A/N: Just a friendly reminder that this story is 5 years old. I'm not currently writing this, but rather editing and re-posting it. I've changed minor things, but the story itself is pretty much set at this point, with all it's imperfections that are glaring to me now.
Astrid was wide awake, though her eyes itched with fatigue. No amount of tossing and turning, nor praying for sleep, could cure her insomnia. Her mind was reeling with a tempest of feelings she could not block out by willpower alone.
She flopped on to her back with a groan, draping a hand over her forehead and staring at the indistinct shapes on her ceiling. The still and quiet of the wee morning hours provided the perfect opportunity for unwelcome reflection. Everything in her was confused, unsettled, prompting her to do irrational things, like sneak out of her house again. She wouldn't, of course; that would be one mistake too many. Strange, how everything was the same and different, all at once—how her bed was familiar, though it felt too big, too empty now. She still felt like herself, but less ignorant. Her favorite bed clothes felt too itchy and stifling on her skin, and she kicked her blanket off, reveling in the caress of brisk air on her bare thighs.
Her legs were drawn up, knees bent with her feet flat on the bed. She closed her eyes and she could still feel him: Hiccup, moving over her with such measured passion. He had felt heavier than she imagined he would, solid and real, his lean muscle contracting beneath her fingertips, with every surge of his hips rendering her breathless. His freckled skin was warm and smooth, except for the callouses on his industrious hands gliding over her body with hunger. She had whispered her need into his ear as his breath rattled against her neck. She tried to recall every detail: the scent of him surrounding her, the creaking of his bed frame, and that intoxicating heat between her legs. The epicenter of pleasure had been maddening, wet and exquisite, where their bodies joined. To feel that tantalizing burn and unyielding flesh boring into her, and to know that it was Hiccup…
The more she tried to commit it all to memory, the faster it faded into something surreal and intangible. Almost like it had never happened at all. Postcoital bliss was replaced by mounting frustration: something only he could satisfy. She had to have him again; she was desperate to hear another shattered moan spill from his lips—and it tore at her chest like a vicious and unrelenting animal. Her eyes burned and she pressed her palms into them, swallowing thickly.
She did not lament the loss of her maidenhead. Frankly, she was relieved to be rid of it. That expectation, and fear of the unknown specter of sex, no longer loomed over her like a reminder of a whole world she did not yet understand.
She had given herself to Hiccup and he had obliged, thank the gods. He was the only one worthy of her and that was the problem. She had not wanted Stefnir to be her first experience with sex, but after Hiccup, she felt like it could never be with him. Or anyone else. With his gentle touch, Hiccup had spoiled her for any other man as long as she loved him. How could she accept her soon-to-be husband when every fiber of her being craved Hiccup instead? The thought of Stefnir on top of her was nauseating. She clapped a hand over her mouth and forced down the bile. A dry sob tore loose when she thought of Hiccup making love to his future bride—some other women receiving his tender affections, lying beneath him as only Astrid should.
What was meant to be a solution, sparing her from the manhandling of her virginity, had only caused a deeper heartache. She had gambled; a risky move with unpredictable emotional repercussions. At the very least, she had hoped sex might be so strange and uncomfortable, that it would be less painful when she and Hiccup inevitably parted ways for their parallel lives. She had not anticipated how complete her relationship with him would become from one night of poor judgment. Nor how right.
But she could not keep him.
She sat up, hair matted from a restless night. There was no point in staying in her room, wallowing in her self-pity.
Tears would not be wasted over the grave she had dug for herself.
If sleep was a lost cause, then there were chores to be done. From the faint glow on the horizon, the sun appeared close enough to rising that her early start to the day would not be considered too odd. She would go to the well first, retrieving water to wash her face and comb through her hair, all the while using the extra time gained to steel her gut so she could face her Stefnir again. She would need every extra minute of practice to play the convincing virgin; and to be able to be in the same general vicinity as Hiccup without being quite so obvious that she was his. Completely. Irrevocably.
Two bales of hay sat side-by-side, each donning a cloth with a crudely painted target.
"Will you be on my team for the race?" Stefnir asked, nocking an arrow with ease.
He had waited for Astrid in the Great Hall after breakfast like he did almost every morning. She had let him slip and arm around her waist, proud her skin crawled only a little.
