#darkcup

pairing: dark!hiccup x f!mute!reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: yandere, kidnapping, obsessive/possessive behavior, blood/violence, grotesque imagery, elements of horror

synopsis: You regretted the day they left him for dead. And you’d regret the day you ever saw him again—he’d make sure of that.

“Wake up, sleepy-head.” A childhood voice echoed like a distant memory in the void behind your eyes. Tearing through the dark threads of your subconscious. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

With a choked gasp, you emerged from the black pool of your mind. Your vision swam in a blurry haze, dimly lit by the sole fire pit in the room. When you blinked away the last smoke and ash from your lashes, you noted the ache of your body propped against a chair. 

Your sight then glazed over a long table displaying a feast only a vulture could salivate for. Unknown smells emanated from a mangled and strangled pheasant served past its due date. And across the table, something much worse. Skeleton bones seated tortuously, broken and dashed in all places. One with its skull completely detached from its person to serve as wicked center piece.

Your lips twisted into a nauseous bow.

“What, not hungry?” 

That same voice split through you again. Snatching your attention towards the head of the table, where Hiccup busied himself nonchalantly with a plate of his own. 

“Can’t say I blame you.” The scathing sounds of cutlery sent your nerves aflame. You wondered how such an ordinary sound could be so cruel to your ears. “Being kidnapped never opened up anyone’s appetite. Which is a shame, since that means I always end up having to do it.” 

You watched, eyes wide and round, as he sliced the belly of the roasted bird in a slow, agonizing horizontal line. 

“I’m just joking. You don’t have to sit there and watch me eat. You can leave if you want. I won't chase you.” He took a slow, meticulous bite, before his dulled eyes lulled to peer at you with a devouring glint. “Unless you want me to.”

Sucking your breath tight against your ribs, you shifted your gaze back to the table. A sight that wasn’t any better to look at. Not with all the scattered remains of guests that never made it past a sickening appetizer, and you weren’t a fool to think you would fare any better. Especially if you decided to entertain the obvious game of chase he’d proposed. 

You wanted no part in it. Whether it was being forced to swallow putrid catch, or fleeing until your limbs were detached from you—he wouldn’t receive the satisfaction.

Not from you, at least.

With a purse of your lips, your fingers pushed away the plate. Then a snap of pheasant bone bent between his fingers. You wondered if that would be your neck. You flinched when he breathed out a bitter chuckle. 

“I get it. My cooking's probably not the best. Hard to learn when you’re busy doing...other things.”

Your skin prickled when the chair scrapped against the stone as he stood. The clanging of his prosthetic growing louder in your ears, sending your heart into a gut churning beat. You held for breath as he reached in front of you, thinking he'd steal your very last. Instead, he grabbed a pitcher and gave your cup a gracious pour.

You made no attempt to accept.

His lip edged with amusement as he served himself the rest before taking a generous swig. A thin dribble streamed down his chin, down the curvature of his neck. It the made the remaining soot in your mouth cotton your tongue dry.

You stood to reason you didn’t have to eat, but surely, you still had to drink. And if he had drank from the same pitcher, then...

When he wiped the wet of his skin and turned a shoulder, you quickly took the cup and drank without a sound. 

“You’re right,” he drawled openly, circling the head of the table. “Why waste time chewing bad food when we have so much talk about. I would ask you to go first, but that might take a little longer. I’ll be quick, though. Promise.”

When he turned, you hastily placed the cup back onto the table, pretending as if you hadn’t succumbed to his offering. 

“When you’re down a leg a short of a few meals, you almost get the sense that death is trying to tell you something. But everyone knows vikings are stubborn; we don’t listen to anything. So, after you and everyone else left for me for dead, I limped till my bandages were soaked red, and ate till my body was paralyzed.” There was a beat in the air as he rimmed the cup with his index finger. “From poison, obviously.”

Your heart and stomach sank when you realized what he had done. What you had done. You covered your shaking mouth with your hand, wishing you could take back the liquid you swallowed. 

