Aug 19, 2025
Austin Butler is So 🔥🔥🔥
seen from Uruguay
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from T1
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Yemen
seen from Türkiye
seen from Japan
seen from France
seen from South Korea
seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
Austin Butler is So 🔥🔥🔥
Growing on Me
Request:
Omg I just saw the recent post about Austin’s long hair and I so need a fix about the reader tangling her hand in his hair at every chance she gets 🫠. Like on a date, sex, even on a sofa???
Word Count: 2.6k
Masterlist
You have absolutely no chill about his hair, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to pretend otherwise.
It doesn’t start in a dramatic way. There’s no big moment where you clock it and think, ah yes, this is my personality now. It starts with a glance — a passing look in the hallway mirror as you’re walking by — and there he is behind you, bent over tying his shoes, completely minding his own business.
His hair, unfortunately, is not.
The sides are starting to misbehave around his ears, the back brushing his collar in a way that feels like a direct provocation. It’s not long-long. It’s just… enough.
Enough that it never quite sits right.
Enough that it always looks like he’s just run his hands through it.
Enough that you want to be the one doing it.
You slow down. He doesn’t look up, still focused on the laces, but you can tell he knows. He always knows. It’s in the pause, that tiny, resigned stillness that says he’s already accepted his fate.
You step in behind him and slide your hand into his hair at the back of his head.
Yep. That’s the stuff.
Your fingers sink into the thicker part at the nape, soft in a way that feels deeply unfair given how little effort he puts into it. His shoulders drop.
His eyes close for half a second. “Babe.”
You don’t stop. “What?”
He exhales through his nose, already smiling. “Never mind.”
You lean down, press a kiss to the top of his head, leaving your hand exactly where it is, like it’s claimed squatter’s rights. “I’m just saying hello.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s not my fault,” you add, dragging your fingers lightly through it, “that you’re currently walking around with the most touchable hair I’ve ever seen.”
He finally looks up at you, eyebrows raised. “Currently?”
You give him an innocent shrug. “You know. Because you’re growing it out.”
He rolls his eyes like this conversation hasn’t already happened a dozen times. “For work.”
“I know.”
“For a role.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still acting like this is a personal gift.”
You tilt your head, considering. “Is it not?”
He laughs, quick and helpless, and finishes tying his shoes. When he stands, you stay close, your hand still very much in his hair. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he angles slightly, like he’s making sure you’ve got a good grip before he reaches for his jacket.
“You’re obsessed,” he says, like it’s a complaint.
It’s not. Not really. The way he says it is almost proud.
“You’re lucky it’s you,” you tell him. “Anyone else would’ve been tackled by now.”
He snorts. “Tackled.”
“Pinned down. Harassed. Thoroughly investigated.”
He turns fully then, steps into you and drops a kiss to your mouth — quick, warm, the kind that doesn’t need anything said around it. Your hand tightens in his hair without thinking, and the kiss goes a fraction slower, a fraction deeper. He laughs softly into your mouth, like he expected nothing less.
When you pull back, he’s looking at you with that familiar mix of amusement and something softer underneath it. “We’re going out,” he reminds you, voice low.
“I know,” you say again. You are absolutely capable of leaving the house without touching his hair.
Probably.
You let him go reluctantly, fingers slipping free like you’ve been denied something important. Already missing the feel of it.
He grabs his cap from the sideboard and pulls it on as you head for the door. It tucks most of his hair away. Not all of it. The back still sticks out, stubborn as ever.
You clock it immediately.
He catches you watching and gives you a look. “Don’t.”
You smile. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Yet.”
He takes your hand, laces his fingers through yours, and leads you out. Outside, he locks the door and turns back to you, already resigned. You reach up and fix the sides around his ears, then the bit at the back the cap didn’t quite manage.
Quick. Efficient. Necessary.
He just looks at you.
You look back. “What? It was sticking out.”
“It was fine.”
“It was absolutely not.”
He laughs under his breath and slips an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in as you start walking to the car. “People are gonna think you’re trying to mess with me on purpose.”
You grin, completely unrepentant. “I am messing with you on purpose.”
“That much is clear.”
On the sofa, it gets worse.
You’re stretched out together, something playing that neither of you is really watching. He’s half-reclined against you, head tipped back, and your hand finds the thick waves at the crown of his head almost immediately.
God, it’s so soft. And long enough now that you can actually twist a few strands around your fingers, tug gently just to feel the way it bounces back. He lets out this low, contented hum, like a cat being scratched behind the ears.
“You didn’t even wait,” he says.
You glance down at him, unrepentant. “Why would I?”
He shifts slightly, making a show of settling in. “I’m just saying. There was no build-up.”
You rake your nails lightly over his scalp, watching the way his lashes flutter. “It’s begging to be played with.”
He laughs, low, and after a minute adds, “If you mess it up, you’re fixing it.”
You deliberately mess it up more.
“Unbelievable,” he says, but he doesn’t move. In fact, he tilts his head a fraction, like he’s trying to pretend he’s not actively encouraging this.
Later, when your hand slows and your attention drifts back to the screen, you realise you’ve been doing it for ages. That it’s stopped being about messing with him and started being… comforting.
You don’t comment on that. You just keep going.
