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knight-hiccup · 2 months ago

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𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₈

This is Chapter 8 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 7.3k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 8

a/n: (lightning flash warning in one of the gifs I use)

The longest walk of your life had left you battered, each step back from the cove a slow, aching trudge through the darkened woods, the soft weight of the fish sack dragging at your shoulder like a chain. The forest had been merciless—roots snagging your boots, branches clawing at your cloak, sending you sprawling into the dirt more than once.

By the time you stumbled into Berk’s outskirts, your attire was a wild mess: mud streaked across your arms, twigs and leaves tangled in your hair, your cloak torn at the hem from a particularly vicious fall. The moon had been your only guide, its barely pale light casting long, ghostly shadows that twisted your path into a maze of doubt and hurt as you walked through the canopy of the overhanging trees.

Now, as you neared your home, the familiar silhouette of your door loomed ahead, a faint promise of rest after hours of turmoil. The forge next door glowed faintly, its hearth burning bright through the open walls, and Gobber’s low, tuneless hum drifted out, mingling with the rhythmic clink of metal on metal. He was working late, oblivious to your closing form and the churning in your chest, and you envied that ignorance as you shuffled closer, too weary to care who saw you in this state.

Hiccup, meanwhile, had spent those same hours restless, his mind a tangle of worry and guilt. He’d stayed up, pacing the forge after slipping away from Stoick’s overbearing pride, his thoughts circling back to you—where you’d gone, why you hadn’t met him as planned. The trial’s chaos had swept him away from you—this he knows—the crowd’s fervor a wall he couldn��t breach, and he’d fled to the cove to escape it all, forgetting the promise of the forge in his haste.

When he’d returned home seeing as you weren’t there, the silence of Berk had gnawed at him, your absence a quiet ache he couldn’t shake. Now, as he glanced out from the forge’s glow, he spotted you—wild-haired, dirt-smeared, a shadow of the girl he’d left behind—and his heart lurched. He bolted after you, boots pounding the earth, desperate to close the gap before you disappeared behind your door.

You didn’t see him, your gaze fixed downward, too tired, too angry to notice the figure closing in. Your hand gripped the latch, swinging the door shut with a dull thud, but his boot jammed into the frame just in time, stopping it cold.

Startled, you yanked the door wider, your breath catching as Hiccup stood there, his sheepish grin flickering under the weight of your stare. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he would always do when feeling guilty, and launched into a rush of words, apologies spilling out like water from a broken dam.

“Hey—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for ditching you at the arena,” he started, his voice tripping over itself. “It was a mess, then they took me to the Hall—where I manage to sneak away—it’s just. . .everyone was in the way, and I couldn’t—I just had to get out. I went to the cove to wait, but I forgot about the forge, trying to avoid Dad and Gobber in the process, and—gods, I’m sorry about missing lunch too. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.”

He kept going, oblivious to the change brewing in your silence, his words piling up like stones—earnest, fumbling, blind to the hurt you buried deep. It wasn’t until he paused, his eyes finally tracing over you—taking in the dirt smudged across your cheeks, the leaves knotted in your hair, the wild exhaustion etched into every line of you—that he faltered, his grin fading.

“You. . .You look like you’ve been through it,” he said, softer now, concern creeping in as he registered the toll of your trek.

You bit your tongue, the truth clawing at your throat—you’d waited for him in the cove, hours spent in the dark with Menace, your heart sinking with every passing minute. But you couldn’t say it, couldn’t face the questions it’d raise—Why didn’t you just show yourself?

So, you tried to deflect it, but your words betrayed you—voice tight as you asked, “Why does Astrid know about Toothless?”

His eyes widened, confusion flickering across his face, followed by a flush of embarrassment. “Wait—how do you know about that?” he stammered, and the heat in your own cheeks betrayed you again.

“I. . .I was at the cove,” you admitted, the words bitter on your tongue. “I waited there, worried about you after the trial. But when you landed with her, I—I didn’t know what to do. I stayed hidden.”

His expression shifted, panic flaring as the pieces clicked—panic for making you wait, for sending you home alone through the dark, for the possibility you’d seen everything.

You didn’t mention the dragons’ nest, though the anger simmered beneath your skin, a quiet fury he couldn’t miss in the hard set of your jaw. It was rare—almost unheard of—for you to be truly angry with him, and he saw it, his own guilt sharpening as he caved.

“Okay, look—I’m sorry, I’ll explain,” he said, his voice dropping as he spilled it all, unprompted. “I went to the cove to wait for you, like I said, but Astrid—she followed me somehow. I didn’t know until it was too late. She saw Toothless, Menace, everything, and I didn’t know what else to do. I thought if I took her flying, showed her what I showed you, she’d understand.”

A small blush crept up his neck as he spoke—to which you thought it was him blushing over her—his words tugging at the memory of your own flight—the clouds, the aurora, his arms around you—and the parallel clenched at your heart, a dull ache blooming where warmth had once been.

“And then—gods, it was an accident—we found the dragons’ nest. I know we were supposed to see it together, and I messed that up. I’m so sorry, it wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

He went quiet, his eyes searching your face for something—forgiveness, understanding, anything like you always did—but you stood there, emotionless, a wall of silence he couldn’t breach. The hurt was too raw, too tangled with the image of Astrid’s kiss on his cheek, her excitement echoing in your mind. Something you couldn't muster up to do yet.

He shuffled his feet, nervous, waiting, and when you finally spoke, your voice was flat, a forced calm that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’m happy you found it,” you said, nodding stiffly, the words tasting like ash. “And that you had a good time with your crush.”