She was not afraid of Stefnir. Not his possessive stares, nor his assertive hands. His touch, though unwelcome, could never be as intimidating as it had been only the day before. He could not take anything from her—nothing more intimate and personal than what she had given Hiccup. On her terms, of her own free will. Stefnir could never have that claim. No matter what came next for them, she could adapt and endure for he would not have that most vulnerable piece of her.
"Well?" he prodded and Astrid chewed at the inside of her lip.
When they weren't talking, being around him was a good deal easier. She could almost forget he was there, squinting as she focused on her target already decorated with arrows—but Stefnir was eager for conversation. Only hours before, she had been moaning Hiccup's name. She wished Stefnir would, for once, find something more fascinating than her. He had no idea that every syllable she uttered dripped with a confession he could not hear; one damning truth she wished she could scream at the top of her lungs and be done with it.
"I won't be racing." She sighed, drawing back her own bowstring. "Unfortunately, mom has forbidden me from any competition until after the wedding." She took a breath and loosed her arrow; it hit the bullseye edge. "I think she's afraid the scrapes and bruises would clash with the dress."
"Really? I think it would be all the more genuine." He raised his bow, taking aim at his target. "All the more you."
Astrid could not help the smirk on her face. Bonding over archery practice felt good, sharing a fondness for weaponry. She remembered clinging to such moments in the beginning of their relationship, believing for nearly two years that it would be enough to bridge the loveless gap between them.
Too bad appealing to who she had once been was not enough to satisfy who she had become.
"If you need another teammate, there's always Gustav Larson," she suggested, picking another arrow from the pile. "He'd bend over backwards to be in an official dragon race."
Stefnir scoffed, firing his next shot; it stuck the white ring around the bullseye. They were not keeping score, but Astrid felt a small degree of smugness.
"Gustav is no match for Hiccup and Toothless. I need a better flyer on my team, or for Hiccup to use another dragon. With a Night Fury in play, the odds are hardly fair. It's practically cheating."
Astrid's breath hitched but it went unnoticed. Hiccup's name on Stefnir's lips was like an accusation and she bristled. The appropriate response was to agree with him, but she was not on speaking terms with her sense of propriety.
"Hold on, now," she said, nocking another arrow. She straightened up and pulled back the bowstring. "Hiccup could win a dragon race on a Gronckle. He's the best flyer on Berk. There's something intuitive there, when he flies. The type of dragon he's on hasn't been the determining factor in any his racing victories." He released the arrow. It hit dead center.
"I doubt that." Stefnir lowered his bow, one end in the grass, resting his folded hands atop the other. "It sounds like you want him to win."
"No, I'm…I'm just being realistic." She plucked at her bowstring, avoiding his gaze.
"So, you'll be rooting for the right team?" Stefnir asked, quirking his brow.
She gave a noncommittal shrug. "Don't I always?"
Stefnir's grunt was skeptical, his lips pursed as he gathered the remaining arrows. His eyes were piercing and Astrid continued to stare at the bow in her hands like it was the most fascinating thing. If looks had any physicality behind them, Stefnir could've stripped her bare for a shred of honesty.
"At least you'll be there in support of Reyr?"
She glanced at him then, resolute. Whatever complicated relationship the two of them were in, his youngest sibling was an innocent. "Of course, I will. I wouldn't miss the Selection for—!"
Stefnir cut her off with a forceful kiss. Firm and cold. When he pulled back, he was searching. Scrutinizing. "I love you, Astrid."
Her simpering smile felt too wooden on her face, but she was finding it harder to care.
"I know you do," she replied, raising up on her toes to kiss his cheek, his beard tickling her chin. She could stand it, because it was her decision to kiss him, and it was only another small piece of her daily charade that would carry her into the evening hours she yearned for.
Stefnir was bewildered for a moment, then his jaw clenched. "Are you alright?" he asked. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled back from her with that same, penetrative stare.
"Yes, I'm fine. Why?"
He turned away and his tone was biting. "No reason."
And all Astrid could think about were flashes of green eyes above her, bathed in candlelight.
"Okay. Suppose we waxed up our dragons' scales—?"
Hiccup glanced up at Tuffnut, flat expression. He had been massaging his cramping, overworked hands. The soot of the forge lingered beneath his short fingernails. "Well, they'd be more water resistant. Not the same thing as aerodynamic. So, unless we're racing underwater and nobody told me…"
Tuffnut groaned, hands thrown up in defeat. "Well, I don't hear any of you coming up with any winning strategies!"
