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kewpikayo · 12 days ago

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Hi guys!! Happy Halloween to you all!! I am so excited to have been a part of this event! I have literally had a blast writing for this and getting to make friends with everyone involved. Just to hold witness to their skill, drive and dedication to their chosen craft is breathtaking and I count myself honored to know such moving, beautiful people. I am thankful, from the bottom of my heart, for you all and I can't wait to binge read every single one of your fics and feast upon every art piece made! I dedicate this first chapter to the lovely @dewdropdinosaur, the amazing @xalygatorx, and the magnificent @chefskjssart. I also want to mention all of the lovely people I have met due to this event and everyone from the Helluva Watchparty server! Thank you so very much @fraugwinska and @macabr3-barbi3 for coming up with and hosting this event!! Also a HUGE shout out to @fraugwinska for creating my banner for my story and for creating the gorgeous poster for the event!!! You are amazing~! With that being said, I do hope you all enjoy the story! You're in for a ride for a couple of chapters haha. Have fun and stay tuned~! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Your at Chapter 1: Team Player: WC: 4,077

Chapter 2: Left Hanging

Chapter 3: Burning Alive

Summery: Two strangers, good with their hands, one with machines and the other with knives, are desperate to escape the Entity's grasp. You need Alastor more than he thinks he needs you. When you propose a deal, however, it is an opportunity the radio host can't seem to pass up. Maybe with a promising partnership, the two of you might just make it out of the trial alive. Only time will tell if teaming up will have been a useful endeavor... Or not at all...

"Partners...?" Human Alastor x reader

Warnings & Tags: Reader is a survivor, no use of Y/N, Reader has a nickname, Alastor is a little shit, Asexual Alastor, Violence, Blood and Violence, Injury. minor character death.

Improvisation was a necessary skill and was considered, by the general public, a practiced talent that so few possessed; let alone could master. For a radio host, it was a skill that was often expected and anticipated. Having the ability to breeze through topics of discussion and flight of the audience’s fancy with simplicity and ease was envied.

To be expected, it was an ability that Alastor was exceedingly proficient in. However, he was never one to appreciate improvising with the absence of his favorite tinkering tools…

With great irritation and a brief, sharp snap of bone, Alastor’s second target that evening had become his most recent victim; the body lifeless within seconds of his bold hands clutching around the poor brute’s throat. As dust returns to dust, so too did the corpse of his target fall limp; greeting the mud below with a dense, subdued thud.

Never before had he been so disappointed in acquiring a kill in all of his existence.

It was honestly such a bore, and terribly anticlimactic in nature, that it had the demon yawning. Barely any exertion was needed on his part as he dropped down on one knee and pilfered around the belongings of the newly deceased. With a sigh he noted the absence of blood his kill had presented him with an ample amount of dismay. The pitiful fight his victim had given him was easily comparable to the emptiness of the broken vessel’s pockets: sad, sparse and leaving much to be desired. Such a waste.

What a forgettable experience��

Finding no object of his desires within the austere expanse of the other male’s personal inventory; Alastor resumed his previous posture and continued his merry way through the muck dredging up underneath his hunter’s boots.

At least this strange place, the darkest marsh he had ever had the privilege to traverse, had allowed him the luxury of supplying him with comfortable, familiar footwear. The kind Alastor wore in life, that is. The custom red and black oxfords he usually sported would do him no good in these wet conditions.

Interested in procuring a blade for himself, Alastor carried on with his measly hunt. His cream colored shirt sleeves were rolled up pristinely to his elbows to fight the humidity in the air. His tan skin was the only part of his body covered in nakedness.

The radio host proudly, but cautiously stalked amongst the cat tails, fluff from the plants clinging to his jeans. Complaints and curses alike were softly hissed beneath the confines of his practiced grin as he wiped sweat from his brow. He peeled the plant based affections from his clothing; tremendously irritated that his search so far had not been fruitful.

As Alastor sauntered forward, the occasional chirping of crickets and birdsong died away; producing an extreme sense of urgency into his bloodstream. The feeling clawed its way up his spine, delicate shivers dancing on his dark skin; but for the life of him he could not understand why.

However, he received his answer for the foreign feeling upon hearing a chorus of feminine terror. The continued abrasive treatment of his low vocal range and vocabulary immediately ceased at the sound. The echoes on the wind brought the sweet melody to him; music that was slowly drowned out by curses and shouts of the resistant sort.

Making his way towards the source of the cadence he enjoyed, Alastor was met with quite the sight. A cloaked fellow with a peculiar mask had a scrawny looking female hung from his shoulder; fighting every second she was in the other individual's grasp.

The voice belonging to you, a captive little lady, bloomed into yet another tantalizing scream as you were lifted up and placed onto a hook like contraption. Metal violently tore into flesh, ripping sinews and muscles apart to conform to the shape of your body as you were left to dangle helplessly. Crimson torrentially dripped from your fresh wound amidst panicked cries.

The fresh blood produced by your harrowing experience awoke the tell-tale signs of Alastor’s hunger, his growling stomach sharpening his senses to the utmost degree.

Of course, now was not the time to be thinking of breakfast. Curse his human guise and its continuous need for sustenance…

Alas, although very much entertaining, the show given to him was not what had insnared his focus. Surprisingly, the reflection of the blade held within Alastor’s target’s grasp had him pleasantly distracted. His mind ran in circles, plotting to procure the tool the other was using for himself.

Noticing your screams had silenced themselves to nothing but faded, pained whimpers; you had finally managed to acknowledge his presence amongst the cattails and behind miscellaneous boxes and crates.

He put a finger to his upturned lips in silence as his eyes bore holes into your skull with just his stare alone; willing you to cease your current noisiness. He was pleased when you returned his gesture with a subtle, inconspicuous nod and looked down, feigning defeat. Good. You and your sweet, but damnable, chirping would not spoil his fun. With certainty, he would not allow his hunt to be ruined.

With meticulous effort, Alastor’s stealth was successful as his hands made purchase around his victim’s throat once his prize was within reach. In a graceful, dramatic flourish to show off for his lovely audience, the individual’s neck was snapped in twain before much of a fight could be had. The fool was ignorant of his demise as the cloaked, masked killer slumped to the earth, lifeless and growing cold. The poor bastard didn’t know what hit him.

After his show was finished and a third kill was acquired that evening, Alastor kneeled down to inspect the object of his covetous obsession.

The blade he had desired ever since waking up on that deserted, modern steamboat was finally within his careful grasp; dripping fresh scarlet into his palm as he inspected it closer. No doubt the liquid belonged to you, the lovely lady of the hour he ignored, who still dangled precariously from the iron hook above his head.

Alastor continued his efforts in silence, standing to his usual impeccable posture as he cleaned the pilfered knife on his jeans. He brushed the blade against his trousers until it gleamed brightly under the nearest lanterns hanging from the power lines overhead. It was still terribly dark to be considered mid-morning; but at least the faint mist from the swamp gathering around his ankles was able to provide ample cover.

Seeking to return to the shadows, Alastor secured the blade in its sheath along his belt before taking a few steps away. His attempts were met with quite a bit of resistance. An incredulous sigh left you only to be followed by grumbles of frustration.

“Um…Hello? Still very, very stuck here…I, um…I could use a little help…”

Right. You were still present.

Alastor paused to turn his head and peer at you over his shoulder. Despite his permanent grin, the look he granted you was one of absolute disinterest. He calmly observed you, making no attempt to retrieve you from your painful perch.

The two of you continued your tacit stare down until you shook your head and looked away. With an irritated huff, you spoke through gritted teeth as you immediately rescinded your request for assistance

“You know what? Fuck you…I’ll just do it myself…”

Alastor turns to face you fully as he folded his arms, intrigued by the colorful vernacular you decided to spat his way. Rude as you were, it was rather interesting to watch you fumble around on that hook. It was very much akin to a caught fish longing for the relief the river could provide.

A surplus of other vibrant curses and varied complaints tumbled from your lips as you reached up to grasp the hook. You paused to catch your breath; your teeth gritted in preparation for the agony to follow.

With zero amount of finesse and a great deal of clamor in your voice, you proceeded with your attempts in dislodging the hook from your shoulder.

However interesting and delicious the bloody spectacle was, it was painful to watch. It was terribly irritating to see how many times you struggled. Several minutes passed by before you managed to successfully set yourself free with a deafening yelp and an unharmonious fumble. Blood painted the wet earth deep maroon in your burdensome descent.

“So… Do you actually ever…Y’know… Help anybody? Or do you just…’Tend to ignore everyone who addresses you?”

Breathless and struggling to take in air, you were hunched over on your knees. You hadn’t moved from where you had fallen as you looked up at him with exhaustion and a furrow of your brow. Your free hand clutched to the gaping, bleeding wound in your shoulder.

What a sight. Still, your defiant tone was something he didn’t appreciate.

The radio host adjusted his red suspenders that had fallen from his shoulders as he looked over to you. His grin was a sneer as his subtle dark curls obscured one of his amber eyes. Would he even attempt to humor you with a response or rebuttal?

…Perhaps this once.

“…Only if it’s worth my time.”

Alastor watched as you instantly became mute, obviously processing the offense his words supplied you. Your nose scrunched up in frustration as you chewed the inside of your cheek. You reached for your forgotten, dingy baseball cap on the ground and donned it with a huff. There was a pause before any more words greeted him.

“Well, my life, as well as what I have to say, is certainly worth more than a few measly minutes of your time… I have a plan that you might be the type to appreciate. That is if you can manage to pull your head out of your ass long enough to actually listen…! ”

Alastor’s eye twitched. Who did you think you were to address him with such hostility? Where did you get the audacity? Hadn’t he saved you enough from nearly being killed regardless? The thought only made Alastor’s blood boil. He gripped the blade in his grasp tighter. Such an ungrateful little soul…

“…I think I shall be the judge of that.”

The magnitude of his sneer was heightened as the radio host regarded you. An incredulous chuckle escaped the confines of his strained smile.

“Besides, why would I ever wish to associate with a rude little hussy such as yourself, hm? You’ve already proved to be quite the nuisance, especially with your failed attempts at escaping harm's way. Anything you are willing to offer me I might as well do myself. At least then I’ll be guaranteed a sufficient chance of succeeding… ”

Surprisingly, his statement was met with a defeated sigh, your head hanging to the side in an attempt at composure. With your spiteful countenance before, he didn’t think you would give in so easily. Perhaps your words were a means of deception, proving yourself braver than you truly were. What remained in front of him was the lingering, fighting spirit of a terrified, broken girl.

Interesting.

“Shit…look. I’m not…I’m not good with apologies…and I’m sorry I cursed at you…So I guess… un-fuck you or whatever…? Also, I guess you do have a right to be an asshole…You don’t know me or owe me nothin’…”

When he didn’t give you the satisfaction of seeing his expression change, you sighed yet again.

“…And I realize that a lot of tha time my mouth moves before my brain... But I promise…You're gonna want to hear my offer…”

With desperation drenching your features, you tilted your head in a last attempt to get into Alastor’s good graces as you gestured towards his knife.

“...Just with seein’ ya hold that blade, I assume y’know your way around a weapon like that…And ya look like you're good with your hands. Well, I’m pretty good with mine too, so… We can, y’know… Work together to make it outta here..? Maybe…?”

So far, your attempts at persuasion were failing epically, but he would continue to listen to whatever useless drivel that fell from your maw. He always did love a good show, and the expression you were making both intrigued him and bettered his mood.

“...That is, uh…That is what ya want, right? To go home?”

A quick, dry laugh escaped Alastor’s strained smile as he admired the way your face fell at the sound.

The only home he ever truly desired would be in the arms of a soul far out of his reach. His mother would not be found anywhere near his usual place of inhabitance. It was a moot point to ponder. There was no undoing what had been done…What he wanted he would not be able to obtain, nor was it something you could provide.

Alastor was right to ignore you before. Your words were meaningless and a waste of his time.

With no other response from him, an exasperated sigh left you.

“Look, I’m gonna level with you…The only other way outta here is by takin’ a permanent dirt nap and I, well.. I don’t plan on dyin’ today and I assume you feel the same…Sooo teamwork’s our best bet…”

Alastor tilted his head in curiosity. However trifling you were, he thought it perdinant to at least hear you out. He was being overly gracious, and if yet another phrase that displeased him came from your mouth you were as good as dead. Despite his smile’s presentation of interest, there was a deadly edge at the end of his next utterance.

“…What do you propose?”

“Well…I’m good with wires. My old man was a mechanic, so I got a lotta practice growin’ up…I digress, but it’s kinda hard to fix generators if I keep gettin’ attacked or hooked…”

Grunting, you willed yourself to a standing position, dusting off excess dirt from your mud soaked jeans.

“...So what I’d need from you is the assurance you’ll keep everyone away from me so I can fix at least five of those gen’s. We ain’t gettin’ nowhere without them workin’ properly…”

Once again clutching your injured shoulder, you winced as you made your way over to where the demon stood. Your anguish was audible, enough to make Alastor’s mouth water despite his current dissatisfaction with your presence. He took a step back from you. You had gotten too close for his liking.

“I think we could be useful to one another..And after tonight you can rest assured you won’t have to deal with me no more…But until then, if you can just, y’know…Do what you did before with Ghostface and pick off the others, then we may actually have a shot at makin’ it outta this shit hole alive…”

You hold out your hand; a brighter, hopeful expression present under the blood and grime attuned to your visage.

“So? We got a deal, or whatever? Scratch my back and I scratch yours?”

Your gesture was met with amber eyes being narrowed as Alastor looked down at your bloody offered hand. He was quite within his rights to deny your request and be on his merry way. If he was of a better mind, Alastor might have already left you in the dust.

Still, he pondered more on your words as thoughts of freedom flooded his mind’s eye. You stated the impossibility of liberty without fixing five of the machines that were no doubt spread across the premises, so repairs were necessary. He was used to such when it came to his line of work, making his radios function like new or maintaining the upkeep of his other preferred equipment.

Still, by the appearance of your denim jacket and ripped jeans, he surmised he had found himself in the middle of the modern era; which could only insinuate that modern technology had a hand in creating the essential items of escape. Alastor stifled a growl. Of course machinations resemblant of his arch nemesis would have a play in his supposed capture. The thought was infuriating and made his skin crawl with hatred and disgust.

Alastor had absolutely no interest in operating or learning to associate with such devices. Loathe as he was to say it, he would have to permit your continued presence. At least until freedom was achieved.

Vexing as you were, perhaps you would prove yourself useful as the night went on. Perhaps your assistance would prove an ample enough apology for the offense your prior verbiage caused.

“Usually, I’m not one to appreciate company in my efforts. I prefer working solo, but…”

The radio host’s eyes narrowed as he bit his tongue. The shameful lowering of his pride to admit you were needed sent an unpleasant taste to the back of his pallet. The feeling made him immediately want to throw up.

“...You do have a point. Fine…I shall aid you if only for the sake of escape…”

The moments between his words and your own fueled more interesting unspoken prospects. Though sensical and practical, it was rather curious that you requested him to kill the others. It was a task he had no qualms with, but having another acknowledge his prowess with his chosen craft elevated his ego. Begrudgingly enough, your plan was brilliant and would surely succeed if he was the one behind the task.

He hoped his little slaughter spree, now that his weapon of choice was acquired, would go smoothly and supply an efficient means of entertainment that evening…

“So… Whatdya say? Ya wanna make this official, then?...Partners?”

You gesticulated your offered hand in earnest, eager to ascertain some sort of plan for escape. Alastor quirked a brow. You must be desperate for protection if you felt the need to acquire an agreement of such without asking for the name of the fellow you were doing business with. Perhaps you just weren’t the type for much small talk, however necessary the information. Still, it was a hilarious oversight on your part. He would fix it. Promptly.

“My, you certainly are an eager beaver…But you aren’t going to ask for the name of the gentleman you are conducting negotiations with? Quite the questionable set of business practices you have there, doll…”

You rolled your eyes as you struggled to bring your other hand to prop up the elbow of the arm remaining outstretched, your shoulder exhibiting its horrendously mangled and deformed shape in your efforts. It was as if you had been to the nearest butcher and had requested to be placed on the chopping block.

“What's your name, then?”

“Why, I’m so glad you asked! The name’s Alastor. It is a real pleasure to be meeting you.”

“Yeah. Nice to meet you too, I guess…Now can we shake on it? My arm’s gettin’ tired.”

Alastor chuckled. You were certainly such a feisty little lady. Quite the character, indeed.

At least you weren’t boring.

“I suppose you have a deal then. Partner’s it is…I can’t wait to become a team player, my dear…”

Leaning down to meet your short stature, Alastor kept his impeccable posture as he bent at the waist. Lifting his hand, he teasingly flicked your baseball cap down over your eyes with a chuckle before offering you a dark gloved hand.

You moved your hand up to lift your cap, revealing the grumpy furrow of your brows as you accepted the other’s extended palm. He could hear the audible annoyance in your voice, the sound reverting to a low grumble. It was very much resemblant of the incessantly adorable noises alleycats would make. While alive, his mother insisted on feeding the disgruntled beasts, assuring more of their presence outside of their townhouse.

