A/N: THIS is the chapter that really bumps this story to an M-rating. If sexual situations give you pause, then A: you might want to skip this chapter and B: probably stop reading anything M-rated from me, ever. This rest of this fic and its sequels all are rated M for a reason. So, you know...infer, people. Infer.


Hiccup had never felt worse—not in the two years he spent believing Astrid could not care less about him as he pretended he could not care less about her. That had been a different kind of despair. Nor had he ever feel as intense an urge to vomit as when he had seen Stefnir with his hands on her; his mouth on her, tracing the same paths over her skin that Hiccup had already mapped in the dark. His heart was bruised, watching her endure the affections of a man she did not love; to meet her eye as Stefnir kissed her neck, seeing the regret, the disgust, and a helplessness play across her face. That was not Astrid. He could practically hear her silent screams, reverberating in his bones.

He had watched from the smithy window, acting as her lifeline through the entire display. Hiccup did not condone violence. He abhorred it under most circumstances; but though his own misery was not enough to incite him to blows, his pacifistic tendencies had fallen to the wayside for Astrid's public degradation.

That image had been seared into his brain for the rest of the day and well into the evening: Stefnir wrapped around Astrid, and her look of utter revulsion and shame as she silently endured. Hiccup recalled her apologetic grimace then. She shook her head just barely to placate him, to discourage him from action they would both later regret. Stefnir had eventually stopped after a minute or two that felt like it dragged on for an eternity.

"Are you alright? You look like your going to be sick," Gobber spoke up, pulling Hiccup from his stomach-churning memories.

"My leg," he lied; and Gobber asked no further questions.

Hiccup returned to the saddles in progress, seething in his heart and channeling his frustration into the intensity with which he worked, fast and livid, carving into the rich leather with a cathartic fury. He found himself thinking on how much he would love to use her betrothed as Toothless' target practice, only be hit with the nagging realization he no right. The fact circulated through his brain every time he grew too incensed. Stefnir, as repugnant and as pompous a beast he was, had the right—he had every right.

His swirling inner monologue of outrage and self-admonishment had carried him into the evening, until he could return home and trudge up the stairs to the solitude of his bedroom. He had barely looked up when his father greeted him, replying with a halfhearted grunt of acknowledgment. He swiped a candle from the table before climbing the stairs, not enough energy left in him for small talk. Everything ached.

Toothless was excited to see him, enough to bring a feeble smile to Hiccup's lips. He set the candle on the drawing table beside his bed, bathing the room in a dim, flickering glow.

"Hey bud," he murmured, stroking the Night Fury's jaw as a scaly snout pressed into his cheek. "I missed you, too."

Toothless crooned, nuzzling him, flashing his gums. His thick, heavy tail curled in a wide, protective semicircle on the floor with Hiccup at the center: a hug without real contact, and a gesture of affection unaccompanied by heartache. He had forgotten what that felt like.

"I'm sorry we didn't get to fly today," he sighed, patting Toothless. "Gobber's trying to work me to death as punishment for skipping out the forge."

He stepped over the Night Fury's tail, chuckling as the dragon tried to trip him with it. A couple of clumsy hops and he caught his balance, dropping onto the edge of his bed with a soft, weary exhale. Floor boards creaked as Toothless ambled over, leaving his stone slab to be of more comfort. He lied down in front of the bed as a loyal hound might, resting his large, flat head across Hiccup's lap with a huff and the rasp of scales against leather. His weight was oppressive, but Hiccup had nothing left in him with which to protest—he did not have the will to push Toothless away. The dragon was the one relationship he had that was blissfully simple, and he cherished Toothless for it.

"I feel much too old, bud. Old and weathered and young and stupid, all at the same time," Hiccup droned. Toothless responded with a rumble in his throat that Hiccup felt across his lap clearer than he heard, vibrating down his legs as powerful jaws slackened atop his thighs. He put his hand on warm, smooth scales, fingertips gliding over tiny bumps and ridges he knew almost as well as his own skin. "I know you don't understand what's going on but it's nice to pretend that you do."

