings on her fingers glistening under the candlelight. “Of course there isn’t, dear. You misunderstand me again.” She turned to Nesta. “I’m only saying you could ask your boss if there are any opportunities. I’m sure Elain could use the extra money.”

“I’m doing perfectly fine where I am, mother. But,” Elain added through gritted teeth, “thank you for your concern.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I take it business is going well, then?” She never called Elain’s bakery by what it was—as if the mere thought of her daughter spending her days dabbling in flour already filled her with some unimaginable horror.

“Yes,” Elain said tightly. “Perfectly well.”

Mother shrugged. “If you say so. Still,” she looked to Nesta again. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Elain’s face practically burned red.

“Fine, mother,” Nesta quickly said, making sure to squeeze Elain’s hand under the table. “I will.”

She sure as hell wasn’t asking Tomas Mandray for anything. As of Monday, she’d never have to see him again.

Her mother didn’t have to know about the resignation latter, saved on her laptop and waiting to be sent out the second she returned. If she found out Nesta was planning to quit her stable, corporate job…not even the island’s lovely climate would save her.

Mrs Archeron nodded. “Good. You should ask him about your promotion, too,” she added. “I keep hearing about it, and yet nothing ever happens.”

Nesta tried not to cringe at the displeasure in her voice.

“A fine man, that Mandray,” she mused innocently. “Good looks…good social standing.”

Dread began to build in her stomach. Please, don’t, she begged her silently. I hate him.

Something twinkled in her mother’s eyes, and she opened her mouth.

“Greysen and I broke up,” Elain announced loudly.

Mother’s face whipped to her middle daughter, and Nesta’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“Why?”

A one-shouldered shrug, so similar to the one mother had given her only a minute ago. Thank you, Nesta wanted to shout across the table, though she suspected Elain hardly needed her gratitude. She was clearly enjoying this—especially as she added, “He wasn’t good for me.”

Mother was practically seething. “Greysen Nolan is a good match,” she said, as though unaware they were living in the twenty-first century. “His father and I are friends.”

“Just how good of a friend is he?” Elain shot back.

Nesta stilled.

Beside her, Feyre’s eyes widened.

Slowly, their mother leaned back in her seat.

“Ladies,” a deep voice sounded. “Your drinks.”

The waiter appeared as if out of nowhere, leaning to set their wine atop the table. Nesta had never reached for her glass quicker, urging the crimson liquid to flush down the heart lodged in her throat. Feyre, it seemed, had opted to do the same.

Only when the man pulled back, moving to approach another table, did Elain finally sway the wine in her hand, her gaze still levelled on her opponent. While mother had taken Nesta under her wing from a very young age, and completely dismissed Feyre as anything other than a tiresome presence in her house, she’d never seen Elain as anything beyond her looks—it was no surprise that she’d quickly become their father’s daughter—calm and unyielding, unafraid to face her head on and risk her disapproval. Mother had always underestimated her.

She seemed to realise that at last, as lightning seemed to rage in her blue-grey eyes, just barely restrained—an ancient storm ready to ravage a blooming land.

Not good.

So Nesta spoke, “Mother, did you know Feyre passed all of her finals with an A this year?” Feyre’s head snapped to her at that, even the freckles on her face paling. “Tell her about your post-colonialism class, Feyre.” And when Feyre didn’t manage to utter a single word, Nesta turned back to their mother, explaining, “It was the most difficult one, and she got the best grade out of her entire cohort. At NYU.”

Feyre released a breath. “It’s nothing,” she murmured.

Those icy flames licked at Nesta’s chest again. Acknowledge her, she wanted to scream. Praise her.

“It’s not nothing,” she told her sister. “You’ve been brilliant, I—Mother?” Nesta frowned, realising the woman had already risen from her seat.

“Oh, please, keep going,” she waved a hand. “Don’t let me disturb you—I’m just going to go find the restroom. I need to freshen up.”

And with that, she was gone, the light click of her heels on the stone floor following her to the back of the restaurant.

Nesta eyed the movement, willing that inner fire to stifle its rage—until her eyes settled on something else entirely.

“You broke up with Greysen?” Feyre spoke beside her, but her voice was distant now, as if sounding from miles away. “When?”

“Last month,” Elain answered. “But he had it coming long before that, really,” she added quickly.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. You were dealing with your finals, I—I didn’t want to add more onto your plate.”

A sigh. “I get it. Just—please know you can always talk to me?”

“Of course. Besides, Nesta was—Nesta?”

But Nesta had long stopped participating in the conversation.

For sitting at the table a few away was the most ridiculously beautiful man she’d ever seen.

She would’ve spotted him right away had it not been for her mother’s seat shielding him from view the entire night. It was impossible not to take notice of him—and not simply due to his size, the broad chest, the strong, golden-brown arms, their muscles practically glistening under the soft light. He looked like he’d spent the entire day on the beach, his dark, windswept hair loosening a few strands over his forehead—over his hazel eyes, bright with amusement as he listened to his companion.

And his companion…of course he’d come with a date. A woman so beautiful she seemed as though the sun itself had crafted her, her golden hair cascading down the red silks of her dress, down her exposed back. What the hell did they put in the wine in this place?

From the corner of her eye, Nesta could just barely make out Elain following her gaze.

“Go talk to him,” she urged.

At that, Nesta turned, schooling her features into cool indifference. “Who?”

Elain’s brown eyes narrowed. “Don’t act stupid now, Nesta. You were practically drooling.”

“Is it a crime to appreciate a good looking man?” she asked innocently.

“It’s a crime not to do anything about it.”

Feyre huffed a laugh. Nesta shot her a glare.

“Just do it, Nesta,” she told her.

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. He’s clearly here with a date.”

“Could be his sister,” Elain supplied helpfully, though there was little confidence in her tone.

“They look nothing alike.”

Feyre sighed deeply. “Nesta, just go talk to the guy.”

“She’s right, you know.” Elain’s head tilted slightly to the side. “When was the last time you’ve been on a date?”

Nesta’s jaw clenched. “I’ve been busy.”

“Exactly,” Feyre said. “And now you’re on vacation—you deserve to…let off some steam.”

Elain chuckled.

“Is that so funny?” Nesta challenged. “Maybe you should go talk to him, Elain—a little rebound’s never hurt anybody.”

Elain sipped from her glass. “Normally, I would,” she started, a small twinkle appearing in her gaze. “But I don’t think Lucien would appreciate it.”

Feyre’s jaw practically hung open. “Lucien? NYU Engineering Lucien?” She shook her head. “No, scratch that—my friend Lucien?”

Pink bloomed on Elain’s cheeks, and Nesta suspected it had little to do with the wine. “He came by the bakery a few days after your party.” That’s right, Feyre’s end-of-exams party—the one she’d quite literally begged her to show up to. The one she’d told Tomas about when she requested a day off—and so naturally, he’d made her work overtime well into the early hours of the night. “We’re going on a date next week.”

Feyre’s arms folded over her chest. “I can’t believe that asshole didn’t tell me,” she grumbled. Lucien may have been two years above Feyre—but he was still a good friend. At least, that was Nesta’s understanding from the one time she’d met him.

“I know what would lift your mood right up, Feyre,” Nesta suggested, a sly smirk curling up the corner of her mouth. “Go talk to the guy.”

Her eyes gleamed with challenge. “I will if you don’t do it first.”

She gestured towards his table. “Be my guest.”

Feyre groaned loudly.

“Nesta, would you please stop being so stubborn?” Elain begged.

“I’m not going to make a fool of myself,” she huffed.

“We’re literally on the other side of the world,” Feyre argued. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

What indeed?

Nesta considered—they were leaving after the weekend. If the golden woman really was his date, and Nesta was about to face a blatant rejection—she’d never have to see him again. She would probably have to avoid every beach on this island for the next two days, but now that she thought of it, she’d always been more of a winter person, anyway. And then, she’d simply go home and never think of him again.

If he was single, on the other hand…

Nesta sighed. “Fine.”

Elain squealed in delight.

“Ask him what he ordered—it’s good small talk,” Feyre advised.

“I can see what he ordered from here,” Nesta protested. “Besides, his plate looks horrible. Who orders steak in a place like this?”

“You’re starting to sound like mother,” Feyre cautioned.

Oh, god.

“Do it your way, then, Nesta,” Elain hurried. “Just go.”

Alright then.

Nesta set her glass, rising from the table carefully. She did not nearly have enough wine for this, she realised. Her body felt warm—but not warm enough to untangle the knots that had managed to form in her stomach. It wasn’t like her to put herself out there so…publicly. Honestly, she’d never had to work this hard to catch a man’s attention before.

“Have fun.” Feyre smirked. “We’ll be watching.”

Nesta hissed, “Don’t you dare.”

The sound of her sisters’ quiet giggles carried her through the space. She didn’t think she’d ever walked more slowly in her life, each step determined to drag this out for as long as possible. God, did she at least bother to check her hair beforehand? What if she’d smudged her mascara by accident?

Too late—she was so close now that she could make out just how perfectly the man’s stubble shaped his sharp jaw. Could see how large his hands were as he clasped them together, seemingly in excitement at whatever the woman had just told him.

She could see the perfect fullness of his lips as he leaned over the table and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Well, shit.

Nesta practically lunged for the bathroom, making a turn so sharp she almost slipped on the polished stone floor. Damn her and her stupid heels—everyone wore sandals in this place, anyway. What devilish forces pushed her to leave all of her flat shoes back home, she did not know. She could only pray no one saw her obvious escape—or the heat that was no doubt burning her face red.

The restaurant had been booming with conversation and music all night, and despite this, the only sound she was convinced everybody could hear now was her heels, loudly carrying her away as she disappeared into the corridor that led to the restrooms.

The door swung open before she’d even managed to reach for the handle.

“Ah, Nesta,” Mrs Archeron said, and Nesta almost stumbled back a step. Her mother reached for something in her handbag as she continued “Here, use this.” She fished out a small packet of tissues and pressed them into Nesta’s palm. “Public restrooms are an atrocity.”

And just like that, she left.

Nesta stared at the packet for a few seconds before finally entering the quiet room.

It was a cozy space, with golden-framed mirrors, hanging from an old mural of the sea, and marble sinks. She placed the tissues atop one of them and faced her reflection at last.

Well. She did not look half bad, at least.

