A/N: It's been over a year since I wrote smut. It takes up about the second half of the chapter. I hope it's okay. Gosh. Go easy on me.
The metal leg had never been good for stealth; lot harder to keep metal quiet against wood than it was leather, or bare skin.
Fortunately, Hiccup's first round of creeping tonight was only into his own house. And he abandoned secrecy the moment he got through the door—Stoick was crashing around the hearth and tossing ingredients into a cauldron. Gobber sat in one of their armchairs, smoking a pipe. The air in the room was pleasant and familial, and miraculously the comfort didn't dissipate once Stoick spied Hiccup.
"Good evening, son," he said. His voice had the cloying warmth of parental regard; Hiccup found himself a little embarrassed by it, actually, unaccustomed to affection from his father, even the modesty of Stoick being pleased to see him. Three weeks ago, when they'd returned from Berserker Island, the two had sat down and talked into the wee hours of the morning, about Berk and their respective errors, about Hiccup's mother and about Astrid, about adulthood and the future. This second incident with the Berserks laid the final straw across the dragon's back. The reality that both had erred so catastrophically invalidated their grudges against one another; only a ceasefire and a mutual promise to be better could stop the volley of mistakes between them. At the end of it, Stoick had called him the Pride of Berk for the first time in nearly a year.
If not for Astrid's embargo on his attention, Hiccup would've been happier than he'd been since defeating the Red Death. And now that was over—he could see only clear skies from here on out. Assuming he survived the night.
"Hi, Dad."
Gobber frowned at him around the pipe. "What in Thor's name are you wearing?"
Hiccup glanced down at the flight suit, remembering the look on Astrid's face when she'd seen it. Pretty good. "Just a little experiment. I'm going to go change into my regular clothes." And the flight hadn't been bad, either.
"Why, are you going out again?" asked Stoick, dumping an armful of turnips into the stew. Gobber wrinkled his nose.
Seized by nerves, Hiccup stumbled over his words, "Well, I don't, no—I don't think I will, I'll just be up in my room, probably, maybe go for a walk or a flight or something later—don't freak out if I'm gone, you know." He started shuffling for the stairs.
His dad raised a ladle of brown muck from the cauldron. "You don't want any stew?"
"Nah, I ate!" Gobber made a retching sound. "'Night!"
Stoick and Gobber exchanged a bemused but dismissive look and, sensing he was safe, Hiccup dashed up the steps.
Once, Astrid met prostitutes. They didn't have prostitutes on Berk, but Berk wasn't the South, where there were beautiful women who made their living painting their lips and cheeks and eyes from little pots of rogue and ink, and giving themselves to men. The particular prostitutes she'd encountered lived in a glorious Southern court, wearing silks and jewels and perfuming themselves liberally. And they'd giggled when they heard she was a shieldmaiden, behind their delicate hands, nails manicured like razors. They spent a week there—her mother was making acquisitions with the Lord Treasurer—and the women took Astrid as their pet, made her new clothes, gave her little bottles of oil that made her skin glow. Vikings had never put much stock in sex ed, and the Southern women told her things because they wanted to see her blush. But she was past blushing, now.
Of the clothes they'd given her, Astrid only wore the red shirt. Tonight she had pulled out the trunk from her trip, and at its bottom, past fascinating weapons she hadn't yet tried and gold necklaces she would never wear, she found several balled up gowns in a summery material entirely inappropriate for the Nordic winter—but Astrid shed her skirt and tunic and tried one anyway. It felt horrible; she donned all of her gear again just to restore her sense of self, and sat on the end of her bed for a few minutes until enough normalcy had returned for her to remove her boots, shoulder armor, and hood. She had only got her trunk out to find the oil, anyway: a couple of drops applied to her temples and wrists, and the room smelled of orange flower and spices.
So where was Hiccup?