A light pressure on his back startled him at first, but he smirked as tiny claws scurried up his spine. Large, protuberant eyes met his. A Terrible Terror perched on his shoulder—his other dragon, not quite as precious as Toothless, but still very much cared for.

"I haven't forgotten about you either, Sharpshot." Hiccup scratched him beneath the chin.

But the tiny dragon did not seem interested in affection. He was chattering away, sharp nails digging into Hiccup's flesh through the fibers of his tunic. His tail writhed about, snagging Hiccup's hair and plucking a few strands by the root.

"Ow! Sharpshot! What-?" Hiccup winced, shrugging the Terror off.

Toothless raised his head, growling at the smaller dragon, but Sharpshot merely hovered in the air ignoring both his human and the Night Fury. He flew tight circles around Hiccup's head, nowhere near as small as a gnat but every bit as irritating.

"What is it?" Hiccup asked, reaching up to capture the Terror as the dragon made another pass in front of his face. He cradled Sharpshot in his arms much like one would hold a house cat. Sharpshot's whip of a tail coiled like a serpent around his forearm.

Then Hiccup heard it: scratches on the window frame. His heart jolted as something small and reptilian scurried into his room. He craned his neck to get better look, but nothing moved in the shadows. The silence was unnerving. Everything was too still. The only sounds in the room were Toothless's steady breathing and Sharpshots little grunts. Hiccup waited for a darting figure or glowing eyes to peer out from the darkness dancing across his walls in time with the candlelight.

But there was nothing, and he held his breath.

He was not afraid. The intruder was a dragon, he had no doubt; but whose dragon was it and why was it in his house? There were a dozen scenarios he could think of, all of them negative; his brain seemed to lean that way in recent months.

Maybe the Svensons were calling him out? Maybe Astrid was writing him to tell him their love affair was off? Those were two possibilities of equal likeliness that made his stomach sank with an anticipatory dread.

"Hello?" he called, hoping to stir the beast from hiding.

His bed frame creaked, though he had not moved, and he felt the weight of something settling into the furs beside him. He glanced down to find bulbous yellow eyes staring back at him with an uneven blink of membranous lids.

"Odin's balls!" Hiccup yelped, scooting back.

The creature was Terrible Terror, blue, and as stealthy as a longship sailing on a calm sea. Two years had passed since Hiccup had dealt with that particular dragon, but he knew its face—in fact, he knew just about every dragon on Berk and to whom it belonged; the effects of a nearly eidetic memory.

"Sneaky! What are you doing here?"

The Terror was delighted to be recognized—or perhaps it was pleased to have found the right person, having kept away from the Haddock household for so long. With a happy cry, the little blue dragon scrambled into Hiccup's lap. Between Sneaky, Sharpshot, and Toothless, Hiccup felt almost smothered.

Sneaky just purred, but Hiccup saw the scroll tied to his leg, conspicuous against azure scales. His mouth went dry, knowing whose fingers had knotted that parchment in place; and his mind reeling from the multitude of distressing things it might say.

He set Sharpshot down on the bed. The Terror curled up in his furs like he owned them, far too pampered to sleep on the floor most nights. Hiccup had been too doting, overjoyed to have another dragon in the house. He had been permissive of Sharpshot's bad habits when he had first brought him home, and much too tired to fight them now.

Sneaky, however, was more disciplined. The Terror held still with remarkable obedience as Hiccup deftly freed the note from his leg, in a manner that spoke volumes of Astrid's training style. Hiccup smirked at the thought of her kneeling down, exasperated from hours of trying to get the naturally fidgety Terror to hold still. But His face fell as he unfurled the scroll in his hands, fingers prickling with nerves as if the parchment was made of needles.

It read:

Hiccup,

I am coming over. See you soon. Leave your window open. Do not reply.

