YOU KNOW YOU SHOULDN'T BE WATCHING HER THIS HARD. It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic. But there’s just something about the way she’s standing—too close, too smiley, all teeth and hair flips—that makes your blood itch.
Ryan’s leaning against the hood of his car, cigarette between two fingers, looking like he’s doing the world’s worst impression of James Dean if he had a scruffy beard and messy, dirty blonde hair. And she’s just there, soaking it in like he’s on display.
You’re sitting on the porch steps, pretending to scroll through your flip phone like you’ve got something better to do than burn holes through this chick’s skull. Spoiler: you don’t.
She laughs at something Ryan says. It’s high-pitched, the kind of laugh that makes you want to grind your teeth down to dust. Ryan smirks. Not his “I’m gonna sleep with you” smirk—at least you don’t think so. More like his “I’m saying stupid shit just to get a reaction” smirk. But still. Your stomach knots.
You know Ryan. You’ve known him long enough to recognise when he’s just screwing around versus when he’s actually interested. This is supposed to be one of those moments where you feel secure, right? Where you smugly sip your beer and think, Ha, that poor girl doesn’t stand a chance, he’s all mine. But instead you’re watching her fingers brush his sleeve like she’s testing fabric, and your insides do that ugly, twisty thing.
He doesn’t move away.
Your phone flips shut with a snap louder than you meant. Ryan glances over, cigarette halfway to his lips, eyebrows lifting like he can feel the heat of your glare all the way from the car. The girl follows his gaze and looks at you too—head tilt, polite smile, like oh, you must be the girlfriend.
No shit.
Ryan says something low to her and then pushes off the car, walking toward you. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t look guilty, doesn’t act like anything is wrong. Which, somehow, makes it worse.
“Hey,” he says, flicking ash onto the driveway. “What’s with the murder eyes?”
You blink up at him, deliberately slow. “What’s with the audition for Bachelor: White Trash Edition?”
He laughs, a quick bark that makes your chest both warm and irritated. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“It means,” you say, standing because sitting feels too submissive, “that you looked real cozy with Blondie over there.”
Ryan turns, glances back at her. She’s fiddling with her keys, pretending she’s not listening. When he looks at you again, his smirk is full-blown. “You jealous?”
“No.” Too fast. Too sharp.
His grin widens. “You are.”
“I’m not,” you insist, lying, crossing your arms.
He takes a drag off his cigarette, exhaling slow. “Babe, she was asking about Bam’s party this weekend. That’s it.”
“Oh, sure,” you say, voice dripping. “Because asking about a party requires leaning in like she’s trying to smell your aftershave.”
“Do I even wear aftershave?” he asks, brows knitting, genuinely puzzled.
“That’s not the point.”
Ryan chuckles and flicks the cigarette butt into the street. “You’re hot when you’re pissed.”
You roll your eyes so hard it actually hurts. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not,” he says, suddenly softer. His hand brushes your arm, tentative, testing the waters. “Come on. You know I don’t give a shit about her.”
You want to believe him. You really do. And honestly? You probably should—Ryan’s many things: reckless, juvenile, occasionally an asshole, but he’s never made you feel disposable. Still, the image of her fingers on his tattooed sleeve is carved into your brain like graffiti you can’t scrub off.
“Then maybe act like it,” you mutter.
He exhales, long and slow, running a hand through his messy hair. “Jesus. You’re really gonna stew on this all night, aren’t you?”
“Depends,” you shoot back. “You planning on giving me another reason to?”
There’s a beat where neither of you talk, where the air feels heavy and awkward, and then Ryan does what Ryan always does: he deflects with humor.
He grins, leaning closer. “Want me to go tell her I’m wildly in love with my crazy, jealous girlfriend?”
You glare, but the corner of your mouth betrays you, twitching upward. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low, “but I’m your idiot.”
It should make you melt. It almost does. But the knot in your chest hasn’t unraveled yet, not completely. You shove your hands into your pockets and look away, muttering, “Don’t push it.”
Ryan tilts his head, studying you. There’s a flicker—serious, searching—before he breaks it with another grin. “Fine. But you’re still hot when you’re mad.”
You flip him off, but your stomach is buzzing.
The night drags on in that weird limbo—half banter, half tension. You both end up at Bam’s place anyway, surrounded by too much noise and too much beer. The same girl’s there too, which does wonders for your mood.
Ryan sticks close, though. His hand stays on the small of your back, his shoulder brushing yours, his laugh aimed in your direction. He’s not oblivious. He knows you’re wound tight.
At one point, you catch her looking again—quick, sharp, calculating. And yeah, maybe you imagine shoving her face-first into the beer pong table. Just a little.
Ryan notices. He leans down, his breath warm against your ear. “If looks could kill, babe, you’d be serving life by now.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, but you don’t move when his arm slides around your waist, pulling you tighter against him.
You hate that it helps, and you hate that he knows it.
-
By the time the night is halfway over, you’re simmering. It’s not like Ryan has done anything specific, not like he’s disappeared into a corner with her or ignored you. He’s been by your side most of the time, cracking jokes, stealing sips of your drink, brushing his fingers across your lower back like he owns the spot.
But it’s the way she hovers. The way she laughs extra loud when he says something dumb, the way she tosses her hair every time he glances her way. Like she’s waiting for a signal.
You try to ignore it, play it cool, but then you catch her leaning in again while Ryan’s lighting a cigarette outside, and that’s it. Something inside you just breaks.
You storm out onto the porch, heels clicking hard on the wood, and Ryan looks up mid-drag. He frowns, squinting through the smoke.
“What now?” he asks, voice half amusement, half exasperation.
You stop in front of him, arms crossed. “You seriously don’t see it?”
“See what?” He looks genuinely confused, which only pisses you off more.
“Her. All over you. It’s pathetic.”
Ryan exhales smoke through his nose, tilting his head like he’s studying you under a microscope. “You’re still on this?”
“Yeah, I’m still on this,” you snap. “Because she hasn’t stopped all night.”
“She’s drunk,” he says, as if that explains everything. “She’s hanging around everybody.”
“Not like that,” you shoot back. “Not with everybody. Just you.”
Ryan smirks, shaking his head. “So what, you think I’m entertaining her? You think I’m into it?”
Your chest tightens. The words come out before you can stop them.
“I know that if it was me and another guy—if some dude was hovering and laughing at every dumb joke I cracked—you’d act the same way I am.”
That shuts him up for a second. His grin slips, his eyes narrowing. You press on, heat rising in your voice.
“You’d lose your mind, Ryan. Don’t even try to deny it. You’d be throwing daggers across the room, and if he so much as touched me, you’d be out the door with your fists up. So don’t stand here and act like I’m crazy for being pissed when the shoe’s on the other foot.”
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “It’s different.”
You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, right. Because you’re the one in the spotlight, you get a free pass?”
“No.” His voice cuts through yours, low and sudden. “Because I trust you.”
The words hang there like smoke. Hot, heavy. You swallow hard, trying to make your brain catch up with your mouth. Your pulse is a drum in your ears. You need a second — just one — to breathe, to stop your thoughts from running circles around each other.
Ryan takes a step toward you, the fight in his eyes dimming into something steadier. His voice drops, rough but quiet. “Babe. Look at me.”
You do, reluctantly, and he holds your gaze like he’s trying to nail you to the spot. “I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone else. You get that, right?”
You swallow, throat tight. “Then tell her to back the fuck off.”
He smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “What do you want me to do? Make an announcement? ‘Hey, everyone, this is my girlfriend, and if you so much as breathe in my direction, she’ll claw your eyes out.’”
“Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not.” His tone sharpens. “I’m trying to figure out why you don’t trust me enough to let this shit roll off.”
That stings. Hard. You feel your face heat, anger and shame tangled up until you can’t separate them. “It’s not about trusting you,” you say. “It’s about respecting me. Do you get how it looks? Do you get how it feels to watch some chick paw at you while you just stand there like—like you don’t even notice?”
Ryan’s jaw tightens. He flicks the cigarette into the yard, grinding the butt under his shoe. “You think I like being accused of shit I didn’t do?”
“I’m not accusing you.”
“You kinda are.”
Silence drops between you, heavy as concrete. Inside, you can still hear Bam’s stereo blasting some awful nu-metal, people shouting, laughing, glasses clinking. Out here, it’s just the two of you and the quiet roar of your tempers colliding.
Ryan rakes a hand through his hair, pacing a couple steps before turning back to you. “You think I don’t notice her? Of course I fucking notice her. I notice every time she tries to slide in, every time she bats her lashes. You think I’m blind?”
Your stomach flips, cold and hot at once. “Then why not shut it down?”
“Because it’s not worth my time!” His voice rises, sharp enough to cut. “Because you’re the only one who matters. Why the fuck should I waste energy on some background noise when you’re standing right here?”
The words hit hard, rattling in your chest. You want to be satisfied with that, you want it to fix everything, but instead it leaves you raw, strung out.
“You make it sound so simple,” you say, voice low.
“It is simple,” he fires back. “You and me. That’s it. That's all that matters.”
You’re standing so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him, the frustration, the weight of all the things neither of you are saying out loud.
You should back down. You should breathe, nod, let it drop. But instead you hear yourself whisper, “Then prove it.”
Ryan’s eyes darken, narrowing. “Prove it?”
“Yeah.” Your heart’s racing, but you hold steady. “Make me believe you’re not just feeding me lines.”
His jaw works, muscles tight, and for a moment, you think he’s going to laugh it off. But he doesn’t. He leans down, close enough that you feel his breath on your mouth.
“You’re really pushing me tonight,” he says, voice gravel-low.
“Good,” you whisper back. “Push harder.”
The air between you hums, thick with something dangerous, something electric. Neither of you move, but you know the line’s about to snap.
Inside, the door creaks open and a couple of drunk voices spill out, breaking the spell. Ryan pulls back, cursing under his breath, and you’re left buzzing, furious, aching.
“We’re leaving,” he mutters, grabbing your hand.
You don’t argue.
The drive back to your shared place is silent, except for the rumble of the engine and the occasional squeal of tyres when he takes a corner too sharply. His grip on the wheel is tight, knuckles pale, jaw set. You sit with your arms folded, staring out the window, replaying every word, every look, until the tension is a living thing between you.
When you finally pull into his driveway, Ryan kills the engine but doesn’t move. He sits there breathing hard, like he’s trying to wrestle himself down from the edge.
You turn to him, your own pulse a hammer in your throat. “Say it.”
He looks at you, eyes wild. “Say what?”
“Say I’m the only one. Say it out loud.”
Something snaps in him then. He lunges, hand tangling in your hair, mouth crushing against yours in a kiss that’s more bite than anything else.
It’s messy, desperate, all teeth and heat. You gasp into it, clawing at his shirt, and he growls low in his chest like he’s been holding back all night.
When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen, breath ragged. His forehead rests against yours, his voice rough. “You’re the only fucking one. Always.”
Your stomach twists, not with jealousy this time, but with something darker, hungrier.
And you know exactly how the night’s going to end.
-
The second the front door slams behind you, Ryan’s on you again. No hesitation this time, no holding back. His hands grip your hips like he’s staking a claim, dragging you against him hard enough that your breath stutters.
You kiss him back just as roughly, teeth clashing, lips bruising. All that jealousy, all that anger—it boils over into something hot and frantic. You push at his chest, not to get away but to provoke, and he groans against your mouth, shoving you backwards until your spine hits the wall.
“Still jealous?” he mutters against your lips, voice rough, almost mocking.
“Shut up,” you gasp, tugging at his shirt.
He chuckles darkly, catching your wrists and pinning them above your head against the drywall. “Nah. You started this. Gotta finish it.”
You writhe, frustrated, and his grin flashes sharp. He knows exactly what he’s doing—making you squirm, dragging it out, feeding on the heat he’s stoked all night.
“Say it,” he demands, pressing his thigh between yours.
“Say what?”
“That you’re mine.”
