X.

Her hands tremble as they skate over his back, hovering just a breath above his skin. Sweat drips from his hair down his temples, pools in the hollow of her throat and mists over their bodies. Their panting echoes off rock walls. He holds her stare with a clenched jaw, and no matter how much she tries biting down on her lower lip, her traitorous mouth continues to spill with helpless moans.

She's not sure how it started this time. Maybe it was a scoffed comment about her cooking, her body, anything. Maybe she'd muttered something about him finishing without her the last time. Her thoughts are so incomprehensible, scattered by every steady rock of his hips into hers. She's stopped keeping track of the offenses that lead to their spiteful, dirty fucking.

And that's the word she's chosen for it. Because the terms her mother used– intercourse, marital duties– seem too technical. Hollow, clean-sounding things that don't quite parallel the things they do to each other. Good housewives don't leave bite marks, bruises, red splotches on their husbands. She's not sure what a good husband is supposed to do, but she's quite sure it doesn't include shoving his hand over his wife's mouth because he hates the sound of her voice.

And making love? Please.

Hiccup pulls back, out of her reach, and his hands part her thighs wider– pushes them higher. The new depths make her arch and dig her fingers in the furs.

She's pretty sure he likes her like this best. Speechless and undressed, pleading for more, deeper, faster. Shyness boiled out of her blood long ago. It's not just the fact that he seems to care somewhat about her pleasure– she thinks he likes her best when she's whimpering because he's learned how to subdue her. Sometimes she'll still grit her teeth against the begging, just because she knows that'll push him to thrust harder and touch more. Whatever it takes to make his name jump to her lips like a swear.

It might bother her, if she couldn't do the same. Climb onto his lap and grind against him until he's hard and breathing heavily. Tease him with the heat of her melting sex until his hips are lifting and searching for her mercy. The seductive quality of their sinful trysts isn't how much they want each other, but how well they can drive the other one to depraved need after even the worst fight. It's the power struggle, the fight for dominance. But even losing is tolerable, because fucking with Hiccup is always more take than give.

"You're gonna come first," he hisses, almost a threat. So it had been her comment about his failure to finish his task. Now it's not just a challenge for him, but a matter of pride. How badly she wants to wound that pride.

Astrid shakes her head. Wets her lips. "I'm not even close."

Pressing her knees almost to her shoulders, he bears his weight against her. Her jaw drops, but her cry, thankfully, is silent. Dark hair almost tickles her face. "Then why do you keep closing your eyes?"

She blinks, realizing she'd let them fall shut again. With a glare, she balls her hands into fists. "Falling asleep, is all."

He smirks with an awful smugness. "Keep them open, then. Or I might get the wrong impression."

She quickly discovers how hard it is to look him in the eye while she's shuddering around his cock.

"…and it connects to the pedal here. That way I can take off the saddle but leave the fin on."

Astrid really isn't as concerned about the inner workings of Toothless' tailfin rig as she probably should be. Tampering with the pulley system would probably be a great way to sabotage him. Cause some major injuries, if not send him flying straight into a cliff. She's uninterested, though. He talks on a plane above her head, throwing around physics and aerodynamics and elasticity and whatnot.

"And you made this when you were fourteen?" she asks skeptically. Her view of him is upside down– her head hangs off the edge of his bed, blonde curls pooled on the floor beneath her. She has a hatchling– or is it a normal sized Terror?– curled up and purring on her bare stomach. She pets its warm, dry scales as she watches Hiccup play with the whole saddle set-up.

"Well– not this one exactly." He scratches the back of his neck, sitting up and tapping his wrench on Toothless' tail. The Night Fury gives a huff of annoyance and then sets his head back down. "This one's been modified so that he can fly without me in an emergency."

That answers some of her questions about how he gets home when he's hammered.

"But yeah," he goes on, hands returning to their tweaking. "I worked in the forge, remember. And Dad and them were off on a search, so there wasn't much to do after dragon training."

Astrid rubs her thumb in circles on the dragon's forehead. "I'm still pissed I didn't figure it out."

