Hiccup had dreamed of a moment like this one.
Or, at least, he thought he had.
He'd woken up too many nights to count, alone, confused, and aching, unable to remember the specifics of what his mind had envisioned. He'd felt pieces of that same confusion at different times, that same ache, but no breath of time until now had come close to the early morning weight of burning dreams he couldn't recall.
He could barely keep a single thought in his mind for more than a split second, yet nothing had ever been so simple, so entirely perfect, suffused with a clarity that was almost sharp in his mind. She filled his hands, her hair covering his arms as his palms traced the curves of her back. Her legs rested alongside his hips, her body tilted against his on his bent leg. Her hands moved over his face, his chest, grasping at him, pulling him toward her then pushing him back against the tree as he kissed her.
He wasn't going anywhere. The metal of his prosthetic was buried into the soft moss beneath them, and with his own strength he kept his balance and hers. He was a fixed point on a map, his desire and hers orbiting around them both, enclosing them like the fog that concealed them from everything, including time.
He slid his hands over her waist and around her backside, exploring, watching and listening, tasting her reaction, the rhythm of her breath, the way her nails dug into his skin in marvelous torment. So much of her skin met his, burning him where they touched. He didn't want her to move away but he wanted to set her apart from him for just enough time that he could explore, feel with his hands the contours and heat that rested against his chest.
Then the myriad chaos of his thoughts found an order, a logical sequence, like the pages of a book falling into place. His face began to burn at the momentary image of another book, and he was glad they were too close for her to notice.
His ideas formed their own map, a chart of what to try, where to go, what to do to find the destination he most wanted to reach and wasn't always sure how to navigate.
As always, he started with what he knew, and what he wanted. He kissed her mouth, the corner of her lips, allowing her to catch her breath while he feasted on the warm and sensitive skin near her temple, along her jaw, behind her ear. He whispered fragmented words, with sighs and gasps that echoed hers, and through the chaos of his own torment found a path to follow.
It was accidental, but so were most of his discoveries.
He wrapped her hair around his hand, winding it into a long, shimmering coil around his wrist, his fingers, his forearm. He'd started because he wanted to touch her hair, to feel it sliding through his hand, but he ended up creating a gauntlet of spun gold that he could use to hold her still. He didn't tighten his grip. It wasn't his intention to pull her hair. He adjusted only to hold her still, to keep her immobile as he feasted on her neck, her jawline, and the sensitive, soft, and tempting skin beneath it.
Then he felt a shudder move through her body and lifted his head to look at her face. Her eyes were closed, her hands clutching at his shoulders, his chest, his arms, moving along his side in a frantic haphazard rhythm. Her mouth was open, her breath erratic. The flush that spread across her face was the most fascinating, that and the way her hands reached for him, over and over.
He experimented, flexed his arm to very subtly tighten his grip on her hair.
Her lids fluttered open and she gasped, a quiet moan following the sound, low and soft in the back of her throat.
He lowered his face, nuzzling the base of her ear as he skimmed his teeth along her neck. "You like this."
When she didn't answer, he glanced up, concerned that he'd read her wrong.
But no, he hadn't. He wasn't wrong. She had pressed her lips together like she was trying to keep from answering.
He pulled her closer, wrapping his free arm around her waist and drawing her into him, reveling in the strength of her body pressed against his. She didn't pull away or resist, and he wasn't holding her so tightly she couldn't move.
She could move - easily.
He glanced at her face again before kissing her. She didn't try to keep her lips closed. She dove into him, devouring him, her hands in his hair, tugging at the braid she'd woven, then sliding around his neck and over his back, pressing closer, deeper against him. He wasn't afraid or hesitant that she'd feel how hard he was. It wasn't possible to hide it anyway, but when she rocked forward, pressing the heated center of her body against his erection, he gasped, drawing a breath from her mouth that she stole back by doing it again.
Astrid went exploring while he tried to regain control of his breathing, her mouth sliding along the edge of his jaw, through the stubble to his neck. Her whispers were incendiary, setting his blood on fire.
He let go of her hair so he could use both arms to pull her closer, anchoring her against his body with his hands covering her hips. Then he tipped her upper body back just a little, enough that he could scrape his teeth along the skin where her neck met her shoulder, feel the shudder of her reaction, the rasp of her breathing as it changed.
Then he dipped his head lower, his tongue tracing faint lines along the top of her breast. Her nails bit into his shoulders and he felt her shiver in every part of his body, and answered with his own when she slid her body against his, rocking, gliding over his erection.