Snotlout snorted. He set his tankard down and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before answering. "Here's a winning strategy: Fly our dragons, catch some sheep, and drop them into our baskets."
Hiccup smirked. "Simple and effective. However did you come up with that idea?"
"I have my moments.'
"Alright, assholes. How about a team name, then?" Ruffnut huffed, folding her arms. "What say you, team captain?"
Hiccup shrugged. His eyes settled on Fishlegs. The other boy seemed oblivious to the conversation, scribbling away in the Book of Dragons, tongue poking out between his lips.
"I say we go with Specter Fuckers!" Tuffnut offered, waving his hands dramatically, as if there was a banner hung in front of his face displaying his suggestion. "I heard the other team is going by the 'Specters'. Our team name implies—"
"I know what it implies, Tuff, thanks," Hiccup interrupted. "No vulgarity, please."
"Ugh, fine," Tuffnut conceded. "The Specter Defilers?"
"Oh! Specter Ravagers?" Ruffnut chimed in.
Hiccup rolled his eyes and resumed working the aches from his palms.
"Both of those suck Gronckle ass!" Snotlout propped his feet up, unconcerned with dried bits of mud that fell from his boots onto the table.
Without tearing his eyes away from the Book of Dragons, Fishlegs dragged his plate away from Snotlout's filthy footwear.
Snotlout asked, "How about the Snotwings?"
The twins blew loud, identical raspberries.
"Oh, come on! It's way better than anything you two muttonheads could come up with!"
Hiccup lost interest in his friends' argument over which cringe-worthy team name was more suitable. Fishlegs's charcoal pencil continued to scratch across the pages of the Book of Dragons, drawing his attention. The other boy's round face was scrunched up with excitement, his eyes alight in a way Hiccup envied. His hours were occupied with children's saddles and torturous thoughts of Astrid. He missed the age of fifteen, when dragons were all that mattered and love was easier.
"What are you working on, Fishlegs?" Hiccup asked, making the other young man jump.
"Oh! Hiccup. You startled me!" Fishlegs laid the book on the table and slid it across the table. "I've been filling in missing data for various dragon species native to the archipelago."
Hiccup's brow furrowed as he examined the open page. It was an old drawing, very stylized—one of the earliest entries in the book. "Tide Gliders?" He considered Fishlegs, trying to keep his skepticism to a minimum. "Fishlegs, what dragons have you encountered lately that we haven't already thoroughly studied?" He tapped the book pointedly. "Tide Gliders haven't been seen around Berk for over a decade. They were all but hunted to extinction for their curative saliva."
"I haven't seen a Tide Glider, of course," Fishlegs replied. "but I've read about them."
Hiccup quirked an eyebrow. "Apart from the Book of Dragons?"
"Yeah!" Fishlegs cleared his throat and adopted an official tone. "The archives are full of firsthand accounts—documents of sale and damage claims. 'So-and-so, son of Some Guy, to be monetarily compensated in a value equal to that of his fishing vessel, sunk by one fearsome Tide Glider, which fired, upon their encounter, a single mass of acidic—'"
"I, uh…I get the point," Hiccup said, holding up a hand.
Fishlegs grinned sheepishly. "I'm paraphrasing, of course, but there is all kinds of dragon knowledge scattered in between boring legal stuff. I'm surprised you didn't know, if I'm being honest." He took back the book.
"Ball Busters!" the twins and Snotlout suddenly cried in unison. They grinned at Hiccup, hopeful.
"No," he deadpanned and their faces fell. With scathing looks, they leaned forward and brainstormed more team names. Hiccup turned back to Fishlegs. "I've never found the archives particularly thrilling reading."
Fishlegs buried his nose back into the Book of Dragons. "It would be worth it for all of the bizarre laws. Things about how to properly conduct revenge killings—how many enemy lives compensate for loss of limb, a law about a holmgang, and—"
Hiccup's lip curled. "A what?"
Fishlegs straightened up and answered, "Holmgang! You know, suitors challenging each other for the right to marry a lady—or something along those lines—but that's not nearly as interesting as this dispute between two farmers over the right to breed this one particular yak—"
Hiccup felt like his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.