The two of you participated in a single, firm shake before wordlessly parting. When you glanced down to search for something within the confines of your pocket, he takes the chance to wipe whatever remained of your blood off of his glove and onto his button up, painting the cream fabric a bright crimson.

“I suppose, however, if we plan to continue with business, might I also have the pleasure of your name? It would be beneficial to know who I am referring to should you feel the need to scream that you require further assistance…”

Unfolding a piece of rolled up parchment, you spared him but a glance as your hands made light work of their task. In your hands rested a ripped, dusty map. It looked as if it had weathered far worse conditions, but had somehow still remained intact.

“…Scout. It’s not my name, but it's what my folks call me the majority of the time. Feel free to call me that too, I guess…”

Alastor made a mental note of the interesting nickname and pondered how it was acquired while he watched you peer back down at the damaged paper in your hands. Your bloody index finger pointed at a location.

“It says here that we’re in “Blackwater Swamp”. Huh…The name’s just as bleak as the location…figures. Anyways, uhh… There's supposed to be a big boat, The Pale Rose…? Down that way…? That's where I, and most likely you, woke up…”

Glancing back up at your partner, you pointed in the opposite direction from where the two of you were facing as you jostled the map in your hands to smooth out the curling parchment. The sound your actions caused had you glancing up and over your shoulder in apprehension.

Silly thing. There was no need for you to worry for your protection as long as he was in your vicinity. You had made a bargain, after all, and Alastor always completed his end of a deal one way or another. You were safe.

For now.

Finally feeling more relieved there was no active threat nearby, you glanced back down at the map.

“And, if I'm readin’ this right, this map also shows where all the generators are and also the exit…Yeah, right here. Have a look.”

Pointing at the intended spot, you double tapped the page before looking up at your colleague in crime and turning the map around so that he could have a gander.

“Interesting. Who knew you had such a useful commodity in your possession. Where did you find such a thing?”

“It was just in a random box I opened when I woke up. There’s tons of that kinda shit around here. Just gotta look…”

Turning the page back to face you, you observed the guide in your hands more intently than before; speaking with assurance of the plan forming in your mind.

“Once we’re both done with our respective jobs, we’ll meet back up at the exit and get the hell outta here. Sound good?”

The demon stood back up to his usual height as he gifted you a genuinely amused expression. With the promise of his assistance, you were certainly set in your ideals that you would make it through the night.

Alastor’s wicked grin grew in delicious splendor. How unfortunate it would be if that wasn’t the case…

“It seems we have a plan in place…”

“Yeah. Looks like it.”

Wrapping up the map and shoving it into your back pants pocket, you looked over your non injuried shoulder to address him with an urgentness in your tone, the sound intreating him to listen intently.

“Well, we best get started. Stay safe out there…Don’t do anything stupid and try not to die…Alright?”

A chuckle rumbled in the radio host’s throat at the concern igniting your expression. You were worried? For him? How absurd and endearing a spectacle.

So the radio host was right. Your crude and classless persona was indeed the facade of a frightened girl. You should’ve been more concerned with yourself considering your current situation. Already you were sufficiently injured and still profusely bleeding beautiful shades of scarlet.

Alastor was certain you wouldn’t last the night. Not without his assistance.

“Oh, I can assure you that won’t be a problem; but you do the same…”

Pleased with his reply, you silently nodded as you did your best to cautiously duck and hobble behind the surplus of plywood from the deserted paddle steamer nearby. Your free hand graced the splintery surface of a broken pallet for support as you stepped over a plethora of weeds.

Just the pitiful sight of you retreating had the curvature of Alastor’s lips upturned. Things had indeed proved to be rather intriguing…

#hookedonhazbin2024 #hazbin hotel #hazbin halloween #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #Dead by daylight crossover #hazbin hotel fanfiction #Hope you guys have fun #See you in Chapter 2~!

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lecsainz · 1 year ago

Note

i meant brazillian!female!f1 driver my bad, can you do headcanons about her and Vini Jr dating and how their relationship would be like? like her going to his matches and him going to grand prix’s!

DATING WITH VINI JR.

parings: vini jr. x brazilian!f1driver!reader

authors note: I'm seriously considering starting to write this about other players or perhaps Formula 1 drivers... what do you think?

summary: the one where you're Vinicius Jr.'s girlfriend.

✩. . . masterlist !

You often wear Vinicius Junior's football jersey as pajamas, and it's practically a nightly ritual. He finds it adorable, especially when you're drowning in his oversized jersey, but he never asks for it back. Sometimes you steal Vini's football jerseys, and he secretly loves it when you do. You love the scent of his cologne lingering on his clothes, and he finds it adorable how you look in oversized jerseys.

Vinicius is your biggest fan. He attends your Grand Prix races, often wearing a custom-made team shirt with your name and number.

During your races, he's a bundle of nerves, and he can't sit still. He claps, cheers, and sometimes even shouts advice at the TV, as if you can hear him.

Whenever you're involved in an accident during a race, Vinicius's heart nearly stops. He sends you a flurry of text messages, desperately seeking to know if you're okay.

He can't focus on anything else until he gets your reassuring message back.

You have your game day rituals, like wearing matching accessories or texting each other encouraging messages before important matches or races.

You've both taken the time to learn about each other's sports, so you can fully understand and appreciate what the other does.

Whenever your busy F1 schedule allows, you make it a point to attend Vinicius's football matches. You cheer passionately from the stands, waving a banner with his name and number.

Vinicius never forgets to dedicate his goals to you. His eyes always seek you out in the crowd, and he blows a kiss in your direction before running to celebrate with his teammates. Or he points to the sky and blows a kiss, a silent message that he's thinking of you even on the football field.

After his matches, win or lose, Vinicius rushes up to the stands to find you. He doesn't care if the entire stadium watches; he wraps you in his arms and kisses you passionately, making every victory even sweeter.

Late at night, when you're cuddled up in bed, you discuss your dreams of having a family together. You talk about the possibility of your future children being torn between the love of football and F1.

You have playful debates about which sport your future children should follow. Vinicius insists on football, while you argue for F1. The discussions often turn into laughter as you imagine your kids trying both sports.

Like any couple, you have your disagreements, especially when it comes to sports preferences. But every argument ends with a passionate kiss and a reminder of how much you love each other.

Your busy schedules leave little time for intimacy, so you've become experts in having quick, passionate encounters that leave you both breathless but satisfied.

Vinicius can't resist admiring you when you wear his football team's shirt with his name and number. He's almost rendered speechless by how adorable and sexy you look in it.

You introduce Vinicius to the world of TikTok and insist on teaching him Brazilian dance moves. He's not the most coordinated dancer, but he's a good sport and does it just to see you smile. Your dance duets become quite popular, and fans adore seeing your playful side.

Cooking together is a favorite pastime. You both experiment with Brazilian and international dishes, creating your own fusion cuisine. There's often a playful food fight involved, leaving your kitchen a delightful mess

When you're away for races or his football matches take him abroad, video calls become your lifeline. You chat, tease each other, and sometimes even fall asleep with the video call still on.

You make it your mission to make Vinicius a swiftie. You play her songs during long drives, and he eventually starts singing along. He may not get all the lyrics right, but the effort he puts into singing them just for you warms your heart. And you introduce Vini to the world of Taylor Swift, explaining every detail about the "Reputation" era and the folklore love triangle. He's genuinely interested and enjoys discussing the music with you, even if he can't keep up with all the drama.

You teach him Italian - since you race for Ferrari -, and he helps you with Spanish. Your language exchange sessions often dissolve into laughter as you attempt to mimic each other's accents.

Some of your most profound and heartfelt conversations happen late at night when it's just the two of you, cuddled up in bed, sharing your dreams and fears.

When your schedules align, you love going on impromptu adventures, whether it's exploring new cities, hiking, or simply enjoying a quiet picnic in a scenic park.

You alternate planning date nights, and sometimes it's a fancy dinner, while other times, it's a cozy movie night at home with popcorn and cuddles.

Vinicius is not just your boyfriend but your personal cheerleader, always there to celebrate your victories and provide a shoulder to lean on during tough times.

Sometimes, Vinicius surprises you by showing up at your races, making your day even more special with his unexpected presence.

Vinicius often surprises you with small tokens of affection, like your favorite chocolates or a heartfelt note, to remind you that you're always on his mind.

Despite the challenges your careers bring, you both envision a future filled with love, laughter, and the pitter-patter of little feet. You're committed to making it work, no matter what.

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1-800-call-ria · 3 months ago

Text

The Summer that Lasted Forever :

The Website

pairing: female!reader x NCT DREAM Chenle x NCT WISH Sion x RIIZE Eunseok

genre: camp conselor!au (angst, fluff and etc)

WC: 0.6k

AN: Ideas, criticism and more is encouraged!! I would love to hear everyones thoughts!

Series Masterlist ||

As a college student you found your summers to be open. But this year you wanted a fulfilling vacation. Three months of pure nothing for the past few years left you empty and just as exhausted as before you left for break. Yes you had time to relax and de-stress, but something seemed to be missing. So this year you promised yourself to step out of your comfort zone and at least find a job to occupy your free time.

Finding a summer job hadn't seemed that daunting then. It was definitely scary now. Looking online and even through newspapers to find any places hiring.

You knew for a fact fast food was something you wouldn't do. Handling food, customers and the occasional Karen was not on your bucket list.

Retail hadn't seemed that bad, but it seemed like all the places weren't hiring. You've considered volunteering but again the places either weren't looking for more volunteers or the application process took at least four months.

Just as you're about to give up though, you see a bright multicolored banner sporting a black and white ‘Camp Kwangya’ on the bottom of your screen.

When you scroll all the way down you see a ‘now hiring’ button flashing right in the middle. You've never heard of this place but you continue to click it bringing you to another website. The website honestly looks thrown together and shady with its messy color scheme, minimalist design and blurry photos. And the age categories were also very suspicious with the huge gap of 6-17 years old.

The reviews though told another story.

"This camp will forever be my kid's happy place. The friendships he's made over the last two years are still going strong!"

"My Kid went here years ago! He just recently became a camp counselor, would recommend to anyone who will listen"

"My daughter went here for about 5 years, and she loved it. I would totally recommend this camp for other parents. Each age is divided and my kiddo loved it here. Said it was always the highlight of her summers."

"The counselors are amazing and always put me and my friends first :) "

Scrolling past the reviews and comments about the camp you come to the end of the page and see a link in bright red reading "Our awesome team of counselors that we hope you join!" After you come to another part of the website you're met with a video with the Camp director, Lee Soo-man, introducing each counselor.

First up were the female counselors Minjeong, Jimin, Aeri and Yizhuo. Each had their own charm and honestly were so beautiful.

For the past few years Minjeong (known as Winter to the kids), Jimin (Karina) and Yizhuo (NingNing) had been counselors for the 13-15 year-olds. When Aeri (Giselle) joined last year the groups age range then spanned 13-17 year olds. After explaining that there was a move towards there being at least five counselors-per age, the last few years were exceptions, each girl introduced herself.

The next set of counselors were slightly older including Juhyun (Irene), Seulgi, Seungwan (Wendy), Sooyoung (Joy), and Yerim (Yeri). These women were introduced as the 10, 11 and 12 year old counselors.

Finally Boa, Taeyeon, Hyoyeon, Yuri and Yoona were for the 6-9 year old counselors. They explained that while also being the counselors for the youngsters, they were also apart of the head commit that kept the female side of this camp running. Because these kids were the youngest, they would only stay half of a full summer session. Some kids would only do half days anyways, these were the only kids that didn’t stay 24/7 for the next 6 weeks.

After the last of their introductions the video cut to the director going on about how each counselor was hand chosen by him and the prior/ current ones. It was a very deep and long process only to choose the best option for not only the other team members, but for the kids as well.

Seeing the way director Lee was talking about it, it really did seem like a long and time consuming. The man was passionate about only finding the best option out there. Maybe this wasn't the right job for you.

Just as you're second guessing yourself and about to close out of the website all together. You see a group of the most beautiful men you have ever seen go across your computer screen.

...Okay...so maybe that deep and long application process wasn't really that bad. Was applying worth it? I mean you would be working with fine women and men.

- Do you apply?

[YES] OR [NO]

#1-800-call-ria #nct #nct dream x reader #riize x reader #nct wish x reader #nct fanfic #nct x reader #riize eunseok #chenle x reader #sion x reader #eunseok x reader #nct dream fic #nct fic #riize fics

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faeryblade · 1 month ago

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|| Five Year Plan || A Reader x Jonathan Crane, slow burn fic ||

Synopsis: Every so often, the city of Gotham will randomly select one person to have a really, really bad day. This time, that lucky person is you!

Aka: Your stupid ass accidentally signs up to be a goon at a "Goon Hiring" Agency after your landlord increases the rent. Oops!

Word Count: 11,059

TW: General violence, drug use, coercion, and swearing.

Note: So, uhh. Still working on this concept that has gripped me by the throat. There's a lot of little references scattered in this chapter to Arkham!Verse, Reeves!Verse & other DCU works. The Gotham this x Reader takes place in is sort of an eclectic jumble with it's own unique timeline. For previous chapter, click here. Enjoy the second installment of "Please don't tell my psychiatrist!". ♡ And let me know what you think in my asks if you want~

Banner art made by: @skxtchyghost

Song: "Are You Satisfied?" by Marina & The Diamonds

Taglist: @caesariawritesstuff @greeneyedshooter @enochtopus-the-pressed @vveirdvvitch

It wasn't a bad job. As far as employment went in Gotham, it was okay. Ish. The pay wasn't horrible and the location was a quick, 15 minute, monorail ride away from home. And sometimes, when the manager wasn't there, you got control over what songs the radio played. All this considering, you really couldn't complain. There were worse ways to get a paycheck... However, today's shift at the Cadmus Bar had you wondering if that was true or if it was another lie you were telling yourself to cope?

Your questions began with the first wave of early morning customers who'd exploded through the door, eager for their (keto) protein shake to start off the day. Several complained that their drinks were made wrong even though they'd gotten the exact things that they'd ordered. One of them, a woman sporting a bob cut, screamed at you for making her gluten-free veggie wrap gluten-free. Another demanded that they use the bathrooms before ordering anything. You were forced to tell them that it was against company policy to allow "non-paying individuals" access to the restrooms unless they bought something first. This ignited a vitriol-fueled tirade where you (eventually) had to ask the person to leave. On their way out, they kicked over the store sign and damaged it. You'd tried fixing the frame but to no avail. It remained slightly crooked.

Shit snowballed in the afternoon, just before the lunch rush, when the new trainee spilled a whole tray of smoothies on a customer, then managed to lock their cashier register out of the system. A mistake that spelled doom for everyone else who was working front of house. Specifically, you. It'd taken HOURS to figure out what they'd done and by that time, the trainee had already clocked out. To top it all off, your (least favorite) manager had decided to pop in unexpectedly which meant the radio was now honed onto 95.6 The Outlaw Star, a station that only played country music. Really bad country music. The kind that grated on your ears as it repeated the same insipid chorus lines again and again and again...

You're almost certain crap like this violated parts of The Geneva Conventions. But, what could you honestly expect from a restaurant chain that was owned by Lex Luthor?

Well...

At least you weren't unemployed.

"I'd fuck him."

Whatever worries you had about your job totally vanished in an instant when Zen, your co-worker, made this off-handed remark while cleaning the lobby with you in-between customer flows. She gave no additional context after that, leaving you baffled.

Glancing around first to see if your manager was lurking nearby and not finding him, you ask Zen-

"What?"

-with a deadpan tone that distinctly conveys just how excited you are about the subject matter of this conversation and where you believe it's most likely headed.

"I think he's hot," she reiterates, "I mean, the suit is weird but I'd still fuck him."

You stop wiping off the sticky, juice residue from a tabletop to stare at Zen. "Care to, uh, elaborate a bit more?" You question her, "Because I'm lost here."

Your co-worker waved over at the TV perched in the lobby corner. It was set to the Gotham News Network. Displayed on screen, lead anchorman, Jack Ryder, was interviewing several Gothamites at the scene of a burnt-down brewery. A chyron banner underneath stated: "Ten People Saved in Joker Attack by The Batman, Grand Re-opening Postponed Indefinitely."

"Batman!" Zen announced as if it were obvious, "I think he's sexy. I mean, he's got those incredible pecs and that delicious jawline! I'd absolutely be down to fuck. But, he's gotta lose the suit in bed. Or wait! No, scratch that. He should leave it on..."

A giggle escaped from her. You continue to stare at your co-worker like she's suddenly grown two heads. Eventually, though, you clear your throat and go back to scrubbing the table. Zen scowled at this.

"Oh, c'mon!" She exclaimed, "Tell me you haven't thought about it. Not even once?"

You roll your eyes.

"Literally, not even once," you reply, voice devoid of enthusiasm while you continue to do your job. A bit of orange gunk had crusted onto the table and was being difficult against the force of your washcloth.

Zen didn't believe you.

"Liar," she said.

"It's the truth," you shoot back at her, applying a bit more pressure into your scrubbing. Still, that infuriating splotch remained.

A wicked grin curved along your co-worker's lips. Zen hopped onto the table. She leaned in toward you, invading your personal space and stopping you from cleaning. You glare at her sourly. It only encourages her to scoot even closer near you.