You glare at him, stubborn even as your hips roll against his leg. “Cocky bastard.”
His eyes darken, grip tightening around your wrists. “Wrong answer.”
He kisses you again, harder, teeth scraping your bottom lip until you gasp. The sound slips free before you can choke it down, and Ryan growls like it’s exactly what he wanted. His hands drop to your thighs, hauling you up so your legs wrap around his waist.
He carries you to the couch, dropping you onto it with a bounce that makes you yelp. He’s on top of you immediately, one hand braced by your head, the other sliding up under your shirt. His calloused palm drags across your skin, rough and hot, and you arch into it before you can stop yourself.
“See?” he mutters against your neck, sucking a mark into your skin. “Nobody else gets this. Nobody else gets you like this.”
You want to argue, to throw something sharp back at him, but then his fingers slip under your bra and your brain short-circuits. You moan instead, low and raw, and his smirk presses into your collarbone.
“Thought so.”
He peels your shirt off, tossing it aside without looking. His mouth latches onto your breast, sucking hard while his hand teases the other, and your back bows against the cushions. Your fingers dig into his hair, tugging, urging him on, and he groans like he loves the roughness.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs again, this time against your nipple, and the vibration makes you shiver.
“Ryan,” you whine, hips grinding up against him.
“Yeah, babe, I know,” he says, dragging his mouth down your stomach. “I’ve got you.”
He yanks your jeans open, shoving them down impatiently until they’re tangled around your ankles. You kick them off, not caring where they land, too focused on the way his hands are sliding up your thighs.
Ryan spreads you open with his thumbs, groaning when he sees how wet you are already. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, almost to himself. “All worked up over me, huh?”
You shoot him a look, trying to muster some dignity. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He grins, eyes wicked. “Too late.”
And then his mouth is on you, hot and hungry, tongue sliding through your slick folds like he’s starving. Your head snaps back against the couch, a cry ripping free as your fingers clutch at the cushions.
He eats you like it’s a challenge, like proving you’re his means devouring every single sound you make. His tongue flicks your clit in quick, relentless strokes, then plunges inside you, fucking you with his mouth until your thighs are trembling around his head.
You can’t keep your voice down—every moan, every gasp fills the room, and Ryan groans against you like he’s feeding on it. When you tug his hair hard enough to sting, he moans into your cunt, the vibration shooting straight through you.
“Fuck, Ryan—”
He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, chin wet, eyes blazing. “You're mine forever.”
His statement makes you moan, and he smirks in return.
“Say what you are,"
The words are stuck in your throat, pride warring, but then he slides two fingers inside you, curling them perfectly, and the fight drains out of you in a broken moan.
“Say it,” he repeats, thrusting deep.
“I’m yours,” you gasp, arching up against his hand. “I’m yours, fuck—”
He grins like he’s won the lottery, then dives back in, tongue circling your clit as his fingers fuck you faster. The pressure builds sharp and hot, coiling in your gut until it snaps, and you come hard, shuddering under him, moaning his name like a prayer.
Ryan doesn’t stop until you’re whining, pushing at his head, too sensitive. He finally pulls back, licking his lips like he’s tasting victory.
“Mine,” he says again, smug.
You glare weakly. “Asshole.”
He laughs, low and dark, already unbuckling his belt. “You love it.”
Your breath catches when he frees himself, thick and hard in his hand. He strokes once, slow, then lines up at your entrance.
“Still jealous?” he asks, teasing.
“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, pulling him down to kiss you.
He thrusts into you in one deep, hard stroke, swallowing your cry with his mouth. The stretch is intense, overwhelming, but it feels so damn good you’re clinging to him instantly, nails digging into his back.
“God, you’re so tight,” he groans into your neck, driving in harder. “Like you’re made for me.”
Your answer is a moan, high and desperate, as your hips meet his. Every thrust is rough, almost punishing, the couch creaking under the force. His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping, his eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.
“This,” he pants, punctuating each thrust. “This is how you know. Nobody—fucking nobody—gets this but me.”
You can barely breathe, let alone talk, but you manage a hoarse, “Then don’t stop.”
He laughs breathlessly, kissing you hard. “Not planning on it.”
His pace quickens, hips slamming into yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, chasing that edge again.
Ryan’s hand slips between you, rubbing your clit in rough circles that make you cry out. “Come for me again,” he demands, voice gravel. “Do it, babe. I wanna feel you.”
You don’t stand a chance. The orgasm rips through you sudden and violent, your body clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly losing it right there. He fucks you through it, relentless, until you’re sobbing his name, overstimulated but addicted.
His rhythm falters then, hips stuttering, breath ragged. “Fuck, I’m—shit—”
You grab his face, kiss him hard, and whisper, “Do it inside. I don’t care. Just—fuck—please.”
That’s all it takes. He groans your name, burying himself deep as he comes, hot and pulsing, filling you. His whole body shudders against yours, every muscle straining as he rides it out.
When it’s over, he collapses on top of you, both of you sweaty, breathless, wrecked.
For a long minute, the only sound is your breathing. Then Ryan lifts his head, eyes half-lidded, lips curved in a lazy grin.
“God… that was fucking great,” he murmurs, smirking. “Now I get why you’d be jealous.”
He’s teasing, but damn if you don’t know he means it—you’re trembling, spent, all pride gone, and he’s still grinning like a jerk.
You smack his shoulder weakly and laugh, "Don’t push it.”
He laughs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re mine. End of story. I love you forever,”
Do you think you can write a story where the female reader is dating one of the jackass guys and the female reader has a little kink for hands and one of the jackass guys doesn’t notice it until one day during a stunt he notices how the female reader pays a little closer attention to his hands so he decides to confront her then TURNS INTO SMUT😛
IM SORRY THIS IS BAD I TRIED! i made this like they're sort of flirts instead of dating, hope that's okay!!
The first thing you notice when Johnny walks into any room is his hands. You’ve known him long enough to see them in action—the way they grip the railing, the flick of his fingers as he gestures, even the subtle calluses from years of stunts. It’s not just admiration; it’s a little thrill that runs through you every time your eyes drift down to them. You catch yourself tracing the shape in your mind when he isn’t looking, imagining how strong they must feel wrapped around yours.
“Hey, you hiding over here?” Johnny’s voice breaks you out of your reverie. He’s grinning like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, and for a second, you freeze.
“Uh, no… just checking out the set,” you mumble, trying to sound casual.
He leans against the railing beside you, and your heart skips. There’s something magnetic about him, the way he carries that reckless energy, like he’s always on the edge of chaos but somehow still in control. You glance down at his hands again—knuckles slightly scraped, veins prominent from gripping the stunt gear—and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on you, moving with that effortless strength.
Johnny notices your gaze. “You staring at my hands again?” he teases, nudging you lightly with his elbow.
You flush but don’t look away. “Maybe,” you admit softly, the word barely audible.
He laughs, low and rumbling, and it makes your stomach flip. “You’re such a freak,” he says, shaking his head. Then his fingers brush yours accidentally as he passes you a roll of tape, and the spark is immediate, electric. You feel it from your fingertips all the way up your spine.
The day on set moves in its usual chaotic rhythm. Cameras whir, crew members shout directions, and Johnny moves through it all with that unshakable energy that draws everyone’s attention. You stick close, pretending to help with props or handing him water, but really, you’re watching his hands, how they grip the pole before a stunt, the way he adjusts his gloves, the casual flick of a wrist as he jokes with someone.
Every small touch sets your nerves alight. When he laughs and slaps your hand lightly in a playful reprimand for holding a prop wrong, you can feel the heat pooling low in your stomach. You bite your lip to keep from reacting too obviously, but it’s hard when every motion, every glance from him, seems to tease something deeper inside you.
During a break, he sits beside you on a crate, stretching his legs out lazily. You can’t resist letting your eyes linger on his hands as they rest on his knees, fingers curling slightly. He notices, of course. Johnny always notices.
“You like looking at these, don’t you?” he asks softly, tilting his hand so you can see the knuckles and scars more clearly. The teasing in his tone makes your pulse quicken.
“I… maybe,” you whisper, trying to sound casual but failing.
He grins, leaning closer, letting his hand hover near yours, just close enough to make your skin tingle. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, and you can feel it—not just the thrill of his proximity, but the slow, simmering heat that builds whenever his hands are near yours.
As the crew calls everyone back to set, he grabs your hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. The touch is fleeting, but it lingers in your mind like fire. All day, you catch yourself sneaking glances, imagining those strong, familiar hands tracing over you when no one is looking.
By the end of the shoot, your thoughts are entirely consumed by him. His hands. How they move, how they feel, and the way he seems to know exactly how much to tease without crossing the line—except in your imagination, where the line doesn’t exist.
You catch him watching you as you walk back to the trailer. His eyes glint with mischief, and you know he’s already aware of the effect he has on you. A small, private thrill rushes through you at the thought. One day soon, you’re pretty sure he’ll do more than just tease. And just the idea makes your pulse race as you picture what might happen when those hands finally get your full attention.
The next morning you’re back on set, and it’s the same chaos you’ve come to expect—props scattered, cameras being adjusted, everyone buzzing with energy. Johnny’s already in the middle of it all, cracking jokes, hyping everyone up, that familiar reckless smile plastered across his face.
You try to focus on the stunt board in your hands, but your eyes betray you the second you see him pulling on his gloves. The leather creaks under the strength of his grip, and the veins along his forearms stand out as he flexes his hands, stretching them before another wild idea takes shape.
You swallow hard.
Johnny catches you. Of course he does. His dark sunglasses slide down just enough for you to see the smirk tugging at his lips.
“You’re not even pretending to hide it anymore,” he calls out, loud enough for a couple of crew members to glance over in confusion.
Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Shut up,” you mutter, burying your face in the clipboard.
He laughs, the kind of laugh that makes everyone else around him grin, but his attention doesn’t leave you. As the crew disperses to set up the next shot, Johnny wanders over, leaning his weight on the crate beside you.
“You know, most girlfriends stare at their boyfriend’s ass or chest,” he teases. He holds his hands out deliberately, wiggling his fingers in front of your face. “But not you. You’ve got a thing for these beat-up paws, huh?”
You roll your eyes, trying to play it off, but your pulse betrays you. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re busted.” His voice drops lower, just for you, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “I swear, every time I catch you looking, it makes me wanna—” He cuts himself off, grin widening. “Well. Maybe I shouldn’t finish that sentence out here.”
Your stomach knots at the way he says it, casual but heavy with suggestion.
The day moves on, but Johnny doesn’t let it drop. Every chance he gets, he teases you with those hands. Passing you a bottle of water, he lets his fingers graze over yours a beat too long. During a break, he stretches, making a show of cracking his knuckles. When you hand him a helmet, he deliberately brushes his thumb across your palm as he takes it.
By the time the last stunt wraps, you’re wound tight with tension.
Later, when the crew clears out for the evening, you find yourself lingering in the quiet. Johnny is leaning against the hood of a beat-up production van, his hands shoved in his pockets, hair messy, sunglasses gone now that the sun’s dipped lower. He looks relaxed, but you know better—he’s waiting.
“You gonna come over here, or you gonna keep pretending you don’t want to?” he asks, voice soft but sharp enough to cut through the silence.
Your feet move before your brain catches up. He smirks as you step closer, until you’re standing between his knees. His hands slip free from his pockets, and your breath catches automatically.
“God, you’re predictable,” he says, watching the way your gaze drops instantly. He tilts your chin up with his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Say it.”
Your voice shakes. “I like your hands.”
His grin is wicked. “I know you do.” He trails the back of his knuckles slowly down your cheek, and the simple touch is enough to make your knees wobble. “You’ve been staring at them like they’re the only thing holding you together.”
You bite your lip, your breath quickening as his fingers trace your jaw, feather-light, before brushing down the side of your neck.
“Maybe I should put them to better use,” Johnny murmurs.