He drew one nipple between his teeth, and the noise she made nearly undid him. Maintaining his balance was one of the most difficult things he'd ever done. Not in keeping them both upright, but balancing his mind between listening and feeling, observing and feasting. He wanted to explore for hours, the texture of her skin, the softness of each curve, the reaching peak of her nipples, the way they felt, the way she tasted. But he couldn't stop listening and analyzing. Half of his mind, possibly more, was determined to read and understand her, decipher her reactions, translate each shiver, each moan, each grasping hold of her fingers or movement against his body so that he knew what to do next, what to change, what to repeat, and how to heighten everything.
The edge of his teeth against her breast meant a gasp. Sliding his fingers over her skin, smoothing away the remaining marks from her bindings elicited a quiet moan that made his stomach tighten with longing. Tasting her nipple, exploring with his tongue, extended her gasp into a moan. Pulling tight, drawing the tip into his mouth caused her to arch toward him. Pressing the peaked skin against the edge of his teeth with his tongue, gently, then with firmer intent, meant he'd feel her nails on his shoulder, and the rhythm of her movements against him would shudder then increase. Sucking, exploring the changing texture with his tongue, kneading and stroking with his fingers repeated those sounds, and added a vibrating urgency to the movements of her hips over his, the way she pressed herself repeatedly against the ridge of his erection, reaching for his body with her own.
When he pulled away, covering her breasts with his hands and pinching lightly with his fingers instead of his teeth, the moment he breathed in, her mouth found his, her tongue echoing the roll and pitch of her body against his. Her kiss, the taste of her mouth, the feel of her breasts against his hand, the fall of her hair covering them both, the bite of the tree bark on his back consumed him. If they'd burst into flames, he wouldn't have been surprised.
Her hands slid over his shoulders in erratic movements. Sometimes she grabbed onto him like she worried she'd fall, despite the grip he had on her body and the way her legs rested over his. Then her hands would relax and she'd chart his chest with her fingertips, tracing his muscles, her nails lightly scraping over his nipples, then with more force, making him shudder. Her touch was like liquid fire painted across his skin, fueled by the overwhelming amazement that it was Astrid, here in his arms, reaching for him, exploring him the way he ached to explore her. He didn't want to close his eyes for too long. He needed the confirmation, the unmistakable evidence of what was happening, as if the burning of his skin against hers, the scent of her hair, the taste of her mouth and the sounds they made weren't enough, weren't searing themselves in his mind.
He could never draw this.
Then her nails skidded over the side of his chest, and he couldn't help jerking away, unable to stop the brief shout of laughter.
"Sorry - I know how ticklish you are."
He felt his face turning a deep, obvious red at her smirk. "That is not an invitation."
Astrid rested her forehead against his, a smile breaking across her face, quiet laughter erasing the jagged gasps of a moment before. "Oh, really?"
"Yes, really, unless you want to fall down." His actions belied his words; he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her against him, tipping her weight forward so that she pressed against him, tilted forward. They wouldn't fall.
"Is that a dare?"
He tightened his grip on her, and she slid against him, riding the edge of his erection. He gasped, then exhaled in broken intervals, the sensation overwhelming him. He still wouldn't let them fall. "No."
"Are you sure?"
This would not end well, he thought with a smile. Her answering and very wicked grin gave him an idea.
Kissing her deeply, he began winding her hair around his hand, then his forearm in a long, uneven coil, then slid his fingers against her scalp, cupping her head in his palm. Holding her gently immobile again, he moved his head and kissed along the line of her throat to her jaw, then to her ear, nuzzling the skin around it.
Then, in a low, teasing whisper, he said, "What if I tie you up?"
…
Fire ripped through Astrid at his words, at his touch. Fierce heat flooded her veins, built of desire, fierce yearning and some shameful anger at herself that she couldn't control her reaction, nor the urgency of her movements. She pushed him with her body, her hands moving him away while she pulled herself toward him. If he were a tree, she'd climb him, pushed onward by determination, frustration, and fire, the shifting liquid heat that pooled in her belly and roared through each of her limbs.
She had no idea what he was doing to her, and she never wanted him to stop. The edge of his teeth were skimming down her neck, making her shiver and burn. His lips found her neck, then that spot below where her braid normally rested that sent sparks through her body from the heat of his mouth.
She couldn't find the words to tell him how much he made her burn, turned her molten inside.
When his tongue, then his teeth, covered one nipple, then the other, she gave up. She couldn't have spoken coherently if her life depended on it.
Her thoughts were a mess, at war with themselves.