"Let's play a game of Fuck, Bang, Kill," she said, not waiting for your response either way before launching into her proposal, "I'll pick the options and you say 'fuck', 'bang', or 'kill'. Simple enough, right?"

"No."

"Okay!"

"Ugh, you're really gonna make me do this, aren't you?"

"Yup! No mercy!"

One brief moment passed where your co-worker tapped her finger against her chin. She looked to be deep in thought while considering the choices for the game. Knowing Zen, however, you figure she had probably come up with it weeks ago...

"Clayface," she said first, squinting (narrowly) at you for signs of a hidden monsterfucking fetish.

This one is a no-brainer.

"Kill," you automatically reply, wasting zero time to deliberate.

"Killer Croc," she says next.

Frowning, you answer: "Kill."

"Firefly," Zen states, "But, you gotta let him move into your apartment."

"He'd set too many things on fire. Kill."

"Two Face."

"Double Kill."

"Scarface."

"I'm not into puppets, kill."

She tossed her hands in the air, "Oh my god, you can't just keep choosing kill, Y/N! That's not how this game works!"

"Well," you shrug, "You said it was my choice. So, I'm just playing according to your rules."

"Joker and Harley Quinn."

"Kill them."

"Catwoman."

"Eh, kill."

"Poison Ivy."

"Ask why my succulent is dying, then kill."

"Mad Hatter."

"Do I look like an Alice? Kill."

With the slightest hint of satisfaction, you watch as Zen's face betrayed her own frustration. There was practically (black) smoke billowing from her ears while she tried to guess which Rogue you'd be most likely to marry. Or fuck. You wonder how long it would take until she called it quits?? After all, the two of you still had a lobby to clean. If the manager caught you both slacking off, you'd get written up for sure.

Suddenly, your co-worker's face brightened.

"THE RIDDLER!" She exclaimed like she'd solved a crime, jabbing her index finger up into the air. "I bet you'd break for the Riddler."

You blink.

Something flickered in the back of your mind. An old memory that you thought you'd forgotten.

"Uh, kill?" You answer, although you sound a hint uncertain, "I don't know, you can't really see him behind that mask and I'm not sure I could handle his followers. Plus, those riddles..."

Zen pouted. You could tell she was getting close to admitting defeat. It was only a matter of time now. You give the stubborn splotch another hard scrub with your rag, really putting your arm into it. The tiniest portion was beginning to come off. However, you pause when you hear Zen suggest a name that you'd never heard of before:

"Well, how about that new one? The one that the news is calling the Scarecrow?"

You open your mouth to speak but find yourself interrupted by a rush of customers. Moms with their kids in soccer uniforms and teenagers who were just getting out of school. Zen lets loose a sigh, knowing that you'd been spared from her torture by fate or chance. At least, for now. She quickly rushed over to the cash register, putting on her "customer service" smile while she began taking orders, leaving you to finish up the lobby alone. You caught Zen glance over at you once as if to warn you that this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Unfortunately, she wasn't someone who gave up easily...

Minutes before you were scheduled to take your ten, the manager calls you into his office. With a lazy wave, he gestures for you to sit down in the chair across from his own while he riffles through a filing cabinet behind his desk. You happened to sneak a peak and see that what your manager is picking through are employee folders. An unease settles over you when he yanks out a file labeled "[your name]," then places it down between you both as he takes a seat. He looks at you for just a moment, eyebrow raised.

"[Y/N], where you do see yourself in five years??" He asks you.

Your mind is racing in all possible avenues at this question.

"E-Excuse me?" You stammer out finally, though it sounded as if your voice was just a squeak, "I don't understand what you're-"

"Back in March, when you filled out your resume, you said you were planning to go back to college next semester. Is that still true?"

Your manager cuts you off. He cracks open your file, selecting the job application that you'd filled out a year ago when you decided that you needed an extra source of income. Despite this city being a trash fire, Gotham was still an expensive place to live. And college wasn't cheap! Buying textbooks for all the psychology courses that you were going to take in September would cost you. Even with the grants you were on! You watch nervously as your manager thumbs through your application idly, waiting for you to speak. He seems annoyed.

"Uhm," you mumble at first, but recover yourself enough to ground the uncertainty fluttering inside your stomach as you attempt a reply, "Yeah, that's the plan."

Your manager sighs.

"Look [Y/N]," he says, skepticism dripping from his tone like leaded water in an old pipe, "I didn't want to be the one who had to point it out to you but upper management has been cracking down on us lately. Our customer reviews have been too low for the past couple of months. You came up during our team meeting last Wednesday as a topic of interest. Several times, actually."

You blink, confused.

"Wait, what?"

You knew you weren't the best employee that the Cadmus Bar had. But, you knew that you weren't the worst either! Certainly, this had to be a huge misunderstanding. You ask for some clarification and your manager (with all the energy of a mildly disappointed father) begins to list off a series of ridiculous infractions, accusations, and "witness reports" that pegs you as the person who keeps breaking the smoothie blenders. Something that you, yourself, have been reporting (complaining) to management about since the very first day of your employment here.

"Annnd, we don't feel like you're smiling enough," your manager adds, placing the cherry on top of his corporate-talk cake, "You don't really portray the warm, friendly disposition that the Cadmus Bar is known for in its employees. Uh, one report we recently received about you seems to call you 'weird and off-putting'. Another one claims you're 'unhelpful' and 'have a rude attitude'. So, uh, you understand how none of this looks good, right Y/N?"

You scrambled for a reasonable explanation. Any explanation. However, what slipped out was half cooked mumblings that didn't sound convincing when spoken aloud: "I'll try harder. It's just been a rough couple of weeks and-"

Your manager holds up an authoritative hand.

"No, it's been a rough couple of months, Y/N," he says, correcting you immediately with the slight bite of annoyance heard from every word that he spoke, "And look, we were willing to grant you a brief period after your accident so you could get reorientated again. But, this behavior has turned into a pattern."

He levels an accusatory stare at you.

"I..."

The world darkens for a moment as you process his words. Images flash before your eyes in quick succession: rain on the windshield, a blind corner of a lonely road, high beams and screeching tires that tore through the air alongside screams, fire, blood staining wet pavement... Your mouth goes dry. You feel numb inside. Somehow, it's like you are there, reliving that awful night all over again. Your manager brings you back to reality when he clears his throat, appearing uncomfortable with how you were handling this talk. He tries shifting your focus by telling you "the good news" about your predicament...

"The silver lining is we're not firing you yet. We've got that new trainee, though, so you might want to start seriously thinking about the future, Y/N. All those college fees are going to be expensive. Maybe you can put some work into that smile in the meantime, yeah? Start wearing some pretty buttons on your vest to show our customers the real Cadmus Bar spirit."

You wished you had said anything other than the quiet, mumbled agreement that had slipped out of you. For some reason, the words you could've chosen just ran through your fingers like sand at a beach. With no refutes available, your manager sends you away, satisfaction on his bloated face that advertised (quite obviously) the pleasure he took in crushing your spirit and making you feel small in this moment. He tosses your file into the trash as you leave the office. The knowledge that your days working here were numbered became suddenly clear.

You decide to take your ten.

"They can't fire you!"

Inhaling a deep lung full of smoke from her joint, Zen medicated the rage she felt, then released it with a mighty exhale and a walloping cough. She passes the burning joint onto you, who partakes from it less aggressively, and continues her rant despite wheezing in between (her sharp-spoken) words.

"You and I keep this shit together!! If it wasn't for us, nothing would get done right. They think the evening prep gets done by Terry and his shift?! I can't count the times they've fucked the freezer up!"

You exhale a small stream of pungent marijuana into the air. Then, cough. Even though your chest seized, the relaxation you felt afterward was just enough to persuade you to take a second toke. It had been a stressful day for you already. And the day still wasn't over yet...

"I know," you agreed, grumbling at the hand your job was dealing you, "But, I don't "smile enough" for fucking Terry, apparently. I'm too 'weird and off-putting' and 'unhelpful with a rude attitude'."

"Well, that last one is true. You are pretty fucking rude sometimes, Y/N." Zen replies, reaching out to take the joint you were offering back, "But, it's still bullshit! That trainee can't replace you. She's barely handling the dishwasher right now. A few weeks won't make a difference if she's that dumb and incompetent!"

"I know, right?"

"Like, who am I supposed to talk to about stupid shit all day?"

A sobering kind of silence fell upon Zen and you. Despite the city noise that pounded at your ears, the only thing you could hear was the emptiness that was forming in the slots of your daily routine and the dreadful monotony that would take your co-worker's place. While you knew Zen wouldn't totally disappear from your life, things would be different enough that you cringed just imagining it. You don't think you'd be able to stand working around anyone else. Sighing, you lean your head against the brick wall behind you and gaze up at the thin sliver of (overcast) sky above. This might be the last time you smoke with Zen in this shitty alleyway. You try to savor the moment but all you can do is frown as if you'd tasted something that had spoiled.

"You got me still, man."

Roach breaks the awkward silence. You turn your head to look at the homeless stoner that Zen and you had befriended (adopted) months ago when he'd first shown up in this alley, asking for a light, and rolling papers. With a frown, you realize that you'd miss him. Even if he did bum way, way too many cigarettes. Roach, in some weird way, was also a fixture of your daily life that you'd become attached to...

"Oh, sweetie. We love you but that's not the point being made here," Zen says, taking a quick hit of the joint before passing it along to Roach, "Point is-"

"The point is I'm screwed," you interject, "WE are screwed. Hell, I watched Terry throw my file into the trash! I'm getting fired."

Roach inhaled half the joint as he listened to you speak. Coughing, nearly choking on the cloud he made with his exhale, he summarizes today's ten minute break in three simple words-

"This sucks, man!"

-then, takes another generous toke. The cloud of smoke he made this time was (somehow) bigger than the last. Roach shook his head. Ran a hand through his matted, tangled hair and sighed. He looked genuinely upset. Your heart turned over a little seeing how much these people cared about you.

"Like, who am I gonna bum smokes from now?"

Nevermind.

A laugh rumbles deep from Roach's chest as Zen (and you) just squint at him. "Oh, c'mon! You had to know that was a joke. I'm kidding, I'm kidding! This is a huge bummer, though. I liked smoking with you guys. You aren't weird about how I look. You treat me like I'm normal..." He says this with a heavy frown that collapses very suddenly upon his face.

"Well, you're as normal as the rest of us!"

"Careful guys, they might send us to Arkham."

"Oh my god, I bet they'd put us in cells right next to each other! We could pass along little notes in between the bars or something, haha!"

You all laugh as a group...but it feels bittersweet.

Zen and Roach give you the last hits off the joint, now merely a blackened nub. You were reminded of the time and realized that your ten was almost over. Zen must've been on the same wavelength as you because she groaned (loudly) when she'd checked her phone. She pouted for a second like a kid who'd just been told to go clean their room. You follow suit in your own subdued way, feeling the weight of each second that counted down to your inevitable unemployment.

Flicking the spent remainders of the joint into an ashtray, you take a breath, and mentally prepare yourself for the last hours of your shift.

"Ugh, time to clock back in."

"Same. I'll take care of the trash?"

"Thanks, Y/N. I fucking hate doing the trash."

You spend about fifteen minutes lugging stuffed, Hefty bags out to the dumpsters. One split open in the middle of transport. Another was leaking a sticky, warm liquid that got all over your uniform, making your clothes smell like rancid candy and crap. On the last round of trash, Roach helps you toss an extra heavy one that you were struggling with throwing away. You try to thank him. He just shakes his head, though, insisting that no thanks were necessary among friends...

"You've been decent to a bum like me. This is the least I can do for you."

Still, you find yourself thanking him again. Then, turn to slouch back into the Cadmus Bar (where a new wave of customers were surely crowding at the cash register by now) but are stopped by Roach, who wants to give you something. From his stained jeans pocket, he pulled out an onyx black card. He hands it to you with a rare, serious look on his face as he explains:

"Look, I hate to see them fuck you over so here's the number to my cousin, Frankie C. He's a good guy when he's not drunk. He runs a temp agency in Otisburg. If you need some quick cash to get you by while you figure shit out, call him. He can set you up with a small gig just like that. It won't be enough to break even, usually. Sometimes, an opportunity comes in, though. Depending on the season and all that."

You shake your head while telling him that you'll be fine, that you already had a plan (even if you absolutely didn't and were panicking about the next few months of your life). Roach seemed to know you were lying because he refused to take the card back from you. He just kept redirecting the topic onto his cousin. Eventually, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets so he couldn't use them. You're forced to keep the card after that. Roach smiled when you finally slid the thin paper into your vest pocket.

"Just, uhhh, keep the Frankie stuff between you and me, okay? Don't wanna ruin a sweet deal like this on everyone!"

He winks, nudging your side with an elbow. You end up laughing despite your mood. It was hard to be sad around Roach. And you wish you could do more for him than just share your smokes on the days you were working here. You could keep his secret, however. Now, it was your secret, too. You pat your vest pocket and salute Roach as if he were the captain of a ship.

"My lips are sealed!" You exclaim, making a show of pursing your lips and sealing them shut.

Your shift flew by relatively fast. Before you knew it, you were riding the D-line back to Rosserie St. where the peace of your apartment awaited you. The trip was smooth, almost TOO smooth for an average Gotham evening. It had you gripping the canister of the pepper spray you kept hidden in your purse out of suspicion. But, the minute you made it to your neighborhood, you relaxed a little bit. With the GCPD so close to your home, crime here was more tame. The worst it usually had to offer came in the forms of muggings by average thugs. Or break-ins. It was partly the reason your parents had been willing to pay the deposit when you'd moved out. Through some miracle, you'd convinced them it was safe. It'd helped when you mentioned that the police station was just a few blocks away. You knew they regularly donated to the GCPD and their fundraising galas every year.

You spent the rest of your night filling out online applications and re-writing your resume, despite knowing that any place that would hire you likely wouldn't read it.

At 5 am, a loud banging on your apartment door startles you awake. An angry voice accompanies it. By the Pennsylvania Dutch accent, it was your landlord. Reluctantly, you peeled yourself off the couch and stumbled lifelessly through the living room to go figure out what he wanted. Because it wasn't the first of the month and you'd already taken care of the bills so there was nothing that sour old man could (possibly) want from you. A breath is taken before you open the door. A little prayer is said to whatever God was listening up there. You steel yourself, plaster a smile on your face, then open the door to greet your landlord. Your stomach drops when you see he's holding a bunch of envelopes that were addressed to each resident of the building.

"The rent's just increased," he says while handing you your envelope from his pile, "I'm gonna need the difference you owe by Monday, alright?"

Your landlord shoots this new information at you with such casualness that it makes you feel sick. He's staring at you as if you were an idiot for not knowing (or expecting) that this would probably happen. Fortunately, you recover from the shock quick enough to form what you hope is a protest. It doesn't go well.

"I...already paid my rent, though."

"Yeah? Well, now the new payment is due."

"You can't raise the rent until next month!"

"Look, I don't know what to tell you, Y/N. It's that "gentrification" stuff all those woke hipsters talk about on the social medias. Prices going up? The rent goes up. Pretty open shut case, alright? Not a lot of mumbo jumbo to it."

"This apartment is rent controlled. I made sure it was when I moved in!"

"Okay, then take it up with the housing authority and wait for them to call you back about it. In the meantime? I'm gonna need that money from you on Monday. 5 am sharp. Or you can move out of here and I'll rent this apartment to someone who would pay triple the new price!!"

Your landlord's threat ripped the argument from your lips. He seems pleased when you fall silent and appear to crumple internally. You mask it by putting on a brave face...but your attempt isn't a convincing show of strength. Just as he's about to continue speaking, a (LOUD) meow interrupts him. Both you and your landlord stop what you're doing, pressing a momentary pause on your talk, to look towards the source of the noise that was growing more obnoxious by the second. You see that an orange cat was pacing back and forth on your balcony patio. Like it was waiting for you to let it in. Like this was a routine thing you did and not the very first time you'd ever seen it here. As you make the innocent mistake of giving it direct eye contact, it reacts by reaching up and eagerly paws at the sliding glass door.

Your landlord scowls.

"So, you got a pet?" He spits, raising an eyebrow at you, "That'll be an extra 200 for pet insurance. Cats piss and shit everywhere, ya know? Dirty lil' bastards. They'll fuck up my nice, clean carpets."

The carpets in your apartment were neither nice nor clean. Actually, they'd been stained and dirty since day one. The only reason they were decent now was all the steam cleaning you did to keep it tenable! Even then, your carpets were only a few more accidental messes away from being trash...

"That's not my cat," you state firmly, putting your foot down, "I don't have a pet. I don't owe you for a cat that isn't mine!"

Your landlord jabs his finger in the cat's direction and says, "If it's sitting on your fucking patio, it's your fucking cat! End of discussion. Don't need a brain to figure out that, do ya?"

