Tarantino explaining the bar scene to Michael Fassbender, August Diehl, and Til Schweiger while showing how they’re going to shoot each other in the dick
the worst part about being so into jackass is the horrible gender envy why can’t i look like that and act like that and do that why not me why why why why
synopsis: you work on the jackass crew and the camera catches how you and johnny begin to fall for each other 1.4k wc
warnings: use of y/n, fluff, cursing, mentions of blood
a/n: this is lowk buns bc finals week is coming up, but i wanted to get something out before it soon becomes my final weeks 🥀 i swear to get better stuff out soon 🫡
being on the jackass crew was about as challenging as it sounded. you had to travel for work often and deal with stunts that made you nauseous and visibly cringe. however, it had its own perks. it allowed you to continue your passion in filming, and you were surrounded by people who made you laugh. the whole crew was like its own little family. there was also johnny.
johnny was like his own perk by itself. when you first joined, you never expected the relationship that would bloom between the two of you. you really only took the job because you went to high school with chris, and he practically begged you to come work on the crew. you figured that it would get you a good head start in the film industry, and hopefully give you some credibility in the future, so you finally accepted. in an instant, you and johnny were joined at the hip. whether on or off camera, where one went, the other was quickly trailing behind.
he was sitting on a lawn chair, a cold beer in hand, watching as bam and ryan rode around in shopping carts and ran over shit. even though it was technically your day off, you were still watching them perform all the stunts. you could always be found on set, even if they didn’t have anything for you to do. when johnny let out one of his loud laughs, it made you turn your head towards his direction. after almost a year of working with him, his laugh still created butterflies in your belly. you moved over to where he was sitting, and ruffled his hair to get his attention. without even looking up, he already knew that it was you, just by your touch. you always greeted him the same way. he turned his head up towards you, shooting you with his million dollar smile. “hey, darling. what’re you doing here? thought you had the day off?” he asked, with a hint of surprise.
you shrugged in response. “just wanted to watch you guys. not like i got anything better to do you. why? happy to see me?” you asked with a smirk. he stood up from the chair, his over six foot frame blocking the sun as he nearly towered over you. “‘m always happy to see you, you know that,” he replied, before pulling you into a hug. ever the sweet talker, you thought to yourself. your arms wrapped around his shoulders, while his wrapped around your waist. he then pulled you up and swung you around. you let out a spew of giggles, that steve-o noticed.
“man, look at this,” steve-o whispered to chris, tapping him on the shoulder. turning his attention away from bam and ryan, chris’s gaze followed to where steve-o was pointing. to really no surprise, there was you and johnny, talking each other’s asses off and laughing. by this point, johnny had already set you down, but one of his hands still lingered on your waist. “bro, they should just fucking kiss at this point,” he said. steve-o hummed in agreement, and instantly thought of a good idea when he noticed a camera laying abandoned in the grass. he kneeled down and grabbed it, quickly turning it on to capture the moment. “look at these damn lovebirds,” he mumbled, only loud enough for the camera to hear.
a few days pass by, and you’re now filming johnny as he introduces the stunt he’s about to do. “hi, i’m johnny knoxville, and today, i will have my good friend steve-o test out self defense weapons on me. and i also have the beautiful y/n as my camerawoman.” he winks at you with his dashing smile, and you laugh from behind the camera. “yeah, yeah, whatever. get on with it, johnny,” you said, shaking your head to hopefully hide the blush blooming on your face. to the side, steve-o was fake gagging while keeled over. you whipped the camera over to capture him. “get a load of this asshole.” you weren't really annoyed with your friend. if anything, you were a bit glad that it took the attention away from you and your obvious flusteredness from johnny’s compliment. as the stunt progresses, johnny is now rolling around on the ground and holding his stomach as he groans in pain. and maybe it’s been your time on jackass, or maybe it’s the fact that steve-o is cackling next to you, but you can’t help but laugh a little at his pain. yours and steve-o’s laughter combined seems to be contagious, because johnny quickly begins to laugh alongside the two of you. you lean down and hold out your hand to help him up, and he grabs it as you yank him to a standing position. he sways a bit from the two stun guns he just previously endured, so you hold his wrist to keep him stable. “how do you feel?” you ask from behind the camera. he just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “i think ol’ steve-o is rubbing off on you. you’re becoming as bad as him, laughing at my pain.”
