When I was young, I read, in one of those super-helpful girl's magazines, and article about flirting. 'Your inner wrists are one of the most sensual parts of your body,' it said, 'because people rarely get to see them. If you subtly flash your wrists at the boy you're interested in, it will definitely catch his attention.' Well, of course, that sounded like a load of old tripe to me, so I promptly turned the page and filled in a quiz to see which member of Boyzone I should date instead (yes, I am that old).

But I guess it's weird what stays in your memory and when it surfaces. I've always been a bit intrigued by Astrid's super not practical arm wraps, like why? They look fancy but what use are they? What is she doing that requires protection of the forearms and not the elbows? Isn't she cold? Anyway, eventually that led me to remember that silly article and then I started wondering about how Hiccup might feel about Astrid's arm wraps, what they cover up, and, specifically, what they uncover once the two are far enough into a relationship for him to see them come off regularly.

Add that to the fact that I was also thinking about birthday cake and you get…well. This.

Before you ask, this is set at least RTTE, probably after HTTYD2, when they're living together. Hiccup might have had a thing for the wraps when they were younger, but I have not. It gets a teensy weensy bit D/S but, like, only a breath.

The important bit…

This chapter was written for the wonderful ShipMistress on the occasion of her birthday, I'm so sorry that it's a bit late, real life and the muse have not been that co-operative lately, as you know. But I hope you like this belated gift! I did base a fair bit on one of your favourite fanarts, you know the one I mean…. Anyway. Happy (late) Birthday to Shippy who keeps me (in)sane and many many happy returns. Love you lots! xxx

Afternoon Delight

Hiccup loves Astrid. Everyone knows it. And so it isn't too far a reach to guess that Hiccup loves, amongst other things, Astrid's body.

And he does.

He loves each and every part of it, its beauty, its strength, its hard muscles and secret softnesses. But particularly, Hiccup loves Astrid's wrists.

It's not perhaps the most obvious part for adoration perhaps, but something about them simply sends him falling into lust. The shape, the strength, the contrast of their pearly whiteness against the pale gold tan of the length of her arms. He loves to see the shape and form of her bones, the way they twist and shift like exquisite machinery, and to touch the sheer soft luxury of their underside where the delicate tracery of veins runs her blood just under the surface. He loves to press his lips over the pulse there. To feel her heat. To graze his teeth against her skin. To feel the beat of her life.

He loves to hold them tight when she's under him, to feel their fragility, to feel the power that comes from knowing that he could snap them in a second. And to bask in the wonderful glow that comes from knowing that she knows that too, and that she lets him hold her hard anyway, trusting implicitly that he won't. She trusts him and that makes him fly.

And he loves that the beauty, magic, sheer sensuality, of them is wrapped and protected. Secret. Hers. His.

o0O0o

He is cooking when she comes home, mixing up a batch of griddle cakes, a treat. Fresh from the stables she drops all her armour at the door, blows him a kiss and in just leggings and vest heads straight for the basin in the corner of the kitchen to wash up. He tries to focus on the bowl of sweet batter he's whipping into shape but honestly, the moment those wraps start coming undone, he's lost. He watches it, out of the corner of his eye, that slow unwinding and the tiniest choked noise escapes his throat. Across the room, in the dappled shadows, Astrid smiles knowingly at his rising blush and turns to stow her wraps onto a shelf, hips swaying just a touch more than necessary. He swallows hard and but can't look away.

Over the basin, Astrid works the hard soap into a lather, making quite the show of it. Her fingers slide up, down, over and around that freshly revealed skin, slick fingertips tracing the lines on her palms, just digging in, just dimpling the flesh in the tiniest shadow of how he wants to hold her. He is captivated, and by the time she lifts the pitcher to rinse away the suds, hands flexing and furling under the waterfall his chest is heaving tight with want.

She walks towards him, eyes glittering. Her glance drops low to where he is already showing hard against the linen of his trousers, her tongue flicks out to wet her lips and pull her plump bottom lip between her teeth, where she bites it, just enough to dimple the skin. She lets it roll slowly out again, smirking. The glitter goes dark.

His hands are full but she takes the bowl from them, turns and settles herself back into the curve of his body, begins whipping the batter herself, chuckling softly at his groan. He grips her at the hips and grinds slowly against her plush softness, letting the motion of her arm rock them both.

She turns her head and, all wide-eyed innocence and pout of mock-dismay, rolls her arm to present her wrist and shows him where the batter has somehow become smeared across the underside, over her pulse point, cream on white.