He smirks (again) when he sees frustration twist anew upon your face. It made the short-statured man happy whenever he could provoke this kind of conflict in someone. But, you were convinced it meant more to him when that person was you; which filled you with such impotent anger that it nearly blinded you. Dark thoughts about ripping the smirk off his lips and grinding it into the dirty carpets that he seemed so proud of swirled and spiraled around inside your head. You held back, however, because you also wanted to keep a roof over your head. Fall was just around the corner in Gotham. It was about to get cold. Really fast. It'd be iced-over mornings and winter storms before you knew it...

So, you bit your tongue and said nothing.

"You have to think about your future, Y/N. No one is gonna do it for you," your landlord drives home the point he wanted to make even further, gently patting the frame of your apartment door with a faux concern, "Think about where you wanna be. You got until Monday to decide if it's here like an adult or out on the street in a cardboard box."

That was the second time your "future" had been mentioned. The sound of twisting steel hits your ears. Breaking glass shatters all around you as a tire, engulfed in fire, rolls past your mental vision. Someone is crying out for help. A scream crawls from your throat and takes the form of three tiny words that you speak in a defeated whisper:

"This isn't legal."

Your landlord laughs loudly and shrugs when he hears you, "This is Gotham, toots!"

He walks away before you can say anything else. You're left holding the envelope he gave you with the cat you now, apparently, owned. Who hadn't stopped meowing, by the way. You could hear it practically yowling, clawing down the tempered glass of your patio door, trying its hardest to get your attention. Sighing, you shut the front door. Lock it tight. Then, turn to face the mess of your apartment. Was paying the rent increase worth it considering what a dump house this place was?? The question nagged you while you crossed your living room (stepping over piled books and dirty laundry that you'd forgotten about a week or two ago) to open the patio door. Immediately, the cat stopped crying once it'd been let in. You watch it make itself at home on your couch and begin to purr.

Nope, you were never getting rid of that cat. You could see 200 dollars literally flying away in this moment as you relented and sat down next to it on your couch. Your fingers ran through the cat's soft, pumpkin-colored fur. Maybe you'd buy it a collar the next time you got paid? Maybe one of those cute, themed ones that you'd (sometimes) see at Petco. If you still had a job by then...

Your head falls back against the couch as a slow and exasperated groan unfurls out of you. With a desperate eye, you search the cobweb cracks in the ceiling for clues on what you should do. Their answer is silence. You were screwed.

So, you decided that breakfast was the answer!

There was a greasy spoon diner down the street that served a (passable) eggs and hash. Despite knowing your wallet couldn't handle it, you found yourself sitting in your usual spot fifteen minutes after opening the envelope, hoping that a simple, hot meal would ease your turmoil. 1,500 dollars plus 200 extra for the cat that wasn't yours and an additional increase on utilities that you didn't use. Like parking. Or the community gym. That's what you owed your landlord by Monday. It was money you just didn't have! Even thinking about it made your eyes bigger than your stomach. You end up ordering way too much food, then regret it almost instantly. Today, the eggs are bland and unseasoned. The hashbrowns are burnt black at the edges. These flavors settled on your tongue, as disappointing as the debt you had to pay, and lingered there with the stress that hung over you like a storm cloud.

Technically, you had the money...but, it was your college fund.

You couldn't touch that.

When you had moved out of your parents' house, blessedly away from Metropolis, you'd promised yourself something; that one day, you'd get your bachelor's degree in psychology, start a practice of your own and finally prove to your family that you were a capable, independent adult. However, more than that bit, you felt a certain gravitational pull towards learning about how the mind works. Even at a young age, you were always absorbed in observations about the people (and the world) around you. You'd scribble them upon sheets of paper with crayons or colored marker or pen and pencil. Sticking them on your bedroom walls. It'd driven your parents absolutely insane. They had dreams (delusions) of you becoming a grammar school teacher. A "safe profession for a girl" that wasn't too ambitious and established your role in the family legacy. All Wrenns were educators. No deviations from the antiquated mold. Unsatisfied with this as you grew older, you tried arguing to your parents that psychology and teaching were similar fields. That they were (for all intents and purposes) practically the same thing! The result had been a disaster. And sometimes, they'd still laugh at the notion over holiday dinner, throwing salt on the wound by mentioning with a mocking scrutiny-

'Except you're not around crazy people!'

-to end the conversation. Not surprisingly, they'd been unsupportive of you the day you'd received your acceptance letter to GSU. They also weren't proud of the grants you'd earned to, in their own words, throw your future away on a crack career like head shrinking. And they didn't help you with anything other than the deposit on this shit hole you now hated renting in the city they hated you living in. Sometimes, your parents would call you to ask if you'd consider coming back home. They would suggest you enroll in the "nice community college" just a few blocks down from their house. Or they'd sneak details into the dialogue about a new position at the elementary school your Mom worked in when they were feeling extra unhappy by your choices. You'd always say patiently: 'No, I can't. I'm staying in Gotham,' and they'd end the chat on a sour note. Lately, they seemed to really enjoy using how well your brother, Braydon, was doing in Metropolis.

Your college fund was the only thing standing in between you and returning back to your parents, crushed and defeated. You couldn't dip into it to solve your money problem. Doing so would only cement the quaint, milquetoast future that they determined for you. It would set you on a course of compromises until you became less an actual person and more a thing they felt entitled to "set right again." You knew, without any shadow of a doubt, that asking your parents for help in your current predicament would only result in a battle where they'd make you admit that you couldn't handle living on your own. They'd probably drive all the way to Gotham to come pick you up and take you back home. You'd wake up ten years in the future after that; a passionless, grade school teacher just like your mother. Probably married to a man you (barely) tolerated with a handful of kids you'd push into being an educator as you'd been pushed. Insisting they give up their dreams for your vision instead. For the only vision that a Wrenn was allowed. What a nightmare concept.

And yet, you found yourself texting your Dad. He had always been the more reasonable parent...

You: Hey, Dad. Can I ask you a favor?

You: Dad, I really need to borrow

You: So, something came up this month

You: Hey, how're you? How's Mom? [5:55 am]

The response came a half an hour later.

Dad: Isn't it a little too early for you? 😜 We're doing fine. Haven't heard from you in a while. How're things in Gotham? We heard there was a new madman running around the city on the news. [6:25 am]

By that time, you were already back home.

You: 🤷‍♀️ There's always a new madman running around Gotham. Dad, can I ask you Dad, I've run into troub I'm doing fine, tho. Just busy. [6:27 am]

Dad: That's good. Remember to put the GCPD on speed dial in case anything does happen, ok? [6:28 am]

You: I've got them on speed dial already. Don't worry. Hey, could we talk about something [6:30 am]

Dad: That's good, sweetie. Just want you to be safe. How's college been? Have you decided on when you'll be transferring over to St. Mary's? [6:35 am]

You stared at the message for a long time after it was sent and realized, with a sinking feeling, just how futile asking your parents for help was. They didn't want you to study at the GSU. They didn't want you to be a psychologist. Hell, they weren't even cool with you living in Gotham! Here they were, already pushing you to leave the city (and your dreams) behind. No, this had been a stupid mistake. If you had a problem, you were going to have to solve it yourself. Like an adult.

You: I'm staying at GSU, Dad. Classes are going really well. My teachers love me. [6:44 am]

The reply from your father came too quick to be anything good. It simply said-

Dad: Ok. [6:44 am]

-and nothing else. You don't text him back. You'd just be wasting time at this point. Instead, you fill out more online job applications. Even the listing you found for a janitor position at Arkham. Right now, you weren't being picky. When you'd milked all of Linked In, Craigslist, GothHires, and several local group forums, you funneled your anxiety in other ways; you began washing the dirty dishes that'd sat in your sink since...you forget, you pick up the books off the floor (putting them together on your shelf), and start sorting through the old laundry piles too.

When you grab your clothes from yesterday, you notice that something falls out of your work vest. It lands on the floor at your feet. You bend down to pick the thing up and peer at it (kinda baffled) and clueless before suddenly remembering what it was. This little black card was the contacts for the temp agency run by Roach's cousin. As you flip it over to see: "Frankie Cee, hiring agent. He'll see the potential in you!" printed on it with black ink and metallic foil, an idea strikes you. A genius idea...

What harm could a phone call do?

You begin dialing the number on the card.

"Hello, Frankie? Hi, uh. My name is [Y/N] and my friend Roach said you hire people. Could I set up an interview with you? My call back number is..."

Sandwiched between the glamour of the Bowrey and the government offices of the West End was a dump called Otisburg where all the dirt, sweat, and grime in Gotham collected itself. Comprised of crumbling brick and dark alleyways that were always littered with trash, it stood out against its wealthy neighbors, reminding everyone that just beneath the (gilded) surface was a festering sore left untreated within the city. And that year after year, Mayor Hill neglected it stubbornly despite his many "sincere" promises to do otherwise. It's inside this wound that you find yourself a couple of hours past noon, wondering (worrying) if you had gotten the address right?? Or if Frankie Cee had sent you the wrong pin on WayneMaps...

Because the place your pin had sent you to was a dive bar.

Brows furrowed in confusion, you quickly check WayneMaps again. Nope! This was it. 4580 45th St (South). Right next to a bus stop and a row of condemned apartments that'd seen better days. Stashing your phone away, you peer at the neon sign that said "Stacked Deck" in mustard yellow and scarlet red with apprehension twisting your gut. Unless this (particular) hiring manager ran a bar or worked at an incredibly progressive, super chill, non-profit, having your interview here didn't make sense. Things like that were typically done in an office. You were starting to realize, albeit a touch late, that this whole situation was sketchy and your genius idea had been stupid! While you knew Roach was only trying to help, he'd set you upon a fool's errand, anyways. Should've stayed home and done job applications. You turn around to leave but surprise yourself when you walk into the bar instead as if a gravitational pull held your feet for ransom.

Suspicious stares fix themselves upon you when you enter the Stacked Deck. Some patrons even leer and throw lascivious comments out, hoping to rattle loose a reaction from you. One guy asks how much your hourly rates are? Another seems way too curious about why "a tiny little thing like you" has come to a place like this? Ignoring each prod and jab these bar-dwellers throw, you wade through the sea of cigarette smoke that hung in the air, focused solely on the long counter where drinks were being served. Unfortunately, you tug your hoodie strings while you do this, advertising the discomfort you felt to everyone regardless of the stiff upper lip you were trying (and failing) to portray. RIP you. After waiting a couple seconds, the next available bartender slides up to you and asks what you want to order with narrowed eyes full of skepticism. She's probably wondering the same thing everybody else is; what're you doing here?

In the back of your mind, you're questioning that too...

"Oh, uhh, no. No, I'm here for Frankie?" You reply, sounding uncertain, your statement forming into a question at the very end, "Frankie Cee? Do you know if he's around?"

Wordlessly, the bartender stares at you. When it was beginning to get super uncomfortable, you tried clarifying. Somehow, this makes you sound less confident than if you'd kept quiet: "I have an interview with him at 3."

The bartender continues staring. Her expression morphs from skepticism to abject disbelief. "You have an interview with Frankie Cee? You?? At this bar?"

"Yes," you say, a bit frustrated now.

She raises an eyebrow, "Are you positive?"

You absolutely weren't.

"Yeah," you repeat, firmer this time, "he gave me this address to meet up. I just didn't know it was gonna be at a bar. Uh, his text said to talk to the bartenders first."

Judging off pure mood alone, you could tell that the bartender was done talking with you. Before she could show you the door, though, you reach into your pockets and pull out the onyx card that Roach had given you. You hold it up so the lady could see it, like it was an ID, hoping this would be enough to convince her to help you out or at least point you in the right direction. If you'd been thinking with your head on straight, if you'd only paid attention to the red flags, you might've realized how weird all this was. How wrong it felt in the pit of your stomach. But, the specter of lost college funds, homelessness, and your (almost certain) unemployment was blinding your sight to the bad omens surrounding you. You wanted money now more than anything else. Even the possibility of it seemed worth the potential risk.

The bartender sighed when she saw the card. It was obvious she was annoyed by the sight of it. "Well, fuck! Here I was thinking you were a lying bitch I could 86. No happy endings in Gotham. Yeah, Frankie's here. Give me a minute. I'll go snag him for ya. In the meantime, be a paying customer, buy yourself something, and go sit at those seats in the back. Or else I'll have to kick you out, anyway. Alright? So, what's your poison?"

You decide on beer. Something light, something without a high alcohol percentage. After all, you didn't want to get fucked up before the interview. The bartender sighs at your choice. With disgust in her tone, she grumbles 'of course' underneath her breath, then turns around to make your order after you'd handed her 15 crinkled dollars. Soon, with drink in hand, you hurry past the pool tables and the cue rack and the glowing neon sign that said: "Keep Gotham Weird". You slip into the end booth closest to the restrooms where a poster of Zephyrs of the Holy hung. Zen had once told you that the band was magical, so you'd thought it'd be a good place to wait. Maybe their luck would rub off on you?

You were half a beer in when Frankie Cee arrived. The man was not what you were expecting! Bald and beefy with black tattoos blazed up his arms, Frankie was the polar opposite of his cousin. He looked suspiciously like if Mr. Clean had joined a biker gang. The man glances at you (and your drink) once, chuckles to himself, then joins you in the booth. You swear you heard him whisper 'of course,' but you pretend not to hear it. Which was probably the best thing you could do in this scenario for more than one reason.

"So! My piece of shit, good for nothing, bum of a cousin sent you my way, huh?" Frankie asks you, grin on his face. Despite the twinkle in his eye, it was hard to tell if he was joking or being serious. That edge of uncertainty has you sweating bullets. You gape at him; frozen cold in the headlights by his question. You weren't sure how to answer him and Frankie seemed amused that you didn't quite know what to say. He continues speaking, taking a casual sip of the Tennessee Rye that was clutched in his hand while doing so, "You know, that fucker still owes me for the last favor I did. You wanna pay his tab for him?"

"Uhhh."

This interview was going great already! You were going to kill Roach when you saw him next. Your face twists up momentarily as you contemplate the logistics of murder...

The man must've sensed what you were thinking because he erupted with laughter. Wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, Frankie switches gears and decides to stop panicking you. "Nahh, I'm just playing' with ya! My cousin's decent when he's not on the drops. But he does owe me a pack of cigs the next time I see him."

"You and me both," you replied, a weaker chuckle than his escaping from your throat, still shaky on whether (or not) this was truly a joke. You try reminding yourself that if everything went wrong for some reason, you had pepper spray handy in your pockets. It was a weak reassurance but the only one you had at the moment.

"Right. Well, enough chit-chat. Let's get down to business." Frankie says, that merry twinkle in his eye becoming much sharper than before.

The man retrieves a folded paper from his pant's pocket, opens it up flat, then slides it over to you. It's a job application. Emblazoned on top was the logo for the temp agency (an eyeball wreathed in flames) with the company name orbiting around it. A small sentence follows underneath: "We can SEE the potential in you!". This agency definitely had their brand figured out, you thought, as the slogan hooked onto your brain like a Super Bowl commercial. Scanning through the rest of it, you find that everything seems pretty normal (about four sections dedicated to general info, medical history, driving record, and previous employers), but when you flipped the paper over...things got a little weird. 13 questions greet you, each more confusing than the last.

You squint at them.

Frankie senses your bewilderment and chuckles. "Just fill the questionnaire out to the best of your abilities, girly. Some of them are a little out there due to our clientele, but answering them all helps me figure out what gigs you'll best be suited for, you dig?? We wanna match our employees' skills to the needs of our clients."

You nod, then ask him a question. But he ignores this completely and asks you one instead. Which nags you in an insistent way. Something was off. Something wasn't right here. Something tugged on your gut for you to leave this place.

"Are you thirsty? I'm gonna snag something from the bar. I'll be back in a moment. Try getting that thing done, alright?? Just don't think about it too much."

Frankie drains the rest of his Tennessee Rye with a single gulp. An impressive feat considering his glass was practically full. He uses your stunned silence to make his getaway. You watch the man saunter towards the bar counter, greeting some new faces that'd just entered the Stacked Deck from the alleyside door. After a second, you turn your attention onto the paper. Blinking, still lost, you search for a pen inside your purse and begin to tackle the easiest parts on the front. That tug in your gut yanked harder. Finally, you arrived at the back page of the application. By that time, it felt like your whole, damn stomach was twisted into knots.

You poise your pen over the first question. Your hand is shaking slightly as you do...

1. How flexible are you willing to be with work hours?

Answer: All weekends and holidays.

That one was normal and simple to answer. You jot your response down without much hesitation.

2. Do you have any physical disabilities that would prevent you from finishing a task?

Answer: No.

This question was also pretty common. You have to have seen it printed on a hundred different job applications before.

3. Do you have any familial connections to law enforcement?

Answer: No.

Another inquiry that didn't appear abnormal. But you wondered, albeit briefly, why a temp agency would want to know that? You figure it was likely a conflict of interest deal for some of the clients. After all, you weren't a fan of the GCPD, either.

4. Do you own a firearm?

Answer: No.

Not an odd question to ask in Gotham. Everyone and their mothers kept some kind of weapon on them. The most efficient option being a gun. You had thought about owning one, back when you'd been planning to move to this city. Instead, your parents convinced you (wore you down) to buy a can of pepper spray. They were mortified by the idea of you shooting a pistol. Luckily, a year into GSU, your dormmate had shown you how to use one.