The words hang between you, thick with promise. His hand slips behind your neck, tugging you closer until your foreheads touch. You can feel the warmth of his breath, the slow drag of his thumb across your pulse point, the tension strung so tight it feels like a wire about to snap.
And just before he kisses you, he pulls back with that infuriating grin. “But not out here. Gotta give the crew something to wonder about.”
He lets go, slipping his hand back into his pocket as he walks off toward the trailer, leaving you breathless, buzzing, and already imagining what’s going to happen when he finally stops teasing and gives you exactly what you’ve been craving.
By the time you make it back to the trailer, your chest is tight with anticipation. Johnny has that effect on you—leaving you wound up, flustered, desperate, but still laughing through it all. It’s infuriating, and addictive.
The trailer door creaks open, and you step inside, the faint scent of cigarettes and leather lingering in the air. Johnny’s already there, sprawled across the couch like he owns the world. He glances up from whatever he’s fiddling with, that slow grin spreading across his face when he sees you.
“Knew you’d follow me,” he drawls. His voice is lazy, cocky, but the spark in his eyes says he’s been waiting.
You shut the door behind you, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You didn’t exactly give me a choice.”
Johnny pats the spot beside him. “Come here, darlin’.”
You move toward him, but before you can sit, his hand shoots out and catches your wrist. The grip is firm but not painful, and the simple feel of his fingers curling around you makes your breath stutter. He watches your reaction with that same mischievous glint.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, tugging you closer until you’re standing between his knees. His thumb brushes lazily against the inside of your wrist, dragging across your skin like he’s testing how far he can push. “You’re shaking already. Just from this?”
You swallow hard. “Maybe.”
“Maybe, my ass.” He chuckles, low and warm. “You’ve been eye-fucking my hands for weeks, and now you can’t even stand still when I touch you. You’re so easy, baby.”
Your cheeks burn, but the heat in your stomach only coils tighter.
Johnny leans back, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his lap. His hands settle on your hips, heavy and commanding. You bite your lip as his fingers dig in, dragging you closer against him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost in awe. “All this over a pair of busted knuckles and calluses.” He lifts one hand, holding it up between you like evidence. The skin is rough, a faint scar cutting across his index knuckle, veins rising as he flexes. “This what you’ve been drooling over?”
Your eyes lock on it before you can stop yourself, and he laughs, shaking his head. “Jesus. You’re hopeless.”
But instead of teasing more, he presses that same hand to your cheek. The contrast of rough skin against soft makes your whole body tremble. His thumb drags across your bottom lip, tugging it down just slightly.
“Open.”
The command is soft, but you obey instantly. His thumb slips past your lips, pressing down on your tongue, and your eyes flutter shut as the taste of salt and skin fills your mouth. You suck gently without even thinking, and the groan that rumbles from Johnny’s chest makes your thighs clench around him.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s what you want, huh? You wanna suck on my fingers like a good little slut?”
You nod, cheeks heating, your lips wrapped tighter around his thumb. His grin is wicked, approving. He slides another finger into your mouth, stretching your lips around them both, and you moan at the sensation.
“That’s it,” he says, voice roughening. “Look at you. So fucking needy for my hands.”
His other hand slides down your spine, pressing you firmly against his lap. You can feel him hard beneath you, the heat radiating through his jeans. Every shift of his fingers in your mouth, every subtle scrape of calloused skin against your tongue, only makes the ache between your legs sharper.
When he finally pulls his fingers free, a strand of saliva connects them to your lips. He smears it across your cheek with a grin. “Messy girl.”
You can barely catch your breath before his hand closes around your throat. Not tight—just enough to hold, to remind you who’s in control. His thumb rests against your pulse, and you swear he can feel how fast it’s racing.
“You think I didn’t notice?” he whispers, leaning in close. “Every time I touched you, every time I passed you something on set. You were practically shaking with it. I’ve been dying to see you like this.”
His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond. The kiss is rough, hungry, all teeth and tongue, his hands framing your face, holding you still like you’re something precious and breakable. Your fingers claw at his shirt, desperate to anchor yourself.
Then those hands are everywhere—on your jaw, sliding down your throat, gripping your waist, sneaking under your shirt. Each touch is deliberate, worshipful in its own filthy way, and you can’t decide if you want to melt or explode.
“Take this off,” he growls, tugging at your shirt. You yank it over your head, and his palms are instantly on your bare skin, dragging over your ribs, cupping your breasts through your bra. His thumbs flick against your nipples, and you gasp into his mouth.
“God, I love how responsive you are,” he mutters. “I barely touch you, and you’re already soaked, aren’t you?”
You nod breathlessly, grinding down against him.
“Prove it.”
Before you can ask how, his hand is between your thighs, palming you through your jeans. The pressure makes you whimper, and Johnny smirks. “Thought so.”
His fingers make quick work of your button and zipper, sliding into your waistband. You arch into his touch, desperate, as he drags his rough fingertips over your panties. The friction is unbearable, perfect.
“Johnny—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Let me take care of you.”
His hand slips inside, finally pressing against your wet heat. You moan, clinging to his shoulders as he teases you, circling your clit with maddening precision. His fingers are so much bigger than yours, thicker, stronger, and every stroke feels like it’s pulling you apart piece by piece.
“You feel that?” he whispers against your ear. “That’s what you’ve been waiting for. My hands all over you, exactly where you need them.”
When he slides two fingers inside, the stretch makes you cry out. He groans at the sound, pumping them steadily, curling just right to make your whole body tremble. His palm grinds against your clit with every thrust, and you can’t hold back the shameless moans spilling from your lips.
“Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “You’re gripping me so tight. Bet I could make you come just like this, huh? Just from my fingers.”
You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes—please, Johnny—don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. His pace quickens, the wet sounds filling the trailer as he fucks you with his hand. He keeps his eyes locked on your face, watching every reaction like it’s the best show he’s ever seen.
“That’s it, darlin’. Take it. Take my fingers like the desperate little slut you are.”
The filthy words make your walls clamp down harder, and you’re spiraling, your body strung so tight it’s about to snap. His thumb circles your clit with ruthless precision, and you break—crying out his name as you come, shaking around his fingers.
Johnny growls, dragging it out, fucking you through it until you collapse against his chest, panting and trembling.
He pulls his hand free slowly, deliberately, and holds it up between you. His fingers glisten with your release, and his grin is feral.
“Look at that,” he says. “All from these hands you’re so obsessed with.”
Before you can recover, he pushes those same slick fingers into your mouth. Your eyes roll back as you taste yourself, sucking greedily. Johnny watches, groaning low in his throat.
“Fuck, baby. You’re gonna be the death of me.”
When he finally pulls his hand away, he cups your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. His kiss is softer this time, almost reverent, but his words are anything but.
“You’re mine,” he whispers. “These hands? They’ll ruin you if you let me.”
And the worst part—the best part—is that you want nothing more than to let him.
You had known Ryan for a while, but not in the clean and neat way people usually mean when they say they know someone. He was your friend, sure, but also the constant background hum of reckless laughter in your life, the voice that could cut boredom in half with some ridiculous idea, the presence you felt across a room without even looking. He was the guy everyone trusted to make chaos feel like home, and somehow, over time, he had become the one person you couldn’t stop watching when you thought nobody noticed.
The two of you had this thing, an unspoken tension, not loud and showy like his stunts but simmering, coiled. It lived in the glances that lingered too long, the brush of an arm when you squeezed past him in the kitchen, the half-smiles that said more than either of you dared to. He had girlfriends sometimes, you dated other people, but somehow it always circled back. And every time you told yourself you’d gotten over it, there he was again, making you laugh until your ribs hurt, standing too close, that stupidly kind grin making your knees weak.
You hadn’t told anyone you were still a virgin. It wasn’t some grand secret, just a detail you didn’t feel like advertising. Life had been loud in other ways, and the right moment had never come. But Ryan? He made you want to stop waiting.
It started one night at Bam’s place. Too much beer, too many shots, the air thick with smoke and laughter, everyone crashing across couches and floors. You ended up in the spare room because you couldn’t handle the noise anymore. You’d just tugged your shoes off and were lying in the dark when the door cracked open, and Ryan slipped in, closing it behind him.
“Too loud out there?” he asked, his voice low, softened by the booze but still sharp enough to slice right through you.
You nodded, pulling the blanket up a little even though it wasn’t cold. “Figured I’d hide out.”
He chuckled, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “You’re not the only one. My head’s ringing from their bullshit.” His knee brushed against your hip when he leaned back on his hands. Neither of you moved away.
It was one of those moments where silence was heavy, not awkward but charged, full of everything you hadn’t said in years. His eyes caught yours, and you swore your breath stalled. He didn’t have the smirk then, not the cocky Jackass grin everyone else knew. Just something quieter, almost uncertain. And maybe that was why you didn’t look away this time.
“You ever feel like…” he started, then laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Nah, forget it.”
“Like what?” you asked, your voice softer than you meant, but it held him there, suspended.
“Like we’ve been circling around something forever, and it’s dumb not to just…” He trailed off again, but this time he didn’t back down. His hand lifted, fingers brushing your cheek, and you felt it everywhere, hot and electric.
You whispered, “Yeah. I do.”
That was all it took. His mouth found yours, not crashing but pressing slowly, searching, testing. The taste of beer, warmth, and him made your whole body light up. His hand slid into your hair, the other steady on your hip, and you found yourself kissing back harder, clumsy at first but desperate, years of what-ifs pouring out at once.
You’d imagined kissing Ryan more times than you’d like to admit, but nothing prepared you for the way it actually felt—like everything else was noise, and this was the first real thing that had happened all night. His tongue slid against yours, and you let out a tiny sound, a breathy moan you hadn’t meant to. He groaned back, low and rough, and suddenly he was pushing you gently down against the mattress, his body over yours.
The weight of him made you dizzy, safe, and dangerous at once. His hands roamed, not greedy but careful, slipping under your shirt to trace the curve of your waist. Every touch burned. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer, kissing harder until your lips ached.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, “I’ve wanted this so long.”
Your heart stuttered. You wanted to tell him—wanted him to know everything—but the words stuck. Instead, you arched up against him, and the hard press of his body left no doubt he wanted it too. His hand slid higher, brushing over your bra, and you gasped, breaking the kiss. His eyes searched yours, checking, asking without words.
“Ryan…” You swallowed, forcing yourself to say it. You had to. “I haven’t… I mean, I’m still…”
His expression shifted, not shock exactly, but something gentler. He cupped your face, thumb stroking your skin. “You’re a virgin?” he asked quietly, as if the word itself might scare you off.
You nodded, pulse racing. “Yeah.”
For a second, he just looked at you, then leaned in and kissed you again, softer this time, lingering. “That doesn’t change a thing. Only if you want this, though. I’m not gonna push.”
You wanted to cry at how much you wanted him right then, how much you wanted this to be him. “I want it,” you said, voice steady now. “I want you.”
He groaned, forehead resting against yours. “Jesus, you’re gonna kill me.”
His hands moved with more purpose after that, slow and sure as he helped you out of your shirt, unhooked your bra, kissing every inch of exposed skin. Your nerves sparked between nervousness and aching need, but he never rushed, always watching your face, letting you guide. When his mouth closed around your nipple, you gasped, arching up, a sharp “ahh” spilling out before you could stop it. He chuckled against your skin, the vibration making you shiver.
“Sound so fucking hot,” he murmured, sliding down to kiss along your stomach, fingers hooking into your waistband. “Just like I imagined,” he hummed, looking up at you shortly with a wink in his eye. He tugged your jeans down inch by inch, kissing your hipbones, your thighs, until you were trembling under him in nothing but your panties. His breath was hot against the thin fabric, and when he pressed his lips there, you let out a choked moan, clutching at the sheets.
“Ryan—please.”
He grinned up at you, eyes dark. “Yeah, baby? You want me to touch you here?”