The growl he lets loose is hungry and he feels her shiver with it even before his hand slides feather-light up her ribs to her shoulder, making her gasp. He continues, down and along her arm so gently that she shivers under his fingertips, until he can close his hand at last around that wrist. His eyes never leave her face as he brings it up behind her head, stretching her out to reach his mouth, and licks away the smear with the merest tip of his tongue, torturing that sensitive spot until she's squirming in his hold. Merciless he pulls her further back and harder against him, sucks on that pulse point while she writhes until he can feel her blood beating against his tongue, hot and beginning to race. When he lets go, the mark is already rising rose-red and his whole body shivers to see it. He needs.

Astrid knows it. When he lets her arm go she brings it round to her own mouth, smiles at the coming bruise and soothes it with slow licks of her own pink tongue. Hiccup moans and his hips buck into her of their own accord. She pushes back, smiles slyly, dips back into the bowl and offers him dripping fingers to suck. He complies with singular focus, closing his eyes and drawing them into his mouth, cleaning every speck away with ardent swirls of his tongue, groaning deep in his throat and teasing the sensitive web between her fingers until she is shuddering and groaning too. Decadently slowly, he eventually allows her to draw her fingers away one at a time, holding the delicious suction, trailing each length with greedy lips until they're released with a wet pop. Breathless, she reaches for another scoop of the batter, locks their gazes again and runs a sticky line down her throat from jaw to collarbone. His mouth is there even before she's finished. This time he leaves no lasting marks but Astrid sighs and arches back into his sucking hold, moans thrumming against his teeth in a way that makes him certain she doesn't mind.

But if she keeps doing that, this is going to be over all too soon.

Spinning her is easy, her hands are still full and he's had years to practise, so in moments he has her turned in his grip, her leggings undone and halfway down. She gasps a shocked laugh and there's no protest as he pushes her back against the table, lifts her to sit on the very edge and strips them the rest of the way.

They're both breathing hard, both the cooking fire and their wild desire bringing sweat beading to their skin and Hiccup takes a moment to lift her wrist again and lick it away. His mark is darkening around the edges. Good.

He drops her hand eventually, takes the bowl, kneels and pushes in between her knees, spreading her legs and surrounding himself with yards and yards of naked skin. She's smiling a smug little smile that soon opens into a quaking 'o' of surprise as he trails his fingers to the bowl and then to her again and again, stroking sweetness in his wake. The back of her knee, her ankle, a trail of dots winding around her calf. A smear at the crease of her thigh, a smear beyond, between. Eventually, she's shaking in frustrated anticipation, knuckles white where she grips the edge of the table in an effort to hold herself back. Hiccup ignores her torment and continues stroking and daubing to his hearts content, until she's decorated to his satisfaction, a mark guiding him to everywhere he wants to taste her.

Hiccup's father always told him not to play with his food but he lies his wife back on the boards and plays her with his tongue, working to clean her up from toes to navel in a teasing, torturous, twirling tune that makes her back arch and her voice crack as she cries out for him to stop, to stop, to never, ever stop. He buries himself in her until there is nothing but her heat, her taste, the tremble of her flesh and her little, helpless mewling cries; nothing but his want and her desire and their never-ending need for each other. It ends with a slow, sly swirl of slick and sweetness and his name shrieked out as she convulses.

She's still shaking as he comes back to his feet and slides his body up hers, flushed and pleasure-wrecked, to claim her mouth and lick into her again. She cries against his lips.

She shifts a little, to move him away and he lifts himself, watches as she raises her hands to cross her wrists above her head, a challenge and an offer all at once. One hand pins her there as he has been desperate to do, the other manages laces, ties and cloth until he finally frees himself. Her legs to lock round his waist and draw him close as he pushes into her. Her small nod is all the permission he needs and he lets himself press on those irresistible wrists, her fine sharp bones exquisite under his blacksmith's palms and he moves and moves and moves, pulsing, pushing, lost again in her, the wanton slide, the rhythm and rock of his pounding hips.

It is a heady, sweet and debauched perfection and when it shatters it leaves him gasping, gasping his worship into her throat, pinning her down, his, even as she tightens her own grip and pulls him deeper, hers.

There is a long, panting silence.

And then Astrid laughs. Hiccup pulls back and draws them both up to see the results of their play, crockery knocked to the floor, batter dripped and spilled, the fire roaring and not a thing left to cook. He's blushing until he catches her eye and she gives him a wicked grin. And then he's laughing too, sweeping her up in his arms and taking them both upstairs to see what other secrets they can find to share.

Yes, Hiccup loves Astrid's wrists. Their strength, their vulnerability, their pale perfection. And he loves Astrid. Tomorrow, when the wraps go back on to cover and make a secret of the beautifully deep purple bruise their passion placed there, they'll both smile to know they are marked.

His mark on her wrist, hers forever on his heart.