5. How do you feel about dressing in uniform?

Answer: I'm okay with it.

You supposed this one made sense? Every job in retail that you'd had made you wear a uniform or at least a company T-shirt. You hated the cheesy outfits of some places (like BatBurger), but right now, you weren't really in a position to turn down a paycheck. So, you lie on the application with a bold flourish of your pen.

The next question was where things got strange.

6. If you had a catchphrase, what would it be?

Answer: Ready for anything!

What?? You stare at the words until they seem to bleed off the paper. This HAD to be some sort of attempt at a psychology quiz! One of those lame passes a business would use to gauge your level of agreeability. You roll your eyes, jotting down a phrase that meant nothing to you...but sounded like something that a hiring manager would want to hear. You cringe at the dishonesty. Yet another wave of anxiety rolls over you. Perhaps this beer wasn't agreeing with your stomach?

7. Do you have any physical skills or talents?? Example: Could you scale a wall or jump over a fence? If you had to, could you run for longer than 20 minutes? Are you proficient in martial arts?

Answer: N/A

You blink. Again, the word "what" re-emerged as a question within your brain. You tap your pen on the side of your cheek, chewed it's cap anxiously for a moment while squinting at the query. What in the world kind of business would need martial arts skills?! Was this temp agency hiring people for a dojo? But then, your brain clicks into place, recalling a chat you'd had with Roach about the time he'd been a security guard. He'd quit the job after the first night when a league of black-clad ninjas stormed the vault he was supposed to be protecting. Looking at number seven again, you supposed that it made sense. This was Gotham and insane, crazy shit like that happened all the time.

8. If the police or any legal figures of authority were to ask you to give up the name/s of your fellow employees, would you?

Answer: _________.

How were you even supposed to answer that? Of course, you would have to comply with any legal authorities! What other choice was there? Unless this temp agency was working alongside villains or criminals, a question like this was just strange. You take a gulp of your beer to steady yourself in an almost instinctual reaction, feeling once more a tug at your soul that screamed: LEAVE NOW!!! Five minutes later, you'd drained the whole glass, but those twists in your gut had only grown into a briar patch of knots. You couldn't bail from this opportunity, you reason with the panic. A worse fate awaited you on Monday if you couldn't find another source of income. That fate freezes you to your booth. You decide to leave number eight blank and come back to it. There were five other inquiries to fill.

9. Do you have any medical conditions to your knowledge that may be triggered or worsened by unknown chemical gas?

Answer: I don't know, I've never been exposed before.

Chemical plants. This temp agency must hire for chemical plants and dojos. That had to be it! You mentally pat your own back, proud of your logic, and flawless sensibility. Gotham City retained a high demand for factory workers, chemists, and also...ninjas? Your hand darts out to take another gulp of your beer only to wrap around an empty glass. As you stare at it, the scream inside your head grows louder, evolving into a shriek. Leave now. Leave now! LEAVE NOW! Instead, through clenched teeth, you write the truth in the answer slot. A heavy weight, like you'd signed your death warrant, settled upon your shoulders. Your heart began to pound in your chest. You push on to the next question...

10. Theoretically, if you were thrown into a pit of acid, how would you react?

Answer: ____________.

LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE. LEAVE-

"Almost done with that?"

A gravelly voice interrupts your panic attack. You glance up to see Frankie has returned; two beers in his hands and looking a little drunker. He gives you a wink, then sets your glass down in front of you. It wasn't the brand you'd bought before. The beer was darker, almost orange, and foamed up so thickly at the rim that it threatened to spill out onto the table. Thanking the man, you move the application away from the glass just in case. You hear Frankie laugh. It sounds almost sinister. You weren't sure what was so funny, but you restrain yourself from asking. There were more pressing matters on your mind like these 13 questions on the page before you.

Frankie seems to sense your apprehension as he seats himself in your booth. "Ya know, if you have anything confusing you at all, just ask. That part on the back can really stump the newbies."

Running a hand through your hair, you decide to take the man up on his offer. Perhaps, maybe, it was only a misunderstanding and you were just being stupid.

"Uhm, okay. So, I am a bit, uh...unclear here about some of these questions. Cause they sound a bit-"

Weird.

Strange.

Fucking out there.

"-unconventional," you say cautiously, choosing the adjective with care, "I've honestly never seen anything like this asked on an application before and I've worked a lot of places in Gotham."

Frankie nods lightly, appearing receptive to your concerns. He stays silent. Allows you to continue rambling with an attentive focus stationed upon you.

"Like number 10. W-what am I even supposed to say to that?? Is this a legitimate concern I should be having on the job? What about number 11. Uh, heads or tails??? Why does your agency need to know that? Okay. And let's just take a moment to appreciate number 13, because. I'm just...lost on that one! 'Thoughts on tea and scones? How do you brew a proper Earl Grey?? What are your full thoughts on cerebral manipulation via electrode and have you read Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll?'. Just what kind of clients do you have?!"

Frankie answers without skipping a beat, "We're a grassroots cooperative business catering to a high class, criminal clientele and providing them with necessary services."

Silence settles over you. For a few moments, you simply stare at the man, robbed of words to say, and devoid of thoughts to think. Frankie doesn't react, carrying on as if waiting patiently for your next questions. That twinkle gleaming in his eye got just a touch brighter and sharper. It doesn't catch your notice.

"What?" You ask, your mind finally rebooting and turning back on.

The man replies in a similar way as before:

"We're a traditionally-run recruiting agency that connects the criminal element to those in need of quick gigs or temporary employment. Usually, that first one, though, since our clients can be a little hazardous. But only if you're an idiot."

Frankie laughs while you gawk at him.

Swallowing thickly and with a hushed voice, you rephrase your last question again. You just want to hear the man say it another time in case you'd misheard him. Everyone deserved the benefit of a doubt. Frankie's laugh died down, immediately, when you asked him to repeat his simple answer for a third round. Now he was staring at you. You see a frown pull at his beer-stained lips. Another shift in gears brought a more serious tone to the man as he says, "We're a "Goon Hiring" agency."

...

Frankie Cee sneered, "What, my cousin didn't tell ya?"

"No."

"Well, that's just classic Roach, isn't it?"

...

Instantly, you stand up (ramrod straight) and get out of the booth. Plastering your best "customer service" smile upon your face, you thank Frankie for his time, collect your purse, and turn to leave. As you do, the sound of a gun clicking into place hits your eardrums. It's followed by a growl that commands you to sit back down. Trembling, you obediently comply and return to your seat facing Frankie who now has a Glock trained on you. You peer down the barrel of the pistol, eyes watering, heart pounding fast, and internally screaming at yourself for how dumb you were, how you hadn't listened to the red flags. If you were this fucking stupid, maybe it was a good thing you'd never go back to GSU? You could just die (right now) with the knowledge that it would've never worked out.

Still, your dream of being a psychologist spurred you forward...

"P-please don't k-kill me," you whimper, lower lip trembling like an autumn leaf.

"I won't as long as we can finish up this interview, girly. Now stop crying and drink your beer, we're almost through the paperwork portion."

With a shaking hand, you lift the perspiring glass up to your lips. Frankie lowers his gun as you do. The orange-hued booze that he bought you isn't to your liking. It's too strong, too bitter. It had an astringent aftertaste that clung your tongue and lingered there. Stubbornly. But, you couldn't risk being picky at the moment. Frantic, you wonder if anyone would step in to save you? Was anyone aware of this? Were they calling the cops already or rolling up their sleeves to give teach this man a lesson? At least with this question, the answer was obvious; nope. Everyone inside the Stacked Deck was ignoring you as if somebody pulling a gun out on someone else was normal. A tad late, you remember that you were in Otisburg. To this place, it WAS normal.

And nobody was going to come save you...

Frankie rests the gun on the tabletop in between you but still clutches it close, a warning (for you) not misinterpret his relaxed mood with allowing you a chance to escape. He heaves a sigh, looks at you wearily, and shakes his head. "Look, girly, you either leave because you aced this interview or leave with Tommy and Benny in a rug. Totally your choice-"

Was it really, though?

You gulp.

"-but save me the rug, okay? Those cost money. I can't keep buying more rugs this week. Plus, let's be honest: if you didn't really need this job, didn't reeeally need the money, you wouldn't have even called me. I can tell you need the dough, girl. You got that hunger just like me when I was your age. I promise if you come work with me, I'll feed that good. My temp agency ain't fucking Underworld Talent. We don't use algorithms but we're damn fucking good at what we do. You can't do better than me."

You couldn't do better.

He's right.

You feel like the walls were closing in on you.

Frankie continues his pitch, oblivious to your fear or simply uncaring. "You stick with me? Now, you got something good. Something that'll pay good. I've been doing this shit for years and I can see a future henchmen from miles away. And you? You got henchmen written all over ya, girly. Embrace that. Now, what'll it be...? A damn good job-"

He taps the end of his Glock upon your half-filled application. The sound, impatient, and urging.

"-or Tommy and Benny? And before you choose, think HARD about where you want your future to go. Who do you see yourself being in five years?"

Dead.

There was that question again. You swear, it was haunting you. The instant you heard it said, your mind floods with unbidden images. Bloody flesh on slick pavement. Twisted metal feeding flames and smoke. A cry into the night, soon becoming a wail for help that would go unheard, drowned out by the roll and crack of thunder as it rattled the earth. Lightning flashing across the sky as if God himself was angry. And you, in the middle of it all, crawling along the ground like a worm...

Did you even have a future to imagine after that?

Did you even have a future?

Despair opened its mouth wide to consume you. Yet, before it could, another vision snatches you away from it. Inside the empty hall of an old and dusty classroom, a friend smiles warmly at you. They're patting you on the back as you dab your eyes with a tissue. 'Don't stress out! It's just one bad score. You're gonna make a great therapist someday, trust me.' They say this with absolute confidence. Suddenly, you snap back to reality. A feeling far stronger than despair sparks within you.

Hope.

"I-I want the job!" You exclaim, stammering, but raising your chin to portray enough confidence nonetheless.

Frankie laughs in reaction. He seems pleased by your final decision. "Now that's what I like to hear from newbies! I knew you were a smart cookie-"

The man smiles coldly with a sharp gleam in his eye. Unlike the times prior, you knew that Frankie wasn't joking now. He was being dead serious.

"-so, let's fill out that application, yeah? I got shit to do later."

Steeling yourself, you reach for the ballpoint pen that you'd abandoned on the table and pick it up (determinedly) in your hand. With renewed spirit, you begin tackling the application. You answered every question as best you could. Even the ones that terrified you and made no sense. At the end of the back page, beneath number thirteen, you finally get to the point where your signature was needed. You poise the pen tip over the blank line, take a deep breath, then chew the inside of your lip. After this, there was no turning back. But, it wasn't as if you could turn the ship around now, either. Not if you wanted to keep your roof or go to college next semester...or live long enough to see tomorrow.

Upon the document line, you sign your name. It's a messy scribble of a signature. But, it'll do.

Frankie takes the application from you moments afterward. The ink hasn't even dried on the paper and he's already folding it into his pocket for safe keeping. The man assures you that this was the best choice you could've made; that you weren't going to regret it so long as you did exactly what you were told and followed the rules. Fear seized your heart again. You tried to ignore it. The deed had already been done. The future depended on you making some peace with it...

Because hell or high water, you were going to be a psychologist!

"Well, now that we got that squirt away, let's talk about your first job. A great one just came in an hour or two ago, perfect for a beginner goon like you," Frankie says, not giving you a second more to ruminate before throwing you into the fire, "It won't be dangerous. Just a simple D-List task. If you ask me, it might as well be free money! You'll be cleaning out a warehouse, you feel me? You're in, you're out. Badda-bing, badda-boom! Easy as mother's pie."

"But, I-"

He talks over you, waving away your words with an imperious flick of his hand, "Don't worry, girly, I won't be sending you in alone. This time. You'll be working with a team of my other employees. All experienced with this kind of job. Just listen to whatever they say and you should be golden. They're my go-to squad. So, you're in excellent hands. Trust me."

Frankie snaps his fingers, calling for Tommy and Benny with a voice that pierces through the bar's ambient noise. You're soon joined by two brollic, rough-looking men who tower over you. Frankie asks them to bring him the 'Halloween crap from last year'. A few minutes later, which feels like a lifetime to you, they return, carrying with them a cardboard box full of gimmick masks. Stuff you would buy at a Spirit Halloween store for twenty bucks. Frankie instructs you to pick out one that you liked. Without giving it thought, your hands plunge into the box and pull out a mask at pure random. You blink when you process what you've chosen.

It's a red axolotl mask.

"Take it. Wear it on the job tonight," Frankie says, explaining the purpose of his gift, "Consider it a part of your uniform from now on, alright?? And congratulations, you're officially hired! Welcome to the family-"

He grins at you. His smile has icy shivers racing down your spine.

"-I think you're gonna fit right in."

#faerybladefics #faeryblade is done with dr. crane #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane x you #jonathan crane fanfic #dcu x reader #dc universe #reader is going through it #please don't tell my psychiatrist he'd kill me!#slow burn #dcu #dcu fic

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prince-rowan-of-the-forest · 3 months ago

Text

A Swallow's Symphony In Spring (19/19)

Epilogue - There is no Power like the Freedom of Their Flight

<- Previous | Masterpost |

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Warnings: none

Word Count: 1281

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“Oh skies,” Roman says as he paced back and forth as Janus tried - and the keyword is tried - to fix the lace on his dress. “What if he doesn’t like the dress? What if it’s too much - what if he sees me and decides he doesn’t want to-”

Janus put his hand on top of Roman’s head, effectively startling him out of pacing and talking all at once.

“He’s not going to hate you,” Janus said. “He’s put up with you for almost four years. How? I have no idea, but he has. He’s not going to leave now, not even if you trip over your skirt and fall face first as you walk up the aisle, got it?”

Now that Roman was still, Janus was able to fret properly, fixing the lacing at the back of his corset so that the gold bow sat neatly on the ruffles of his red dress.

The dress fell to the floor and reminded Roman a little of the dresses he would wear to balls at other kingdoms - it was the only way he’d wear a colour like this back then. Vibrant reds with shimmering gold accents, white at the front and on the bodice with a semi translucent mauve veil over his hair that cascaded down his back - decorated with glittering silver and a hemline of gold and blue flowers on green vines. Something that represented his family - his whole family - the ones he had chosen.

Janus adjusted his veil ever so slightly, pinning it back into its place before patting his cheeks. “Virgil’s going to think you look absolutely beautiful.”

Roman let out a soft sigh of relief just as the door to the little backroom of the tavern they were waiting in opened and Logan poked his head in.

“Is everyone ready?” he asked, glancing at the two of them. Janus turned to look at Roman for the answer, who smiled and nodded.

“Yes, I’m ready,” he says. Logan nodded.

“Then we will begin in ten minutes, shall we?” he gestures to the door - offering to lead them to their places. Roman smiled, nodded and followed him out.

“How’s Virgil doing?” Roman asked as they made their way downstairs. The train of Roman’s dress dragged on the staircase and his shoes clicked on the wood. This was the most expensive thing he’d worn since he had lived at the palace and yet it was probably worth less than most of the dresses he had owned then, but he had saved up for this. He had bought this dress with his own wages, that mattered so much more than what it cost and besides, he thought it was incredibly beautiful regardless.

“He is almost ready as well. As is tradition, your family - well; Remus - is helping him prepare. Although, I don’t know how much ‘help’ Remus is actually giving.”

The trio chuckled as they continued down the stairs.

—-

The tavern had been redecorated for the wedding, It was closed to customers for today, though most of their regulars had received an invite regardless. It wasn’t an extravagant event, they had simply pushed the tables back and rearranged the chairs. Red and purple banners had been strung up around the room, draping the pillars and the bar, yellow and pink flowers were arranged on each table around the back of the room. The stage had been framed with flowers and ribbons to look like an archway, beneath which Virgil stood.

The way he was fidgeting with his hands did not distract from the silver suit he was wearing, accented with purple wherever possible and pink where it wasn’t. He wore a veil just like Roman’s, just like the ones from the spring festival - though this one was red, with the same yellow, blue and green border as Romans. Someone had attempted (and failed) to tame his hair. Roman thought he looked just as beautiful as he always did. Janus and Logan followed Roman up the aisle and Roman had to resist the urge to run to his beloved. It looked like Virgil was having the same problem.

Remus stood in the front row, he wasn’t dressed in a fancy suit or dress - instead sporting what was practically jester wear. Roman simply smiled fondly at him. His brother gave a double thumbs up from the audience as Roman stepped up onto the stage beside Virgil, immediately taking his hands.

Virgil returned the smile on Roman’s face. “You look beautiful,” he whispered. Roman couldn’t help but grin.

“You look incredibly handsome, my love,” Roman said softly, bringing one of Virgil’s hands up to kiss his knuckles. Janus coughed to get their attention.

“Save it for after the vows,” Janus teased, rolling his eyes. “You can kiss all you want then.”

Virgil blushed crimson despite the giddy look on his face. “Well why don’t you hurry up and marry us then?” he taunted back. Making the audience laugh. Janus huffed.