“You know, at first I thought I was just another run-of-the mill starving idiot, eating whatever animal or plant I could. Poisonous or not. Until I stopped blacking out and waking up with a mouth full of dirt. Which really saves you from those moments when you’re just minding your own business at a Northern Market tavern, and some random up-to-no-gooder decides to spice up your drink. Boy, you should’ve seen the look of surprise on his face.”

He set his emptied cup and picked up the decapitated skull piece at the table's center, scratching at the nicks and dents in the bone.

“And what I did to it afterwards.”

The corners of his mouth pinned themselves to his dimples. It turned the once endearing sight into twisted holes that looked more like nails had dug cruelly into his cheeks.

“Oh. Don’t worry. The poison won’t kill you. I mean, it almost killed me. Couple of times, actually, but not you. Can’t have that wrench in my plans.” 

Hiccup sauntered towards the fire pit blazing to be fed with whatever he had to offer. He muttered something underneath his breath, seeming to argue with the skull he juggled between his hands. 

“I bet you’re wondering if I killed my dad. No, not yet. Vikings—stubborn, remember? We just talked about this. You can’t stab a mountain and hope it bleeds. You wither it down, break it apart, stone by stone. Until it just…” Hiccup tossed the skull into the fire’s arms, watching it feed its hot stomach with human remains. “Turns to dust.” 

He clapped the bone debris from his calloused fingers. 

“It won’t be much longer until my dad’s failures pile up like a heap of rubble, and just to spite him, that’ll be the foundation of where I’ll begin. Become the leader he could never be. A leader who brings actual peace and prosperity to Berk.” There was a crack of laughter, and he grasped his head to steady himself. “Against my own dragons! How hilarious is that?” 

The howl carried across the innards of the cave was never a gust of wind, but the screeches of dragons bellied deep within the mountain. Echoing through the cavernous walls, enough to shake the rocky fangs protruding from the ceiling.

“You can’t tell me that’s not pure poetry. His so-called biggest failure—me—becomes what he always thought I could never be. What he now fears I can be.” He twisted, pacing to place himself at your side, lurking close to your ear. “Chief.”

You remained silent, as you could only do. Even if you weren't mute, you wouldn't be able to say anything coherent. The poison bit into your lips, slithered down your throat to curl inside your chest and claw its way through every remaining part of your body. It chewed into your muscles till you felt like nothing more than pliable clay. Still, you wanted to defy it.

Defy him more than anything.

Without so much a look or inclination to respond to him in a manner he could understand, you simply dragged a nail against the wood of the chair. In that subtle, mono glyphic language Gothi had taught you.

You drew the scathing remark: To Hel with you.

“That’s not very nice to say. But if that’s where you’d like me to go...” He spun the dinner chair, gripped the arms of it, and pinned you with his presence alone. “Then how about I drag you down with me? I could sure use the company.”

Before you could comprehend the fact he understood you, the rough of his hand swiftly captured the underside of your arm. A rush of blood drained from your head as he yanked you to stand. You stumbled in his grasp as he dragged you closer and closer to the fire pit roaring with heat. The effects of the drug coating your nerves, making it impossible to fight every pull and tug of your body.

 Would he throw you in?

You were answered physically when his fingers unlatched, and your weight crumbled to the floor, inches away from licking flames.

"Go ahead." The command was blunt, a crushing blow to the back of your head. “Show me what Hel’s got in store for me.”

Your temples throbbed as you raised your chin, staring into the gaping mouth of the fire. Every part of you screamed to run away, but the flames beckoned you to stay, calling for the taste of poison in your veins.

Your ceremonial dagger—dropped at your side—whispered for you to take, take, take!

Spell bound by the incantation, you took the dagger in your trembling hands. Heard the sharpest point of iron begging to meet your skin. Obliging, you let it drink from a horizontal line in your palm. Not letting it be too greedy, you fed a serving of blood to the heart of the fire. It sparked and writhed hungrily, consuming every drop, wanting to lap it down to your tendons if it could.

