Buzz
Synopsis:
Hank finds something in your nightstand that isn’t Advil. It’s not a big deal. Women have these. He knows that. It’s just that it’s yours. He should put it back. He knows he should put it back. He doesn’t.
Word Count: 3.6k
Masterlist
@dailydoseofaustinbutler
Hank’s looking for Advil in your nightstand, pushing aside the hand cream and the hair ties and the half-empty pack of Camels you keep telling yourself you’ve quit, when his hand hits something that is definitely not Advil.
He pulls it out before he thinks about it. Purple. Smooth. A dial on the bottom. His brain catches up about two seconds after his hand does and he just — holds it there, looking at it, feeling kind of like he opened a door in your apartment and found a whole room he didn’t know existed.
It’s not a big deal. He knows it’s not a big deal. Women have these. Of course they do. He’s not an idiot and he’s not nineteen and he’s tended bar long enough to have overheard every possible conversation about every possible thing people do when they’re alone. He knows this.
It’s just that it’s yours.
That’s the part his brain snags on. Not the object — the fact that you use it. That you lie in this bed, the same bed he sleeps in half the week, and you do — things. Without him. That there are sounds you make that he hasn’t heard yet.
He should put it back. He knows he should put it back.
He’s still holding it when you walk in.
You freeze in the doorway. Your eyes go to his hand, to the vibrator, back to his face, and the colour that floods your cheeks is immediate and — he feels like a dick for noticing — really fucking cute.
“That’s not Advil,” you say.
“No,” he agrees. He turns it over in his hand, runs his thumb across the dial. “No, it is not.”
“Put it back.”
He should. He really should. “How long have you had this?”
“Oh my god.”
“It’s just a question.”
“Why does it matter?”
He doesn’t have a good answer for that. Or he does, but the good answer is because I can’t stop picturing you using it and that feels like a lot right now. So he just shrugs and keeps turning it in his hand.
“I don’t know. A while. Can we talk about literally anything else?”
He grins. Can’t help it. You’re flustered in a way he doesn’t get to see very often — you’re usually the one who has her shit together, the one giving him a look when he’s done something stupid — and watching the tables turn is doing something warm and selfish in his chest.
“We could,” he says. “But I don’t want to.”
“Hank.”
“What?”
“Can you stop looking at it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s interesting.”
He glances up. His mouth twitches. “It is interesting.”
“It’s really not.”
“It’s a little interesting.” He holds it up, examining the base.
“Can you please put it down now?”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t put it down. He clicks the dial and it buzzes to life in his hand — the vibration runs up his wrist and into his forearm and something in the back of his brain goes oh. He flinches, just slightly, and you laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you over the top of it with his eyebrows up, half-offended, half-delighted that he made you laugh, and clicks it off.
“So,” he says.
“So.”
“Do you think about me?”
Your mouth opens. Closes.
“When you use it,” he says. His heart is doing something stupid and fast behind his ribs and he keeps his voice casual because that’s what he does, that’s the only play he’s got — stay easy, stay light, even when the answer matters more than it should. “Do you think about me?”
Your eyes hold his for a long second. Something shifts in your expression — the embarrassment is still there but something else is moving underneath it. Something warmer. He feels it in his stomach.
“Sometimes,” you say quietly.
Sometimes. Okay. He can work with sometimes. Sometimes means he’s in the rotation, which means there’s a rotation, which means—
“What about the other times?”
You roll your eyes but there’s no real irritation in it. “God, you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
You push off the doorframe, cross the room, sit down on the bed next to him. Your knee bumps his. You smell like the coconut lotion you put on after showers and your hair is still slightly damp and he is very aware that he is holding your vibrator while your bare thigh is pressed against his jeans.
“Sometimes I watch stuff,” you say.
A beat.
“Stuff,” he says.
“Tapes.”
He blinks. Just once, slow, processing. “Like — pornos?”
“Yeah.” You glance at him sideways, checking his reaction. “I have a couple.”
Something hot drops through his stomach. He wasn’t expecting that. He doesn’t know what he was expecting — fantasies, maybe, imaginary scenarios — but not tapes. Not you watching actual porn alone in this apartment. The image rearranges something in his head, shifts you into a light he hadn’t seen before. He likes it. He likes it a lot.