“Yes yes, alright,” Janus said, clearing his throat again and tapping his cane against the ground for silence, “Get on with it then.”

Virgil shook his head and took a deep breath before beginning,“I, Virgil Iris Wynter, take you, Roman Anserinae, to be my husband, to love and protect you through every trial and trouble, to cherish and care for you through each winter and each summer, through rain, cloud and shine, forever and always.”

Before Roman could start his own vows, he had to take a deep breath and choke back the happy tears that were already building in his eyes. Butwith a soft smile from Virgil and a nod of encouragement from Janus, Roman spoke. “I, Roman Anserinae, take you, Virgil Iris Wynter, to be my husband. To love and support you through every trial and trouble, to cherish and care for you through each winter and each summer, through rain, cloud and shine, forever and always.”

Logan approached the two of them with the rings Virgil had made, each a simple band of gold set with an inner ring of purple and red. They were simple rings, far less ornate than their engagement rings, but Roman loved them just as much.

“Take this ring we crafted together as a symbol of my love and devotion to you,” Virgil said as he slipped the purple ring onto Roman’s finger. “And with this bond even death shall not part us.”

Roman could barely get through the same words through his tears - which Janus seemed to find vaguely amusing. He couldn’t help it - he had never imagined this day would come, it was so beautiful, putting the ring onto Virgil’s finger as they stood in the place that had become their home, surrounded by people who had become Roman’s family as much as they were already Virgil’s. This was every bit the life he had imagined for himself when he had allowed his mind to wander back at the palace.

“Unless anyone has any objections - and if you do you shall have to deal with Remus, so I wouldn’t bother - I now pronounce you married,” Janus says, smiling as he - in true Janus fashion - paused for far too long, “You may now kiss.”

Roman lunged forward to wrap his arms around Virgil and pressed a kiss to his lips fast enough that Janus let out a startled laugh. Virgil wrapped him up tightly as the tavern erupted into cheering and at that moment, Roman realised just how many people loved him.

Together, they danced until the sun peeked over the horizon, surrounded by family and friends and strangers who loved and cared for him.

Roman was not alone anymore.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #roman sanders #virgil sanders #prinxiety #tss fanfic #sasi fanfic #ts virgil #ts roman #rowan writes

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banner123 · 2 years ago

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https://bannerhouse.com.au/product/footy-fan-corflute-signs/

Banner House is a leading supplier of Sports Fan Cheering Signs | Fan Waving Signs in Australia at affordable prices.

#sports signs #cheering signs #custom signs #personalised signs #personalized signs #banner house #banner house perth

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crystalelemental · 2 months ago

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Bad news, gamers. Well, bad in that it is embarrassing for me. I downloaded Masters.

This was about a week ago. To be clear, I have spent nothing, I haven't even logged on every day. I came back because...I wanted that free Lillie. Admittedly part of playing Ultra Sun was that this alt put me strongly in a Lillie mood, due to the visual similarities to her 2021 Anni alt (one of my favorites they ever did), and with constant talk about it...I finally folded. Let this serve as a lesson: behavior can't change by thinking about not doing it, you need a replacement.

As figure as part of this horrific (and temporary) mistake, I may as well talk about being back. In part because...admittedly I do kinda miss writing about it. Like, I enjoyed the teambuilding and the viability speculation stuff. It was fun for me and I liked the feeling of doing something that contributes mildly. So consider this indulging that itch.

The Units Before I get into this, please understand I had 150+ gems when I left. I had a lot to work with and promise I have spent nothing.

Free Lillie is pretty fun. I actually like her a lot, but this is partially just who she's running with. She's incredibly good with Arc Steven. Spoilers about pulls I guess. I actually do like her kit a lot, I think she does really well for a free pair. Grid sucks, but at least that's justifiable here unlike with her 2021 alt. Lunala had no excuse.

I pulled Arc Cynthia and Arc Steven, but not Arc Lance. Steven is disgustingly overpowered, this is divine. Frankly, it's what he deserves. Eyeing Lance's kit, he also seems absolutely disgusting sick broken. Hyper Beam + Giga Impact at two gauges with -6 Def/Sp Def on hit is just absurd, frankly. The man needs to chill. But, I have little actual need of him, so...yeah. Cynthia is insanely good too, I really like her, but I am specifically pissed about no MPR because they set Dust Kicker as a 5/5 skill. I see what you're doing and I'm not falling for it, game.

I did pick up SS Nemona while she was up, but admittedly I'm unimpressed overall. To be clear, I did not do this for her Extreme Battle. I managed to win with SS Mina, Katherine, and NY Lisia. Katherine has Evasion debuffs which let Lisia hit with consistency, and Mina's able to keep the team tanking long enough for Lisia to complete her goal. No, I pulled Nemona because Steven and Cynthia showed up in three multis total between them and I got a bit greedy. Turns out the game lies and rates are better for paying customers who come back after being gone. They really want me back.

So then Nemona showed in two multis, and sitting at like 138k+ gems I went "Maybe I will try for Rika." And Rika showed in three (with bonus BT Leon). So like. They really want me back. Rika seems alright. I'm not super impressed by her kit overall, though. Ultimate Battles all have Piercing Gaze so the accuracy does nothing, and...I mean not to be a spoil sport, but Arc Cynthia has Ground Zone covered forever for me, so that's not a huge selling point either. Especially since Rika opts for mixed offense boosting, she doesn't really mesh well with some of the Ground pairs I'd want her to.

I did use the select scouts. I picked up Bellelba, Iono, and Poppy. I haven't gotten to use much of Iono and Poppy (I debated whether I'd get them, decided to today), but I have used Bellelba. She's alright. Defensive pair with Crit Shield + Reflect/Light Screen is neat. I think her kit is okay but not exceptional. That said, she did perform admirably in a way I'll get to later.

Full disclosure: I also pulled a bit on the Mix banner. I got Leaf, who is okay. I got Summer Gardenia who is not impressive. And I got Larry, who is Normal type and does not seem that impressive either. I have little to say about any of them, except that Leaf validates my stance on Mix Red when he came out: Great when the condition is there forever, horrible the instant it turns off. Oh, and the Mix banner also shit Rachel and Tina onto me, so great, thanks.

The BP stuff is fine. Lusamine seems messy, I didn't really check Rose or uh. The other one. I did check Cheryl, she doesn't seem great, go figure. Morgan seems pretty solid, but MC Raikou feels pretty mid.

Game Modes There have been some changes since I've been gone, huh?

High Score is still a thing but they're doing two types at once now? Very odd choice, considering. I just went for minimum score for completion, I did not feel like trying.

Damage Challenge sucks, and I hate it. It's basically time trials but stupider. Yes I say this because I'm bad at it. I do not for the life of me understand how to maximize damage for a timed event, and can't break like 400k with any type I've seen. It does help that I don't care about any of the rewards. I used the tickets I did get to pick up Nemona. She's not good, but she is free.

Battle Rally is the real fun. I kinda like this mode, it reminds me vaguely of Battle Castle, the best Battle facility. You get points that you spend on power-ups, and any that aren't used can be spent on items like cake coin vouchers. My best score was like 9800, but that involved a lucky set and having exactly the right finisher.

The positives of the mode are that it relies a bit on planning and strategy. You pick a team, and if you swap out team members, anyone swapped out is done for the run. There are ten matches in a row and it ends on an Ultimate Battle, with the Hard difficulty stage 10 being a 1:1 recreation with the 500k HP pools and everything. Saving your Master Fairs and heaviest hitters for this phase is a good call, but also at Stage 10 unlocks an item for 500 points that is just insanely broken and makes you borderline invincible, and it is worth using that and good multipliers compared to Easy. The point difference is severe.

The negative is that restrictions on this mode are out of control. When you start the challenge, you are given a Theme Skill that must be in your party to get 5x stats. Failure to do this means facing repeated Extreme Battles and high-end Champion Stadium stages and basically not being able to win. Because you also only gain points based on having the right role types. Each stage selects three rolls that give multipliers. If you have both roles on a single pair because of the cake roles, you get 2x points instead of 1.5x, and having that second role also means you gain something more often because you check two boxes. Which means this is a heavily pay to win mode, because the best way to get cakes is getting 5/5 PokeFairs and pulling the paid-only banners for Master Fairs. The upside is that despite showing up a bit late and not having many secondary roles, I'm able to get all 20 cake coin vouchers this month. So it's not that difficult? But also I have a lot of tools, so slight bias.

This isn't really a mode, but apparently they made generic events point-based and not voucher-based, so you can't just use vouchers to pick up the tools you want and dip? I kinda don't like that. It's functionally immaterial, but it feels a little snotty, since I have no interest in theme gear and they keep making me take it.

Ultimate Battles I missed a lot of these, eh? They're all done now. And I only had to compromise my morals for one of them.

Argenta's Glistening Crystals Argenta's was annoying because I wasn't paying attention and it's hard to catch what's happening when. Turns out she removes the Rebuff at half HP. Once I picked that up, Adaman blew her apart with SS Lyra and SS Acerola. Very little resistance once the singular serious gimmick was understood.

Palmer's Rumbling Might And this is where Bellelba gets her gold star. Palmer is a fucking asshole, and my Fighting roster is terrible. This guy sets up easy enough, but then you get Sync into Normal Zone into AoE Max Move into +3 PMUN spamming bullshit, all while basically having sure-crit. Bellelba absolutely stops his DPS in its tracks, all you need is someone strong enough to manage him. Someone like Arc Cynthia, who blew him into powder while Halloween Roxanne debuffed him to high hell. Get used to hearing about H!Roxanne by the way.

Lucy's Entangling Venom Easiest one by far. She's only a problem if you get Poisoned. Antitoxin shuts her down entirely. Arc Cynthia and H!Roxanne sweep. I think I brought Anabel to be cheeky.

Leon's Unbeatable Blaze Leon gets the Huge Dick Award for being my pick as the hardest fight. Unlike the others, this dude feels decisively impossible without a very specific pair. Unfortunately, that pair is SST Red. I made a valiant effort to get by with SS Hau, but the requirement for both terrain and paralysis means SST Red is the only viable option. Classic Elesa isn't worth the investment, and thus has no contribution in damage to support Hau. It had to be SST Red. Who eats shit if completely uninvested. Long story short, my SST Red is 15/20 now. I am not happy about it, but I had over 3000 5* scout tickets so I recouped that cost easy enough. I also EX'd Hau and gave him lv 150. I'm not really happy about that either, but I needed Leon dead and nothing else was getting the job done (Note: this was pre-Iono). I used Arc Steven as the support, and he is absolutely fantastic. Top tier support, no questions asked. Love this man.

Nita's Blessed Land Second by the slimmest margin. I actually thought she'd be impossible over a Red alt too, but unlike SST Red, I was in a better place and refused to pull NC Red on principle. Ice could not come close to getting the job done. Related: fuck them giving SS Silver Sprint instead of Strike. No, I had to get Ridiculous. And by that, I mean I found someone else's clear of the fight using Arc Steven, Arc Cynthia, and H!Roxanne. A player after my own heart. Their grid setup involved using extra energy, a concept I forgot existed until this moment, and got to learn is gated behind move level, which is disgusting. Anyway, 64 energy on each gets the job done, and despite the use of 4/5 Arc Steven for offense debuffing per hit, this is not necessary. I was actually kinda surprised how easy it was so long as Steven lands like three flinches the whole fight. Arc suits are, in fact, nutty.

Noland's Plucky Punches I think this is my favorite one, because this feels the most like a puzzle boss. Yes, it relies on having exactly the right pairs, and that function is unfortunately Fly. But if you know his cycle you can counteract it entirely with that two-turn dodge move and Wide Guard Lana. In my case, I did not have NC Cheren as the good Fly user. Instead, I had Strike Role Renegade Cynthia. Lana to block the +10 PMUN Earthquake, Shadow Force against Fissure, Arc Steven as the supreme tank to keep everyone alive. This took a few tries to perfectly understand his gimmicks, but once we had it this was really simple. Only fault is RNG on Lana is required.

Giovanni's Destructive Power Weenie Hut Jr Award goes to Kanto's favorite failman. He chose to be Dark Weak in the era of Akari, SC Zinnia, and NC Calem. He gets absolutely obliterated. I think I did this attempt 2.

Evelyn's High-Subsonic Speed Evelyn was pretty tough! I don't have SS Gladion, and at the time, didn't have SS Nemona either, so my Fairy options were limited. It also turns out they were not up to the task. Seriously, none of them could do it, it was sad. But! Fluid Fortification meant there was an easy solution, in the form of NC Leaf. Unfortunately, NC Leaf was unable to succeed on her own, as Latios would gain Sp Atk too quickly for her debuffs to keep up. Enter Bede, who is able to debuff Sp Atk very rapidly, and even sets Sun with his Max Move for her. Seriously, can we talk about how good Bede is? Absolutely underrated gem, this boy. Anyway, Arc Steven gaming remains relevant. The man cannot be stopped.

What Now? Unfortunately, I now sit upon a game with nothing left to do. I have conquered every challenge it offered in a cumulative total of a couple hours. That's all the persistent content that's been made available from six months away. And it's a sad reminder of the gacha model in general.

These games start out fun and filled with stuff to do, but eventually you will catch up. And when you do, you turn the game on expecting a full experience, only for it to prematurely grind to a halt. Faced with nothing else to do at the moment, you start to really push for something that will keep it going, and there's really nothing to offer but time or money. And it does not return the investment on either.

Don't misunderstand, coming back was fun for a bit, but I'm already looking at the game like...I'm bored. Given the usual structure, datamine should be in like a week and I legitimately don't know if I'll care enough in a few days to stay for it. It's already drying up.

#pokemon masters

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sanfangirl-cynicalromantic · 9 months ago

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All's Fair In Love And Dragon Racing

Happy @httydhiccstridweek everyone! When I saw the alternate prompt 'dragon racing' I just had to do something with it.

Summary:

The Archipelago hosted a prestigious Dragon Race every year. Astrid Hofferson, beloved celebrity and champion of the game, is determined to secure her position this year as the best, and nothing - not underhand tricks, bribery, or irritating rivals - will stop her.

This year was Berk’s turn to host the games. The spectacle of Astrid Hofferson and Hiccup Haddock going at each other in the last dragon race had become the most famous part of the dragon races, much to Astrid’s chagrin.

She was the goddamned champion of the game, one of the best. But of course Hiccup Haddock had to be the other best.

She supposed she hated him so much because she had worked so hard to be the best, but then the stupid heir could just waltz in late on his stupid Night Fury and win the game effortlessly because, yay, an extremely rare dragon had chosen to bond with him and that made him better than anyone else.

This year, though, this year, for sure. She was going to stand on that podium with Stormfly and smirk at the chief as he handed her the prize instead of his son. He could croon all he liked now, but he’d be singing a very different tune soon.

Hiccup Haddock didn't know what was coming for him.

Hiccup and Astrid are The Hidden World age, so 21.

Read on AO3

Dragon racing had become unprecedentedly popular in the few short years it had become an official sport.

They had been mostly at peace with dragons for years. A wild dragon was treated like a wild boar or bear, just a little more dangerous, but plenty of dragons had also sought out Vikings to bond with. They only chose the most worthy, so being bonded was a great honor, and of course, the stronger the dragon, the more glory to the one who was worthy of their bond. Bonded dragons were basically dragons that could be tamed once they had chosen their person. Of course, it was up to the bonded human to train their dragon and adhere to the laws, but the Vikings of the Archipelago and Beyond had found many ways to incorporate dragons in their day to day tasks.

But dragons were not meant to work without play, and after a few disastrous attempts at hosting a Regatta with dragons (those with sea dragons were banned due to cheating and apparently most dragons got seasick), a new game had sprung.

It had started as a small competition when rounding up the sheep, but then the chief’s family had taken the idea, added a few rules and bonuses, and all of a sudden Dragon Racing had become the Archipelago and Beyond’s favorite pastime.

Now, every year a tribe hosted the games, providing various prizes for the competition, a racetrack (the more difficult and flamboyant the better), and used the event to show off their own prosperity and boost their own economy, because it had truly become a business. Merchants flocked to the host’s island and eagerly paid fees to gain access to customers in a spending, indulgent mood. All the attendees paid for boarding, docking for their ships and or dragons, and seats for the dragon races. Bets, of course, were placed on how many points certain riders would score, and who the winner would be. Mead was distributed liberally, and fans would spend a ridiculous amount of coin on various costumes, face paint, or even woven banners to display their support to their favorite rider.

Aside from the economic benefits, it also served as a lighthearted precursor to the Thing later that year, as different tribes approached each other with various treaties, alliances, and overall ass-kissing while they bonded over the mead and games. Her father hadn’t been present for an entire game for three years, as he handled the bargaining on behalf of her clan, and the best contracts were those signed during the games.

Astrid had become a bit of a celebrity in the game, and while she cared little about the fuss of performing or speaking to admirers and more for the thrill of the game, she had to admit that it was the merchandise sales and not the prize money that allowed her family to live as comfortably as they did. So she saved her stories to tell Father at the end of the day, and wore what Mother told her to and smiled when she was exhausted after the games but was still in public. As someone so well known for her performance, the pressure to win was always exceptionally high.