-Astrid

Hiccup read the note twice. Of all the things he expected it might say, that had not even been on the short list.

Though Astrid's handwriting was neat, the exaggerated tilt of the runic script led him to believe it was written in a hurry. He blinked. He read over the words one more time, then the fog seemed to clear from his head, cut by a white-hot knife of panic.

"Baldr's ghost!" he hissed, leaping to his feet.

Sneaky growled, flapping his wings as he was thrown from his lap. Toothless recoiled, ear nubs perked up, as Hiccup streaked past him making a beeline for the window.

Hiccup's heart was frenzied, watching a familiar figure slink between houses, given away only by the moonlight gleaming in her hair. She would duck into the shadows if anyone passed by; but it was late and most of Berk was either drinking itself into a stupor in the Great Hall or tucked away for the night. She went unnoticed, scaling the hill with the grace of a cat, her footfalls noiseless in the grass.

She gazed up at him, smiling. He was frozen, at a loss of what to do or say.

"I'm coming up!" she whispered.

"We can't be doing this. Are you crazy?" he found his voice, gripping the window sill until the edge bit into his palms, ensuring him she was not some late night hallucination.

But she was crazy, dragging over the ladder that often remained propped against the rear of the house—easy access for repairing damage to the roof caused by Toothless's occasional overzealousness.

"You shouldn't be doing this!" Hiccup insisted as she climbed the rungs after one last check for prying eyes.

She swung into his room, clearing the window effortlessly, and closed the shutters behind her. He wanted her to stay, a large part of him was thrilled to see her, but there was a whole new level of brazen stupidity in carrying on right above his father.

"Now you're having doubts?" she teased.

"I've had my doubts, but I'll be damned if I ever listen to them. That'd be way too prudent of me...What are you doing here?" he asked, trying not to notice her loose bed tunic and the way it hung on her body—he was failing. Realizing how standoffish he sounded, he amended the question. "This is too risky, Astrid. What could be so worth it?"

The whole scene was ridiculous to him: the way she had come to his window like the lovers in romantic verses, eclipsed by how inadvisable it was to rendezvous in the village. All it would take was Stoick the Vast coming check on Hiccup, overhearing another voice in his bedroom. A distinctly feminine voice. The scandal would crush them even if their relationship was legitimate, though Stefnir's rough and confident handling of Astrid made it very clear it was not.

"I need to talk to you," she wrung her hands, pacing past him. "A bunch of letters exchanged by air mail wouldn't have the same effect as face-to-face." She paused, hand on the bedpost, turning to face him, eyes wide and imploring. Toothless warbled at her and she reached out to pet him without a thought.

Hiccup sighed, accepting they were foolish and incautious and deserved to be caught for their indiscretion. But even if that was to be the way of things, he could not send her away. He took her hand in his, and such simple contact felt incredible after hours of longing.

"I'm listening," he told her.

Astrid opened her mouth, little hesitant squeaks spilling from her as she wrestled with her words. With an aggravated shake of her head, she said, "Look, after today—at the shop—I need to know you're not angry with me."

"Angry with you? Why would I be? Just because Stefnir is a complete ass—?"

"I need to know if we're…okay?" she interrupted.

Hiccup snorted. The question was just so bizarre, given the circumstances.

"No. We're not okay. Nothing about this—what we're doing—is okay," he replied. Astrid scoffed, rolled her eyes; and he took her other hand as well. "But that hasn't really been stopping us, has it?"

Her mouth was a thin line, cocked with her impatience. "Hiccup, you know what I mean."

He chuckled: a single amused hitch in his breath, though there was no real humor in it. "Yes, Astrid. We're okay. For however long we're going to do this to ourselves, we're okay. I'm beginning to think some dysfunctional part of me enjoys the pain." He met her gaze, stroking the back of her hands with his thumbs, brushing over tiny scars from years of handling sharp weapons. He was haunted by the image of her helplessness, eyes locked on him as Stefnir had his fun. He could still see the crack it had left in her controlled visage. "Are you…how are you holding up?"