His jaw dropped, a strangled sound catching in his throat as he floundered for a protest, “Crush? No, that’s not—,” but you cut him off with another smile, thin and hollow, a mask that felt wrong even to you.

“I’m tired, Hiccup, I’m covered in mud and cold,” you said, gentle but monotone, the exhaustion seeping through every syllable. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Before he could respond, you shut the door, the latch clicking into place with a finality that echoed in the silence.

On the other side, Hiccup stood frozen, his hand hovering where the door had been, guilt crashing over him like a tide. Your words—“your crush”—rang in his ears, a miscommunication that twisted the knife deeper. He hadn’t meant it like that, hadn’t seen Astrid that way not for a long time now that he thought about it, but the hurt in your eyes, the way you’d shut him out, told him he’d failed you in ways he couldn’t fix tonight.

His chest ached, a melancholic weight settling there as he replayed it all—the trial, the cove, the troubling mistake of him telling you he shared the same flight with her as he’d shared with you—and he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner, for not finding you when it mattered. You, inside, sank against the door, the sack slumped—forgotten at your feet, your wild appearance a mirror to how you felt.

The glow of the forge flickered through the cracks of your window, Gobber’s hum a distant drone, but it couldn’t reach the quiet mess of your thoughts—the flight you’d cherished, now shadowed by another, the nest you both were planning to find together, stolen by chance. The miscommunication between you two had stretched like a chasm, wounded trust tugging at your heart, leaving you both adrift in a melancholy neither could name.

The next day dawned heavy and gray over Berk, the sky a thick shroud of clouds that mirrored the weight pressing on Hiccup’s chest. He’d barely slept, the events of the night before replaying in restless loops—your hollow smile, the door shutting in his face, the sting of your words branding him with guilt.

He wanted to find you; to mend the rift he’d unwittingly carved between you, but doubt gnawed at him. Space might be what you needed, though every fiber of him ached to see you, to erase the hurt he didn’t mean to cause. The looming trial—the slaying of the Monstrous Nightmare—only tightened the knot of stress twisting inside him, its shadow growing darker with each passing hour.

He missed you, fiercely, your absence a quiet void he hadn’t realized he’d grown so much closer—so used to filling with your laughter, your steady presence that he needed right now. But he stayed away, wrestling with his regret as the morning dragged him to the forge, where duty—and you—waited.

You were already there when he arrived, the three of you—Hiccup, you, and Gobber—huddled in the forge’s smoky warmth, the air thick with the tang of molten iron and the rhythmic clang of hammers. It’d been too long since the last dragon raid, a rare lull that left Berk’s defenses itching for readiness, and you’d all but agreed to help Gobber sharpen weapons, preparing for the inevitable chaos that could strike at any moment.

You stood at the grindstone, your hands steady as you honed a blade, but your face was a mask—closed off, distant, a stark contrast to the easy rhythm you’d once shared with Hiccup. He worked across from you, shaping axe heads with mechanical precision, his glances flickering toward you like a moth to a flame, each one met with your resolute silence.

The awkwardness hung heavy, a palpable thread even Gobber couldn’t miss, his eyes darting between you repeatedly with a quirked brow as he pounded a dented sword back into shape. Even for him he knew this was unlike either of you. The silence stretched, taut and unbearable, until Gobber slapped his knee with a loud crack.

“Right, lad,” he boomed, his voice too cheerful for the tension. “Time fer trainin’. Stoick’s waitin’ at the arena ‘round now, and we’ve got a couple weeks to whip ye into shape fer that Nightmare. Let’s move!”

He clapped Hiccup’s shoulder, jolting him from his thoughts, and Hiccup’s gaze snapped to you, guilt etched deep in the lines of his face. You buried the ache clawing at your chest, forcing it down as you set the blade aside, your hands trembling faintly.

“Can I come?” you asked, your voice soft but steady, a fragile thread of hope woven into the words. “I could help out.”

Gobber’s grin faltered, and he scratched his beard, his tone apologetic but firm. “Sorry, lass—Stoick’s orders. No distractions while we’re trainin’ the boy. Needs his head in it, ye know.”

Your heart sank, a fresh wound opening beside the one from last night, but you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. Hiccup’s eyes met yours then—the first time that day—and they were pools of regret, his mouth opening to mutter a quiet, “I’m sorry,” before Gobber’s meaty hand landed on his shoulder again, steering him toward the door.

You held his gaze for a fleeting second, the guilt in his expression a mirror to the hurt in yours, but then he turned, forced to follow Gobber out to the arena, leaving you alone with the forge’s flickering light and a mountain of unfinished work.

The busy days that followed blurred into a slog of solitude and steel or flour and bread. You stayed at the forge one day the next in the kitchen. Hammering blades and mending armor, the clanging a dull rhythm to drown out the ache that lingered like a bruise—just the same when you kneaded dough.

Hiccup trained with Stoick and Gobber so he was always away now, his absence a constant pull at the edges of your thoughts, though you refused to let it show. You buried your feelings deep, letting the work numb you, but the silence he’d left behind echoed louder than ever.

Then, one afternoon, determined to bridge the gap in some small way, you packed a large lunch—smoked chicken, bread, wedges of cheese—enough for the three of them, your hands moving with care as you wrapped it all in a cloth.

It was a peace offering, a quiet gesture to ease the strain, and you carried it to the arena with a flicker of hope, the basket heavy but your steps lighter than they’d been in days. The roar of the wind in the tunnel greeted you as you approached, the wooden gates creaking as you slipped inside—and then you saw her.

Astrid. She was there, her axe in hand, barking pointers at Hiccup as he dodged a training dummy, her presence a sharp jab to your chest. Gobber had said no distractions, had turned you away, yet here she was, woven into their circle while you stood on the outside.

