#vaskrsal

               ❝            choose your last words.❞

          he can't make himself meet her gaze. his mind RACES, desperate to come up with an ESCAPE in spite of the INSURMOUNTABLE ODDS stacked against him: Toothless DOWN, tail fin mangled beyond repair, trapped beneath the nadder’s UNYIELDING TALONS; his small island hideaway SURROUNDED by fleets of ships and dragons alike, betrayed Berkians roaring with fury as they call for HIS HEAD on a pike; Astrid, LIVID, clutching her axe in a white-knuckled grip, prepared to meter out the demanded punishment, and HAPPILY. 

          oh THOR, he’d FUCKED UP good and proper this time ------ and, were he a PROPER viking, he wouldn’t attempt to run, to hide, to escape the clutches of his once-people and the payment for his crimes. a PROPER viking would stride into death’s embrace with his head held high, his PRIDE intact. 

          and so, his mind filled with thoughts of HIS FATHER, the exiled chief stands, approaches the irate chieftess and her beautiful nadder; he pauses just long enough to remove his helmet, briefly reveling in the cool early morning air on his freckled cheeks. he steps up and lays the side of his NECK against the razor-sharp blade of the axe, feeling it dig into his skin as he speaks what would be his final words:

          he tugs her close, fingers twining with hers as he gently knocks his forehead against the curve of her brow. she smells so familiar --- pine, cedar, open ocean air --- all the smells of home. his voice is quiet and trembling as he whispers to her, thumb brushing against the delicate yet unbelievably strong line of her wrist.

                   ❛ I know you like hacking at things with that axe but you're gonna LOVE this. ❜

           Carefully he takes his pistol from where it's holstered at his waist && holds it up for her to see. Activating it so its ready to fire at a moments notice. A sly grin spreads across thin lips as he is eager to show off his OWN beloved weapon of choice.

          she’s going to leave. he’s desperate not to let that happen. she’s mounted her dragon, and a fraction of a second later, he’s in the saddle and chasing after her. he doesn’t care that his armor is only halfway on his lanky body, or that Astrid’s rage has attracted a crowd far below them; he doesn’t care that this is the fastest he’s ever flown, or that this is the most exhilarating race of his life --- all he cares about is catching up to that nadder and the livid woman on her back. Stormfly leads him on a harrowing chase through the village, using her incredible speed and agility to attempt to outmaneuver her pursuers; and though she’s faster than Toothless in short bursts, he has the greater endurance, and he quickly catches up as she begins to tire of their game. 

          of course, it’s no game to Hiccup --- he locks his dragon’s tail fin, stands in the saddle, and jumps, catching onto the nadder’s extremely dangerous tail and scrambling up onto her back before she could fire off those signature spikes. Astrid has her axe in hand in an instant, and he has only a fraction of doubt that she won’t swing it at him --- he makes a grab for her hand on the axe’s handle, thighs aching where they squeeze against Stormfly’s slippery scales. her eyes are livid, bright with what he recognizes as unshed tears: tears that he put there.

               ❝------Astrid, please,❞ he calls over the howl of the ocean winds between the nadder’s horns. she struggles against his firm grip; he knows that she can overpower him if she really wants to, and he takes the fact that she isn’t as a good sign, a sign that she doesn’t really want to.