Author's Note: This is the direct sequel to my other fic, Affairs Of The Heart. You can muddle through without having read the first installment of what will be a trilogy (this fic is part 2), but there is a LOT you are missing that was established in Affairs Of The Heart. This story takes place approximately three months later, in this universe's timeline, during the scared holiday season of Vetrnaetr (Winter Nights). That would be the end of October by the Gregorian calendar, but Vikings only acknowledged two seasons: winter and summer. The holiday of Vetrnaetr marked the end of summer and the summer's harvest, and the start of winter. It was one of the three most sacred holidays on the Viking calendar, for context. I, of course, will be taking many, many historical and cultural liberties here—but so does HTTYD proper. Think of this depiction of Vetrnaetr as loosely based upon the real holiday as opposed to an accurate representation of it. I mean, dragons. C'mon. Let's not split hairs.
Also, heads up for adult content. Not necessarily explicit, but it's clearly there.
Finally...***RTTE is not canon in Affairs-verse. This will make more sense later.***
The seasons were changing again, bidding farewell to the extra hours of leisure found in summer's warmth. Though early winter had its appeal, with the bountiful harvests, spiced cider; and the comforting aroma of crackling fires and dying leaves; the transition between the two seasons seemed abrupt. Winter was the time of year riddled with weddings and holidays to distract from creeping frost and numb fingers. Summer would be sorely missed; for three glorious months, the sun shone for most of the day, basking the Isle of Berk in its radiance—when it was not raining, which it often did. The remainder of the year, however, could be described as somewhere between, "Oh, Thor, I can't feel my face," and, "take a breath outside and your lungs will freeze." The nights grew longer, the days shorter, and the biting cold settled over the archipelago. Every year, the same routine.
Hiccup shivered and buried deeper into his bundle of furs, shielding himself from the morning's chill that seeped uninvited through his bedroom window. Astrid had climbed out of his room in the middle of the night, leaving him naked and content, with the memory of her skin beneath his fingertips.
He sighed, waking slowly. His pillow still smelled of his girlfriend's hair—perfumed hints of snow gentian, primrose, and lye soap—and he buried his face into it, wishing they did not have to maintain an appearance of propriety after their relationship had been so hard-won. Kissing in public was only just enough anymore—but it did keep his lips warm.
As if it sensed his faint smile and aimed to snuff it out, a gust of wind rattled his shutters, making him burrow deeper. Berk's cold, damp climate permeated everything, and it was just a natural part of being a Hooligan to embrace such misery. Dragons were not so tolerant.
Hiccup heard a growl. A scaly little body rummaged around beneath the covers. A tail brushed his stomach and he snorted into the furs; he had always been ticklish there.
Sharphot turned around three times, pulling the covers loose from Hiccup's head and shoulders as he wound himself up in them. With a soft grunt, the dragon settled into the concavity of his human's somewhat fetal position. In the summers, Hiccup's preferred method of sleep was sprawled out with his one foot exposed. As the temperature dropped, he drew his limbs in tighter; and his Terrible Terror was all too keen to share a bed.
"You're welcome," Hiccup mumbled, patting the dragon beneath the furs. He allowed Sharpshot to have his way too often; large eyes narrowed with envy in the shadows of the room. "I'm sorry, Toothless. You're too—," he paused for a yawn, "—big."
The Night Fury growled in disapproval, dropping his head onto his claws.
"Don't be so dramatic," Hiccup sighed, but he sat up regardless.
He reached for his pants, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to work them on with practiced ease. It used to be a clumsy task, balancing as he pulled them up his hips. Now, it was muscle memory. He held on to the bedpost as he retrieved his prosthesis, which he kept on top of the wooden chest at the foot of his bed. He deftly fastened it to the stump of his leg before bearing weight on it, making sure it was secure. The design had come a long way since its inception; the newest model was lighter, so it was not quite as uncomfortable as its predecessor.
He finished dressing and stretched out his right shoulder, which seemed to ache more now that the air was cold and dry, echoing the occasional twinge in his leg. He kneaded the stiff muscles with his other hand, feeling a faint burning sensation that radiated down to his fingertips.
The wound was still mending at its own pace. He frowned, knowing that there would always be some residual nerve damage that time would not overcome. He put on a brave face, like he did in those first days when his amputation was new. Considering how bad the injury had been, he was pleased with how well it was healing; the stab had been clean. More than anything, he was relieved it did not hamper his ability to fly with Toothless.