For the winter she had a thick hide across her bed, soft to sleep on and warm to sleep under. Impatient and pensive, she began to brain the long strands of fur, humming a festival song to herself, and then she unbraided the plait across her own head. The curtain of freed hair fell across her shoulders in waves and dimples. It would lose its texture gradually until the morning, when she weaved it back into shape. At every sound from her window she stirred, even the voices she knew weren't Hiccup. Old Mildew cawing in the street as he headed home, the laughter of the twins who were a little drunk. It got late. The sounds faded. People were going to sleep.
He might've changed his mind. But he'd come by to tell her, at least. It wasn't like Hiccup to make a fool of her. Of all his occasionally annoying traits, she could live with the staunch sense of moral responsibility.
And then she heard him: the rustling in the grass, the gentle scrape of her name in his throat drifting up through the window.
Astrid poked her head outside. Hiccup's face was a white oval against a black plane.
"How am I going to get up there?" he whispered.
"You didn't bring Toothless?"
He winced sheepishly. Astrid shut her eyes, then had an idea. Possibly a terrible one, but hey, there was no telling until she'd tried it. "Wait there," she told him, and then padded out of her room and downstairs.
As Astrid had suspected, Phlegma was sitting in her chair by the fire, polishing her second set of armor. Astrid paused at the foot of the stairs and watched for a moment before she spoke.
"Mother." Phlegma glanced up. "Can I let Hiccup in through the front door?"
There was the question, and then there was the question in the question. Phlegma stared at her, inscrutable. It had been such a long, dynamic day—Astrid's hands began to shake. She didn't know what she would do if her mother refused to allow Hiccup inside, though she'd never discounted the possibility of this outcome. Then Phlegma said, "That will be all right." And she stood from the chair, stowing her polishing rag. "I'll go to bed now. I think that would be for the best."
A smile crept on to Astrid's face. "Yes. Thank you, Mom. Goodnight." She scurried out, with a little wave for Phlegma. She thought she might've seen, out of the corner of her eye, her mother smiling back—but the door swung shut, and Astrid didn't linger.
Hiccup had plunked down on the ground around the side of the house, but he clamored to his feet once she rounded the corner. He was back in his tunic, though missing his vest.
"You changed," she noticed, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.
Hiccup didn't even try not to sound smug. "I'm sorry, Astrid, did you like my flight suit?"
"Oh, shut up." Taking his hand, she started leading them back to the front door, but Hiccup resisted.
He was glancing back over his shoulder, at the window to her room. "You aren't going to give me a boost up there?"
"No. You're coming in through the front."
Hiccup's head whipped around so fast she briefly feared he'd hurt himself. "Coming in through the front!" She might've been asking him to fight Dagur one-on-one, such was the strength of his horror at this prospect.
Astrid gave him an unsympathetic look. "You literally jumped off a dragon six hundred feet in the air today. My mom is fine with it." Tugging his arm, she added, "If we don't get inside soon, someone's going to see us."
He hesitated another second, then let himself be led around the house and inside. The main room was empty; Phlegma had put out the fire, and she sensed Hiccup follow her a little closer in the cold, dark space. Up the stairs it was slightly warmer and she had left the lamp burning, so relief and contentment rushed Astrid when she came into her room, particularly considering that Hiccup was there to close the door behind them.
Astrid took a seat on the end of the bed; Hiccup hovered by the door, hands behind his back, shifting weight from leg to prosthetic. His cheeks were red and grew redder when she grinned at him.
"Hi," she said.
"Hey," he coughed, examining a shelf of trinkets. "I've never really been in here before. It's nice, very cozy."
"It's cozier over here." She patted the stretch of soft hide beside her. Head drooping, Hiccup's eyes shut for a moment, and then he marched over to sit on the bed. His arrival rippled the air, a stream of hair fluttered across her vision.
"How come whenever I'm freaking out about something you're always so calm?"
She shrugged, scooting closer to him. "Because we're good together and that's how it works."
Hiccup stared at her, with the intensity and care of working this over in his head, and he started to smile. "We are good together." He leaned over, and kissed her gently. They had lost the heat of their earlier meeting, she realized; it was a lovely kiss and whatnot, but Astrid had other plans. She had been waiting a long time for this, stifling an interest motivated by curiosity and physiological keening. She'd discovered things she could do on her own, of course, but it would be different with someone, and therein lay the real intrigue.