You froze, the basket suddenly leaden in your arms, anger flaring hot and bitter—why her and not you? Stoick and Gobber spotted you first, their eyes narrowing until they saw the food, and their faces softened.

Gobber grinning beside him, “Good lass, keepin’ us fed. He said, clapping your shoulder with his good hand.

You managed a tight smile, your gaze sliding past them to Hiccup, who stood off to the side with Astrid, mid-conversation. He caught your eye and waved, an awkward, appreciative nod paired with a small smile, but it faltered when he saw the frown tugging at your lips. Astrid glanced over too, her expression unreadable, and the sight of them together—talking, training, allowed—twisted the knife deeper.

Stoick and Gobber moved off, hauling gear and digging into the food, leaving you to linger a moment longer. You waved back, the gesture stiff, your frown deepening as you turned on your heel and left, the arena’s noise fading behind you.

Hiccup watched you go, his stomach sinking as the pieces clicked—Gobber’s refusal, Astrid’s presence, the hurt you couldn’t hide. He’d wanted to give you space, to spare you the mess of his guilt and the trial’s pressure, but now he saw it—every choice he made seemed to go wrong.

The arena felt colder without you suddenly, Astrid’s voice a faint drone beside him as his mind lingered on your retreating figure, the lunch you’d brought a quiet plea he hadn’t known of your true intension's.

You walked back to the kitchen alone, the anger simmering into a dull, familiar ache, the basket’s absence a hollow weight as you buried yourself in work again, the clang of pots and angrily stirring of stews your only companion amidst your anger as the people on the other side of the kitchen including Marta watch on with fear of crossing you.

The days at the forge stretched on, each one heavier than the last, the silence between you and Hiccup a growing gap neither of you knew how to bridge. The air in Berk carried a restless edge, the gray clouds thickening overhead as the village bustled with its usual clamor—swords clanging, carts rumbling, sheep mawing, voices rising over the wind.

You were hauling a crate of freshly sharpened swords to the weapons storage when Bucket and Mulch shuffled by, his weathered face scrunched as he rubbed his head beneath his ever-present bucket hat.

“Storm’s comin’,” he groaned in his loud humble voice, squinting at the sky with a grimace. “Can feel it in me skull.”

Mulch, trailing behind with a sack of grain slung over his shoulder, chuckled dryly. “Aye, feels like a snowstorm, but not a bad’un—Bucket ain’t wailin’ too hard about it yet.”

Bucket shot him a confused look, but the faint tremble in his voice was mild, not the howling dread that signaled true danger. Still, their words sank into you like stones, a cold unease curling in your gut. Storms weren’t just a walk in the woods to you—they were ghosts, echoes of the night your parents had been ripped away, lost to a howling tempest on the day you were born and the day of Berks’ worst recorded storm.

Their words clung to you, a quiet fear that tightened your chest whenever the wind grew sharp or the thunder rumbled low, a secret known only to Hiccup, Gobber, Marta, and Stoick.

Your hands faltered on the crate, the metal edges biting into your palms as a flicker of that old terror stirred. Hiccup knew it better than anyone—had known it since you were small, when the storms would roll in and you’d shrink into yourself, eyes wide with a fear you couldn’t voice.

A memory flickered to life, sharp and sweet: you, barely six, huddled beneath a rickety table, the thunder crashing outside like a dragon’s roar. Rain lashed the walls, the wind howling through every crack, and you’d been trembling, your small hands clutching the edge of a table leg as the world seemed to shatter around you.

Little Hiccup—scrawny, all knees and elbows even then—had crawled under beside you, dragging a pile of woolen blankets he’d scavenged from the house.

“Don’t worry, I'll protect you,” he’d said, his voice high but steady, his green eyes wide and bright in the dimness as he piled the blankets around you—four, maybe five of them, until only your eyes peeked out from the cocoon.

He’d hugged you tight, his skinny arms wrapping around the bundle of you, his cheek pressed to the top of your head as he rambled on about the first thing that popped into his mind—how he’d seen a Terrible Terror steal Old Man Sven’s boot that morning and nearly choke on the laces.

“It was flopping around like this,” he’d said, flailing his arms in a ridiculous mimicry, his words tumbling over each other to drown out the storm.

You’d clung to him, the thunder fading to a dull growl beneath his chatter, and though the fear never fully left. His warmth—his presence—had made it bearable. That was Hiccup: your shield, your distraction, your constant through every tempest.

Now, though, as Bucket's warning hung in the air, that comfort felt distant, buried beneath the strain of the past days. You finished your work at the forge in silence, the unease festering as the clouds darkened, the first flakes of snow swirling down by dusk mixed with rain followed by loud claps of thunder. Hiccup was still at the arena, training with Stoick and Gobber, the three of them pushing him hard for the Monstrous Nightmare trial despite the worsening weather.

The storm Bucket had predicted hit that night—not a raging beast, but a steady, biting squall, rain pelting the village in gusts as thunder rumbled low and menacing. You were alone in your small home, the wind rattling the shutters, each crack of thunder sending a shiver down your spine.

Hiccup wasn't there—couldn't be there you knew this—caught up in the arena's demands, and though Gobber and Stoick knew your fear, they'd dismissed it this time.

"It's not a bad one," Gobber had grunted earlier hiding his own worry when Hiccup, soaked from the rain, had protested, his voice rising in frustration.

"She's tougher than that son—focus on your trainin'," Stoick had said, his massive hand steering Hiccup back to the drill, ignoring the anger flashing in his son's eyes.