steve-o fake pouts and makes a kiss face towards johnny. “aw, you need me to kiss you better?” he leans in, but johnny playfully pushes him back. “oh, right, my bad. forgot you only wanted y/n to do that,” he retorts, before sticking his tongue out. steve-o’s comment makes you whip your head to look between the two of them, softly whispering ‘huh?’ you can see johnny’s feathers were a bit ruffled by his friend exposing his small (huge) crush on you, but tries to play it off. “you better watch it man, before i spray bear mace in your eye.” safe to say he does later on in the segment.
the tension between the two of you later comes to a halt when johnny and bam are riding on a golf cart, running into old statues and things like that at an abandoned golf course. the segment was going well so far. sure, you were out of breath a little bit from having to keep up with them, but you weren’t afraid of a little cardio. that was, until, they hit a ditch, which caused the whole cart to flip over. immediately you hurried over to them, your camera being sent to damnation when you carelessly threw it. if you weren’t so worried about johnny and bam, you would’ve cursed yourself.
part of the crew was checking in on bam, while you were solely focused on johnny. you knelt down and carefully held his head, gently moving it side to side to look for any injuries. warm blood trickled down your hand and forearm. fuck, definitely a concussion. “hey, johnny, you okay?” you asked softly.
he hazily smiled up at you, blinking rapidly from the sun shining behind you. “goddamn, darlin’... look at you. like an angel,” he slurred, his eyes slipping shut. you patted the side of his face to keep him awake. “don’t do that, you gotta stay awake, yeah? we gotta get you to the hospital.”
he just nodded, and limply moved his head to rest against yours. his eyes fluttered at your gentle touch as you pushed back his short strands of hair that stuck to his sweat ridden forehead. “love ya so much, you know that…?”
“yeah, i know you do, johnny. i love you too,” you replied. you figured it was just the concussion talking, and that he didn’t really mean it.
“no, sweetheart. ‘m serious. like, i love love you. so much. you're so sweet, and funny, and so fucking pretty. i think i loved ya ever since chris brought you on set…” he rambled on and on until his lips pressed against yours.
the kiss was about as good as you think it could be with a concussed man, but it was the best one in your life because it was with him. his lips were slightly chapped, but you didn’t care. not when his hand came up to cradle the back of your head. or when you could feel him smile against your lips as he let out a content hum. you pull back to breathe, and his lips instantly chase after yours. you shake your head ‘no’, and just lean your forehead against his.
“this whole concussion thing wasn’t a plan for you to kiss me was it?” you playfully ask. “nah, darling, this was just a plus,” he replied, rubbing his thumb against your cheek.
unbeknownst to the two of you steve-o and chris had picked up your discarded camera to video the two of you, and your guys’ first kiss. “yo, they better give me credits when they play all these clips at their future wedding,” steve-o mutters.
KEEP YOUR EYES PEELED [SINGLE] ☆ ~3.5k
barry berkman x gender neutral, hitman!reader
summary: after chechan mob boss goran pazar’s death, his right hand man noho hank gives you a job: look out for one “barry berkman”
NOW
There was a boy in Fallujah from your sister platoon. You met him early on so you don’t remember his name unless you dig around for it. No bond forged in the fire of war, or whatever bullshit soldiers-turned-writers say.
The boy sat on a crumbling wall to smoke. He had his helmet off after a skirmish, fresh before the area had been swept. You remembered thinking: That’s stupid. Don’t be a fucking idiot. before the fact.
You still remember the sound. Not the shot, because shots are familiar enough sounds you have no reaction to, but that wet and sucking collapse of a skull after.
They picked up this kid and you kept walking because stopping meant thinking, thinking meant feeling, and really feeling meant you’d be sent somewhere worse than here. White walls. Rubber-soled socks. The works.
So you haven’t been in the business of feeling. Not in the past. Not now.