He chuckles. "Milady, you get pissed at just about everything I do."

"True." She tries to scrounge up her memories of her fourteenth year, something she's found herself doing often since coming to live with Hiccup. It seems so long ago, like another life. She forgets things, until he mentions them and suddenly she's recalling details with stunning clarity. Like the fact that he worked in the forge– she'd forgotten until he took her to the smithy on Bulg. Then she all at once could picture skinny Hiccup eternally covered in soot and clamoring about his newest invention.

At first, she thought that they remembered things very differently. In her memory, he was the chief's only beloved son, the top student in dragon training. He was the boy who surpassed her, the one who stole her place at head of the class. A warm kid with some annoying quirks. She remembered all that sincerely, had forgotten how suspicious she'd been of him. But the more and more he reminds her, the more she recollects him how he really was.

She's starting to remember how Snotlout and the others tore into him for every mistake he made. How selfishly Hiccup ran around the village, causing chaos wherever he went. How he watched her with admiring eyes, and how it frustrated her that he never seemed to carry the burden that she and the rest of the villagers carried. She's starting to remember the thick-skinned boy that ate alone and was never invited to their secret hunts in the woods after dark.

"So, why didn't you kill him when you had the chance?" Her hands rest on the sleeping dragon atop her belly. "If the bola launcher worked– wasn't the whole point to prove yourself?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Hiccup says almost to himself. He shrugs one shoulder without looking up from the foot pedal. "First Viking in a thousand years who wouldn't kill a dragon."

She nods, gravity making the action a little more difficult. "First to ride one, though."

He pauses. His hands go still on the various parts of the rig. Then, slowly, he begins working again. "I think at first it was the ropes." Even though his bare back is to her and he can't be sure she's watching, he reaches over to point out a scar on the dragon's chest. "He was tied up, injured, probably sleep deprived. I dunno, it just seemed cruel to kill a creature that couldn't run or fight back."

She makes a noise of dissent. "He certainly didn't feel that way about the men on the towers he blew up."

"The ones throwing bolas and shooting arrows?" he retorts. Snorting, he shakes his head. "Even after I let him go, he just roared in my face and tried to fly off. He could've killed me– all I had was my knife. But that's when I figured out that dragons have honor too. I cut him loose, so he let me live."

Dragons with honor. What a notion. Letting her gaze roll over to Toothless' face, she wonders what other reason he might have had for not eating the wimpy teenager. Toothache? Pressing dinner appointment?

"The more I stuck around him, the less terrifying the dragons seemed. They've got their fears and their weaknesses too, and being around Toothless, I got to see them."

That piqued her curiosity. "Like what?"

"Like–" He started to tell her, but then caught himself, looking over his shoulder with a withering glance. "Like I'm going to tell you."

Sighing, she rolled her eyes.

"Anyways," he continued. "I know you don't believe me, but they don't attack cause they want to. There's a queen that they feed. She controls them. She makes them do the bad stuff."

It's not the first time he's explained this theory to her. "And the bees only sting when you threaten the queen." She lets her arms fall over the edge of the bed. "That doesn't change the fact that they're bees and they sting. They hurt people."

"Or maybe we're the bees." Hiccup looks up abruptly, frowning. His stare pins her in place. "They only come for the honey anyways."

For several minutes, she doesn't know what to say. He turns back to his adjustments, and she stares at the muscles in his back moving as he works. That's happening more often than not, lately. They start perfectly casual conversations– real progress, where their relationship is concerned. But then one of them brings up Berk and he fixes her with a sharp comment. And she sits there, stunned and speechless.

Stung.

If she lived on Bulg, she might lose her mind. Not because of the small size of the village– especially considering where she grew up– or because of the strange looks she gets from every person they pass. But if she lived on this island and had to listen to the sound of the blacksmith working even at ungodly hours of the night, she might bludgeon him to death with his own hammer.

