#just sitting there in his socks which he’s walked in all over the paddock

[rickybaby]

Mum and Dad. That’s the first call I make. After the race, by the time I got back, I think it was like 2:30 am for them. And I was like, “I wonder if they’re still awake...? They’re probably awake, they're probably drunk, or their adrenaline is so high they can’t sleep.” So I FaceTimed them and that was cool. It was cool just to see how excited they were at that moment because by the morning, naturally, a little bit of the emotion has fizzled out.

From RICCIARDO'S RESURGENCE

#just sitting there in his socks which he’s walked in all over the paddock #still in disbelief and talking to his parents :((( #they need to be there the next time he’s on the top step of the podium <3 #monza 2021

[yourdeepestfathoms]

bloodhorse

this was supposed to be a short fic,, i was wrong

the Jockey’s name is Sorrel!

also im sorry if i got the Netherworld wrong. i don’t quite know how it works but i am Trying.

using the concept where the Dead can feel the pain of how they died!

Word count: 6071

TW: Blood, death, implied child abuse

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

Sorrel was eight when she first watched The Lion King, maybe nine. She couldn’t quite remember. But what she could remember was the horror of Mufasa’s death. Her jaw had dropped as the big, fluffy kitty was stepped on by all the weird-looking deer, and she screamed in reaction, floundering over to her smartly-dressed parents in tears to blubber about what she had just witnessed. They had, as they always had with anything she did, looked bothered by her presence around them, and her father tiredly explained what was going on to her, but even then she still couldn’t really understand. She just knew that it was scary and sad. 

But watching someone get trampled and actually being trampled were two entirely different things.

Despite her best efforts to forget, Sorrel remembered That Day clearly. She was sitting in the jockey room, in a far corner, away from all of the other jockeys. She had already dressed out and was patiently waiting for her race of the day. She was clad in black riding boots, white pants, and a checkered ruby red and white jacket that she knew was going to be covered in dust and dirt by the end of the race. Her safety helmet, goggles, and crop were beside her on the bench she was sitting on. She already had her long brown hair done in a braid and then a tight bun so she could tuck it safely out of eyesight when the time came to race.

At first glances, she almost looked like she knew what she was doing.

Okay, that was an exaggeration. She did know what she was doing, she had been training, but the anxiety of racing was getting to her, as it always did. For example, she had woken up that morning mid-panic attack before her eyes even fully opened.

And she knew for a fact that jockeys that knew what they were doing wouldn’t have that happen to them.

It didn’t help that everyone else in the room was a man, meaning she was not only the youngest, but also the only girl. Now she really had to prove herself worthy of being equal to her male counterparts.

Hoping to distract herself from her festering anxiety, Sorrel had looked up to watch the big TV up on the far wall, where the hosts of the racing channel talked about the odds and favorites of the next race today. All That Jazz was the favorite going into the race, with another horse by the name of Knock Your Socks Off right after.

Names Sorrel didn’t recognize at all continued to pop up on the screen, until, finally…

All That Jazz

Knock Your Socks Off

Fly Me To The Moon

Too Close For Comfort

Killer Whale

When Lightning Strikes

Donut Tell Daddy 

Rookie’s Gambling Chance 

Dime-a-Dozen

Blazing Berry

  “Would you look at that,” A biting voice cackled from the side. “Little girl actually made it in the top five.”

Sorrel whipped her head around to glare at the owner of the voice- a young man about nineteen with enough gel in his hair to start a fire. Sorrel did her best to just ignore him, busying herself with her boots instead, making sure they were fastened properly. 

Harassment in the jockey room wasn’t uncommon for Sorrel- in fact, it was weird if she didn’t get picked on at least once. Her young age didn’t deter the men, either. If anything, it made them even more manic in their persecution of her. More…handsy.

Sorrel swallowed thickly and tried not to think about the Other Times. When nobody could see the handprints because of the dirt slathered up and down her sides. When she was accused of trying to slander her opponents because she “couldn’t handle losing.” 

  “Are you ignoring me?” The young man said. He sidled more into view, and Sorrel could see that his uniform was yellow and white. She turned her head away more, saying nothing.

She was sure the man was about to spew out even more misogyny when someone came into the room to tell the jockeys it was time for them to saddle up. The man, quick to straighten himself up, headed out for the place where all the horses were being held at the end of the walk. Sorrel glared at the back of his helmeted head, considering using her whip on him, finally standing up for herself, but couldn’t find the courage to do so.

Maybe if she had, she would have been disqualified, and then none of this would have happened in the first place.

They all heard loud voices of the fans as they made their way to the paddocks. As the horses and trainers lined up came into view, each jockey moved towards their respective mount. There, amid the rising dust, Sorrel saw her stallion shifting anxiously on his haunches, looking all around as the sounds grew louder and louder. Her trainer was doing his best to calm the colt.

Her horse was well named. After SeaWorld’s most famous orca, Tilikum, aka Killer Whale while on the track, was a massive beast with sleek roan fur and an ebony black head, legs, mane, and tail, as if he had crawled out of the very shadows themselves. His eyes were pitch dark and wild, and he never seemed to stop moving. He was an aloof, ill-tempered, cranky young colt, and nobody ever seemed to have any idea how his caretaker became the most shy, anxious, and socially awkward girl to possibly ever exist.

That girl was Sorrel.

She and Tilikum just had a connection! She had raised him herself, despite how agitated he always was, and never gave up on him no matter how many times he bit her, bucked her, scratched her, or knocked her down. He was her best friend! Not that the bar was very high, she didn’t have very many friends to begin with, but still! They were a dynamic duo!

  “Come on, Sorrel,” Her trainer said impatiently. “Up you go. You have a race to win. We gotta pull in cash somehow.”

Sorrel nodded, put on her helmet and goggles, then grabbed the saddle and clambered onto Tilikum’s muscular back, which took a few tries because of how big he was and how much muscle she lacked. Surprised, the horse stumbled a little, pawing at the dirt with a front hoof. Then, he settled. Somewhat. He didn’t seem happy.

Tilikum hesitated. He shuffled back and forth. Under Sorrel’s thighs, his muscles tensed, and, for a moment, Sorrel feared he was going to throw her off (he had done that before. before a race like this. she had yet to get over that one). Then, he craned his head around, looking for something. Sorrel laughed softly and gave it to him- a sugar cube.

A watching jockey wrinkled his nose a little at this. Another bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

  “He shouldn’t be so fidgety when you get onto him,” Said the first jockey. He was sitting maturely on the back of his dark bay thoroughbred, probably thinking he knew everything about racing. “And you shouldn’t have to tempt him into listening to you with treats… Is he not trained?”

  “He is trained!” Sorrel snapped, causing Tilikum to stir in agitation at the tone of her voice. She quieted herself, hunching her shoulders in, and muttered an apology to her mount. “Tilikum’s just…he has a temper. That’s all.”

The jockey quirked an eyebrow at that, but didn’t say anything else. Sorrel looked away.

  “Remember,” Her trainer spoke back up. “Let him make his own pace coming out of the gate. Don’t push him until the very end. And don’t listen to those PETA pussies. It’s okay to use your whip. It’s there for a reason. If he isn’t listening to you, give him a good lashing.”

Sorrel didn’t like the sound of that at all. As someone who had been subjected to the other end of a switch (she lived in the country, after all, it was bound to happen eventually), she knew how badly it could hurt and she didn’t want Tilikum to have to feel that. But still, she nodded, not wanting to anger her trainer. He already always looked frustrated with her as is.

  “Good luck,” The trainer called after her as the horses were led out onto the track by escorts. “Don’t disappoint us this time.”

Passing that threshold, Sorrel realized she and her horse were no longer Sorrel and Tilikum.

They were Sorrel and Killer Whale.

Cheers erupted from the stands as the ten horses in the race were walked out onto the field. Sorrel had told herself to keep her eyes forward, to stay focused, but she found herself looking all around the track stadium to try and find the only people she wanted to see. It was hard to discern the mass of people, but she hoped they were here this time.

The escorts led the horses up to the starting gate as the announcer spoke loudly to the crowd, introducing the racers. One by one, each horse was walked into the stalls in order. Tilikum-- no, Killer Whale had no problem getting into his designated spot, number six, but once the door shut behind him loudly with a clank and squeal, that was when he began to act up.

Killer Whale began nervously neighing and backing up against the gate. Tilikum was starting to slip out of his race facade, which really wasn’t something Sorrel wanted to happen. Not during a race. Not again.

  “Shh, shh,” Sorrel whispered, leaning down to speak into her horse’s ear. “It’s okay. It’s--” She cut herself off with a yelp as the chestnut  stallion to her left rammed against the metal grating separating the two of them, startling Killer Whale further.

The clamor was starting to get to Sorrel, too. The stall was so small and it was so noisy from all the rattling iron and horse cries. She felt like she was suffocating and, without realizing it, she found herself becoming shortened of breath. All the dust was choking her. The smell of metal and horses burned in her nostrils.

Don’t freak out, don’t freak out… 

  “Holy shit, kid, are you alright?” The man to her left, the one with the chestnut stallion who hit into her grate (he apologized, at least) asked.

  “She’s fine,” Said the young man to Sorrel’s right- the same young man who had harassed her in the jockey room. “Let her work herself up. Maybe then she’ll realize this isn’t for her.” He laughed cruelly.

His taunting words registered in Sorrel’s ringing ears and she grit her teeth, stamping down her panic attack. It just kept bubbling to the surface, so she finally gave up on calming herself and rather turned to her horse.

  “Come on, boy,” She whispered, almost hissed through her clenched teeth as her anger mounted. “Calm down. It’s okay. I’m with you.”

Just when she thought she had Killer Whale settled, an ear piercing ringing sounded from above and the gates flew open.

The horses jetted from their stalls, and Killer Whale took off.

The sound of the hoofbeats was hypnotizing. And it only got more and more hypnotic the closer and closer Sorrel and Killer Whale inched towards the competition.

Sorrel leaned forward, keeping her balance with ease, her legs an iron band around Killer Whale’s girth. She could feel the powerful muscles bunching and releasing, the heat and sweat leaching through her pants, searing her skin.

The herd of professionals was galloping, yet Killer Whale ran just as fast. He twisted to the right, to the left, his body never straight. Sorrel felt like she was riding a wild, plunging river, a torrent that tossed her, battered her, until she hardly knew where she was.

It was incredible.

The first horse they passed was a deep red color, then a chocolate brown one, then one the shade of bloody mud.

  “Easy, Tilly, easy,” Sorrel said to her horse. “You’re doing great, buddy. Steady on.”

Killer Whale snorted and urged himself forward without his rider’s command. Almost sensing his need to speed up, Sorrel obliged and finally lifted herself fully off of the saddle, leaning forward and adjusting her weight so it would be at the front. Practically standing up on this sprinting beast’s back made a strong sense of vertigo wash over her, and she thought she might fall off, but Killer Whale’s increasing speed brushed away her worries.

Sorrel’s grip may have been tight on the reins, but Killer Whale was controlling himself. He weaved through two horses almost perfectly, despite them never training with moving obstacles, only the occasional stock-still ones. He knew to angle to the right to avoid getting his legs tangled up in an opponent’s and banked a hard left at the next turn that was so sharp it cut off the rider in front of him.

They both crossed the finish line for the third time, starting the final lap. Sorrel was still shouting in glee when, suddenly, something slammed into Killer Whale’s side on the last leg of the race, ramming him right against the wall where one side of the stands were situated above. Sorrel yelped as her shoulder and side were grated painfully against the metal as her horse was pushed further against the structure. She turned to see the man from the jockey room glaring at her from his raging red horse, Knock Your Socks Off.

  “You’ll learn one way or another, little girl!” The man spat, “This isn’t for you!”

Sorrel grunted and she heard Killer Whale screech a furious neigh. He whipped his head to the side, baring his teeth and rotating his ears back. His anger was a cold, deep, dark thing that Sorrel knew about well. He once kicked down a barn door just because he was pet in an area he didn’t want to be pet in. That being said, Sorrel has taken a lot of time to learn his mannerisms and techniques to calm the beast.

Now was not one of the times to use those.

  “You don’t belong here!” The man hissed.

Sorrel grit her teeth, feeling the scrapes already tearing open on her shoulder thanks to the wall. Even over the sound of hoofbeats and horses, she could still hear her trainer’s words ringing in her ears.

  “It’s okay to use your whip. It’s there for a reason.”

Sorry, buddy, Sorrel thought before yanking on the reins to get away from the man and unholstering her crop. The sound of it cracking against Killer Whale’s side echoed in her head.

That was her biggest mistake.

Killer Whale screeched. He sped up with a burst of speed, then began to have a fit. 

Sorrel helplessly cried for her steed to calm down, but her yelling only seemed to spur his frenzy further. He whipped his head back and forth, turned in every direction, reared and bucked until, finally, Sorrel came loose from his back and was flung to the dirt. 

Sorrel lay dazed on the ground for several long seconds. She was winded, confused, and very disorientated. She struggled to breathe as several other cries of horses sounded around her. They must have gotten spooked by Killer Whale’s tantrum.

And then, a hoof came crashing down onto her stomach.

Now, Sorrel had felt pain before, that in itself wasn’t anything new. Once, when she was ten, she had gotten stung by a hornet while at a birthday party for her younger cousin. At the time, she thought that was the worst pain anyone could ever go through. But now, five years later, with 1100 pounds of pure muscle pressing into her abdominal cavity, she would have much preferred the hornet.

Sorrel couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even wheeze as the horse that had stepped on her charged onwards, the edge of its hoof catching on her uniform and flesh and taking some of it with it. Another hoof came down on her, then another, then another, then another, until it felt like she was caught in a hurricane that had raindrops made of thick keratin. She tried to curl in on herself, tried to protect her organs, but they hooves kept coming and she couldn’t move and she was so fucking scared.

Through the dust and black spots that began to appear all along her vision, she saw Killer Whale, and his eyes were stark white and full of rage.

Pure rage.

She could see it now. That wasn’t Killer Whale looking back at her. It wasn’t even Tilikum. It was a horse she forced into racing because she wanted them to be a duo. And he hated her with every inch of his being.