Astrid shoulders fell, fatigue etched in all the grooves of her face, cast into stark relief in the low candlelight. "Barely," she answered, weak and defeated; a pitiful rattle Hiccup could not bear to hear from her. "You don't know what it's like, Hiccup, to have pretend like you're enjoying a kiss or a touch when your skin is crawling."

She withdrew her hands from him, folding her arms across her chest. Hiccup gripped her shoulders. She felt small and warm and vulnerable without her cold pauldrons. There was so much about her that was diminishing, burning out like a flame without kindle. No longer fed, no longer stoked; and he was trying to nurture the fire she had left, keeping close to its warmth while there was any left to enjoy.

"No, I don't know; but I imagine I will soon enough," he replied, and her puzzled expression drew the bitter truth from him. "I'm going to Helgafell after your wedding and I'll be coming back engaged." Astrid's eyes widened and he chased it with, "Political marriage, of course."

Her eyes flickered down to settle, unfocused, on the V of his tunic. "Of course," she muttered.

There was nothing he could say to fix it. No magic solution to the inevitable. He could only kiss her forehead in empty reassurance because it was not alright, and it was not going to be alright. Her arms came around him in a loose embrace. They held each other and it was like Hiccup's own impending betrothal was the final straw, tipping the scales. There had been something deceptively open-ended in their relationship before his own resignation to marriage.

The silence between them was far from comfortable. In two nights they had built themselves back up just in time to crumble again. Nothing was more directly opposed to their delusional romance than reality, so loud and intrusive.

Downstairs, his father coughed and Hiccup could hear his footsteps much closer than they were, amplified by his nerves. He released Astrid, stepping back, as the blood rushed in his ears.

"You should go," he said urgently. She bit her lip and advanced, eyebrows knitting in earnest. "If my dad finds out you're here—!"

But she wanted him, and he was powerless; so she grabbed his tunic and pulled him in for a kiss. His brain resisted but his body relaxed. He listened for the creak of stairs that did not come.

Hiccup thought himself the most incorrigible moron of them all.

He slid one hand to the nape of her neck while the other dropped to the small of her back. Every physical part of him was mutinous against reason, and it was far easier and more satisfying in the short-term to give in to the heat stirring in the pit of his stomach.

Then Astrid was pressing into him, no breast binding under her thin clothing. He could feel the warmth of her skin and the peaks of her breasts; and whatever vestiges of responsibility he had shattered in an instant. He had his limits and Astrid routinely blew past all of them.

He hummed in his throat, lips melding against hers, and she released his tunic in favor of raking her fingernails through his hair, bringing goosebumps to his skin. He shuddered feeling the rising desire and that tiny voice that always tried in vain to remind him how idiotic and selfish he was being—but her mouth tasted like ale, and though he was not as fond of the amber liquid as much as most of his tribesmen, it was enticing on her lips: delectable, and far more intoxicating than the ale itself.

"You've been drinking," he muttered, though she was lucid enough, articulate enough. She did not reek of it.

"Wouldn't you?" she breathed into the infinitesimal space between their lips, frowning. "To be numb for a while and forget?"

He would, he thought bitterly. In his opinion, she was guiltless. He would have drank himself to the point of blacking out to stop reliving the encounter with Stefnir in his mind—to block the image of her humiliation and misery—if he had any energy to drag himself to the Great Hall. Instead, he had spent all of it on pounding iron and tooling leather.

But perhaps there was another reason behind her drinking with the way she plucked at lacings of his collar like she was plucking at strings of his arousal. There was something unspoken but obvious: a sense of something forbidden that agitated his hormones.

"There's…something else," she admitted in a small voice. "I needed that drink, or I'd never have the courage to ask you. But it will eat away at me if I don't."