Lucky for her husband, though, and consequently her, nobody shows up at the forge to beat Hiccup senseless. It's almost eerily calm. Except for the clanging of his tools, of course. It's strange to be within several yards of so many people while it's so quiet. She's gotten used to the background noises of dragons breathing, chittering, snoring.

"Why does everyone watch you wherever you go?" She can't help asking. The various weaponry around the walls and counters had entertained her for a while, but the hours are passing and she's getting tired.

Hiccup pauses after a couple of swings to wipe his face on his sleeve and shrug. "I dunno. I guess any guy who shows up out of the blue is weird. I don't talk much about where I'm from."

Narrowing her gaze, she clicks her tongue against the back of her teeth. "I think it's something else. Like– where do they think you live?"

"In the woods," he replies promptly. Taking a swig of the water skin hanging off the workbench, he coughs and bangs his palm against his chest. "Where else? That's where I leave Toothless, and that's where I show up every other night."

She snorts and traces the grain of the wooden table. "Maybe you should put more effort into your cover, Ren. Herga and Ingrid seem to already know about the dragons– the rest of the village can't be far behind."

Still trying to force water out of his windpipe, he gives her an annoyed glance. "Nobody asks questions. Nobody spreads rumors. People stare and wonder, and that's about it. That's why I like it here."

The sound of crunching gravel makes their gazes slip to the doorway, and then there's the glow of someone's lamp. An unfamiliar man steps inside, and Astrid thinks– this is it. Someone's coming to kill the insomniac blacksmith.

But Hiccup doesn't seem surprised or alarmed. He half turns to set down his hammer and then jerks his chin as a way of greeting. "Fiske. Hey."

The man is older– closer to her parents' age than her own. He's tall and burly, with a closely trimmed beard and dark hair that's streaked with silver. He seems to take a deep breath at the sight of them, shoulders settling. "I was looking for you," he said with an almost awkward clearing of his throat. "You haven't been around in a few days. Was wondering if you'd gotten yourself into trouble."

"No more than usual," Hiccup answers with a slight grin. He pulls off one glove and waves in her direction. "This is my wife. Astrid."

Fiske's eyebrows lift, but not as much as she's come to expect from that introduction. He nods respectfully, and she returns the gesture. "Horrendous has mentioned you a few times," he informs her. "Pleasure to put a face to the name."

Her head whips to stare at Hiccup. "You told him about me?"

The blacksmith is suddenly consumed by another coughing fit. "In passing."

"I tend the bar," Fiske tells her, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. "I hear a lot of things in passing."

"Fiske," Hiccup hisses, giving the other man some look that she can't interpret. The tiny shake of his head, though, she gets. "I'm not dead or in prison– don't you have drinks to pour?"

Chuckling, he nods and smiles at the floor. "Sure, Horrendous." He starts to back out of the doorway, and then he adds, "There's food left over from dinner if either of you are hungry."

Astrid straightens at the mention of food, but then quickly tries to temper her reaction. Her stomach has been growling for a while, but while she's not ashamed to annoy Hiccup for a meal, strangers are different. She looks at her husband and gives him a questioning glance.

Hiccup's already started putting his glove back on, but at her expression, he blinks and pauses. Like a deer caught at the other end of a bow. After a second, he seems to find his words and shifts his gaze to Fiske. "Ah– um, can you go ahead and take Astrid with you? I'll be there after I finish this order."

She tries not to beam. Maybe he hasn't quite picked up on telepathy, but perhaps he can actually remember that other human beings need more than whatever he keeps in his flask to survive.

The older man grunts an affirmative, beckoning forward with his fingers. She wonders faintly if she should be concerned about wandering through the village in the wee hours of morning with a stranger, but Hiccup seems to trust him. And he did come looking for "Horrendous" because he was concerned for his safety. So, she doesn't hesitate, slipping down from the stool she was perched upon and goes to his side. She wonders what she should say to Hiccup– whether she should make some wifely comment as she departs– but he's already turned and picked up his hammer once more.

