.Defiant One.

SUMMARY: His breath hitched as he looked into those vivid green eyes on the pale face. 'I want him'. AU/Human!Toothless/Semi-slash/Experimental Fic

WARNINGS: Bad English and no Beta. And I'm telling you honestly – probably a lot A LOT of mistakes and plot holes and confusions and etc. Human!Dragons AU and slightly darker than the canon. Slash will be hinted or it may become M-rated. Depends on how I will go with it. But now a definite T-rate.

A/N : Okay, so this is like experimental fic (a whim of inspiration that hit me suddenly and unexpected). I have ideas for this fic, but before I'll even start to write it, I need your honest opinions about this idea. If the idea will be accepted positively I will start write as soon as possible (while I'm hooked into it), but if no, I'll probably leave it in a semi-one shot state. So yeah, review please. P.S. Name has nothing to do with Riders of Berk. (3/16/13)

A/N 2: Rechecked and corrected everything I deemed wrong. (3/23/13)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything related to How To Train Your Dragon.

Prologue,

Introduction

or

Pilot Chapter

Hiccup looked forward, not really seeing the scene he knows too well, occurring in front of him, being too immersed in his own dwellings as an easy distraction from the unpleasant knot that settled heavy in the pit of his stomach. What he was doing here again? He never wanted to be here. To sit and nonchalantly look, feelings sick and disgusted and in the same time strangely excited with the whole ordeal. The feeling of the harsh cold wind brushing his face and a warm tingling from the rare rays of the sun that peeked from behind the heavy dark grey clouds, were his only anchors to not to jump on his feet and run as far away as possible from this place.

Where was this place, you will ask? Well, the island of Berk of course. The picturesque gathering of big steep rocks, inhabited by the equally big, brawly Vikings of the Hairy Hooligan Tribe, his tribe. The fearless Hooligan Vikings, the mightiest warriors and best sailors of all the other tribes. Stories about them traveled all around the Archipelago and there is no tribe that doesn't know the name of the Hairy Hooligan's Chef – Stoick the Vast – the Chef who leads his people to the glory and fame, to the eternal feast in the Valhalla as fighters and warriors.

As raiders and killers.

The surface of stone, Hiccup was sitting on, was cold and smooth underneath his clammy palms as he traced tiny cracks and lines under it, trying his hardest not to chew at his bottom lip, distracting himself with the puzzling picture his finger was following. His eyes didn't move from the crowd underneath him, staring intently and feeling more and more revolted with himself, from not being able to stop himself from greedily drinking at the sight of commotion.

He shouldn't have come. He should have stayed at home like he always did, hiding in his room in the comforting presence of parchments and ink, of frozen scenes and silent faces. Or travel through the frosted growths of the forest, loosing himself in the quietness of the nature that was much more closer to him than the noisiness of his fellow tribe mates. He could have considered staying in the smithy, in the soothing company of fire and his wooden and metal creations, but his mentor had closed it, to participate in the… celebration too. But no, he had to come and now he was loathing himself for doing so.

His silent regrets were interrupted by a booming voice over his left shoulder and he unconsciously tensed his hands, digging his fingers into the unmerciful rock.

"Ah, it'll start soon!"

His forest green eyes moved to glance at his left, where on the throne craved from the big stone, was sitting a big man dressed in green and scales, with a fur draped over his wide shoulders leaving his bare hands exposed for the winter air, and a horned helmet sitting proudly on his brownish red hair, with an impressive beard that stood out in his appearance. Stoick the Vast was, for the lack of any other proper adjective, positively glowing with the pride, sitting on his throne and looking at the arena beneath them with a large smile on his bearded face.

"Aren't you excited Hiccup? This raid's catch is quite big! Huh?" the man laughed, gesturing with his beefy hand at the crowd that started to part in a semi-circle in the arena.

Hiccup turned his head away from the man and looked down at the rows and rows of kneeling people in the middle of the arena, surrounded by the excited Vikings.

"Yes father."

Oh, was this detail forgotten to be mentioned? Stoick the Vast wasn't only the Chef for the tribe, but he was a father as well. The father of a resident talking fishbone, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the III. But probably it was no wonder that anybody can forget to relate them two, Hiccup mused, glancing at his father who turned to say something to the nearest Viking. The only thing that was similar about them two, was the rarest shade of reddish brown hair they possessed, while everything else just confirmed that Hiccup didn't inherit his father's genes at all. No beefy arms, no sturdy stature, no backbone and more important – not even a speck of Vikingness.

Because, while other little Vikings fought in dirt and bashed each other with blunt objects, Hiccup was reading about magic and exploring forests for trolls. When all kids' dream was to finally join their parents in raids and travels, Hiccup dreamt about creating something more advanced then peg legs and hooks for amputees. When every teen slept and saw their first kill and excitement of the war, Hiccup searched through books for rare herbs and plants to help extend his people's too short lives.

All the other kids were real Vikings from head to toes: reckless and full of thirst for fight and glory, without a trace of fear and caution. Hiccup on the opposite was the pacifist. The explorer. The thinker. The one who prefer to talk things out, then crash those who oppose him with a brute force.

So you probably can get the picture: scrawny fishbone without even a trace of Vikingness as son of the Chef – you can guess he is not very loved in his Tribe.

Hiccup knew all his faults the nature gifted him with. He knew he was different and that all villagers despised him for that. Somewhat he accepted that fact with the years that passed, but it never meant he stopped trying to prove himself. He craved for their acceptance, for their acknowledgement, especially for his father's. So he abounded that common sense that differed him from others and dived into the life his father wanted him to live. And he paid his price for that.