Another night, you’re out to dinner — nothing fancy, but enough that he’s clearly made an effort. You’re sitting next to each other at a small table, knees brushing under it, his arm hooked loosely over the back of the booth like it belongs there.
His hair has been coaxed into behaving. Not perfectly. Not stiff. But styled enough that it’s obvious he’s tried — the front pushed back, the sides almost neat, the whole thing looking intentional in a way that immediately gets your attention. You notice it while he’s talking, nodding along to whatever he’s saying, and your first thought is genuinely appreciative.
He looks really good.
Your second thought is: don’t touch it.
You last about a minute.
You don’t interrupt him, don’t make a big deal of it. You just lift your hand and smooth the side of his hair back into place, slow and fond, like you’re admiring his handiwork rather than sabotaging it.
He pauses mid-sentence and glances at you, amused. “You checking my work?”
You smile. “Complimenting it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It looks good,” you say honestly. “You did a nice job.”
He hums, pleased, and goes back to what he was saying. You let your hand drop back to your lap, feeling satisfied. See? Normal. Supportive. No crimes committed.
A little while later, you’re listening again — really listening this time — when you lean in closer without thinking much about it. Your fingers slide back into his hair, this time at the nape of his neck, lingering there because you like the feel of it. Because it’s soft. Because it’s him.
You’re fully aware of what you’re doing.
You just don’t stop.
He doesn’t call you out. Doesn’t tease. Instead, his hand finds yours and laces your fingers together, bringing them to rest on his thigh like a gentle compromise.
You look at him, caught, “Sorry,” you say, already smiling. “I know I said I wouldn’t.”
“You didn’t say that,” he says easily, thumb brushing against your knuckles.
“I thought it,” you say. “Very briefly.”
He laughs under his breath, squeezing your hand. “I’m not complaining.”
“I just really like it,” you admit, a little sheepish, a little unapologetic. “It looks so good. And it feels nice.”
“I gathered,” he says, glancing at you. There’s no judgement in it. Just warmth.
You make a visible effort after that. Truly. You keep your hands to yourself, sip your drink, nod along, convince yourself you’re behaving like a fully functional adult.
Then he leans in to say something quietly, mouth close to your ear, and the effort it takes not to touch his hair feels completely unreasonable.
Your fingers slip free and curl back into it again, slower this time, deliberate. Affectionate.
He exhales through his nose, a quiet laugh you feel more than hear. “You tried.”
You laugh quietly, exposed. “I really did.”
He leans in and presses a brief kiss to your temple. “I appreciate the effort.”
You leave your hand where it is, content, and when his arm tightens around you a fraction, pulling you closer, it feels less like indulgence and more like agreement.
The first time you catch yourself doing it without thinking is in the car.
He’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on your knee. You’re humming along to the radio, watching the road slide past, when your hand drifts up and settles into the back of his hair like it’s always lived there.
You don’t notice straight away.
What you do notice is him saying, mildly, “You know I’m operating heavy machinery, right?”
You blink. Look at your hand. “Oh.”
You pull it back an inch. Then pause. “Wait. Is this dangerous or just distracting?”
He huffs a laugh. “It’s… debatable.”
You grin and very deliberately put your hand back. “I’ll take that risk.”
“Menace,” he mutters, but his shoulders loosen anyway, like he’s resigned to it.
You leave your hand there the rest of the drive, smug.
You realise it’s become a thing when your friends start calling you out on it.
You’re all sitting around a table, drinks half-finished, conversation drifting the way it does when everyone’s comfortable and nobody’s in a rush. Austin’s beside you, turned slightly inward, one arm resting along the back of your chair.
You’re laughing at someone’s story, when one of your friends squints at you. “Do you know you keep doing that?”
You blink. “Doing what?”
She nods at your hand. “That. With his hair. You’ve been at it for, like, ten minutes.”
You glance over.
Yep. There it is. Your hand fully tangled in it. No memory of putting it there.
“Oh,” you say, a little surprised. “Huh.” You start to pull your hand away.
“No, don’t stop on our account," another friend laughs. It’s very… you.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now, heat creeping up your neck. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”
Austin glances at you then, amusement flickering across his face. He lets his hand slide to your thigh, thumb pressing lightly, reassuring. “She does it when she’s thinking,” he says, casual.
You stare at him. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” he says, gently, smiling wider. “You do it all the time.”
Your friends exchange looks.
Someone laughs. “Honestly, it’s actually cute.”
You groan. “I hate that word.”
“Tough,” your friend says. “That's exactly what you’re being.”
Austin leans in close and whispers, so only you can hear, “I really don’t mind.” He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Actually, I kinda like it.”
You glance at him. “You do?”
“Mmhmm.” He’s biting his lip.
Your hand ends up back in his hair before you’ve finished your drink.
Your friends absolutely notice.
You absolutely do not care.
That night, when you get home, the door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet of the house feels charged — the evening’s teasing touches and glances still buzzing under your skin. You slip off your shoes and notice him watching you with that small, knowing smile as he does the same.
“What?” he asks, voice low.
You step closer. “So you like it? When I play with your hair.”
He laughs quietly, hanging up his jacket. “Did I say that?”
“Mmhmm.” You close the distance, backing him toward the stairs, your hand brushing his arm. “So… do you?”