You nodded frantically, words tangled in your throat. His fingers slipped under the edge of your panties, stroking you lightly, and your whole body jolted at the shock of pleasure. No one had ever touched you like this, like they were savoring every reaction. He teased, circling, dipping just enough to make you whine, then pulling back. You writhed, gasping, “Fuck, Ryan, please don’t tease…”
That got him. He growled low and slid your panties down, tossing them aside before spreading you open with his hands. His gaze lingered, hungry but reverent. “Goddamn, you’re beautiful.”
And then his mouth was on you.
The first lick was slow, deliberate, and your back arched off the bed with a strangled cry. “Ahhh—oh my god—” You had no idea it could feel like this, wet heat and flicks of his tongue making your head spin. He groaned against you, eating you out like he’d been waiting years for it, and maybe he had. His stubble scratched just enough to make it real, grounding, while his tongue dragged you closer and closer to some edge you’d never touched before.
You clutched his hair, thighs trembling around his shoulders. “Ryan, I—I’m—” The words broke into moans as the pressure coiled tighter and tighter, until it snapped and you came, crying out his name, body shaking against his mouth. He didn’t stop, licking you through it, savoring every twitch until you collapsed back on the bed, gasping.
When he finally looked up, his lips glistened, his grin lazy and full of pride. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then kissed your inner thigh. “Tasted even better than I dreamed.”
Your chest heaved as you stared at him, overwhelmed, half laughing from the rush. “You’ve dreamed about this?”
“More times than I can count.” He crawled up your body, kissing you deeply so you tasted yourself on his tongue. His cock pressed hard against your thigh, and for the first time, the thought hit: he was really going to be your first.
You weren’t scared. Not with him.
He hovered above you, his weight steady on his forearm, his other hand stroking your hair as if he was trying to calm both of you down. The rush of everything—the party outside, the years of waiting, the orgasm he’d just given you—made the air feel heavier, thick with the possibility of what came next. You knew exactly what you wanted, but the nerves licked at your skin like static.
Ryan seemed to sense it. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, each softer than the last. “Hey,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “You sure? We don’t have to do it all tonight. I don’t want you to wake up tomorrow and wish you hadn’t.”
You almost laughed at how much the opposite was true. “Ryan, I’ve wanted this. For a long time. I want it with you.” Your voice shook, but not from doubt. From the sheer weight of it all.
He groaned softly, eyes closing for a beat, an adoring smile creeping upon his lips. “You’re killing me. But okay. We’ll go slow.” His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “Promise.”
Slow. The word anchored you, steadied the rush in your chest. You nodded, letting your hand drift down his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. You tugged lightly. “Take this off?”
He smirked, that familiar mischief breaking through the tenderness, and pulled it over his head in one quick motion. His torso was lean, a mix of muscle and the careless marks of his stunts—scrapes, faint scars. Imperfect in a way that made him impossibly real. You reached up, tracing one faint white line on his ribs with your fingertip, and he caught your wrist, kissed your palm. “Don’t go falling for my battle scars.”
“Too late,” you whispered, surprising yourself with how honest it came out.
His expression softened again, then he shifted to undo his belt, the metallic clink sharp in the quiet room. He pushed his jeans down, leaving only his boxers. The outline of his cock was obvious, straining the fabric, and for the first time, you felt the true jolt of nerves—he was going to be inside you. Really inside you. You bit your lip, eyes flicking between his face and his body. He noticed, of course.
“Hey,” he said, hand on your thigh, grounding you. “One step at a time, alright? No rush.”
You nodded, swallowing hard. “I trust you.”
Those words hit him like a punch; you saw it in his eyes. He leaned down and kissed you again, deeper this time, a kiss that said thank you without words. Then his hand slid lower, between your thighs, and you gasped when his fingers slipped through the wetness he’d left behind. “Still soaked for me,” he muttered against your mouth, “fuck, that’s so hot.”
He eased two fingers inside, slow, testing, curling just enough to make your back arch. You whimpered, the stretch more than you were used to, but good, grounding. He worked you open carefully, watching every reaction, murmuring quiet praise. “That’s it, baby… look at you, taking me so good already.”
By the time he pulled them out, you were panting, clinging to him, half desperate for what came next. He pushed his boxers down, and your eyes went wide. He was thick, longer than you’d pictured when you’d let your mind wander. Not terrifying, but definitely daunting. Your body tensed without meaning to, your thighs squeezing around his hips.
Ryan froze instantly, cock resting against your stomach, hot and heavy. “Hey, hey, don’t tense up. We’re not in a race. I don’t care if it takes an hour. I just care about you.”
That was the awkward part, the part no movie ever showed—the stutter of nerves, the clash between want and fear. You laughed a little, shaky. “I’m nervous.”
He smiled crookedly. “Yeah? You think I’m not? Been imagining this for years, and now I’m trying not to blow it in five seconds like a teenage idiot.” His honesty made you laugh harder and eased the knot in your chest.
He grabbed a condom from his wallet in his jeans pocket, tearing it open with his teeth in a way that should’ve been ridiculous but somehow wasn’t. He rolled it on, then settled back between your thighs, rubbing the tip against your soaked entrance. You flinched with a gasp, every nerve screaming. “Oh god…”
“Shh,” he soothed, stroking your hair again. “Just me. Just us.” He pressed forward a fraction, the head nudging inside. The pressure was sharp, foreign, and you sucked in a breath. He froze immediately, eyes locked on yours. “Okay?”
You nodded, though your nails dug into his shoulders. “Yeah. Just… slow.”
He kissed you again, distracting you, while he pushed a little deeper. The stretch burned, not unbearable but intense, and a whimper escaped you. He pulled back instantly, concern flickering across his face. “Too much?”
“No,” you said quickly, clutching him tighter. “Keep going. Please.”
He groaned, burying his face in your neck, moving fraction by fraction. Every inch was new, awkward, almost too much—but his kisses, his murmurs, the way he stroked your side anchored you. “So tight,” he breathed, “fuck, you’re perfect. Taking me so good.”
When he finally bottomed out, fully sheathed inside you, you let out a choked sob, half pain, half disbelief. Full. Stretched. Connected. He held still, trembling above you, sweat beading his forehead. “You okay?” His voice shook.
He kissed the corner of your eye where a tear had almost slipped. “I’ll wait as long as you need.”
The waiting was strange—him pulsing inside you, your body adjusting, the pressure slowly melting into something else. After a minute, the ache dulled, replaced by a deep fullness that made your toes curl. You shifted your hips experimentally, and the spark that shot through you made you moan out loud.
Ryan groaned, almost losing it. “Oh god, baby, don’t do that unless you’re ready, ‘cause I won’t be able to hold back.”
“I’m ready,” you whispered, surprising yourself with how certain it sounded.
He pulled out an inch, then slid back in, and the movement stole your breath. Not painless, but different now, your body recognizing him, clenching around him. “Ahhh—fuck—” you moaned, clutching him. He moved again, shallow thrusts, watching your face like his life depended on it. “That’s it,” he muttered, voice rough, “let me make it good for you.”
It was awkward at first, your bodies fumbling for rhythm, his hips stuttering as he tried to go slow. You bumped noses, laughed breathlessly, and kissed again to cover it. The awkwardness made it real, made it yours. And then something shifted—the angle, the timing—and suddenly his cock dragged against something that made your whole body jolt. You gasped, nails raking his back. “Oh fuck—right there—”
Your mouth dropped open, a whimper spilling out as he nudged it again. “F-fuck, why does that feel so—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, your whole body trembling under him.
He chuckled, low and hoarse, kissing your jaw as he kept his hips rolling steadily. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Yeah? That’s your body saying ‘holy shit, yes, more of that.’”
You moaned louder, half embarrassed at how quickly you unraveled. “Mmm—oh my god—it’s so—”
Ryan pulled back just enough to see your face, sweat dripping down his temple, grin cocky but affectionate. “Yeah, huh? You like that?” His thrust hit the spot again, harder this time, and you cried out, eyes squeezing shut.
“Uhhh—y-yeah—I love it—” you babbled, clinging to him, hips tilting helplessly to chase the friction.
“Fuck, that’s it, baby,” he groaned, adjusting his angle to grind deeper into the spot over and over. “I’ve got you. Just keep feeling it, let me work you there.”
The new rhythm had you dizzy, overwhelmed by the drag of him inside. Between gasps, you blurted, “I thought—I mean—I’ve read girls don’t usually come from this, just… penetration.” Your cheeks burned admitting it, but the words tumbled out anyway.
Ryan groaned, kissing you hard as he kept thrusting. “Yeah, it can be tricky, but don’t count yourself out. Everybody is different. Some need a little extra, some don’t. And you—fuck—you feel like you could be one of the lucky ones.”
Your voice broke into a moan as he pressed deep, hitting the spot again. “Ahhh—I want to. I want to come like this, just from you inside me.”
That confession nearly undid him. His thrusts stuttered, his forehead dropping to yours. “Jesus Christ, you’re gonna make me lose it… Even if you don’t, it still feels fucking incredible. But if you do…” He kissed your neck, groaning. “God, I wanna be the first one to give you that.”
You nodded frantically, clinging to his shoulders. “Please,—make me.”
He shifted your legs higher around his waist, angling himself deliberately, thrusting slower, deeper, grinding into that spot with precision. Each drag made you whimper, your whole body curling toward him, chasing it.
“Still good?” he murmured, stroking your cheek.
“Yes—ahhh—so good,” you gasped, hips twitching as he drove against that perfect place.
“Yeah? You sure?” he pressed, eyes searching yours even as sweat dripped down his jaw. “Because if you want more, I’ll give you more. Just say the word.”
“More—please—” you cried, the desperation shocking even you.
He growled low in his chest, giving you exactly what you begged for. His thrusts found a steady grind, the head of his cock dragging over your g-spot every time, your walls fluttering helplessly around him. The pressure built sharper, deeper than before, not like the clitoral orgasm he’d given you earlier. This one felt rooted inside, coiling low, pulling you under.
“Breathe,” Ryan whispered, brushing sweaty hair from your face. “Don’t hold it in—let it take you. You’re right there, baby, I can feel you squeezing me.”
You sobbed his name, legs trembling, body clenching around him as the wave broke. The orgasm hit hard and strange, like your whole body folding in on itself, sharp bursts of heat exploding through your core. You screamed, nails raking down his back, your cunt pulsing so tight he groaned in pure disbelief.
“Holy fuck—yes—fuck yes—you’re coming on my cock—” His thrusts sped up as he rode you through it, eyes wide as he watched your body quake. “You feel that? That’s you, baby—you just came from nothing but me inside you.”
The sensation dragged a guttural moan from his throat, and his thrusts went ragged. “Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m gonna—” He buried himself deep, groaning into your neck as he came, cock twitching inside you, warmth flooding the condom. His whole body shuddered against yours, sweat-slick skin pressed to your trembling frame.
For a long moment, all you could do was cling to each other, breathing hard, hearts racing in sync. He finally pulled out slowly, discarding the condom, then collapsed beside you, dragging you into his chest. His arm curled tight around your waist, lips pressing against your hairline.
“Holy shit,” he whispered hoarsely. “You okay?”
You laughed, exhausted, giddy. “Yeah. More than okay.”
He kissed your temple. “You were… fuck, you were amazing.
You whimpered against his shoulder, barely able to speak, the aftershocks rolling hard enough to make your thighs spasm. “I-I didn’t know—I didn’t know it could feel like that—”
He kissed your temple, still moving shallowly inside you, soothing now. “Now you know. And trust me—I’ll show you again. And again. Until it’s the only way you wanna come.”
The noise of the party outside drifted faintly through the walls, but it felt miles away. In here, it was just the two of you, tangled together, every bit of awkwardness and tenderness etched into your skin like a secret only you and Ryan shared.