She glanced down his body, and he gazed up at the ceiling as something dangerous welled inside of him. He scrunched his eyes closed, braced for what was coming, as her fingers traced over his belt buckle. The buzz of lust around them was more potent than on Dragon Island. Everything had been speeding in one sure direction over the past couple of days, leading them to that precipice. He could feel it coming for them like a tidal wave, but did nothing to withstand the impact.

"Hiccup…I have no right to ask you…"

But she did, and she was; and he was pathetic to consider being her illicit lover for even a fraction of a moment. So what, then, was he for pondering it a great deal longer?

"Don't," he replied, grasping her wrists to still her hands from undressing him before all protests dissolved in his mind.

"It can't be him, though," she pleaded, desperation pierced him like a blade to the heart.

She was not the type to show fear. To break. Hiccup could not understand that trepidation of a wedding night as she did, but he felt it in her voice, saw it in her eyes. Stefnir would undoubtedly see their wedding night as some great victory, arrogant braggart as he was, drunk off their matrimonial wine.

Astrid and Hiccup both saw it play out in their minds. They tightened their hold on one another. The line was there, laid down in front of them, and everything was still excusable, permissible as long as it was not crossed.

Though it became ever clearer that it was a line that was meant to be crossed.

"It can't be him, Hiccup," Astrid repeated. The use of his name tugged as his heartstrings with unnecessary vigor.

She gazed up at him, eyes bright with resolve. Astrid was there—the real Astrid, shining through defeat—and Hiccup had never been able to resist her vivacity.

He pulled her closer. "It isn't fair to put that on me. Don't use me as preparation for him."

She grimaced at his words, but it was a pointless, empty threat. He couldn't refuse her, and he couldn't expect anything more to evolve between them. She would not be bedded on her wedding night only to come back to him afterward. No. She was using him and he was using her, with all the best intentions that would ultimately count for nothing in a few days' time.

"I know this is awful. It's unfair. I'm awful for even entertaining the thought." She did not sound the least bit hesitant as she undid his belt with an ease that made his blood run hot.

She had made up her mind, and so she had made up his mind; and Hiccup could no longer bother with what was right and fair.

"No," he answered, wits dulled by the feeling of her curves in his hands as he kneaded her gently through her tunic. "I mean, yes, it is unfair…But don't bother asking me again, because I'm not going to say no," he corrected. "That would be the sensible thing, but we both know that's not a strength of mine."

She laughed, and it was a genuine and gorgeous sound. "Nor one of mine, apparently." They shared a smile and that damning comfort was all too palpable, making a love affair far easier than it should ever be. "I'm sorry." She dropped his belt to the floor and it hit with an unapologetic clang.

Hiccup bristled, but there was no resulting inquiry from downstairs.

He did not know what possessed him, be it a raging jealousy or some innate masculine sense of entitlement to what his heart had claimed years ago. With a twitching hand, he mapped her body over her clothes. A of him was swirled with joy, already feeling so much of her through thin fabric. He felt he was dreaming; it had been long-time fantasy to have her to himself. But holding her, facing the enormity of their decision, stripped all juvenile giddiness from the moment.

Astrid let out a shaky breath before wrapping herself around him.

Toothless snorted irritably as they bumped into the bed. They were connected at the mouth, almost tripping over the Night Fury's head where it had been resting, bored with a poignant exchange he did not understand. They fell back, Astrid sprawled on top of Hiccup, sending their Terrible Terrors scurrying away, disgruntled.

Their kisses were hot, open-mouthed gasps, hands exploring with tremulous delight. Hiccup's heart was racing in his chest, mirrored by Astrid's, which he could feel against his arm as he reached up to undo her braid. Silky blonde strands tumbled loose, and he combed his fingers through it, the aroma of scented oils overpowering him with an alluring, heady rush. He never wanted to forget the way she smelled; he wanted it seared into his brain forever, to be recalled later when he wistfully stroked the hair of someone else.