Her makeup was still intact—by some miracle, even the dark wings of her eyeliner remained sharp. She’d braided her hair into an updo earlier, and though a few loose strands had fallen out to frame her face, the entire ensemble looked somewhat presentable. Nesta reached for one of the tissues, dabbing it lightly over her face in places where the heat of her embarrassment melted her foundation slightly, and sighed. What was she thinking?

She made herself count to ten before going back into the dining area, her mind already crafting a pathway back that did not involve walking past the guy’s table. There was a staircase on her left, in the corridor right by the bathroom door, that she hadn’t noticed before. The sign next to it had been written in a language she did not understand, though the message seemed pretty obvious—no entry. Shame. Nesta would have done just about anything to hide upstairs for the remainder of the night.

“I was wondering where you went,” a voice appeared beside her.

Nesta stilled. He sounded exactly as she’d imagined.

Please, let this be a dream, she begged silently. A hallucination from the humidity.

If only.

Slowly, she turned from the stairs and faced him.

Up close, he was almost criminally beautiful. He knew it, too, there was no doubt in her mind about that—not as he folded his golden-brown arms over a powerful chest, leaning against the wall with a smirk. He was so ridiculously large that he shielded most of the restaurant from view—barely, just barely, she could make out her sisters’ forms, sure to be watching them intently.

The idea made her thoughts sharpen, like a fog lifting from her gaze—pretty or not, he was still a man, and Nesta was hardly one to fall at their feet at first glance.

And so, schooling her features into what she hoped was cool indifference, she asked “Excuse me?

A chuckle.“When you left your table, I was hoping you were coming over the say hello,” he mused, his voice like a melody sang by the darkest night—low and smooth over her skin, penetrating every fibre of her being. Nesta nearly gritted her teeth as a new fire awoke inside her—hot, teasing and wet.

He’d sought her out.

“I don’t think your date would share the sentiment,” she said, careful to keep her tone aloof.

His brows knitted over hazel eyes—from up close, she could see the speckles of green dancing around his pupils. “My…” he paused, a shadow of confusion clouding his face as he took in her words. “Oh.” A smirk curled the corner of his lips. “Mor is a friend.”

“You have very pretty friends.”

He hummed. “Wouldn’t hurt to have one more.”

She couldn’t help it—couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her own lips. “You’re very cocky for a…” A what? With a face like that, she couldn’t really blame him.

He flashed her a grin, as if he knew exactly what was going on in her mind—and enjoyed every last bit of it. “What’s your name?” he asked. God, she liked his voice. She liked everything about him.“Nesta,” she said, extending a hand.

He lifted himself off the wall, stepping in close enough to take her hand into his. That delicious heat stirred in her again at the contact—at the warmth of his skin, the slightly calloused fingers. She began wondering what he did for a living—until all thoughts evaporated from her head as he leaned to brush his mouth over her knuckles in a light kiss.

“Cassian,” he said, and the liquid fire descended down to the deepest, most aching part of her.

“Cassian,” Nesta repeated, testing out the name on her tongue. It did not sound nearly as nice on her tongue as it did on his—though Cassian hardly seemed to agree, from the way his eyes darkened at the sound.

He released her hand much too soon for Nesta’s liking. “I was about to have some dessert. Would you like to join me, Nesta?” he asked, motioning to the stairs and up.

Nesta’s brows furrowed. “Upstairs?” she questioned. “Isn’t it a private area?”

Cassian smiled at her again, and suddenly, she stopped caring about signs altogether. “Oh, it is,” he said. “Lucky for us, my brother owns this place.”

Lucky indeed.

“What of your date?”

He snorted. “I told you—not a date.”

“You know what I mean.”

Cassian jerked his chin to his table, a secretive twinkle in his eyes. “She was waiting for somebody else.”

Nesta followed his gaze—to where the beautiful woman, Mor, now smiled openly as she took the hand of her new companion. The woman who had taken Cassian’s seat returned her expression, her dark eyes shining brightly.

“Oh,” Nesta simply noted.

“Yes,” Cassian agreed, something like amusement creeping into his tone. “What’s your final verdict, then?”

Nesta shot a quick glance at another table—where Feyre was now giving her what seemed like a thumbs up.

“Lead the way,” she told him.

Cassian, it seemed, did not need to be told twice.

The room upstairs was a lovely studio, the interior similar to that of the restaurant. A small but well-equipped kitchen made up the corner on the left side of the entrance, divided from the rest of the space by a dining table of dark, polished wood. A couch stood by the windows toward the back wall, overlooking the village beneath. Nesta moved closer to the sight—it only took her a few steps to reach the other end of the apartment—as though unable to help herself, to admire the soft lights glinting from inside every household. The sea laid on the other side of the building, but she could still hear the gentle rustle of waves docking ashore. Now, with a peaceful view and a change in company, she felt her appreciation for this place grow.

“It’s beautiful.”

Somewhere behind her, Cassian hummed. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Nesta turned on her feet to meet his gaze—only to find it occupied. Cassian’s eyes surveyed her closely, sweeping over the curve of her hips, her waist, her breasts—until they finally settled on her mouth, something bobbing in his throat at the sight.

For some reason, Nesta’s mouth felt dry. “Do you stay here often?” she asked, but her words felt distant, absent even as she spoke them.

Cassian shook his head, his gaze reluctantly moving to meet hers again. “Only sometimes. My other brother usually watches the place.”

“You have two?”

He nodded.

“I have two sisters,” she said.

He took a step towards her. “I saw.”

“You were watching me?” she asked, the question no more than a breath. He was so close to her now—she could wrap her hands around his neck if she wanted to.

His voice was hoarse as he admitted, “I was.”

Nesta went molten, all the heat he’d rallied inside her fluttering in her belly and swirling down to her core. She needed him to touch her now—anywhere, everywhere, all at once. She wanted to know how those fingers would feel as they traced the curve of her breasts, how they’d stroke that aching place deep inside her that thrummed under his stare.

He saw her—had spotted a stranger in the sea of candlelight and decided to wait for her move. The thought sent a shiver down her spine—she fascinated him just as he did her.

Perhaps this trip had not been such a bad idea after all.

Feeling bold, Nesta closed the distance between them and laid a hand on his broad chest. She tried not to gasp at the hard muscle she felt underneath—at the heartbeat that began to race under her touch. She couldn’t help but smirk.

A large palm covered her own. “So, Nesta,” Cassian said, the low rasp of his voice caressing that desperate tightness inside her. “Tell me what brought you here tonight.”

She had a feeling he didn’t mean the restaurant. “I wanted to have some fun.”

Something twinkled in his gaze as he asked, “Not enjoying your time on the island so far?”

She slid her hand up to his neck, her thumb reaching to brush the roughness of his stubble. She could’ve sworn he shuddered slightly at the touch. “Could be better,” Nesta teased.

His eyes darkened. “Let me show you, then,” he pleaded. “Let me show you a good time.”

“Yes,” Nesta breathed.

In a quick and definitely practiced move, Cassian grasped both her hands in one of his palms, lifting them above her head. A sharp gasp tore from her lips as he pinned them to the wall behind her, his grip on her deliciously firm. Nesta’s exposed shoulders brushed the stone, its cold touch instantly smothered by Cassian’s hot breath on her skin as he leaned down to crash his lips into hers.

He tasted like fire and the richest of wines, the feel of him nearly dizzying, consuming. His other hand rested heavily on her waist, trailing upward as if wanting to explore every last inch of her. Nesta’s lips parted slightly when he cupped the side of her breast, and his tongue slipped forward to meet her own like a hungry flame.

His body pressed in closer, and Nesta arched into him, desperate for more friction. Like a bolt of lightning, pleasure rocked through her she felt the hardness bulging under his trousers, digging into her stomach in repressed need.

“Take this off,” she commanded between breaths. Cassian chuckled.

As he pulled away, sliding his shirt off in one, swift motion, Nesta allowed herself a moment to admire the man before her. With his chest laid bare to her, he looked like one of the marble sculptures that decorated the space downstairs—like some kind of ancient warrior, crafted from iron and flame. He was intoxicating.

With her hands freed, she moved to trace the cords of carved muscle with her fingers, delighting in the sight of his chest falling in uneven rhythm. “I was right,” she mused, more to herself than him.

“About what?” Cassian asked, his question no more than a rasp.

Nesta flashed him a smile. “This is going to be fun.”

His lips found hers again at that, the kiss deeper now, more desperate, as if he wanted to ingrain the feel of her into his memory forever. A rustle of fabric signalled his hands on the hems of her shirt, and Nesta raised her hands, suddenly feeling very smug about her decision not to wear a bra for the evening.

A low, feral noise escaped Cassian’s throat as he took in the sight. Nesta shivered, and it had little to do with the breeze that made its way in through the open windows she was nestled between.

His hands slid down her body, and Nesta stopped breathing entirely as he circled the tip of a finger around her pebbled nipple. Her nails dug into his arms, the sensation of his touch on her sensitive skin tantalising. She needed more of him—and she needed it now.

Then, Cassian flicked her nipple, and a wretched moan ripped free from her throat. Cassian snickered in delight and flicked again, the touch drawing just enough pain this time to spur another, clawing ache that dripped between her thighs.

“Cassian,” Nesta pulled away, panting. “Wait.”

He stopped immediately, moving back an inch to meet her frantic stare. “What is it?”

“The windows.”

Cassian frowned slightly. “What about them?”

“They’re open,” Nesta said, her breath still uneven. “There are guests downstairs—”

A very satisfied smile curved his lips upwards. “Well,” he teased, his hand on her side moving to wrap under her thigh. “I guess you’ll just have to be very quiet, then.”

And with that, he lifted her up.

A thrill shot down Nesta’s spine as he pinned her to the wall again, and she hooked her legs around his waist, pulling him in to settle between them.

“Just like that,” he praised, his other hand sliding down to grip her ass. There was a feral edge to her smile as she looked up at him, and a low rumble reverberated through his chest. “Nesta—”

She let her name drown in his mouth as she brought her lips to his, her legs wrapping tighter around him. The core between her thighs throbbed with her need, her anticipation, begging to be filled—to be given what she so badly wished. Keeping one of her hands on his neck, she slid the other down to the buttons of his trousers, working them quickly until another, grey fabric appeared.

Cassian groaned into her mouth as she skimmed her hand down his length.