Hiccup had wanted to go to you—had felt the pull of that old promise tugging at him—but they'd boxed him in, their expectations a cage he couldn't break through. So you sat alone, huddled beneath your table just as you had all those years ago and every other storm since, surrounded by heaps of blankets you'd dragged from your bed.

They swaddled you in layers, rough wool and fur skins scratching at you, but they couldn't block out the storm's growl—the way it echoed that night, the night you'd lost everything. Your knees were drawn tight to your chest, your hands trembling as you pressed them over your ears, trying to mute the thunder that rolled through the walls.

Hiccup's absence was a hollow ache, sharper than the storm itself—how much you wished he'd been here, rambling about some half-baked invention or Toothless' latest antics, his arms around you like they'd always been.

Instead, the silence beneath the table was deafening, broken only by the wind's mournful howl and the occasional crack that made you flinch, your breath hitching as you squeezed your eyes shut. You tried to summon his voice in your mind, to conjure the comfort he'd always given, but it slipped through your grasp—it wasn't the same, leaving you stranded in the dark with nothing but the blankets and the ghosts of a storm long past.

At the arena, Hiccup's heart wasn't in the training. Rain plastered his hair to his face, his tunic clinging cold and heavy as he dodged Stoick's barked commands, his mind miles away with you. He knew what storms did to you—had seen the way they stripped you bare, left you trembling—and the thought of you facing this one alone clawed at him, guilt and worry twisting tighter with every thunderclap.

He'd tried to argue, his voice sharp with a rare edge, "She needs me, you don't get it!"

But Gobber and Stoick had waved him off, their focus locked on the trial, on molding him into the warrior they thought he should be. Now, as he swung a blunted axe at a dummy, his movements were sloppy, distracted, his chest tight with a helplessness he couldn't shake.

You were out there, under that table, and he wasn't with you—couldn't be with you—and the weight of that failure pressed down harder than the rain, a quiet, anguished ache that lingered long after the storm began to fade.

The storm had passed by morning, leaving Berk blanketed in the first full snowfall in what felt like ages—a pristine, glittering shroud that crunched underfoot and signaled the creeping onset of winter. The air bit sharp and cold, the village waking slow under the weight of the snow, smoke curling lazily from chimneys as the day stirred to life.

You stepped out into it, your boots sinking into the fresh powder, your breath puffing in small clouds as you pulled your cloak tighter. The storm's echoes still lingered in your head—a quiet, unsteady tremor you buried away—but the daylight helped, the routine of the village a tether to pull you forward.

Hiccup, meanwhile, had seized a rare break from training, the first morning in days where Stoick and Gobber hadn't dragged him straight to the arena. He stood with Astrid and the gang near the center of Berk, close to the Great Hall—Snotlout flexing for Astrid in particular, Fishlegs rattling off snow facts, the twins bickering over a half-formed snowball, and a handful of other teens milling about together with them, their laughter cutting through the crisp air.

Hiccup's eyes caught on you as you passed by, your figure a familiar silhouette against the white, and his face lit with a smile, relief softening the edges of his guilt.

"Hey, excuse me a sec," he muttered to the group, brushing off Astrid's curious glance as he jogged to catch up with you.

"Hey!" he called, his voice bright but tentative as he fell into step beside you. "You okay? After. . .last night?" His gaze searched your face, worry flickering beneath the warmth of his smile.

You nodded, keeping your pace steady, your voice even as you replied, "Yeah, I'm fine."

It was a lie, polished smooth from years of practice, but he didn't buy it—never did. His hand shot out, catching yours before you could pull away, his fingers curling gently around yours, anchoring you in place.

"Come on, really," he pressed, his tone soft but insistent, his thumb brushing your knuckles like he could coax the truth out.

You faltered, the warmth of his touch tugging at the ache you'd buried, but you sidestepped it, forcing a lighter note into your voice.

"I'm fine—But I see you're enjoying wearing that iconic breast hat," you said, nodding at the horned contraption perched crookedly on his head—a gift from Stoick he'd worn more for irony than pride.

His grin widened, a mirror to the teasing smirk he'd given you so many times before, and he tilted his head, letting the horns wobble dramatically. "What, this? It's peak Viking fashion—thought you'd appreciate seeing it again," he shot back, his voice lilting with mock offense.

You couldn't help it—a real smile broke through, small but genuine, the first in days, sparked by the familiar dance of your banter. He laughed, a sound that eased the tension in his shoulders, relief washing over him as he saw a glimpse of the you, he'd missed so fiercely.

The flying situation with Astrid, the trial, the storm, the distance—it all faded for a moment, and he fell into step beside you, his stride matching yours as you headed toward the Great Hall. He'd meant to keep you company, to tag along for your kitchen duties and steal a few more minutes together, the way he used to before everything twisted sideways so quickly.

Your smile lingered, a quiet bloom of warmth in your chest, because you'd missed him too—missed this, the ease of him at your side, the way he made the world feel less heavy. But just as you turned toward the hall's steps, a shout cut through the snow-dusted air.

"Hiccup! Get back here!" Snotlout's voice boomed, followed by a chorus of laughter from the group.

Astrid waved him over, her grin sharp, while Fishlegs chimed in with some trivias. Then that girl—neither Astrid nor Ruffnut, but that lanky teen with a wild grin and short blond hair and a loud giggle—darted forward, grabbing Hiccup's shoulder and yanking him back with a playful tug.

He stumbled, half-turning to protest, "Hey, hold on!" But the group swarmed him, their voices overlapping in a chaotic tangle of jokes and chatter.