“Okay,” he says. His voice is steady. The rest of him is not. His cock stirs in his jeans and he shifts his weight, hoping you don’t notice.
You notice. Your eyes flick down to his lap and back up and the corner of your mouth twitches. The flush on your cheeks isn’t just embarrassment anymore — it’s something warmer, something that knows exactly what it’s doing.
“Don’t make it weird,” you say, but your voice has dropped, gone softer.
“Not weird.” His voice isn’t much better. “What kind of stuff?”
“Normal stuff. Nothing kinky, if that’s what you’re hoping.” Your cheeks are still flushed. “Just, like, regular.”
“That’s three ways of saying the same thing, so I’m gonna go ahead and guess there’s a specific thing you’re not saying.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. He watches the fight play out on your face — wanting to tell him, not wanting to tell him. The tension between those two things is filling the room with something thick and warm that he can feel on his skin.
He doesn’t push. He can see you’re right at the edge of something and if he presses too hard you’ll close the door, so he just lets it sit. Lets the quiet do the work.
“Show me,” he says instead. He holds the vibrator out to you, handle first. “I wanna watch you use it.”
And you smile. Not the embarrassed one, not the one you’ve been hiding behind for the last five minutes. A different smile — slow, private, a little wicked. It changes your whole face. It’s the smile of a person who has a secret that just became relevant.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not a nothing smile. What?”
You bite your lip. “It’s just — I like watching, too.”
Something in his brain stutters. “Watching what?”
“My favourite thing on those tapes,” you say, not quite looking at him, your voice low and careful, “is watching a guy get himself off.”
Everything in Hank’s body goes still.
He stares at you. You stare back. Your chin is up slightly, defiant, daring him to make it weird, and he is not going to make it weird because his entire body just went hot and tight and his cock is hardening in his jeans and his hand is gripping your vibrator so firmly his knuckles ache.
You like watching guys jerk off.
You lie in this bed and watch tapes of men touching themselves and you come to it. That’s the thing that does it for you. His mouth is dry. He swallows. “That’s your thing?”
“That’s my thing.”
Neither of you looks away. The vibrator is in his hand between you and the apartment is very quiet. He can hear you breathing. Can hear the pace of it changing.
He holds the vibrator out again. Doesn’t say anything this time. Doesn’t need to — you look at it, look at his face, and the question and answer happen without a word.
You take it from him. Your fingers brush his and he lets go slowly, deliberately, and there’s a whole conversation in that transfer — in the way he opens his hand, the way you close yours. The touch sparks up his arm and settles somewhere behind his navel.
You move back against the headboard and he moves to the foot of the bed, one leg folded under him. You pull your shirt off over your head and shimmy out of your shorts, your underwear with them, and settle back against the pillows. Naked while he’s fully dressed, and the imbalance makes the whole thing feel illicit, charged, like something that’s happening in secret even though it’s just the two of you.
You’re nervous. He can see it in the way you adjust the pillow behind your back, the way you won’t quite look at him. You click the vibrator on and the buzz fills the room. You press it between your legs and your eyes close and your lips part and something leaves your throat — barely a sound, more like a sigh — and Hank stops breathing.
Your head tips back. Your hips rock up. Your free hand grips the sheet and your thighs fall open and he can see everything — the way your stomach tenses, the vibrator moving in small tight circles, the slickness on your inner thighs that tells him you were wet before you even turned it on.
He’s hard. Fully, achingly hard, straining against his jeans. He presses the heel of his hand against himself because the pressure is unbearable and the friction makes him hiss through his teeth.
Your eyes crack open. You look at him — flushed, heavy-lidded — and you look at his hand pressed against the front of his jeans and your hips jerk. The sound you make goes straight to the base of his spine.
You’re close already. He can see it building — the way your rhythm goes unsteady, your breathing turning ragged, your thighs starting to tense. Your back arches and your mouth drops open and something crosses your face that’s raw and unguarded and—
You come. Fast. Your whole body tightens and a choked gasp punches out of you and your hips grind up hard against the vibrator. He watches it happen — the flush spreading down your chest, your face twisting, your hand white-knuckling the sheet — and his cock throbs so hard behind his zipper that his vision blurs.
It’s been maybe four minutes.
