literature

Crooked

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Literature Text

Crooked

He should be over there, Gobber decided of his current situation.  Instead his hand reached for a freshly filled mug of ale, and his bottom remained firmly in his seat.

He should be over there, standing next to his best friend.  Not using the last of his sobriety to fight down inappropriate urges to throttle Stoick, to resist challenging his battle-brother to Hólmgang.

He should be over there
, supporting the new couple.  Gobber licked his lips, tasting the guilt, shame and anger that tainted an otherwise fine drink.

He should be over there, telling the joke that has everyone laughing.  Instead it's Ack who caused the uproar—not through a joke but by stumbling headfirst over a mead barrel.  Stoick slaped a hand to his belly and laughs, bold and free.  His new wife bumped his shoulder with a chuckle of her own.

Despite all he had drank that evening, Gobber struggled with a dry swallow.

He should be over there, married to that woman.

Instead he sat on the other side of the Hall, conveniently next to the largest supply of alcohol, and brooded in misery as his mind muddled with regrets and lost opportunities.  He said his congratulations after the ceremony of course.  He slapped Stoick's back, patted her hand, wished them all the best...and then he faded off into the background to watch them in tormented peace.

Gobber sighed like a wanton village-girl, but he was past the point of caring.

Valhallarama—the chubby tomboy that evolved into a Midgard-bound Valkyrie.  The firelight of ten dozen candles caught every auburn highlight of her hair.  Waves upon waves of the dark tresses cascaded down her back, released for this day and this day only.  He often tried to imagine her hair out of her braids, ever since they were young teens and he realized she couldn't spar with them shirtless for a reason, but his imagination left him wholly unprepared for the stupefaction that struck him.  It was perfect, looking immaculately soft, framing her oval face as he had only seen it framed in dreams—and flowing divinely through the fingers of his best friend.  Stoick.  Val's new husband.

Gobber pushed down the upcoming rush of indignation almost reflexively.  It had happened far too often within the night.  His remedy for feeling undeserved resentment towards Stoick was to take three, hulking gulps of mead and stare at Val a mite longer.

But not her hair—her hair would only upset him.

Her dress!  What a figure!  Nearly as tall as himself—solid, but with a softness to her hands and cheeks that no amount of training could eradicate.  Now this was a woman: sturdy as an oak-braced knörr and coy as Hel herself.  Freckled dusted skin, round hips and an even rounder bosom.

Ooooh, that bosom...

She laughed again, but Gobber missed what caused it.  It didn't matter, anyhow.  When she laughed she tipped her head back, some hair fell from her shoulder, exposing more of her neck.  She brought her hand up and tucked a longer strand behind her ear.  She turned to her left, smiling blithely at a man who looked too perfect by her side.  She—

She couldn't be seen because a hand of fat fingers snapped repeatedly in his face.

"Oi! Over 'ere yeh bas!"

Gobber blinked, sluggish, and turned his focus down the metal-cuffed arm and up to a ruddy face framed with blonde hair.

A few more blinks later and he could identify it as Hoark's.

"Oh..." he mumbled intelligently.

"Yeah, 'oh'," Hoark repeated, rolling his eyes. "Think yeh can pull yer head outta yeh arse fer two minutes 'n' show a little tact?"

"I should skelp yeh one fer lookin' at me brother's wife like that." Someone grunted at Gobber's left.  It took the young blacksmith a moment longer to realize Spitelout had taken seat next to him sometime between now and when he first plopped down.

He feared he spent far too much of his night staring at a woman never to be his.

"Ay," Gobber agreed solemnly. "Yeh should."

He knocked back the rest of his drink and slammed it on the table.  A fist clipped his shoulder in the next moment, hard enough to send an irritating jolt through his arm.  Gobber curled his lip at Hoark, mentally vowing to make the blond the first of their generation to lose an arm if he suffered one more offense by that appendage.

"Och, knock it off," Hoark ordered with an unsympathetic laugh. "Yeh had plenty o' opportunity tae court her.  But didja?  Nae. Yeh sat in yer wee ickle booth and hammered aboot.  Just starin' at her.  Could'a went tae yeh father aboot it..."

"Nae against his family," the smith griped, gesturing wildly over towards Stoick. "—ach, no offense 'Lout!"

Spitelout cast him a flat stare from over the rim of his mug.  He appeared as though he meant to say something, so Gobber waited.  Spitelout prolonged the wait by pausing to take a lengthy swill from his drink.

Finally, the elite settled with an uncaring shrug. "Wits done is done."

Gobber scowled. "Easy fer yeh tae say!  Yer already set!  Yeh already have a wife—a pregnant wife at that!"

Spitelout cracked a smile, "Aye.  But she didn't come that way."

Hoark laughed raucously, garnering a few looks from their neighbors, and clanked his glass against Spitelout's.  Gobber rolled his eyes.  He knew he should be thankful they weren't taking the soon-to-be-chief's side, or tattling on him for his disobedient eyes.  They were all friends, ever since boyhood.  But empathy wasn't a well-practiced virtue in their community, and Gobber knew suffering their presence wouldn't help him feel better.

Action might, however.

Gobber stood up from the bench so quickly that Spitelout and Hoark were jostled.  Precious mead flew from their mugs to stain the table.

"Gobber?  Where yeh goin?"

"Tell me he's nae...oh, o' all th' senseless..."

He ignored their inquiry as he marched across the Hall, a purposeful drive in his step.  Stoick saw him first.  The red-head's face lit up so much that Gobber felt shame bite at his throat like an aggrieved Terror.

"Oi! There 'e is!  Where're yeh bin?"

Gobber opened his mouth to say something—the truth, perhaps, maybe a tweaked lie, or a twisted tale of a mad troll that stole his mead—but something stole his attention.  At this distance—or lack there of—Gobber realized one very, important fact.

Valhallarama didn't have her breastplate on.  She always had her breastplate on.  But not today.

They were...they were...

Gobber the Belch would forever maintain that his hands moved on their own, bearing no permission from his mind.  Maybe his heart, but certainly not his mind.  One moment he travelled to Stoick's side, intent on saying something, and the next thing he knew he had a handful of grade-A flesh gripped in each palm.

Freyja above, he couldn't even get half of one in his hand!  And he was not known for having small hands.  The feel of Valhallarama's sizable bust was everything he'd dreamed it'd be: firm and soft, malleable and warm and beautiful.  It was, it was...

It was not Stoick's fist that broke Gobber's nose that evening.
:iconch4rms:'s Kiriban one-shot. She wanted something with Gobber admiring Valhallarama. Involving her awesome foxy bust.

Once again I went over the 1000 word limit. I have a problem with whittling things down. I get started and then get too into it, and then I realize I need to wrap things up in 100 words. Whoops.

I named it Crooked after Gobber's crooked nose. And his crooked thoughts :XD:

This is not well edited; my classic write and run routine.

The header is done by *ch4rms herself! I watched her do it. It was perverted and ridiculous.

Hope you enjoyed it!

I do not own How to Train your Dragon
© 2011 - 2024 AvannaK
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Aang10's avatar
this is too funny