Snotlout shoved a snowball into his hands, the twins egging him on, and Hiccup's laugh broke free, bright and unguarded, pulling him into their orbit of a snowball fight. You paused, watching as he glanced back at you, his smile faltering for a split second before he told you to come over, but the group's energy swallowed him up, their hands tugging at his tunic, their laughter drowning out his hesitation.

Your chest tightened, the warmth from moments ago cooling again, and you sighed, turning away before he could see the shift in your face—Marta would get to you if you left her hanging during Stoick's breakfast time. The snow crunched under your boots as you walked off alone, the hall's shadow stretching long and cold ahead of you.

Hiccup caught the tail end of your retreat, his eyes following your shrinking figure through the flurry of snow and friends, but you were already gone, lost to the grand doors you had shut behind you.

The pang of guilt returned, though he didn't chase after you—not this time. He let the group pull him back—distracting, their voices filling the space you'd left, but his laughter felt half-hollow, a quiet melancholy settling in as he wondered how many more moments, he'd lose to the distance he couldn't seem to close.

The evening settled over Berk, the Great Hall humming with the lively din of Vikings gathered after a long day, their voices rising and falling over the crackle of the hearth and pit fires. Snow still dusted the ground outside, the first true bite of winter lingering in the air, but inside, the warmth was a living thing—fed by the bustle of clinking mugs, hearty laughter, and the rich, sweet aroma wafting from the kitchen.

You stood at the heart of it, elbow-deep in your seventh batch of sweet fig cakes, the rhythm of the work a steady balm against the ache that had taken root in your chest. The kitchen was your domain, a small corner of control amid the storm of the past days, and you poured yourself into it with a quiet focus that Marta, bustling nearby, couldn't help but admire.

The tables in the hall were already groaning under the weight of your efforts—platters of smoke cod, roasted chicken and goat glistening with herb butter, bowls of creamy root stew steaming in the chill, and trays of those fig cakes everyone craved, their golden tops glistening with a sticky glaze of honey and crushed nuts.

You worked the dough with practiced hands, the soft, pliable mass yielding beneath your fingers as you folded in the fig filling—plump and dark, their sweetness bursting against your tongue when you'd tested one earlier. A drizzle of honey went in next, pooling golden and thick as you stirred, followed by a pinch of good herb that dusted the air with its warm, spicy scent.

The mixture came together in a symphony of textures—soft dough, chewy fruit, the faint crunch of nuts you'd toasted over the fire until they crackled, their rich, earthy flavor seeping into every bite. You shaped the cakes with care, pressing them into small, rustic rounds, your palms sticky with honey as you laid them on the hot griddle.

They sizzled faintly, the edges crisping to a perfect golden brown, the figs caramelizing into dark, jammy pockets that promised to melt on the tongue. The scent was intoxicating—sweet and warm, a tease of comfort that drifted out to the hall and drew hungry glances from the Vikings over to you.

Marta, flipping slabs of meat nearby, shot you a grin. "Ye've outdone yerself again, lass—them cakes'll have 'em fightin' over the crumbs."

You managed a small smile, brushing flour from your cheek. The batch finished, you loaded a tray with a jug of frothy mead and a stack of the still-warm fig cakes, their glaze catching the firelight as you carried them out to the hall.

The tables were a riot of noise and motion—Vikings tearing into their meals, mugs clashing in toasts—but your steps slowed as you neared the table beside Hiccup's, where he sat with Astrid and the gang.

You kept your head down, focusing on setting the tray without a fuss, but their voices cut through the din, sharp and unmissable. The girl with the wild grin and short blond hair leaned forward, her eyes glinting as she spotted you.

"There's Hiccup's second shadow again," she said, her voice loud enough to carry, a smirk tugging at her lips.

A ripple of chuckles followed, Snotlout snorting into his mug as Fishlegs nodded absently, caught up in his own thoughts.

"Yeah, she's always right there, isn't she?" another teen piped up—a wiry boy with a red face—his tone edged with mockery. "Like a lost puppy, trailing after him. Doesn't it ever get old, Hiccup? I'd be sick of it by now."

Hiccup froze, his mug halfway to his mouth, an awkward laugh escaping him as he fumbled for a response.

"Uh, well, I—" he started, but they didn't let him finish, their voices piling over each other like stones.

The girl leaned closer, lowering her tone but not enough to keep it from you. "She's just gonna drag him down," she whispered, her words a blade slipped between ribs.

"I feel like she's only here for his fame now that he's got what it takes," another muttered.

The air went thick, your hands stalling on the tray as their words sank in, each one a quiet wound you hadn't braced for. You didn't look up, didn't let them see the way your throat tightened, but the silence that followed was deafening—they'd noticed you, their chatter dying as eyes flicked your way, wide and caught.

Before you could move, Marta stormed over, her apron flapping, and delivered a sharp smack to the back of their heads with a wooden spoon, the crack echoing through the hall.

"Mind yer tongues, ye little beasts," she snapped, her glare sweeping the table. "Show some respect or ye'll be scrubbin' pots 'til spring."

She turned, her fierce eyes softening as they landed on you, but you were already moving—your frame hunched, steps measured, walking away as if their words were nothing, a breeze you could shrug off.

Inside, though, they burrowed deep, a cold, heavy weight settling beside the hurt you'd carried since the cove. Marta watched you go, her lips pressing thin, but you didn't look back—couldn't—your hands trembling as you slipped into the kitchen's shadows, the clatter of the hall fading behind you.

The day before Hiccup's trial to slay the Monstrous Nightmare arrived like a cold blade against his throat. The snow outside was beginning to melt quickly all while Berk braced itself for the spectacle that would define him—or break him. Hiccup's nerves were raw, a live wire snapping with every gust of wind. The weight of the trial a relentless pressure he couldn't outrun. But it wasn't just the fight bothering him—it was you.