In the middle of your reminiscing, you spot Barry Berkman—or Barry Block, according to the Facebook profile you found—before he spots you. Good.
That’s the problem with actors, you think. They learn to project themselves and forget to observe. Barry Berkman walks through the Los Angeles evening like a man trying to hold a dream like trickling sand through a clenched fist. His shoulders are stiff and his head is straight forward.
But he’s not scanning rooftops, not checking reflections in parked cars. A Marine who forgot the first thing they beat into you: complacency kills.
You tail Barry from a casual distance of sixty yards. You keep your hands in the pockets of a nondescript windbreaker, it’s a cool evening in L.A. Barry stops at a crosswalk, and you stop to buy today’s paper from a newspaper box. He glances back once in the shutter-flicker of old Marine instinct, but you’ve already turned to study a menu in a restaurant window.
THEN
You met NoHo Hank around summer, when the kids in your neighborhood no longer had to go to school. Ice cream trucks hit suburban corners every hour. It sometimes felt like living in a cartoon.
A mutual acquaintance—a nervous man named Dmitri who smelled like cigarettes and his favorite hooker’s drugstore perfume—brought you to a warehouse in the San Fernando Valley. The job was simple: a Chechen lieutenant had been skimming from the family, and Hank was the one overseeing the order on behalf of Goran Pazar.
You stood in the shadows near the loading dock. Dmitri had told you to be quiet, look professional, don’t make eye contact. You ignored all three instructions.
You expected a brute to show up. Some kind of flat-faced, scarred thug with thick limbs and his knuckles crooked from doling out beatings like Halloween candy.
What you got was a spry man with alopecia. He wore a salmon-colored polo shirt and white slacks. He held an iced latte in one hand, folding his matching sunglasses with his other.
“So sorry about the smell,” Hank said, gesturing at the warehouse floor. “Previous tenants had… how you say… big rodent problem. Not anymore. We fixed. But the smell, it stays. I may buy a Wallflower, you know? From Bath and Body Works.”
“You’re Hank,” you said carefully.
He looked in your direction with a genuine smile. That was the first thing you noticed about him, Hank’s smiles never had to reach up for his eyes, because they didn’t need to. They always began right there.
“Yes, I am NoHo Hank,” Hank tucked one arm of his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt, letting them hang there. “I hear that you are the person who makes problems go away. Dmitri says you are very good. Very quiet. Very… final.” He made a small explosion gesture with his fingers. “Poof.”
“I prefer strangulation,” you said. “Less mess.”
Hank considered this. Nodded slowly. “Very respectful to the surroundings. I like that.”
That was the moment you realized Hank was not like the others. Your other employers wanted violence. Hank wanted results, but he also wanted everyone to get along. His politeness was almost innocent, in a way.
After the agreement had been made, the lieutenant died three days in his bedroom. No mess. You sent Hank an inconspicuous text—just a single emoji of a check mark—and he sent back a picture of a kitten wearing a cape with a smiley face pattern on it.
“Thank you friend!” the caption read.
You didn’t reply. But you didn’t delete the picture either.
BACK WHEN
The Humvee’s engine died at exactly 0300. You sat in the dark with five other Marines, the desert cooling around you like a held breath. No one spoke. The corporal in the passenger seat—a kid from Utah—kept moving his lips in some stupid Mormon prayer.
You stared at the cracked windshield and thought: This is where I die. Not in a firefight. Not saving anyone. Just sitting in a broken truck waiting for someone to notice we’re gone.
You didn’t feel afraid. That had passed. The human body can’t run on fear forever, so it normalizes the environment around it.
But you felt tired. It was strange. It was the same bone-deep exhaustion you’d felt since boot camp, since the first time a DI trying to be a version of S.G Hartman screamed in your face, and you realized you’d made a terrible mistake.
Three hours later, a recovery vehicle showed up. You got back to base and no one mentioned it again. Not even during the moments you’d bitch and moan about USMC supplier bullshit. Too boring, maybe. Too serious.
That was the worst part. No one mentioned a lot of shit ever again.
NOW
You lose Barry Berkman for ten minutes on the third night.