“Who’s quiet now,” she mocked, her fingers teasing him again.

“Bossy,” he panted, his own hand moving to spring himself free at last. Any smug retorts her mind began crafting died on her tongue as she took in his cock, the breath in her chest hitching at its size, at the velvety shaft promising to completely and utterly wreck her.

He pulled her own, black skirt up to her hips before she’d even realised, as desperate for her as she was for him. Cassian’s hand moved to cup her ass again, fingers digging into the pliant flesh deliciously, as the other reached down to guide himself to her entrance.

His cock brushed the thin layer of her underwear, practically soaked with the pleasure he’d coaxed from her. “You’re killing me,” Cassian breathed, feeling the wet heat welcoming him, urging him in. She could not longer endure it—the feel of the blunt tip of his cock so achingly close, and yet not nearly close enough.

He seemed incline to agree as the sound of a ripping fabric filled the space between them. Cassian discarded her underwear to the floor before Nesta managed to open her mouth in protest, the darkness in his eyes drowning out the hazel.

“You won’t be needing it anymore,” he told her simply, his hand returning between her legs.

Her gaze followed the movement. “Is that so?”

The asshole had the audacity to wink. “I promised you a good time, did I not?” he asked, another wide smirk blooming on his beautiful face as he lazily teased a finger at her entrance, her aching cunt coating him in her slick. “Seems to me like you are,” he hummed, crooning his digit inside her.

Nesta gasped, her walls immediately clenching around him, pulsing with need. He hissed at the sensation, his cock twitching impatiently beside his hand, begging to take its place. Nesta could not agree more—she needed more, needed to feel the fullness of him inside her, to find out just how deeply she could take him. Her vision glazed with lust as she watched him add another finger, stretching her with ease.

“Cassian,” she urged, her voice tight now, strained as those fingers retreated and dipped into her again, stroking in a slow, steady rhythm that threatened to push her over the edge. Too soon—she had to find out now, had to get her craving satisfied, had to have him fill her entirely before she exploded. “Cassian,” she said again, louder, this time as her thighs shook slightly around him. It felt so fucking good and he knew it, from the smile she felt on her neck as his mouth lowered to nip at the exposed skin.

“So impatient,” he purred, his breath hot beneath her ear and shooting that familiar lightning through her again, setting every nerve in her body on high alert, tingling. His pace quickened, pulling in and out of her increasingly tightening centre, and she rolled her hips into his hand, pushing him deeper, her efforts messy, needy. “I want you to come for me, Nesta,” he told her, his lips descending on her neck again as he added, “Before the real fun begins.”

Release crashed into her without warning, her inner muscles clenching him tight as she moaned loudly, unable to contain her the sweet, white-hot fire inside her any linger. Cassian’s mouth found her own again, the kiss muffling out the sounds of her pleasure from any unwanted spectators as his fingers continued to ride her through it. Nesta’s tongue darted into him, scraping over his teeth, not nearly satiated enough—she wasn’t sure she would ever get enough of him.

He did not break apart from her as he wrapped both arms around her again, taking them to the couch a feet away. She straddled him the moment his back rested against the cushions, the feel of his hardness against her now dripping core rekindling that greedy fire inside her. She rolled her hips once, twice, relishing in the feel of him, in the guttural sounds he was making in return. His palms rested on her sides, lifting her slightly before flashing her a wicked smile.

“Ready, sweetheart?” he teased, the broad tip of his cock nudging at her entrance again.

God, she was in such deep shit.

Without another thought, Nesta slid her hands to his neck and drew him inside her.

All the air was sucked from her lungs at the stretch of him, of every aching inch as she lowered herself on his cock. Cassian hissed sharply, his grip on her hips tighter now, as though he needed to restrain himself from thrusting deep inside her, to give her a moment to adjust to the thickness of him.

But Nesta was done waiting.

She grasped a hand at his shoulder, urging him to move closer, deeper, to move with her until she could no longer see anything but stars. She could practically hear how wet she was as his strokes grew steadier and devastatingly precise, each one of them reaching further into her core, each one making her breaths go shorter and her legs grow weaker.

“Nesta,” Cassian panted, his head dipping to the crook of her neck, “You feel incredible.”

Maybe it was the way he spoke her name, low with a flash of possessiveness in his dark eyes, or the praise he’d thrown at her, but she shuddered with delight as she sunk fully onto his length, her walls gripping him tighter. Cassian swore loudly, the curse in that language she didn’t understand yet still shooting jolts of pleasure through her body. She looked down to where they joined, to where she was split open around his cock, where he dragged himself up and down the slick folds of her cunt.

Her pace quickened at the sight, something in it breaking the last shred of composure within her.

Nesta mewled as he pushed in deeper than ever before, his cock hitting the back of her cunt, stroking that sensitive spot inside her that made her melt entirely. She moaned his name, no longer caring for whoever might hear—there was only the fire erupting inside her as he filled her, the sound of his heavy breaths as he matched her pace, the wildness in his eyes as she moved on him, deeper and deeper.

She felt the inevitable tug of another climax, creeping in closer and closer with every thrust, every flutter of her cunt around him. Her legs trembled, threatening to give in the next time his cock found that secret spot inside her, her breasts bouncing with her movements.

“Cassian,” she choked, throwing her head back as his hands slid up to cup them.

Cassian’s mouth closed around one of her nipples, and she exploded.

Her walls clenched around him hard as she came, Cassian following swiftly after as his thrusts became messier, more chaotic until he finally gave in. His groan reverberated into her body, settling deep beneath her skin, caressing every shuddering inch of her as she rode them both through their joint release. They recovered together, their heaving breaths syncing into one, and it felt so good and so right that she never wanted to leave.

When Cassian’s eyes searched her own again, flickering brightly, Nesta couldn’t help but grin.

“I believe you promised me dessert,” she told him.

His gaze swept over her body, over the mess she’d made of him, and when it returned to hers at last, it was filled with a new hunger that sent heat into her once more. “Yes,” he hummed. “I believe I did.”

Taglist: @sv0430 @queercontrarian @asnowfern @helhjertet @isterofimias @octobers-veryown @fieldofdaisiies @teamazris @a-frog-with-a-laptop @jmoonjones

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rippleclan · 5 months

Text

RippleClan: Moon 11

Parsley attends the Gathering (under Fennelspot’s observation).

[Image ID: Parsley and Fennelspot sit below a large brown stone, where Autumnstar, Mistlestar, Gorgestar, Sanderlingstar, and Downstar sit. Under Downstar, it says - CONDITION: RECOVERING FROM BIRTH. Oilstripe and Puddlespeckle are in the far back while Scrubmask is standing to the side. Parsley says “I’ll tell ya, Mr. Fennelspot… your Clans are strange.” Below her, it says + CONDITION UPGRADE: INFECTED.]

“You really take this walk every moon?” Parsley groaned as she walked alongside Fennelspot in the RippleClan line-up. Downstar, fully recovered from the strain of birth, led the small Gathering patrol along the border between SlugClan and WheatClan. The AshClan delegation, which had more cats than Parsley had ever seen in one place, wandered ahead. Its members occasionally glanced back at RippleClan’s smalls numbers; Downstar, Weedfoot, Fennelspot, Parsley, Scrubmask, Oilstripe, and Puddlespeckle. Many of those eyes focused on Parsley.

“Well, I walk the first portion on the half-moon before the Gathering,” Fennelspot explained. “I have to visit StarClan’s Shrine.”

“And does AshClan escort you there, too?” Parsley mumbled, glaring at the large ginger and white figure at the front of the giant group. His mangled tail bounced high above his flank. Parsley wasn’t convinced the “nine lives” story was anything more than folklore to improve the leader’s image, but if leaders did get nine lives, judging by the scars covering Autumnstar’s body, he had most certainly lost a few by now.

“They used to,” Oilstripe chirped behind the pair. “Downstar got them to stop this moon.” She squeezed between Fennelspot and Parsley.

“Now I thought RippleClan was sovereign,” Parsley huffed. “Why did Autumnstar make such a fuss about us waiting at the border for AshClan?”

“It’s early RippleClan history!” Oilstripe explained. “When StarClan gave the Clans their blessing to form RippleClan, AshClan had to give up some of their land to us as payback for killing the Ashes in the Water, Weedfoot’s group of friends. Autumnstar only agreed to acknowledge RippleClan as a real Clan if they could escort us whenever we had to cross past their territory. It sucks, but it means they aren’t trying to kill us, so for now, we put up with it. They gotta escort us to Gatherings or Autumnstar said he’ll chase us out.”

“So much for independence,” Parsley huffed. “That’s just not right. I’m sure the other Clans don’t need a kitsitter.”

“We’re working on it,” Fennelspot groaned as the two Clans reached a harsh cliff face. A small path snaked up the side of a harsh wall of brown stone that stuck out of the sweeping, rugged hills that marked most of the area. Moss and leaves peeked out of the cracks and a small trickle of water flowed into a pool of clay to the side. Pawprints covered the clay deposit as memories of artisans harvesting clay for their terracotta. A narrow path wound its way up the slope. Voices chirped from somewhere up top. Autumnstar led AshClan up the cliff in two neat lines, but Downstar raised her tail and everyone in RippleClan stopped.

“Aren’t we going to join them?” Parsley huffed.

“RippleClan will make its own entrance,” Downstar explained. “Scrubmask, do you have our goods?” Scrubmask carried a basket filled with as many mussels as she and Carnationpaw could find. Parsley hadn’t realized cats were capable of crafting such things until her arrival over a moon prior. Scrubmask lifted the basket at her leader’s call. The mussel shells clattered together inside. Autumnstar yowled when he reached the top of the cliff and all the cats of AshClan launched up and out of sight.

“Stay together when we enter,” Weedfoot said, looking over her shoulder as Downstar flicked her tail and climbed the path up.

“The Gathering can be really exciting,” Fennelspot explained as RippleClan followed Downstar, “but I want you to stay by me tonight, and let me know if your tail starts to hurt too much.” Parsley didn’t like lying, so she didn’t respond. Her tail burned and the exposed skin underneath her cobweb bandages stunk. Fennelspot said the wounds were infected and rarely left Parsley’s side. Even so, when RippleClan returned from the last Gathering, the way they spoke of the event pushed Parsley to ignore her pain and demand a place at the next one.