The morning slips in like it knows it shouldn’t be there, soft gold light sneaking through half-closed blinds, catching the dust motes and scattering them across the messy room. The air smells faintly of stale smoke and sweat, his aftershave clinging to the sheets from last night, and the dull creak of the ceiling fan fills the silence with its lazy hum. Ryan is sprawled on his back like he always is when he passes out, one arm flung over his head, hair a wild nest against the pillow, the faint stubble of his beard shadowing his jaw. He looks unguarded like this, mouth slack, chest rising and falling slow, boxers riding low on his hips. He’s beautiful in that raw, reckless way that makes you ache for him before your brain even catches up.
You shift closer, the mattress dipping under your weight, and he stirs just enough to crack one eye open. Blue, bloodshot from the night before, but clear enough when they land on you. His lips curve slow, sleepy, amused. “Morning, babe,” he mumbles, voice rough gravel from cigarettes and whiskey. He doesn’t move more than that, just lets his gaze wander over you, the thin strap of your tank top sliding off your shoulder, the bare curve of your thigh brushing his. He exhales, deep and heavy, then lets his eyes fall shut again like he knows you’ll take what you want.
And you do.
You swing a leg over his, settling astride his thigh, the muscle beneath him warm and firm even in his half-asleep sprawl. His skin is hot under the thin cotton of his boxers, and you can already feel the faint tension there, the weight of his body not fully relaxed now that you’re pressed to him. His eyes flicker open again as your hips sink down, grinding lightly just to test, and that grin sharpens into something wicked.
“Fuck, you’re needy this morning,” he mutters, voice cracking into a laugh, and his hand comes up automatically, rough palm finding the curve of your ass and squeezing. He’s still barely awake but the reflex is pure muscle memory—Ryan touching you without thinking, Ryan guiding you into place like you’re meant to be there.
You roll your hips again, slow and teasing, the damp heat between your thighs catching against the fabric of his boxers. The friction sparks through you, sharp enough to make you gasp, and his laugh dies into a groan. “Yeah, that’s it, baby,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded now, watching the way your body moves against him. “Ride it. Show me how bad you want it.”
The words land in you like a jolt, and you obey without hesitation. You rock forward harder, the pressure of his thigh hitting right where you need it, the rough drag of fabric against your clit making your eyes flutter shut. The sheet twists under your fists as you find a rhythm, grinding down and forward, back and again, each stroke hotter, wetter, the sound of your breath growing ragged in the quiet room.
Ryan props himself up on one elbow, hair falling into his face, his eyes locked on you like he can’t believe how lucky he is to wake up like this. He bites his lip, then lets it slip free with a low “mmm, fuck,” as his other hand drifts up your thigh, fingers splayed wide, calloused pads scraping your skin. He doesn’t guide you yet—he just lets you take what you want, watching with that lazy hungry look like the sight of you using him is enough to get him hard on its own.
The pressure builds fast, too fast, the combination of morning sensitivity and the raw grind of cotton against your soaked core making your body tremble. You chase it anyway, riding him harder, letting the steady firmness of his thigh give you everything. Each drag is sharper, wetter, a messy rhythm of slick fabric and desperate gasps. Your head tips back, hair falling across your face, and Ryan’s hand slips up to grab a fistful, tugging gently so your throat arches.
“Look at you,” he groans, voice hoarse, breath fanning hot against your neck as he pulls you down closer. His beard scratches your skin as he mouths at your collarbone, teeth scraping lightly before he sucks at the spot, leaving you marked. “Grinding on me like you can’t wait… gonna come just from my fuckin’ thigh, huh?”
The filthy tease makes your hips snap harder, the words sinking into you like gasoline on flame. Your clit throbs against the steady pressure, every nerve raw, every stroke sending sparks through your belly. Your moans spill out unchecked now, loud and broken, wet little whimpers that only make him groan louder.
“Jesus, babe, keep making those sounds—fuck, you’re soaking me.” His fingers dig into your ass, finally taking control, dragging you harder against him, forcing your cunt to grind against the exact spot that makes you see stars behind your eyelids. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”
You couldn’t if you tried. Your body is shaking now, thighs quivering as you ride his leg like it’s the only thing that matters, slick spreading across the thin cotton of his boxers, every motion sloppy and desperate. Ryan’s voice is in your ear, low and rough, telling you how hot you look, how good you feel, how he wants to watch you fall apart just like this. His words tumble over each other, groans and curses tangled with praise, until you’re not sure what’s real and what’s just the sound of your own heartbeat hammering in your skull.
The orgasm rips through you sudden and sharp, stealing your breath, your body jerking against him as the pressure finally shatters. You cry out, long and raw, grinding down hard as you ride the wave, stars exploding behind your eyes. Your cunt pulses even with nothing inside you, soaking his thigh, your entire body trembling with the force of it. Ryan holds you tight, hand tangled in your hair, other hand gripping your ass, groaning like he’s the one coming just from feeling you fall apart on him.
“Fuck, baby, that’s it—that’s it, ride it out, let me feel it,” he growls, pulling you down harder against him until you’re gasping, moaning into his chest, your body wracked with aftershocks. He doesn’t let you go until your hips slow, until your forehead drops against his collarbone and your breath stutters against his skin.
“Holy fuck,” you simply mutter, having nothing else to say, too overwhelmed and sensitive. Your breath still comes in shallow stutters against his chest, the last tremors flickering through your body, muscles weak and satisfied in that boneless way that makes you want to sink back into sleep. But Ryan doesn’t give you the chance. His hand slides down between your bodies, rough fingers tugging at the damp waistband of his boxers, shifting you slightly so you can feel the blunt heat of him pressing against your stomach. He groans, low and urgent, the sound vibrating against your cheek where it rests against his collarbone.
“Feel that?” he mutters, voice thick with need, breath warm against your hair. “Been watching you ride me like a fuckin’ goddess—now you’ve got me so hard I could break.”
You lift your head, still dazed, eyes heavy but drawn to the sight as he shoves his boxers down with one hand, freeing his cock. It springs up hard against his stomach, flushed red at the tip, slick already beading. The contrast between your soft, quivering body and the sheer demand of him makes your pulse spike again.
His eyes catch yours, half-hooded but burning. “C’mon, baby. Don’t just look at it. You’re not done yet.”
Before you can answer, he’s shifting his grip, sliding his hands under your thighs and guiding you forward, angling your hips until the head of his cock nudges against your soaked entrance. The wetness from grinding on his thigh makes it effortless, the slide sticky and hot. You moan, high and sharp, your body clenching automatically as the blunt pressure threatens to split you open.
Ryan’s laugh rumbles in his chest, dirty and tender all at once. “Yeah, that’s it. Gonna slide right in. Gonna make you feel me everywhere.”
You sink down slowly, the stretch immediate, raw, your walls parting inch by inch around him. The sensation is almost too much after the orgasm you just had, every nerve still hypersensitive, the burn mixing with overwhelming pleasure until you’re whimpering, clutching at his shoulders for balance.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, head tipping back against the pillow, veins standing out in his neck. His hands grip your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise, dragging you lower until he’s fully seated inside you, the thick weight of him filling every space. “Tightest fuckin’ thing in the world, baby… holy shit.”
You can’t speak—your mouth hangs open, sound spilling out in helpless moans as you try to adjust, your body stretching around him. The sun has shifted higher now, beams of gold cutting across the sheets, lighting up the sweat on both your skin, making the moment feel too bright, too alive, like the whole world has collapsed into this one bed.
When you finally start to move, lifting and dropping slowly on his cock, the sensation borders on unbearable. Each glide drags against your swollen clit, the aftershocks sparking again, your pussy gripping him like it can’t let go. Ryan’s eyes roll back, then snap open again to watch every single inch disappear into you, his chest heaving, his jaw tight.
“Yeah, baby, ride me. Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this,” he groans, voice rough, his words spilling unchecked. “Bouncing on my cock first thing in the morning—goddamn, I’m the luckiest man alive.”
Your rhythm builds, hips finding that messy pace between desperation and control. The wet slap of your bodies fills the room now, obscene and perfect, mixing with your moans and his grunts. You lean forward, pressing your hands to his chest for leverage, riding him harder, the head of his cock dragging against every sweet spot inside you until your vision blurs.
He sits up suddenly, arm snaking around your back, mouth crashing into yours. The kiss is wet, teeth clashing, all tongue and groaned curses into your mouth as he thrusts up to meet your movements. The added force makes you cry out, breaking the kiss with a strangled gasp as he slams deeper, hitting a place so good you nearly collapse against him.
“Yeah, you feel that?” he growls into your ear, breath hot and filthy. “Taking me so deep you’re seeing stars, huh? Bet you’re gonna come again. Bet you can’t hold it.”
You shake your head, but it’s useless. He’s right. The pressure coils sharp and fast again, your body dragging you toward it whether you want it or not. His hand slips down between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing rough circles that make your hips jerk and your cry split the air.
The orgasm crashes harder this time, tearing through you with white-hot intensity. Your whole body locks, then convulses around him, cunt pulsing tight as you scream his name, nails digging into his shoulders. He curses, eyes squeezed shut, fucking up into you through it, gritting his teeth as your walls milk his cock.
“Fuckfuckfuck, baby, squeeze me just like that,” he pants, his own control breaking as he drives harder, faster, chasing his release. The bed creaks under you both, the sunlight a blur through your tears, everything collapsing into sensation.
With a guttural moan he slams in deep and holds, cock twitching inside you as he spills hot, thick, filling you completely. He buries his face in your neck, groaning your name into your skin as his body shudders against yours. His grip on your hips tightens almost painfully, grounding himself in you as he empties, his cock jerking with every pulse of his orgasm.
The world goes silent in the aftermath except for your shared ragged breathing. You slump against him, bodies slick with sweat, cum already dripping down your thighs, the sheets ruined beneath you. The fan still hums lazily above, the morning light now flooding the room in relentless brightness, but none of it matters.
Ryan tilts his head back, sucking in air, then presses a kiss to your temple, sloppy and lingering. “Holy shit, babe,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but full of awe. “If every morning was like this, I’d never get out of bed again.”
You laugh weakly, chest still heaving, but he doesn’t let you go. His arms stay locked around you, holding you in place as if you belong fused together, and in that moment, with the sunlight painting you both gold, you believe you do.
Girl, I saw your post on Ryan Dunn requests, and I am here to deliver (I’m hyperfixating too lol)
So reader works on the set of Jackass (either as a medic or another position, your choice) and they and Dunn are pining for each other (like idiots in love not realizing the other has feelings) and he gets hurt on set and that results in one of them confessing their feelings
The desert heat shimmered off the asphalt as you dragged your medic bag from the van. The air already carried the faint smell of gasoline and sweat, and you braced yourself for another day of watching grown men try to outdo each other in stupidity.
“Morning, Doc,” Bam called from across the lot. He was perched on the hood of a rental, sipping a Red Bull like he owned the place.
“For the last time, I’m not a doctor,” you said, letting the bag thump against the pavement. “But if you’d like me to practice surgery on you, keep calling me that.”
He just grinned and lifted his can in salute. You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. This was the way it always went—you’d been with them since the first movie, long enough that they treated you like a sibling. A sibling whose job was patching them back together every time they tested the limits of Darwin’s patience.
And then there was Ryan Dunn.
“Guess I’m up first,” he announced as he wandered into view, adjusting the helmet in his hands. His beard was a little thicker than usual, his shirt stained with dust and motor oil, but your eyes snagged on him the way they always did. You told yourself it was because you needed to evaluate his physical state. That was your job. That was the excuse you clung to.
“You’ve seen the ramp, right?” you asked, nodding at the monstrosity of plywood and duct tape waiting for him.
“Wouldn’t be fun if it wasn’t suicidal,” he said with that stupid, crooked grin.
You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “Helmet stays on. Pads stay on. If you break anything, don’t expect sympathy.”
He leaned just close enough that his voice dipped low for only you to hear. “What about a kiss on the forehead if I survive?”
Your brain stalled. He laughed it off before you could come up with a comeback, strolling toward the crew like he hadn’t just short-circuited your heart. Idiot. Both of you.