He doesn’t answer right away — instead, he reaches for your waist, pulling you flush against him. “Maybe.” His eyes darken a fraction and drop to your mouth.
You hum and finally let your hand slide up, fingers sinking into the thick waves at the nape of his neck. It’s soft, silky, and the way it slips through your fingers feels deeply satisfying. You twist gently at first — testing. Then, with a deliberate tug, you pull a little harder, tilting his head back ever so slightly.
His breath hitches, eyes fluttering half-shut. “Yeah,” he admits, voice rougher now. “I like it.”
“Like this?” you murmur, tugging again — sharper this time — watching the way his jaw tightens, his hands gripping your hips more firmly.
“Yeah,” he says again, quieter this time. “Exactly like that.”
He leans in and kisses you then — slow at first, testing the waters — but the moment your fingers tighten in his hair again, he makes a low, pleased sound against your mouth and deepens it. His tongue brushes yours, warm and unhurried, while one of his hands slides up your back to hold you closer.
You keep your hand where it is, combing through the waves, tugging lightly whenever the kiss slows and you want more. He responds every time, groaning softly, hips pressing closer until your back finds the wall beside the stairs.
“Fuck,” he breathes when you break for air, forehead resting against yours. “Do that again.”
You smile and oblige — fingers twisting a little firmer this time, guiding his head so you can kiss along his jaw, down to the spot just below his ear. His hair brushes your cheek, soft and warm, tickling lightly as he turns into your touch.
He exhales shakily, hands roaming now — under your top, along your sides — before he pulls back just enough to look at you. “Bedroom,” he says quietly. “Please.”
You don’t need asking twice. You keep one hand in his hair as you guide him up the stairs, tugging gently every few steps to keep him kissing you, laughing softly when he nearly trips on the top step because he’s too distracted to look where he’s going.
In the bedroom the pace slows again. He backs you toward the bed, kissing you properly now, hands careful as he slips your top off, then his own. When he lowers you onto the mattress and settles over you, his hair falls forward, brushing your collarbone, your chest, trailing over your skin as he kisses lower.
You thread both hands into it, gripping lightly, tugging when his mouth finds a spot that makes you arch. He groans against your skin, hips rocking down in a slow grind that has you both gasping.
The rest is easy, intimate closeness — lazy kisses, wandering hands, soft sounds swallowed between you. Your fingers stay in his hair the whole time, tightening when you need him closer, loosening when you want to feel it slide through your hands, until everything builds to a gentle, shuddering peak that leaves you both breathless.
Afterward, you’re tangled together, his weight a comforting press against you. His hair is a glorious mess — damp at the roots, strands sticking up in odd directions. You smooth it back tenderly, fingers drifting through the waves in slow, absent strokes.
He looks blissed-out, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth curved in that lazy, satisfied smile you love. He catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it. “Still obsessed?”
You grin, unrepentant. “Hopelessly.”
He laughs softly, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest.
And as his breathing evens out, your hand still playing gently in his hair, you think this silly obsession might just be the best thing that’s happened to you.
(Or at least to your hands.)
Taglist:
@slowsweetlove @richardslady121 @ilovereadingfanfics @lucianegm @butlers-angels @idontknowcantthink @thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @butlerrizz @myradiaz @chocolatetree222 @faegoddessog @jjubilee-fluff @adashofpurple @suzysface @feb28th @bigmilkshakeenemy-blog
AUSTIN BUTLER | VANITY FAIR
More Than Rest (Benny Cross x Shy!Reader)
Hiiii :) I honestly have no excuse for my lack of updates other than life is really busy rn. But I really hope you guys aren't too frustrated with me and still want to read some Benny x Bunny content. Here's a little scene I wrote when I was in my feels and missing Benny Cross
Benny x Bunny Masterlist
Summary- He never sleeps. Not really. Not the kind of sleep that’s safe, deep, unguarded. But when Benny finally lets go—shirtless, sun-drenched, and halfway out of his jeans—it’s beside you, wrapped in the sound of your voice and the scent of your shampoo.
Word Count- 2.8k
**********
The air had gone syrup-thick, slow like molasses, heavy with the weight of another midwestern summer afternoon.
Sunlight poured in through the trailer window in soft golden ribbons, catching on the dust that floated lazily like snowflakes that had forgotten how to fall. Outside, the cicadas sang their shrill chorus, endless and loud, while the fan in the window gave a weary clatter with each turn, doing its best to stir the heat but failing with quiet dignity.
Benny lay sprawled flat on his back across the tangled sheets, shirtless, sun-kissed skin gleaming faintly with sweat that clung to every sharp line of his torso. One arm was slung over his eyes, his fingers curled loosely like he was trying to disappear beneath the weight of the day—or maybe just into the comfort of the bed itself. His other arm rested by his side, hand limp, calloused fingertips twitching now and then in the sticky heat.
His jeans were halfway undone, the button popped open and the zipper tugged down just enough to hint at the waistband of his boxers. The denim clung low on his hips, creased and faded and worn soft in a way that made your throat tighten. The kind of undone that didn’t look accidental, even if it was. The kind of undone that made him look almost obscene in his beauty, in that unbothered, sleep-heavy sprawl.