"Ready?" Hiccup asked, glancing at the Night Fury. His voice was still thick and his eyes were half-lidded with grogginess. He combed through his sleep-tousled hair with his fingers.
Toothless bounded over, bright and alert; and completely forgiving Sharpshot's transgression.
The Terrible Terror nestled into the blankets, occupying the still-warm space Hiccup's body left behind. He was nothing but an asymmetric lump beneath a mound of furs.
Hiccup smiled and shook his head, limping for the door like he did every morning until his leg readjusted from a night unhindered. His gait stabilized by the time he reached the stairs, and he took them quickly with Toothless close behind.
"Morning son," Stoick greeted as mismatched feet hit the bottom step. The man was enjoying his breakfast before his unending responsibilities took him elsewhere. The bowl and spoon were always dwarfed in his colossal hands. "Toothless," he added with a nod, sliding forward a plate of cod from yesterday's haul, still flecked with some of the ice in which they had been packed.
"Dad," Hiccup acknowledged, taking the plate of cod and tossing the fish into the air.
Toothless snapped up his breakfast in one mouthful.
"Are you taking him flying, then?" Stoick asked, but with that unnerving tone that made Hiccup bristle.
"Yeah. Like I do almost every morning. Why?" he replied, dropping into the seat across the table. He smoothed down his untidy hair.
Discussing his plans for the day was just a prelude to something unpleasant. Hiccup recognized that rise of bushy eyebrows and that subtle, yet uncomfortable squirm of his father's large frame.
"I take it you know what time of the year it is," Stoick said, setting his jaw.
Hiccup stared at him. "Well, if the garlands and wedding feasts have been any indication this past month, then I'd say it's—"
"Vetrnaetr is almost upon us."
Hiccup quirked an eyebrow, pulling his breakfast toward him. "Right, and that's good, isn't it? Revels and alcohol? You'll have a happy tribe of Vikings on your hands. What more could a chief possibly ask for? Though, there will be drunk flying, and probably more than one traumatic case of indecent exposure." He muttered under his breath, "Probably Gobber again…"
Stoick cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. "In a few days, I'll be sailing to Helgafell, to give thanks to the gods, and offer up a sacrifice to see us through the winter."
"Ah, right. The old 'animal sacrifice to the Dísir so our crops grow' routine." Sarcasm dripped from every syllable as Hiccup popped a piece of honeyed bread into his mouth.
Stoick rubbed his forehead. "Hiccup, when you're chief, these customs will be your responsibility."
"Isn't that what we have Gothi for? Isn't she kind of our resident mystic?"
Stoick scowled, breathing deeply as he did whenever he bit back a scathing rebuke. He began, "I'm leaving—"
Hiccup held up his hands. "I promise I won't let Snotlout or the Twins burn the village down in the meantime."
His father added, nodding more to himself as his eyes narrowed with conviction, "You're coming with me."
Hiccup's face fell. "What? Why?" he snapped. "Dad, no! I-I have plans! I—Astrid and I were going to start on this mapping project we've—Is this because I left the forge unattended again? What did Gobber tell you? I had a perfectly good reason—"
"It's not a punishment, son!" Stoick interrupted, cutting the air with a decisive hand. "You're eighteen. It's time we start taking your training seriously. You're going to be the next chief, Odin help me."
"You're not going to keel over and die anytime soon, Dad! Why rush it?" Hiccup argued. "Surely we can wait another year…or five."
"This isn't negotiable, Hiccup! I've made up my mind on this."
"Right, so that means what I want is irrelevant."
Hiccup felt suddenly fifteen again, debating his father on dragon training and losing for a lack of understanding.
Stoick stood, jamming his helmet on his head. "It's only a week, son." He strode toward the door. "When we get back, you'll be assisting me full time with preparations for Vetrnaetr."
Indignation rippled up Hiccup's spine and he swiveled in his seat to glare at the last hint of his father's fur cape retreating into the dim morning light.
He threw one hand up in exasperation. "Sure! Leave that part until last!"
The door slammed and he could hear the voices beyond it:
"Ohh, morning Stoick! I take it by your scowl and the raised voices that you told him," Gobber greeted.
The conversation faded as the two men hurried away, but Hiccup caught his father's reply. "I swear, it's like pulling teeth, Gobber. Trying to get him to do anything he doesn't want to do…"
Hiccup pursed his lips, glaring a hole in the table. His hands balled to fists in his lap.