Since moving her tail too much made the burning worse, she couldn’t use it to balance along the narrow path. Fennelspot walked along the edge and kept her paws steady. Eventually, she made it to the top of the cliff, where Downstar and Weedfoot patiently waited for the rest of the Clanmates. They waited until every member of the patrol climbed onto the rich spring grass before they led RippleClan as a united group through a thick line of ferns and trees that concealed the Gathering Clearing.

Parsley thought AshClan was crowded, but the size of the crowd within the Gathering Clearing stole her breath. Never, in over a hundred moons of living, had she seen so many cats. There was a chance that there were more cats in this one clearing than Parsley had ever met. Every color pelt was on display, sitting on stones and hard ground ripping out of the grass, as cats from four different Clans gathered around a giant rock. It was a bulky, golden-brown structure as tall as two humans. Three cats stood on flat platforms scattered around the stone. Autumnstar climbed up the stone onto the highest platform. Downstar approached the rock and hopped onto the lowest platform.

“You’ll be able to interact with the other Clans once the leaders make their announcements,” Fennelspot whispered. “For now, stay here.”

“Well, you’ll need to tell me who is who,” Parsley whispered back. “And will you please throw in a few pronouns? I can’t understand why you Clan cats always assume things.”

“Parsley, you’re a Clan cat now,” Scrubmask reminded her.

“Greetings, everyone!” Autumnstar yowled from on top of the Leader’s Stone. “Welcome to the second Gathering of the new year. AshClan will start this moon’s announcements, as we have much to be proud of.”

“Is he always like this?” Parsley asked. She must have said that a bit too loud, as Autumnstar’s huge yellow eyes locked onto her. His frost-bite scars looked like open blisters in the light of the small fire lit in front of the Leader’s Stone. Parsley would have tucked her tail if she could have moved it.

“I am excited to announce,” Autumnstar continued, looking back over the crowd, “that some of my grandchildren have finished their apprenticeships and now stand before you as adults, capable of handling any threat that comes their way. Tonight, please give warm praises to Burningpath, Nettlestep, and Crimsonrun, the newest artisans and codekeepers of AshClan!” The Clans chanted the three names as three cats, each with ginger pelts, stood with their chins and tails high. Even RippleClan chanted the new names, so Parsley joined along. She kept going a bit too long after everyone’s excitement faded.

“Beyond that joyous occasion,” Autumnstar said, “we must mention that a black bear has come out of hibernation near the land of the Clans and crossed the Great Northern River into our territory. It took the life of one of our strongest caretakers, Sundream, while on patrol. The bear has crossed the river once more, but be on the lookout, for it may continue wandering the Clans. The rest of this moon has been typical for us. Mistlestar, would you like to go next?” Autumnstar nodded to a dark red cat on the second highest platform.

“Mistlestar is LynxClan’s leader,” Fennelspot explained quickly. “They’re neither a tom nor a molly. They keep their announcements short.”

“LynxClan is strong,” Mistlestar huffed. “No new kits, apprentices, or graduates, although Whitestripe expects her kits before the next Gathering. An uneventful moon for us.” They sat and wrapped their tail over their paws. They glanced down at the two leaders who shared the second lowest platform. One had long, dark fur, and sat with their back legs splayed out. The other was white with a pale brown back and a round figure. They muttered to one another, trying to decide who would make announcements first.

“So these two lead SlugClan and WheatClan?” Parsley asked.

“Gorgestar is SlugClan’s leader,” Fennelspot sighed, pointing his tail at the long-furred cat. “He’s a good leader. I did my best after his fall, but I couldn’t restore his back legs.” Fennelspot’s tone dropped as he said that. “The other cat is Sanderlingstar, from WheatClan. She’s been a leader the longest, even though Autumnstar is older.”

“SlugClan has received a blessing from StarClan this moon,” Gorgestar suddenly said, startling a few cats in the crowd. “On the night of the half-moon, just as Bubblemoon returned from StarClan’s Shrine, Scaleshine and Leafear had a litter of nine kits. A quarter moon has passed, and all nine have survived so far. They’ve each been given wonderful names and are growing well.” Cheers and excitement rose in the crowd.

“Are they well-fed?” Mistlestar asked.

“Bubblemoon is making sure every kit has their chance to eat and Scaleshine is not exhausted,” Gorgestar explained. “However, he needs to stay at her call to ensure her good health. SlugClan may call upon one of our neighbors for a spare cleric, should the need arise.”

“LynxClan has three to spare,” Mistlestar said with a nod. “We will help.”

“Thank you, Mistlestar,” Gorgestar purred. “That’s all for SlugClan. Sanderlingstar?” Sanderlingstar groaned and stretched, licking her lips as she looked over the crowd.

“WheatClan welcomes a new cleric apprentice by the name of Thistlepaw,” Sanderlingstar sighed. “She joins the apprentice’s den with her littermate, Fogpaw, who trains as a mediator.” The crowd cheered the names of the new apprentices. This time, Parsley made sure to stop chanting sooner rather than later. “Meanwhile, our oldest elder, Rockback, peacefully joined StarClan this moon. His last words, as he wanted everyone to know, were ‘It’s about time.’” WheatClan chuckled and various cats gave a bit of polite laughter, but AshClan was the loudest, fully giving into the dark humor. “WheatClan has fully embraced the spring growth and has new goods to trade, if any mediators or artisans want to visit our borders. Now I’m curious as to what our youngest Clan has been up to.” Sanderlingstar draped her paws over the edge of the platform as all the leaders looked down upon Downstar.

“It’s been quiet in RippleClan,” Downstar admitted. “My apprentice, Carnationpaw, has helped us collect some seaside goods for trade. We’ve brought some mussels with us for the communal soup, but they can be eaten raw as well.” Scrubmask stood on a rock so everyone could see her basket. “Beyond that, our kits are healthy and our camp is secure.”

“Well, that’s not really everything,” Sanderlingstar pointed out. “You’ve brought that loner you found with you tonight!” A hundred pairs of eyes fell on Parsley. Her fur bristled. She wasn’t doing anything wrong by being here!

“We told the Clans about Parsley last moon,” Downstar reminded the Gathering, blissfully pulling some eyes away from Parsley. “She’s a part of RippleClan now, and she is allowed to join us at Gatherings.”

“She’s caused trouble around AshClan in the past,” Autumnstar growled. His brutal eyes once again tore into Parsley. “I didn’t recognize her at first, but I remember reports of a self-righteous loner with a single white paw berating our patrols for doing their jobs.”

“And I remember a bunch of dim-witted killers screaming at me whenever I got within sight of them,” Parsley snapped. “I never crossed your borders but your warriors always harassed me. Of course, your Clan seems built on harassing others, isn’t it?” The crowd gasped and oooed at Parsley’s words while Autumnstar hissed. Oilstripe and Weedfoot cheered her on.

“Enough, everyone,” Mistlestar huffed before the Clans got too rowdy. “Is that all, Downstar?” Downstar nodded, defiantly staring up at Autumnstar.

“Your new Warrior is a troublemaker, Downstar,” Autumnstar grumbled. “Let the Gathering begin!” The five Clans swarmed one another. Old friends touched noses and the scent of each group overwhelmed Parsley’s nose. Oilstripe and Puddlespeckle vanished into the crowd. Scrubmask approached a large oven with her basket of mussels. Weedfoot joined Downstar by the Leader’s Stone.

“Well, what now then?” Parsley asked, eyes darting around the chaos.

“We socialize for a while until our Clan decides to leave,” Fennelspot explained, glancing between Parsley and Autumnstar. “Oilstripe will likely stay longer, though. There’s something called an Aftergathering once the leaders take their Clans home. It’s more relaxed than a regular Gathering.”

“This is already rather relaxed, don’tcha think?” Parsley chuckled. She groaned and stared at the huge crowd around her. “I’ll tell ya, Mr. Fennelspot… your Clans are strange.”

“You were so brave back there!” A young voice gasped. A murky gray kitten with a swirling pelt danced in front of Parsley. “You really showed AshClan up! I hope I can be like you when I graduate! I’m Fogpaw!” Fogpaw touched their nose to Parsley’s. Parsley stared for a few moments, unsure what to do next.

“Well, hi there,” she gulped. “She and her for me, please.”

“Why specify that when your scent matches?” Fogpaw asked, cocking their head. “Then again, maybe that makes sense, I mean, I’ll be telling everyone I use they and them my whole life, so I know some cats have to specify, but cats won’t really mess up for you. What was life like as a loner?” Huh. So this was a Gathering. Parsley could handle it.

“I’ve got a few stories if you’ve got time to hear them,” Parsley purred. Fogpaw nodded so hard, it looked like their head would come off. Parsley settled beside the young apprentice and did her best to enjoy her first Gathering.

(Parsley: 105, female, warrior, righteous, good speaker)

(Fennelspot: 68, male, cleric, insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

(Oilstripe: 15, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(Downstar: 70, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Weedfoot: 60, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Scrubmask: 28, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Autumnstar: 115, male, leader, fierce, great hunter)

(Mistlestar: 78, agender (they/them), leader, cold, steady paws, excellent fire-starter)

(Gorgestar: 89, male, leader, sincere, excellent teacher)

(Sanderlingstar: 100, female, leader, childish, skilled toolsmith)

(Fogpaw: 6, non-binary (they/them), mediator apprentice, oblivious, interested in oddities)

#rippleclan #clangen #warrior cats #warriors #rippleclan story #downstar #parsley #fennelspot #autumnstar #mistlestar #gorgestar #sanderlingstar #oilstripe #scrubmask #gathering

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thedisablednaturalist · 2 months

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what is your favorite aquatic invertibrate?

THIS is a loaded question. I've kept this in my inbox for a while cause there's SO MANY it's hard to choose. I'm most interested in mollusca and crustacea but those are still large categories.

My favorite mollusk is Dirona albolineata, the frosted alabaster nudibranch. Absolutely gorgeous and come in my favorite color.

I pretty much love all nudibranches though. My second favorite would have to be sea butterflies, they're so weird!

And of course the animal crossing famous Clione limacina or sea angel

Academically, I'm currently researching freshwater mussels for our reintroduction project. Mussels may not be as flashy as nudibranchs, but they are extremely important for improving water quality in freshwater habitats. It's hard to choose a favorite, but one I've researched the most and have grown fondly of is Alasmidonta varicosa, the brook floater. We are hoping to eventually reintroduce it to it's previous native range. Fun fact, when you pick them up out of the water, they stick their "tongue" (foot) out.