He smelled like summer and metal and motor oil - something rough and real and deeply him - but there was still a trace of you on his skin. A faint sweetness clinging to his collarbone, the ghost of your strawberry shampoo from when your head had rested there earlier that morning.
He looked like sin left out in the sun. And he didn’t even know it.
You were sprawled out beside him, stretched on your stomach like a lazy cat, flipping through a sun-wrinkled magazine with a smudged pink lip print on the cover and water stains along the edges. Swimming in one of his old undershirts – white, too big, slipping off one bare shoulder, your legs kicked absently behind you, ankles crossing and uncrossing in the air like you had nowhere to be and no one else to be.
You read aloud in a singsong voice, every word lilting and golden, warm enough to spin the stale air around them into something soft and sweet.
“‘Ten Signs He’s Secretly Thinking About Marriage,’” you announced, clearly delighted by the headline.
Benny didn’t so much as twitch.
“Number one…” you continued, twirling a strand of hair around you finger, “he gazes at you when he thinks you’re not looking.”
You peeked over your shoulder at him with a grin. “You do that.”
From beneath his arm came a low, stubborn grunt. “No, I don’t.”
You smirked and went right on reading. “Number two…he does little chores for you without being asked.”
Another noncommittal grunt from his side.
Smirked, you pointed out, “Like how you always untangle my necklaces. Or how you replaced the lightbulb in the closet after I stubbed my toe and threatened to burn the whole place down.”
Still nothing besides a breathy hum.
“Number three…” you went on, legs swaying lazily behind you, toes brushing the edge of the fan’s breeze. “‘He lets you pick the music.’” You scoffed. “Yeah, right. You act like my records might bite you if you get too close.”
That got a reaction.
Barely, but you saw it.
The corner of his mouth twitched. A ghost of a smile. The faintest suggestion of dimples beneath stubble. But his eyes stayed closed, his head tilted slightly to the side, arm still thrown over his forehead like he was shielding himself from the world—or from you
“Number four…” you continued, but the words came slower now. You had to swallow to keep going. “‘He tells you about his childhood.’”
Silence bloomed in the space between you.
The page stopped moving beneath your hand, fingers still. You stared at the print but didn’t see it. Your lips parted, but the next words didn’t come. Because the air had shifted again—grown thick in a different way. Not with heat, but with memory.
Because Benny didn’t talk about his past in the way most people did. He never sat you down and said this happened to me. He never unraveled himself in one clean thread. He gave pieces. Tiny, jagged pieces. Offhand comments dropped like loose change. Things you weren’t supposed to catch – but did.
One night, long after midnight, when the only light in the room was the blue glow of the microwave clock, he’d murmured it while staring at the ceiling: “Used to sleep in the closet when I was little. Figured if they couldn’t see me, they’d forget I was there.”
You didn't know what to say.
Another night, after too much beer and not enough food, he’d added, “Even now? Don’t think I’ve ever slept more than an hour at a time. Not deep. Not like you.”
And then—after you had reached for his hand in the dark and he hadn’t pulled away—he had said the one that gutted you.
“Had a system. Kept my shoes on, just in case I had to run. Slept with a flashlight under the pillow, knife taped to the mattress springs.”
He hadn’t looked at you when he said it. Hadn’t blinked. Just kept staring out the window, as if the darkness might look back.
“That’s probably why I don’t sleep much now,” he added with a shrug. “Can’t tell if it’s habit or if my body just thinks rest’ll get me killed.”
You could still hear the way he’d said it. Like it was just a fact. Like it didn’t hollow out your chest to imagine a younger version of him flinching at footsteps in the hall. Holding his breath at the sound of keys in the door.
Your throat tightened.
You stared down at the wrinkled page, the words bleeding together into soft-edged nonsense. The cheap perfume sample tucked into the binding had long since faded, but you could still smell the paper—sun-warmed and dusty, like old laundry and summer heat.
Your fingers stayed still.
And for a while, you didn’t move. Just breathed. Just listened to the fan clink its tired rhythm in the window and the cicadas shrieking outside like they’d never known quiet. Your heart ached in your chest, too full of things you couldn’t say aloud.
Because you’d never known anyone like him. Someone so hard-edged, so bruised and wary, yet capable of such impossible softness when no one else was looking.
You blinked once before turning your head to glance over your shoulder at him.
And the sight of him undid you all over again.
He was asleep. Really asleep.
That same arm still draped over his eyes, but his hand had gone slack. His jaw had loosened, lips parted just slightly, the faintest breath slipping past them. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm, the kind of breathing that only came when a body had let go. Completely. Utterly. Trustingly.
Every inch of bruised skin left bare by the rumpled sheet. Every scar, every freckle, every old burn or faded scrape that hinted at a boy who’d learned to survive before he ever learned to rest. And yet – here he was. Laid out beside you, utterly unguarded, as if you were a shelter he had finally chosen. As if this bed, this hour, this closeness was something sacred.
It was too much.
Too much tenderness to carry. Too much weight behind the silence.
“Safe ain’t a thing I ever learned how to be,” he’d told you, once, voice thick from bourbon and exhaustion. “So when I’m next to you, it don’t feel right. Feels like I’m waitin’ for the catch.”
You turned her face away, back toward the forgotten magazine still open in your lap. But the words had blurred beyond recognition. The page rippled beneath her fingers as you blinked hard.