The gnawing guilt of your distance, the echo of your hurt from days past, a wound he'd inflicted and couldn't heal. He'd spent the night tossing in his bed, replaying every misstep—the flight with Astrid, the teen's cruel whispers, the door you'd shut in his face—Everything—Until finally the guilt ate at him driving him out into the frostbitten dawn. His boots crunching through the snow to find you.

He was nervous, his hands flexing at his sides, his breath puffing in shallow bursts as he approached the forge, where he knew you'd be. As he walked toward it, he made note of how he regretted not going after you in the hall when they had said those things toward you. He just hoped you weren't too mad at him. This was the moment—where he'd change, where he'd face the mess, he'd made and try to claw back what he'd lost, though he wasn't sure he deserved it.

You were there, bent over a workbench, sorting a pile of dagger blades with a focus that bordered on mechanical, the forge's heat painting your face in flickering gold—hitting you in that same light he had seen you all those weeks ago on that quiet ocean cliff you had claimed as your new spot—making a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

The forge's heat pulsed through the air, thick with the sharp tang of molten steel the hum of the fire a steady drone beneath the village's distant clamor. Hiccup lingered in the doorway a moment, watching you, his chest constricting at the sight—your wild hair flecked with ash, your shoulders hunched like you carried more than just the work.

He forced a nervous grin tugging at his lips as he stepped inside, trying to lighten the air. "Hey, where've you been hiding?" his voice was light, teasing, but it cracked at the edges, betraying the nerves he couldn't mask.

You didn't look up at first, your hands stilling on the blades, and when you did, your eyes were sharp, glinting with something raw.

"Me?" you snapped, your voice cutting through the air like a whip—the first time you'd ever turned it on him like that, and it stopped him cold.

"You're the one avoiding me, Hiccup." The words were a blade, quick and piercing, and he blinked, his brow furrowing as he took a step back, caught off guard by the venom in your tone.

"What? No, I—," he stammered, confusion knitting his features. "Is this because my dad and Gobber won't let you in on the training? I can't help what they want, you know that."

His voice rose, defensive, grasping for an explanation he could clutch or make you understand.

You set the dagger down with a clatter, turning to face him fully, your jaw clenched tight. "No, Hiccup. But it's real nice that they allow Astrid to help though. Isn't it?"

The sarcasm dripped from your words, honed with a bitterness he hadn't braced for, and his eyes widened, a flicker of realization dawning—though he misread it, his mind seizing on jealousy as the simplest thread to pull.

He crossed his arms, his own frustration bubbling up. "That's because she has experience in combat? You only know how to throw daggers," he shot back, the words spilling out before he could stop them, tinged with an edge he hadn't meant.

It was a lie—he knew you were more than that, he'd seen you wield those daggers with deadly grace—Just as precise as a Deadly Nadders' spikes—But the teens' whispers had wormed into his head, and he was floundering.

Your eyes flared, indignation sparking hot. "Oh, well pardon me then." you retorted, turning the other way.

"You're acting selfish—like your jealous or something," he went on irritated.

"Excuse me?"

He bristled, the accusation stoking his own anger, fueled by days of their voices—the teens'—hissing in his ears, twisting his doubts into something ugly.

"Yeah, maybe it is! You're mad about Astrid, right? Because I'm actually doing good in front of the village now," He threw it out, reckless, the words sharp and half-formed, a desperate grab to make sense of your hurt.

You laughed—a short, incredulous sound that held no humor. "Jealousy? That's not it at all, Hiccup, and you know it."

Your voice trembled, anger and pain tangling as you pushed back. "When you offered me those same tactics for the arena, I told you no—told you to use them, to show Gobber, your dad, Berk, that you're more than enough. I've supported you through all of it—every step, every lie. Lying to Gobber tore me up, but I did it for you because you're important to me."

The confession slipped out, small but heavy, a crack in your armor he didn't catch—because his own frustration was boiling over, drowning it out. He shook his head, jaw tightening as the teens' words clawed their way to the surface, venom he'd let fester too long.

"Maybe they're right, then," he snapped, his voice low and cutting, a reflex he couldn't rein in—couldn't understand where it was coming from.

"I can't breathe with you up my neck all the time." The blow landed like a sword in the dragons' stomach, sharp and jagged, and he saw it hit—your face crumpling, eyes widening then dimming with a hurt so stark it stole the air from his lungs.

Regret surged through him, hot and bitter, the instant the words left his mouth—their own words not his. . .not his feelings—but it was too late. You dropped your gaze, the rough-hewn floorboards blurring beneath the sheen of tears you fought to hide, your shoulders slumping under a weight he'd just doubled.

A faint nod was all you could muster, a small, broken gesture that carved into him deeper than any dragon's claw.

"I didn't mean for it to come out like that," he said, his voice rough with apology, stepping toward you as his hands flexed, aching to undo the damage. "I'm sorry."

"No," you cut him off, your head snapping up briefly, a flash of glistening eyes meeting his before you edged back, the distance growing cold between you as tears pricked at the corners.

"No, you're right." Your voice wavered, soft and fraying, as you hugged your arms to yourself, the forge's glow casting shadows across your trembling frown.

"I'm sorry—I forget you've got your own thing and need your own space to breathe, you've got the life you want now. I'm so used to meeting you every morning—since we were kids, scrambling over rocks, dodging others—that I'm constantly with you, never giving you a break. . .Hiccup—It's because you're the one I look forward to, the one I need to see every day."