You slump back against the pillows, breathing hard, the vibrator still buzzing between your legs. Your eyes are closed, your skin glowing, and you look dazed and undone and his heart is hammering against his ribs.
“Already?” The word comes out rough. Wondering.
You open one eye. “Don’t.”
“No, I — that was—” He doesn’t have the sentence. His brain isn’t working right. “Fuck.”
A lazy, satisfied smile tugs at your mouth. You look loose, warm, the embarrassment burned off entirely. You look like a completely different version of yourself than the one who couldn’t look at him two minutes ago.
He wants the vibrator.
Not in a way he could have predicted or explained. He just wants it. Wants to be the one holding it. Wants to know what it feels like to press it against you and watch your face while he controls it.
He takes it from your hand. You let him — your fingers open, your eyes track his face.
“Can I?” he asks.
You nod.
He moves between your thighs. Kneeling, settling in close, one hand on your knee. He can feel the heat coming off your skin. He clicks the vibrator down to low — instinct, some understanding that you just came and your body is still lit up — and presses it against you.
Too hard, wrong spot. He feels you flinch, your body pulling away.
“Here.” Your hand covers his, guides him. A little to the left, lighter pressure, and when you let go he holds it exactly where you put him. Your breath stutters and your hips tip up.
He watches your face for every signal — the furrow between your brows, the way your lips part, the hitch in your breathing when he presses a fraction firmer. You’re more sensitive now, your body still humming from the first orgasm, and every small adjustment he makes ripples through you visibly.
He wants more. He lowers himself onto his stomach between your legs. Settles in, his weight on his elbows, his face level with your hips. He keeps the vibrator steady with one hand and turns his head and presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh.
Your hand flies to his hair.
He kisses you there — slow, open-mouthed, his lips dragging against the soft skin. He can feel your thigh trembling under his mouth. Can feel the heat radiating off you, smell you, and his cock is pressed against the mattress and the pressure is exquisite and nowhere near enough. He kisses higher, closer, his stubble grazing the crease where your thigh meets your hip, and you make a sound that he wants to hear every day for the rest of his life.
He hooks his arm under your thigh and over the top of it, settling in, anchoring himself. The vibrator is steady on your clit from that angle and his other hand slides up between your legs. His fingers trace through the slick heat of you — so much of it, soaking, and the feel of it makes his hips grind helplessly against the mattress.
He slides two fingers inside you. Slow.
You moan. Loud. Your walls grip him immediately, tight and hot, and he curls his fingers forward, pressing up. When he finds the spot your whole body jolts.
He works his fingers in a slow, firm rhythm, curling into that spot, over and over, the vibrator holding steady on your clit. He mouths at the inside of your thigh between strokes, presses his lips to the soft skin there, drags his tongue along the crease, and the dual sensation is taking you apart. He can see it happening — your body going taut, your breathing going sharp, your fingers twisting in his hair.
He’s rutting against the mattress now. Can’t help it. Can’t stop the slow grind of his hips, the friction against his cock through his jeans that’s keeping him sane and driving him crazy at the same time. His mouth is on your thigh and his fingers are inside you and the vibrator is on your clit and he can feel you tightening around him, feel the flutter that means you’re close—
“Oh god, oh fuck—”
He stays. Doesn’t change anything. Same angle, same pressure, same steady rhythm. You break — harder than the first time, with your whole body, your walls clamping down on his fingers in hard rhythmic pulses, a sound tearing out of you that starts as his name and ends as something shapeless. He feels the orgasm in his hand, feels the waves of it. Keeps his fingers moving gently until you push his wrist away, gasping, oversensitive.
He slides his fingers out slowly. Puts the vibrator down. Presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh and lifts his head.
You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life, breathing in shudders, body limp, eyes glazed. His cock is straining against his jeans, neglected, he hasn’t been touched all night and he can’t wait anymore.
He stands up. Pulls his shirt over his head, undoes his belt, shoves his jeans and boxers down and kicks them off. His cock is hard and flushed and the head is wet, and your eyes — still heavy, still dazed — drop to it and sharpen.
Something crosses your face. That recognition. The thing you told him about.
He wraps his hand around himself and the relief hits him like a punch. A groan pulls out of him, low and ragged, and his eyes nearly close but he keeps them open because you’re watching. You’re propped against the pillows, naked and glowing and destroyed, and your eyes are fixed on his hand. This is the thing you told him you like and he’s giving it to you.