He shook his head, holding up both his hands. His mouth went dry. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Back up. There's a law about fighting for a woman?"
"Yeah," Fishlegs answered. "We're Vikings, Hiccup. There's probably a law about fighting over…everything."
"What…What does this law say, exactly?"
Fishlegs shrugged. He screwed up his face, trying to recall words scribbled on aging parchment. There was an overall disinterest in his voice. "Uh, well, from what I remember, it's just one guy challenging another for the right to marry a lady. Whoever draws first blood wins or some such rule—it's in the archive, y'know, if you're interested. Although, I'm not sure why you would be interested." Blue eyes narrowed in Hiccup's direction.
Hiccup laughed nervously, hearing the question forming in the other young man's head. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants. He did not know if he was more worked up by his friend's curiosity, or the ill-advised hope collecting in a corner of his heart. "I-I'm going to be the future chief. I should probably, er…familiarize myself with our laws. Especially the more obscure ones in case an issue ever arises."
"An issue…?" Fishlegs's brow knitted. His gaze skipped all over Hiccup's face, connecting dots that Hiccup could not see.
Hiccup stood up from the table, tugging on the hem of his tunic to smooth out his clothes. He felt uncomfortably transparent as he stated, "I'm going to…look into this holmgang thing. Whereabouts in the archive did you say it was?"
"I, uh…didn't, but you can find it on the center table, beneath a stack of trade agreements—at least, that's where I think I left it, but—"
Hiccup did not hesitate. He turned for the archives—a tiny, forgotten chamber tucked behind stacked casks of ale in a corner of the Great Hall seldom visited.
As he strode away from the table, he heard the twins and his cousin shout, "The Neck Breakers!"
After a moment without reply, Tuffnut called, "I'll take your silence as a yes!"
Astrid folded her arms as she approached the table of familiar faces she hardly knew anymore. She should have sat with them every day for the past two years rather than Stefnir and his friends. The seat beside Ruffnut used to be hers, but it had come to be like crossing into hostile territory now.
"Snotlout, if Hookfang lights himself on fire and you fly close to Svenson…" Tuffnut held his two hands parallel, demonstrating his tactic.
Ruffnut cleared her throat, elbowing her brother and nodding at Astrid. The male Thorston clammed up, and even Snotlout's posture was defensive. Fishlegs shot her a fleeting glance, then retreated deeper into the Book of Dragons with his shoulders hunched.
"Whoops. The enemy approaches," Tuffnut droned, and his scowl stung like crack of a whip.
Astrid swelled indignantly, hoping the puffing of her chest would repel their cool stares.
"I'm not your enemy," she replied, hands on her hips.
"You fly with Stefnir," Snotlout grumbled.
"Yes, but not during the—oh, what does it matter?" she scoffed. No excuse would ever satisfy. "I'm looking for Hiccup. Have you seen him?"
They were all taken aback.
Ruffnut perked up. "What do you want with Hiccup?"
The young men were far too interested in her answer as well, leaning forward in their seats. Everywhere she went and everyone she spoke to was trying to trap her, and Astrid just wanted to be the one place—with one person—with whom she could speak freely. She looked away, jaw clenched.
"Wedding…things." She shifted from one foot to the other, avoiding Ruffnut's prying gaze. "I have to talk to him about the ceremonial sword. He's forging it," she lied.
Snotlout and Tuffnut let out loud, hollow laughs.
"Wow!" Tuffnut remarked.
Snotlout scratched at his chin. "You really know how to twist the knife, don't you Astrid?"
Her face burned, and she balled her hands into fists.
"Shut up. In order for that to be true, Hiccup would have to have feelings for me and he's made it abundantly clear that he doesn't."
"Right—and Barf and Belch only has one head," Tuffnut snickered.
Snotlout smirked. "And dragons breathe ice!"
Fishlegs spoke up, "A-Actually, there are some species that do exclusively—" The withering look Snotlout gave him only made him more bold. "Well, some of them do, thank you very much."
Astrid glanced beseechingly at Fishlegs, the most sane and rational person at the table. She hated the dishonesty. The duplicity. The friends she once had were all but memories, caged up by two years of lies.
"Hiccup's in the archives, reading up on old laws or something," Fishlegs answered.