Fiske turns out to be a quiet, stoic man. He doesn't try and make conversation as they walk through the dark night, though he does stay close and make sure to shine the lamp on her path so she can see. He's the silent type, and though that might work for Hiccup, who's surly and sarcastic, she can't take it. She needs human interaction.

"So, are you and Horrendous friends?" she asks, testing the waters. Astrid keeps her hands clasped behind her back as she walks, playing the role of the tame and domestic housewife.

His expression tells her that friend doesn't quite ring right. His mouth quirks. "I guess you could say we look out for each other. He's a regular, so I see him pretty often. Often enough that I get concerned when I don't see him."

She nods slowly. Weirdly enough, she knows exactly what he means. "He's hard to get to know, I guess."

Fiske doesn't reply.

After another couple of paces filled with silence, she tries again. "He's friends with the seamstress and her daughter. And he gets along with Gus." She wonders suddenly if she was sent along with Fiske so that Hiccup could sneak away to see Ingrid. But she quickly shakes her head of that bizarre thought. "Everyone I've met here seems to be really friendly, actually."

The older gentleman is quiet, almost stony. She starts to think that maybe he doesn't like her, that maybe he's being intentionally rude, but then the corner of his lips pull upwards. "Nobody on this island is in the dark about what your husband's up to."

A thrill of alarm skitters up her spine. Her steps almost falter, but then she catches herself. "I don't know what you're referring to." The words sound false and stilted even to her.

Fiske laughs, a real and true laugh. "You too?" After another chuckle, he says, "Horrendous wants to pretend like he's just an alcoholic hermit, like he's not strange in every sense of the word. Everybody knows, though. Everyone."

Astrid doesn't answer right away. She doesn't want to accidentally give away Hiccup's identity by jumping to conclusions. That'd just give him one more thing for him to bark at her about. They approach a building she remembers passing before, one of the only places with lights still in the windows.

"What does everyone know?" she challenges, lifting her chin just a fraction.

Fiske reaches out to open the door for her, and they step into the warm bar. There's only one patron in the back nursing a mug, but there's a healthy fire crackling in the hearth and a pot of something delicious smelling sitting next to it. He escorts her in, leading her to a small table and setting down the lamp. For a second, he ducks behind the bar, but then he reappears with a bowl and a spoon in his hand.

"Everyone knows that Horrendous isn't the wayfaring stranger he wants to be," Fiske finally tells her as he serves her. The pot is half full with a thick stew that makes her mouth water just to catch a whiff of. She's not a good cook, and living in the mountain doesn't give her many ingredients to work with. She's very aware of how pitiful her meals are. When Fiske sets the bowl down in front of her and gestures for her to eat, she thinks she might have to physically restrain herself.

She stares at him, making it clear– difficult as it is– that she won't take a bite until he continues. So he does.

"We know about the Night Fury," Fiske confesses low, so that the other person in the room doesn't overhear. Shaking his head, he takes the seat across from her and leans his forearm on the table. "We know what he does. How he distracts the dragons." He raps his knuckles on the wood. "Don't know how he does it, but there hasn't been one dragon-related injury or death since The Phantom showed up."

"The Phantom?" she breathes. She'd picked up her spoon and started inhaling her stew, but she pauses in her unladylike feasting to meet his wry gaze.

"And," Fiske continues, "The Phantom's never showed himself until Horrendous came to the island."

Part of her wants to shove an I told you so in Hiccup's face, but the other part of her is stunned. Almost too stunned to speak. "We called him the Dragon Master, where I'm from."

He shrugs casually. "Either way."

Astrid blinks, sitting up and pushing her bangs out of her eyes. "I didn't realize he did it for this place too."

With a nod, he leans back. The chair creaks beneath him. "Horrendous is the best thing that 's happened to this village in years. Not only did he step in and take over the forge when Halstuck died, he's been keeping the dragons in line at every raid. The dragons still come, 'course, but they take what they want and they leave. No one gets hurt, nothing gets destroyed."

She furrows her brow at her bowl, chews slowly as she stirs her food. "He doesn't know that you know."