I literally had the species name written on my giant whiteboard in the office for a few months so my boss would keep seeing it since I really wanted us to use it as a flagship species to design our reintroduction project around. Fast forward and we've gotten a grant and things are progressing nicely.

Anyway on the crustacea side that's an even harder choice. I'm always excited to see aquatic isopods and scuds. I'm probably most fond of Malacostraca (amphipods, isopods, decapods, etc.) and Branchiopoda (clam, fairy, and tadpole shrimp, and water fleas). Do not make me pick one I am unable to. I will say I have a particular soft spot for crayfish as they are the organisms I've had the most one-on-one time with (I literally have a pet crayfish named Mr Pinchy). I just love anything with pinchers (⁠ʃ⁠ƪ⁠＾⁠3⁠＾⁠）≧〔゜゜〕≦

First crayfish I ever held doing it's little defensive stance of Shake Em Like You Just Don't Care. Just take a look at it's mouth! The mouthparts are so cool! I love watching Mr. Pinchy eat.

My favorite macroinvertebrate would hands down be Corydalus, aka Hellgrammites, which are the larval form of Dobsonflies. I have yet to see an adult dobsonfly in person, but have been told they're terrifying and not very nice. We shall see about that. Hellgrammites are simply angry pathetic overdramatic babies and while people say they bite I've held plenty and never been bit. They will absolutely go for the other bugs in the tray so you do have to keep them in a separate container. We've lost a couple of caddisfly larvae to the jaws of the mighty hellgrammite.

Just look at it! Here's a video where I'm trying to get a good shot of it's gills (those frilly things on its underside). They roll into a defensive ball which is so endearing. I also love anything that can curl into a ball. I think they're absolutely adorable but most people tend to disagree with me ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ

TDLR I love all aquatic invertebrates so very much. I didn't even get into shrimp or coral or starfish! They make me so happy I actually have to limit how much I read about them in a day because my emotions get too big and cause me to become hyper (which is a bad combo for fibromyalgia). I'm not great at remembering information so I get to constantly relearn and rediscover things which is a blessing and a curse. This also makes taxonomy especially hard for me so let me know if I messed up somewhere.

#wrenfea.ask #thank you for your question!#sorry this was so long #I FUCKING FOUND IT #IT WAS BURIED

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bonefall · 11 months

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Can I haz some canon names Mr. Bonefall? :3

I'm looking to know about:

-Poppyfrost

-Cinderheart

-Molewhisker

-Pinestar

-Sweetbriar

-Crookedstar

-Shellheart

-Blackbee

*Cracks knuckles*

POPPYFROST = Liafifhess

Medicinal Poppy (Liafi) + Frost (hess)

Frost is very specifically the thin ice that settles on other things. Whiskers, on the tips of your fur, over rocks and tree bark. Poppyfrost's name invokes a medicinal poppy that is ever-so-slightly frozen.

Frost is often associated with intelligence, going as far back in Clan Culture as their Patron of Ingenuity, Sunlit Frost, and their Patron of Tunneling, Shattered Frost. Though her name doesn't "invoke" an image of intelligence by our standards, a very cold, frosty poppy is one that reminds Clan cats of how curious and savvy she is.

CINDERHEART = Keyababun

Ashes (Keya) + Heartbeat (Babun)

As an apprentice, Cinderheart was emotionally unstable and reckless. Her relationships were in a constant state of flux, and she often ended up having big fights with her friends and family at minor, perceived rejections. Like she was constantly burning her own life down.

She had a long journey with learning how to slow down before burning out, asking herself rational questions and working through her rapid heartbeat before being dragged along with it. At her warrior name ceremony, Firestar honored that effort and how she had matured into a fine warrior over the reasons.

Her name is Ashes-Heartbeating, "Steadily," he adds, "It will not beat fast, nor will it have beat to exhaustion."

As an extra note, "Ash" as a prefix does not refer to fire-ashes, but to the European Ash tree (Excelsior fraxinus). Cinder, "Keya" is for ashes.

MOLEWHISKER = Bosgohussk

European mole (Bosgo) + whisker (Hussk)

This word refers to Talpa europaea specifically! This animal is difficult to hunt, but valuable for its soft fur. It's some of the best-quality leather Clan cats have access to, up there with muntjac and red squirrel.

PINESTAR = Bes'shai

Scots pine (Bes) + Star (Shai)

Name was given an apostrophe simply to distinguish that the name does not have a Clanmew double Ss.

SWEETBRIAR = Rruqaneep

Eglantine (Rruqa) + Climbing vine (Neep)

This is the sort of name that a translator would look at, and just give up before translating as "Sweetbriar". Eglantine, also called Sweetbriar, is a type of 'hedge plant' that's often used in construction purposes. A good 'hedge' grows fast, is hardy, and is covered in thorns. The word "Rruqa" comes from "Hedge + Dogrose."

And a vine that begins to climb, the way that you want a good hedge to work, is Neep. Sweetbriar's name could be translated as, "Sweetbriar Climbing," "Sweetbriar Vine," "Eglantine Rising" or even "Really Good Wall."

So, instead, the translator simply chose "Sweetbriar." Sweetpaw's suffix was also Rruqa-- Eglantine. So the translator translated it the way they had done with the cat they were named for.

Crookedjaw = Gawgloongam

Twisted (Gawgloon) + Jaw (Gam)

In Clanmew, the word they're using for his name is not "crooked" as in "a thing to be correcting," but "twisted" as in "A cat twists in midair to correct course"

This is because his name is an Honor Title. It was bestowed for his return, after many seasons spent training at the Barn. He came back with new techniques and the pelt of an old fox, skinned and processed and bearing his unique bite mark to prove that he had not scavenged a carcass.

To mark this grand achievement, he went immediately from Stormpaw (in BB, he leaves as an apprentice, not a kit) to Crookedjaw... once he had finished his customary apprenticeship, though, it was a formality after bringing home a fox's pelt. Even though it was an old thing.

Shellheart = Ekshbabun

Rough shell of mussels (Eksh) + Heartbeating (Babun)

This specifically refers to the hard, gray shells of freshwater mussels, and is used to describe the thick horns of things like rams. It invokes strength, and comes from the clacking sound when they tap together.

Shellheart is a very reserved, guarded person. Warm to his kits, but still someone who can be quite harsh as a warrior. His name reflects that.

Blackbee = Lubroffaws

Blueblack (Lubro) + Solitary bee (ffaws)

How dare you make me translate bee before I get to bee expansion pack

BUT ANYWAY!! There are MANY words for various kinds of bees, more than you'd imagine, there are many kinds of bees and their presence is very important to understanding the health of an ecosystem!

I feel like Blackbee was a bit of a lone wolf type, the sort of girl who didn't work well with other people. A bit broody, very quiet. So, her name became "solitary bee" as opposed to a "swarming bee." She's very industrious and a helpful member of the Clan, just... needs her personal space.

#Clanmew #Name translations

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scotianostra · 3 months

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February 9th 2002 saw the death of John Noble, co-founder of Loch Fyne Oysters and Loch Fyne Restaurants.

n 1978, Noble was looking for a way to help support the estate, which he had inherited, along with considerable debts, from his father in 1972. When Andrew Lane, a marine farmer, suggested the idea of growing oysters, Noble was immediately enthused.

Recalling that in his childhood he had ground up oyster shells to feed to the hens, he was also aware that the unpolluted Loch Fyne waters, warmed by the Gulf stream, would be ideal for growing shellfish.

However, when he told his bank that he was going to lay an oyster bed, they were unimpressed. “Everyone must have a hobby, Mr Noble,” they responded.

But Noble realised that oysters, which had once been a cheap staple in Scotland, could again be popularised. “We were,” he recalled, “reverting to an ancient tradition.”

The venture grew from a few hundred seed oysters to the millions that are laid down today. Noble and Lane created a flourishing industry, and Loch Fyne Oysters are now exported to shops and supermarkets across the world.

Noble himself became something of an oyster expert. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the history of oyster growing and a great love of bivalve trivia; he enjoyed explaining the prodigious feeding habits of oysters, which, when in search of food, filter so much seawater that, were they the size of humans, they would down the equivalent of five municipal swimming pools a day.

Soon Loch Fyne Oysters was branching out with oak-smoked salmon, mussels, langoustines and many other delicacies, which are sold through Noble’s successful mail order business.

In 1980, Noble and Lane decided to set up an oyster bar at the head of Loch Fyne. It began as an umbrella and a trestle table and was then transferred to a nearby cowshed. Soon the venture had become a restaurant, open all day (which particularly suited Noble, who regularly took breakfast there) and serving oysters on ice and fresh seafood in simple surroundings.

Noble’s ethos, that anybody should be able to enjoy good food at a reasonable price, proved highly successful, and Loch Fyne Restaurants is now a large chain of eateries.

Noble was immensely proud that his smokery, restaurant and mail order business at Ardkinglas provided “as many, if not more, jobs” than it did when it was a traditional working estate in his great-grandfather’s day. At the time of his death, his enterprises employed more than 100 local people.

Greene King bought the business over in 2006

Unfortunately due to spiralling costs the majority of the Loch Fyne restaurants have now closed. At its largest, the chain had over 40 restaurants. Some had already closed by 2020, and due to the Covid-19 pandemic of 2020, Loch Fyne permanently closed 11 more restaurants, with further closures following and the last restaurants closing in November 2023.

The mokehouse, Seafood Restaurant, Oyster Bar, Deli & Home Delivery at the head of Loch Fyne is still trading as a separate business, it too closed for a time, but reopened last month. https://www.lochfyne.com/?fbclid=IwAR3Dqq6GDxH77ZX-CN_6h9Ega3VebU3gTpe0e-1PDnuzxOQFGAXgmxQBLPE

#scotland #scottish #history #oysters #seafood

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askwhatsforlunch · 10 months

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La Table Bleu Blanc Rouge

To celebrate Bastille Day, here are a few delicious dishes and excellent drinks one may find on a festive French table at the height of Summer; La Table Bleu Blanc Rouge, if you will! Joyeux Quatorze Juillet!!