I’m sorry, dear friend.

--

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the horses are up for the fifth race here at Hartford Stadium. Once again, Maxwell Gingham and the incredible All That Jazz bring up the front in a crowd favorite.

And they’re off!

With the gate up, Blazing Berry and Knock Your Socks Off tie for the front, but All That Jazz is not far behind. Donut Tell Daddy right there. Too Close For Comfort a length off the pace. Killer Whale is in front of When Lightning Strikes, but All That Jazz trails the leader by only three lengths. Blazing Berry leads by a head. Dime-a-Dozen hangs tight with jockey Richard Bride aboard. Rookie’s Gambling Chance is challenging the rest of the pack. 

Into the next turn, Blazing Berry still controlling the pace, with All That Jazz close behind. Knock Your Socks Off content with third place at this point. Fly Me To The Moon falling off a bit. Donut Tell Daddy and Too Close For Comfort are in good position in the second group. Killer Whale mounting a challenge, but it could be too much. He’s making a bold move on the outside and looking for a way in around the bend-- Look out! Killer Whale’s rider goes down! Jockeys do their best to avoid a pile-up! All the horses go through, but the rider… Oh dear-- oh god! Stop the cameras! Stop! Someone get help down there! I don’t think she’s--”

--

Sorrel had not been looking forward to dying. Not one bit. There were still so many things she wanted to do. She was supposed to become the world’s best jockey, become famous, finally be loved by her parents… She wasn’t supposed to die, not this soon, not this early.

But she could safely say that she was looking forward to not being in pain anymore. Death, at least, would provide respite from the awful way she went out. She would no longer feel the crunching of her bones, the tearing of her flesh, the ripping of her organs, the spilling of her own blood, the pounding of the hooves of her enraged horse who wanted nothing more than to pummel her into the dirt. It would finally all be gone and she would be at peace.

But she wasn’t. Because when her eyes opened and she found herself lying on the track, sprawled in mud that was mixed with her own blood, she was met with the unbearable agony of invisible hooves smashing her organs and had to roll over to vomit blood all over the dirt.

For a long time, Sorrel cried until it felt like she couldn’t breathe- and then she realized she wasn’t breathing. Not really. But she could still feel pain and her lungs felt like they were being ripped right out of her chest, her rib cage crumpling inwards to pierce her heart and diaphragm. She gurgled on her blood.

It was dark. The track was dead. She was dead. The only people around were a few stragglers who must have worked at the stadium. She tried to get up to run to them, but she couldn’t stand up. When she looked down, she saw that her right femur was sticking out of her thigh. She threw up again, then settled for crawling.

  “Help me,” Sorrel begged, dragging herself to a group of three people speaking in hushed whispers. “Please, please help me-- it hurts-- I want my mom--”

But her pleading went unnoticed. It wasn’t until her hand phased right through one of the men that she truly realized what had happened.

Sorrel curled into a ball again, weeping even more. The pain grew unbearable. She thought death was supposed to be peaceful. 

The group left, eventually. The moon rose high in the sky. Its glow caught on something lying listlessly in the dirt of the track. Sorrel crawled over to it. 

The Handbook For The Recently Deceased. That was what it said, and reading it made Sorrel feel even more sick. She forced herself to not throw up this time, though she could feel the blood slowly filling her lungs like a thick red tar.

Sorrel accidentally stained the dusty pages when she flipped through the book. Her gloves were coated in a fine layer of dust and blood. Her uniform was the same way, she realized, slathered in the muck of her own fluids and dirt from the track. Hoofprints trodded up and down her chest, stomach, and legs, marks to remember what had happened, though she was sure the trauma would never leave her brain, even after death. Her helmet was cracked down the middle, but still firmly strapped to her skull. It did its job, it seemed, because her head hurt the least amount out of every spot on her throbbing body.

She read through the book with cloudy eyes. She was exhausted, mentally and physically. She wanted to lay down and never wake up. She wanted the pain to go away. She wanted her mom.

Eventually, she managed to find a passage with directions to some place called the “Netherworld,” and she was in little room to question anything at that point, so she followed what it said. 

She didn’t have any chalk to draw a door, so she had to settle for her own blood. She hobbled to one of the stadium walls, which took forever because her small intestines came out at one point and made her have a screaming fit for five minutes straight before she was able to stuff them back into her abdominal cavity and continue her journey. When she finally got there, she slicked her already-filthy hands with the blood from her many, MANY wounds (god, those horses did a number on her, didn’t they?) and sloppily drew a red door on the wall. She added a doorknob, which ended up being too large because she had slammed her hand down in the reaction to the pain of her small intestines trying to slither their way out of her again, then knocked three times while hugging her stomach with one arm, trying to keep her organs in where they belonged. Slowly, the door opened up to her and she was bathed in green light.

It did little to comfort her.

The myriad of dead people through the doorway did even less.

Sorrel spit blood, then let her guts fall out as she sank to her knees.

She was so tired.

--

It was official: Sorrel hated being dead. And it wasn’t simply because she was dead, no, she could have dealt with that if the afterlife was cool like it was in Coco or something, but this-- this fucking sucked.

She was lonely. Even though the Netherworld was built like a regular society- a society that glowed green and sheltered walking corpses, but a society nonetheless- there were no people for her. Nobody ever wanted to talk to her, no matter how hard she tried. And even though she was only a “few dead days old,” she was already thinking about giving up because how the hell were you supposed to make friends in hell? Surely that was what this place was. That was what she got for being born into a family that was above middle-class.

It was also just so confusing. Why was she in debt? Why did she need a job when she was fifteen and, you know, DEAD? Why was there an economic system in the underworld? What was all this paperwork for? WHO WAS BEETLEJUICE???

She couldn’t wrap her head around any of it. And that was saying a lot because her head was the only thing apart of her that was completely intact after The Accident. 

She tried to get help, tried to ask questions, but everyone else looked at her in amusement or disdain whenever she did. It was the same way whenever she expressed any form of pain or didn’t understand something or let her organs fall out on accident. It was like they were expecting her to instantly know everything there was to know about being dead and if she didn’t, she was beneath them and wasn’t worth their time.

Funny. Her parents were the same way.

And then, there was the pain. It always came back to the pain.

Some days, she could deal with it, really. Some days it was only a dull pounding in her stomach or soreness in her chest. Some days it was only her legs, other days her shoulders, and other other days her sternum.

But some days, it was all over. And she couldn’t handle it.

This was how Those Days usually went: Her stomach began to throb and ache an hour after waking up. Joints and muscles started swelling two hours in. At three hours they’d go numb and heavy, forcing her to strain her body just to keep moving. Four hours in, feeling would return in the form of deep, slicing pain that lingered long into the day. After that, her bones would begin splintering, her organs would try to shove their way out of her, and her lungs start to hemorrhage. 

The pressure and pain her death put on her very being was constant. Oh how she wanted to be rid of this deep-seeded agony that was not only tearing her body apart, but her second “life”, too.

The way the shock from each throb made her fingers start to go numb if she had a grip on just about anything for too long, and she didn’t even know if she would be able to speak when she opened her mouth. The way her spine, heavily trampled and damaged from the hooves, knotted up until it felt wooden. The way her guts sloshed in her stomach like soup on some days, leaking viscous fluid that wasn’t really blood out of any opening they could find, forcing her to hug her middle or be shamed with them spilling out of her already-soiled uniform. The way her limbs screamed when she flew with an agony that seemed to echo in her more than her joints at some point. The way she would lie in the bed of her lonely Netherworld apartment and try not to shriek along with every muscle in her body, the way her body didn’t even seem to belong to her anymore.

She ached when she was lying down.

She ached when she was standing.

She ached when she was doing her job.

She ached on days she did nothing and she ached on the day that Breather in black came by with her father. 

She ached because she ached.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she sometimes found herself making a litany of her pain. A whisper of suffering that she tried to focus on so she wasn’t focused on the actual feeling. Anything but the feeling.

But if that wasn’t bad enough… 

The fact that she had to constantly deal with what felt like physical torture day to day wasn’t enough of a burden for one person. She had also been burdened with being an eyesore and a disappointment, though that wasn’t really new. She could feel the scorn and disgust the other dead felt when they saw her. Sometimes, that was worse than the pain itself.

It was just discomfort. All the time. Even things like getting up in the “mornings” (she still had no idea how time worked down here) and sleeping couldn’t be taken for granted. There was nothing good about her body.

It rocked to a rhythm that felt like it was being conducted by her very soul, but it did nothing to ease the fire in her veins.

She wished it was fire. That was what she had thought it was, at first. A little while ago.

Fire burned, but not in the same way. Fire was detached, impersonal. It didn’t care what got in the way. It burned and charred and devoured everything in minutes and went on its way, leaving the scorched corpses in its wake. Fire was powerful and murderous but it wasn’t torturous- the man who had gone up in flames because he smoked in bed proved that to her because he seemed to be doing just fine. Sulfur on the other hand…well, falling into a burning pool of that stuff was a different beast entirely.

Sulfur clung in a way that fire did not. It wrapped its monstrous hands around you, drawing you in closer, exposing more of you to its touch until it framed each piece of you intimately, until it was every much a part of you as your skin was.

Fire would leave. Sulfur stayed.

It stayed even after your death. It made you burn until you lost yourself, until there was nothing left except the fiery red afterglow and the screams inside of your head. It branded you, so that you and the whole fucking Netherworld knew that you were being burned. Being roasted alive. Being cauterized, like an open wound. You were something that was wrong, something bad, something that needed to be fixed or punished.

Mama has the switch. Can she get me down here? 

Sorrel would have much preferred fire.

The sulfur had burned her consciousness away, seared her eyes until all she saw was black spots. Filled her lungs until her chest felt like it was an open furnace. Blistered through her stomach and chest and legs and arms and back until they became a sick rendition of what they were supposed to be, like one big fucking cosmic joke. Sorrel was so sick of being the fucking punchline.

But, in the end, it didn’t really matter much one way or another because she suffered in silence. She strained herself to keep her body functioning so none of the other dead would get annoyed with her. She forced herself to go to work because she was a people-pleaser at heart and didn’t want to disappoint anyone. She tortured herself just to keep people who didn’t even care about her content, but there was nothing she could do about it. Not anymore. She was in too deep to do anything now.

This week had been especially brutal. The bruises stamped up and down the front of her body seemed to be at war with the cuts from the hooves, determined to see what could make her hurt more. Her lungs were bleeding extra today, too, and she kept accidentally spitting blood into people’s faces when she talked to them. She ended up spraying the wrong person, a woman with pale blue skin and deep purple brittle fingers and icicles hanging from her frosted hair (hypothermia, Sorrel guessed), because she was shoved backwards with enough force to send her careening into a desk in the office she had been bustling through. The edge of the table stabbed into her lower back, making her entire body tense up. When she tried to sidle to the side, a bloody apology dripping from her lips, her right femur suddenly snapped beneath her weight and she crumpled to the ground. Despite her training herself to not react to any pain she was in, she couldn’t bite back a scream this time.

There was a reason why broken femurs were so severe.

The hypothermic woman leered down at her squirming figure as if she were a worm she found nibbling on her corpse. “You’re a disgrace to the dead.” She spat.

Sorrel gurgled on her blood in response, digging her fingernails into the gash in her thigh where the bone was trying to inch its way out to freedom.

The hypothermic woman sneered in disgust. A cloud of freezing fog puffed out of her nostrils as if she were a terrifying ice dragon. Shaking her head in contempt, she wiped her face, then walked away, leaving Sorrel to reset her femur on her own.

Sorrel looked at the fallen stack of paperwork she had dropped in dismay. Juno wasn’t going to be happy with this one.

--

All things considered, Miss Argentina was quite lucky. Compared to the rest of the Dead, she had a rather simple, easy-to-deal-with death. Not to say that slashing open her own wrists with a razor blade wasn’t painful, but “living” with it in the Netherworld was like living with carpal tunnel syndrome- it was manageable.

Certainly more manageable than whatever the hell was going on with the horse girl in one of the offices.

Miss Argentina knew a lot of people. One of the perks of working in maintenance, she supposed. So she had seen this specific Dead before, quite a few times, actually, the most notable being when the goth Breather and her father stupidly decided to come down for a visit, but she never got around to talk to the child. 

Until now, of course.

When the “work day” finally ended and Miss Argentina was leaving for her apartment, she heard it. The whimpering. It reminded her of something a sick puppy would make or maybe a kitten with an upset stomach. Whatever it was, it was distressing, but also very intriguing, so she followed it deeper into the building. Stepping into one of the offices that was rank with blood, she found where those papers she had been looking for were.

Slightly sticking out from behind a table, Miss Argentina saw the little jockey sprawled on the floor, a fresh staining of blood seeping into her already-bloodied horse racing uniform. She was twisted into an awkward position, similar to how the corpses in those crime shows she used to watch when she was alive would be in- face-down with her arms tucked into her and her legs folded inward and knees pointing sharply to the side. Inching closer, fuelled by morbid curiosity, Miss Argentina realized why she was in such an arrangement.

The femur was sticking out of her right thigh. 

Miss Argentina couldn’t help grimace. When she was alive, she had a friend who broke his femur during a sports accident. He had to go to physical therapy to simply learn how to walk again. Death and the supernatural body, at the very least, saved this child from that, but the pain she had to have been in… No wonder she was lying on the floor.

Miss Argentina had heard about what happened to this little one. Trampled to death by horses. And she would admit that she got a laugh out of it at first, because what kind of death was that? But it quickly became less amusing when she saw the state the girl was in when she first showed up two weeks ago.

Hoofprints stomped all along the front of her body, uniform ripped and bloody, cuts and bruises all over, crunching bones when she moved and spilling organs that constantly tried to escape her abdominal cavity like restless snakes and gushing blood from her mouth. What made it worse was how little she was. A young jockey that died in the middle of a race. She couldn’t imagine what that had been like for her. 

The jockey didn’t stir when she stepped towards her, and Miss Argentina rationalized that she must have fallen asleep. Or blacked out, which seemed way more likely because that exposed bone looked worse and worse the closer and closer she got.