Astrid's brow furrowed. She opened her mouth to ask why, but snapped it shut when she realized it did not matter. Where Hiccup was, there she would be also.
"Thanks, Fishlegs," she said, and there was something about his intrigued gaze that made her stomach flip.
She hurried toward the archives, keeping her head down and greeting no one as she wove between long tables. Once she was behind the casks of ale, she was invisible. To the vast majority of Berk, the room might as well have been a figment of imagination for how often it was noticed and how often it was used.
She knocked once, but threw open the door anyway, greeted by her startled lover. He spun around with a worn old piece of parchment clutched firmly in his hands.
"Astrid!" he exclaimed, releasing the breath he had been holding.
Every muscle relaxed at the sight of him. She smiled.
"Hiccup," she murmured, shutting the door behind her. The chatter from the Great Hall was muffled to a faint and distant hum.
She glanced around the room, wrinkling her nose at the cobwebs and fine layer of dust settled over everything. There was one large table in the center of the claustrophobic little room, littered with parchments and a few large, leather-bound tomes. Only a couple of narrow shelves stood against the far wall, lined with scrolls and fragments of stone with faded writing—the oldest standing claims to land and titles, likely validating the legitimacy of the Haddock bloodline, if traced back. All things considered, it was a sparse collection of documents, but their people were not known to be scholarly, or all together that literate. Their archives could never compare to the majesty of great, foreign libraries Trader Johann spoke of, but it was decent enough for Berk and its priorities.
"Wh-what are you doing…here?" Hiccup regained a bit of composure. He repeated, with more conviction, "What are you doing here?"
"I needed to see you," she answered.
She took a step toward him but he did not meet her eye. He leaned back against the table, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, holding the strange document loosely in the other. She wished he would look at her, but he remained withdrawn.
"What's the matter?" she demanded, bending slightly to catch his gaze. As she stood, she his eyes came up with her.
"Last time you needed to see me things…things kind of went…" he gestured between them vaguely.
"Good," Astrid said.
"Good?" he repeated, far more surprised than he should have been. He started fidgeting with the parchment in his hand, nervous in a way he had not been since they were fifteen and innocent. "I…Really? I mean, we just—really?"
"Hiccup…you were there. How could you think it was anything but—?" She swallowed hard, gut clenching as she remembered the awkward, bashful aftermath. "Me, right? I wasn't—"
"No!" he blurted out, and she recoiled. "No, you were great, Astrid." His ears went red and he coughed into his fist. "It was incredible for me, but I thought maybe…with how quickly you left…"
"That I didn't enjoy it?"
"Or you finally realized how stupid this all is. I keep waiting for one of us to wise up. I figured it would likely be you, and that last night was…"
Astrid felt a pang in her chest. Her fears were the same. They were always waiting for the next break—something to shatter the daydream they were living in. Being carefree and happy, truly content, had become a very foreign concept. They were doomed to an inescapable misery, so perhaps it was better to end things on their terms, while they still had some semblance of control?
But neither one of them was strong enough.
She closed the space between them, pleased he did not balk.
"Hiccup…" She took his chin between her thumb and index finger, guiding him forward for a tender kiss. Her body tingled when his free hand came to her waist. He was kissing her back, sweet and polite, typical of his affections until she stirred up his desire.
They pulled back, mouths parting with a soft, wet noise. Astrid slid a hand into his hair. His thumb was idly strokinh her side through her fitted tunic; and he was entirely focused on her in that way that made her feel feminine and desirable, yet every bit her bold, uncompromising self, in a way Stefnir never could.
"So, I-I was…I was good?" he whispered, almost inaudible. When Astrid clicked her tongue, he clarified, "I mean, for you. I was good for you?"
Astrid distinctly remembered arching up into him, hot and breathless, as his busy hands explored her body.
"Yes, you idiot," she muttered, swatting his arm.
He smiled, but it was neither smug, nor lecherous.
"That's…" he closed his eyes, bringing his forehead to hers.
Astrid ran a hand down his arm. She tried to curl her hand around his, but her fingers brushed against the parchment she forgot was there.
"What is that?" she asked, inclining her heads toward the document.
Hiccup's eyebrows rose, glancing down as if just remembered it was in his hand. There was an air of excitement about him as he held it out in front of him. "A solution to our problem. I think."
"What are you talking about?"