Fiske chuckles again. "He's an odd guy. Won't lie, if it weren't for everything he does for this village, I'd've thrown him out of my bar years ago." That almost doesn't surprise her. Astrid wonders if Fiske is the one who supplies Hiccup with all his foul-tasting needs. "Got a lot of weight on his shoulders. Bad attitude sometimes. Doesn't open up about much… 'cept you, lately."

"Me?" she suddenly blurts a little too loudly. She almost spills her stew across the table.

"Oh, yeah," he nods, dark eyes gleaming. "Plenty about his pretty new wife."

Her heart, for some reason, starts to patter a little quicker. She wonders if that's a blush rising to her cheeks or if that warmth is just from sitting so close to the hearth. "What does he say about me?"

For a long minute, Fiske just stares. His mouth twitches, as if he's holding back a grin, and his gaze glitters with some secret that she wants to suddenly choke out of him. Is she what comes to Hiccup's mind when he's drunk and spilling his secrets to his bartender? Does Fiske also know about their relationship– the things that are fake and the things that are so very, very real?

He must see the anxiety in her face, because he cracks, snickering and folding his arms over his chest. "He really really hates you."

For some reason, his answer both soothes and disappoints. She straightens, lips moving aimlessly before she manages to reply, "Well, the feeling's mutual."

Fiske nods, looks over his shoulder towards a door behind the bar. Then he turns back to her and tilts his head thoughtfully. "Hasn't been here in almost a week, though." His gaze drops to her half-empty bowl. "That's got to count for something."

The door to the bar suddenly creaks open, and Hiccup steps inside, pulling his sweaty shirt away from his skin. His gaze scans the room for a second before falling on their table. He hasn't even sat down before he's stealing her food and shoveling it into his mouth. After several large bites, he sets the nearly empty bowl back in front of her and stretches his arm around her shoulders. "Fiske. Less flirting with my wife. More getting me a drink."

"You got it, Horrendous." The older man flashes one last glance at her– secretive and amused– before pushing away from the table and striding over to the bar.

Hiccup leans in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "He's not really hitting on you," he whispers. "He's a huge family man."

"Good," she hears herself mumble, though her eyes haven't moved away from the burly barkeep. "I'm a married woman."

Days later, she's roused in the middle of the night by hands yanking at her furs. At first, she just groans and pulls them back, thinking it's one of the more playful dragons wanting attention. But then they're torn from her, and she feels an arm force it's way under her stomach.

"Up," Hiccup commands under his breath. "Up. On your knees."

Instantly, her pulse races, and she feels her mind stir a little clearer. Half following orders, half being tugged into place by firm hands, she mumbles his name in question and pulls her legs under her.

He doesn't say anything or answer. He roughly shoves her furs aside, jerks her hips up until her ass is displayed at an appropriate height. Then his hands are clawing beneath her skirt, searching for the waistband of her leggings. Tearing them down with her underwear, he fumbles clumsily until he finds the knot of nerves within her curls. His breath is harsh when he leans over her, waking her with roughly stolen pleasure. She gasps another question, looks back to see his dark expression, but when he catches her glance, he holds her ponytail by the base and forces her head forward.

She's at a loss for words. He only touches her for a few minutes– all pinching and pulling and scratching. Then she hears the sound of his belt buckle, the rustling of his pants. He fills her before she's quite wet enough for him, and while it's uncomfortable, the savageness of it all makes her guiltily moan into the underside of her forearm.

It's not completely unusual. Not the first time they've woken one another for sex. She'd fallen asleep waiting up for him– he returned later than usual. He'd probably been anticipating her being awake and ready for him. His mood is a little off, though. Even through their haze of desire and despise, there's always an undercurrent of understanding. If she says stop, she always knows he will. She never has to worry about him forcing anything or hurting her.

Astrid doesn't open her mouth. Doesn't tell him that the angle of her neck is discomforting and he's making her nervous. But she wonders if she asked him to stop, if he would.