You swiped at your cheek, brushing the tear which had escaped. But it kept coming. Thick, warm tears that slipped free before you could catch them, running soundlessly down your face and soaking into the collar of his undershirt you still wore. There was no sobbing. No trembling. Just a kind of quiet, overwhelming grief—too big for your ribs to hold and too soft to scream.
Grief for the child he’d been, sleeping in closets with his shoes on. Grief for the man he became, carved out of silence and hard choices. And most of all—for this moment. For the trust he offered now, without words, simply by sleeping beside you like he believed he wouldn’t need to run.
You bit your lip to keep from making a sound. Tried to breathe through the ache—but it broke free as a shudder, small and sharp, curling in your chest.
And that’s when he stirred.
Just a shift at first—a flicker of motion through his body, a twitch of his shoulder. Then he went still. Completely still. Like some instinct inside him had gone taut in the space of a heartbeat.
You heard it before he spoke: the change in his breathing. The subtle hitch. That flicker of awareness clawing its way back to the surface.
Then, his voice—low, rough with sleep, and laced with something that sounded like worry. “Bun?”
You sniffled, barely more than a sound, and wiped at your cheek with the back of your hand like it meant nothing. Like the tears weren’t real if you caught them fast enough.
“I’m okay,” you whispered. But it wasn’t even a lie—it was a hope, said out loud.
Benny blinked, slow and disoriented, still tangled in the haze of sleep. But the moment his eyes landed on you – curled at the edge of the bed, turned away from him, shoulders trembling in that quiet, repressed way that said don’t look at me, please don’t look at me – something in him fractured.
You looked like someone trying to disappear.
And that undid him.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask permission. Just moved.
Slower than instinct. But with more certainty than he’d ever had.
The air kissed his skin, still damp with sleep as he pushed himself up with one elbow. Every muscle in his body ached with the weight of dreams he hadn’t meant to fall into. But none of it mattered.
You were crying. And he’d missed it.
So he crawled – quietly, carefully – to the foot of the bed where you lay, curled like a child hiding from a storm. Each shift of his body made the mattress creak, but you didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at him.
By the time you turned your head fully to look at him, he was there—behind you, beside you, with you—one arm sliding beneath your chest, the other draping across your lower back as he lowered himself over you, curling along the curve of your body like he belonged there. He pressed his chest to your spine, his breath warm at your ear. His jeans were still unbuttoned, slung low on his hips, skin hot from sleep and the sun-drenched bed. You felt every inch of him, solid and real and right there.
“Sweetheart…” It wasn’t even a question, just a gentle plea.
“I’m fine,” you tried again, but it cracked on the way out.
His arm around you tightened. Not in fear. Not in panic. Just in that quiet, desperate way people hold each other when words aren’t enough.
“Tell me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Please. Just tell me what’s breaking you.”
You turned her face into the pillow, as if that might protect you from the truth.
“I don’t know,” you breathed. But then—your voice wavered, and the truth began to rise like floodwater. “You were sleeping. Really sleeping. And you never do that, Benny. You never let go. And I just kept thinking… all those nights you spent afraid to close your eyes. The things you must’ve heard through the walls. The things you didn’t tell me. You were just a boy, and no one came for you. And now you’re here. With me. And you looked so peaceful, like something finally let go inside you. And it just—” Your breath shuddered. “I didn’t know it would hurt to see you safe.”
“Bunny…” His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching another tear. “I didn’t think I’d make it this far. I didn’t think I’d ever find a place where I could close my eyes and not feel like I was being hunted.”
You turned slightly then, just enough for him to see the glint of your tears in the light.
He kissed you – gently. Once. Just below your eye, where the salt clung to your skin.
“That wasn’t sleep,” he said softly. “That was surrender. That was you.”
You let out a trembling laugh that hurt to hear. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“I’m not,” he said, pressing a kiss to your other cheek. “You cry, I wake up. That’s the deal.”
Benny buried his nose in your hair, took a breath, and exhaled like the weight of her grief had somehow lessened his own.
You let out a small breath—shaky, wet, but gentling now that he was there. All around you. His weight draped over your back like a blanket, his arm snug across your waist, holding you close in that silent way he always did, like he didn’t trust words half as much as touch.
The tears didn’t stop completely. But they quieted. Softened. Fell slower.
Benny didn’t speak again right away. Just rested his cheek against the back of your head, his chest rising and falling against your spine like a lullaby. His fingers curled into the hem of the oversized shirt you wore—his shirt—and for a moment, the silence swelled full and sacred.
Then, after a pause long enough you thought he might’ve fallen asleep again, you heard his voice. Muffled. Sleep-rough. Almost shy.
“Hey…”
You hummed in response, too tired to speak.
“Weren’t you in the middle of reading me somethin’?” he asked.
You blinked, smile tugging slow at your lips. “You mean the article about how to tell if your boyfriend’s thinking about marriage?”
“Yeah.” He shifted slightly, one leg sliding between yours as he pulled you even closer. “That one.”
You turned your face toward the edge of the mattress, blinking at the sun-wrinkled magazine still splayed open a few inches away, half-tangled in the sheets.
“I thought you said my records bite,” you murmured, teasing gently. “Pretty sure that means you don’t trust my taste.”