She knelt down to the jockey and gently shook her shoulder.

  “Honey?” Miss Argentina called out. “Wake up.”

The jockey gasped, sharply drawing in a useless breath of air, which quickly thickened with blood and came back out red. Miss Argentina grimaced and wondered if she should pat the girl’s back to help her get the gunk out of her throat (you were supposed to do that, right? or was it just a myth? she never thought to test it when she was alive), but thought against it when she saw the hoofprints on her back. She grimaced again. Did this child have any spot on her body that hadn’t been beaten mercilessly by horses?

The jockey eventually stopped leaking from her mouth and looked up at her dazedly, blood dripping from her chin in a dark waterfall of red. She squinted at her, then turned her head to the accumulating puddle beneath her head.

  “Sorry about the floor,” She croaked, and her voice was hoarse, but high and youthful.

  “It’s alright,” Miss Argentina assured her. “Are you okay?”

The jockey blinked at her slowly, as if confused as to why she was checking up on her. Miss Argentina could understand why, though. There was a reason she had told Lydia that everyone was alone in the Netherworld- nobody liked meddling in the affairs or business of others.

And yet, here she was.

  “Yes…” The jockey said slowly, sounding unsure. She tried to sit up, but froze when she moved her legs and looked back at them nervously. She bit her lip when she saw the state of her femur, but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you sure?” Miss Argentina asked.

  “Yes,” The jockey said again, this time less unsure, but much meeker. She ducked her head to avoid Miss Argentina’s worried gaze and the rim of her helmet fell into her eyes.

Miss Argentina frowned. She watched as the jockey twisted around and managed to sit up, bracing herself against the table she had been laying beside. She pushed her femur back into her thigh with a horrible grinding-crunching sound and was very clearly struggling not to scream.

  “Sorry,” The jockey whispered after a moment. Her hands were still resting on her thigh, and her gloves (Miss Argentina thought they may have been white at some point) were soaking up a new layer of filth as blood drooled agaisnt them.

  “What for?” Miss Argentina tilted her head. “You haven’t done anything wrong, sweetheart. I promise you that.”

  “Y-yeah, but--” The jockey sounded anxious, like she was afraid of being yelled at for simply expressing discomfort. “The Dead-- I don’t wanna be weak, but-- it hurts. Everything hurts. And I--” She caught herself. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

Miss Argentina frowned. She reached out and lifted the jockey’s head with one hand. Using the other, she pushed her helmet back and saw that her eyes were a brilliant shade of hazel. There were tears gathering inside of them. The jockey stared up at her in shock, then leaned into her touch like a kitten seeking warmth from its mother.

  “It’s alright, sweetheart,” Miss Argentina murmured to her. “It’s okay. You aren’t going to get in trouble for hurting. Everyone else are just uptight a--” She looked the jockey over, taking in how young she really was. “Jerks.”

That got a giggle out of the jockey, which quickly became wet with blood. She covered her mouth and swallowed, then pulled her hand away. Miss Argentina couldn’t imagine having to deal with a chronic bloody mouth. 

  “Okay,” The jockey whispered. She sniffled. “Sorry. I mean-- I apologize a lot. Sorry. Oh--”

Miss Argentina laughed. She felt endearment grow in her heart for this ragged, bloody child. 

  “It’s quite alright, honey,” Miss Argentina told her. She stood up and extended a hand down to the jockey. “Do you have anywhere to be?” 

The jockey took her hand and was pulled to her feet. She staggered for a moment, then steadied herself, wincing slightly. “No, ma’am.”

Miss Argentina raised an eyebrow. “‘Ma’am’?” She echoed. “That’s new for me.”

The jockey blushed shyly. “Sorry. Raised to be well-manered and all…”

  “No, no,” Miss Argentina was quick to assure her when she began to get nervous. “You’re a very sweet girl. It’s a nice change of pace from everything else. But you don’t have to be so formal with me.”

The jockey gave a light laugh. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. I was, like, bred to be the perfect, polite daughter.” She said. “But, ahh-- no. No, I don’t have anywhere to be. Usually I just sit in my bed after work and try to turn out the sound of screeching horses in my head.”

Miss Argentina blinked worriedly. “Why don’t you tag along with me? You look like you could use some good company.”

The jockey perked up. “Really?”

Miss Argentina smiled at her warmly. “Really.”

It could be a start to make the pain go away. 

#i just. i love her so much #baby girl #beetlejuice #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice the broadway musical #beetlejuice fanfiction #beetlejuice fic #the jockey #miss argentina #lydia deetz #tw: blood #tw: death #tw: abuse #bloodhorse

[yifeiyay]

charles doing sth dumb and cursed which leads to pierre and esteban swapping bodies for a week or so go wild

ok so i messed up the prompt a little and went with swapping identities instead, but i hope you enjoy it! i had a lot of fun writing this fhsjfjks

The shaman Charles had arranged to meet was seated behind a screen. Light shone from behind him, illuminating his silhouette. The room smelt strongly of incense.

"You have the spell, right? To help me win the championship."

"Of course." The shaman's voice is low, and he doesn't quite sound like he's from around here -- Charles had expected a shaman near Maranello to be Italian, but then again, stranger things had happened. Perhaps he was just travelling.

The shadow reaches to his side, but there isn't anything there. "Give me a moment," he says, sounding slightly more frustrated, as he disappears through a door behind the screen.

There's the sound of something falling over and muffled yelling.

"Sorry about that. Here's your potion." That was a different voice, right? Charles hesitates when the hand pushes two vials of liquid towards him from under the screen. But he doesn't have time to figure out whether he wants to accept them or not, because there's a sound from behind the door that sounds like glass breaking. And then more yelling.

"Fuck. You've paid, right? Just take it." The other shaman rushes off, leaving Charles with the two vials of potion.

Well, he had paid...no harm in taking them.

***

It's testing, and Carlos is out in the car now, which meant Charles was left to sit alone in a secluded corner of the paddock, rolling one vial in his hand. Was there a time limit to this magic? Should he drink it now, or wait till the season was properly underway? Was this even right?

Fuck it, let's try one.

He opens the cap, and is just about to down the vial, when Esteban walks up from behind him. Alarmed, the vial nearly drops from his hands.

"Hey Charles! What are you doing back here?"

"Uh, hi."

Esteban raises an eyebrow. "That wasn't an answer, but okay. What've you got there?"

He points at the vial in Charles' hand, and he panics. What was he supposed to say? He definitely looked suspicious now.

"It's...the newest coffee sweetener." That should work. "Sugar free. I, just happened to get a sample. Like, sponsors, you know?"

Esteban nodded, thoroughly convinced. Phew! Good job, Charles. You did well this time-

"Can I try one?"

"Huh?"

"You know how it is being this height. Got to keep it trim. Just let me take one home to try. You have other samples, right?"

"Uh, I guess?"

"Thanks, man."

***

Charles is sat in bed, thinking about that day's testing. Alpine had actually set some surprisingly good times. He thinks about Esteban holding the driver's championship trophy. God, that would be insane, wouldn't it?

Pierre would be so mad.

He hears the doorbell ring, and then the door open. Just when he was thinking of him! It must be Pierre. He would always ring the doorbell before letting himself inside, just to let Charles know that he was here.

Should he tell Pierre about this?

Wait.

Charles tries to sprint down the stairs to the best of his abilities, but he's wearing socks and he doesn't want to get injured so close to the start of the season. All he can do is pray. He had poured his remaining vial into his glass of water to drink. But he had forgotten about it after getting distracted by his phone, and now he had to make sure Pierre didn't-

He was too late.

Pierre sits at the counter, glass of water half-drank, smiling at him.

If Pierre and Esteban were fighting for the championship this year...this was beyond what Charles could imagine.

***

"Marcus! Where's my vial?"

"What do you mean, 'your vial'?"

"You know, the liquid. The identity-swapping liquid." Callum flopped down on the sofa, having finally cleaned up the place they had refashioned into a shaman's office for this stunt. "You gave one vial to Charles, didn't you?"

"...Oh. He only needs one."

"Don't tell me you gave him both!"

"I mean- look, how was I supposed to know?"

"Logically speaking," Callum wrung his arms, exasperated, "you need both parties to be involved in any kind of identity-swapping spell? The whole idea was for me to swap identities with someone so I could race on the grid with Mick, and Charles was the best option, because who doesn't want to be the Prince of Ferrari, and well, because he's the only one who would fall for this. How am I supposed to answer to him now?"

"So that's where you got the potion from? From Mick?"

***

When Mick arrived in the pitlane, he could feel that something was terribly wrong. Granted, the presence of the person on the other side of the garage was also something terribly wrong. If he could find a way to spike Nikita's food with the identity-swapping potion, he could. And then Callum would be his teammate, and all would be well in the world. (Well, perhaps he was exaggerating there. But things in the paddock would be better, at least.)

He has to do a double take when he walks past the Alpine garage. Number 14...and Number 10? Pierre Gasly?

He pulls out his phone, and does a google search. "Pierre Gasly takes his first podium in Sakhir". "Pierre Gasly replaces Nico Hulkenberg at Renault after taking one year off racing". "Pierre Gasly is replaced by Lance Stroll at Force India, now to be called Racing Point".

Wait, what?

"Hey Mick! How's it going?"

It's Yuki. He couldn't have arrived at a better time. "Hey, Yuki. Who- How's your teammate?"

"Esteban? He's been alright. He's helping me get used to the new team, helping me brush up on my Italian. He's got a flair for languages. I'm going to teach him Japanese when I get the chance."

Oh. Oh, no.

#this probably wasn't what you had in mind bdgshfjd but!! #miels answers #m #nat #200 followers special

[nerdyindigeniousart]

Kaya babbin

I found this story in a book published in 1983 by a wadjella man who grew up in South Perth – somewhere down at the northern end of Suburban (now Mill Point) Road in the 1920s and 1930s. The hotel and racing course mentioned are long gone, but were somewhere near the bottom of Hurlingham Road.

I really enjoyed this story and thought you might like it too, so I have obtained the permission of the publisher to share part of it.

Just a couple of notes – I have edited some of the wording to bring it up to today’s protocols but the original words and phrases were not intended to be inappropriate.

Tom Mix and Ken Maynard were actors in early American movies and played cowboy characters.

The Western word for woomera was ‘mero’, but as ‘kilee’ became better known as ‘boomerang, eventually the mero was more widely known as the ‘woomera’.

The author would have been about 11 years old at the time the story takes place which would make the period around 1922. I couldn’t find any records of the fulla mentioned in the story but if anyone knows any members of the Good Mob I would love to know whether anything more is known of Simon.

********

When I walked out into the bright sunshine at the other end of the stables I nearly bumped into an Aboriginal man sitting on a box. His skin shone and his teeth were very white. His hair was black; parted over one ear and combed right across the top of his head. It smelled of brilliantine.

He was dressed in grey denim pants like my father's, and a grey flannel shirt with short sleeves that showed the muscles in his arms. He had on black socks and shiny black elastic-sided boots with long, pointy toes: you could see where his feet came to in them, and the shape of his toes inside. On the ground beside him, on the dry grass and gumnuts, there was a wide-brimmed black felt hat like the ones Ken Maynard and Tom Mix wore.

“What are you doing with that?’ I asked him. He was rolling and squeezing a lump of marri-gum between the pinky-brown palms of his hands.

‘Making a woomera.’

'What's a woomera?'

What I really liked about him, straight away, was that he spoke to me as if he was another boy, like me; better still, as if I was another man, like him. Equal. When I asked him what he was doing with the ball of gum he told even me. Most people would have said: Nosey Parker!

The man was looking at me, smiling. I suppose he wondered what I was thinking about. I said: 'Do you work here, now?'

'Yeah. I work here.'

'Where do you come from?

He gazed around at the stables and the marri gums and the old hotel. 'Round about here. '

I looked across the polo ground. I could remember it before, when it had been the old Teagardens Racecourse, and we used to run around the course playing racehorses, and scamper like possums all over the old weatherboard grand-stand: it was still there, falling to pieces under some big gum trees and our parents would have had a fit if they'd knowns we went near it. The judge’s box and the two big ponds they used to water the horses at, and right down the bottom of the ground, Billy Bew’s little plaster-and-board cottage at the top end of his garden above high-water mark in the biggest floods.

I couldn't see how the man could have come from all that, because we played on the racecourse all the time, and if he'd been there I would have seen him. I turned around and looked at him.

'You can't have come from here. There was races before. With a grandstand, and everything.'

'Before that, sonny. He smiled again. 'I was only a little feller. My daddy used to catch possums in the trees, used to be all over the paddock.' He pointed down to the river. 'And crabs, down there.'

'We still go crabbing,' I said, 'in summertime, after tea. You can get a chaff-bag full.'

'Yeah I know.'

I thought he must be very old, perhaps even as old as my father and a thought struck me.

'Did you ever sell clothes props when you were a little boy?' I wondered whether that was where he'd really come from: trudging along Suburban Road in the dust of the carts, selling gum saplings for clothes props, like other some Aboriginal people.

'No. We never sold no props.' He'd been smiling while I spoke but he'd stopped. 'We left.'

'Where'd you go?'

'Oh all-about. Up Murchison way. My daddy worked for farmers, and I learned about horses.'

All the time he was speaking he kept on rubbing and pressing the marri gum between his palms. I watched him for a while, and then I said' 'What's your name?'

'Simon. Simon Good. What's yours?'

'Tommy', I said. 'Show me what you're making with the gum?'

He leaned sideways and picked up something I hadn't noticed in the grass beside his hat – a peeled white gum stick about an inch thick. It was a bit flat down one side, maybe three feet long and straight as a ruler. He felt along the band of his black hat and took out a piece of white shining stone about three inches long, shaped to a point at one end. It was the sort my father had told me, once, was called quartz. He said it was the kind you found gold in. Then Simon took a little coil of fine copper wire out of the breast pocket of his shirt – you could see it had been straightened out from a piece of electric-light wire.

‘What’s all that for, Simon?’ I said.

‘You’ll see.’