One of his hands unconsciously moved to his left leg and a distant sound of metal scrapping stone reached his ears even through the noise of the crowd.

His reckless actions cost him a part of himself and it didn't even earn him a little bit of respect from his tribe mates. Now they not only called him different, but a fool and nuisance for the troubles he seemed to call upon his father's head by his actions.

He snapped out from his memories as somebody below spoke up loudly and he cringed at the loudness of his mentor's voice. Gobber the Belch turned towards the crowd with raised hand and a grin stretched on his lips. "Are you ready?"

The crowd roared in answer, excited voice drifted over the still figures kneeling on the earth. Gobber glanced up at them and seeing Stoick nod, he gestured for two men behind him to bring forward the first person.

"We are starting!"

Hiccup's stomach lurched and his eyes locked on the filthy thin person who was shoved on his knees in front of the crowd.

"Who will offer the biggest bid on this one?-"

The brunet felt something rose into his throat, but he forcefully swallowed it back.

Slavery.

What differ Hiccup from the other Vikings weren't only his scrawny built and inclination to think more, but also his disagreement concerning raiding and enslaving the conquered tribes. He hated seeing those empty eyes and emotionless faces of the defeated people. His tribe used slaves to work in the caves and mines on the nearby islands, where they extract the little iron they use to make weapons and other things. But before they send them into the mines, they displayed the new acquired slaves to the villagers-

"Three golden coins!"

-who may want to acquire their own slave.

The first slave was hauled on his feet and lead into the pens somewhere in the depths behind the arena, from where his new owner will take him and another one was placed on his place in front. Same empty eyes and emotionless face, and Hiccup wished he could turn away, but he couldn't. He didn't need to shame his father even more, by showing that his son feels pity and sympathy for the slaves.

He was a disappointment enough, even without that.

So he continued to look, sitting next to his father on his own rock craved chair, partly listening to Stoick, who was talking with his brother, and the boy's uncle, Spitelout.

"-we lost three ships, but look at this! These filthy Drakes lost more than half of their force, but that coward, Leader of theirs, managed to flee." Stoick audibly growled cracking his knuckles in irritation.

"Next time we will meet I will be sure he won't be able to move with any of his limbs." Spitelout promised to his Chef while the bigger male focused his steely grey eyes on the arena, where next three slaves were bought.

"We need to be ready for next raid. I don't know how many people he has on his disposal, but it seems that with each of our new meeting their numbers grow. It is the first time we managed to capture so many of them in one raid." The thoughtful expression on his father's face brought a shiver to Hiccup's little frame. It was one of expressions he tended to associate with another- "Spitelout, spread the news later about the preparation to another expedition in a three days. We need to find their hideout sooner, or we will continue to be in disadvantage with their surprise attacks." –raid.

Spitelout nodded and vanished somewhere behind them and Stoick glanced at Hiccup, who didn't move or indicated with anything that he was listening. The Hooligan Chef sighed heavily before settling his gaze once more at the people below them. "Hiccup. While we will be gone I want you to attend classes with other teens."

"Dad." Hiccup paused, before looking at his father. "I don't think I want to attend them."

Stoick was silent as he continued to look as slave after slave was placed before Vikings, some bought some undesired. Hiccup sighed, used to this kind of treatment, knowing that it was futile to argue with his father when he decided something. Must be a Chef streak.

Hiccup turned away from the man and stared unseeingly at the arena, his mind reeling with this whole situation.

Why was he born in the Viking Tribe when he was clearly not a Viking material? Weak, fragile, not violent and not aggressive – a weakling, a runt, a hiccup that happened to be born in the wrong tribe. He felt so trapped in this village where nobody understood him. So scared in the midst of those who won't think twice if he will suddenly decide to collapse and die where he stood. So helpless where he couldn't do anything to protect himself or even speak up for himself.

Not talking about voicing his disagreement about the whole slavery-thing. He felt so dirty, as he sat and looked how his people just bought and disposed other people, like if they were cattle of mindless animals or possessions. He couldn't look how slowly slavery broke those who once were free and lived, not bound by chains, ropes and fears. Not once did he planned (dreamed) that once he will be able to help those who were captured, but his plans never went past planning state. Too great was his fear of… of what? He wasn't sure himself. Maybe fear of his father, or of the death that will await him for treachery? Or the fear of failing and endangering not only his life, but the lives of those people?

He never knew exactly why, but it never stopped him from thinking that he should – had to – help. Somehow. Anyhow. Save those people from breaking. But as he swept his eyes over those hollow faces and looked into those empty eyes, he wondered… Was it already too late to try and safe them? They seemed to already accept their fate, willingly bowing their heads for those who enslaved them, shedding themselves of their pride and honor, and-

For a split of second, green met green.

"Here is a great example of a strong young slave you see here!"

The slave landed on the stone without a sound, looking at the crowd with burning green eyes and Hiccup's breath hitched at the emotions that flashed in them.

Hate. Defiance. Pride. Stubbornness. Desire to live. To be free.

Pale features and jet-black hair that reached shoulders, the young male looked striking even in his bloodied and dirty, torn grey clothes. Hiccup knows for sure that for this one will be given a lot of money, but he couldn't imagine the slave with such gaze bowing his head to anyone. Even now on his knees and with lowered (not bowed) head in front of the screaming crowd, he sat straight with eyes directed not on the floor like other slaves, but staring with fire in his gaze at his capturers.

Hiccup couldn't stop the words that tumbled past his limps, leaving his father speechless.

"I want him."