He let out a small grunt—almost a laugh—and nuzzled against your hair like he could burrow deeper into you.
“I trust your voice,” he said, voice going quieter. “Don’t care what you’re readin’. Could be the back of a soup can for all I care.”
You smiled again. A real one this time. Small, but glowing.
“You’re lucky,” you said, reaching for the magazine with one hand, still tucked under the weight of his body. “Because this quiz has five more signs, and I know you’re dying to know if you pass.”
“Oh, I’m nervous as hell,” he murmured, voice dripping with fake solemnity, even as his mouth brushed your shoulder. “Lay it on me.”
You adjusted the magazine against the sheets, flipping to the right page, and cleared your throat dramatically.
“Number five,” you read aloud. “‘He talks about the future like you’re already a part of it.’”
Benny was quiet for a second.
Then he murmured, “I think I told you last week that we should plant tomatoes next spring.”
“You did,” you said. “You also said we’d need netting to keep the birds from eating them.”
“Then I’m five for five,” he said, his voice warm and slow and dripping with satisfaction. “Keep goin’. I wanna see if I score perfect.”
You flipped the page, snickering under your breath. “Number six… he picks up on your moods—even the quiet ones.”
His hand squeezed your side, thumb brushing your ribs.
“Next,” he whispered into your skin.
Your smile spread. God, it hurt to love him this much.
“Number seven,” you continued, “he says ‘we’ more than ‘I.’”
Benny shifted, lifting himself just slightly so he could press a kiss to your temple.
“We’re gonna need new sheets if you keep cryin’ on this set,” he said gently. “We’re gonna wear this bed out at this rate.”
You let out a small laugh, sniffled once, and kept reading. The tears were drying now. The ache was still there—but it had been wrapped in something warmer. Something real.
“Keep going,” he mumbled.
So you did.
Even long after he’d fallen asleep, you kept reading. Just in case his dreams were listening.
-Tag List-
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Good Lord 🥵
hi!! I love ur writing and I had this idea if you could please write it!? It could be Austin x actress reader, they are dating and made a movie together and now they are at some kind of interview, but they are both distracted by each others pressence 🤭 maybe like the tension between them growing visibly and it could end with some funny comments from fans? Thank you in advance! 🌼
𝑈𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒 || Austin Butler
• Pairing: Austin Butler x actress! reader
• Warnings: Austin and reader can’t take their eyes off of each other, flirting, desire,…?
• Note: HIII! What an absolutely amazing idea! You can’t imagine how I enjoyed writing this!! ( @eternal-love could tell… 😝) also! picture used at the end is fictional; created with app called TwiNote! AND YES, I HAD TO ADD THIS SONG.
You and Austin have been dating for a long time now. You both met thanks to the same industry you two work at and that nothing less than your beloved acting. Now that Hollywood has given you the opportunity, both of you were casted in a movie where you played love interests.
That was of course very easy for you, since the love you guys feel for each other is truly unconditional. When it comes to making movies there are a lot of duties to promote the movie by any kind of a way. One of them is interviews. Austin and you are on a press tour, promoting the movie you guys made and today… there is something in the air…
The bright studio lights cast a warm glow over the set, highlighting the two stars seated side by side in chairs. And that is of course you and Austin. The interviewer has barely finished the introduction before the oddly satisfying energy filled the room.
Even tho that the two of you have been together for nearly over a two years now, sitting next to each other like this, all dressed up for the press tour, makes it feel like you are back on set, falling for each other all over again.
You look absolutely breathtaking in a formal black dress in Austin’s eyes. Austin is wearing his grey shirt and black pants – so damn handsome. There are some glances between the two of you from the beginning of this interview. Something so unspoken but still so obvious.
“So,” the interviewer started, bringing you from your own thoughts. “Austin, Y/n… It’s nice to have you here today.” Both you and Austin smile warmly. “Thanks for having us.” Austin says, his voice low and deep - just like the way you love it.
“You two have worked together before, but this was your first time playing romantic opposite each other. Did that make things easier or harder?”
Austin opens his mouth to answer, but then you shift beside him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and he gets completely lost in thoughts. His gaze flickers to you, and you only, caught in the way your lips curl so slightly at the edges, because you know exactly what you’re doing to him.
You raise an eyebrow, noticing his hesitation. “Easier,” you answer smoothly, tilting your head toward him after breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Definitely easier.”
Austin clears his throat, attempting to focus on the interview that’s being recorded. “Yeah, I mean, when you already have a connection, it helps.” He finally manages to say, though his words came out slower than he wanted, as if his brain is struggling to catch up with the sight of you beside him.
“I see. So you slid into the characters pretty easily, didn’t you?” Austin chuckles, wanting to answer the question with confidence, but then your fingers brushes his to hold his hand. Just for a second, just enough to send a spark up his arm. Austin of course looses the thoughts again. You can see he is out of his straight thinking, and take over the question again.
“Mhm, yes. The characters we got to play are actually not so different from us, so it was really easy to bring those characters alive.” you smile warmly. The interviewer grins, clearly noticing the interaction of you and Austin. “You both look like you’re still in characters.”
Austin rubs his tight as he always does, his other hand rubbing his lips - as he always does. “Are we?” he smirks, letting out a laugh to ease the atmosphere in the air.