He stuck a wad of the gum on the flattened side of the stick, close to one end, and pressed a shaped wedge of wood into it. Then he laid the white stone on the piece of wood so that the tip of the stone stood away, maybe half an inch from the side of the stick. It looked like the barb of a fish-hook. Then he wound a few turns of the copper wire around the stone and the stick, binding them together. He smeared the bind with gum, made some more turns with the wire, and smeared on more of the gum. He kept on doing it until there was a knob of wire and gum around the stone: as big as a pigeon's egg maybe. Only the very tip of the stone poked out of the gum. Then he held up the stick and looked along it out of one eye, squinting with the other and frowning a bit.

‘Did the black people have those things?' I asked, and he nodded.

Then how did they tie them up?' I felt very smart. 'They didn't have any copper wire.'

He smiled again. 'Pulled the strings out of kangaroos' legs.’

‘What's it for anyway?' It all sounded a bit wonky, but I let it go. ‘What do you do with it?'

‘It helps you to throw a spear, maybe.’

‘Woomera,’ he called it, and it sounded wonderful. Old and strange and wonderful.

Show me how?'

‘Not with this one. It's new. The gum's got to set real hard before you can use it. Wait a minute, eh?'

He got up off the box he'd been sitting on and went into the stables. There were two little rooms for the men to sleep in, the ones who worked there all the time. One of them would be his, now, and I guessed he was going into it.

When he came out again he was carrying another woomera like the one he'd just made. And he had brought along half-a dozen straight flower stalks off a grass-tree: I knew them all right, because we used them for spears ourselves, when we played black men out in the bush. He stopped beside me held the woomera out to me, the little stone hook pointing upward. ‘See?’

He put one of his fingertips on the stone. 'You fit the end of the stick against the stone, like this.' He showed me how, and I could see that the end of the spear had been hollowed out a bit so that the point of the stone wouldn’t slip off it. 'You hold the spear against the woomera, right at the other end like this. See? Then …’

He bent backward into a sort of a curve. He looked like the spring of an alarm clock I had got from a boy at school. He raised the arm with the woomera and the spear and pointed it at a kerosene tin against the stable wall.

I didn't quite know what to expect, and what he did next took me by surprise. It seemed as though he let go the spring in his body all of a sudden so that he stood up straight and his arm shot out in front of him straight as a die. The grass-tree spear flew at the kerosene tin, harder and faster than I thought anyone could have sent a spear just by hand. The tin went rolling with a clang. I don't think I’d ever seen anything more wonderful.

'Who showed you how?' I said.

‘My daddy. When I was a little feller, like you.’

'Can I have a go?' I said.

He handed me the woomera and one of the spears. I stood there staring at them, and my fingers curled around them. It made my back ripple. I felt as if the big trees were still standing all around the racecourse, full of possums for Simon's father to catch. And I remembered they used to come and play in our ceiling, and make it wet in places, and hiss and fight, before the trees were all cut down and dynamited and burned, and you never saw possums any more.

I thought of the Aboriginal people selling their clothes props at our front gate, and how they sounded crying out: like the flocks of black cockatoos that flapped over our house in stormy weather, on their way to the shelter of the hills. I felt as though I was looking through the window into Simon's room in the stables, watching him sitting on his bunk and making the woomera and the spears his father had taught him to make: now when really he had no use whatever for them anymore.

Come on,' he said, 'I'll show you how to throw a spear.'

He took my shoulders and turned me about, so that he stood behind me. Then he put one arm around me and guided the fingers of my throwing hand into the proper hold, so that I’d be able to let the spear go while I still held onto the woomera. All the time he talked to me about what we were doing and the horses, and about the Murchison where he'd grown up and had got to know all about them. Before very long I’d got the knack of it. I could send a spear nearly all the way to the kerosene tin, and usually in the right direction. I woke up to what time it was when the groom came out of the stables with his friend and banged the door behind them.

‘We’re going, Simon,’ he sang out, ‘You got the keys?’

‘Yes, I got them.’

They took off through the marri gums towards Suburban road.

'You got jobs to do at home?’ said Simon, ‘It’s getting a bit late.'

It was getting late. Most of the bees had left the marri blossom, and Roberts’ cows were making their way in from the paddocks to the milking shed, mooing and swinging their udders. Down at the bottom of the polo ground Billy Bew's little cottage got caught in the last of the light, and it looked as if it was on fire inside. Before dark I had to be home to milk our cow, cut the wood and feed the chooks.

I didn’t miss going out on the horses. Inside a couple of weeks I was hitting the kerosene tin most times and once I even hit a beer-bottle.

From Stories from Suburban Road by T.A.G. Hungerford © 1983 published by Fremantle Press. Reproduced with permission.

[ninaahelvar]

Clawen Week - Day 3: Fixation

Summary: Claire couldn’t help but keep thinking about them. One was a decent fixation, the other…not so much.

AO3

A/N: Feels good to write clawen again

Claire bit her lip. Her foot tapped impatiently. Her thumb clicking the end of the pen. Nope. She can’t think about it. She wasn’t going to allow herself. But she was….she was diving in head fucking first. She can’t think about it. But she is. When she had a one night stand with Owen, it was supposed to be just that - one goddamn night. But no, her brain had not be able to stop focusing on two simple things. One was a decent fixation, the other…not so much.

It was the average stuff: ‘I need just a good fuck and I can bet you can help’, going back to Owen’s place and practically stripping down to their socks. And that’s when two hyper-focuses started to occur. The first was on the large assortment of freckles parading from the top of his left pec to the bottom of his right hip. It seemed like nothing at all, just a few dots scattered about, but Claire couldn’t help but line them up in the perfect order for a constellation. She mapped it all out, the dots connecting to one another with her fingers.

When her fingers gingerly traces their way down his torso, he chuckled, not for a moment stopping her. When she finally reached the last one, she looked up to Owen - his eyes hungry and wanting. His lips were on hers in a heartbeat silencing anything else they could have said; instead, it became their bodies thriving in the hold of the other. He took her up into his arms, taking her onto his bed.

And that’s when the second and most frustrating, time consuming fixation began. His fucking cock. She had felt it press against her belly first, begging at Owen’s boxers for its release. Claire reached inside the band of his boxers, feeling the length of him. He hissed as Claire’s thumb ran over his tip, feeling the liquid of his pre-cum spill out. Claire was going to ask if he was alright when Owen kissed her sharply, making it impossible to say a word and give into lust.

When Owen sheathed his cock with the condom, they were both stripped out of their underwear, Owen on top of her with slow and wandering kisses lacing her lips and neck. Before she could even have a second thought, Owen was inside of her. Claire moaned, her hand wrapping around his back and clutching into him tightly. Everytime he would move and fit deeper inside of her, Claire was left moaning, pulling him in tighter with her legs.

When it was all said and done, Owen had fallen asleep beside her, but Claire couldn’t help but feel the wonderful and mind-blowing pressure of his cock inside of her. Caire bit her lip, remembering how his chest heaved in his pleasure, the littered freckles kept her sane for a moment longer before his cock was her fixation again. Claire didn’t sleep when Owen had started, her mind racing with a mountain of different things. When she thought she was fine, she got up, changing quickly into her clothes - the ever present absence of Owen inside of her made her hate the fact that she was standing. She just had to leave...otherwise she wouldn’t want to leave. She got all her things and left. When she went to bed that night….she held her legs together, curling herself up and urging herself not to touch herself at the thought of him.

It had been a few weeks and Claire couldn’t help but still think of him. How big he was, how thick he was, how he fit inside of her and had her begging for him whenever he would move out and cry out his name when he fit back inside of her. Groaning, Claire put her head on her desk. She knew why her brain was doing this - today of all days. It was because she had a stupid meeting with Owen, whom she had not even seen since that night. Claire had done a fantastic job of avoiding Owen at all costs; when she could, she’d send someone else in her stead to see him, send him memos and notes, anything to not see him and think of it.

But this is the moment she couldn’t get out of, a meeting she couldn’t pass on to someone else. Claire had been trying to sort out her brain, but it was all about that stupid appendage that had her moaning. She didn’t hear the door open or someone walk in because she was startled by someone clearing their throat.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked. Claire shot up and saw Owen standing by the door.

“No!” she said quickly and far too defensively. “Not at all. Please come sit,” she cleared her throat and offered him a chair. Her eyes lingered on his crotch before she shot them down to her desk. She rambled about what they needed to discuss, the issues that he had with the cages and the paddocks for the raptors. It was going well and fine, Owen pointing out things, making his complaints is the order that Claire liked - she even smiled when she saw the formal way he did so. Her mind, however, was fixed on the seam of his pants and the strain it took to contain something more.

“Is something wrong?” Owen interrupted himself. Claire’s attention came back to his contorted face.

“Hm?”

“You’re biting your nail. You never bite your nails,” he revealed and Claire realised how desperately her desires had her - chewing on her thumb nail just to ease or give way to her desires, she wasn’t quite sure.

“Ah, no. Just something on my mind.” she waved it off. God, she needed to get over this, she needed to stop focusing on how that row of freckles lead straight to the miracle that he held within his trousers. Claire stood, going to her door. Owen stood up, following her with cautious steps.

“Hey, I just wanted to say, things don't have to be so awkward between us after that night. I know you've been feeling embarrassed or something. Like, really, there's no need. I mean -”

“Please stop talking,” she warned him. Without questioning herself, she turned the lock and started back towards Owen.

“I don't understand why you're getting like -” he started before Claire silenced him with her lips crashing straight against his. When she pulled away, Owen looked down at her with stunned eyes. “okay, I'm confused now,” he remarked.

“Shut up,” Claire murmured before kissing him once more. Owen responded, stripping her out of her blazer and taking off his jacket. But she noticed the hesitant way his hands didn’t quite grip her or move her. He finally tugged away, leaving Claire feeling torn between silencing him once more and to stop herself from this endeavour. She bit at her lip - containing the desires she held.

“Okay, wait, you’ve gotta tell me what’s going on,” he inquired, hands lightly skimming her arms. She sighed, leaning her head against his chest before pushing back, and moving hair from her face. Now she was feeling embarrassed. She literally just threw herself at him without a second word. Claire should have known it was just a one night stand for him - that's all it was supposed to be!

“I have been avoiding you but not because I’m embarrassed of that night. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your dick for weeks and it’s becoming a problem,” she confessed in a laugh.

“Sorry about that?” he apologised, not knowing what else to say.

“No, no,” she resigned. “I’m sorry that was ridiculous and stupid and I just needed to get laid or something,” she laughed, trying to make light of it. Sighing, she stepped back, but was caught up Owen’s hand. He pulled her into his chest, kissing her with eager lips.

“If you stay quiet enough, you’ll be getting laid right here, right now,” he said in a hushed voice, thick and rasping. Claire whimpered as his whispered breathe chilled at her neck. She felt her knees want to give way, but Owen pulled her in at her waist, pushing her up and onto her own desk. Owen pushed Claire’s skirt up around her waist, and Claire unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it up and over his shoulders, throwing it aside.

Owen let his lips suck at her neck, his hands slipping up her thighs, sliding over her skin over and over again before his fingers laced over the band of her underwear. Tossing them aside, Claire suddenly felt him go down, his stubble scraping across her inner thigh. Claire knew that Zara was going to be out for a few hours, her wedding coming up and last minute planning kept her away from work, which never bothered Claire. It didn’t bother her right at this moment.

Owen’s face between her legs licked and sucked on her lower lips, his tongue teasing at her clit, and his hands keeping her legs open. She whispered rapidly, unable to keep her voice low and the only thing she could was talk so fast. Owen smiled against the inside of her legs, his skill leaving her heaving a little more. Her hips bucked against his face, trying to aid in her coming orgasm. Owen stilled her, his hand moving from her thighs to her breast, kneading at her and stroking past her nipples.

When she finally comes, her legs tightened around his head, hand tangled in his hair. She threw her head back, bucking sharply as he was still riding her out of this orgasm. She breathes hard as she rests back on her elbows, her desk more of a mess than she realised. But she didn’t even care - that orgasm was amazing.

“Oh, god,” she breathed. Owen chuckled, running his hand over his face, cleaning himself.

“Sorry, we never got to that last time and I really wanted to see what you tasted like,” he winked and Claire shook her head, rolling her eyes at him.

“Why do you have to be good with all of this?” she asked.

“Practise?” he replied, that same cocky grin as always. He pulled her forwards on the desk, her hips positioned just a little more forward, his own hips taken just to hers once more.

“You’re an idiot,” she said, unbuttoning her shirt and taking it off, she watched as Owen unbuckled his pants. “Condom?” she asked. Owen stopped, his hands pressed either side of her legs.

“Ah, fuck,” he cursed. Claire put her hands either side of his face, tilting his chin up to her.

“Pill. Clean though?” she asked and Owen smiled, nodding eagerly.

“Why do you always run your hands down my chest?” he laughed, Claire’s fingers absently tracing their way down his torso again. She pointed it out to him, the lining freckles that created a galaxy across his chest. He smiles, kissing her swiftly, but with a tenderness he had never shown before. When you’re fucking someone, when you’re caught in the heat of it all, kisses tend not to be tender, lingering and wanting like this. Claire whimpers, falling into the charm of his lips and feeling him slide inside her.

Her head falls back and Owen chuckled, hearing her moan a little too loudly. Owen kissed his way up her neck, hand running up her chest and underneath her bra to play with her nipple. Owen moved almost completely out of her, making her whimper and he knew it would happen. When he thrust back inside of her, Claire clutched into his back. Biting into his shoulder, her hands roamed down and gripped around his ass. Owen gave a hearty, guttural moan that had Claire bucking against him.

“So, what you were saying was...you’ve wanted to fuck me for over a month,” he grunted, pushing himself into her harder. Claire moaned over his shoulder, clutching onto him tighter, barely even on the table as their rhythms matched up.

“Why do you have to keep talking? You’re making it harder to deny,” she remarked, her breath turning into a soft laugh.

“Then don’t deny it,” Owen said, kissing at her shoulder.

“Shut up,” Claire moaned, her leg shaking in his hand. She knew she was going to come sooner than she even expected.

“Come on, admit it,” he said, pulling her into his hips again and

“Don’t tease me,” she cried a little. Owen kissed at her neck, small pecks and tender lips to coax her into a lovely, blissful moment.