His father spoke for his time so freely, without much consideration or forewarning. After all, being the chief meant the man just about owned the island and every blade of grass on it. What should his son be but another possession to manipulate as he liked, Hiccup's own plans be damned? Perhaps he and his father could have an agreeable exchange for once, if he was not "volun-told" with such finality.
Toothless warbled, nudging Hiccup with his snout. His pupils were rounded, ears drooped.
"It's alright, bud," Hiccup sighed, stroking the dragon's head. His frustrations ebbed as his fingers traced over smooth black scales. "I've lost my appetite."
He pushed away from the table and Toothless perked up. They both needed the flight now.
Hiccup was certain Norsemen had an innate tolerance for the cold. Sure, his fingers were numb on his dragon's reins, and the wind cut through all of his layers without mercy. His cheeks stung and his eyes watered in the thin air of approaching winter, but it to be expected. He still kept flying and the village below him kept working despite the climate, which most would find uninhabitable. Dragons circled below as fishing vessels set their nets; and Hiccup flew Toothless over the island like a silent, black specter, born of the wispy clouds. Berk fell behind them, the open sky was all that was in front of them, with the vast sea below.
Perhaps the excitement of the impending festivities was enough to warm the souls of everyone else: elation that spread into their fingers and toes; and kept them working diligently for the celebration to come. Who could be dour with the hopes of a new year and the fresh start it would bring—besides Hiccup, of course, to whom the carefree frivolity of Vetrnaetr had just become a relic of childhood.
Responsibilities he neither wanted, nor needed, piled up. He could not even begin to name them all: festival preparations, coordination of the trade of essential goods with Johann, keeping the Twins from destroying anything, taking an active role in the spiritual proceedings, overseeing the winter sports, keeping the Twins from destroy anything, collection of the annual fealty pledges, undoubtedly political goings-on during the trip to Helgafell, and making sure the Twins did not destroy anything —all while maintaining the poise and dignity of a proper Heir of Berk. He was still expected to organize the dragon races; and keep the promises he made to Astrid —which were of very little consequence in his father's tunnel vision.
Would he still be expected to work in the smithy? More importantly, would he be allowed to work in the smithy? An impromptu trip with his father, and helping to oversee the Vetrnaetr festival—he was not inherently opposed to either task; but a gradual easing into his future was preferable to being thrown into it, like a fledgling bird booted from its nest.
Maybe his father expected him to delegate all of the dragon-related responsibilities he actually enjoyed?
Hiccup sighed, using his fingers to comb back the bangs flapping against his forehead. Toothless's bulk shifted beneath him and he clicked his dragon's prosthetic tail into position without a thought. The tail rigging was second nature to him. That subtle roll of Toothless's shoulders preceded a sharp pitch to left. Hiccup learned to feel it more than look for it. He felt the Night Fury's movements in his legs, and there was a corresponding twitch of his own muscles. Ever since that nearly catastrophic first flight together, there was a mental and physical synchronization, almost innate. To fly with Toothless was to come as close as Hiccup ever could to being a dragon: to that unbending freedom he could almost taste and so deeply envied.
Time was of little concern among the clouds, and he judged the length of their flight by the satisfaction of his Night Fury. If Toothless was content, so was he; and they reached that point by more than leisurely flying. Drops, turns, inversions—maneuvers other dragons could not accomplish with such speed and grace—were a necessary thrill to take away the stress; to let it plummet into the glistening sea with every daring loop and roll.
Hiccup patted his dragon's thick neck after some time, and Toothless warbled out a note as bright as the light reflecting off the waves. He was sated and Hiccup could relate. At least an hour had passed. Maybe closer to two, judging by the sun's position. However long it had been, was almost enough time to process what the next couple of weeks had in store, and to make some kind of peace with it. Almost.
"Ready to head back bud?"
The dragon growled out something akin to a yes. With another adjustment to the Night Fury's tail, they were heading toward Berk, which had become a jagged shape in the distance, rising up like a splinter from the otherwise flat sea. Frustration awaited Hiccup in the form of a towering chieftain but flying had provided enough mental clarity that he felt he could face his father and the new responsibilities of the Vetrnaetr season with a level head. Still annoyed, and still unwilling, his patience had been restored and his indignation, muted. When his father's mind was made up, it was near-unchangeable. The exhilarating wind had helped him accept the inevitable; the rush of sudden dives and severed him from his bitter mood.