In his dreams she always wanted him just as ardently as he wanted her; but a midnight fabrication could no longer compare to the reality of her hungry touch,. Her hands beneath his clothes left scorched trails of fervent need in their wake. He moaned as her fingertips teased newly found erogenous zones.

Tongues and lips and clumsy teeth came crashing together again and again, not as hurried as on Dragon Island, though they might have been better off to succumb to a similarly raw, frantic passion as they had felt then. But they kissed each other slow and savoring, appreciating the way their lips fit together: a relaxed enough pace that Hiccup felt the occasional twinge of regret, of better judgment, beseeching him to find his common sense because they were only making matters infinitely worse for themselves.

True, they loved each other. They craved each other—and they were only going to end up hurting each other. Hiccup knew it. He was certain Astrid knew it, too, neither one of them able to wiggle out of their marriages as their responsibilities crushed all happiness in their lives. But that knowledge was not enough to make them stop. They were long past that point. Nothing rational enough could be said to diffuse the lust consuming them with every article of clothing they shed.

It was all a blur; a flurry of gentle caresses, breathy moans, and "Is this okay?" Reassurances, encouragements, bare skin against bare skin, raising the temperature in the room like they were two beings, born of fire. In the candlelight Astrid was soft: all gentle curves and edges, shadows playing across the contours of her body, begging to be chased by his tongue. What he wanted to do was restrained by inexperience. Under his fingertips though, she was solid: toned, lithe muscle, rubbing against him with a dizzying friction. Every sensation was all new, exhilarating, yet oddly familiar. It felt natural, as if they had always done it; like making love was a nightly thing.

Oh, how Hiccup wished with everything he had that it could be a nightly thing.

But it never would be.

So, he tangled his hand in her hair carefully, adoring the texture of it as it slipped between his fingers. He propped himself upon his elbow as she straddled him, nibbling along her neck as she bent down over him. She gasped, and he was getting high of her reactions to him. Every whimper, every startled, pleasured jerk from her was an affirmation. He wanted her to react to him, to forget about Stefnir, erasing the other man with a sweep of his tongue over her thrumming pulse. His name was intoxicating on her lips, and she hissed it into the stifling air made thick and oppressive by the heat of their ministrations.

In the back of his mind, Hiccup was a little bit surprised. He did not expect it to come so easy—to feel so right. Her naked body should have turned his face red, paralyzed him, or made him shrink back and stutter when she rolled them over. But he only gazed at her with reverence, finding her every bit as flawless as he had always believed she would be. Her pale skin was lovely against the dark fur beneath them; and she was comfortable in his bed, with him on top of her, like she belonged there. The very notion was offensive to whatever moral constructs dictated the wrongness of their actions.

He had thought, maybe, the one hitch in their plan would be removing his prosthesis along with his pants. Astrid saw his amputation in all its scarred glory for the first time—but she did not balk, she was not disgusted in the slightest. The last potential thing that might hinder them was rendered inconsequential with a single, curious touch. She fondled the stump with a tenderness he could see, but not feel; the sensation nearly dead in the tissue that remained. The touch was intimate, erotic like nothing he had previously experienced.

More reassurances were spoken: declarations of attraction and need, whispered promises that it was alright as he settled between her legs. Then he pushed forward with excruciating patience and care until she was entirely his and he was entirely hers.

Astrid closed her eyes and sighed. She bit her lip to stifle a moan that she couldn't quite suppress. Hiccup found his balance, albeit a bit lopsided while missing a leg. He moved, and they breathed together, their hearts beating in tandem. Her face pressed into his shoulder, his face buried in her hair. They were one in the same and separate all at the same time; and Hiccup could not think anymore because the only thing real was Astrid wrapped around him, and around him, hotter, and slicker than he ever could have fantasized. Her quiet whimpers into his skin, the flashes of golden light reflecting off the sweat on their bodies—all perfect like it should not be; wonderful and dreamlike enough for worries and scruples to fade into the shadows of the room. First times were supposed to be fumbling and terrifying, awkward and embarrassing; but none of those words fit. Perhaps their love making was how it was supposed to be: no pressure or expectations, both mutual ready for the other in a way that only they could satisfy.