She desperately wanted him to do what he said, to tie her up, restrain her for real instead of by gentle facsimile like he had with her hair, a recent memory she'd revisit over and over in the darkness of her room. And on the heels of that ferocious desire came confusion, shame. No one should make her submit, tie her up, restrain her.
But this was different, her desire argued. He was different.
There were countless ways in which he was the exception, the only one outside her rules, inside her boundaries, the person she knew better than anyone.
He matches her strength, even when he doesn't expect that he can. She can fight him, has fought him, spent the full energy of her body and her frustration on him, and he took it, met her strike for strike in practice without failing.
Her stubborn will refused to agree, rejecting the idea that anyone could subdue her. Then a tiny, incendiary thought entered her mind.
But you trust him.
She wouldn't let anyone unwind her like he had, nor challenge or change her. And she wouldn't allow anyone to restrain her, tie her down or tell her what to do if she didn't trust them entirely.
She trusted him without question.
"Tie me?" She whispered her question, echoing her thoughts and his words, the riot of her mental argument passing in a flash of time barely measurable except in the way it changed how she felt.
"Yes."
She shuddered at his reply, feeling her vulnerability crack and fill with molten fire. His mouth explored the contours of her breasts, the landscape she kept tied down, hidden, wrapped up tightly beneath layers of fabric. It was practical, but she didn't always like it.
She had wanted him to reveal her, explore…everything. He let go of her hair, and she curled over him, her arms holding him to her, her head resting gently on his. Her hair covered them both, surrounding them with uncertain shadows.
When he spoke a long moment later, she could feel and hear his words, the sound and rhythm mixing on her skin, pouring over her. "Tie your hands back, hold you still."
She shuddered again, and her doubt dissolved into nothingness. She wanted this. She wanted him. And she trusted him entirely, knowing that his only goal was her, to explore and send her flying, then bring her to a safe landing wrapped around him.
Her whisper was low, a sound that echoed the darkly burning ache growing inside her. "How? Show me."
His quick huff of laughter ripped over her skin, cooling her for a moment before his teeth shivered over her nipple, making her gasp aloud.
He lifted his head, and met her gaze. Her entire world shifted, pivoting into this moment, the deep green of his eyes drawing her in, covering her with fire while making her feel safe, protected, free to explore and chase a forbidden, secret desire she'd never considered for more than a moment.
She could tell he was thinking, his mind soaring at impossible speeds, considering every possibility. That the focus of his attention, his incredible inventive mind, was entirely on her, on her body and her pleasure, made it difficult to breathe. Her eyes stung for a moment before she blinked to clear them.
Then he raised his arms and pushed her hair back, sweeping it to one side so it fell across her shoulder. He never looked away from her face, his expression considering, weighing options, figuring out what to do.
If he became immobile because of indecision, she might have to kill him.
His hands moved to her shoulders, then slid down her arms to circle her wrists, which rested between them. "I could probably design cuffs," he murmured. She felt her face turn scarlet and glared at him.
"You are not taking a break to fly back to the forge."
His laugh was genuine, and surprised her so much that when he pulled her forward, she didn't expect it, and fell into him.
Their mouths were a breath apart, and while his expression was kind and happy, his voice was different - dark, and full of tempting promise. "I'm not going anywhere."
He kissed her quickly, then moved his hands to her hips, fingertips stroking over her skin, dipping into the loose waistband as his thumbs circled over her hipbones. She shivered, watching his eyes darken as he touched her. His hands slid over her, around her waist, then down, cupping her so he could pull her tight against him. The heat of his erection was unmistakable between their two layers of worn cloth, and she reached, shifted to pursue more contact.
His thumbs traced a firm line over her hips again, and then his hands dove down, covering the back of her thighs and holding her still as he lifted himself toward her, showing her, letting her feel what she did to him. She wasn't alone.
Then his fingertips stroked lower, then lower still, meeting beneath where she ached most, and she dropped her forehead to his shoulder, unable to keep her eyes open, unable to let him see her face when he discovered the wet heat she knew that he would find.
"Astrid." His voice was still a whisper, thinner than the fog that covered them.
She lifted her head.
"Don't look away."
"I…" She didn't know what to say, how to explain. She sat up a little, lifting her upper body so that she didn't lean into him so much.
Suddenly his hands pulled away, ending his tentative but incredibly erotic exploration, and she frowned.
But then, oh, Gods.
He moved her hands away from his chest, and brought them behind her, restraining her by holding her wrists tightly.
She gasped, but couldn't look away from his face. So much determination, fierce confidence and careful observation mixed in the lowering of his eyebrows, the stubborn set of his mouth as he watched her.