This year was Berk’s turn to host the games, and the chief could proudly show off the project Gobber the blacksmith had been working on for the past few years. Berk was a big island, but with the steady increase in population and dragon bonds, it would have been far too crowded to host multiple other tribes. Plus, there was always the issue when someone’s fields or house that was part of the racetrack got damaged and they demanded extravagant compensation, so Gobber had come up with the brilliant idea to dedicate an entire smallish island to the task. Chief Stoick had readily approved, and now the island was ready. She had never been to that specific island herself, but judging by her chief’s practically giddy manner, she bet it was spectacular.

She climbed the deck and found her way to the mast, trying to see the island as they came closer. Stormfly, her beloved dragon, was still on Berk, and an attendant would fly her over to the new island that night, as her girl got restless if she was forced to stand in a stall for too long. Sadly, Astrid had been forced to come along without her, as her mother had deemed her presence important the first day of the games even if she did not officially participate or even attend. Colorful painted wooden roosts rose proudly from the island. Flocks of dragons were already circling, looking for a place to land. She looked keenly past the dragon stables and tried to guess what the racetrack looked like. There were still trees covering the island, would there be a section where they had to fly around trees? Stormfly and her had been practicing such maneuvers all year.

The stands, she noted, reached all around the island, were built not on the land itself, but extensions over the ocean, and reached around the entire island except for the large stretch of land dedicated to the boats. The island wasn’t big enough to inhabit and live in the same way Berk was, but it was sizable enough that there was enough lodging, meals, and seats for at least ten tribes across and even outside the Archipelago. A good deal of the island’s lumber had been lost, although there was still a forest pathway, Astrid had overheard. The seats were situated over the water in hopes of dousing any wayward fire that might ever hit the wood. Plus, it made that insignificant trash the audience inevitably dropped simply be swept away and save them the hassle of cleaning up as much. The wooden pillars were multicolored with various banners and crests hanging from them, connected to large decks or bridges that the traders walked along, calling out their wares and performing various tricks to catch the eye of a bored spectator.

The docks were already teaming with Vikings bargaining and haggling and the poor council members walking around with their clipboards yelling at the top of their lungs. Fishlegs Ingerman, a young man around her age, was an apprentice who had quickly risen up in the council’s ranks. He gave her a nod of acknowledgement and checked something on his clipboard.

“Ah, Mrs. Hofferson. Astrid,” he greeted them. “It says here you’ve booked lodging on the south side of the island, a luxury stall in the stables, and a docking spot for two boats?” He looked at their one boat and absence of a certain Deadly Nadder with a raised eyebrow.

“My husband and our dragon will be arriving tomorrow or maybe even later tonight,” Astrid’s mother clarified.

“I see,” Fishlegs smiled. I’ll tell the next shift to keep an eye out for him.” Her mother thanked him and handed him a large pouch of coins. He peered into it and nodded after a moment.

“Here is your key,” he handed Astrid’s mother said key. “And here are the documents for your stable and boat reservations. Let me just sign them -” he reached into the pouch belted across his middle for a quill. “And there!” he finished, signing the documents with a flourish. “The lodges are down that way,” he pointed. “And should you appreciate a map, Hoark is at the Hall handing them out.

“Thank you,” Astrid’s mother said gratefully. Astrid smiled as thanks as well and patted Meatlug, Fishlegs’ loyal Gronckle affectionately. His face lit up at the acknowledgement of his dragon.

“Good luck in the Dragon Games, Astrid,” he wished her.

“Thanks,” Astrid replied.

When the Grimborn tribe hosted the Dragon Races four years ago, it had been hailed the most successful race, in terms of profit, aesthetic, and entertainment. That had been the year Astrid had irrevocably gone head to head with a certain heir to her tribe, and their rivalry had gone down in history. Astrid and Haddock had always stood out as some of the best dragon riders, but in their earlier years they had just been considered talented, not prodigies. They also commonly raced in different sections, as Astrid preferred the early morning races and Haddock was always tardy, so he participated in the afternoon set. Until Viggo Grimborn had suggested top flyers of the sections compete against each other in one final, dramatic race. Haddock, who had won the races easily without any true competition, had suddenly been given a run for his money, and Astrid, who was determined to win as easily as she had all the other games with her superior flying, was outraged to find someone who could best her so infuriatingly easily. She and Stormfly worked completely in sync but Haddock and his dragon - they were like extensions of each other with no care of where one ended and the other began. He could just swoop in and steal her target and she wouldn’t have even seen him creeping up on her! She had quickly lost her temper and their trash talking had become as entertaining as the actual flying stunts themselves. The other players had quickly realized they had no chance of winning against the two so they had settled for egging the bickering on.

That had also been the year that brought about the vulgarity restrictions.

Viggo Grimborn had been hailed a genius, and the spectacle of Astrid Hofferson and Hiccup Haddock going at each other in the last dragon race of the event had become the most famous part of the dragon races, much to Astrid’s chagrin.

As she looked around at her surroundings, Astrid had a feeling that this year, Chief Stoick might have outdone Chief Grimborn. She wondered idly how furious the latter would be. No one had ever dedicated an entire island to the Dragon Races. Maybe even next year Berk’s Thawfest would be held here as well, and the island would become an event destination.

The first day was the beginner racers. One could start participating officially in the races when one turned fifteen, but of course the little teenagers had no hope of comparing to the likes of Astrid. There were a lot of young new dragon racers this year. Perhaps she should suggest the idea of a junior league to Gobber or the Chief. Mothers were encouraging their children and Astrid watched carefully for any sign of some exceptional talent. She had started out like this, and she wouldn’t make the mistake some of her opponents had made in her earlier years by underestimating someone due to their age.

There wasn’t much to see. Gustav Larson, who had idolized and hit on her ever since puberty, was sixteen and had finally been allowed to be in the race (he had been suspended last year due to unsavory behavior). He had finally gained some maturity and his bond with his dragon, a Monstrous Nightmare, was stronger. They cooperated better on the turns and he even managed to score a few points. Astrid nodded in satisfaction. He would never make it to the last race and compete with her, but there was hope for him down the line. Probably.

She watched the competition and chose her favorites while her father bargained with various traders for cuts in the profits of distributing her merchandise.

“Astrid! Astrid!” cried a few children, not much older than eleven. She turned and talked with her fans, handing out some dragon advice and handing one shy girl a seal with Astrid Hofferson’s Nadder, Stormfly, carved on it.

She heard nothing about the Heir of Berk’s whereabouts that day, but could have been due to him helping his father set up, negotiate treaties, or simply be too lazy to make it to the first day of the games.

The next day she woke up at dawn and visited the stables. Stormfly greeted her cheerily, and Astrid brought out a leg of chicken she had brought as a treat. She had discovered Stormfly’s speed flourished under her consumption of chicken, and it happened to be her favorite treat, so Astrid frequently indulged her.

They weren’t allowed to ride on the tracks before they were ready, so Stormfly was sadly stuck in her stall. Astrid had insisted on the best, of course, so the stall was roomy and colorfully painted, for Nadder’s liked pretty things.

“I’ll be back, girl, I promise,” Astrid told her when it was time to grab breakfast at the Hall. I’ll see if I can get you out as soon as possible so you can stretch your wings.” Stormfly crooned mournfully but nudged her toward the door. She patted her girl one more time before she slipped out of the stables.

The morning was spent dealing with business, so Astrid snagged an attendant and told them to let Stormfly out to stretch her wings before they prepared her for the race. Then, after lunch, her mother dragged her to get ready for the race. Just because she was a warrior didn't mean she couldn’t look her best in front of everybody. Her hair was undone, brushed, and then rebraided, a few red and blue beads added to the small braids by her temple that merged with the main braid. She had taken a bath the day before, which was the only reason they didn’t chuck in the tub anew, and brought out her riding outfit reverently. They weren’t overly fancy clothes, as dragon racing was a rough sport, so her leggings were thicker than they normally were and a dark navy blue. Her skirt’s spikes were dulled and shorter so it was uncomfortable to sit in her saddle. Her shirt was red then she shrugged on the turquoise vest with tassels on the shoulders because it was the safest place to put them without potentially hindering Astrid’s movement. Her arm bracers were also embellished with iron cuffs and lined with newer fur, and she added her hood from last year because she liked the familiar weight at her back. Her shoulder pads were carved Gronckle iron and lined with the softest layer of fleece. Every year her riding outfit was more and more costly, but Astrid liked looking pretty and the fleece or fur linings were a nice contrast to the hard metal that used to scrape her collarbone and shoulders a few years ago. Then, mother brought out the face paint, and Astrid sat perfectly still as her mother dipped a brush in the paint and began. The cyan over and around the eyes, then a stroke from the brow down the bridge of her nose to rest along her cheekbones, the shape reminiscent of the wings of a butterfly. Her chin was marked with the turquoise and orange was added as another V atop her brow, and then highlighted her eyebrows to curve down and rest on top of her cheekbones on either side of her face. Astrid sucked on her lips as they added a dab atop her chin and then it was time to meet Stormfly.

She walked in the middle of the group so they could ward off well wishes shouting encouragement or, for some supporters of Haddocks, abuse. Father had sold some of their merchandise to merchants, and she saw a few of them peddling flags in her colors and gesturing toward the children.

Stormfly was practically itching with excitement when she reached the stall. She pulled herself up into the saddle and paused to let the attendants hold torches close to Stormfly’s legs to dry the remainder of the wet paint. Then her mother nodded at her and everyone stepped back as Stormfly took off into the stadium.

A cacophony of shouting and bright colors under the harsh sunlight greeted her as they made a lap around the stadium, waving and laughing as they screamed her name and stomped their feet as she pumped her fist in the air. Stormfly shot eight spines in the air, forming a perfect circle and then showered them with blinding white sparks. The crowd applauded raucously. Astrid waved her arms slowly, quieting the roar into a dull murmur until she held everyone’s attention before she performed a backflip on Stormfly and the crowd went wild again.

She flew a quick lap around the stadium, hanging easily off her saddle and reaching her hand out as the stands fought to touch it.

Before their applause had even fully died down the stands registered a high pitched whistle. “A Night Fury,” they whispered in awe and Astrid scowled as she patted her girl’s head and they retreated to their place. The sound grew louder and louder as people began to chant excitedly. A dark figure could be seen in the sky as it hurtled toward them. The children pointed excitedly and some of the newcomer’s eyes widened. Closer and closer they came until they could see the blast building in the dragon’s mouth.

“Get down!” someone cried and it echoed across the stadium, but not in true fear. The black dragon released the shot and it exploded just above everyone’s heads. The sparks winked out harmlessly between outstretched fingertips as some of the young spectators screamed in excitement.

The young man and his dragon landed heavily on the ground right in front of the decks that led to the stands. Some of the traders in the near vicinity jumped in frightened surprise. The sound reverberated across the stands before the Vikings broke into loud cheers.

“The Champions of Berk!” the announcer called.

Astrid made a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat, too quiet for anyone but Stormfly to pick up on. She was the goddamned champion of the game, one of the best. But of course Hiccup Haddock had to be the other best. He couldn’t have been from another island and let her enjoy her victories in peace, no. He just had to be constantly there, gloating over his wins when he beat her and sulking when she had won that year.

She landed on a thick perch behind the baskets used for scoring. The perch reached from the stands to the docks on land - it was essentially a beam that had never had a bridge built upon it. It was supported by multicolored wooden pillars with various banners and crests hanging from them, connected to the large decks or bridges that led from the land or the docks to the seats around the dragon racing track. She spied multiple banners bearing the Hofferson insignia and Stormfly captured in her majestic flight around the stadium, signifying support for her. A few Vikings had painted their faces or arms turquoise and orange, too. But as many colors she saw for herself, she saw an equal amount of drastic black masks in support of Haddock.

Her eyes drifted to the main dias where the chief sat. As the sponsor of this year’s games, he wore nothing to indicate his preference for any rider, but as Haddock’s father, she can’t help but begrudge him, even though she knows his interference in the game if it is needed will be nothing but fair.

There were five players in the final race. Astrid and Haddock, of course, as the undisputed champions. The announcer read off the names of the three players admitted in the final game, which was considered the greatest honor they could achieve, as no one stood a chance in the wake of Astrid and Haddock’s competitiveness.

“Heather the Unhinged!” the announcer cried and the Berserker tribe jumped up with howls of delight. Astrid allowed a smile to break out over her face. She liked Heather, who had competed in the final round last year as well. At this rate, she was well on her way to becoming a champion as well. The dark haired Berserker waved from atop her Razorwhip and the Berserker chief (Heather’s brother) jumped up and let out a bloodcurdling whoop. She flew to roost on the perch next to Astrid’s.

“Congratulations,” the female champion greeted her warmly. “Nice to see you back again.”

“It’s good to be back,” Heather returned. “Good luck this year.”

“Oh, I’ll get the black sheep this time.” Astrid’s face darkened. Last year she had claimed all of the sheep in her basket save for one. Haddock hadn’t stood a chance for most of the game until he had swooped in and stole the black sheep right out from under Stormfly’s claws. The black sheep was worth ten points, so all her hard work was rendered invalid when the scoring system declared his one sheep worth double the five of hers.

She was still salty about that. And the other time he had beat her a few years back. It just wasn’t fair he could just get as good as he did, but, well, life wasn’t fair.

Heather chuckled as she followed Astrid’s line of thought across her face.

“Lars Grimborn the second!” was the next name called. Lars was a cousin of Chief Grimborn, and was bonded with an enviable Skrill. The only dragon more powerful than the skrill known to bond with a Viking was the one and only Night Fury in their midst. Of course, a powerful dragon was only an advantage to a certain point. Lars was heavyset and his dragon was large, but his weight would be a disadvantage against his opponents whose main strengths were their speed and his dragon’s size would only make it more open for attack. His triumphant expression looked more like a leer underneath his trimmed mustache that was the Grimborn family style (it was an ugly look). He took his place next to Heather, leaving the spot between him and Haddock empty.

“Earmug Micketson, of the Outcasts!” declared the announcer, gaining Astrid’s attention. The Outcast, an average built man in his late twenties pumped his fist and yelled, “Yeah!” so loudly he could be heard over the applauding crowd. Astrid remembered him. His strengths were stamina, as his Gronckle was a slow dragon, but it also was a smaller dragon, and he excelled at attacking his opponents from beneath. He usually waited for someone else to catch the sheep before then fighting them and claiming the sheep as his own. Well, if Earmug thought he could overpower Astrid he had another thing coming.

She chanced a glance at the figure furthest from her. He was patting his dragon’s head and speaking to him. He must have sensed her eyes on him and turned to meet her gaze. A cheeky smirk spread across his face, messing up the red lines painted across his cheekbones just slightly. She scowled at him and faced forward again, fighting the urge to scratch her own painted face in the heat. Mother would kill her if the orange and turquoise swirls were married before the start of the game.

There wasn’t much that counted as cheating. Only killing or crippling a rider or dragon, or injuring one of the spectators. Of course, since the pastime was dangerous in and of itself, it was scarily easy for an opponent to blame any maiming as an accident, so one always had to be extra cautious. Weapons were allowed and liberally used, as was ramming into other dragons, jumping on them, sparring with them in the air, and ambushes. Sometimes riders would team up and sabotage others by attacking the person with the sheep from two sides or more. A lot could happen in one lap around the island. Astrid was a self sufficient rider, so she never worried much about betrayals from a partner.

She allowed a cool smile to grace her face as Mulch stood by the horn that would start the race. Her fans knew her as aloof and most of all, confident, so she hid her nerves expertly.

“On your marks!” bellowed Gobber from the podium. Astrid petted Stormfly’s flank.

“We got this, girl,” she whispered.

“Get set,” continued Chief Stoick, even louder than his friend. Astrid lay herself flat on the saddle to make her and Stormfly more streamlined. The chief gestured to Mulch who was standing by the horn.

Mulch paused and flashed the contestants a winning smile. He was delaying blowing the horn on purpose. Slowly, achingly, he lowered his mouth to the tip of the horn, but didn’t blow. Astrid’s muscles felt they were about to explode from holding their position for so long, even though it had only been a few seconds.

At last he puffed his cheeks and blew. They were off like a shot before the sound even had a chance to register.

The rush of wind on her cheeks and the familiar sensation of her stomach bottoming out felt better than being welcomed home after a hard day. The crowds were screaming as Haddock had already disappeared and strid had taken the lead.

Stormfly swooped left and Astrid immediately cataloged the new track in front of her.

There was a five hundred meter stretch of clear air before the track branched off into two obvious segments. She scanned the land for any hidden catapults. There were no sheep thrown in the first round, but after one rider crossed the scoring baskets for the first time, sheep were launched into the fray. She spotted one catapult, but it looked open and abandoned so she doubted any sheep would come from it this game. She had tried to keep track of the sheep launchers from the other games with little success, but she was pretty sure she recognized a location or two sheep would fly into the sky in the coming rounds.

She had slowed down a little in her quick lap around the track, so as she came out of a half natural half built set of caves she found Grimborn emerging from one of the branches, not too far behind her.

(She’d seen no sign of Haddock in her perusal of the path she had chosen, but there were plenty of other paths he could have chosen and he liked to hide. And she hadn’t really looked for him, just idly wondered where he was.)