“No, I plan on fucking you.” And he was doing a marvelous job of it. Owen put her back onto the table, laying her all the way down until his hand came to the other side. Above her head, Claire hung one hand onto the desk as the other scraped up Owen’s back, his own hand next to hers was urging his body forward, pushing him into her like he had done so long ago.

All she could feel was the way his toned body felt against hers, the way his stomach felt against her, his chest hair rubbing against her exposed nipple - and of course his cock. His length was pressing deep inside of her, whenever he would move out, she could feel the absence and moan when he was gone. Within a few more minutes, Claire bit into Owen’s shoulder to stifle her moan. She crashed back onto the desk.

Owen’s pace slowed down, letting her ride out her orgasm within her own pace. As Claire’s breath became less laboured, she felt Owen lift her up from the middle of her back. Taking them back into the office chair Owen once sat in, he took a seat with Claire sitting perfectly on his lap.

“I wanna watch you,” he said. It was a simple request and Claire was suddenly taken back the intimacy of it all. He had never asked, never seemed to want anything more than sex - but this was intimacy, this could be something more...and she wanted it.

Claire pushed his shoulders back into the chair, using his shoulders to help her with her motions, gliding up and down, rubbing against him with everything she needed. When Owen threw his head back, it made Claire whimper, tilting his head forward. “You wanted to watch,” she said slowly. “So watch.” Her voice was barely a whisper as she unclasped her bra, threw it aside and took his hands into her own. Placing the calloused fingers over the sensitive skin, Claire rose up and down once more, making sure Owen was watching her every move.

Claire felt her body trembling, Owen’s hands bound tightly into her hips, helping her with every thrust they could manage. Claire’s forehead rested against Owen’s, their eyes locked in an intoxicating intimacy. When Claire felt the pressure building at the bottom of her stomach, she started her pace faster, which caused Owen to do the same, his eyes became darker as they stared at her. It wasn’t climbing - it was sudden and earth shattering. Claire fell against Owen, holding him firmly as his pace rolled in tight waves and he stilled. She felt the warmth of him wash over her and they were both collapsed against each other.

Owen’s mouth clasped around her nipple, her moans an effort to breathe. Claire laced kisses over the side of his head, stealing ones on his lips and eagerly feeling the small rolls of his hips. Claire sighed, moving back to look at Owen, his breathing just a little more shaken then she expected. Claire ran her hand up the side of his neck, leaning down to kiss him. Once more, they were tender, but it was Claire this time, wanting to just kiss him over and over again.

It took them a few moments to finally get changed again. Owen was lucky, he only had a shirt and jacket missing - Claire was a complete mess. She wasn’t complaining about how she got there, just the fact that it was all over the place; the only thing she seemed to be wearing was her skirt and heels.

When Claire was all back in order, she turned to Owen, and he helped her get back to a presentable manner. When she put her hair up, Owen spun her around, kissing her swiftly and she fell straight back into his charms.

“God I missed this,” she murmured against his lips. He kissed her again.

“We should do this again sometime,” he smiled, tucking his hands back into his pockets.

“Maybe not in my office,” she shrugged.

“I don’t know. We could defile a whole bunch of places in here,” he said with that cocky smile. Claire scoffed.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. Too many meetings in here for me to feel comfortable,” she said, raising her brow. Owen nodded.

“Alright, fine. But when you’re thinking about my dick next, let me know and I’ll come running,” he bit at his lip, before going back to her door and unlocking it.

“Wait a few hours. I’m sure it won’t be very long,” she replied quickly before he left. Owen chuckled, shaking his head and heading out of the door. God, she was so fixed on that stupid cock that it never occurred to her until later that day that she never finished her meeting with Owen. She laughed at it but knew he’d have to come back for it the next day. She couldn’t argue with that logic.

#clawen #clawen week #clawenweek2017 #claire dearing #owen grady #my fics #jurassic world #claire x owen #owen x claire

[drrush77]

Day 5 South Island: Punakaiki

We are up and out of Westport early, traveling through one of the many national parks of the South Island: Paparoa National Park. The mountainsides are dominated by native Rata and Matai (Black Pine) and, again, make the highways a spectacular pleasure to drive through. The other dominant species in the forests is a mutant version of the bush-tailed possum. These ghastly creatures evolved from the furry and cute bush-tailed possum in Australia. A furrier brought them across to breed for their fur over and released a dozen in the wild when he changed his mind. They multiplied over 150 years to numbers reaching 80 million. In fact, before Maori brought rats over on their canoes and Pakeha brought all manner or pets and livestock, there were no mammals at all in Aotearoa: a bird paradise. Hence, with no predators, the native birds slowly became flightless: like kiwi and moa. Sitting ducks for the introduction of mammals from afar. Possums have evolved from sweet harmless herbivores in Australia into large carnivores in NZ that have been responsible for decimating native flora and birds: ravaging the chicks and smashing the eggs, and contaminating herds of cattle with bovine tuberculosis. It is said that if you see a possum on the road and you swerve to miss it, you are not performing your national duty. An industry has evolved of hunters and trappers procuring possum meat for dog food (my sister’s dog practically inhaled it, must be tasty) and possum fur, with the hair blending nicely with the local merino wool. Possum fur socks and gloves are a soft and warm: the fibres are hollow and trap warm air, providing excellent insulation; just think twice before giving them to your Aussie cousins; possums are a protected species, there! NZ’s very fine conservation programme may now be starting to make major inroads with 1080: an aerially distributed toxin that degrades to harmless substances as it enters the waterways and that seems to finally be containing these national pests. Digger tells us that hawks, which feed on possums, are going hungry for the first time in years, and wheels bump over fewer possum roadkill driving down the southern highways. Good news, I say.

We stop for a hike through Cape Foulwind, named by Captain Cook because of the bad weather that his ship encountered when he arrived. This one hour trek is just gorgeous with elevated views of a rocky coastline and large, green mountains. We stop at a lookout and are lucky enough to see seals: shiny black ones fresh out of the water, and matt chocolate brown ones that have dried in the sun. They bob along the rocks, waving their tails. “Dolphins!” someone cries, and I am just in time to see a fin poking up out of the water, and dark shadows passing alongside, about 3 or 4 of them. As we near the end of the track, we see a curious plump bird, not quite a duck, a bit like a kiwi but not one of those either. He runs along side the path and we are too fascinated to break off gazing at him to prioritise a photo. As usual, by the time I decide to give it a go, deal with the passcode and the camera function and set up the shot, he has scampered away into the bush out of site. We learn later that this native bird was a weka.

I am the only Kiwi Experiencer to get off the bus at Punakaiki to spend the day and night and, wow, am I pleased I did. It is STUNNING. It is a microcosm of everything the West Coast has to offer. After checking into the delightful Te Nikau backpackers/motel, I wandered down to the beach through the Truman track – a gorgeous native bit of bush. Traditional green and dark red flax grow on the sand dunes leading down to the beach. The beach had rugged cliff faces and large rocks on either point; golden sands in the centre. As I turned back up the Truman track to the main road, I was lucky enough to nab a ride to the Porarari River Track: a 10km loop track. It starts as a gravel road that takes you past large verdant mountains to the river’s edge. As you reach the beautiful Pororari River, the track is fringed with moss-covered evergreens, native cabbage trees resembling tropical palms, native ferns as well as rata and matai trees. The river is shallow, with large rocks rising through its waters and cream-coloured stones on its shores. I arrive at a T intersection with Inland Pack track, and complete a loop back to the visitor’s information centre. This is the highlight of the track as the forest is classic to the region: ferns, cabbage trees, native trees with trunks draped in moss, reaching to the sky, or hovering at your waist. The sounds are as special as the sights: birdsong of different varieties, and a loud, persistent chorus of cicadas whirring and buzzing. The gravel road that the track finishes on passes through private farmland and mahogany horses graze on paddocks decorated with golden, lavender and red flowers. Again, mountains loom up over the track, dark bottle green cabbage trees standing out, with their radiant leaves arrayed like crowns on their narrow trunks.

I end at the Visitors Information Centre and enjoy dinner. Liam is a law student who works in Punakaiki over summer whilst he lives with his grandmother. He has Maori grandparents. We discuss how colonisation has been a challenge healthwise to Maori, as it has to colonised populations across the world. Maori evolved to survive long canoe trips, and physiologically readily store energy for this purpose. This means that the modern diet of processed carbohydrates and cheap oils has been a diabetes disaster for Maori as it is an energy overload and promotes obesity. It is a diet ill-matched to a population that evolved eating fish, birds, native tubers and fruits. NZ has the third highest rate of obesity in the developed world. Liam has eschewed this sad modern diet, cutting out sugars and processed foods, and is a picture of glowing good health. I can only hopes his ways, one day, become the new normal for us all.

After this bit of polemic, I go to see the Pancake Rocks: a set of limestone rocks that emerged over millions of years from the seabed and around which the Tasman Sea now swirls and rushes. These are the South Island’s version of the Twelve Apostles in Victoria. They loom up from the water, unmoveable, dignified, as tide and wind stir up the elements around them. There are individual rocks, families of rocks and amalgamations of rocks into cliffs. What makes them so beautiful is the layers of stone stacked one atop the other, so that they are configured into horizontal stripes – it is a mystery how these developed. They are a photographers dream. I linger about an hour taking the sights in and snapping shots.

The walk home passes a coastal surf beach with more classic limestone rocks and cliffs. Sometimes when travelling, it is the little things that leave lasting impressions. To each side of the highway are grasses with yellow, red and purple wildflowers and flaxes. I pass the Bullock Creek on my left, which looks like a mini Mildford Sound with green lush mountains on each side. Kayaking up this creek is a treasure that must be saved for next time.

The day ends with the sun setting in the west over the sea: a first for me, an East Coaster all my life (Auckland and then New South Wales). As the sun sinks into the waters, a day of forest and river and sea and stone, of dolphin and seal and bird, draws to a satisfying end, and I have the best sleep of my tip, so far.

The next morning, before the bus comes, I duck back down to the Pancake Rocks and have another look, and then, 5 minutes up the road, duck into Punakaiki cavern. To the trained eye it apparently has fossils and other cave treasures, but for me, it is a cool place to sit and rest a while. I go back to the hostel, drag my luggage back out onto the highway and am collected by the next KE bus to Greymouth.

[readbookywooks]