He tightened his grasp, and she shivered, nodding slightly. Then she moved, reaching for him, for the hard, hot ridge of his erection, needing the pressure, the friction, any movement that would bring her closer to explosion.
Her movements were subtle at first, then erratic, mimicking her breathing. She could reach some, but not enough. Unyielding heat pressed against her, and she rocked against it, straining to move forward, closer, to find more. He held her wrist tightly in his hands, and she fought against him, trying to reach her while he pulled her back.
Then she realized, knew what she needed. Turning her wrist in his grasp, a simple task given how damp her entire body had become, she laced the fingers of one hand into his tightly, then covered them with her other hand.
"I need you."
He frowned.
"I need you to touch me. I won't pull my hands away."
He raised one eyebrow.
"I promise. Please."
His eyes narrowed a fraction.
Her whisper was ragged, and she gripped his hand behind her back as tightly as she could. "Please."
Easily breaking her hold, he moved his grip so that he caught the fingers of her free hand, holding both of hers in one of his. It wasn't unbreakable. She could escape, but she didn't. She laced her fingers into his, overlapping and holding on.
He slid his other hand away.
She looked down into the tangle of her hair. "Please touch me."
He stopped, his hand resting on her hip.
On a sharp breath, she looked up. He was watching her.
"You can't look away," he said softly.
Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. His hand tightened over hers, and in his strength, the security and firmness of his grip, she found more comfort. And even more arousal.
"Please," he added, his tiny grin matching hers, making her heart stutter in her chest.
She nodded.
He moved his hand again, pushing her hair away from her face. She leaned into his touch, feeling his fingers stroke over her forehead, the side of her cheek.
Then, before he could move, she turned and bit him, catching the pad of his finger between her teeth, nipping at him. Not hard enough to break the skin, but with enough force to make him flinch.
"Hey," he managed before she dove toward him, kissing him. He may have restrained her hands, but she could still reach him with her mouth, her tongue… and her teeth.
He cupped her head in his hand, matching the urgency and desperation of her kiss, and she began sliding over his erection again, moving closer and closer, but finding that it wasn't quite enough. His hand had moved to her breast, stroking over her skin, pinching her nipple, sending fire through her body. It still wasn't enough.
He tightened his grip on her hands when she lifted her head. She met his gaze, ready to ask him again. But before she could open her mouth to speak, she realized that she didn't need to ask.
He moved his hand down her body, over her stomach, and down, reaching between them, easily finding then sliding between folds of skin that were hot and aching.
She hadn't understood how much she needed his touch until she had it, and it was all she could do to keep her promise that she wouldn't look away. She wanted to throw her head back, or lean forward, rest her forehead on his shoulder, anything to hide her face as she began to move over him, sliding up and down over his fingers, riding his hand faster and faster.
But she'd agreed. She'd agreed to be restrained. She had acquiesced and let him subdue her.
And in the end, it wasn't his holding her arms that caused her to come undone. It wasn't his grip on her fingers, or the way he held her hands behind her back.
It was that he didn't look away.
He watched her, whispering encouragement, kissing her then moving away to look at her face, charting the expressions on her face and the signs that she grew closer and closer. She could feel the impossible hardness of his erection beside his hand, straining against the fabric of his leggings, and she wanted to reach for it, bring him with her.
She had promised. She couldn't hide as she rode his hand, his fingers sliding inside her, the heel of his hand angled perfectly, the heat of his arousal matching the maelstrom of fire in her body. Her promise caught her, held her back from the edge for one moment, and another, and another. He could see everything.
He could see too much.
His whisper reached through the chaos of her thoughts. Devious words, urging her on, telling her what he could do to her, what he had planned, and she wanted to answer, to agree, or whisper his name, but she couldn't. She was balanced on the sharpest point for what felt like ages, unable to fly or fall in any direction.
Then he gripped her hands in his, tightened against her fingers, and moved her arms away from her body as he had a moment before, pulling her away from where the friction and the torment had coalesced into an impossible, fiery peak.
She had to fight him, pull against his hold to reach toward him, battle the restraint she'd thought would be so easy to break and reach with her body toward his.
And when she won a fractional victory, when she slid forward against him, his fingers slid deeper into her, pressing inside her in a way she hadn't experienced before.
The most sensitive part of her body pushed against his erection. She froze.
He shuddered.
Nothing stood between them but fabric and impossible scorching heat. And in that moment, he gave her the route she had to follow, the path toward him that would bring her where she ached to go.
She moved at the same moment he did, toward each other, pressing down as he pushed up toward her. She didn't look away, and the arrested expression of wonder and intensity on his face sent her flying into the most intense orgasm of her life.