He ducks into a laundromat. You wait outside, leaning against a dumpster, watching the steam-fogged windows. When you go in to check, he’s gone. Back door. Fire escape. You curse under your breath—stupid. You’re a fucking idiot—and then you hear footsteps behind you.
“You’re not very good at this.”
You turn.
Barry Berkman stands only six feet away. He’s not holding anything that could be weapon, but you recognize his stance. MCMAP green belt, probably higher. He’s bigger than you. He could kill you before you got a hand into your jacket for a knife.
“Out,” Barry jerks his chin to the door. He makes no move, so you walk in front of him and to the front of the store. The lights flicker. When Barry comes out, he gestures to the alleyway between this building and a row of storage units.
“I’m good enough,” you say when you lean against the brick wall. “At this.”
“You’ve been following me for a few days, and you could’ve killed me by now.” His voice is flat. Not angry. Curious, almost. Like he’s watching an insect crawl across a table. “Who sent you? The Chechens? The Bolivians?”
“Hank,” you say. “NoHo Hank. He wants you alive.”
Barry blinks. Something shifts behind his eyes—surprise, maybe, or the faintest crack in that numb exterior. “Hank? Hank hired you?”
“Goran’s people want revenge. Hank wants you breathing. I’m insurance.”
Barry’s eyes seem to lose whatever thin sheen of human emotion he felt as this settles in. He nods. “You’re a hitter.”
“I’m a contractor.”
“Same thing.”
You don’t argue. You’ve stopped thinking about what you are. A long time ago, you told yourself you were a Marine, doing dirty work because you needed quick cash. Then you realized that’s what you enlisted, and what you told yourself in Fallujah, too. I’m only following orders. I’m surviving until tomorrow.
Tomorrow keeps coming.
Barry studies you for a long moment. Then he does something unexpected. He squats. The way the guys would when they were sick of standing, but needed to be ready. Barry puts his elbows on his knees, and sighs as he ruffles his dark hair.
“You’re a Marine,” he says.
It’s not a question.
“Was,” you say.
Barry’s mouth twitches. “Once a Marine…”
“Don’t.” Your voice comes out sharper than you meant. “I’m not a Marine anymore. I’m not anything.”
Barry nods like you’ve just told him the weather.
“I dream about my tours sometimes,” he says. “Every night, actually. I just don’t remember what it was when I wake up.”
You nod.
“That’s worse, I think,” he continues. “The forgetting.”
THEN
The second time you saw NoHo Hank was two weeks later. He’d called you directly and said he wanted to meet at a diner in Glendale.
Christopher Cross was on the jukebox. Hank was already there when you arrived, perched on the booth seat with the least amount of cracks in its red pleather. Wearing a lavender sweater. Drinking a chocolate milkshake. The waitress clearly knew him—she called him “sweetheart” and brought him an extra straw without being asked. The waitress clearly knew him—she called him “sweetheart” and brought him extra whipped cream without asking.
“You have a regular spot,” you said incredulously, sliding into the booth across from him.
“I am creature of habit. It is always good to be consistent,” Hank said. “Also, the pancakes here are very good. Fluffy. You want to try?”
“No.”
“You should eat. People who kill for living burn a lot of calories, so they need to eat more. Maintain strength.” He pushed a basket of mini-muffins toward you. “The blueberry is the best. Take one.”
You took a blueberry muffin just to make him stop talking. When he kept his eyes on you, you took a bite. It was nothing special, not great, not horrible.
“What’s the job?” you asked.
Hank waved a hand. “No job. I just wanted to talk. Also, I wanted to show you something.” He pulled out his phone, scrolled for a moment, then turned the screen toward you.
It was a grainy security camera still. The subject was mid-stride with one hand reaching into his dark hoodie. His face was mostly obscured by a baseball cap, but you could see in his posture that he was moving with complete efficiency.
“Who’s that?” you asked.
“Barry Berkman,” Hank said. He said the name like it was something delicate. Something he was afraid of dropping. “He works for me. Sometimes. Well, not for me. For Chechens. But I see him. At the warehouse. He is… how you say… very good at his job. I hope I can get you two to work on a thing together one day. Dream team, as they say.”