At Flourish and Blotts

Life at the Burrow was as different as possible from life on Privet Drive. The Dursleys liked everything neat and ordered; the Weasleys'house burst with the strange and unexpected. Harry got a shock the first time he looked in the mirror over the kitchen mantelpiece and it shouted, "Tuck your shirt in, scruffy!" The ghoul in the attic howled and dropped pipes whenever he felt things were getting too quiet, and small explosions from Fred and George's bedroom were considered perfectly normal. What Harry found most unusual about life at Ron's, however, wasn't the talking mirror or the clanking ghoul: It was the fact that everybody there seemed to like him. Mrs. Weasley fussed over the state of his socks and tried to force him to eat fourth helpings at every meal. Mr. Weasley liked Harry to sit next to him at the dinner table so that he could bombard him with questions about life with Muggles, asking him to explain how things like plugs and the postal service worked. "Fascinating ." he would say as Harry talked him through using a telephone. " Ingenious , really, how many ways Muggles have found of getting along without magic." Harry heard from Hogwarts one sunny morning about a week after he had arrived at the Burrow. He and Ron went down to breakfast to find Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny already sitting at the kitchen table. The moment she saw Harry, Ginny accidentally knocked her porridge bowl to the floor with a loud clatter. Ginny seemed very prone to knocking things over whenever Harry entered a room. She dived under the table to retrieve the bowl and emerged with her face glowing like the setting sun. Pretending he hadn't noticed this, Harry sat down and took the toast Mrs. Weasley offered him. "Letters from school," said Mr. Weasley, passing Harry and Ron identical envelopes of yellowish parchment, addressed in green ink. "Dumbledore already knows you're here, Harry - doesn't miss a trick, that man. You two've got them, too," he added, as Fred and George ambled in, still in their pajamas. For a few minutes there was silence as they all read their letters. Harry's told him to catch the Hogwarts Express as usual from King's Cross station on September first. There was also a list of the new books he'd need for the coming year. SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE: The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda Goshawk Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart 43 Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart Voyages with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart Year with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart Fred, who had finished his own list, peered over at Harry's. "You've been told to get all Lockhart's books, too!" he said. "The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan - bet it's a witch." At this point, Fred caught his mother's eye and quickly busied himself with the marmalade. "That lot won't come cheap," said George, with a quick look at his parents. "Lockhart's books are really expensive..." "Well, we'll manage," said Mrs. Weasley, but she looked worried. "I expect we'll be able to pick up a lot of Ginny's things secondhand." "Oh, are you starting at Hogwarts this year?" Harry asked Ginny. She nodded, blushing to the roots of her flaming hair, and put her elbow in the butter dish. Fortunately no one saw this except Harry, because just then Ron's elder brother Percy walked in. He was already dressed, his Hogwarts prefect badge pinned to his sweater vest. "Morning, all," said Percy briskly. "Lovely day." He sat down in the only remaining chair but leapt up again almost immediately, pulling from underneath him a molting, gray feather duster - at least, that was what Harry thought it was, until he saw that it was breathing. "Errol!" said Ron, taking the limp owl from Percy and extracting a letter from under its wing. " Finally - he's got Hermione's answer. I wrote to her saying we were going to try and rescue you from the Dursleys." He carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door and tried to stand him on it, but Errol flopped straight off again so Ron lay him on the draining board instead, muttering, "Pathetic." Then he ripped open Hermione's letter and read it out loud: "`Dear Ron, and Harry if you're there, "`I hope everything went all right and that Harry is okay and that you didn't do anything illegal to get him out, Ron, because that would get Harry into trouble, too. I've been really worried and if Harry is all right, will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it would be better if you used a different owl because I think another delivery might finish your one off. "I'm very busy with schoolwork, of course'- How can she be?" said Ron in horror. "We're on vacation! - and we're going to London next Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don't we meet in Diagon Alley? "Let me know what's happening as soon as you can. Love from Hermione.'" "Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too," said Mrs. Weasley, starting to clear the table. "What're you all up to today?" Harry, Ron, Fred, and George were planning to go up the hill to a small paddock the Weasleys owned. It was surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of the village below, meaning that they could practice Quidditch there, as long as they didn't fly too high. They couldn't use real Quidditch balls, which would have been hard to explain if they had escaped and flown away over the village; instead they threw apples for one another to catch. They took turns riding Harry's Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom; Ron's old Shooting Star was often outstripped by passing butterflies. Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, broomsticks over their shoulders. They had asked Percy if he wanted to join them, but he had said he was busy. Harry had only seen Percy at mealtimes so far; he stayed shut in his room the rest of the time. "Wish I knew what he was up to," said Fred, frowning. "He's not himself. His exam results came the day before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and he hardly gloated at all." "Ordinary Wizarding Levels," George explained, seeing Harry's puzzled look. "Bill got twelve, too. If we're not careful, we'll have another Head Boy in the family. I don't think I could stand the shame." Bill was the oldest Weasley brother. He and the next brother, Charlie, had already left Hogwarts. Harry had never met either of them, but knew that Charlie was in Romania studying dragons and Bill in Egypt working for the wizard's bank, Gringotts. "Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this year," said George after a while. "Five sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny needs robes and a wand and everything..." Harry said nothing. He felt a bit awkward. Stored in an underground vault at Gringotts in London was a small fortune that his parents had left him. Of course, it was only in the wizarding world that he had money; you couldn't use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in Muggle shops. He had never mentioned his Gringotts bank account to the Dursleys; he didn't think their horror of anything connected with magic would stretch to a large pile of gold. Mrs. Weasley woke them all early the following Wednesday. After a quick half a dozen bacon sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats and Mrs. Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece and peered inside. "We're running low, Arthur," she sighed. "We'll have to buy some more today... Ah well, guests first! After you, Harry dear!" And she offered him the flowerpot. Harry stared at them all watching him. "W-what am I supposed to do?" he stammered. "He's never traveled by Floo powder," said Ron suddenly. "Sorry, Harry, I forgot." "Never?" said Mr. Weasley. "But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?" "I went on the Underground--" "Really?" said Mr. Weasley eagerly. "Were there escapators ? How exactly--" "Not now , Arthur," said Mrs. Weasley. "Floo powder's a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if you've never used it before--" "He'll be all right, Mum," said Fred. "Harry, watch us first." He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up to the fire, and threw the powder into the flames. With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Fred, who stepped right into it, shouted, "Diagon Alley!" and vanished. "You must speak clearly, dear," Mrs. Weasley told Harry as George dipped his hand into the flowerpot. "And be sure to get out at the right grate..." "The right what?" said Harry nervously as the fire roared and whipped George out of sight, too. "Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you know, but as long as you've spoken clearly--" "He'll be fine, Molly, don't fuss," said Mr. Weasley, helping himself to Floo powder too. "But, dear, if he got lost, how would we ever explain to his aunt and uncle?" "They wouldn't mind," Harry reassured her. "Dudley would think it was a brilliant joke if I got lost up a chimney, don't worry about that--" "Well... all right... you go after Arthur," said Mrs. Weasley. "Now, when you get into the fire, say where you're going." "And keep your elbows tucked in," Ron advised. "And your eyes shut," said Mrs. Weasley. "The soot--" "Don't fidget," said Ron. "Or you might well fall out of the wrong fireplace--" "But don't panic and get out too early; wait until you see Fred and George." Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Harry took a pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the fire. He took a deep breath, scattered the powder into the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a warm breeze; he opened his mouth and immediately swallowed a lot of hot ash. "D-Dia-gon Alley," he coughed. It felt as though he was being sucked down a giant drain. He seemed to be spinning very fast - the roaring in his ears was deafening - he tried to keep his eyes open but the whirl of green flames made him feel sick -something hard knocked his elbow and he tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning - now it felt as though cold hands were slapping his face - squinting through his glasses he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond - his bacon sandwiches were churning inside him - he closed his eyes again wishing it would stop, and then... He fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the bridge of his glasses snap. Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, he got gingerly to his feet, holding his broken glasses up to his eyes. He was quite alone, but where he was, he had no idea. All he could tell was that he was standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard's shop - but nothing in here was ever likely to be on a Hogwarts school list. A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harry could see through the dusty shop window was definitely not Diagon Alley. The sooner he got out of here, the better. Nose still stinging where it had hit the hearth, Harry made his way swiftly and silently toward the door, but before he'd got halfway toward it, two people appeared on the other side of the glass - and one of them was the very last person Harry wanted to meet when he was lost, covered in soot, and wearing broken glasses: Draco Malfoy. Harry looked quickly around and spotted a large black cabinet to his left; he shot inside it and pulled the doors closed, leaving a small crack to peer through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Malfoy stepped into the shop. The man who followed could only be Draco's father. He had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold, gray eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed the shop, looking lazily at the items on display, and rang a bell on the counter before turning to his son and saying, "Touch nothing, Draco." Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye, said, "I thought you were going to buy me a present." "I said I would buy you a racing broom," said his father, drumming his fingers on the counter. "What's the good of that if I'm not on the House team?" said Malfoy, looking sulky and bad-tempered. "Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He's not even that good, it's just because he's famous... famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead..." Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls. "...everyone thinks he's so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick--" "You have told me this at least a dozen times already," said Mr. Malfoy, with a quelling look at his son. "And I would remind you that it is not - prudent - to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear - ah, Mr. Borgin." A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face. "Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again," said Mr. Borgin in a voice as oily as his hair. "Delighted - and young Master Malfoy, too - charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced--" "I'm not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling," said Mr. Malfoy. "Selling?" The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin's face. "You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids," said Mr. Malfoy, taking a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unraveling it for Mr. Borgin to read. "I have a few - ah - items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call..." Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list. "The Ministry wouldn't presume to trouble you, sir, surely?" Mr. Malfoy's lip curled. "I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a new Muggle Protection Act - no doubt that flea-bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it--" Harry felt a hot surge of anger. "- and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear--" "I understand, sir, of course," said Mr. Borgin. "Let me see..." "Can I have that?" interrupted Draco, pointing at the withered hand on its cushion. "Ah, the Hand of Glory!" said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy's list and scurrying over to Draco. "Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir." "I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin," said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, "No offense, sir, no offense meant--" "Though if his grades don't pick up," said Mr. Malfoy, more coldly still, "that may indeed be all he is fit for--" "It's not my fault," retorted Draco. "The teachers all have favorites, that Hermione Granger--" "I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam," snapped Mr. Malfoy. "Ha!" said Harry under his breath, pleased to see Draco looking both abashed and angry. "It's the same all over," said Mr. Borgin, in his oily voice. "Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere--" "Not with me," said Mr. Malfoy, his long nostrils flaring. "No, sir, nor with me, sir," said Mr. Borgin, with a deep bow. "In that case, perhaps we can return to my list," said Mr. Malfoy shortly. "I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today--" They started to haggle. Harry watched nervously as Draco drew nearer and nearer to his hiding place, examining the objects for sale. Draco paused to examine a long coil of hangman's rope and to read, smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals, Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed - Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date. Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. He walked forward - he stretched out his hand for the handle "Done," said Mr. Malfoy at the counter. "Come, Draco--" Harry wiped his forehead on his sleeve as Draco turned away. "Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I'll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods." The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily manner. "Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories are true, you haven't sold me half of what's hidden in your manor..." Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back room. Harry waited for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as he could, slipped out of the cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop door. Clutching his broken glasses to his face, Harry stared around. He had emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to the Dark Arts. The one he'd just left, Borgin and Burkes, looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty window display of shrunken heads and, two doors down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black spiders. Two shabby-looking wizards were watching him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, trying to hold his glasses on straight and hoping against hope he'd be able to find a way out of here. An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn Alley. This didn't help, as Harry had never heard of such a place. He supposed he hadn't spoken clearly enough through his mouthful of ashes back in the Weasleys'fire. Trying to stay calm, he wondered what to do. "Not lost are you, my dear?" said a voice in his ear, making him jump. An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of what looked horribly like whole human fingernails. She leered at him, showing mossy teeth. Harry backed away. "I'm fine, thanks," he said. "I'm just--" "HARRY! What d'yeh think yer doin'down there?" Harry's heart leapt. So did the witch; a load of fingernails cascaded down over her feet and she cursed as the massive form of Hagrid, the Hogwarts'gamekeeper, came striding toward them, beetle-black eyes flashing over his great bristling beard. "Hagrid!" Harry croaked in relief. "I was lost - Floo powder--" Hagrid seized Harry by the scruff of the neck and pulled him away from the witch, knocking the tray right out of her hands. Her shrieks followed them all the way along the twisting alleyway out into bright sunlight. Harry saw a familiar, snow-white marble building in the distance - Gringotts Bank. Hagrid had steered him right into Diagon Alley. "Yer a mess!" said Hagrid gruffly, brushing soot off Harry so forcefully he nearly knocked him into a barrel of dragon dung outside an apothecary. "Skulkin'around Knockturn Alley, I dunno dodgy place, Harry - don'want no one ter see yeh down there--" "I realized that ," said Harry, ducking as Hagrid made to brush him off again. "I told you, I was lost - what were you doing down there, anyway?" "I was lookin'fer a Flesh-Eatin'Slug Repellent," growled Hagrid. "They're ruinin'the school cabbages. Yer not on yer own?" "I'm staying with the Weasleys but we got separated," Harry explained. "I've got to go and find them..." They set off together down the street. "How come yeh never wrote back ter me?" said Hagrid as Harry jogged alongside him (he had to take three steps to every stride of Hagrid's enormous boots). Harry explained all about Dobby and the Dursleys. "Lousy Muggles," growled Hagrid. "If I'd've known--" "Harry! Harry! Over here!" Harry looked up and saw Hermione Granger standing at the top of the white flight of steps to Gringotts. She ran down to meet them, her bushy brown hair flying behind her. "What happened to your glasses? Hello, Hagrid - Oh, it's wonderful to see you two again - Are you coming into Gringotts, Harry?" "As soon as I've found the Weasleys," said Harry. "Yeh won't have long ter wait," Hagrid said with a grin. Harry and Hermione looked around: Sprinting up the crowded street were Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and Mr. Weasley. "Harry," Mr. Weasley panted. "We hoped you'd only gone one grate too far..." He mopped his glistening bald patch. "Molly's frantic - she's coming now--" "Where did you come out?" Ron asked. "Knockturn Alley," said Hagrid grimly. "Excellent!" said Fred and George together. "We've never been allowed in," said Ron enviously. "I should ruddy well think not," growled Hagrid. Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swinging wildly in one hand, Ginny just clinging onto the other. "Oh, Harry - oh, my dear - you could have been anywhere--" Gasping for breath she pulled a large clothes brush out of her bag and began sweeping off the soot Hagrid hadn't managed to beat away. Mr. Weasley took Harry's glasses, gave them a tap of his wand, and returned them, good as new. "Well, gotta be off," said Hagrid, who was having his hand wrung by Mrs. Weasley ("Knockturn Alley! If you hadn't found him, Hagrid!"). "See yer at Hogwarts!" And he strode away, head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the packed street. "Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?" Harry asked Ron and Hermione as they climbed the Gringotts steps. "Malfoy and his father." "Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?" said Mr. Weasley sharply behind them. "No, he was selling--" "So he's worried," said Mr. Weasley with grim satisfaction. "Oh, I'd love to get Lucius Malfoy for something ..." "You be careful, Arthur," said Mrs. Weasley sharply as they were bowed into the bank by a goblin at the door. "That family's trouble. Don't go biting off more than you can chew--" "So you don't think I'm a match for Lucius Malfoy?" said Mr. Weasley indignantly, but he was distracted almost at once by the sight of Hermione's parents, who were standing nervously at the counter that ran all along the great marble hall, waiting for Hermione to introduce them. "But you're Muggles!" said Mr. Weasley delightedly. "We must have a drink! What's that you've got there? Oh, you're changing Muggle money. Molly, look!" He pointed excitedly at the ten-pound notes in Mr. Granger's hand. "Meet you back here," Ron said to Hermione as the Weasleys and Harry were led off to their underground vaults by another Gringotts goblin. The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin-driven carts that sped along miniature train tracks through the bank's underground tunnels. Harry enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasleys'vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than he had in Knockturn Alley, when it was opened. There was a very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners before sweeping the whole lot into her bag. Harry felt even worse when they reached his vault. He tried to block the contents from view as he hastily shoved handfuls of coins into a leather bag. Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated. Percy muttered vaguely about needing a new quill. Fred and George had spotted their friend from Hogwarts, Lee Jordan. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were going to a secondhand robe shop. Mr. Weasley was insisting on taking the Grangers off to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink. "We'll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks," said Mrs. Weasley, setting off with Ginny. "And not one step down Knockturn Alley!" she shouted at the twins'retreating backs. Harry, Ron, and Hermione strolled off along the winding, cobbled street. The bag of gold, silver, and bronze jangling cheerfully in Harry's pocket was clamoring to be spent, so he bought three large strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice creams, which they slurped happily as they wandered up the alley, examining the fascinating shop windows. Ron gazed longingly at a full set of Chudley Cannon robes in the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies until Hermione dragged them off to buy ink and parchment next door. In Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop, they met Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, who were stocking up on Dr. Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks, and in a tiny junk shop full of broken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old cloaks covered in potion stains they found Percy, deeply immersed in a small and deeply boring book called Prefects Who Gained Power . "A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers," Ron read aloud off the back cover. "That sounds fascinating ..." "Go away," Percy snapped. "Course, he's very ambitious, Percy, he's got it all planned out... He wants to be Minister of Magic..." Ron told Harry and Hermione in an undertone as they left Percy to it. An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They were by no means the only ones making their way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the upper windows: GILDEROY LOCKHART will be signing copies of his autobiography MAGICAL ME today 12:30 P.M. to 4:30 P.M. "We can actually meet him!" Hermione squealed. "I mean, he's written almost the whole booklist!" The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches around Mrs. Weasley's age. A harassed-looking wizard stood at the door, saying, "Calmly, please, ladies... Don't push, there... mind the books, now..." Harry, Ron, and Hermione squeezed inside. A long line wound right to the back of the shop, where Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They each grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the Weasleys were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Granger. "Oh, there you are, good," said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded breathless and kept patting her hair. "We'll be able to see him in a minute..." Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his pointed wizard's hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair. A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash. "Out of the way, there," he snarled at Ron, moving back to get a better shot. "This is for the Daily Prophet--" "Big deal," said Ron, rubbing his foot where the photographer had stepped on it. Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw Ron - and then he saw Harry. He stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, "It can't be Harry Potter?" The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart dived forward, seized Harry's arm, and pulled him to the front. The crowd burst into applause. Harry's face burned as Lockhart shook his hand for the photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Weasleys. "Nice big smile, Harry," said Lockhart, through his own gleaming teeth. "Together, you and I are worth the front page." When he finally let go of Harry's hand, Harry could hardly feel his fingers. He tried to sidle back over to the Weasleys, but Lockhart threw an arm around his shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said loudly, waving for quiet. "What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I've been sitting on for some time! "When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography - which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge -" The crowd applauded again. "He had no idea ," Lockhart continued, giving Harry a little shake that made his glasses slip to the end of his nose, "that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me . He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" The crowd cheered and clapped and Harry found himself being presented with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their weight, he managed to make his way out of the limelight to the edge of the room, where Ginny was standing next to her new cauldron. "You have these," Harry mumbled to her, tipping the books into the cauldron. "I'll buy my own--" "Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?" said a voice Harry had no trouble recognizing. He straightened up and found himself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy, who was wearing his usual sneer. "Famous Harry Potter," said Malfoy. "Can't even go into a bookshop without making the front page." "Leave him alone, he didn't want all that!" said Ginny. It was the first time she had spoken in front of Harry. She was glaring at Malfoy. "Potter, you've got yourself a girlfriend!" drawled Malfoy. Ginny went scarlet as Ron and Hermione fought their way over, both clutching stacks of Lockhart's books. "Oh, it's you," said Ron, looking at Malfoy as if he were something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. "Bet you're surprised to see Harry here, eh?" "Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," retorted Malfoy. "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those." Ron went as red as Ginny. He dropped his books into the cauldron, too, and started toward Malfoy, but Harry and Hermione grabbed the back of his jacket. "Ron!" said Mr. Weasley, struggling over with Fred and George. "What are you doing? It's too crowded in here, let's go outside." "Well, well, well - Arthur Weasley." It was Mr. Malfoy. He stood with his hand on Draco's shoulder, sneering in just the same way. "Lucius," said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly. "Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," said Mr. Malfoy. "All those raids... I hope they're paying you overtime?" He reached into Ginny's cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration . "Obviously not," Mr. Malfoy said. "Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?" Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny. "We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy," he said. "Clearly," said Mr. Malfoy, his pale eyes straying to Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were watching apprehensively. "The company you keep, Weasley... and I thought your family could sink no lower." There was a thud of metal as Ginny's cauldron went flying; Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy, knocking him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their heads; there was a yell of, "Get him, Dad!" from Fred or George; Mrs. Weasley was shrieking, "No, Arthur, no!"; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more shelves over; "Gentlemen, please - please!" cried the assistant, and then, louder than all-- "Break it up, there, gents, break it up--" Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and Mr. Malfoy had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of Toadstools . He was still holding Ginny's old Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice. "Here, girl - take your book - it's the best your father can give you -" Pulling himself out of Hagrid's grip he beckoned to Draco and swept from the shop. "Yeh should've ignored him, Arthur," said Hagrid, almost lifting Mr. Weasley off his feet as he straightened his robes. "Rotten ter the core, the whole family, everyone knows that - no Malfoy's worth listenin'ter - bad blood, that's what it is - come on now - let's get outta here." The assistant looked as though he wanted to stop them leaving, but he barely came up to Hagrid's waist and seemed to think better of it. They hurried up the street, the Grangers shaking with fright and Mrs. Weasley beside herself with fury. "A fine example to set for your children... brawling in public... what Gilderoy Lockhart must've thought--" "He was pleased," said Fred. "Didn't you hear him as we were leaving? He was asking that bloke from the Daily Prophet if he'd be able to work the fight into his report - said it was all publicity--" But it was a subdued group that headed back to the fireside in the Leaky Cauldron, where Harry, the Weasleys, and all their shopping would be traveling back to the Burrow using Floo powder. They said good-bye to the Grangers, who were leaving the pub for the Muggle street on the other side; Mr. Weasley started to ask them how bus stops worked, but stopped quickly at the look on Mrs. Weasley's face. Harry took off his glasses and put them safely in his pocket before helping himself to Floo powder. It definitely wasn't his favorite way to travel.

