#en-es-eff-double-eww

[tysonrunningfox]

Two Night Stand: Part 5

Sometimes random things you dig up are what you write

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Masterpost (ao3 to come)

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Astrid stares at the mess in the bathroom for a moment, the door clicking shut behind her echoing in the damp space.  She nudges a soaking towel into the corner by the tub and wrinkles her nose at the way it sogs her sock. 

The stolen plunger is still in the middle of the room and she picks it up with hesitant fingertips and sets it by the thankfully functioning toilet. 

It’s a testament to how far their conversation just devolved that she can’t even focus on the fact that she just dealt mass property damage in the pursuit of breaking, entering, and using a stranger’s toilet. 

She bends down to pull her damp sock off and catches her reflection in the mirror over the sink. 

Hiccup is gross.  Of course.  All guys would want nothing more than a striptease, that’s obvious, he didn’t need to tell her that.  In fact, he just said a bunch of really obvious things and acted like it was brand new information.  He forgot to remind her that it’s snowing though, so he left a base uncovered. 

Base.  Like a baseball sex metaphor type base. 

Maybe there’s a reason aside from lack of birth control and women’s rights that people used to have a dozen kids to work the farm.  How much is there really to do when you’re locked in with someone for a long time?  And like Hiccup said, they already got high and made a pillow fort. 

And critiqued each other sexual performance because apparently, they couldn’t even go twenty-four hours ignoring the fact that they did, in fact, have sex with each other. 

She teeters, because she’s been standing here on one leg like an urban dwelling flamingo native to dysentery creek, halfway through taking her sock off, and when she catches her reflection again, she hates that she thinks Hiccup might have a point.  It’s not really an attractive pose—not that she has to be sexy at all times, that’s stupid, and part of the women’s rights issue that means she will not be having twelve kids to work any farm—but it still makes her pause. 

She shuffles over to the sink, drumming her fingertips on the edge of the porcelain and staring at her reflection like it knows something she doesn’t.  Are you there mirror-Astrid?  It’s me, Astrid, you’re currently in the bathroom mirror of the guy I attempted to have a one-night stand with but then I got snowed in and it’s a whole thing, laws have been broken, I critiqued his sex-technique, mirror-wisdom would be appreciated. 

Mirror-Astrid would shrug, if she weren’t dependent on real world motion to bend light, and the twinkle in her eye says something like ‘well, it would look hotter if you unbuttoned that oversized flannel more slowly while maintaining eye contact.’

Mirror-Astrid is the slut.  Maybe she’s been the slut this whole time. 

Maybe she has a point. 

She bites her lip, reaching for the top button of her shirt and popping it open slowly, cocking her hip to one side. 

And again, they’ve already gotten high and made a pillow fort and broke and entered and committed plunger-themed larceny.  What else is there to do, really?  She was right this morning, she cannot un-sex him, but having sex with him twice, well…they’ve already done it once. 

And it’s cold outside, if the furnace goes out they might have to generate body heat. 

They should practice, maybe. 

Ok, if the furnace were going to go out, it probably would have happened already, but it’s a secondary argument.  If she needs it.  He is a guy, and he didn’t have any problem getting interested in having sex with her last night. 

She fusses with her hair, pressing her bangs down against her forehead and then shoving them to the side when they don’t stay down.  It’s fine, her hair doesn’t matter, this is not a seduction, it’s a scientific endeavor. 

That’s it.  It’s an experiment. 

“Hey Hiccup,” she walks normally into the living room.  Or she tries to walk normally.  Usually, when she walks normally, she’s not thinking about walking normally, but nothing is usual about this situation so she’s doing her best. 

“What did you do to my shower?”  He asks without looking up from his laptop and she perches on the back of the couch above his shoulder, trying and failing to soften her glare, even though she wants something from him. 

“Nothing.”  She sighs, “I was thinking.” 

“That’s always dangerous.” 

“You know what?  Never mind, it’s stupid.”  She stands back up, glad that his personality just saved her from sounding stupid, for once. 

“No, sorry,” he closes his laptop and looks up at her upside down, head on the back of the couch, hair flopping away from eyes that look greener considering what she’s about to say, “stupid’s my favorite.  What’s up?” 