She kissed him back, hard, climbing across the bed to twist her hands into the fabric of his shirt, until she could drag it over his head. Hiccup yelped, finding himself smothered by tunic out of the blue, but she gave another tug and he was sitting there stunned with his hair all a mess and not a scrap on fabric hiding his torso from her. He was square and bony, but less so than Astrid had anticipated; she had seen men half-naked before, but never Hiccup, and she sat back on her knees rather confoundedly, stunned by the white shape before her. The torso carved with flat soft stomach and reddish sprouts of hair and subtle pectorals and freaking nipples—not like her own, these boy nipples, they were laughably useless periods at the end of his chest's pale phrase.
"You really went for it, huh?" he said. She noticed he was eyeing her bosom—because she'd clutched his rumpled shirt there.
Puzzled, not understanding completely how this had come to her, Astrid squinted at the clothing in her hands. "Was that a little much? Sorry." Hiccup chuckled—at her, and she shoved him, tossing the shirt away.
He moved toward her now, the grin on his face relaxing both of them, and poked at the mass of gold slung over her shoulder. "You look like you've got way more hair this way. There's enough hair here—look," he laughed, draping a chunk of yellow over his own head, "How am I as a blonde?"
Astrid giggled to the point of falling back on the bed, attempting to take him with her, but he popped up again, mirth melting from his face. Concerned, she sat up again, too. Hiccup glared at the floor—at his prosthetic, hands hesitating over the straps, as though he couldn't decide what to do with it. He must've felt her watching because he glanced over, embarrassed.
"Sorry, I just—"
"Don't apologize."
Hiccup drew back a little at her confidence, but on some steely grown-up level, she had readied herself for this moment years ago, when the Red Death happened; she had held this belief firmly in herself, knowing that one day she might need to express it, to tell him what she told him now with the certain tilt of her chin and the firmness of her mouth, unashamed. A little proud, even. He'd made a sacrifice for his people, and that ought to be celebrated, not mourned. There were few things Astrid felt surer about, and she was a woman full of surety.
Nodding, Hiccup drew himself up, feeding off her lack of fear. He started to unwind the straps with a determined frown. "I need to take it off, I think, but I'm not quite sure…" He eyed her, then the bed, and made a small frustrated noise—he was locked in thought, examining the situation. It took a moment before Astrid got what he was saying, but ultimately she recognized the expression on his face from countless dealings with mechanical quandaries around the village. Her first thought was that if he could build a flaming sword, he should be able to figure out how to fuck her without the prosthetic's leverage. But, first things first.
"I could be on top," she offered, tugging him toward the headboard the moment he'd detached himself from the leg. Demonstrating, unable to suppress a smirk, she settled across his hips.
Hiccup's mouth hung open; he mumbled, "Seems all right." He had the glint of wonder in his eyes, presented with a treasure trove, imbued with the understanding that there was still much more to see and feel. He went to put his hands on her hips, but one of the studs on her skirt caught him and he yelped, jerking away. With a quick apologetic kiss, she climbed off Hiccup and the bed: there was only one solution to this issue, and so she began to strip.
Gaping again, Hiccup propped himself up on an elbow. Belt, skirt, sliding leggings down and off, and lastly pulling the redness of the shirt over her head. She didn't intend there to be anything performative about it—just the necessary disposal of a barrier between the two of them—but Hiccup's glazed expression told her that this had been one of the better displays he'd witnessed. Shivering, Astrid crawled back to where she'd been before; now she could put his hands on her waist and feel the calloused pads of his fingers on her skin, dragged up her ribcage, tracing the curve of a breast.
"This is the greatest day of my life," he said, staring up at her, plain and thoughtful and very much in earnest. She laughed, and pulled him into a sitting position, so she could wind her arms around his neck and kiss him. His tentative assessment of her breasts developed into a full investigation, their size perfect for the palms of his hands, thumbs circling her nipples; the caress made her hair stand on end; as she was dragging her lips along the skin beneath his ear, he commented, offhand, "I like these."