#ChamberofSecrets #HarryPotter

[jessflewitt]

Cobar and Nyngan Show. 18th - 22nd May. General thoughts on the past week is that it was hell for the majority of the time!!!!!!!! First three days were cold and raining, the children were sick and Linc was just a complete nightmare the entire time, lost count of the amount of tantrums I had to deal with! Bonus was that I think Kerrie could sense that I was loosing the will ( she told me afterwards that she was pretty sure I was going to bail and wouldn't have blamed me) - so she let Oli come up one night in Cobar and paid for a motel for us for the night so I could have a night off and one night in Nygnan which got me through! We got to see our first Rodeo together in Cobar and a another bigger one in Nyngan. We left for Cobar early Thursday morning and the whole day was just pretty miserable, cold , raining, naughty poorly tantrumy kids. We didn't get to eat till late , Kerrie cooked steaks for us in the rain and we ate them on our laps inside trying to ignore the kids carrying on for 5 minutes- disaster day. Marcus was up bright and early by 5 am the next day and Kerrie took him with her in the pram , sometimes he's happy to just sit in the pram when he's awake that early ( great news for me when this happens because I usually get another hour in bed) but Linc was up also by half past 5 and we spent the next couple of hours watching firework videos in bed. Tantrums started as soon as mum came back to change for her event and we had another nightmare day! The site itself was actually pretty cool , nice set up and a fun side show but the day was a struggle and did end up bribing linc with a hot chocolate. That night Ol met me and we had the best evening, went on a fast ride, had a few beers , got some 'hot chips' as they call them out here, saw an amazing firework display and then got to watch our first Rodeo. At the start they had young kids giving it a go on calfs, then they were taking kids out the crowd to attempt to wrestle the calves to the ground it was bizarre! Then they got the real Cowboys out and the Bulls got bigger and crazier as the show went on it was really cool to see. They had two Guys dressed in crazy bright colours - rodeo clowns to divert the bull away when the rider fell off. The motel we stayed at was really nice but we are up at 4.50 to get back to Kerrie for 5am! Ol got straight back in my swag but Marcus was wide awake already so that meant I was too. Downed a coffee and tried to accept the fact my day had started already! Then the fun began and Ol experienced his first Lincoln tantrum. I left Ol in charge it 5 minutes while I ran to the loo in my pjs. On the way back ( it's raining I'll add) Ol is walking towards me with baby under his arm and linc in pjs and wellies , nether of them had socks or coats on and it was freezing! Explanation was that linc needed a poo🙈 and Oli had no idea the time scale of how long 3 years olds can hold it for. So next thing I sent Ol and baby back to the trailer to get warm - linc had a tantrum - because he wanted oli to take him not me , we ended up having to pop to see mum in the stables, so all three of us ended up in the toilet together and we popped Kerrie riding jacket round linc. She sneaked away half was through this process ( it takes a while) and when id sorted him out we came out to discover Kerries riding jacket had been stolen. These things cost like thousands. So linc is crying again I'm nearly crying , it's pouring , we're both walking around in the rain in our pjs, we found the runner of the show who them made am announcement on the speaker phone 🙈 and about 5 minutes later Kerrie walks towards us wearing the jacket🙈. So much for trying to be low key sneaking off for a quick wee! She'd taken it without us noticing. So then linc had another tantrum because he'd seen Mum and we made another scene as I picked him up while we walked through the entire camp ground. This carried on for the next two hours in the trailer. Fun times !!! Another nightmare day followed. Ol was there to help us pack up which was nice - he went back to work and we headed to the next show that afternoon. Another nightmare evening, Kerrie was sorting the horses till late , I had to force my steak down because it was so late by the time we ate and I was past it. Positive was the stars were incredible that and I stole an hour in front of the camp fire before bed. Next day Marcus was up at 5am I think because he was frozen! He was in the cot next to me, I brought him back to bed and wrapped him up on my duvet and slept for about half an hour before we were both up playing Lego. Nightmare morning again with Lincs tantrums , I broke and just ended up bribing them both with ice cream and rides at the side show. Think Kerrie was sensing my pain and let oli come up that night to hang out with me again. We had a another great night, there was a big rodeo on , most people had strapped sofas to the back of their Utes and reversed around the ring to watch. There was some pretty impressive Cowboys , and some other completely random events. They got people out of the crowd to form teams and attempt to wrestle and milk a wild cow! It was mental there was 4 men on each cow chasing after it and trying to bring it down my grabbing it's tail and jumping around its neck, the winner was the first team to get a cup of milk! One team actually did it within about 5 minutes. next they got all the children under 10 in the ring and about 30 calves which they had attached money to their takes and told them to try and catch the cows and grab the takes🙈. It was just carnage with kids and calves running riot for about 15 minutes- madness. ( outback entertainment) We were kind of over the side show, so we went back to camp when it finished and joined a camp fire. Ended up having a really nice evening chatty to some posh Horsey folk! Their trucks were just ridiculous! Absolutely massive , bedrooms , bathroom and a living room inside , paddocks of the side of the trucks and they could carry about 8 horses each! I tried and failed to get them to let me have a look around. One of the guys we were chatting too was a lad from Bourke ( kind of local ) and he was travelling with his family. Him and his sister compete and his parents use to. They do all the big flash shows so this was a small little fun one for them. He was really down to earth and said they try and avoid the Sydney show because the people their are so stuck up and it takes the fun out of it. He said at Sydney show no body really has camp fires and everyone pretty much just stays in their truck - there's no social. The other guys had an equally impressive truck and he was from Melbourne , he takes a couple of months out every winter to travel between horse shows. He was a lovely man and was really interested in oli and I because he had a daughter who travelled and ended up bringing a French boyfriend back to live with her in victoria. Lovely evening to a shite day:) 5am next morning Marcus and me are awake again :) I actually managed to sing him back to sleep and he slept in with me till 8 which was a miracle. Ol came out to help the next day, there was lots more bribing with ice creams! On the horsey front...Jack won a heap of champion ribbons and came second to one of the super posh Professional Sydney horses so Kerrie was chuffed! Kerrie let us off early afternoon and we just sat in the sun and drank beer all afternoon. One day off and then I'm back on the road again , dubbo and Coonamble next week. I'm going to be a walking zombie!

#cobarshownynganshow

[3one3]

The Sequel - 822

Bit By Bit

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“Have you seen my bit box? Nicky’s getting a rub from the bit guards on the loose ring we travel with so I want to switch to a regular snaffle or find a bigger loose ring. Actually, first, I wanna just see if the one on the traveling schooling bridle is the same size as the one we use at home, ‘cause that one doesn’t seem to bother him. Oh, she’s on the phone,” Christina finished in a whisper. “My bad.” She spun around to continue her 360-degree survey of her gorgeous tack room to look for the miniature trunk/bit box. Half of the burgundy painted room with the stunning Brazilwood cabinetry was still in a state of chaos because the horses and equipment from the North America trip were just delivered, on Monday afternoon. Stefanie was sitting on a packing case and leaning on the tall grooming cart/storage box, on her phone. She was away at a show over the weekend too. It was back to work for both girls that morning.

Christina started catching up with the horses she left home, including Cartagena, who was known around her stable by a variety of nicknames, including “Carter”, “Escobar”, and “Santi”, which the lady of the stable was partial to. She called him Santi after Santiago Gamboa, a Colombian journalist and author whose work to which she was turned on by Juan. Dirk and Calvin got good schools too, and Socks and Kimi would as well after a snack break. Stefanie still didn’t have a job, so it was easy to change her lessons so that Christina would be free to explore the neighborhood with André when he returned from training. She was saving Kimi for that, as he was least likely to freak out on the road, dump her on her head, and take off.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” Stefanie asked as soon as she quietly ended her call.

“Have you seen my bit box?”

“Yeah it’s right over here, but I don’t think you’re getting to it until somebody moves this thing.” She leaned her head back to tap on the portable metal cabinet trapping the fancy bit box. “I thought Kyle was supposed to be doing this?”

“He would be if Tom didn’t fire his help.” So inconvenient, her coach thought, reflecting on the head groom’s dismissal of the very woman he picked to be the “at home” groom. There was some drama first thing in the morning. Strictly on the low, Christina told André, she thought Tom was a little cranky from his travels. He beat the horses home by a couple of hours, at the expense of an aggressive flight itinerary. Nevertheless, he was very dissatisfied with the state of things upon his return from the long trip. He didn’t like how the stalls were bedded. He didn’t like that the water buckets showed signs of not having been scrubbed daily. Kyle reported some other problems that he didn’t think were a big deal but apparently were indeed. The most serious strike against her was a cut on the underside of Calvin’s long and voluminous tail. It was obviously more than a day or two old and hadn’t been treated, which meant the new groom didn’t do a thorough job of grooming, or even checking over the animals regularly. The boss agreed. She had to go.

“I’m sure he’ll find someone else,” Stefanie shrugged. “Is it okay if I bring a date to your cookout?” Her question was barely audible because she totally swallowed the end of it and turned in the opposite direction. Her trainer still heard it.

“A date?” Said trainer’s face expressed puzzlement.