⸻
The ramp creaked as they rolled the rocket cart into place. Cameras whirred to life, and Johnny did his usual intro, hyping up what you were already certain was going to end badly.
“Ready, Dunn?” Johnny yelled.
“Born ready,” Ryan shouted back, climbing in.
You stayed just out of frame, arms crossed over your chest. It was the same dance every time: adrenaline, laughter, and then the inevitable crash. You were the one who had to face the aftermath while they moved on to the next bit.
The cart shot forward, wheels clattering against the ramp. For a second, you thought maybe—maybe—he’d make it. Then the front wheel snagged on a loose board. The cart tipped, and gravity took its cruel prize.
Ryan flew sideways, slamming into the dirt with a thud that silenced everyone.
“Cut! Cut!” Johnny yelled.
You were already moving, bag slung over your shoulder, heart hammering.
When you dropped to your knees beside him, he was curled halfway onto his side, one hand gripping his ribs, the other his thigh. His face was pale under the beard, mouth twisted in pain.
“Ryan, stay still,” you ordered.
He tried for a grin, but it came out ragged. “Guess the cart won.
“Don’t talk,” you snapped, though your hands were careful as you checked his leg. Scraped raw, bleeding but not broken. His ribs, though—you pressed gently, and his sharp hiss cut through you. He clamped his hand over your wrist, eyes squeezed shut.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“Yeah, that’s the clinical term,” you said, forcing your voice steady. Inside, your chest was a storm.
The guys hovered in a loose circle, the rare silence unnerving. “He good?” Bam asked, frowning.
“He’ll live,” you said tightly. “But he’s done for the day.”
No one argued. That alone told you how bad it was.
⸻
You didn’t leave his side until he was in the van, out of sight of the cameras. He sagged against the seat, sweat glistening at his hairline.
“Could’ve been worse,” he rasped.
“You’re lucky you didn’t puncture a lung,” you shot back, pulling painkillers from your bag. “Do you even think before you do this crap?”
His eyes flicked to you, and for once, the usual spark in them softened.
“You were scared,” he said quietly.
The accusation landed like a stone in your gut. You looked away, fumbling with the pill bottle. “You scared me because you’re reckless.”
“Because you care,” he murmured.
You froze. He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, like he’d just stated the weather.
“You need to take these,” you said instead, pressing the pills into his hand.
He didn’t take them right away. His fingers brushed yours, lingering.
“You know,” he said, voice rough with pain, “I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you something. Thought maybe if I broke enough bones you’d finally admit it.”
Your chest tightened. “Admit what?”
“That you’re just as gone for me as I am for you.”
⸻
Later, you couldn’t remember who moved first. One second you were staring at him, pulse roaring in your ears, the next your forehead was pressed to his.
“God, you’re an idiot,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he breathed back. “But I’m your idiot, right?”
You kissed him before you could think better of it. Careful, tentative, nothing like the chaos you were surrounded by every day—but it was everything. His hand trembled as it cupped your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek.
When you pulled back, he was smiling, tired but genuine.
“Guess the crash was worth it.”
“Don’t make a habit of it,” you warned, though your chest ached with something that felt dangerously close to joy.
⸻
The aftermath was impossible to hide. Bam barged into the van five minutes later, saw the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder, and smirked like the devil himself.
“Ohhh,” he drawled, dragging it out until Johnny and Steve-O poked their heads in. “No wonder she’s been so mad at you all these years, Dunn. Sexual tension.”
“Shut the hell up,” you snapped, but your cheeks betrayed you. Ryan just leaned back against the seat, smug despite his bruises.
“About damn time,” Johnny said, shaking his head with a grin. “We thought we were gonna have to stage an intervention.”
The teasing didn’t stop for weeks. But beneath the laughter and the chaos, something had shifted. Dunn was still reckless, still an idiot, but now his eyes lingered on you a little longer, his touches stayed a little closer.
And you didn’t flinch away anymore.
For years, you’d both been circling each other, too stubborn to admit what everyone else already saw. It had taken a crash, a set of bruised ribs, and a moment where you thought you might lose him to finally break the dam.
The world around you was still madness, still noise and danger and idiocy. But in the quiet moments—between takes, in the van, under the desert sun—you had each other.
Ryan Dunn fanfic request: if you can write where the female reader is apart of the jackass cast and she decides she wants to play a little prank on her boyfriend Ryan Dunn and it involves some viagra and she thinks Ryan going it’s funny but he ends up taking his sexual frustration out on her but she dosent mind 😛 smut yes
Warnings: NSFW / Explicit sexual content. Language (swearing, dirty talk) Oral sex (f receiving) Fingering. Unprotected sex.
word count: 2.998
-
“Hi, I’m Johnny Knoxville, and welcome to Jackass!”
The familiar introduction was punctuated with him taking a cream pie to the face courtesy of Bam, and the cameras swung around wildly as everyone howled with laughter. It was another long, sweaty day of filming for what would eventually become Jackass 2.5—bits strung together from the chaos you all lived in. Everyone was in high spirits, running on adrenaline, cheap beer, and the shared mission of getting the stupidest, most dangerous shots possible.
Being part of the crew meant you’d gotten used to the madness. It also meant you had your own ideas brewing, and this time you weren’t just thinking about laughs—you wanted to see how your boyfriend, Ryan, would handle being on the receiving end of something he couldn’t shrug off.
Ryan had been leaning against the hood of Knoxville’s rental, smoking a cigarette between setups, his ginger beard catching the sun. He looked good in that messy, unbothered way he always did—jeans a little dirty, white T-shirt wrinkled, hair uncombed but still soft when you tugged at it. You were already catching shit from Bam and Steve-O for being “gross” when you kissed him openly, but you didn’t care. He’d put an arm around your waist, pull you close, press his lips to your temple like it was second nature, and every time the cameras caught it you could hear the crew groaning theatrically.
“God, get a room,” Steve-O gagged after one particularly long kiss between setups.
Ryan didn’t even look up, flicking his ash in Steve-O’s direction. “You’re just jealous because nobody wants to make out with your scabby ass.”
The crew erupted, and you smirked, leaning against him. This was your rhythm: affection and sarcasm, back-to-back.
That’s what gave you the idea.
You’d managed to snag a couple of little blue pills the night before from a PA who thought it would be funny to “donate them to the cause.” Crush them up, slip them into Ryan’s water bottle—it would be a harmless prank, right? At worst, he’d have to walk around with a hard-on, everyone pointing and laughing. At best, it’d be one of those Jackass legends, replayed for years.
The cameras started rolling again a little later, and Knoxville turned to the lens with that manic grin. “So today’s bit is simple: we’re filming Ryan just… existing. Because somehow that’s hilarious enough.”
“Fuck you,” Ryan muttered from behind him, flipping him off.
“Look at him!” Bam chimed in. “He looks like a homeless wizard. That beard, man, you look like you’ve been jerking off behind a 7-Eleven.”
The insults piled on, and Ryan took them with a half-smile, tossing his cigarette away and cracking open the water bottle you’d doctored. You hid your grin, leaning against the wall as he downed half of it in one go.
The first ten minutes were uneventful. He kept shrugging off Bam’s pushes, trading jabs with Pontius, and draping an arm lazily around your shoulders between takes. But then, slowly, you noticed the shift. He shifted his weight more often, rubbed his thigh against his palm, cleared his throat like he was uncomfortable.
Steve-O noticed it first. “Yo, is Dunn pitching a tent?”
The camera swiveled toward him immediately, and Ryan groaned, hands flying down to cup himself defensively. “Oh, come the fuck on.”
The laughter was instant, explosive. Knoxville doubled over, pointing, while Wee Man cackled so hard he wheezed. Bam leaned into the shot, grinning like a hyena. “Is that a boner, dude? What the fuck? We weren’t even doing anything sexy!”
Ryan rolled his eyes, red already creeping up his neck. “Yeah, okay, because being surrounded by you guys is such a fucking turn-on.”
But the bulge pressing against his jeans was impossible to hide, and the cameraman zoomed in mercilessly. Ryan shoved the lens away, muttering curses. You bit your lip, trying not to laugh too hard—guilt mixed with amusement, because you knew exactly why it was happening.
“Maybe he saw Y/N and got all hot and bothered,” Pontius said cheerfully, always ready to stir the pot. “Look, you two are disgusting with the PDA. No wonder he’s walking around stiff.”
The crew howled, and Ryan reached for you automatically, looping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. He kissed you right there, open-mouthed, tongue and all, just to get them riled up. The catcalls were deafening.
When he pulled back, his beard tickling your cheek, he whispered so only you could hear: “If this is your fault, you’re dead.”
You blinked innocently, but the way his eyes narrowed told you he wasn’t buying it.
The cameras kept rolling as Ryan grew more and more visibly frustrated. He kept trying to sit down, cross his legs, adjust himself when he thought nobody was looking—but of course everyone was watching. Knoxville provided color commentary like it was a sports broadcast.
“And Dunn is going for the classic sit-down maneuver… oh, but wait, the boner still makes an appearance, ladies and gentlemen!”
Ryan groaned, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with laughter he couldn’t quite hold back. “You guys are assholes.”
Preston patted him on the back with mock sympathy. “Hey, man, happens to the best of us. Usually not on camera, but hey…”
It was relentless. Every time Ryan shifted, someone cracked a joke, and you felt the tension rising in him, the line between embarrassment and irritation blurring. He wasn’t mean about it—Ryan never really was—but his jaw tightened, his sarcasm sharper than usual.
“Glad you guys are so entertained by my dick,” he muttered after another round of heckling. “Jealous much?”
The laughter doubled, but his eyes flicked to you, pointed, questioning. You just smiled sweetly, squeezing his hand in yours.
The cameras eventually cut to focus on something else—Wee Man setting up a skateboard stunt—but Ryan stayed close to you, leaning down to murmur under the noise, “We’re talking about this later.”
His tone wasn’t threatening. If anything, it was weary, frustrated, but laced with that spark you recognized—the same one that came out when you kissed him too long in front of the crew, when you whispered something dirty in his ear before a shoot.
You rested your head against his shoulder anyway, whispering back, “I’ll make it up to you.”
The way his arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, told you he wasn’t as mad as he wanted to pretend. Still, the hard line of him pressing into your hip reminded you that the prank wasn’t over yet.
And the cameras had captured every second of it.
-
The night had cooled, but Ryan was still burning up, every nerve lit like a fuse. The crew was too wrapped up in their own chaos—Steve-O hollering as he lit something on fire, Knoxville narrating it like a sports broadcast—for anyone to notice when Ryan grabbed your hand and tugged you fast toward the row of cars. His grip was tight, the kind of silent “enough is enough” message you’d felt before, and he didn’t stop until he’d unlocked his beat-up black car and shoved the passenger door open.
“Get in,” he said low, rough, eyes shadowed under the lot’s buzzing streetlight. You could see the twitch of his jaw, the taut way he carried himself, like if he didn’t get a release soon he’d lose his shit.
You climbed in quick, heart thudding with anticipation, and he was already circling to the driver’s side, slamming the door behind him. The second it shut, his mouth was on yours, beard scratching, tongue demanding. “Fuck, I can’t believe you did this,” he muttered against your lips between kisses. “Whole day walking around like this, everyone laughing their asses off—” His hand slid between your thighs, cupping you, rubbing through your jeans. “You think that’s funny?”
“Kind of,” you teased, voice breaking into a whimper when his fingers pressed harder.
He groaned, half laugh, half growl, yanking your seat lever so it collapsed flat with a metallic clunk. “You’re sick.” He crawled over the console, straddling you, the bulge in his jeans pressing hard against your stomach as he kissed you sloppy, biting your lower lip. His hands roamed everywhere—up your shirt, squeezing your tits, then back down to claw your jeans open.
“Ryan—fuck—” you gasped as he shoved a hand inside, fingers sliding under your panties, finding you wet.