“I was just thinking,” she pauses, waiting for him to interrupt again, but sadly, he appears to have learned his lesson, at least momentarily, “so the hypothesis of our conversation is that a frank conversation with a mutual interest towards self-improvement would make us better lovers.” 

“Oh, so you can pull it off?” 

“Yes.”  She crosses her arms and leans on the couch again, “or no, it’s—I don’t think anyone can really pull it off, it’s kind of an awful word, but—”

“Are you back for more?”  He raises an eyebrow, and the expression is an understanding of an inside joke, like all their jokes aren’t inside jokes, considering the weather. 

He doesn’t mean it and it makes her blush. 

“Yes.”  She stares him down, direct like she was chatting with him.  Asking the clear question. 

“Ok, hmm, you were largely a very adequate lover, but I’m sure there are some minutiae I could help you finesse for a future time with someone else—”

“I think we should have sex again.  For science.”  She tucks her hair behind her ear and feels it sticking out.  But this isn’t a seduction, it’s the intro to a lab class.  Today, the lesson is practical.  Hands on.  Real-world applicable.  “Keep the lines of communication open, put some of what we just talked about into practice.” 

“I know that supposedly, all I need is friction, but I’m not sure I could take your well-intentioned critiques while trying to perform.”  He rolls his eyes, not taking her seriously, and she lets her hands drift back to the buttons on her shirt, letting her eyes bore into his as she pops the next one loose. 

His eyes flick down.  He licks his lips.  The way he’s looking at her is almost worth how silly she feels and she makes a note in her mental, sexual lab notebook.  It’s crisp and new, the blank paper feeling a little sexual under her mental pencil.  It’s new too, fresh out of the package. 

0.05mm lead.  Fine tip.  A precision instrument. 

Ok, too far.  Too far.  But there’s something sexual about new paper and she’s just leaning into it right now. 

“I’m just saying, before we trot out our miracle cure for sexual incompatibility, we should probably do some clinical trials.  It’s only responsible.”  She’s never seduced anyone before, especially not a one-night stand she ordered on the internet on the eve of a once in a century blizzard, but it feels good to speak medically again, even if it’s not a good metaphor. 

Clinical trials take months.  Years. 

“I mean, we haven’t even nailed down stock options yet.”  He’s nervous, and it’s infuriatingly obvious in his big green eyes, and it’s also infuriating, because he’s supposed to be a cocky dick that she literally ordered on the internet. 

“A dry run can’t hurt anything, it’s just compiling more data,” she pops another button open and he bites his lip, setting his laptop aside. 

“Well, not a dry run.  Hopefully.”  He smirks, half-honest, and she doesn’t want to know that he puts a smiley face on his oatmeal or that he’s worried about what she thinks of his leg, but she does, and she’s trying to make the best of it. 

“In a normal sexual situation, there should be some lead up, but considering everything, it’s ok for you to just kiss me.”  Her stomach twists at the creak in the floorboards when he stands up slowly, faking confidence behind the cracks she’s ignoring, because they make him an outlier she shouldn’t consider sampling. 

And he’s silent.  Bigger without words jostling his shoulders as his hand finds her waist, fingers bunching in her oversized shirt.  And he looks at her, gaze a steady confirmation before he kisses her, knee nudging between hers as he guides her backwards. 

“That’s good,” she pulls back enough to nod and he grins, too real again.  “The knee thing.” 

“Yeah?”  He follows as she takes a couple more steps back towards the bedroom, “I thought it was suggestive—”

“Please don’t explain every move to me.”  She kisses him, hands fisting in his collar. 

“They’re very nuanced though, I want to make sure you understand.”  His hand slides under her shirt, too warm against the small of her back.  And his knee nudges between her legs again and she trips on the edge of the rug, stumbling back into the doorframe.  “Shit, are you ok?” 

“I’m fine,” she rolls her shoulder.  Shake it off, Hofferson.  “Walking backwards while kissing is fine in movies, not so great in real life.” 

“Noted.”  He follows her into the bedroom, where unfortunately the bed is unmade. 

“Remember when I wanted to see your apartment?”  She asks, half-expecting to need to explain, because nothing outside of the last day feels real, especially with the buzzing under her skin when she thinks about what’s about to happen. 