You looked at the photo again. “He’s a hitter, too?”
“He is an artist, like you,” Hank said, taking the phone back and staring at the screen himself. His cheeks were slightly pink. “You should see him work.”
“You’ve seen him work?”
Hank’s blush deepened. “You can say that.” He tucked the phone away. “Anyway. How is your muffin?”
“You called me to show me a picture of a fellow… artist.” You cross your arms.
“I called you here because you are interesting and I wanted company. The picture was bonus.” Hank signaled the waitress. “We will have pancakes. Two orders with extra syrup. Do you like whipped cream?”
“No.”
“She will bring the homemade whipped cream on the side. In case you change your mind. And you will, it is very good.”
You watched Hank arrange the silverware in a precise line as he hummed along to the Journey song playing on the jukebox.
“You have a crush on this guy,” you said. “Don’t you?”
Hank froze. Just for a second. Then he laughed loudly enough to gain the attention of all the other patrons.
“Crush? No. I do not have crushes. I am businessman. I appreciate… competence. Barry Berkman is competent. Very competent.” He cleared his throat. “Pancakes are coming. Let us talk about something else. Do you watch any good TV shows?”
You didn’t answer. You just took another muffin.
Hank spent the next ten minutes describing the plot of a reality cooking competition in excruciating detail. You didn’t listen to most of it but you noticed the way he kept glancing at his sleeping phone, the same expression people usually reserve for sunsets and first kisses on his face.
You didn’t say anything. You weren’t cruel.
After that, Hank called you for small things. Not hits. Favors. “Can you pick up package from warehouse?” “Can you drive car to different location?” “Can you watch my friend’s cat for weekend? His name is John. The cat. Not my friend. My friend is also John. It is confusing. But the cat is very sweet. Unlike John.”
You did the favors. Not because you liked Hank—you didn’t like anyone—but because he paid well and never asked about your past. He didn’t want to know where you’d been or what you’d done. He only wanted to know if you could do the next thing.
Also because he was the only person in Los Angeles who remembered to say thank you.
BACK WHEN
Your first kill was a man on a motorbike. You were nineteen. He was coming toward your checkpoint too fast. The sergeant shouted, but you fired without thinking. The bike skid a trench into the dirt path.
When you ran up to the man, he was still alive. He said something in a language you didn’t understand as his hand went for something in his vest. You shot him again, point blank in the forehead.
It was a cell phone.
No one blamed you. The sergeant clapped you on the back instead. “Good instincts, kid.” You nodded. You smiled. That night, you sat in your bunk and stared at your hands for three hours. They didn’t look different. They feel any different.
You never mentioned the cell phone, because no one mentioned most shit ever again.
NOW
The next time Barry sees you, he walks a clear path to a diner and stands by the door until you’re well within earshot. He holds the door open for you.
He finds the booth with the best sight lines.
Neither of you says anything. The waitress brings a hot pot of coffee. Barry stirs creamer into his slowly, watching the white spiral out and pale the drink. You drink yours black because you always have. You don’t trust yourself with small pleasures anymore.
“So Hank,” he says eventually. There’s a small note of disdain there.
“Hank.” You nod.
“He’s… a good guy,” Barry says this to his mug. “Really fucking stupid, but good.”
You watch him blow on the mug before he takes a sip. “He pays well.”
“That’s all that matters to you?”
You set your cup down. Look at him. “You tell me what matters. You’re taking acting classes. You think that matters? Pretending to be someone else in front of an audience?”
Barry flinches. Just a flicker. But you see it. You’re certain if you were a civilian, he’d deflect or yell at you.
“I wanted to feel something,” he says. His voice is guarded. “If I stay like this long enough, maybe I’ll leave it all behind.”
“And how’s that going for you?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. You see the answer in the way he holds his coffee—too still, too careful. The same way you hold everything. The same way you hold yourself together when you’re alone in your apartment at 2 AM and the walls feel like they’re inlaid with IEDs.
“I killed a lots of guys,” Barry says. “Not on purpose. Well, yes, on purpose. But I didn’t want to. Does that make sense?”
“Not really,” you say. “But I believe you.”