"I just. . .I just need you, Hiccup, because you're the only family I've got—besides Gobber, of course. But you. . .You are all I got."

"No, that's not it—," Hiccup started, his tone urgent, stepping closer as desperation clawed at him, his boots scuffing the dirt-streaked floor. He reached out, fingers brushing the air where you'd been, but you were already retreating, the words tangling in his throat.

"It's fine. Really," you said, though your voice cracked, a fragile thread snapping under the weight of your lie.

A faint, pained laugh broke through, and you shook your head, brow furrowing as tears traced silent paths down your cheeks. You waved him off, a shaky dismissal, your hand trembling as it fell.

"I need to get back to the Hall. . .Marta probably needs me. . .I'll see you around." You turned, the crunch of your footsteps fading into the forge's hum, leaving Hiccup rooted in place—his breath shallow, his heart a wild drum against his ribs.

He'd changed in that moment, the shift seismic and irreversible. He'd thought it wrong to take Astrid on that flight—the same one he'd shared with you, a memory he'd held sacred he knew this so well—but he'd convinced himself you'd understand, that the opportunity had forced his hand when she'd threatened to expose Toothless.

He'd apologized, hadn't he? And he'd liked Astrid—or thought he did, the lines blurring now—because somewhere in the chaos, he'd started wondering if it was you, he cared for, you he needed, though he couldn't name it yet.

But hearing the people in the hall, their whispers twisting into his doubts, he'd let them poison him, let their jabs about you being clingy, a shadow, a burden, seep into his words.

He'd hurt you badly—knew he had—but your snap, the first time you'd ever lashed out, had stung him too, and he'd lashed back, thinking he didn't deserve it—but he knows he did.

Now, as you walked away, the truth crashed over him: he hadn't meant space from you, but from the world pulling him apart, and he'd pushed you away instead.

The silence swallowed him, heavy with your hurt and his failure, your retreating figure a wound he'd carved himself, leaving him teetering on the edge of a bridge he wasn't sure he could mend—and an ache that whispered maybe he'd lost you for good.

This is Chapter 8 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying | @teeesthings

#chapter 8 of maelstrom #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #hiccup and toothless #hiccup how to train your dragon #hiccup x reader #hiccup fanfic #httyd fanfic #httyd x reader #toothless #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock x reader #dragons #race to the edge #maelstrom #rtte

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passivenovember · 1 year ago

Text

Steve's never tried a weed brownie before.

Hasn't really wanted to, if he's honest, because the rag-weed shit he gets from Tommy all throughout high school is fine. Even though it's mostly shake and stems and seeds, and the bag Tommy puts it in always looks like it's been mauled by Scotty, his 15 year old schnauzer.

It has to be the same bag, Steve thinks, but maybe that's the 20 minute high talking.

So he's never tried a brownie.

But. Billy Hargrove comes into his life like a storm cloud. Black and gray with impending doom, snagging the air around him with little fish weights until everything is heavy. At first.

But. Then Steve makes him laugh once during a game of shirts and skins, and. It's like the belly of the thing has ripped open, y'know, and the streets of the thing flood with rainwater, and all that existed before is washed down some swallowing, insatiable gutter along with mulch and twigs and the shaky belief that Steve's straight.

They're friends and Steve watches Billy laugh and smile, feels all ten fingers against his chest when Billy shoves him, some sort of atomical reaction to Steve making him laugh, and.

Steve can't believe he ever thought Heaven was in Nancy Wheeler's pants.

So.

Billy Hargrove is the Earth after the flood, and the ark carrying everyone to safety. He's the animals inside and the God that sits, watching the world swallow itself.

He feeds things, to Steve.

Lines. You got a really pretty mouth, Harrington. You're smart, you know that? Not. Book smart, but street smart. Dirt road intelligent, I guess, in this shitty fuckin' Hickville hellscape--

Feeds Steve art. That's Samuel Baruch. He's my favorite. Look how he paints cloth, how he tracks the divets and the folds and the shadows. It's like a photo. It's like a window--

Steve makes Billy laugh when he says, "That lady kind of looks like you." Feels all ten fingers on his arm, pushing, when he says, "You'd look cute in a bonnet." Steve nearly falls over. Almost goes easy, but he doesn't.

Billy grabs him. Holds him as he smirks, "Where the fuck would I find a bonnet?"

Steve looks around the art hall, eyes wide and owlish, "Indiana?" He says, out there. In here. And.

Billy stares at him. He's the canvas and the lady in her bonnet, the divets and the folds and the shadows, the artist himself when he wets his thumb and sticks it in Steve's ear. "Dumbass," He says.

Steve finally gets everyone's thing about art.

He snaps a mental image of the afternoon and tries not to smother it in his hands.

So.

Steve. His eyes open, bit by bit. And what he finds is blinding. Like he fell asleep in the back of his mother's station wagon and awoke to the screaming light of high noon.

Billy's like the sun, longer Steve knows him. Storm clouds be damned.

Like. He talks about art. And he feeds lines and compliments for shits and giggles, never really noticing that Steve falls for it, a dumb catfish stuck on Billy's sharp, unforgiving hook.

He does all that but he smokes. Weed and cigarettes. He drinks.

He takes Steve to parties and says, "Ever try this before, Bambi?" But it's just Jack Daniels. But. Billy leaning with his elbow on the wall next to Steve's neck, close enough that he can smell Billy's sweat and cologne. He's smiling and his lips are cherry red, rio red, and.

He wants to roll in it.

So. He says, "No," Because, "I haven't."

It's the truth.

So Billy feeds it to him right out of the bottle. Makes him get on his knees. Slaps Steve's wrists away when he tries to hold the vessel himself, because.