The other dragon riders could occupy themselves during Hiccup's busy season; they were all adults. But Astrid? She was once an intermittent torment he tried to ignore. Now, she was his constant: always there, always his grounding when he needed it. She had tended to his healing shoulder in the weeks after the fight, not letting him over or under exert himself; she mulled over improvements to Inferno with him; they were everything they ought to have been from the start. The last two years never happened, proving they had only been stuck in a temporary nightmare, and were finally awake. How easy it was, settling into that old, friendly rapport with the added intimacy of new lovers. No more tension buzzed between them, sexual or otherwise. Moments of laughing and playful banter often became bare skin, hot kisses, hushed moans, then back to teasing again: seamless transitions.
Relationships were supposed to be work, were they not? How often had he heard men bemoan their women—the nagging, the inability to be satisfied? Hiccup could not understand it. Being around Astrid gave him a dizzying high; an enticing delirium. She was both his affliction and his remedy.
He had her and he had Toothless; and everything else was just a passing distraction. Vetrnaetr might still be enjoyable as long as he kept them both close.
There was a twinge of regret as Toothless glided low over familiar rooftops. The same fleeting moment's lament always reared up to once again be on the ground, but it was brief. Windswept and invigorated with residual adrenaline, Hiccup dismounted his dragon. He flattened his mussed hair and felt brighter, hotter, like burning ore, and ready to channel his lingering excitement into something productive. Toothless followed. He was but Hiccup's other constant, always there: his best friend and a part of himself. Hiccup was not sure how he could make sense of anything if he did not have Toothless.
He curled one arm underneath the dragon's wide jaw in a loose embrace the Night Fury leaned into. They walked together, dodging Terrible Terrors scurrying underfoot. As they began the uphill climb home, Hiccup noticed a Deadly Nadder outside his front door. Tall, beautiful, and proud, Stormfly was a perfect match for her Viking counterpart standing beside her; and a perfect companion for Toothless.
The dragons bounded forward to greet each other, leaving Hiccup to face his girlfriend one-on-one—but there was a sharpness in her gaze that had not been directed at him in a while. He slowed to a cautious approach.
"Astrid!" he chimed, hoping a cheerful disposition would diffuse a bit of her temper—not that he had ever had much success with that strategy.
"Where were you?" she asked, folding her arms with an impatient cocking of her hip.
"Flying with Toothless." He gestured to the dragon as if the Night Fury would back him up, but Toothless was busy wrestling with Stormfly.
Astrid huffed, dropping her arms to the side. She strode toward him, more exasperated than angry. "I waited for you, practically freezing to my saddle!"
Hiccup shuffled through his memory for a fragment of conversation from the day before: an agreement that he would race through the sea stacks with her, only to then warm up with a dip in the hot springs. Their daylight intimacy was limited, and he grimaced as he recalled the new broken promise.
Astrid's mouth was a thin, tight line, and her eyes brimmed with disappointment. Hiccup could kick himself, though he was sure Astrid would have loved the pleasure of doing it for him.
"I'm so sorry, Astrid. I-I came downstairs and dad was ready to pounce with—we fought, and our plans just slipped my mind," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Her features softened. "You two fought again?"
He sighed, "When don't we fight?"
She pursed her lips, skeptical. Behind her piercing eyes was a swirling reality check: the kind she served without hesitation or sympathy. "That's being a little dramatic. Just the other day you were telling me how much better things have been since peace with the dragons."
Hiccup rolled his eyes. Astrid did not understand the utility of hyperbole. "True. He's just…you know how he is." Stubborn, coarse, demanding, with an unwavering air of superiority. A mountain of parental authority and disapproval Hiccup could never seem to scale. He was always struggling at the base, cast in his father's perpetual shadow.
Astrid scoffed. "No, I don't know, because you stop short of telling me."
Hiccup glanced away, jaw clenched. Being the chief's son came with its unique aggravations he was not sure Astrid would appreciate. She was so barb-tongued when critical, and it was such a vulnerable aspect of his life. He did not need a lecture from his girlfriend. His father was his problem to bear; always had been. He preferred for it to stay just his problem.
"We can visit the hot springs tonight, if that still works for you," he said, redirecting the course of their conversation to putting Astrid's frustrations to rest.
She shook her head. "The point is to spend more time together in the day, Hiccup."
"We do spend time together—"
Her blue eyes shot him with a silent condemnation. "Time when I'm not just sitting on some workbench, watching you tinker with your latest project."