He grinned, cocky even in his frustration. “Yeah, I thought so.” He teased your clit in fast, rough circles, making you jolt, breath catching. “Been thinking about this all day, huh? Watching me suffer?”
You barely managed a whimpering “mmhhnn, y-yeah,” before he shoved two fingers inside you, curling them deep. Your back arched against the seat, a loud “ahhh—fuck, Ryan!” spilling out, the car rocking slightly with your movements.
“Shhhh,” he smirked, kissing your throat, biting lightly. “You wanna give us away?”
Your nails dug into his shoulders as his fingers pumped, wet sounds filling the cramped car. His other hand tugged your jeans down around your knees, shoving your panties aside, clearly seconds from unzipping himself and ramming into you—
knock-knock-knock.
“Heyyyy lovers!”
Bam’s voice, laughing, unmistakable. The sound of the camera clicking on, lens pointed straight through the foggy window.
Ryan froze, eyes snapping wide, then narrowing. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Got a stiffy to match the stiff suspension?” Bam cackled. The red tally light of the camcorder glowed through the glass. “C’mon, Dunn, let us get the money shot!”
Ryan groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I’m gonna kill him.” His hand left you reluctantly, tugging your jeans back up enough to cover, then shoving his own bulge down, zipper barely containing it. He sat up, middle finger raised high toward the window. “Fuck off, Bam!”
Bam laughed harder. “Jackass 2.5, baby!”
The camera zoomed in, but Ryan didn’t wait another second—he jammed the key in, started the car, and peeled out of the lot, tires squealing. Bam’s laugh faded behind you as Ryan muttered, “Unbelievable. Every goddamn time.”
You were laughing breathlessly, still tingling between your thighs, your jeans damp. “It was kind of funny—”
Ryan cut you a look, beard hiding the twitch of his mouth. “Yeah, hilarious. Glad my dick’s the fucking punchline.” He sped down the road, one hand on the wheel, the other still twitching against his thigh like it couldn’t stay still. His cock pressed obviously against his jeans, painful, demanding.
After a couple miles he yanked the wheel to the side, pulling into a dark patch of shoulder near the trees. Engine idling, he turned to you, eyes blazing. “Get in the back.”
Your pulse jumped. You scrambled over the console, Ryan right behind you, shoving the seats forward to make space. The car smelled faintly of smoke and old leather, but now it was filled with his heat as he pushed you onto your stomach across the seat.
“You had me walking around with this all day,” he said, undoing your jeans fast, dragging them and your panties down to your knees. “Whole crew laughing their asses off—meanwhile I’m about to explode.”
Before you could answer he pushed your thighs apart, buried his face between them. His beard scratched your skin as his tongue licked a hot stripe up your pussy, making you cry out, hands flying to the seatbelt strap for something to grip. “Ahhhhnn—oh my god, Ryan!”
He groaned against you, tongue flicking your clit, lips sucking, his hands gripping your ass to hold you open. Sloppy, messy slurping filled the car, your moans echoing off the windows. “Mmmhh—fuck, you taste so good—” he muttered, voice muffled against you, before diving back in, tongue fucking you deep.
Your thighs trembled, ass grinding back against his face, and you cried out, “Ohhh—fuck yes, yes, just like that—”
He growled, satisfied, tongue working faster until you were shaking apart, a sharp scream tearing from your throat as you came against his mouth.
He pulled back with a wet sound, beard glistening, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Still funny?” he asked, voice hoarse.
You barely had time to gasp before he unzipped, shoved his cock out—thick, red, leaking—and pushed you forward, pressing your chest to the seat. He lined up and slid in hard, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan.
“Fuckkk, finally.”
You screamed, body jerking forward as he slammed into you, hands gripping your hips like handles. The car shook with every thrust, windows fogging up quick. His cock pounded into you rough, fast, no tenderness—just raw need, the frustration of the day boiling out with every slap of skin.
“Ahhhhnn—fuck, Ryan, so deep—so fucking deep—” you moaned, clawing at the seat beneath you.
“Yeah, take it,” he grunted, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, making your whole body jolt. “Been hard since noon because of your stupid little prank—ahhh—” His head dropped back, hair falling in his eyes as he fucked you harder, sweat dripping.
You were babbling his name, crying out each thrust, the wet slap of your pussy around him obscene in the small space. “Yes—yes, don’t stop, please don’t—”
He leaned over you, voice low, broken. “Not stopping ‘til I’m empty, swear to God.” His hips pistoned, brutal, cock dragging against every sensitive spot until you came again with a strangled cry, pussy clenching tight around him.
“Fuuuckkk—oh, yeah, squeeze me—” he groaned, hips stuttering. With a few more sharp thrusts he came hard, spilling inside you with a guttural yell, grinding deep as he emptied out, his breath shuddering hot against your back.
The car went quiet except for the tick of the cooling engine, both of you panting hard. Ryan pulled out slow, collapsing against the seat beside you, sweat-soaked, hair sticking to his forehead.
He laughed, breathless, shaking his head. “You’re an asshole.”
You turned your head, grinning despite the soreness between your thighs. “You still love me though.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, chuckling, eyes closing as he caught his breath. “But next time you drug me with Viagra, I’m telling Knoxville. He’ll make you do a stunt naked as payback.”
You laughed, crawling into his lap to kiss him again, already knowing the crew would never let either of you live this down when you got back.
-
When you and Ryan finally pulled back into the motel lot, it was past midnight. The parking area was still alive with chaos—beer cans everywhere, Steve-O half-naked and yelling at Wee Man to ride a shopping cart off the curb, Knoxville egging him on with that manic cackle. Ryan’s car engine gave one last wheeze before he killed it, and for a second it felt like maybe you could just slip out, head straight to the room, and no one would notice.
Then Bam’s voice cut through the night like a damn siren: “HEYYY, THEY’RE BACK! COME CHECK THIS OUT!”
Ryan froze with his hand on the door handle. “…Oh no.”
Your stomach dropped. The whole crew turned like vultures, eyes gleaming, grins sharp. They weren’t just gathered around a random stunt—they were crowded around Bam’s camera, hooked up to the tiny motel TV dragged outside on a cart, wires strung sloppily through an open window. And on the screen, clear as day, was Ryan’s car rocking on the side of the road. Windows fogged, faint moans audible if you leaned in close.
“Jesus Christ,” Knoxville wheezed, doubled over in laughter. “You two look like you were filming a fucking porno!”
Steve-O was shrieking, clutching his sides. “Oh my GOD, dude, you can hear it! Listen—listen—rewind it!” He jabbed at the buttons, and sure enough, your own voice filled the air: a sharp, breathless “ahhhhnn—fuck, Ryan!”
The group absolutely lost it. Preston wheezed so hard he nearly toppled over, Pontius clapped like it was the best thing he’d ever seen, and Wee Man was on the ground, rolling, tears in his eyes.
Ryan, however, was stone still beside you, red climbing his neck fast. He muttered, “Son of a bitch,” under his breath, dragged a hand down his face, and when Bam grinned at him with devilish glee, camera still in hand, Ryan flipped him the finger without a word.
“Ohhh, look at him! He’s pissed!” Bam cackled. He zoomed in close on Ryan’s face, the red glow of the record light obvious. “Tell the fans how it feels to star in Jackass: XXX Edition!”
Ryan lunged, trying to grab the camera, but Bam danced out of reach, still laughing. “Hey, relax, dude! It’s comedy gold! They’ll eat this shit up on 2.5!”
You couldn’t stop laughing yourself, cheeks hot, partly mortified but also finding the absurdity hilarious. Seeing your own fogged-up car on the motel TV, Ryan’s outline pounding away while the crew shrieked commentary—it was too perfectly stupid, too Jackass.
“Turn it off, you assholes!” Ryan barked, voice cracking between irritation and helpless laughter. He looked at you then, beard hiding the twitch of his mouth, eyes glinting like he was seconds from breaking into a grin despite himself.
Knoxville leaned in, still grinning. “C’mon, Dunn, don’t be shy. America already loves your beard—they’re gonna love your sex tape even more.
Ryan groaned, hands on his hips, flipping them all off again. “I fucking hate you guys.”
Pontius patted him on the back, cheerful as ever. “Hey, man, at least you lasted longer than Steve-O did last week with that stripper!”
The laughter roared louder, and Ryan finally cracked, shaking his head, chuckling low under his breath. He slung an arm around your shoulders and muttered just for you, “We’re never living this down.”
You tilted your head against him, still smiling, whispering back, “Worth it.”
And as Bam replayed the footage for the fifth time, cackling so hard he could barely breathe, Ryan just sighed, middle finger still raised high, and endured the circus—because that was the rhythm of life with Jackass.
So basically fem!reader x Ryan/Chris/Bam or the whole jackass crew.
The reader is steve-o's sister and a totally rocker/biker babe (dressed in leather pants, band shirts and high boots)(full of tats and piercings)
she's in her room playing the guitar while the guys are over and they hear her play? So steve-o introduces them? Maybe if she ends up bam or so she gets introduced to ville?
She makes korn/soad kinda music :)
Sorry if it's too much
chaos meets chaos - jackass crew (ville valo cameo)
The problem with living with Steve-O wasn’t the drugs, or the mess, or even the random animals he’d somehow adopt without warning.
It was the people he let into the house.
On any given day, there was no telling if you’d wake up to Ryan Dunn passed out on the porch, Pontius streaking across the front yard in a thong, or Bam Margera skateboarding down the goddamn hallway like your living room was a halfpipe.
You’d learned to drown it out. Headphones in, guitar plugged, fingers tearing out riffs that cracked through the walls louder than the chaos outside.
Today was no different.
You sat cross-legged on your bed, black leather pants sticking to your thighs, a faded Pantera tee draped off your shoulder. Tattoos crawled up your arms, piercings glinting when the sunlight cut across your face. Your boot tapped out the tempo as you layered a riff that was pure Korn with just enough System of a Down weirdness to make it hit harder.
You were in your own world—until Ryan Dunn’s voice broke through from the living room.
“Dude, what the fuck is that?”
Steve-O looked up from the joint he was rolling, blinking. “Oh, that? Uh… shit. That’s my sister.”
Bam whipped his head around like someone had just set him on fire. “You have a sister?”
Knoxville nearly spit out his beer. “Wait, wait, wait. You’ve been keeping a sister from us this whole time?”
Pontius grinned wide, shirt long gone as usual. “That’s not just a sister, that’s a shredder.”
Ryan leaned forward, squinting toward the hallway. “Man, that sounded badass. Bring her out, Steve.”
Steve-O groaned, already regretting the soundproofing situation. “Nah, nah, trust me, you don’t wanna meet her. She’ll chew you guys up and spit you out.”
Which of course, only made them more curious.
Bam shoved Steve-O’s shoulder, laughing. “Shut the fuck up and go get her, dude. You’re hiding treasure in your house.”
“Yeah,” Knoxville chimed in, “and it’s not like you can keep her from us forever.”
Steve-O rolled his eyes, muttered something about bad ideas, and stomped down the hall.
You’d barely finished the riff when he cracked your door open. “Yo, sis—pause the death metal recital for a sec. The guys wanna meet you.”
You gave him a look. “The guys?”
He grimaced. “Yeah. Those guys.”
You sighed, set your guitar aside, and swung the door open.
Silence fell in the living room the moment you stepped in.
You stood in the doorway with your guitar still slung over your shoulder, leather boots scuffed, tattoos peeking from under ripped sleeves. Your hair fell in messy waves, dark eyeliner making your eyes sharp as hell.
“…Well?” you asked flatly.
Pontius clapped like a kid at Christmas. “She’s fucking awesome!”
Ryan let out a long whistle. “Steve, you never told us your sister looked like she could crush our skulls and headline Ozzfest.”
Knoxville smirked. “That explains why you kept her hidden.”
Bam was quiet—at least, for him. He leaned forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, grinning like he’d just found his new favorite thing in the world. “That riff… was that yours?”