He strokes himself slow. Full strokes, base to tip, his thumb dragging over the head, spreading the wetness there. His stomach tenses. His breathing gets heavier and he lets it — lets you hear the roughness in his exhale, the hitch when he tightens his grip. He’s standing at the foot of the bed and you’re looking at him like he’s the only thing in the world and it makes him feel — christ. He doesn’t have the word. Wanted. Seen. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time.
He tightens his grip. Strokes faster. His hips push forward into his fist and his thighs tense and the pleasure is building at the base of his spine, a slow hot coil getting tighter with every stroke. He watches your face while you watch his hand.
Your gaze is fixed on his fist. On the slide and pull of it, the way his cock disappears into his grip and emerges shining, the way his hips push forward on the upstroke. Your mouth is open, your eyes dark. One of your hands drifts lazily between your legs, fingers moving slowly over yourself while you watch him. The sight of it makes his cock pulse and a low, rough sound tears out of his throat.
“Fuck,” he breathes. He can feel it building. Getting close. His hand speeds up, his abs clench, his head tips back—
You sit up. Move fast, and your hand wraps around his wrist and stops him. Your mouth is on his and you’re pulling him down onto the bed and the kiss is desperate and messy and you’re saying it against his lips — “I need you, I can’t, I need you now—”
The want in your voice snaps something in him.
He’s on top of you and between your legs. You grab his cock and guide him and he pushes in hard and fast and deep and the sound that comes out of both of you is raw and loud.
The vibrator gets knocked somewhere — off the bed, onto the floor. He hears it buzzing against the hardwood like an angry insect and neither of you reach for it.
You’re so wet. Soaked from coming twice, swollen and hot and tight around him, and the feeling of you is so intense his arms nearly buckle. You lock your legs around his waist and dig your heels into his ass and he fucks you hard — deep fast strokes that make the headboard crack against the wall in a rhythm your neighbours are definitely going to hear.
“Harder,” you gasp, and he gives you harder, bracing one hand on the headboard and driving into you with everything he’s got. The bed is creaking, protesting, and your body is jolting with every thrust and you’re making these sharp, punched-out sounds that are driving him out of his mind.
He shifts his angle. Tilts his hips and the next thrust hits deep and you gasp, your hands grabbing his face and pulling him into a kiss that’s more teeth than lips. You’re clenching around him, and he can feel you getting close again — the flutter of your walls around his cock.
You break. You come around him, tight, pulsing, your face buried in his neck, a sound against his skin that vibrates through his whole body. He fucks you through it and the clench of you is almost too much and the pressure at the base of his spine is screaming and he’s right there, right on the edge—
“I’m gonna come,” he rasps as he pulls out.
You whimper at the loss, your hips chasing him. He wraps his hand around himself, slick with you, and strokes hard and fast, his cock pressed against your lower stomach. You look down between your bodies and watch his hand, your eyes black, your lips parted, and that’s what does it — your face, watching him, wanting this.
He comes hard. Spills across your stomach in hot pulses, his hips jerking, his hand working himself through it, a groan wrenching out of him that he feels in his whole chest. Your hand slides over his on his cock and holds it there while the last shudders roll through him. His forehead drops against yours. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. Your breath is warm on his mouth and your fingers are threaded through his.
He collapses. Half on you, half beside you, one arm thrown across your ribs. Your stomach is a mess and neither of you cares. Your hand finds his hair, scratching lightly through it, and he presses his face into your neck and breathes you in.
“Fuck,” he says against your throat.
“Mmhm.”
“Fuck.”
You laugh. Soft, breathless. He lifts his head and looks at you — flushed and glowing — and wants to say something but doesn’t have any words left.
You’re lying tangled together and the apartment is quiet except for the buzz.
The fucking buzz.
The vibrator is still going on the floor somewhere, loyal and relentless, vibrating against the hardwood in its persistent little death rattle.
He reaches over the side of the bed. Fumbles blindly. Finds it and clicks it off. The silence is enormous.
“Still need Advil?” you murmur, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on the back of his neck.
“I need a fucking paramedic,” he says against your skin, and your laugh shakes through both of you.
He should get up. Get a towel. Clean you both off. He should do a lot of things.
He closes his eyes instead.
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