What Austin actually does is that he unbuttons the few buttons of his shirt on his chest. You peripherally see his chest glistening in the studio lights, the lust in your eyes growing stronger. Okay. Focus. Just answer the questions… goes through your head.
The interviewer is speaking about the movie, but neither you and him registers the words. You shift beside him again, crossing your leg over the other. You just look so stunning for Austin to keep his eyes off of you. Too stunning. How is he supposed to form sense able sentences when you’re sitting this close?
Little does he know that you are now kinda doing it on purpose. Austin hears his name being mentioned, knowing he needs to get back to reality from his fantasizing about you. Say something, Austin. Anything.
“So, Austin, what was your favorite scene to film?” the interviewer asks. His favorite scene? He blinks, hesitating. Right. The movie. The reason you’re both here.
His brain is stubborn, refusing to pull up any scene except for that one; The one where your hands roamed around his body, the way you whispered his name like it belonged to you. The way it never felt like acting.
“Um…” He starts searching for a savory answer. “I really liked the one that actually director decided to remove… But it was some kind of scene where Y/n and I run through the rain on a beach.”
You smirk, knowing he is lying and tries to hide his real intentions. It’s actually no longer after when you are the one being questioned, and suddenly know how it felt for Austin when you are being seduced by the sight. He’s staring.
You can feel the weight of Austin’s gaze without even looking at him. It’s been happening since you walked onto the set of this interview of course, but now it’s getting way harder to ignore. Every time you move, his eyes follow. Every time you smile, his lips twitch like he’s fighting the urge to do the same.
It’s distracting. So unfairly distracting. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, again, pretending not to notice the way his hands flex slightly, like he wants to reach out and just touch you.
As the interviewer continues to say something, you risk a glance at Austin, and sure enough, he’s already looking at you with that expression of his. His blue eyes are squinted due to his eyebrows furrowing, more intense, almost as if he has forgotten you’re supposed to be acting professional.
You notice the way his jaw clenches when he’s thinking. His fingers drumming against his knee when he’s trying to focus. The way his unbuttoned shirt opens just right, and how his cologne still lingers.
“…undeniable desire,” the interviewer says. “I mean, come on, do you two even realize how you look at each other?”
Austin finally tears his eyes from you, shaking his head with a breathy chuckle. You cross your arms, biting back a smirk. Damn yes you do. And so does everyone else.
Interviewer leans back in his chair, watching both of you being barely present. You and Austin are both trying to stay focused, you really do, but at this point, it’s a lost cause already. Every glance, every half-smirk, every moment or hesitation before answering a question. Too much to handle at this point.
The interview ends the moment, thanking you both for coming - even tho you did absolutely nothing at the interview - and with a quick glance behind the camera at his producer he grins. Yeah, this definitely going viral.
With a teasing smile the interviewer calls it a day and shakes both of your hands. “Well, I think that’s all the proof we need.” Austin’s furrows his brow. “Proof?”
You are equally confused as Austin. “Of what?”
The interview chuckles, standing up. “That the two of you are terrible at pretending you’re not totally into each other.”
Austin lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head and you groan, covering your face with one hand. “Yeah, it’s just hard not to keep eyes off of her,” Austin’s hand lands on the small of your back and you shiver at his touch.
You two walk off the set, heading into the backstage. As soon as you both arrive at the changing room, Austin smashes the door to close them. You gasp surprisingly and he leans you against the door.
“You will be the death of me, Y/l/n.” he whispers into your ears, his lips then capturing yours. He grips your hips, pulling you close enough to him as he savor the fact he can finally kiss you. Only a fool wouldn’t know how you spent the rest of the night after arriving at the hotel.
MY DAAAAARLING! I know we have talked about this so let’s think about it - Austin comes home after long day and all he wants is to relax, so reader decides to help him shower and eventually showers with him and the rest is on you 😏🤭
SOAKED
Pairing: Austin Butler x Housewife!reader
Summary: Austin comes back tired from a day filled with meetings, you decide to help him blow some steam.
Warning: smut (blowjob), gender roles?????
Note: This one is for my baby. Like last week we were fantasizing about taking a shower with Austin and this came out. @butlervibesonly @annesart
You had recently married Austin, you were the happiest ever. You remembered the wedding as if it had been yesterday. It was a private affair, on a small courthouse with his closest friends and family.
The house you lived in was a bit far from the actual city, Austin was a very private person so he liked having his own space that the paparazzi didn’t know about. You didn’t have to drive anywhere either, you were a housewife.
You baked a cranberry pie, the kitchen smelled delicious, everything was coming together to perfection. As soon as it was done, you plated it down to let it cool down, when you heard the door open, the sound of his boots and him dropping the keys on the coffee table.
Austin groaned as he sat on the couch and threw his head back. “C’mere, babe.” He called you over. Wearing his usual black sweatshirt, black pants and brown boots.
Obediently you listened, you sat by his side and cuddled with him, what a great welcome.
“I missed you.” You said, hugging him tightly. He chuckled lowly, his hand drawing circles on your back. “I made you a pie. I know it’s your favorite.”
“A pie? My, how am I all lucky? Huh?” He purred, his voice deep as it had always been. You chuckled as he grabbed your face with his hand.
“Just for you. You know it.” You smiled as you looked up at him.