When plums of smoke formed, images danced inside the clouds. The crash of black waves against the jagged cliff rocks. The flash of lightning through an never ending storm of ash. The cries of those you knew, drowned in a sea of jowls and wings. It stung your eyes and tears lined your vision, desperate to deny it all. Wanting the God's to reconsider. Worse part of it all....

....you stood at his side.

Consumed wholly by your mortifying entrancement, you hadn't noticed the scripture you'd written in blood on the stone. Hiccup crouched at your side, his head tilted in amusement.

"I always liked how bad you were at hiding what you were feeling," he said, taking your face in his leathered hands. "It's kinda cute, except now in a pathetic sort of way."

You choked on a silent cry as his thumbs brushed away the tears scolding your flushed cheeks. He brought your mouth a mere breath away, and whispered cruelly against your lips.

Mordred: Ew. What was that.

Galahad: Affection.

Oh man... funny story there... buckle in for a goddamn RANT

I was a freshman in high school, many aeons ago and I had just devoured every single King Arthur book known to both my public library and every used bookstore within driving distance and then I started writing.

My first story, which can be discussed later and at length, featured Gawain and a version of Rangell as the central pairing. I was using Mordred as a plot device, because, well, he is.

Then I started exploring his character more. I got The Wicked Day for Christmas, and immediately devoured that too, and decided that I loved him.

Mind you, I HATED Galahad.

Like.

Hated him.

Because I am... as @gringolet so eloquently put it, a Lancelot Apologist. I despised him for blaming his father for being raped. And for being a bible thumper. And for being generally a stuck-up asshole.

And then I realized, hey, this is Arthurian Lit, everyone here is writing fan fiction and making it up as they go, so I bloody well can too.

So I decided that I was gonna have My Galahad be Mordred’s foil, the way he’s supposed to be, but give him more of a personality than “cross up my ass”.

I let him be angry at his mom, and let Lance (and yes, Guin and Art) have a crack at raising him, at least in part. I let him be cared for by his father. I let him have a temper. I let him be soft. I fell in love with him too, when I let myself see past the single dimension he’d been painted in.

And then, simply put, I let them save each other. I wrote a thousand different endings to Camlann. To the grail story. To their quests. I let them change their stars together. It got to the point where I couldn’t see them apart. I wrote a million more beginnings. As many meetings as the stars. In the future, In the present, rebirths and deaths in cycles of time, but always coming back to the other.

This was probably like... way longer than anyone ever wanted to read, but there you have it. Two halves of the same whole idiot. A pair of foils who just might cancel each other out if you bring the pair of doomed destinies together.

• Mordred can not swim

• Water terrifies him.

•However, his magic works best in the water. He came from water, he’ll return to water, he is a creature of the water.

•He hates that he’s so drawn to it. He doesn’t even fill bathtubs up all the way.

•Galahad helps, when he shows up and after they get together.

•Gallie loves the water. The convent he was raised at had a lake, and there were rivers nearby. He loves swimming.

•He invites Mordred more than a couple times, Mordred always turns him down.

•One day, Mordred admits why he won’t come

•Galahad teaches him how to swim, because of course he does.

• Mordred is prone to migraines. He gets them not-infrequently. Noise and light are the worst when he’s got one

•Galahad very dutifully and lovingly takes care of him every time he gets one (if he’s around to help)

• Galahad has an amazing singing voice, but getting him to sing is ALWAYS a challenge because he considers it a private skill

•Migraines are an exception to this rule. If Mordred wants singing, he gets singing.

•Arthur worries about Mordred a lot during migraines, and will periodically come to check on him every couple of hours because he’s so worried.

• The stuff he takes for pain doesn’t always work well enough to tamp down the migraine, so there are times when he’ll spend days in bed trying to get rid of it.

•Galahad’s exempt from court functions for as long as Mordred needs him.