Hiccup's fists clenched and he bit back his defensive sarcasm that would be well applied against anyone else. He felt stung; all the smiling and stolen glances over his sketches now felt tarnished. Intentional or not, it hurt for the implications of duplicity—the bubbling thought that Astrid could be disingenuous with him just when he thought those days were over.
"You said you were happy to help," he retorted.
"I was—I am," she amended, but the echo of her prior words had not yet faded. "But I would like your attention a little more undivided so I know I'm a little more important to you than upgrading Inferno."
He built her things, flew with her often, held her and gave her his heart, his body, and his time. He never imagined it would not be enough; it was all of himself he knew how to give.
"What is it?" she asked in his silence, touching his shoulder with a tenderness that was almost an apology.
"Nothing."
She stepped closer, her touch firmed. "Hiccup—"
"It's nothing, Astrid," he reassured her from behind old walls he had all but forgotten he had.
She considered him, nodding and stepping into his arms, which came around her with less than his usual enthusiasm.
"Okay. So, tonight, we'll meet at the hot springs," she said decisively. His hum of agreement was not enough. She dipped down, catching his gaze with her unavoidable determination. "Hiccup?"
He cracked a small smile and pulled her tighter, wondering if a closer proximity would be enough to smooth things over. "Yes. I'll be there."
She seemed satisfied, so he could breathe a sigh of relief for both the notion of her happiness and his own self-preservation.
"I have to go," she said with a regret that sounded genuine. "Since you were absent, I agreed to a little field sport with Snotlout and the Twins. You could come, you know."
"I know. I just…I should really get to the smithy, as much as I would love to watch you and Snotlout bruise up the Twins." His hands ran over the curve of her back: a muted apology for another absence; a preemptive attempt to mollify her.
She shrugged but would not look at him. "I'm not surprised." She touched his chest but the passion in it was as flat at her voice. She shook her head again seeming to rebound. Her lips quirked upward, and she leaned in; and Hiccup's heart stumbled into a faster cadence. "Well then…"
They kissed, warm and healing. Their embrace was tighter.
Hiccup did not feel quite as morose as he said, "I love you."
Astrid smiled and brushed the tip of her nose against his. "I love you, too."
Hiccup felt a rush of solace to know they were still awake, and not receding back into a nightmare.
"Looking forward to Vetrnaetr this year?"
The amusement in Gobber's voice pricked Hiccup all over like a thousand Nadder spines. He set his hammer down pointedly loud, so the other man got the message. His shoulders fell and he gave his mentor a rather woolly look that would have made his father proud.
Gobber, shameless as ever, chortled. "Wee bit of a sensitive spot, I take it?"
"You knew about it."
"Eh, your father might've mentioned it, yeah." Gobber replied with a haphazard shrug.
"I suppose you agree with him," Hiccup said, striking the crooked strip of thin, glowing metal; a shrill ringing of his hammer on iron. Sparks flew.
"Not entirely. I told him if he wants you to learn to be the chief, he's got to ease you into it—let you still have your holidays, at least."
"Obviously, he didn't agree."
"Obviously."
Hiccup scoffed, feeling his right shoulder begin to ache as he squeezed the tongs, holding the fiery metal in place. He winced, like he could still feel the blade of three months past plunging into his flesh. He tapered the anger from his blows and relaxed his grip on his tools, lest he never hear the end of it from Astrid if he injured his shoulder again. All her warnings about "overdoing it" would be validated. Although, to be honest, he had found returning to such physical work therapeutic for restoring range of motion.
"He wants you to be a success, Hiccup," Gobber explained. "Figures he should give you as much time as he can for that."
The first section of Inferno's retractable blade took shape. Hiccup doused it in a bucket of water, quirking his eyebrow at Gobber through the steam. "Because he's going to die any day now?"
"Because he doesn't want to fail you."
Gobber could always find the right words for the most effective emotional snare. Hiccup glanced down into the cooling bucket where his project still sizzled in the water.
"He wasn't always so adamant about it."
"Yeah, well, before you were so…" Gobber trailed off, his vague gesturing froze in Hiccup's weary stare.
Another day, another quip about his lean, twiggy build and idiosyncrasies. He was still a fish bone, but for a larger fish.
"Still, I suppose there are worse things," he mused. "He could have sprung something like this on me months ago."
To think of training for chiefhood while he barely held himself together; trying to focus on leadership when he wanted to throw himself into the sea...
"Ha! Right! Back when you were, 'Oh no, I'm fine. I'm not pining away over Astrid! No. Fine.' You were the most not-fine person I've ever seen," Gobber chuckled.