“I had to put all my Bundy fan-club awards down the garbage disposal, of course I remember.”  He jokes, his voice deeper, breathing husky on the shell of her ear, and she shivers.  “I’m devastated.” 

“Well, a girl likes a clean place.  Makes you feel taken care of, I guess.”  She grabs the clean fitted sheet from the basket in the corner and starts putting it on the mattress.  “Also, women want to have sex with functional adults, a made bed is an easy first step.” 

“That hasn’t been my experience.”  He laughs and she rolls her eyes, tugging the sheet tight and tossing him the next layer. 

“You’ve had a different demographic thus far.” 

“No, I mean making a bed is like wrestling an eight-foot long, six-foot wide rectangular bear,” he throws the duvet over the flat sheet as she shoves the second pillow into its case, “might need a nap to rebuild strength and energy before the sex.” 

“Lay down then,” she shoves his shoulder a little too hard, refusing to feel guilty when he falls back on the bed, propping himself on his elbows. 

“Lights are on,” she refuses to let her voice shake, tilting her chin at the bulb above the bed as she pops open the next button of her shirt.  He watches, eyes flicking between her face and chest as another button comes undone. 

“You’re a quick study,” he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor before going for his belt. 

“You too,” she compliments, unbuttoning her pants and pushing them down with an unnecessary sway in her hips, trying not to smile when he licks his lips, pupils wide. 

She faces away from him, shrugging the shirt slowly off her shoulders, letting it fall against her heels.  She unhooks her bra and bends forward, letting it fall off of her arms as she tugs her underwear down, bending at the waist and trying not to feel stupid or cold or slow as she steps out of them. 

She looks over her shoulder at him, standing up at that glacial pace and turning to face him like an iceberg drifting past Greenland. 

He’s breathing hard, skinny chest heaving above the boxer briefs that are thankfully the only thing he’s still wearing.  His leg is on the floor and she’s not sure whether she’s supposed to look or not, so she keeps her focus on his face. 

“Is that…” she cocks her hip, then regrets it, unsure where to put her hands.  It’s cold.  He’s staring.  She wants to turn the lights off or to make a joke or to get under a blanket because it’s actually cold in here.  He should keep his place warmer, probably, and she should tell him, but she just got naked the slowest she ever has and she needs his opinion on it, because nothing makes sense.  “Is that more what you thinking of?” 

“Yeah,” he nods, too fast, and she almost tells him off for being cute when they’re trying to be scientific, “that was—yeah.  Good.  You really took my point and um…yeah.” 

“Honestly I just…moved slower—”

“Men are so stupid,” he sits up, waving his arms at her in something halfway summoning, “come here.  Now.  Please.  That’s not an order, I just—you, wow—”

“So, lights on, strip slowly is a real thing?”  She half jokes on her way to the bed, trying to frame how his eyes feel on her skin in terms of scientific understanding.  The mutual pursuit of knowledge.  Earnest commitment to research. 

“Men are dumb.”  He catches her waist with a long, warm arm and pulls her down into the bed, hovering over her as his lips latch onto her pulse-point, callused hand sweeping across her ribs. 

“Apparently.”  She moans when his thumb glances across her nipple and he leans up slightly to look at her face.  “What?” 

“Trying to discern real from faking it,” he teases, self-conscious, and her stomach twists at the still hand on her side that she so badly wants to be moving. 

“It’s going to be easier to get me off if you’re trying to,” she nods at him, “instead of reacting to imagined criticism.” 

“Oof,” he winces, scooting his hips away from her an inch, “that’s—while true, that’s also generally applicable to my failures as a person, which isn’t sexy to think about—”

“You’re not into being accidently insulted by people who just stripped for you?”  She jokes, reaching up instinctually to rub the back of his neck, his shoulders.  His ass, surprisingly taut under his boxers.  And the lights are on and goosebumps prickle up her stomach. 

“Accidentally?”  He’s a little too soft, a little too meek, and she tugs him back down to her by his hair. 