He finally makes eye contact with you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying, or if you’re just as broken as he is.
“Why are you still following me?” he asks. “Hank pays you, sure. But you could’ve walked away. You could’ve taken the initial payment and disappeared. Why didn’t you?”
You think about it. The honest answer is complicated. The simple answer is sitting across from you, wearing a cheap hoodie and the expression of a man who has seen exactly what you’ve seen and is still trying to pretend he can become someone else.
“You’re the first person I’ve talked to in three years who gets it,” you say. “Even when you were about to kill me in that laundromat.”
Barry’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something smaller. Something almost human.
“I wasn’t going to kill you,” he says.
“Liar.”
“Okay, I was thinking about it.”
You nod. That’s the thing about people like you and Barry. You don’t need to lie to each other. You’ve both done things that can’t be undone. You’ve both sat in the dark and wondered if there’s a version of yourself that didn’t pull the trigger, or kissed the gun yourself.
You don’t know if that version exists. But sitting in this diner, it doesn’t.
THEN
The bubble tea shop meeting was different. You could tell the moment you walked in.
Hank wasn’t wearing his usual pastels. He was wearing a black button-up and black jeans. His usual smile was there, but it was smaller. More careful. The thick pink straw and the cartoon panda printed onto his bubble tea cup looked absurd.
“You are wondering about outfit,” Hank said as you sat down. He pushed what looked like a mango drink to you. “I am in mourning for Goran. He was… not good friend. He was angry friend. Yelled at me a lot. But he was family, and now he is dead. The other family members, they are very angry and want revenge. They want Barry.”
“Barry Berkman,” you said, curling your hand around the drink he offered. You learned to just take what Hank gave. He tended to deflate a little if you didn’t.
Hank nodded.
“Barry is a good guy.” He paused. Stirred his tea with the straw, making the ice click against the plastic cup. “You know Barry was a Marine?”
“So you say.”
“You were also a Marine.” It wasn’t a question. Hank had done his homework. “So you understand. The loyalty, the brotherhood. The… not being able to go back to normal life, because normal life doesn’t make sense anymore.”
You said nothing.
Hank slid a thick envelope across the table.
“I want you to watch Barry,” he said. “Not to hurt him. Not follow him to the bathroom with a lipstick camera or anything weird. Just watch, and make sure no one from my family finds him. If someone tries to hurt him, you do your… thing.”
He mimed slitting his throat as he smiled. He took a long suck from his tea.
“Why me?” you asked.
“Because you are quiet and you don’t ask questions. And because you were a Marine, he may go easier on you if he catches you.” Hank shrugged. “Also, you are very good at quiet strangulation. That is important.”
You took the money. Not because you like Hank—you don’t like anyone—but because work is work, Hank always pays on time, and you have rent due on an apartment with a leaky faucet you’ve been ignoring for four months.
Also because Barry Berkman was a Marine. There was still some stick call to arms that you couldn’t quite cut out of yourself.
Hank stood up to leave. Before he walked out, he turned back.
“One more thing,” he said. “If something happens to Barry?” The smile finally faded. “You will not need to worry about your rent. Because you will also be dead. And I don’t know how to kill someone nearly, so I will probably have to hire someone. That is very annoying. So please, keep Barry alive.”
He walked out. The little bell on the door jingled.
You sat there for a long moment. Then you finished your bubble tea. It was mango. You didn’t even like artificial mango.
NOW
Your last night in the Marines, you stood on the flight line at Camp Pendleton. The sun was setting. People were crying, hugging, talking about going home to wives, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, dogs, cats, the whole shebang. You stood apart. You watched the sky turn orange before purple and black.
Someone near you asked you what you were going to do next.
You said, “I don’t know.”
What you meant was: I don’t know how to be anything else.
You still don’t. But now you have a phone number.
Barry wrote it on a napkin that you folded and put in your pocket. You rejected his offer of a ride home and walked for an hour through streets that felt more foreign than Fallujah ever did.
You know you won’t call him tomorrow.
Tonight, you let yourself believe that you could.
a/n: your regularly scheduled dex content will be back now i prooomiseee
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