Boissons

Kir Royal à la Lavande

Kir

Soupe Champenoise

Cider (Brut)

Apéritif

Blue Cheese Cream Choux

Le Crunch Crisps

Devilled Eggs (Vegetarian)

Beaufort Gougères

Entrées

Iced Cucumber Soup (Vegetarian)

Mrs Truebody’s Vichyssoise

Champignons à la Grecque (Mushrooms in Tomato and Wine Sauce)

Plats de Résistance

Café Anatole’s Salmon in Aspic

Moules Marinières (Mussels in Wine and Herb Sauce)

Sole Meunière

Steak Tartare

Accompagnements

Garden Salad

Buttered Peas, Broad Beans and Asparagus

Tian

Fresh Herb Potato Salad

Roasted New Potatoes

Desserts

Dames Blanches

Rose Cream Eclairs Balsamic

Raspberry and Chocolate Eclairs

Lavender Apricot Tart

Bleu Blanc Rouge Angel Food Cake

Kir Royal à la Rose

Mirabelle Tart

Bleu Blanc Rouge Sundae

Lime and Vodka Strawberry Charlotte

Profiterole Eclairs

Cherry Clafouti

Peach and Apricot Charlotte

Mignardises

Rouge (Strawberry and Raspberry) Macarons

Blanc (Champagne) Macarons

Bleu (Blueberry and Violet) Macarons

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unikornu · 2 months

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Drippy tags drips

[EU] Unikornu

#black desert online #bdo #black desert #blackdesert #black desert screenshot #screenshot #non edit #mains drips #musa #mr mussels outfit #tormented soul arm #wraith mask #shai #salanar outfit #academia haircut #detective shoes #coconut gloves #family unikornu #eu

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spacefinch · 28 days

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Side characters in the MSB show

(This includes any characters besides Ms. Frizzle, her eight students, and Liz. Characters are listed in order of their first appearance.)

Janet Perlstein (Arnold's cousin)

Dr. Tennelli

Ralphie's grandfather (mentioned only)

Bella the Bullfrog

Log-away Larry

Dr. Cornelia C. Contralto II

Mr. Ramon (Carlos's father)

Mr. Seedplot

Mr. Cud (mentioned only; his class did a project on cows)

R.U. Humerus

Dr. Carmina Skeledon

Mrs. Franklin (Keesha's grandmother)

Mr. Terese (Phoebe's father)

Mr. and Mrs. Pearlstein (Arnold's parents)

Mr. and Mrs. Hudson (Dorothy Ann's parents)

Mr. and Mrs. Wright (Tim's parents)

Tiffany

Mr. Junkett

Mikey Ramon (Carlos's younger brother)

Evan Hudson (D.A.'s younger sister)

Harry Herp

Gerry Poveri

Tim's grandfather (mentioned only)

Mr. Drone

Harry Arm

General Aranius

General Where-Are-You (mentioned only)

William Li (Wanda's younger brother)

"Arizona" Joan (Arnold's great aunt)

Ralphie's uncle Ed (mentioned only)

Mr. Ruhle

Garth Sinew

Inspector 47/Inspector 22

Ashley Walker-Club-Dupree

Murph (full name: Katrina Eloise Murphy)

Molly Cule

Giblets (Mr. Ruhle's pet rooster)

Arnold Jr. (a Rhode Island Red chick)

Dr. Shelby

Mert the Mussel

Ms. River (mentioned only; her students made the water project in Goes on Air)

Mr. Popple (Town hall chairman in Gets Swamped)

Jasper C. Grit

Horace Cope

Flora Whiff

Mr. Ampere (an electrician. Not a secret admirer.)

Mr. McClean

Notes:

Mr. Ramon first appears in "In the Haunted House," but does not have a speaking role until "Going Batty."

Similarly, Mrs. Hudson first appears in "Going Batty" but does not have a speaking role until "Out of This World."

D.A.'s father, both of Tim's parents, and Evan all appear in the show, but never have speaking lines.

Dr. Tennelli is the first parent to be introduced in the show.

#magic school bus #minor characters #side characters

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zeta-male · 5 months

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7, 18, 19, and 23!

7. Favorite actor of the year?

Stop I can barely name any actors and I want to keep it that way LMAO. i can probably give it to mr. lillard though. just because.

18. A memorable meal this year?

So so many. Every meal in Bellingham including the loaf of bread we ripped up by the water. Mussels with my sister (weird acidic sauce did not like), beach picnic with a friend (cheese with cumin, strawberry sake, marinated olives).

19. What’re you excited about for next year?

Last fall semester of my undergrad :') (and a longest johns concert with my sister I forgot abt until I checked my calendar <3)

23. If you could send a message to yourself back on the first day of the year, what would it be?

She did such a good job she doesn't need my help!! .... but buy the hadestown tickets for a different day there's a fob concert on that one and you can't do both

#rbing an ask meme designed to torture me by making me have to use my memory #ask #im going to finish off the ones on my ask blog i will i will i will

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sevicia · 1 year

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I was watching a long ass video on Fish Hooks for some reason unbeknownst to myself and I remembered that video of Coach Salmons and Mr Mussels that went around on here like years ago and now I can't stop thinking about it

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austenpoppy · 6 months

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Nightfall: at dusk - Prologue: Night monsters

Ao3 link: Nightfall : at dusk - Chapter 1 - Austenpoppy - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]

Fanfiction.net link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14301937/1/Nightfall-At-Dusk

Summary:

2001. Ron and Harry are working hard at the Auror Academy to become full-fledged Aurors, while Hermione is trying to find her place in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and Ginny is training with the Holyhead Harpies. Everybody is trying to overcome what happened in the war to focus on building a better future, and life seems easier than it has ever been. However, darkness is looming on the horizon as Muggleborn and Half-Blood wizards and witches disappear before being found out weeks later, their dead bodies having been experimented upon. Meanwhile, Ron has more and more trouble dealing with the aftermath of what happened with the locket...

I can't believe I'm actually starting to post this. This is going to be the first fanfiction I publish, but it is a gigantic project that I have started years ago, when I was barely out of high school - and it's very close to my heart. It all began in a rather boring geography class in 2017 (I'm sorry, Mr. D, I can't say I care about mussel culture in Thailand) where I had let my imagination wander, doing one of my favourite hobbies: inventing stories with one of my favourite characters of all time (in case that was not clear, I'm talking about Ron). I was thinking about one scene from one of my favourite childhood movies (the fantastic "Azur and Asmar" by Michel Ocelot) and I was replacing the characters from the animation film with Harry and Ron, imagining how they could have ended up in that situation and what could happen after.

The entire universe of Nightfall was born from this one scene alone.

If you start this journey with me, my fellow Internet friend, this is going to be a long, very long ride. The story is so huge I divided it into three parts, each of which have their own "arcs" so to speak. The good thing is that I know exactly where I'm going, and I can assure you that considering there are already six years of work put into this project I am not likely to ever abandon it. You should rather feel sorry for my dear friend and beta Vivithefolle who not only had to hear me talk about this project for years, but also had to read some chapters in complete disorder, with some notes from me to explain the context or background information. Thank you so much, Vivi, you motivated me to write at a time you were my only reader and I had this crazy idea I would write all the chapters before publishing them (no this did not work out, but no one can accuse me of being impatient... six freaking years of work...).

However I want to be clear and honest to my potential readers: this is not going to be a happy-go-lucky story by any stretch of the imagination. I am going to write about mature and sometimes very dark subjects, even though if you know me, you may have guessed I rather like humour and am not really fond of cynical and hopeless works. I, however, am a sadist, as you will have the displeasure to discover once you see how I treat Ron (I'm joking, I'm joking...or am I ?). I don't want to say too much, but let's just say people who came here for a feel-good story without any angst will be thoroughly disappointed.

As a side note, I consider this work to be canon-compliant, given that I only consider the seven original books as canon and take what J. K. Rowling wrote on Pottermore with a grain of salt; but "Nightfall" is not my headcanon of what happened after the war either. Consider it more like an evil twin of my actual headcanon.

Now let me introduce you to the world of "Nightfall", or the story that has been living rent free in my head nearly everyday for the past few years. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it, and I'm proud and extremely touched to present you with my first published fanfiction (I also feel very self-conscious, but I guess that was to be expected).

Disclaimer: All characters and events depicted in the original book series belong to J.K. Rowling. Most unfortunately.

Trigger warnings for this chapter: graphic depictions of violence, disturbing imagery

(See the end of the work for more notes).

Prologue : Night monsters

Sunday 7th January, 2001 - 2 am.

It was a very cold night. Thaddeus gripped the pants of his cloak tighter against himself, trying to warm himself up as best as he could. As he exhaled loudly, his breath came out in a silvery steam before disappearing. His lips were chapped, and he could feel the cracks on them that would probably end up bleeding.

He found himself thinking wistfully of the warm bed in which his wife was waiting for him at home. Images of himself with his head going deep into his soft pillow, pulling back his fluffy blankets over his body, and kissing Magdalene goodnight before going to sleep with a contented smile on his face flooded his mind. He fidgeted, feeling irritation slowly rising inside him. How long would he have to wait?

Magdalene was certainly trying to fight off sleep until he came back, though she was most likely too groggy to last long – Calder, who had turned three in November, was in his oppositional phase and was exhausting them both. Thaddeus had been in the Auror Task Force for more than twenty years, and Magdalene had been his wife for well over fifteen years now, but she still worried almost as much as she did back when they started dating.

She worried even more those days considering what had been happening lately. Eight wizards and witches had vanished in the last month and a half in mysterious circumstances; two of them had ended up dead, their corpses dropped in random places all over the United Kingdom. And to top it off, all of the missing people had either been Muggleborn or Half-Blood, something that the media had been quick to point out.

Of course, worried whispers had emerged ever since Fidvi Khokhar, the second victim, had disappeared, and those whispers had grown louder and louder every time another person had gone missing. A collective shiver had taken over the wizarding community, that was paralyzed with fear at the idea that somehow, You-Know-Who had managed to come back from the dead yet again.

About two weeks earlier, when Conri Hartnett's body had been found five hundred miles away from the place he had last been seen, stupor had seized Aurors and civils alike. Of course, everyone had felt very sorry for his family, though nobody had ever doubted that the former Unspeakable had been killed - there was even a strange relief that had gone hand in hand with the discovery of the corpse, since victims of Death Eater who had disappeared were very rarely found.

