u/httyd-fankid1000

Hey guys, I have a question for you all. If hiccup and toothless could have a choose to listen to rock songs, what it be?, like hiccup and toothless listen to greenday, Blink-182 or linkin park, or other band, do you have one?, let me know in the commons.

That's the answer i'm looking for, because i'm wondering about the backrooms too, the movie is going to be about, because i was wondering, can you be showing more levels, or a prequel, or something else?, let me know in the comments, what do you think?

That's the answer i'm looking for, because i'm wondering about the backrooms too, the movie is going to be about, because i was wondering, can you be showing more levels, or a prequel, or something else?, let me know in the comments, what do you think?

By the way, this fan fiction takes place in dragons riders of berk tv series timeline

By the way, this fan fiction takes place in dragons riders of berk tv series timeline

Rewatched it last night, and I keep landing on the same thing: this movie isn't really scary in the traditional found footage sense. There's no entity stalking them. The catacombs just start handing each character their own worst memory and asking them to own it.

Scarlett gets her father's suicide. George gets Jonah. Even the throwaway characters get their reckoning. The whole descent is structured as Dante — the inverted "abandon all hope" sign, the only way out being *down* — but the horror isn't damnation. It's confession. You can't leave until you admit the thing you did.

That's a genuinely interesting idea, and I think it's also why the film has such a split reputation. People who came for a claustrophobic cave crawl got a hermetic riddle instead. And the jump scares are honestly the weakest part — the burning car, the ringing phone, all of it feels grafted on from a different, dumber movie.

Two things I want to hear take on:

1. Does the "personal hell" structure actually pay off, or does it collapse because the rules are never consistent? (Why does the Mole exist? Why is Zed's guilt handled so thinly?)

2. Is the ending — crawling up through the manhole, everything inverted — a genuine resolution or a shrug?

Also: they shot in the actual catacombs with no built sets. Does knowing that change how the space reads to you, or is it just trivia at this point?

Hey guys, it's been. It's been months since. I release the teaser, some you like it, someone of you didn't, but that's okay, so yeah, the new trailer will come out soon, I'm almost done with it, and I hope I will release it on youtube and reddit and TikTok, thank you and have a good day.

Hear me out, lol. Imagine the entire village of Berk, from dragons riders of berk, tv show, just gets yoinked into a theater and forced to watch "Life Goes On," "Hurt," "Miracle Man," all of it. How does everyone react?

**"What if all the characters from the How to Train Your Dragon movies and TV shows — including the villains — met the real people at DreamWorks who created them?"**

A couple of alternate versions, depending on the vibe you want:

- **Casual:** "What would happen if the entire HTTYD cast — heroes, dragons, and villains alike — suddenly met their creators at DreamWorks?"

- **Story-prompt style:** "Imagine Hiccup, Toothless, the whole gang, and even villains like Drago and Grimmel are transported to the real world and come face-to-face with the DreamWorks team that made them. How would they react?"

# The Worst Birthday Ever

*A* Dragons: Riders of Berk *story*

---

## Chapter One — Records

Hiccup Haddock the Third was, among a great many other things, an inventor, and inventors keep records.

It was the first lesson Gobber had ever beaten into him, back when his hands were too small to close around a hammer the proper way: *write down what you did, write down what it did, write down what went wrong.* A thing only truly became a mistake if you made it twice. So Hiccup wrote everything down — measurements, failures, dead ends, the exact running tally of times Snotlout had set himself on fire (forty-one, and counting) — and on most days it was a good habit.

On most days.

Because it meant that on the morning of his sixteenth birthday, when the day began, very quietly, to come apart, some traitor corner of his brain reached for a clean page and began — helpfully, thoroughly — to keep count.

He told himself he'd stop at three.

He did not stop at three.

---

**One.**

He woke in the dark to a tongue roughly the temperature and texture of a wet boot dragging slowly up the side of his face.