You smirked. “Yeah. Working on something heavy. Probably too complicated for your brain cells.”
Knoxville cackled, beer spraying. Pontius practically rolled off the couch laughing. Ryan muttered, “Damn, she’s got Steve’s mouth.”
Bam didn’t even flinch. If anything, his grin got wider. “I like her.”
Steve-O groaned, flopping back on the couch.
“Goddammit.”
For the next half hour, the guys threw questions at you nonstop.
Ryan wanted to know your favorite Korn album. Knoxville joked about filming a Jackass band spin-off. Pontius begged you to play “something sexy” on guitar until Steve-O told him to shut the hell up.
But it was Bam who really zeroed in.
“You into HIM at all?” he asked, leaning toward you like the rest of the room had disappeared.
“Yeah. Ville’s voice is insane.”
Bam lit up. “No fucking way. He’s one of my best friends. He’d lose his shit over your music.”
You raised a brow. “Ville Valo? The Ville Valo?”
“The one and only,” Bam said, cocky grin intact. “You gotta meet him. We’re always filming dumb shit at my place, Castle Bam. You’d fit right in.”
Steve-O threw his hands up. “Oh hell no. She is not getting sucked into your chaos, Bam.”
But Bam’s grin only grew, eyes locked on you. “She already is chaos, dude. I can tell.”
You plucked a sharp riff on your guitar, smirking at your brother. “Maybe the monster was already here, Steve.”
The whole room erupted in laughter. Bam’s laugh was the loudest, and for the first time, you didn’t mind being dragged into the circus.
LATER - CASTLE BAM
Steve-O swore up and down that letting you tag along to Castle Bam was “the worst fucking idea” he’d ever had. Which, considering the man had stapled his balls to his leg before, was saying a lot.
But Bam had insisted—loudly, relentlessly—until Steve-O finally threw his hands up and muttered, “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you when she burns your house down.”
The first thing you noticed when you got to Castle Bam was how the entire place screamed Bam Margera’s brain on Red Bull. Half-pipes in the backyard, ramps bolted to the staircase, walls covered in graffiti, and a giant pirate flag waving over the driveway.
“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath. “It’s like MTV had a fever dream and left it here to rot.”
Bam, grinning ear to ear, flung open the front door. “Welcome to paradise, sweetheart.”
Steve-O groaned. “She’s gonna fucking hate you.”
Inside was even worse. Novak was already half-naked in the kitchen, yelling about how he couldn’t find pants. Ryan Dunn sat on the couch drinking a beer at 2 p.m., while Raab Himself tried to duct-tape Knoxville’s shoes to the ceiling. Ape and Phil were in the background—Ape yelling, Phil laughing like he’d given up on life years ago.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, stepping over a skateboard that came flying past your boots.
Ryan looked up and spotted you. “Holy shit, Steve actually brought her!”
Pontius—who had apparently already found a reason to strip down again—threw both arms in the air. “The rock goddess has arrived!”
You adjusted your guitar strap, smirking. “You guys don’t even deserve to look at me.”
The room exploded in laughter, Bam’s especially loud. He shoved Dunn’s shoulder. “See? I told you she was metal as fuck.”
Ryan grinned. “She’s got sharper teeth than you, Bam.”
“Good,” Bam said, not missing a beat. His eyes flicked toward you, warm and mischievous all at once.
Steve-O groaned. “Oh no. Nope. I don’t like that look.”
Within ten minutes, you were dragged outside to the backyard ramp where Bam and Dunn were already dropping in on their boards. Bam shoved his deck toward you.
“C’mon. You skate?”
You raised a brow. “Do I look like I skate?”
“Yes,” Pontius said immediately, grinning like an idiot.
Bam smirked. “Then prove it.”
You rolled your eyes, took the board, and stepped onto the ramp. It had been years since you’d skated seriously, but muscle memory kicked in quick. You dropped in clean, carved one smooth line, and hopped off before you could eat shit.
The crew roared like you’d just landed a 900.
“Holy fuck!” Dunn yelled, spilling beer down his shirt.
Bam jogged over, grabbing his board back with that wild grin. “Okay, I’m officially in love.”
Steve-O smacked him upside the head. “Back off, Bam.”
But Bam wasn’t listening. His eyes were still locked on you, like he was trying to figure out what made you tick.
The chaos was interrupted when a black Escalade rolled up the driveway. Out stepped Ville Valo, long coat, eyeliner sharp, cigarette already dangling from his fingers like it was part of his hand.
“Speak of the devil,” Bam muttered, jogging over to greet him.
“Bam, what the hell is going on here?” Ville’s voice was deep, smooth, tired.
“Just the usual,” Bam said. “Hey—got someone you gotta meet.” He grabbed your arm without warning and pulled you forward. “This is Steve-O’s sister. She shreds guitar like a demon.”
Ville’s eyes flicked over you, slow and assessing. “So you’re the one making all the noise Steve’s been hiding from us.”
You smirked, crossing your arms. “Noise? That’s art, sweetheart.”
Ville’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. “I like her.”
Bam grinned, looking between you and Ville like he’d just brokered some kind of unholy alliance.
“Told you she’d fit right in.”
Steve-O threw his hands in the air. “Oh, great. Now I gotta deal with both of you corrupting her.”
Hours later, the house was a full-blown circus. Novak had gotten himself duct-taped to a chair, Ryan was passed out on the couch, Knoxville was scheming something with fireworks, and Pontius had declared himself “Lord of the Hot Tub.”
You ended up outside on the back steps, guitar in hand, cigarette burning low between your fingers. Ville sat beside you, listening quietly while you played one of your darker riffs. Bam leaned against the railing, beer in hand, watching you with that same restless energy.
“Sounds like something Jonathan Davis would write,” Ville said softly.
You shrugged. “Guess Korn rubbed off on me.”
Bam’s grin widened. “You two are like soulmates or some shit.”
Ville smirked. “Careful, Bam. Don’t sound jealous.”
Bam shot him a look but didn’t deny it. Instead, he stepped closer, eyes still on you. “I’m just saying… you’re fucking rad. Didn’t think anyone could keep up with this circus, but—you do.”
You strummed one last sharp chord, the sound ringing into the night. Then you looked up at him, smirk tugging at your lips. “Maybe I belong in the circus.”
The way Bam’s grin sharpened, wild and a little dangerous, told you he agreed.
The smell of asphalt and sweat clung to the air like a badge of honor. Skateboards rattled against ramps, the dull crack of wheels on concrete echoing through the skatepark. The afternoon sun blazed, heat shimmering up from the ground, but your focus wasn’t on the weather. It was on Bam Margera—loud, grinning, and magnetic as ever.
He was at the center of it all, as usual. Everyone’s eyes seemed to orbit around him as he skated across the park with ease, weaving around obstacles like it was second nature. Which, for him, it was. The wild grin on his face as he pulled off a trick drew cheers from the crowd, and your stomach twisted—not from jealousy, but from nerves.
Because today, you’d told yourself you were going to impress him.
You’d only been skating for a few weeks, maybe a month at best, but you couldn’t ignore how much you wanted his attention. Not just the casual kind, not the teasing he gave everyone, but something a little more. Something that made him look at you like you weren’t just another kid hanging around the park.
“Yo, newbie!” Bam’s voice carried across the noise as he rolled to a stop in front of you. His hair was a messy halo, sweat dripping down his forehead, sunglasses perched loosely on his face. He smirked, resting one sneaker on his board. “You just gonna stand there looking nervous, or you gonna skate?”
You swallowed hard, forcing a grin. “I’m gonna skate.”
“Oh yeah?” He tilted his head, clearly amused. “Lemme see what you got.”
The group of kids nearby turned their heads, some with smirks, others with curiosity. Your stomach flipped. You weren’t ready for this, not really. But with Bam watching, waiting, you couldn’t back down.
You pushed your board into place at the top of a small ramp—not even close to the size of the ones Bam handled with ease, but big enough to make your palms sweat. You crouched down, heart hammering.
You could do this. You had to.
“Don’t overthink it,” Bam called out, his smirk widening. “Just drop in and ride it. Easy.”
Easy. Right.
You pushed forward, the wheels clattering as they hit the edge. For one glorious half-second, you thought you had it—thought you might actually pull it off. Then your board slipped out from under you, shooting forward. The world tilted.
The impact was brutal. Concrete slammed into your side as you crashed, your wrist twisting awkwardly beneath you. A sharp sting shot up your arm, followed by the dull ache of your knee hitting the ground.
Gasps rippled through the group.
“Shit!” Bam’s voice cut through the ringing in your ears. He was beside you in an instant, dropping to a crouch, his board forgotten. The cocky grin was gone, replaced by wide-eyed concern. “Hey, hey—don’t move. Are you okay?”
You groaned, cradling your wrist against your chest. “I… I think so. Maybe. Ow.”
“Definitely not okay.” His hands hovered for a second before settling gently on your shoulder.
“Lemme see your wrist.”
Reluctantly, you held it out. He took it carefully, turning it slightly, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Does that hurt?”
“Yeah,” you admitted, wincing.
“Damn.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You don’t gotta kill yourself trying to impress me, y’know.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. “I wasn’t—”
“Don’t even.” His tone was softer now, though, teasing at the edges. “I saw the look on your face.”
You tried to laugh it off but ended up groaning instead. Bam glanced around, noticing the eyes still on you both. With a sharp wave, he barked, “Alright, show’s over. Go skate somewhere else!” The others scattered quickly, knowing better than to argue.
He helped you to your feet, steadying you with one hand on your back. “C’mon, sit down before you pass out.”
You limped with him toward a bench, your board rattling along beside you as he grabbed it with his free hand. He set it down with a dramatic sigh.
“Man, your first attempt at showing off and you eat shit that hard? Brutal.”
“Thanks,” you muttered, clutching your wrist.
Bam sat next to you, pulling off his sunglasses so he could look you in the eye. His voice softened, quieter now that the audience was gone.
“Seriously though… you scared the hell outta me.”
You blinked. “You? Scared?”
“Yeah,” he admitted with a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’ve seen plenty of people wipe out, but… I dunno. Didn’t like seeing you go down like that.”
Your stomach flipped again, but for a different reason this time. He leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on your bandaged wrist.
“You should ice that,” he said. “And keep your knee elevated. You’re not skating anymore today.”
“What if I wanna try again?” you asked, half teasing.
“Then I’ll steal your board and hide it.” His smirk returned, but softer, more genuine. “Not letting you break your damn neck just ‘cause you think I’ll be impressed.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Guess I failed anyway.”
Bam turned toward you fully, his expression unusually earnest. “Nah. You didn’t fail. Takes guts to even try. Most people would’ve just stood there making excuses.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but his words stuck with you, heavy and warm in your chest. For once, Bam Margera wasn’t joking, wasn’t putting on a show—he meant it.
The silence stretched for a moment, broken only by the sounds of wheels in the distance. He glanced at you, his eyes lingering longer than usual, before finally cracking a grin. “So… you gonna let me teach you next time? Properly, I mean. Before you kill yourself?”
You smiled, despite the throbbing in your wrist. “Yeah. Deal.”
“Good.” He leaned back, stretching his arms behind the bench. “And for the record… you don’t need to do anything dangerous to get my attention. Already had it.”
Your breath caught. He said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal, but the meaning behind it hit you harder than the concrete had.
Bam noticed your stunned silence and laughed, leaning closer until his shoulder brushed yours. “What? Surprised?”
“A little,” you admitted.
He grinned. “Don’t be. You’re not as sneaky as you think.”
You groaned, burying your face in your good hand. “Great. Totally humiliated myself and got caught trying to impress you.”
Bam laughed, the sound warm and unfiltered. “Nah. You just made me like you more.”
You peeked at him through your fingers, heart pounding. His grin softened into something else—something that made your chest ache in a good way. And for once, in all the chaos of Bam’s world, you felt steady.