“Yes.”  She kisses him, and she was honest earlier.  He’s a good kisser, just how he’d be a good conversationalist if it weren’t being forced upon her as the only option.  It’s give and take, it’s soft lips and the hard edge of teeth.  It’s determination behind the acquiescence in his moan as his hand finds her breast and squeezes.  “That’s good.” 

“Yeah?”  He kisses down her neck, taking his time like he hadn’t the night before, his fingers curling around her waist and pulling her against him, his thigh between hers.  She hooks her leg around his hip and he groans into her neck, “that’s—”

“Not good?”  She starts to move her leg but he catches her thigh above her knee, pressing it closer to his side. 

“Very good.”  He kisses her collarbone, her nipple, breathing hard against her sternum.  “It’s like you want me closer,” he shudders when she drags her fingernails up his back, “good move.  All good moves.” 

“You too, this is good.”  She reaches between them, fumbling under the waistband of his boxer briefs, “I don’t mind the stubble.”  She groans when he drags his chin against her neck, kissing under her jaw.  She grabs his length and he stiffens, forehead on her collarbone as his expected groan comes out as a whine.  “What?” 

“You’re very direct,” he catches her wrist with a firmness that makes her core twitch.  “It’s—I like it, don’t get me wrong here, I’m a stupid, friction-obsessed man and that feels—you’re naked—and you—”

“It’s distracting,” she lets go, pulling her hand out of his boxers and letting it rest on her lower stomach, flirting with the juncture between her legs. 

“Yes,” he kisses her, “and that’s not a bad thing, I’m just trying to focus.” 

“On?”  She flirts.  She doesn’t have to, but she does.  And he presses his leg against her core and his breath is hot against her neck and maybe talking is what sex has needed this entire time. 

Talking and a quick-witted tongue on her chest, and long, callused fingers dipping between her legs.  Soft, auburn hair tickling her neck as she arches under the contact. 

“Don’t…don’t say anything about a dry run right now, I…will kill you.”  She grips his shoulders, heel dragging down his short calf and back onto the bed as he almost gets it right, the sizzling contact just off epicenter. 

“Wouldn’t make sense, anyway.”  He kisses her neck, her cheek, his smirk like a brand against her skin as he swipes just past where he should. 

“Just—up, ok?  And to the right?”  She doesn’t want to sound irritated, but it’s irritating to have things feel so good and almost great.  He adjusts, over-adjusts really, and she reaches down to grab his hand and direct him, her fingers over his.  “There, it’s just—like…”

“This?”  He mimics her motion and she squints her eyes shut, her knees clenching on his hips as she nods.  “Am I—I mean is this getting you to…where you need?”  He’s awkward, and earnest, and arousal flares in her chest like an errant spark. 

“I mean it takes a minute.”  She gets out, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder.  He smells like breaking and entering and a stupid high day in a pillow fort and she tries to focus on his fingers and how they’re trying to build style into the method she prescribed him. 

They aren’t marching, they’re dancing, adding his own flair to steps she’d thought were set in stone.  

And the lights are on, and he’s watching her like a gauge.  Like something independent, instead of as a reflection of himself.  And he kisses her lips and her cheek and a finger dips into her, long and agile but impatient too. 

“Can I, I mean, I was under the impression that you were going to be critiquing—unless—”

“No critiques necessary,” she eeks out, biting her lip and pressing back against his touch.  She feels spectated, but knowing why helps.  He wants to see her.  He wants to study her falling apart, like it’s a phenomenon, and the thought makes her toes curl as his pupils widen and he kisses her neck, her chest, looking up for her reaction between. 

He slows down. 

“Don’t go easy on me, it’s obviously not working—”

“It just takes a bit,” she snaps, grabbing his wrist and pressing his hand closer, “it’s slower, it takes a minute, it was…you were on the right track.” 

“How long is the track?”  He kisses her jaw and her neck, his hips nudging against hers.  He groans when she wraps her leg back around his hips and she feels her own chest, letting the feeling bloom in her stomach. 

“As long as it is.”  She tries to be grumpy.  It half works.  He twitches when she grabs his length again, his groan shuddering against her neck as his hand falters. 

Two long fingers dip inside of her then and she gasps, grabbing his upper arm. 