“But first, I have to shower. I stink.” Austin chuckled, he pecked your lips. To which you groaned, you didn’t want him away for not even a second.
You reluctantly let him go upstairs to shower, after a few minutes, you slowly crept upstairs and walked towards the bathroom. He never shut the door, Austin always said that he didn’t like the bathroom feeling like a sauna.
So you watched him undress, the way he took off his tshirt, his whole torso out for exposure. His hardened abs, his happy trail, all the freckles he had around his stomach. It made you bite your lip, it made you feel dirty for all the thoughts that started running your mind. As a housewife, a part of you believed that a housewife shouldn’t be the one starting all of this, the intimacy, you were used to him initiating everything.
But you were caught, he turned his face around and let out a chuckle as you let out a gasp.
“You can come in. Come on.” He said, a bit embarrassed you came into the bathroom. “Wanna shower with me? I know you do, doll.”
Your face heats up, but a smile crept into your face. “If you don’t mind it.” You said as you started unbuttoning your dress.
The shower was warm, perfect for you both. As you stepped in, you both got wet, you grabbed the soap and loofah, you knew he was tense, you could just feel it. But as soon as you scrubbed him, he let out some groans.
“Feels good?” It was more of a rhetorical question, a small smile on your face.
“What d’ya think?” He opened his eye, smiling at you.
You kept scrubbing him, but he didn’t really get that relaxed, at least not how you expected it. You knew he was in a lot of stress lately, with all the meetings with his agent and PR team. A part of you knew that he needed more intimacy to relax, and you were more than willing to do it.
You turned off the shower, he was immediately confused. He had only just washed his body.
“What are you doing?” He asked, raising his eyebrow. Your face was what gave away your intentions.
“Helping you relax.” You stood in front of him, slowly kissing his neck, wet kisses, sucking on his skin, he threw his head back, he started whimpering.
“I see what you mean…” Austin said, his voice low and seductive, his hand going to your hair as you slowly went down, kissing his chest tight to below his belly button.
It tingled him immediately, the desire taking over his body, your hands on both sides of his hips. You gave small pecks on his pelvis, before you pecked the base of his cock, he bit his lower lip, you hadn’t even started yet but he was already gripping your hair.
“Eager, are we?” You whispered, he shivered, humming in response.
You weren’t that much into giving blowjobs, it wasn’t your thing. But you tried to do it to him, he deserved it every once in a while.
“Don’t tease me, just do it.” Austin yanked your head back, a bit hard that it made you squirm. “Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” You nodded as he stopped gripping so hard. You mentally thanked god, you didn’t want him pulling hair out your scalp.
You got back to work, your hand grabbed his hardened cock, held it close to your face, he was always very well-endowed.
You licked your lips, and then gave a long lick across his length. Austin let out a loud moan, the warmth of your mouth making him feel like he’s ready to cum. You took a deep breath before taking his cock all inside your mouth, of course it was big and you gagged, but the sound of his moans made it worth it.
He grabbed a handful of your hair, “Fuck, doll. You’re…” he moaned, his hand just guiding you, he was quite gentle actually. “Amazing.”
You gripped his hips, your nails digging in his flesh.
“C’mon, baby. Take it all… you can.” He whimpered, throwing his head back.
Tears filled your eyes, his cock hitting the back of your throat. Your jaw ached but you were willing to push through it.
“So needy, hmm?” Austin muttered, trying to regain his composure.
You bobbed your head, trying your best not to puke, but the sound of saliva and spit filled the silent bathroom. Sounds so nasty it would send anyone into a coma. Your knees started to ache, you couldn’t wait til it was over, but again, you knew he wouldn’t rest afterwards.
He was reaching his climax, his moans more ragged than before, and louder. Thank God you didn’t have neighbors close enough.
“God! Fuck— doll… I’m gonna…” Austin moaned loudly, he started thrusting his hips, tears ran down your cheeks. “Doll…!” And you felt the hot seed filling the back of your throat. Not the tastiest flavor, but you pulled your head away, his cock leaving your mouth, he whined, he cock was hit with the cold atmosphere of the shower.
You swallowed, fought with yourself to not spit it out, you showed him your tongue after swallowing. He smiled.
“Good job.” Austin chuckled.
The shower was silent afterwards, you both finished cleaning off. And then you got out the shower. You put on the shirt he was supposed to wear, and the towel wrapped around your hair. Austin placed a towel around his waist. And you two did your usual routine. He started shaving his stubble, you sat down in the toilet seat, staring at him.
“You liking what you see?” Austin asked as he finished wiping his face.
“I like this view, it’s gorgeous.” You spoke, your jaw still a bit sore. But you were happy, he looked the times more relaxed.
“I think I should reward you. You deserve it…” Austin purred, his smirk growing.
“Really?” You chuckled as you stood up. His hands were on your waist.
“Hmm, lemme show you what I’m all about.” He leaned down to kiss you, chuckling in between kisses. He guided you towards the bedroom and laid you down in the bed.
He continued kissing you until he slowly got rid of his old tshirt you had on. Your body shivered thanks to the atmosphere of the bedroom. His kissing went down, your neck, your chest, your lower stomach.
If you pleased him, he’d please you back.
“Fuck, baby. You’re soaked…”