It was an eternity and too brief all at once, seeming to last a blissful forever before ending abruptly in with a blinding light that rendered Hiccup an incoherent mass of strangled moans and uncontrollable spasms. Astrid clung to him, whispering things in his ear that might have made the snap of his hips more aggressive had he the clarity of mind to register them—things along the line of "yes" and "good". The feeling was indescribable, incomparable, and far better than any sensation he had, or might ever feel again without her.

And he was dazed, every last bit of energy spilled into Astrid; and she was stroking him. Her fingers danced over his shoulders and his back, patterns drawn languidly over flushed and freckled skin. As the world materialized around them, and he could hear the snores of his dragon over his own ragged breathing, the obscuring cloud of desire lifted; and every fiber in him stiffened as the full realization of what they had just done hit him like a fist to the gut. In hindsight, in the aftermath, he could see the entirety of his mistake. Their mistake. Their beautiful, mind-blowing, would-do-it-over-again mistake.

What they had done was irreversible; a hasty decision from whence there was no coming back. Physical satisfaction could not squash the guilty twist of his conscience. He pushed up on his hands, slowly meeting Astrid's gaze. In her eyes was something strange: not quite contentment, not quite regret.

"Hiccup," she murmured, her palm warm and soothing against his cheek. He leaned into it. She knew and he knew how amazing it had been.

How wrong it had been.

It had been the single, most extraordinary moment in his entire life. Better than flying. But the unintended consequences began to take shape in the silence between them. In the morning, she would be back with Stefnir; in the morning, the pang in Hiccup's chest would be deeper, more agonizing at the sight of them together. The jealous monster in him would roar louder and fight harder to see Stefnir torn from Astrid; but regardless of the unavailing victory he had just won in the confines of his bed, Stefnir had a legal claim to Astrid. One that predated Hiccup's feelings for her; one honored by two respected families; one that neither he, nor Astrid, were in a position to dissolve.

In the end, Stefnir still won, and Astrid might find comfort in the memory of their entwined bodies. But it would also be another thing to suffer when they could no longer indulge those urges.

A painful fact echoed in Hiccup's mind, taunting him: they were only going to hurt each other. They had already started. Whenever Astrid was with Stefnir and Hiccup was with his future wife, they would remember each other and at they had done; it was torment that was worse than ignorance, in retrospect.

He withdrew from her saying nothing, and she sat up, covering her breasts with her arms as if modesty was suddenly a virtue again.

"I should…I should go," she mumbled, sliding out of the bed to collect her clothes. Sneaky perked up at the movement, hovering over to the bed to watch his human.

"Yeah, that—I think that would be best," Hiccup replied, handing her the tunic hanging off his bedpost. Their fingers brushed when she took it from him and it was completely and utterly absurd that he still felt his heart skip over a contact so benign.

Astrid dressed quickly, and he tried to not take it as a personal insult.

"I'm sorry about this, Hiccup…but I'm also glad and…"

"You love me, right?" he interrupted, as if hearing her say the words would somehow absolve him.

"That's why I came," she answered, bending down to capture his lips in a tender kiss. Sweet, innocent. Wrong.

He kissed her back anyway.

"Then it's good enough for now, I suppose." He rubbed the back of his neck, done. Spent. He wished to fall asleep and forget the day ever happened.

Well, most of the day: the parts were he had any sense.

She gave him a wry smile and left, creeping out of the window with Sneaky on her shoulder. Hiccup fell back against the bed, hands over his face, cursing himself. The scent of her hair lingered on his pillow, mixing with hints of sweat and sex and all of his regret.