“Is that—”

“Don’t stop.”  She tries not to squirm, tries not to mess up the angle he has, what feels like the whole length of his fingers stroking against what she has to believe is her G-spot, more obvious than it ever has been, like banter is foreplay.  Like his very presence is foreplay.  Like this was inevitable.  Like he is inevitable.  “You found…”

He rubs it. 

She regrets ever arguing with an engineer, double entendre implied. 

“Is that?” 

“Don’t stop,” she clenches his arm, probably too tight, but there’s no time to think about that because he’s kissing her, stubble and lip and tongue and hand doing that again and again and again. 

“Might have to, if you keep that grip.”  He kisses her cheek and she arches into it, because his hand is unraveling her like she’s grandma’s first sweater attempt and he’s warm and earnest. 

She reaches down to touch herself and he gasps like it’s been ripped out of him.  She bites her lip, leaning into the warmth, which yanks the cord to get his hand moving again, and then it’s here and they’re kissing and she feels her throat going hoarse before she knows he’s kissing her.  And he doesn’t stop kissing, or petting, or holding. 

And this is the worst idea she’s ever had. 

“You didn’t want me to explain my moves,” he kisses her cheek.  Her ear.  His other hand cradles her neck so sweetly, tilting it as he kisses and where was this last night.  Where was this when she needed him. 

“Explain them.” She’d say he was wrong if she needs to.  She’d say anything.  His fingers are thrusting and she’s rubbing and she can’t breathe and every time she bucks up, his hips press back down against hers like a promise. 

“Well, I’m um…” He pauses.  She kisses his chin because it’s what she can reach.  His rhythm falters and she bites her lip.  “Well, I uh…think I found your G-spot.” 

She nods. 

He gets so red that she could light a fire on his face and she digs her heel into the back of his thigh. 

“Is that a yes?” 

She nods. She hits his shoulder with her free hand, doubling down as he strokes. 

“We are communicating,” he kisses her, “I need a yes—”

“Yes,” she yelps, “more.  Yes.  Don’t stop.  Asshole.”  She squeaks out, and he’s kissing her.  Everywhere. And his hand in her is moving, his thumb joining hers on her clit and when she opens her eyes, there’s something in his gaze. 

He’s committed.  He’s tuned in. 

“You’ve told me, emphatically I might add,” he presses her clit for a second, suddenly at home in the mastery he’d only hoped for a second ago, “to not tell you about my moves.”

“You had moves you didn’t tell me about?”  She struggles to sound indignant when he’s touching her like this.  When he’s devoted like this.  When he’s redeeming himself, sure with this kind of frantic, earnest energy. 

It hits all at once. 

She clings to his shoulders, crying out a bit too loud, glad for the empty apartment as his fingers stroke deep.  And human.  And he’s close and real and she’s trying not to remember that this is nothing, a fling, a one-night stand, an addendum to a one-time thing.

And he’s hard.  And that was great.  And she wants him. 

She wants something.  That’s easier. 

She wants parts of him.  Now. 

“Was that..?”  He kisses her forehead, his arms wrapping around her. 

And he holds her, that’s a point in his favor.  He held her last night and he holds her again and she wants to compliment him and for once, there’s no gateway. 

“Nothing fake,” she says as a truth and a comfort and his hand finds her core again, perfectly lazy, hesitantly in something close to awe.  “Condom.  Now.” 

“But my redemption—”

“On track,” she rolls to the side, digging in the bedside table for the reel of condoms she found earlier. 

“But you—”

“I did,” she cups his face, pulling him close with an arm around his waist, “do you ever stop talking?” 

“Not in living memory.”  He touches that spot within her again and she shivers, ankles crossed behind his back.  “Can I have some room to move?”  He kisses the hollow of her throat, and his voice is relieved and she reaches to stroke him with a pleasure-lazy vengeance.  “Astrid, I—”  

“Hiccup,” she settles on his name, because she doesn’t know how else to communicate, even if it ends in him staring at her, through her, into her. 

“For science,” he lines himself up and she bites her lip. 

“It’s just good practice at this point.” 

#two night stand au #modern au #hiccstrid fic #en-es-eff-double-eww #fuck #i need to get this onto ao3 bc this is sex #i can't even type eff eww see kay apparently #hiccstrid won't ever stop talking #here it was a good thing