He's unyielding and unrelenting. She pushes and grips at the fur and floor beneath her, trying to find some hold against the force of his thrusts. Her knees quickly begin to ache, and some of his strokes are slamming into something inside her that answers with a sharp pain. She savors it, though, feels herself clenching around him. Even though she's just barely awake, she feels her sex growing wetter and slicker with every slap of his skin against hers.

Hiccup leans over her, presses his chest into her back as he gropes for her breasts beneath her shirt and bindings. She whimpers, feeling his warmth above her, around her, inside her. When she can, she presses back into him, meeting him for every merciless shove. Her back arches, her toes curling tight. He's beneath her shirt, tearing at her bindings with little to no avail. No matter what calm and easygoing Hiccup she might know by the light of day, this is a new and exciting– but frightening– facet of him.

He plays with her dripping flesh, makes her legs almost give out on her. "Come," he snaps close to her ear. "Come already, dammit."

She's not sure why she does. She's made it a part of her daily life to refuse every command he gives her. But with those spiteful words, her entire body clenches, and she cries out as he continues ramming her through wave and wave of ecstasy. It's a little painful and not quite perfect, but her orgasm steals her breath, makes her claw at the stone beneath her in an attempt to hold onto something steady.

Astrid thinks she feels the relief in him as soon as her muscles go slack. He tightens his arm around her waist, presses his forehead into the back of her shoulder. Then he's swearing angrily against her, his fingers digging into her side and his hipbones bruising her ass. A few hasty strokes later, and he's holding her to him like it might take a weapon forged by the gods to separate them. He throbs and pulses, groaning quietly as he leaves his warm and slippery release inside her.

She catches her breath as she waits for him to loosen his too-tight hold on her, for him to let her go so they can fix their clothes and fall asleep exhausted but satiated. But he doesn't move, doesn't relax his arm. Almost too low for her to hear, his breath hitches.

"Hiccup?" She pushes up onto rubbery arms, pulling at his wrist, but he doesn't release her. The shaky exhale he breathes between her shoulder blades only sharpens her concern. She sits up as best she can, trying to pry his arm off, pulling at his fingers. She feels something wet on her palm, and when she brings her hand back, blood is smeared across her skin.

Panic makes old instincts flare. She digs her nails into him, wrenching free and twisting so she can face him. Hiccup glowers towards the fire, not meeting her gaze, but the tendons of his neck are twitching and his eyes are ringed with red.

Astrid feels something strange squeeze in her chest. She lifts trembling fingers to his face, holds his jaw so she can turn his head this way and that. "Are you hurt? What happened?" When she brings the hand that had been restraining her to the light, she can see that his knuckles are skinned and swollen. "Who were you fighting? Where were you?"

Hiccup swallows hard, pulling his face away from her grasp. "Berk," he rasps hatefully, shaking his head a little. She doesn't know how to reply, so she just watches him. Under her gaze, his chin begins to wobble. He sniffs and clenches his hand into a fist. "No right– he has no right."

For the first time since seeing him again after seven years, she sees him blink away tears. She's made some pretty evil comments, even thrown a few blows, but she's never witnessed even a glimpse of a man that feels pain. It's even scarier than the rough way he just handled her, more frightening than any of the dragons milling uneasily around the cave. She adjusts her clothes and climbs onto his lap, taking her head in his hands just in time for his features to collapse completely. He doesn't sob, doesn't cry like she thinks he wants to. But he hides his face in her shoulder, gasping for air and coughing on the tears he can't force down.

Shock makes it hard for her to form words. She makes stunned little hushing noises and slowly runs her fingers through his hair, but seeing this emotion from Hiccup is disconcerting. Until he settles, though, she hugs him and tries to soothe him. He holds her waist, occasionally hitting the wall and making her jump. The hands that dug into her flesh just moments ago now rest so lightly on the curves of her sides.

"It's okay," she murmurs, kissing his hair and rubbing his back. "You're okay. I'm here." He shakes in her arms like he's never spent a day of his life without her.

The next day, when he comes home late, he's drunk. And on his back is a new, red and tender outline of a dragon scale.