“My sister came to visit the weekend before this last one and we went to a nice restaurant for dinner but we couldn’t get a table, so we just ate at the bar. We weren’t there to like, meet people,” Stefanie blushed, her legs swinging faster against the front of the packing case. “We just wanted to catch up. This random guy sat next to me and I don’t even know how long he was there before he just started talking to us. He was waiting for a date- a first date. He thought the girl was standing him up because she was so late, so he invited my sister and I to take his table. We were already finished though. My sister suggested we all go sit, and we could have dessert and keep him company while he had dinner. He was really sweet,” the younger rider smiled, a deep red color coming through her cheeks. “Maybe we just felt bad for him because he got stood up? I don’t know. But he was nice, and he made us laugh a lot, and is pretty okay looking. He wanted my number. We’ve been texting...and talking...”

“Then yes, absolutely you can bring a date.” Yay! This is so good for her. Either it’s time to give up on Mario, or this is a good way to prod him a little. It will definitely get back to him, Christina reasoned. I know he has a lot on his plate right now but if he’s not leaning on her to help in a difficult time, how could they possibly have a future? This is good. I’m excited. She instantly looked forward to her little backyard party with more enthusiasm than when she invited Stefanie. André wanted to have friends over Thursday evening because his teammates had the day off and the weather was supposed to be nice. He hoped they could celebrate advancing in the Champions League. Christina thought he should have wanted to be alone with her that night since she would be out of town over the one before, but she couldn’t be picky like that. She knew she couldn’t go away overnight and then act like he ought to feel blessed to have her around. He promised to help her do the shopping and the cooking.

“Great. I’m going to go ride Dezy-mare now before you can ask me any more questions.”

And I’m going to figure out how to get to my bits, the resident World Champion thought, studying the traffic jam of equipment around the somewhat worn but still very beautiful and exquisitely made bit box. Her only route to it was crawling over top of two other full size trunks and reaching down. But first, I’m gonna find out where boyfriend is.

“Where are you come home I miss you,” she tapped out all as one run-on sentence, to André. She then did in fact crawl over some big boxes to get to the small one, and was very pleased to find that its contents were still fairly well organized by bit type and style. Only when she lifted the bar full of her many, many loose ring snaffles did it dawn on Christina that she didn’t know what size plain one she needed without having the one on the traveling schooling bridle to compare to, and that she actually wanted to compare that one to the schooling bridle she used for Nick at home.

“Chris?” Kyle asked while she was lying flat across her trunk lids on her stomach and staring into the bit box below. “Would it be all right if I put Goose in Kimi’s field for the rest of the day, as Kimi is about to come in and there most likely won’t be time enough to turn him out again when you’re finished?”

“Yeah, I don’t care. Optimus Prime might hurt him if he tries to pick on him, but they’ll probably be fine. Wait, why isn’t he in his own field?” the trainer questioned curiously while crawling backwards to get to some floor she could stand on. The bits she decided to take with her made annoying and loud sounds banging into the lids as she moved on her hands and knees.

“Carter is in it. We were putting him in Nick and Rio’s field while they were away. I was going to bring Optimus in with Kimi.”

“Oh. I forgot we’re a little short. We should probably find out if maybe he can coexist with Kimi,” she frowned once she was able to get back on her feet. “It’s a shame to give the Iceman and his little bro a whole paddock to themselves, and they’re both pretty chill.”

“Of course, but Goose has no chill. He hates everyone.”

“Well let’s give it a try tomorrow. The run is next to them anyway. Put him there in the morning and then when you’re done with the regular stuff, go move him over and stay out there to watch. Is Socks ready?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Cool. Can you find the bridles from the horse show?” Christina requested, knowing full well that she was asking an annoying favor. The nice thing about being in charge, and about Kyle being a full-time employee working for a paycheck instead of exchanging labor for housing, was that she didn’t have to feel too guilty about giving him annoying things to do for her. She didn’t have to lift a muscle in her barn for anything but riding and teaching, if that’s what she wanted. That felt more apparent to her in her new stable than the one in London. It did feel more like a professional operation than a family effort, like “home”. “I need the one with the plain-mouth loose ring.”

“What for? We have three schooling bridles with plain loose rings in the rotation right now.” Kyle looked like he didn’t feel like looking for tack that wasn’t normally unpacked anyway. He looked like Tom had been driving him crazy for hours.

“I just need it. Hang it up there for me.” His other boss nodded at the grappling hook dangling from the ceiling by the granite-topped island, and then went to amble back into the short aisle to harass her husband some more. Then she remembered she didn’t need to take the bits in her hand with her, and turned around to go back and hang them on that hook. André replied before she could get back to pestering him about coming home.

“I’m on the way, but I don’t think I’m up for the walk today. Sorry pretty girl. I need to rest.”

That’s okay. Why is he sorry? He’s the one who asked me to go on the walk. He’s the one who wants to make plans all the time. I don’t mind resting with him. If anyone knows what it’s like to have ankle pain, it’s me. I hope he’s okay though, Christina thought, sympathetic. It doesn’t seem to be getting better. He hasn’t trained since before I left. He hasn’t even really told me about what’s wrong- how it hurts. I guess he didn’t want to be whiny about it while I was away. Well if I do Rizzle Kicks and Kimi quickly then maybe I can get home in time for Munchkin’s nap and he can nap on us together. Plus those two, she added, tracking Spencer and Lucky in her periphery. They followed her out of the tack room and trotted toward the main aisle at a faster clip than she was motivated to travel.

“I have two more to ride and then I’ll come up and rest with you :)”

“Chris. Where are you going? Get on this horse. I have things to do,” Tom complained from behind her. He wasn’t supposed to be getting her horses ready. He was supposed to be home already, as a matter of fact. He was supposed to just come in to check on things and then take the rest of the day to be with his family. Christina was sympathetic toward her groom too. He worked himself into a major tizzy over what the new and then ex-help did and didn’t do, and acted as if he had so many things that needed to be taken care of right away and which would keep him there all day long. He had Kyle running around to move horses in and out in between sets of buckets he was supposed to be scrubbing in the wash stall. He insisted on tacking up and putting away all the horses Christina wanted to ride. He insisted on getting his hands on every horse on the property, himself, thoroughly. Evidently having to babysit Socks on the crossties was holding up his dramatic whirlwind assault on correcting what he perceived as damage and chaos in his domain. Tom was cranky.

“I don’t know. I was just wandering around,” his new employer shrugged. I’m jet lagged. I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m out of practice on the ride at home routine. I’m thinking more about boyfriend, and I wanted food. I’m allowed, aren’t I? She thought it was fair to take a leisurely and casual approach toward her first day back after such a long spell on the road. It didn’t quite get as bad as laziness and unconsidered, so she felt it was okay. Her right hand man wanted a more precise approach toward her posted schedule, even though he wasn’t even supposed to be part of it. She put her phone in her jacket pocket and let him lead the Dutch horse down to the back door for her so that he could give her a leg up, send her on her way, and begin readying the next and final horse of the day for her. She actually asked for a tall mounting block to be built and placed outside that exit so that getting on could be a one-person job. Tom said any kind of mounting by putting one’s foot in the stirrup and then lifting the other leg over the saddle is bad for the animals’ backs and thus unacceptable. Christina was aware of that. Leaning heavily on just one side of the horse is not ideal, and can be particularly bad when someone does it from the ground because they tend to be hanging there in the one stirrup for even longer. She wanted a tall mounting block, so that she could practically just put her leg over without even needing the stirrup. Tom acknowledged that it wouldn’t be so terrible, but he still didn’t want her using it, so it didn’t get built. She wanted one down in the space between her outdoor rings, with the jump shed and the gazebo, for further convenience. He didn’t let her have that either. She was looking forward to one day just leading a horse down to those rings and using a tall jump, like the faux brick wall perhaps, to mount up on her own, just for the personal satisfaction of defeating and defying his anal thoughtfulness.

Socks and Kimi were good boys for her, and like the others she left behind, right where they belonged in terms of fitness and sharpness. Kyle and Stefanie did well with sticking to the horses’ programs, and even if their other groom for those few weeks wasn’t up to snuff for the most elite-level operation, the animals didn’t seem to notice or care. Christina visited with each one that was still inside before she left for the day, and gave them each a carrot or left one in the feed buckets in the empty stalls. André was both bright-eyed and handsome when she got home. He wasn’t as down as the tone she read in his text. He’d either done his hair nicely that morning before going to Brackel, or he showered there and did it nicely when he was finished. He had sweatpants and a t-shirt on, but his smile, and his voice, and even his eyes all told his wife that he wasn’t in a “sweatpants mood”- what she thought of as the internal need to be dressed cozily and tucked into bed or parked on the couch to do as little as possible, while less than happy with life. He had plenty of energy. He couldn’t wait for her to change her clothes and come back downstairs to play with him and Lukas.

“Am I allowed in here, or no?” he asked facetiously on the threshold of her extravagant closet. Christina was fully installed in there. Everything was put away in a Christina-way, and she usually kept pretty flowers on the counter between two of the tall shelving units. She had black and white photos on the walls, all of which were of herself. They were mostly un-used snaps from her various fashion spreads. They were a rare nod toward a vanity André thought she didn’t really possess. And he liked it. He liked the notion that she’d grown beyond just being okay with seeing herself as a model- as a physical specimen- and grown into appreciating it enough to want to be reminded of it every single day. She was humble about a lot of things, and he loved that about her. But becoming just vain enough to put up modeling photos was a little bit sexy, and despite it proving a challenge for their relationship, the player appreciated that his wife was capable of growing as an individual. He watched her learn, change, and adapt over time. The ability to do that was something he valued in any person, but needed in his partner. André and Christina found static personality types boring and sometimes frustrating.

“I suppose you can come in,” she shrugged, feigning mild irritation. She was turning her just-removed sports bra inside out, to be hung on a cabinet handle. It was against her rules to put sweaty things directly into the laundry basket.

“You look hot in white underwear,” André commented after taking a seat on her bench. It was hers after the move. It was no longer “their” incredibly expensive Van der Rohe bench. It went with the decor in her dressing room, not his, so she claimed it. The bench was an example of another Christina quirk that her partner secretly adored. She literally treasured it. She looked after it. She wouldn’t sit on it without underwear, or if she was sweaty. Lukas wasn’t allowed anywhere near it. No shoes were ever placed on it, and she was even careful about setting certain bags down on it. For example, her backpack couldn’t go there because she often set her backpack on the ground and it could thus get the precious white furniture dirty. She looked after her nice things. She looked after things that cost a lot, and things that mattered to her. André knew some girls who got their hearts set on something expensive, absolutely had to have it, loved it for a month, and then didn’t care enough about it after all to take care of it, or be mindful about using it. He poked his girl’s right butt cheek right in the middle and then leaned over to kiss the side of the other one, outside the white cotton.

“Juan calls these my grandpa underpants.”

“And does he feel positively about that? Because that would be weird, to be honest.” And why do you think I want to hear what he has to say about your underwear, he wondered. Her odd misstep didn’t hinder his fairly fine mood. He was in some pain from trying different things with the doctor and trainers. Even just walking hurt his heel and ankle a little, so he didn’t want to go trekking around the neighborhood. He wasn’t exhausted though, or worn down, or bummed. The frustration he felt at being sidelined for so long could be ignored in favor of enjoying that Christina was home. His best friend was back around, and in small panties that looked nice on her behind and did pleasing things to her hipbones.

“He didn’t say.” I took them off before we got that far into that conversation.

“Did his grandpa wear very small underpants? I don’t know any grown men who could fit into these.” The BVB man ran his fingertip up and down the inside of the small trim sectioning off her butt into equal parts of covered and bare territory.

“That’s what I said,” she laughed over her shoulder. “I think it was a color situation. He associates white undies with grandpas.”

“I associate white undies with you, because you look hot in them.”

“Are you visiting in my sovereign territory to seduce me, or were you just so struck by my hotness after you arrived that you had to play with my butt?”

“I was going to wait until later to seduce you. I really just came here to get attention.”

“Oh, I see,” Christina chuckled. “And now?”

“I don’t know. A nice way for you to give me attention would be getting into bed with me and sitting on me in these panties, maybe without the shirt though.“

“Yeah, and then what?” She had a big smile on for him. Non-serious Schü was cute, sweet, and highly entertaining to her when she was in the mood for him. Non-serious Schü was typically only unwelcome when she was upset with him and needed the serious one, or simply too tired to be amused.

“I don’t know. You could tell me about your day- about the horses, and why you sacked Camille already. These are clean hot white underwear, yes?” the player asked for verification purposes. He didn’t necessarily want to be sat on in panties that were in the saddle all day. He was still playing with the seam around the right leg opening.

“I would love to tell you about my day.” Christina was still smiling, and she was still non-serious too, but she seriously relished the invitation to share with him the events of her Monday up to that point. He didn’t always give the impression that he actually cared about the tick-tock of her life if it didn’t directly relate to him. That was part of the disconnect that was making things tough for them before she went away. “And to hear about yours too,” she added. Again, it wasn’t just lip service. “I need the update on your boo-boo, and how the guys are doing.”

“Okay. Finish whatever you were doing. I’m going to get your ice pack, and do you want juice, smoothie, coffee, or water?”

“I love you,” she sighed, almost resignedly, while spinning in place to administer a kiss for André’s kindness. Traveling for three weeks was supposed to help repair things with Dirk, and that didn’t get to happen. It was clear that it repaired things with Tom on some level. It was beginning to feel like it might have significantly helped to repair the problems with her primary partner too.

“What would you like, Prinzessin?” he asked quietly while she lingered between his knees. He kneaded small spots at the back of thighs between his thumbs and pointers, absent a more sensical idea of how to touch her but with a need to touch her somehow. Another much loved Christina Quirk was her overreaction to kind gestures. Sometimes he forgot how easy it really was to please her. The smallest exercise of his care for her, her wellbeing, and her happiness, was a big deal to her, and one she didn’t take for granted.

“Nothing.” The rider shook her head and bent down a little for a second smooch. The first was just a peck on the cheek. The sequel was square on the mouth, and savoring. I love him so much, she reflected, blues locked on his, and hands ruining his previously perfect hair. But why does it feel so weird? Why is it like I’m almost disappointed or something that I still love him- that he’s still the sweet and caring guy who makes me feel so good?

“Let me go get your ice. You should have it on already. I’ll see you in bed, okay?” The footballer in question patted her bum and winked up at her. She stepped out of the way.