Pride dictated that she had to be the first one over the line, so she patted Stormfly behind her crown of spikes and they sped up, streaking across the line in a flash of bright blue. The audience cheered. She nudged Stormfly with her foot and they slowed down almost imperceptibly, waiting for the sheep to go flying. The sheep didn’t always fly, though. Sometimes no sheep were launched during a round, which meant riders had to scour the track looking for them. She calculated the fork in the path in front of her. The one she had taken in the first round had plenty of trees, caves, and colorful obstacles, so a sheep wouldn’t likely hide there. But she didn’t know the other path at all. Did it have the sheep or not?

She heard the telltale whistle of a Night Fury going full speed and felt a whoosh of air go down the unexplored path. Well, if that was where he was going that’s where she would go too. She urged Stormfly on.

“Why hello Milady,” his annoying nasal voice greeted her as she pulled up beside him. “Are you following me?”

“No,” she replied huffily. “I’m looking for a sheep, if that wasn’t obvious, seeing as it’s the point of the game.”

“You wound me,” he snarked. “Implying I’m not smart - how will I ever recover?”

“Hopefully, you won’t,” she replied with sickening sweetness. A flash of paint caught her eye amongst the brush and her hand reached for her ax as she urgently nudged Stormfly with her foot. She would swing at him if he tried to steal her sheep. It wouldn’t kill him, but a few bruises? That she’d gladly hand out for free.

Their eyes met for a split second and she dove. Haddock’s dragon was sleeker and faster than Stormfly when it came to maneuvering (with Stormfly’s careful diet of chicken, her Nadder could beat Toothless’ speed under certain circumstances) but Astrid was a fierce fighter, and Hiccup was too close to her to be able to get away safely if he took the sheep from her now.

Stormfly scooped the sheep with the painted wool up in her claws and the track led them back to the stands.

“Hofferson’s got the sheep!!” called the announcer. “But oh, will she have it for long?”

Earmug tried to sidle up to her dragon but Stomrfly sent a few well-aimed spines immediately. He swerved away from her. Hiccup had disappeared temporarily, but Astrid knew he wouldn’t be gone for long.

Indeed, Haddock and his dragon tried to tuck in their wings and dive under her dragon but Astrid stood up in her saddle and kicked him away from her. He let out a pained ‘oof’ and the crowd screamed in encouragement and outrage. Of course, that wouldn’t stop him for long, and it was difficult to make sure the sheep stayed in Stormfly’s claws: she might let it go on reflex if someone attacked her softer lower belly.

Stormfly zoomed through the air and now Heather was right on her heels. The other girl began to slowly pull up even with Stormfly.

“Hey, girl!” Heather called, addressing Stormfly. “Remember me?” The Berserker pulled out a leg of chicken out of her saddle pouch and waved in enticingly. Stormfly perked up at the sight of her favorite treat.

“Oh, no. Hey, girl,” she soothed her dragon. “Remember I’ve promised you an extra barrel of chicken tonight if you don’t get distracted, yeah?” She patted Stormfly’s left flank, a signal for her to speed up so they could leave Heather and her bribery behind, but the dark haired girl chucked it ahead of them, intending for Stormfly to dive after it.

Unfortunately, her aim had placed the leg of chicken right in front of them so Stormfly caught it in her mouth without straying from their straight line of flight. The stands burst out into delighted laughter and Astrid chuckled in relief.

“And Heather Berserk attempts to play dirty, but is defeated by unfortunately straight aim,” cried the announcer into his horn. “But oh, don’t worry, we like a little extra excitement. Speaking of which -” A huge boulder came hurtling straight at Astrid but Stormfly spun gracefully to avoid it. “And Hofferson twirls out of the way with enviable grace!” he finished.

Next, a bola was shot at Grimborn, a barrel on fire launched at Hiccup, who didn’t even have his dragon move out of the way, he just jumped off of Toothless and glided back down onto his saddle with the help of the wings built in to his armor. Plenty of people who hadn’t seen his armor before screamed in excited fear, but Astrid, who had been subject to his testing out his prototypes all over Berk for the past year, rolled her eyes at his inability to stop showing off.

Her expression of attitude cost her. She didn’t notice the second boulder heading towards her and it crashed into Stormfly right above her right leg. Astrid gave a little scream.

“Stormfly!” she cried, worried her girl might be hurt, but the dragon shook her head and gave her a reassuring squawk as they righted themselves. Micketson, who had been right behind her, had his dragon simply eat the boulder. Stupid boulder class dragons. She had lost her sheep. She narrowed her eyes at Micketson and nudged Stormfly toward him, but before they had even begun to gain on him, Haddock flew upside down and plucked the sheep out of Earmug’s arms.

“HEY!” Astrid’s scream of outrage was louder than Micketson’s. “That’s MY sheep!!!”

“Looks like mine now!” Hiccup called and Astrid growled. He began to speed up but Heather quickly bumped into him and his Night Fury flared his wings. Astrid joined the fray as Heather reached for the sheep but missed. Lars Grimborn, with his Skrill crackling ominously, found that the intimidation factor didn’t work so well on the rider who rode a goddamned Night Fury, and Astrid swung off her saddle to use his helmet as a stepping stone to get back in her saddle because she felt like it.

The Heir of Berk clutched the sheep to his chest with an infuriating smirk and Stormfly sent a stream of spines towards him, which he dodged. Astrid had lost track of the announcer’s comments on the game but she heard the laugh from the crowd at his avoidance of Stormfly’s spines and glared.

They rounded another bend and avoided a few more obstacles. Grimborn threw a hammer but it missed, and Astrid urged Stormfly ahead as she planned her next attack. She and Haddock now were definitely ahead of the others. Hiccup’s head turned to look at her and she had Stormfly slow down slightly so it wasn’t obvious they were doing it on purpose instead of lagging behind. He turned around again and Astrid guided Stormfly up, up, grateful they were flying so that their shadows fell behind them. She stood up carefully, and the audience oohed but Hiccup didn’t notice. Stormfly flew a little bit ahead so that Astrid would land on her moving target but not enough that they noticed her, and then she jumped.

Hurtling through to air was nauseating when she wasn’t attached to a dragon, but she landed heavily on Haddock’s mount, causing them to dip in their flight and Haddock to lose his balance. She leaped on top of him, wrestling his arms to his side and kicking the sheep off of his dragon. The Night Fury tried to follow it but Stormfly was waiting and coasted a little underneath them to catch Astrid. Hiccup tried to reach her and when that didn’t work, he tried to lay atop her to stop her from escaping.

“Arrgggh, get off!” she yelled at him angrily.

“Not a chance, Milady, unless you’d be so kind as to release my arms.” She hissed in response. She chanced a glance behind her, furious to see the other riders speeding up to try to steal the sheep from Stormfly while she and Haddock were occupied. Gathering all her strength, she shoved him hard enough away from her he had to scramble and hold on the saddle while she slipped off his dragon.

She landed on her saddle. “Good girl,” she muttered quietly to Stormfly and the crowd went wild as she deposited the first point in her basket.

Of course, she wasn’t that triumphant all game. There were fifteen total points one could score out of six sheep, and Haddock scored the second point with a mocking kiss he blew at her while she swore at him. He scored the next point too, but Astrid caught the fourth sheep out of the air and flew so fast no one even got the chance to attack her until after she’d deposited it safely in her basket. She’d screamed her triumph out loud and the crowd had roared with her until the fifth sheep was shot up into the air.

This round was tougher than the other ones as the two champions doubled down on their efforts to gain an obvious lead on the other before the break between the painted sheep and the black one. The participants knew this of course, and Astrid had no less than two flaming boulders, a bola, and a barrel of Monstrous Nightmare Gel launched at her before the sheep was even in the air.

Astrid snapped her head round at the sound of a spring and saw Micketson catch the sheep first. She let a slow grin spread across her face as she nudged Stormfly toward him. Earmug’s face was paler than it had been all game, but he flew straight for the path with the forest and wove quickly through the trees while she chased him. He was surprisingly agile with his dragon, Astrid had to give him that.

He was ambushed as he cleared the trees. Grimborn had somehow gone ahead and waited for him to clear the trees. He slammed his Skrill into the smaller Gronkle and the Outcast grunted as he lost his grip on the sheep. Lars caught it smugly and sped off, Astrid hot on his heels.

“Eat my dust, Hofferson!” he snarled at her.

“Funny, I was just about to say the same,” Astrid returned. Not her best comeback, but it irritated him all the same.

He dodged her attempts to sneak up on him, and Astrid growled in frustration. The trick she’d pulled with Haddock wouldn’t do; he’d be expecting that and would probably be able to overpower her. His Skrill was bigger than her Nadder, so she couldn’t bump into him and get him to drop the sheep. She could challenge him to aerial combat but that would be difficult. Maybe if she cornered him into an obstacle? A net came flying suddenly and Astrid barely had time to duck out of the way. The heavier Skrill and its rider were not so fortunate. He tried to keep hold of the sheep, but as his Skrill stopped flapping he cursed and let go of it while he tried to untangle the net around his dragon’s wings.

The sheep bleated pitfully as it tried to find a way off the scary flying dragon. Astrid flew to Grimborn’s side, sliced a sizable hole in the net, and reached for the sheep. It shied away but not before she grabbed a firm handful of wool and dragged it forcibly off onto her dragon.

“Haha!” she crowed just as Hiccup appeared, aimed a kick at her ribs, and snatched the sheep.

“COME BACK HERE!!!” she screamed furiously. “YOU SON OF A RAT-SHITTING, TOE LICKING, TROLL EATING MUNGE BUCKET!!!!!!!” She heard the audience’s amusement at her rage. Haddock simply cackled.

Stormfly flew up beside them and Astrid reached over and grabbed the sheep’s hind legs.

“Hey!” the Night Fury rider snapped. “Get off of my sheep!” He pulled at it.

“It’s my sheep!” she argued back. She pulled on her side of the sheep harder.

“Let go!” he cried.

“Never,” she sneered back at him. He glared at her and tried to fly off in an effort to make her let go. Astrid held tight as Stormfly banked alongside them.

“Stubborn woman,” she thought she heard him mutter. “Toothless, roll!” Astrid tugged suddenly at her side of the sheep as they rolled over and pulled the front legs out of Haddock’s hands. Unfortunately, the momentum cost her her grip on the animal as well and it flew back in the air.

“No!” she cried. Haddock righted himself beside her and tried to reach it, but it was plucked out of the air by none other than Heather and she dumped it swiftly into her basket.

Astrid pulled up short. The last time someone had scored a point other than her or Haddock during the last game had been years ago. Her jaw fell open in outrage, surprise, but admiration, too.

“Would you look at that!!” the announcer cried. “Heather the Unhinged of the Berserker tribe scored a point!!!!”

Heather let out a battle cry, thumping her chest and her tribe followed suit. “That’s my sister!” Chief Dagur screamed. Astrid heard a small laugh beside her and turned to look at Haddock.

“Would you look at that,” he marveled. “We were so busy fighting over the sheep we gave her the point.”

“Would have been avoided if you had just given the sheep to me,” Astrid said nonsensically, but in truth she was quite proud of her friend despite the wound it caused in her pride.

“Haddock and Hofferson remain tied for first place, Heather the Unhinged in second,” the announcer declared. “But there is hope for Micketson and Grimborn yet: next round we have the black sheep!” the crowd oohed with him. “But first, let’s have a break! Rest our dragons and sore rumps!” the adults laughed with him. “And we’ll see you again in an hour!”

His hips pinned hers to the wall as he devoured her mouth. She moaned quietly and arched her back, fingernail scrabbling to find purchase on his leather armor, finally retaliating by biting his lip as he tried to pull away. Hiccup growled as he surged back towards her and hefted her right leg to set it on his waist as they met in another clash of lips.

“You bastard,” she growled as she nipped at his lips to punctuate her words. He hissed as she ran a tongue over the sting to soothe it. “I’m still angry at you for stealing my sheep.”

“Which one?” he taunted, dipping down to suckle at her collarbone, his smirk pronounced against her sweaty skin. One of his hands slipped under her skirt, hastily folded so as to not stab anyone with the metal spikes. It trailed up her thigh to squeeze at her ass appreciatively, drawing a moan from her throat as she ran her hands over his shoulders before pulling him closer.

“Nnnngh,” she shot back eloquently as he licked a hot wet strip up to her ear and made her buck her hips into his involuntarily. “The last one. Oh, and those two sheep you scored with too, of course.”

“Weren’t yours once they were in my basket,” he remarked casually, pressing her further into the dark walls of the empty stables.

They had an arrangement. Dragon Racing was thrilling, and with the adrenaline came a rush of. . . other hormones. Astrid’s parents would never allow her to go acting on such impulses unless she was properly tied to the person, but Astrid wasn’t ready for anything of that sort yet. She was content solidifying her career in racing and perhaps living out the rest of her days as a shieldmaiden. Luckily Hiccup was looking for a person with no commitment to suit his needs as well - as the heir of a prominent tribe, it was a risk that any girl he dallied could end up with enough incentive to force him to marry her - so it was a mutually beneficial agreement for both of them. A way for them to blow off steam and cool off - or heat up, which was the case more often than not.

The bagpipe players changed their tune, signaling it was time to start getting ready to head back. Hiccup let out a groan of frustration as he pulled away from her lips, making a satisfying smack. He leaned his forehead against her heaving chest for a minute, trailing light fingers along the strip of exposed midriff above her waistband while they caught their breath and attempted to steady their breathing.

“Better go draw those red lines on your face, Haddock,” Astrid said at last, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, you’ll need them,” he retorted. “You already miss me plenty with the helpful red marks giving you a perfect target.” She hissed and bared her teeth.

“If you think you’re going to win this year, you’re wrong,” she threatened. Hiccup cocked his head mockingly.

“Tell me, who was taking your sheep in that last round, huh, Astrid?” he asked infuriatingly.

“I was winning it back,” she sniped back at him. “So I actually have the most claim on that sheep out of the both of us.”

“Before you threw the sheep away from you and let Heather catch it,” Hiccup reminded her.

“It was your fault,” she insisted. “I had to win it back from you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hiccup cut in. “I’ll get the black sheep, and that will be the end of your delusions about winning.”

“You’re not gonna get the black sheep,” she scoffed.

“Wanna bet?”

“Sure,” she said, a slow smile spreading across her face. “If I win . . . I’ll do that thing you like afterwards.”

Hiccup’s eyes darkened and then he shook his head. “You’re not going to bribe me into losing,” he rolled his eyes.

“It’s not bribery, it’s consolation for when you inevitably lose and I’ll be in a good mood,” Astrid said with mock innocence.

“I’m winning this game, Astrid,” he warned her, although she could see lust warring in his eyes. “But, if we’re doing things that way,” he stepped forward into her space again and rested one of his arms on the wall above her head, smiling down at her wolfishly. “If I win, I’ll do that thing you really like,” he breathed into her ear. Astrid tried to feebly suppress her shudder but he sensed her tingling nerves and pulled back with a self satisfied smile.

He might have had a point about being bribed to lose.

No, she felt anger rise up at the part of her that dared to consider the possibilities of her losing. No matter how fun their little arrangement was, she was not going to give up enviable glory for a whole year in favor of a few minutes of pleasure.

. . . Well, it was usually more than just a few minutes.

“Fuck you,” she spat, mostly at herself, not that he needed to know that, and pushed him away from her.

“Is that an expletive or an intention? Because if it’s the last, then please, by all means.” Ugh, she hated when he got all smug and snarky like that. Probably because it usually made her want to crack a smile against her will. She forced her face to look angrier than she was and turned to face him again.

“It’s a fucking threat, asshole, so stay out of my way,” she poked his chest. “I’m winning this thing.”

She brushed past him, pulling her skirt back down and fumbling a little as she tried to tuck her shirt back in. Her clandestine encounters with Hiccup - he always insisted she call him by his name when they were together - usually gave her a mix of satisfied, shy, and increasing irritability at his insufferability that never failed to draw her back in. Their covertness was almost laughable because the only part of their antics their parents would disapprove of was the secrecy, well, and the debauching. But as much as they enjoyed the other, they didn’t like each other, which was why she didn’t like herself starting to understand him (because that would lead to liking him, and she couldn’t have that).

She heard a low whistle behind her and rolled her eyes but couldn’t bring herself to be truly offended.

“See you from the podium, Astrid,” he crooned as she reached the end of the tunnel. She turned around to give him a double middle finger. He could croon all he liked now, but he’d be singing a very different tune soon, because she was going to win. She was going to stand on that podium with Stormfly and smirk at the chief as he handed her the prize instead of his son. She was going to grin at Father tonight and tell him all about her victory, and Mother would give her an extra helping of dessert.

And then, after the evening was over and everyone had gone to sleep, she was going to wake the Heir up and give him the ride of his life.

#HiccstridWeek2024 #dragon racing #Freeform #Hiccstrid #Hiccstrid au #Hiccstrid rivals to lovers #Astrid and Hiccup are rival racers #rivals with benefits #Hiccup Haddock #Astrid Hofferson #HTTYD #HTTYD au #Competitive!Astrid #my writing

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