"*Toothless.*" Hiccup flailed an arm at the dim shape looming over the bed. "We have — we have *talked* about this. That doesn't come out. There is no soap on Berk strong enough—"

The Night Fury chirped, thrilled, the way he was thrilled every single morning, as though waking Hiccup were a daring new idea he'd only just invented. Then he flopped his whole weight backward off the warmed stone slab Hiccup had built him in the corner — and the slab, being shared real estate, tipped the mattress with him, and Hiccup went sideways off the edge of his own bed in a tangle of furs and dignity and landed on the floorboards with a sound like a dropped crate.

The floor was very cold. The kind of cold that got into the iron of his leg and made the stump above it ache before he'd even strapped the thing on.

Which was, of course, propped against the far wall. Just out of reach. Where he always left it, and where it always, on mornings like this, seemed to have moved another foot away in the night out of sheer spite.

He crawled for it across the icy boards, hauled himself upright against the bedpost, and got it buckled by feel in the grey almost-light that was leaking through the shutters. Not even proper light yet. The gulls hadn't bothered to start screaming. Somewhere out past the walls the sea was making its slow grinding noise against the rocks, and the air had that flat, heavy, metal smell that meant rain was coming in off the water and meant to stay.

Down the ladder. Into the main room.

The fire was a heap of grey ash going cold in the pit. His father's great chair sat empty beside it, the dent of him still in the cushion, a horn cup left on the arm. Stoick had been gone for hours — out before dawn, the way he was most mornings now, down to the docks or up the watchtowers, because lately the chief of Berk slept about as much as the chief of Berk's son's dragon let *him* sleep.

There was no note. There was never a note; his father thought writing things down for people who lived in the same house was a peculiar habit he'd picked up from Gobber. There was no greeting waiting, no gruff hand on the shoulder, nothing on the table but a heel of yesterday's bread and the cup.

And there was no reason, Hiccup told himself firmly, for the small, stupid, specific ache that started up under his ribs at the sight of it.

It was early. That was all. The day hadn't started. People had things to do. And it wasn't as though anyone on Berk made a *thing* of birthdays — Vikings marked the day you killed your first something, the day you earned your name, the day you did a deed worth a saga. Not the day you happened to get born, which any squalling infant could manage without trying. By that arithmetic Hiccup had nothing to be marked for this morning except the simple fact of having existed for sixteen winters, which, by the standards of Berk, was barely an accomplishment at all.

So it was fine. It was fine that the house was empty and the fire was out and nobody had said anything.

He ate the bread standing up, looking at his father's empty chair, and told himself it was fine until he almost believed it.

*That's one,* said the traitor corner of his brain, and turned over a fresh page.

---

Outside, the village was waking the way it did now — which was to say, loudly, and with dragons.

Two years ago a Berk morning had meant axe-sharpening and the smell of the forge and the occasional distant scream of a raid. Now it meant a Gronckle wedged comfortably in someone's hay loft, and a Nadder picking through the troughs for fish, and a Terrible Terror skittering across the path in front of Hiccup with a stolen sausage twice its own size, pursued by a furious Mildew waving a rake and roaring about *vermin* and *the old days* and *you mark me, boy, mark me.*

Hiccup marked him. Hiccup was, after all, keeping records.

"Morning, Mildew," he offered, and got a snarl for it, which was, by Mildew's standards, warm.

He went down through the lanes with his collar up against the wet, nodding to the few people about, and not one of them — not Bucket, not Mulch, not Phlegma hauling her nets — looked at him as though today were any day in particular. Why would they. He hadn't expected them to. He told himself, again, that he hadn't expected anything from anyone, which was a useful thing to tell yourself because then there was nothing to be disappointed about.

In his satchel, knocking against his hip with every step, was the thing he *had* let himself be a little proud of: a new release latch for the saddlebags, two weeks of filing and fitting and one cracked thumbnail, a little spring catch so a rider could drop a supply pack mid-flight without ever touching down. He'd test it at the Academy. He'd show the others. Maybe — and here was the soft, foolish thought he didn't quite look at directly — maybe at the Academy somebody would remember, and there'd be that grin, that *of course we know what today is,* and the whole grey morning would tip over into something else.

He held onto that the whole way down the hill.

It got him almost to the forge before the day took its second bite.

---

**Two.**

Gobber was already at the anvil when Hiccup ducked under the low beam into the heat and the orange light, and he looked up with a grin that hauled Hiccup's hopes a good four feet clean off the ground.