"Yeah?" she replied, not meaning to sound skeptical, but she had just noticed the strained crotch of the pants that Hiccup still, for whatever reason, had on, and she was distracted.
"What, is there something else I should be paying attention to?" Answering his own question, he abandoned her chest and slipped a hand down, between her legs—she cried out, not because he'd found it, but it was surprising to feel him there, and to realize how slick she was. Astrid pressed her face into the crook of his neck, catching her breath, and saw him grinning above out the corner of her eye, even though he wasn't even doing anything other than feeling around in the wet warmth like an idiot and thus had no right to be smug.
Drawing away to look at him, she put her own hand over his, and started to guide him. "Remember how to find this." And, groaning through her teeth, she led his fingers to the precious nub that was the pinnacle discovery of her self-exploration—the briefest white flash of pleasure and he retracted his hand, seized by fear—she realized she'd made such a significant sound, he must've thought she was in pain.
He spluttered, "Are you—"
She twisted her hand into his between them, giving him a small smile. "No, it was good. Remember that. But it's time to get your pants off." Hiccup continued to look stunned, this time with her speed in tugging his trouser down his hips to free his erection, until he got with the program and assisted her by wriggling out of them. When she climbed back up him, he was frowning, looking between her and the void where his left foot had been, almost expectant. Like she ought to start putting her clothes back on right about now, or scream, as if she'd never seen a cauterized wound before.
Astrid grit her teeth, pushing him to lie back and pulling the hide over their lower halves. "We are completely naked, why do you think I care about anything other than your cock?"
He opened his mouth to protest, weighed his words, and then nodded resolutely—his hands found her waist and dragged her hips down, toward his own. That gave Astrid the sudden nauseous surge of nerves she realized for the first time she had been missing up to this point. It was going to happen, the first time of many, with her husband, her friend, the father of her one-day children. And she thought maybe now would be the time to check in with herself, to make sure this was precisely what she wanted, but even starting to pose this question to herself seemed ridiculous. Hiccup, noticing her second of hesitation, twisted himself to kiss her thigh, which was what he could reach just then. Duh.
With a deep breath, Astrid lowered herself on to him, and her next inhale twisted itself into a whimper. Hiccup's eyes had closed. More than being satisfying the fullness made her need to move, and she ground her hips against his experimentally—the sound that came out of him was pretty stunning.
"Okay," he managed, face screwed up in concentration. "Okay, not going to last very long. Just a—heads up."
Understanding this, she started to test a rhythm against him, but he was shaking his head at once and rose up, taking her with him—Astrid's heart flew to her throat—and Hiccup rolled them over, so he was on top, hands hooked behind her knees.
"Better," he said, beaming.
She mirrored the smile. "Okay?"
"I got this! I got this."
"You do, you got it." She laughed into his mouth when he kissed her. He thrust once, twice, instinctual flickers, and then pulled away from the kiss to adjust his stance, with a grunt that was frankly very hot, in her estimation. His second approach succeeded; she knew he could get leverage; her hands snuck beneath his arms, feeling the furrows along his ribcage as the muscles of her lower abdomen began to churn, gaining potential energy. He poured everything he had into this, chest heaving, hair slicked against his forehead, dim light of her dying lamp catching the sheen of sweat on his neck. She heard herself making little sounds along with the pendulate motions of the fucking, but her senses had flown into overdrive, all she could see was filtered through the hot prospect in her belly, and all she could see was this new vision of Hiccup, a living illustration in black and gold.
He hesitated in a thrust, and groaned out of frustration—they didn't have much time, so she grabbed his hand and returned it to where they'd been earlier, between her legs, muttering for him to remember what she'd shown him. He took her advice eagerly; she had given herself little bursts of pleasure before, but the moment she was being touched and fucked she knew this one would be different. Bigger. It took seconds, flooded her, she came and yelled loud enough that Hiccup panicked and pressed a finger to his lips—so, to swallow her scream, she scratched his back hard. As she came down from it—gulping breaths—he stopped touching her and sped up his thrusts, until his body went rigid and made a noise that was almost a hum. Sort of hot, sort of funny, very Hiccup.