"I think this is a way I can get you out of marrying Stefnir Svenson." The resolve in his eyes caught her off guard. For a moment, she dared to believe it might be true.
She took the document from him, scanning it, narrowing in on words like "challenge" and "suitor" and "blood" with mounting nausea. She could see it play out in her head: the violence, the clashing of blades, and Stefnir's ruthlessness. The air was stolen from her lungs in an instant.
"Hiccup, no," she gasped.
He took the parchment from her, waving it. "This is the answer."
"No," Astrid insisted. She could see him, writing on the ground with Stefnir brandishing a blood-stained sword.
Hiccup scowled, as he so readily did when his ideas were challenged. "Do you want to marry the guy?"
"Of course I don't want to marry him! But what this is talking about—this holmgang thing—first blood?" Her incomplete thought hovered in the air like a plea.
Hiccup rolled up the document, tossing back to the table with blatant frustration. "You don't think I can do it."
"I don't want you to get hurt," she corrected. She had no doubt he would do it, but his success was the questionable thing. "This is combat, Hiccup. Not something you can talk your way out of, or invent some crazy…Oh, my gods." She turned to him, wide-eyed. Hiccup was leaning back against the table again, deep in thought. "You have, haven't you? In your head, there's already some ridiculous—!"
He was so despondent as he replied, "I can't…sit by and watch him put his hands on you anymore."
Astrid's lip trembled, barely containing further protest. She was powerless to dissolve her own engagement and there was Hiccup, providing a way out with a selflessness that stung. She never wanted—never intended—his self-sacrificial tendencies to solver her problems; to come to the rescue in her battle. Then she saw it again in her mind: Hiccup with his future betrothed, gazing wistfully at Astrid and Stefnir from across the Great Hall, full of all their unrealized potential and regret.
"And if you win, what then?" she sighed. "What about your engagement?"
"It would be off, of course," Hiccup responded with characteristic disregard for the gravity of his own situation.
"And your dad is just going to be okay with it?"
Hiccup snorted. "Cancelling an arrangement that doesn't even exist yet? I think he'll get over it."
His mind was made up, and Astrid could sense the futility of her concerns. She was being swept up again, but it was not in the tide of Stefnir's pride and arrogance, for once. She was being carried along in Hiccup's recklessness and sense of justice. But he had her heart. He safeguarded her sanity, and he was prepared to gamble it all on the chance he might be able to win the rights to her, legally. Indisputably. All while overlooking the consequences of a loss.
"Hiccup…I can't ask you to do this for me," she insisted. "I can't ask you to fight a man like Stefnir."
"Then I suppose it's a good thing you're not asking me. This is something I decided to do on my own." And he was much too casual about it, she decided.
"First blood, Hiccup—and if you think, for one moment, someone like Stefnir would stop there—!"
"I know. He's going to try to beat all future fight out of me, for good," Hiccup said, pulling her closer, wrapping her in an embrace that was meant to be reassuring. It was not. "So, I'll just outsmart him."
Astrid grimaced, balling her hands into fists on his chest. "Don't do that! Don't downplay this and make it sound so damn easy."
"Nothing in might life worth fighting for has ever been easy: Toothless, you—"
She rolled her eyes, and snapped back with sarcasm he could be proud of. "Oh. Thank you, for comparing me to your dragon."
"That's the highest praise I can give," he replied, smiling that plucky grin, rife with delusional optimism.
"You're such a—"
He silenced her with a perfectly timed and heartfelt, "I can't let him have you, Astrid…I just can't…"
And their lips were crashing together; and Astrid was furious with herself, far too susceptible to Hiccup's vulnerabilities. Perhaps it was self-serving, because she also benefited from his desire, just like she would be the one to benefit from his clash with Stefnir. She felt selfish, though she did not want any of it; and she was selfish for not wanting any of it—for not wanting to chase the slightest possibility of being free of Stefnir. She wanted Hiccup to herself, and she wanted him unscathed; and unless perpetual unhappiness was the answer, she could not have it both ways.
They turned around, so she was the one backed up the table. She gasped, soft and wanton, as Hiccup's lips found her neck. Her hands grasped his belt, always escalating things. She was shameless as she seized him by the tunic, dragging him down with her as she fell back against the table. He went willingly, deftly undoing his belt the rest of the way, and Astrid figured she needed to enjoy him while he was still breathing.