"There he *is!*" The big man pointed a tong at him. "Knew you'd be along. Been savin' something special for ye."

The hopes hovered. *Here it comes,* Hiccup thought, and felt his own answering smile start up despite everything—

Gobber thumped a slate down on the bench. It was a list. A *long* list, in Gobber's blunt scrawl: six bent fishing spears, a cracked shield boss, two axe heads gone soft, Sven's plough blade, and — underlined twice, with feeling — *MILDEW'S GATE HINGE (AGAIN).*

"Special as in *long,*" Gobber clarified, beaming, entirely pleased with himself. "Whole village fell apart at once, would ye believe it. Get through that lot an' the forge won't mind ye buzzin' off after to play with your dragons."

The hopes came down to earth and sat there.

"Big day, then," Hiccup said. He let the words hang. He leaned on them, just slightly, and watched the old blacksmith's weathered face for the flicker of *gotcha,* the wink, the joke he was surely about to spring. "It's, uh. Kind of a big day, actually, Gobber—"

"That's the spirit! Lots t'do." Gobber clapped him on the shoulder with the hand that was a hand, hard enough to rattle his teeth, and turned back to the anvil. "Mind the bellows, the left one's stickin'. An' for Thor's sake don't let Mildew tell ye the hinge wants *re-forging,* it wants a *clean an' a pin,* the cheap old—"

And that was it. The moment closed over smooth and quiet, like water over a stone you've dropped off the side of a boat, and went on being an ordinary morning at the forge as though nothing had been about to happen at all.

Because nothing had. Of course nothing had. Gobber didn't remember; Gobber kept the day Hiccup forged his first usable blade and the day Hiccup lost his leg and the day a Night Fury came down out of the sky and rearranged the entire world, and those were the days that *counted,* those were worth a place in the old man's enormous fond memory. Not this one. Not a number you reached just by waking up enough mornings in a row.

Hiccup looked at the slate. He looked at his satchel with its clever little latch he'd been so eager to show somebody. He set the satchel carefully on the high shelf where the twins couldn't get at it, picked up the first bent spear, and got to work, and told himself the day still had plenty of room to turn around in.

The Academy was still ahead. Astrid was still ahead. The whole bright loud middle of the day was still out there, unspent, full of people who might yet say his name like it mattered.

*That's two,* said the traitor corner of his brain, gently, and waited.

It would not have to wait long.

---

*End of Chapter One.*

Has anyone here actually seen Charles Swan III? Is it worth a watch as an A24 origin-story curiosity, or is it as forgettable as its reputation suggests?

Hey everyone! I've been curious about the Backrooms and wanted to hear what this community thinks about it. Have any of you seen it? What were your thoughts on it as a film?

I'm interested in hearing your takes on things like:

● The overall experience and atmosphere

● How it compares to other A24 releases

● Whether you'd recommend it to others

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts!

"I've been thinking about this weird crossover concept - what if Hiccup and Toothless somehow no-clipped out of Berk and ended up in the Backrooms?

How do you think they'd handle it? Would Toothless's fire be useful against the entities? Could Hiccup's engineering skills help them escape? And more importantly - how would they even get back to Berk?

Just a fun thought experiment. Has anyone else thought about HTTYD characters in other fictional universes?"

Hey everyone! I've been thinking about this wild scenario and wanted to get your thoughts.

What if the entire United States and Canada suddenly got teleported to the HTTYD universe during the events of "Dragons: Riders of Berk"?

Some questions I'm curious about:

How would modern humans react to dragons? Would we try to fight them or learn to coexist like Hiccup did?

Could our military technology actually stand up to dragons, or would we realize pretty quickly that befriending them is the better option?

How would the people of Berk and other Viking settlements react to suddenly having hundreds of millions of new neighbors with completely different technology and culture?

Would our modern knowledge of agriculture, medicine, and engineering help or hurt the HTTYD world?

Could dragons and humans from North America learn to bond the way Hiccup and Toothless did?

I think it would be chaos at first, but eventually, we'd probably end up with a really interesting blend of modern civilization and dragon-riding culture. What do you all think would happen?