He slumped over, cheek pressed to hers, finished, and very naturally their arms wound around one another.
"Are we hugging?" she whispered.
He pulled up to look at her. "Yeah. Why not? Do you not want to hug me, Astrid?"
"Actually, I was just using you for your body."
He started to laugh, a chuckle at first, and then as he rolled off her he was cracking up, burying his face in the single pillow they'd have to share. "You're hilarious," he informed her, attempting sarcasm, though it didn't really work when he did find her completely hilarious. "Why do you smell so weird?"
She pouted. "It's perfume."
"Eh, I like the Astrid smell. The normal one."
"I'll wear perfume if I want to, stupid," she said, swatting at him. "And you won't care."
Dodging her hand, he grinned, nodded. "You're right." That grin deepened, grew thoughtful, his eyes flicking over her, as though he could not quite believe she was truly here, or that he was truly here, lying naked with her under her bed's winter hide. "Because I like you." For some crazy, strange, out-there reason Astrid couldn't judge, this statement carried far more weight than the spontaneous I love you he'd given her in the Berserker prison. Love bound them, but like? Like was optional. It was a choice. Not better than love, but she would've hated to have one without the other.
Astrid gave him a quick kiss, and pressed her ear to his chest. "I like you too."
Hiccup fell asleep. He really tried not to, but Astrid had drifted off against him, and it was so warm under the covers—he kept promising to extract himself, struggling to keep his eyes open as he stared at his prosthetic on the floor, peeking past the corner of the narrow bed. And that image was the last thing in his head before he passed out.
When he stirred it was definitely morning: the light came in strong through the window, and Astrid sat with her back to him, dressed and braiding her hair. She turned when he mumbled an incoherent greeting, and flashed him a wide grin.
"Finally."
"I didn't sleep that much," he protested. Hiccup made to sit up, but a groan shoved its way out of him—he was sore in places he didn't even know you could be sore.
She snorted. "Good workout?"
"Thank you, Astrid, for making me once again doubt my basic physical fitness." He started stretching out the stiffness in his arms, until she dumped his prosthetic and clothes in his lap. He gave her a rather offended frown.
"Sorry, babe, but I've got an early session at the Academy and I can't be seen leaving my house with you at seven in the morning." She kissed him as brief condolence, then went back to her hair, this time facing him with a little appraising smile as he dressed. As they started down the stairs, he sniffed himself.
"Do I smell bad?"
She shrugged, not even leaning over to get a whiff of him (which was an answer in and of itself). "Well, you smell like perfume and sex, so I guess it really depends on your definition of 'bad'."
He sighed, then turned back to the stairs. "Bathhouse it is."
Everything was going swimmingly until they got halfway across the main room of Astrid's house and he heard a voice say behind them, "Hiccup."
He froze, turned slowly. Astrid was there, and looking at her mother, Phlegma, who sat in a large armchair that had initially shielded her from view. Astrid seemed disturbingly calm—in fact, she glanced at Hiccup with an expression that suggested he, too, ought to consider chilling out. He went stiff as a board.
"Ma'am."
Astrid's mother had terrified him from the days of his youth, so this situation had a weird, nostalgic effect on Hiccup; to spend a night with Astrid and then be confronted by her mother in the morning was the stuff of his thirteen-year-old self's dreams and nightmares, respectively.
Phlegma said, blank-faced, "I asked you to bring me a whetstone from the forge first thing this morning."
He glanced at Astrid, who seemed as puzzled as he. "I don't remember…"
"It was important that you bring it to me now, first thing." She held up a newish whetstone, twisting it in the light. Hiccup began to understand. "You did well. Thank you. You can go now."
Astrid's eyes had fallen to the floor, but she gave him a quick nod. When he left the Hofferson house at this early hour, he would have an explanation.
"Thank you, ma'am." He gave a little bow, before going to the door, leaving mother and daughter to themselves. "It's always a pleasure."