Yet, despite this small relief, horror and fright had quickly made their way into everybody's hearts at the knowledge that Hartnett's body had been experimented upon. Thaddeus had not seen the body himself, and photographs of the corpse had been forbidden despite outcries from scoops-hungry journalists, but he had heard other Aurors shiver while recounting the tale in the common room.

The picture those Aurors had painted was the kind that you only saw in the most terrible nightmares. Hartnett's fingers, hands, arms, legs and foot had apparently disappeared, replaced instead with translucid tentacles reminiscent of a jellyfish. Meanwhile, his head had taken up a more cubic-shaped form, while his hair had completely fallen off. Furthermore, the rest of his body had been covered with a bad rash. The Aurors who were at the crime scene had said you could barely make out the place the human body ended and the jellyfish started, as if the two were one and the same.

Really Thaddeus couldn't imagine much more terrible fate. The Auror department had not even allowed Hartnett's family to see the body, let alone get it back for a proper funeral. As of now the scientific team was still trying to figure out what had happened to Hartnett exactly. So far the only things they were sure about were that the kind of jellyfish Hartnett had been merged with was a species of the family Oceaniidae, and that dark magic had been involved in the twisted process of Transfiguration.

Two days after Hartnett, another body had been found in Cardiff. This one, too, had been awfully disfigured. After a bit of investigation, it had turned out to be Donovan Kovalenko, a British Ukrainian citizen who had worked as a secretary in the Ukrainian embassy until his disappearance, and the last person to have disappeared.

Unlike Bartnett, he had not been blended with a jellyfish, but with a bowhead whale. His face had been completely unrecognizable, and it was only because of a very specific birthmark that the scientific team had been able to identify the body.

Just like with Bartnett, Kovalenko's transfigured corpse had been found very far away from the place he had last been seen, since the Ukrainian embassy was based in London. What was more, he had also been found in a completely different region than Bartnett, whose body had been discovered in a little town in Scotland, Tobermory.

All in all, Thaddeus thought with a shudder, there was something really dark going on, but no one could tell whether this was the work of a serial killer, of Pureblood fanatics, of a human trafficking ring, or something else entirely.

Thaddeus didn't think Magdalene had any reason to fret today, though. If the situation he'd been required to deal with had been dangerous, he wouldn't be hanging around waiting for the Hit wizard on duty to come and let him know what was going on. It was probably some kind of drunk wizard who'd destroyed public property thinking Trolls were attacking him. Two months ago he'd arrested a man who had been bothering a neighbourhood in London, believing himself to be Celestina Warbeck. The fella had sung all night with a croaky falsetto voice that seemed immune to the most powerful Silencios.

Merlin, he hated being the reserve Auror at night, but he needed the extra money.

Just as his mind was going to go down a rather dark route he was nonetheless accustomed to, he noticed a familiar figure coming right toward him, looking grim. He couldn't help but raise his eyebrows in surprise.

"Harvey?" he asked as they showed each other their Auror badges and checked each other's identity. "What're you doing here?"

"Nasty business, Thaddeus", Harvey replied sombrely, shaking his head, while Thaddeus followed him. "A young witch who was on her way home after a party stumbled upon the body of Lucinda Backstreet. Lynn's team is already on the crime scene."

Immediately, Thaddeus felt his shoulders slump, and his heart constricted. It was going to be a long night. Magdalene's eyes would give up the fight against sleep well before he would be able to go home, and the first thing he would do when he did go back to his house wouldn't be to kiss his children or wife but take a huge glass of Firewhisky.

Lucinda Backstreet was one of the eight people who had disappeared in the last weeks. A young girl from Bristol, enthusiastic and passionate about the protection of magical animals. One day she had left her home to go to the weekly meeting of her club dedicated to the defense of the rights of magical creatures, and then nobody had ever seen her again. Her disappearance had really caused a stir nationwide. Not only was she the youngest victim, but her father, Cyneric Backstreet, was a well-known businessman who had made a fortune selling transportable strongboxes that were charmed to repel most common spells.

Walking toward her corpse reminded Thaddeus as to why some days he thought that he should find another job.

Neither Harvey nor he were speaking, and the only sounds that could be heard were that of their boots on gravel. After a few minutes spent in silence, they finally approached the crime scene. Thaddeus noticed that a few members of the scientific team were already there, looking for evidence and preparing the body for transport, including the Team Leader of the scientific team herself, Auror Lynn Oliver. Thaddeus gave a nod in her direction, which she answered grimly.

Thaddeus looked around for familiar faces, and he saw Monica and Griffiths acknowledge his presence with a small wave, though they quickly got back to what they were doing, both of their faces incredibly serious.

When Thaddeus finally laid eyes on Lucinda's body, he felt himself repress a gag and he had to quickly avert his eyes. The young girl was spread out on the pavement, her face turned toward the starry night. Her expression would give Thaddeus nightmares for months. Her mouth was contorted in pain, her cheeks were tear-stained, and her glassy eyes were wide open in terror, telling a story of terrible suffering.

Though her face and chest had remained human, her stretched-out arms had been turned into something else, just like the previous victims. This time, as far as Thaddeus could tell, the monsters responsible for the murders had tried to turn Lucinda into some sort of part-Phoenix creature. While the shape of her arms was visible, they had been saddled with very big wings, covered in those unmistakable red feathers typical of Phoenixes. Some of them had seemingly burnt, as they had turned black and were emitting a dark smoke that Thaddeus instinctively backed away from.

Lucinda's hands were still present, but her fingers had elongated, and were contracted, as if she had had a seizure. Her legs, too, had been partially Transfigured. Thaddeus could see feathers coming out from under her pants, that had clearly been buttoned up hastily, and her feet had been turned into sharp talons, onto which no shoe could be put, though her shoes had still been put beside her body.

"I can't believe I'll have to be the one who'll tell Cyneric Backstreet that his daughter is dead, and that her death was clearly not a quick, painless one", sighed Harvey next to Thaddeus.

"Is that why you arrived at the crime scene before me?" Thaddeus asked, his voice laced with sympathy as he looked up at Harvey. "The emergency code for the missing persons' case?"

"Yeah, I was the one from my squad on duty tonight", Harvey replied, his breath turning into vapor as he exhaled. "The witness fortunately remembered it, and I received the signal thirty minutes ago. Right now Gallaway is taking her deposition."

Harvey jutted his chin toward a young woman, who couldn't be older than twenty-five and was in a clear state of great agitation. She was standing a few feet away from the crime scene, and was talking to a black-haired Auror in uniform that Thaddeus had only met a few times.

Thaddeus crouched down to look at Lucinda. He could not imagine the horrors she must have been through, and he shuddered as he thought of her father, who had openly wept in the Aurors' Office when he had been told there were few chances that Lucinda was alive after the first two bodies had been found.

As a father himself, Thaddeus could barely bear to think about that happening to his own children. Lucinda's face was so youthful that it was just plain wrong to imagine her doing anything other than laughing with her friends, complaining that she had too much homework, or giving animated speeches about endangered species.

Feeling dejected, Thaddeus turned his face toward Harvey and declared quietly: "Poor girl. She wasn't even seventeen."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was stuck on a chair in the tent and felt dirty. He looked down at his hands. He had been so sure he had cleaned them several times before, yet they looked filthy, dusty - all those adjectives finishing with a - y that applied to him because he was such a terrible person.

"Nothing will ever wipe your hands off your betrayal. It's too late. But has there been a time when you were at their level? Has there ever been a time when you were worth their brightness? No, and you know it. You're a dark creature, Ron Weasley, with even darker and hideous thoughts. I have seen your heart, and it is black. You have tried to keep your jealousy and your mediocrity hidden, you have tried to ignore the calls of your inner nature, but hear me out - you have failed."

"Do you see them? They are outside, in the sun, in the light. They shine very brightly, don't they, Ron? Their skins glow, their eyes sparkle, their smiles warm up everything around them. Do you see how much happier the world seems to be with them in it? Birds sing again, flowers are blooming, and Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are the stars the sky was waiting for."

“You are in the dark, and you will remain in the dark. You are seated in dust because you are nothing more than dust yourself. Actually, to be perfectly honest, your surroundings were welcoming and comfortable until you showed up and sat down in this chair. Crazy how you spoil everything around you. See, here, the tissue the tent is made of is quickly falling into pieces. Your mere presence is enough to destroy what is around you... Unless the objects you are surrounded by somehow feel how evil you are, and they'd rather turn to dust than stay with you any longer. Choose which hypothesis you prefer."

"Aaaah, they're coming your way. I will never understand why they decided to keep you with them, despite your darkness. But I will never understand real kindness either, so I will drop the subject. It was your redemption, Ronald. They were your redemption. You could have atoned for your sins. You could have let them crush you so they would climb higher and finally reach the sky where they belong. You could have done something useful for a change. Yet you spoiled your only opportunity. You spoiled everything, as usual."

"Now you're not even worthy enough to be a footboard for them to climb. You are just dust on their shoes. Dust, dust, dust. They will be so happy to wipe this dirt off their shoes. Even coming near you dampens their spirits. Their smiles are less warm, their eyes are less bright, their skins a lot paler. So are you going to spoil them, Ronald, like you did with the tent, or will they finally beat you and turn you into dust? Given how furious they look, I bet it's the latter."

He felt cold. Harry and Hermione were looking at him with a freezing glare and a scornful snarl at their lips. He shivered. And swallowed. He knew he had fucked everything up. He knew he deserved their anger and more. He just didn't want them to be upset over this, over him and his stupidity. And if he was honest with himself, it was also terrifying to be on the receiving end of their hatred.

"Listen", he choked, "I-I can't say how sorry I am, because no word will ever be enough. I am also...I am also so happy that you accepted to take me back to help you. I promise I won't be a bother. Don't mind me. I'll just do what you need me to do and disappear from your lives forever after if-if that's what you want. Please don't throw me out !"

But Harry and Hermione were not listening to him. Their freezing glare had turned into a flaming and scalding hot look and they were burning him. He was very hot. He was sweating. He felt drops falling on his face. The locket was weighing on his chest. It was so heavy. It hurt. He felt like he was melting.

He looked down at his hands again. He was actually melting. The skin of his fingers was going brown and was softening; small drops began to fall on the floor of the tent. Ploc, Ploc. They were forming a puddle and it looked like mud. In fact, he was sure it was mud. He wanted to yell, but he couldn't. His face was already melting, joining the puddle on the floor.