Something's happening. Here. There.

Steve stares up at Billy through his eyelashes, trying not to go blind.

He blacks out and wakes up in the face of some bitch in a red bikini.

He's still drunk, so it takes him longer than it should to realize she's a poster tacked to somebody's, and he's not at home, and someone's snoring on the rug next to him.

Steve wiggles his toes. Fingers. Tries to remember what happened after Billy's hair caught the dining room lamplight but it's all a blur of sea stone eyes and bright white teeth and all ten fingers, rubbing at him while he threw up under the four way stop on Douglas Street.

Steve groans.

He rolls onto his side and tucks into himself and falls asleep, hoping Billy got home okay.

It's silver when a warm, flat palm shakes him alive. "You gotta go," Someone says, their voice rough like flannel bed sheets.

Steve blinks up, into the silver light, and sees Billy. Considers padding from the mattress to sleep inside of Billy's throat, where he'll be warm. It's a familiar urge. It's entirely new.

Steve aches. "What time--"

"--Just before five. My dad gets up early for work," Billy says, like that's supposed to mean castles are crumbing in their kingdom, but he's staring at something on Steve' face.

Really puts things into perspective, because maybe it's supposed to be an emergency. The first wisps of smoke from a forest fire, but Billy has bed head. And pillow lines on his face. And he's looking at Steve like there's something stuck in his throat.

Steve rubs at himself, trying to clear exhaustion and embarrassment. Really, just rubbing it into himself like lotion. "It's Saturday." He says.

"We're poor," Billy tells him, "My dad--"

"Where am I?"

Billy stares at him for a moment and then chuckles, shaking his head, "With me," He mutters.

Steve wants to curl into it like a cat.

He's rushed out of the room. He has to climb through the window while Billy keeps watch like a guard dog, and Steve lands on his ankle funny so it isn't until later when he's showered and hung over and falling onto his own mattress that he realizes Billy was in a panic.

That was Billy panicking, like Steve gets when his dad tells him to clean his room before he gets home from work, but Steve was full of concrete and wouldn't do it. Just like that, but worse.

Steve tosses and turns and tries to decipher what there was to be panicked about. Billy's room was clean.

Not just clean but spotless, like someone took a billow pad soaked in bleach and scrubbed every wall and baseboard until nothing remained except that bitch in her red bikini.

The only witness to Steve crawling out through an open window.

The more he thinks about it the more it feels like an episode of The Twilight Zone.

He combs through the memory of waking up in Billy's room. He tries to piece together hazy, half-baked image of beige carpet and the bookshelf and the little makeshift vanity that housed all of Billy's hair products.

Steve searches for a spot of the boy he knows. He calls Samuel Baruch's name and hears it shatter against empty, maroon-colored walls and the bikini girl's airbrushed rack.

He tries to envision a wayward sock, left out in the cold. A cup of water on the bedside table. Used tissues on the bedsheets.

Anything.

Steve blinks around his own room and wonders if clutter is a luxury only afforded to boys in houses paid by Monday through Friday workweeks.

He tries to imagine Billy in that room inside the house on Cherry Lane, happy, sleeping until noon in his own boyhood nest while his father gets ready for work.

It sits heavy in Steve's chest. A fairytale.

So.

Billy asks him during homeroom on Monday if he's ever had a weed brownie. Really, he scribbles it on a note and has Mary Sandoval stick it under Steve's elbow on her way to the bathroom.

Steve presses the note open on his desk until it's delicately wrinkled, mulling the question over in his mind. He spent the weekend driving himself crazy trying to come up with a reason to invite Billy over, a nook to slip into so he can ask the hard questions.

This could be it.

Steve peeks over his shoulder, flushing pink when Billy wags his tongue.

He has a black eye.

Steve snaps like a piece of rotted driftwood. He turns back to the note and scribbles no, but I'll try one if you have it. Has Mary take it back with her.

Figures. Billy should see his room. Steve should open his eyes.

"Why does it smell like that?"

"Like what, pretty boy?"

"Like. Gasoline."

Billy tilts his head back, laughter shooting like fireworks against Steve's ceiling, "It's just the dope. It's how it smells when you bake it into the--"

"--I don't like it."

"Why not?"

"I just think brownies are supposed to smell like chocolate," Steve says, handing the bag over with a wrinkled nose, "It's not a very appetizing smell."

"It's just weed."

"Weed smells gross, too."

"You don't like weed?"

"No, I just--"

"--We don't have to do the edibles if you don't want--"

"--I want to," Steve tells him. "Please." Instead of I'd do anything you asked me to. You're the influence my grandma warned me about. You're the lighter and the cigarette and the smoke in my lungs. Getting me high.

Billy nods, "Since you asked so nicely," and severs the baggy, tearing the first brownie in half.

"Woah," Steve says, embarrassed, "I know I've never had one before but I think I can do more than half."

"They're strong."

"I'm strong too," Steve says. When Billy blinks at him, confused, Steve flexes.

The noise Billy makes is like a duck getting run over by a clown car. It reverberates off the walls and Steve aches to stand and chase it. "You can always start out small and take more if you need to, hot rod."

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. "How strong are they?"

Billy shrugs, fiddling with the chewed plastic lip of the bag. "I kissed a boy on half," He says.

It's the first time since Billy came to town that he won't stretch to meet Steve's gaze.

Steve takes the bag from him and shoves the brownie into his mouth, coughing over the dry exterior.

"Easy, man, easy," Billy smacks him between the shoulder blades, grinning and rubbing his back once Steve swallows.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #i had more to say and then i got bored #anyway #love ya

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