Hiccup smiled though, taking Inferno's new piece from the water. He supposed he could look back and laugh, now that things with his lover were so secure. All those days of sulking under the pretense of apathetic disinterest seemed so distant and so ridiculous in hindsight.
"I guess some things don't change. Stoick the Vast is one of them," he quipped and Gobber snorted, fluttering his mustache.
"Aye, but some do. Like you and Astrid, eh?" the older man teased, leaning in with his large shoulders rounded and a devilish gleam in his eye.
Hiccup felt hot, but not from the forge. The bitter cold outside was almost inviting now.
"Stop."
Gobber hardly knew the meaning of the word. He continued, "Those late-night dates Stoick and I aren't supposed to know about."
Hiccup pinched the bridge of his nose. He held one hand up in a plea for his dignity. "Stop."
Gobber waved his flesh hand. "Oh, you should hear your father carry on like he was never young and in love. Granted, I don't think he was rocking any beds right over his father's head, eh?" He nudged Hiccup with his thick elbow.
The image of Stoick, lying awake in his own bed, glaring a hole through the ceiling, or cramming a pillow over his head to block out the rhythmic thumping, or creaking of the floorboard—whatever it was he heard–was enough to make Hiccup nauseous. Probably just as nauseous as his father felt on the regular.
Hiccup did not know if he could have Astrid in his bed again, knowing there was likely a grumpy chieftain below them, aware of everything they were doing.
So much for being discreet.
"Astrid and I are—I don't know what you're talking about," Hiccup lied, and his ears were as red as a forge ember.
"And I wasn't born yesterday," Gobber retorted. "Young adults, in love, with working parts! Your father didn't have to tell me anything and I'd have guessed as much. You shouldn't be so modest about it—not with me anyway. After all, you won her fair and square, didn't you?"
"Astrid isn't a trophy, Gobber. I only did what I had to do to free her from Stefnir." Hiccup was willing to pick at old scabs to drag the conversation out of the hole the older man threw it in.
"Who got his happy ending, turns out. I've never seen so many flower garlands apart from your parents' wedding. Do you think the guy was making a statement?"
Hiccup rolled his eyes. "I think the Svenson's are always trying to make a statement; but I couldn't care less. He's not my problem anymore."
"I'm sure it will stay that way, unless you try to steal this wife from him, too."
Hiccup held out his arms—a clear and indignant, "Really?"
Gobber grinned and hobbled toward the forge. "I'm going to close up shop unless you plan on working late. The moon's high."
Hiccup felt as though it was turning winter in his core as well, heart gripped in a sudden freeze. He whipped around and peered at the window. Indeed, the hour was late. He had somewhere to be and an engagement to keep.
"What? No! No, no!" He practically tore off his apron and almost tripped over his cooling bucket. He could not face another bout of that blue-eyed disappointment. "I'm not staying! I have…plans. I have to leave, I—Toothless!"
His dragon, napping in the heat of the forge, perked up at once, ears high and pupils round.
Hiccup left his Dragon Blade piece on his anvil; it would be safe. No one ever had use for any of his inventions save for himself.
He was already in the saddle as he tossed his leather apron into Gobber's expectant hand.
"Plans. Right," he said, eyes twinkling beneath that bushy unibrow. "Well, tell Astrid 'hi' for me."
"I'm sorry," Hiccup whispered into the humid air between their lips.
The silver moonlight played off the coiling steam and the rippling water of the hot springs in an ethereal dance. Astrid's damp skin was illuminated, pale and otherworldly. She smelled like the night and tasted like desire.
"Stop apologizing," she muttered, gliding through the water to straddle him.
Her damp hair, unbound, clung to her breasts and back, catching Hiccup's fingers like netting. Their mutual shuddering breath as she sank onto him was more articulate than words could have been. Hiccup leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers as she moved in his lap with a rhythmic undulation. A siren of the hot springs, she had him completely.
"I shouldn't have been late," he murmured. A hand slipped beneath the water to the small of her back, where he could feel the power and command in her body with every passionate roll of her hips. She took her pleasure from him and returned it in kind.
"What kept you?" she asked.
"Sidetracked," he replied; it was hard to think. "Gobber, projects."
Astrid continued her sensual pace, braced against his chest, but something cooled in her touch.
"You need to make more of an effort, Hiccup," she sighed. "With me, I mean."
He frowned, pulling back to look past her rather than at her; and the spikes of arousal had lost their edge.