Ron woke up with a start and sat up, gasping for air. It had been a nightmare. Just a fucking nightmare. He ran a hand across his face, shivering from head to toe, and felt wetness on his cheeks. Fuck it, he had once again been crying in his sleep. It was the fourth time in seven days. Even as a child Ron hadn't been that much of a wuss, even though George liked to remind him that he'd kept taking refuge into one of his brothers' beds (or Ginny's) whenever he was scared, and that until he was eight.

It wouldn't matter as much if he had been crying for anything else. Not that he preferred the other nightmares, mind you, but he just felt pathetic for turning into a sobbing mess all because he'd been too weak to resist an effing necklace. Harry was particularly affected by Dementors. Nothing less than Bellatrix Lestrange could make Hermione truly terrified. Ginny, who had been possessed by a diary, didn't flinch at the mere presence of a book.

But him ? Ron could already imagine George making grand gestures wherever he went: "Alas, my dear Sirs, gentlemen, thou shall make place for the delicate Ronniekins in his worn-out PJs, for he fainted when the dreaded locket came into his dainty view. Please bring the smelling salts while we're fanning his pasty white and freckled face and he's letting out little whines of distress. He's the king of wimps, thou see, and he can't bear the sight of lockets, less he be crying like a famished baby !"

Yeah. George'd be the kind of asshole who'd offer him a pacifier if he knew what kind of nightmares was making Ron cry in his sleep.

Ron looked down at his hands, the real ones this time. Goddammit, they were still shaking. Bloody frickity freakering fuck, he thought as he closed his eyes in frustration, why did he have no control over his own body? Why did he have to act like he was a ninety-something-old buffer who needed help to take a piss?

Why did he have to ask himself stupid questions that nobody would answer?

Even though the bedroom was completely silent at this hour of the night, Ron could still hear his heart thumping madly in his ears, and despite himself he couldn't help but feel like the locket was still whistling behind him, making his skin crawl. Sweat was running down his back and had already soaked his armpits, and yet for some reason he was cold, goosebumps erupting all over his flesh.

And he still had this impression of someone hissing near him, and the room was closing on him, and his pyjama top was glued to his skin, and he didn't like the way the sheets were trapping his legs, preventing him from moving... Unable to bear the situation any longer and feeling like he was suffocating, Ron yanked the sheets off his part of the bed and got up quickly, before pulling his sticky pyjama top over his head and throwing it on the ground.

He took his wand and started walking toward the door, though he couldn't help himself and stopped to throw a glance at Hermione once he was in the doorframe. She was sleeping peacefully, her wild brown curls framing her head like some kind of fairy tale princess. The moonlight was lighting up her beautiful face, and she had a contented smile that almost made him want to go back to bed to kiss it.

Leaving the bedroom, Ron crossed the corridor and went into the small kitchen of the flat, and immediately put water into the kettle to make himself tea. He cast a heating charm on the kettle, took his favourite mug, and put a teabag in it. Waiting for the water to boil, he put his outstretched arms on the counter and sighed, his head lowered toward the sink.

It was the third time in a week that he'd had a nightmare about the locket. It wasn't surprising per say, because it was January and it was always around this time of the year that Ron had the most vivid nightmares in regard to the locket, but it still sucked. Especially because it'd been three years already, and some part of Ron had - foolishly - hoped that the nightmares and his locket-related terror would have subsided by now.

But nope, he mused as he stared at the happy light brown dog on the mug running around and chasing a butterfly. He still had dreams in which he could feel the heavy weight of the locket on his chest, preventing him from breathing. In which he was trapped in an endless stream of dark thoughts echoed by the locket's whispers, reminding him of all the times he had felt worthless. In which he kept leaving the tent as Harry's scornful stares and Hermione's cries followed him even after he woke up.

At the same time, he knew the nightmares were the last thing he deserved for ever having walked out on Harry and Hermione. He'd never been good enough for them in the first place, but deserting them when they needed him most was irredeemable, something that the locket, whether it be through his nightmares or flashes, kept reminding him of.

At this moment a whistling sound made Ron's heart do a somersault before he realized that it was only the kettle boiling. He poured the hot water into his mug, added two and a half sugar cubes to his drink, steeped the teabags in the water, and as he adopted the same waiting position as before his thoughts went back to the place he had among his two best friends.

He was thankful Harry and Hermione still wanted him in their lives, and somehow he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, when they'd wake up and realize he'd been nothing but a cock-up all this time. Truth be told, part of Ron had to pinch himself every morning when he was reminded that Hermione wanted to be with him, of all people, and that he got to be an Auror Trainee with Harry, who still thought Ron had his back.

So he'd keep trying to enjoy every moment while it lasted. It was not always easy, because every little thing seemed to remind him of a memory in which he'd fucked up or that showed how insignificant he was. Yet Ron had learned to cast the memories aside in order to focus on more important things, like his family, Harry, Hermione, his other friends, or his studies. The hardest part in all this was to not let his useless feelings get in the way of things.

Ron could say with some pride that he'd grown way better at dismissing his gross feelings of jealousy and insecurity compared to when he was a teenager. Sure, sometimes he slipped up because he was still a moron, he pondered as he turned a spoon inside his mug. But all in all, so far he had managed to keep his selfish desires in check - mostly.

He kept making efforts to show others, and more particularly Harry and Hermione, that he had changed. For that he needed to make sure they didn't notice he still had the same old feelings, or at least he needed to let them know that those feelings would never be a burden to them again. Of course sometimes they couldn't help but notice a few things, like this time Ron had casually let slip that he thought Hermione often favoured Harry over him and it had ended up in a huge row with Hermione as she yelled he was just being a possessive jealous sod trying to stifle her. Or this time he had jokingly told Harry he was Mum's favourite and Harry, disturbed, had replied that however important Mrs. Weasley was in his life, she was not his mother. Harry had been weird for days after that, all because of Ron, his stupid mouth and his stupid brain.

That was the reason why he made sure no one knew the extent of the mess he had in his head. While he had never been a great liar, he tried not to be too specific if someone asked him what was wrong, he tried to take their attention away from whatever face he was making, he tried to dismiss his reactions whenever they were related to this pathetic sticky, stinky magma of insecurity inside him.

And it was somewhat working, but for how long would it last?

Right as his mood was turning as bitter as the tea he had brewed, considering he had let the teabag steep for more than ten minutes, he heard footsteps coming in his direction. He didn't bother to take his wand or even turn around. Ron would recognize Hermione's light but determined steps anywhere.

She entered the kitchen and stopped in the hallway for a few seconds, before walking toward him and enveloping him from behind. Even though she had wrapped a warm nightgown around her, her hands were still cold on his chest. Yet he didn't mind. The contact of her skin on his, the touch of her curls and cheek on his back made everything better, and despite himself he closed his eyes for a brief instant, savouring the moment.

"A nightmare again ?" she asked in a low voice.

"Yeah..." Ron admitted with a sigh. "I didn't want to wake you up, but I needed to get up."

"It's okay", Hermione replied in a reassuring tone. "But I'm starting to get worried. You've had many nightmares in the last three weeks and haven't been able to sleep properly even though you have exams coming up. Perhaps you should see a healer to get a Sleeping potion ?" she added anxiously.

"Not until I really have to", he retorted firmly. "We've already had far too many problems with Sleeping potions, I don't want to risk it. Besides, I'd have to tell the Auror Academy's specialist Healer about it and I'd like to avoid it if I can."

"I know", Hermione sighed. "I'm just worried about you. You always seem to get so stressed out before your exams at the Auror Academy, even worse than I've ever been at Hogwarts. I wished you would stop doubting yourself so much."

Ron did not reply, but he squeezed Hermione's hands that were still clasped on his chest, right next to his heart. It was strange how the people around him seemed to know him so well while at the same time not knowing anything about the exact reasons that were making him upset.

"What can I say ?" He finally acknowledged after a few moments of silence, though he hoped his tone appeared casual. "You can't change old habits with a wave of your wand. I guess it's hard for me to think I won't fuck up somewhere. But you shouldn't worry about me", he added gently. Go back to sleep."

"I woke up because you were not beside me in the bed, I'm not going back in there without you", she retorted assertively.

"I'm gonna lose the debate if I try to argue, won't I ?" Ron snorted.

"Of course you would lose, I'm more stubborn than you", she said confidently, and Ron could feel that she was sporting a small smile.

"Even if that were true, which remains to be seen, that's nothing to boast about, Miss Granger", he tutted in a fake formal voice. "I've been told that I'm more stubborn than a brooding mule having been raised by Harry, so imagine what could be worse than that... Apart from Harry himself, of course."

Ron felt Hermione shake behind him as she laughed heartily. He could not help but feel a surge of pride at having made her laugh after having made her worry for no good reason. Being able to make Hermione laugh as much as possible was one of his goals in life, and the sound of her laughter was one of the things he cherished most.

"I love you", she said fondly, as if it was the only logical answer to his antics.

At that, Ron turned around, and it was his turn to envelop Hermione in his arms, her smaller body fitting perfectly with his own. He kissed the top of her head, her brown curls tickling his face, before putting his chin on top of the mass of her unruly hair.

"I love you too", he whispered, and he hoped she could not detect how emotional he was.

He was glad that she could not see his face in the dark kitchen that was only lit up by the moonbeams that went through the main window. If she had, she would have seen in his eyes, of which Hermione always said they could never lie, the one thing that kept playing on a loop in his head but that was stuck in his throat.

I don't deserve you.

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Notes:

I suppose I should add a bit of information concerning my own vision of the Wizarding World that may seem surprising in future chapters:

1. I rather like to think the wizarding community is not small. I consider that there are hundreds of thousands, or even millions of wizards and witches in the United Kingdom, scattered in many different cities and villages.

2. For the same reason, I do not think Hogwarts is the sole magical school of the entire United Kingdom. It is the most reputed one, but I imagine there are thousands of smaller schools everywhere, allowing for people who do not want their children to go to a boarding school to learn magic and to learn how to control their powers nonetheless.

3. Only old wizards and witches actually dress in robes the way one would picture a typical wizard robe. I have my own ideas of what wizarding fashion is.

#hp #hp fanfiction #ron weasley #hermione granger #angst #mystery #psychological trauma #look this is my first published fanfiction #i feel like a young child showing their bizarre drawing to adults

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