synopsis ᯓ Johnny looks irresistible on the jackass: best & last red carpet. But, admiring him from afar isn't enough to satisfy your aching.
tags ᯓ nsfw/18+, smut, porn without plot, established relationship, silver foxville, oral (m receiving), dry humping, v fingering, gentleman johnny knoxville, no use of y/n.
notes ᯓ It's my first time writing in a while and also my first time writing Knoxville. It ain't much but it's honest work.
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You watch him with butterflies in your stomach and a heart full of love.
Johnny waltzes through the red carpet like he owns the place, dressed down in what you thought might be his best choice of clothes to date: a white suit jacket, dark pants, and black bow-tie. Simple, handsome, and an ensemble characteristically him.
You watch him speak with interviewers with confidence, take photos with the fans, and of course dick-punch his fellow cast-mates when they inevitably found each other in the crowd. You hear his loud laugh through the noise and couldn't take your eyes off that big, proud smile that stayed on his face all night.
You aren't sure how much time you spent admiring him, but the sun had moved somewhat lower on the horizon. And after what felt like an endless photo-op, Johnny approaches you on the sidelines, ignoring the chants from fans and commotion to visit you on the quiet side. Someone gave him a glass of champagne. A bit of it was already gone.
"You shoulda brought a camera," He teases with a voice softer around the edges, one that's reserved just for you.
His hand carefully laces with yours, his body blocking any chance of paparazzi capturing the gesture. A warmth blooms in your chest and he stands so close that you can smell the cologne he had spritzed on earlier. "You've been eye-fucking me all evening."
You let out a flustered little laugh that Johnny perks up on, his smile turning into that shit-eating grin that often preceded one of his pranks.
"You're a sight for sore eyes, Knoxville," You reply, swiping his drink and taking a generous sip of the champagne. He fake whines over you stealing it, pretending to look bothered as you swig half of what was left.
You swirl the sweetness on your tongue for a moment, then add with a knowing look in your eyes, "Wearing this. The fancy shit," You decide to admit, "It's having an effect on me."
"Is it?" He steps closer, taking back his drink and brushing his fingers along yours. He effortlessly downs the rest of it.
He ponders for a second, brows scrunching thoughtfully under his sunglasses, then whispers, "Well, I'll note that for next time. That you got a fancy kink."
He laughs, and you take the opportunity to peek behind him, noticing the cameras are pointed elsewhere. Steve-o and Pontius are in the middle of a typical bit that caught everyone's attention. Now would be your chance.
You tighten your grip around his wrist and pull him with you off the red carpet. You slip away unnoticed, through a blocked-off entrance into the building behind you that no one happened to be guarding.
You swoop through several hallways while Johnny giggles manically behind you like a teenager about to get laid. Thankfully, no bystanders bother to question either of you as you both sneak into roped off area and down an empty hallway.
There's a few unmarked doors and you decide to try the first one, finding the handle surprisingly unlocked. Inside is a small room with some stacked tables and chairs, unused. A motion-detecting light turns on above your heads and reveals the dust collecting on every surface. Not luxurious, but it means the chances of getting walked-in on are likely zero.
"You get a strong arm when you want something," He comments, blissfully amused, but he's not arguing a lick when you drag him along into the room.
You're very aware he knows damn well what 'something' means. There's already a tinge of blush collecting in his face in anticipation for it, and he's unable to hide that sleazy smirk, one you're far too familiar with and have been on the receiving end of.
You ignore him, and once the door is shut tightly, you pin him against it, grab two fistfuls of his front and close the gap left between you.
When your lips meet his (for the first time tonight)— it's like a lit match dropping into a pit of gasoline. He tastes of champagne and sweat and a sweet taste uniquely him. An intoxicating mix on your tongue that you could never get sick of.
A loud sigh escapes you, your shoulders racking forward with the weight of your desire for him. White-hot desire that has been steadily building just from watching him move on the carpet. Watching him strut and pose in that sexy piece of a suit tailored in all the right ways. Not once did you have a pure thought about him tonight.
Johnny reciprocates. Strong and large hands appear on your hips immediately. He returns your ferocity like he's also been starving for it all night. His mouth is eager, all teeth and tongue. He purrs in his throat, pleased, when you part your lips, welcoming him in.
One of his hands skims along your outer thigh, searching for the slit in your gown, once found he shoves his hand up and inside.
You shiver when his hand possessively curls around and squeezes your ass, whining into his mouth when his nails dig crescents into your flesh.
In the next breath, he breaks away from the kiss, barely an inch and reluctant. He stares at you in mild shock when he realizes you didn't have panties on.
A jolt of pride courses through you, smiling in satisfaction, far too proud of yourself for being a step ahead of ol' Knoxville— something very few on this planet could brag about.
"You're fuckin' evil." He rasps, an incredulous laugh and a boyish grin that sends home he's completely unbothered by it and— knowing him— probably very turned on by it.
"And you love it."
You surge forward, burying your face into the crook of his neck. You yank down that perfect collar and force your lips onto a lower spot you know can be covered in case of pictures later.
You latch your lips onto his neck, one hand tangling through his silver hair above, and clamp your mouth down hard with the intent to leave a hickey.
Johnny makes a noise like he's been kicked, a cross between a yelp and a whimper, while his hands tighten their hold on your body.
When he takes a deep breath you feel the shuddery rise of his chest pushing against yours, the strong patter of his heart under his ribs that accelerates.
"Baby." He breathes, already sounding like he's over the moon.
His heady voice is like fuel to the fire, you kiss at his neck harder, sucking and lapping at the fresh marks you've made.
Your fingers thread through a few locks at the crown of his head and pull. Angling how you want him and exposing more of his neck, finding another sensitive spot that drives him crazy.
His hands cradle your backside and pull you closer, bumping your hips together and you gasp out sharply when you feel the straining front of his slacks rut against you.
You smile against his neck. You think it's endearing he's already got a hard-on from some messy necking.
You roll your hips into him again, repeating that same motion he made the mistake of starting.
He lets out another noise, more breathy this time, more heavier, and suddenly his palm is pressing at your jaw, putting pressure and wordlessly asking for you to kiss him again.
You gladly follow, meeting him halfway with an opened-mouth. You savor the weak little sigh he makes when your lips meet.
You love it. Every little reaction he has at your touch, your movements, responses he can't hold back.
There'd be quiet gasps, devoted murmurs of your name between kisses, litanies of endless praise when he got really into it.
You want to hear all of it and everything. You want to watch every effect you have on him and see his resolve crumble.
One hand clinging to his hair and the other twisted up in his belt, you rock your body forward. No desire to stop. You circle your hips against his, pushing up your cunt against the tent in his trousers.
His breathing goes ragged, his hands dropping down your frame. Calloused fingers tug at your ass and push you along, guiding you back and forth, moving you where he needs it most.
You're moaning, getting wetter by the second, the ache between your legs getting close to unbearable.
You're getting clumsy, rubbing against each other and you've already forgotten your surroundings and the fear anyone could be listening.
If it weren't for the hands on your backside holding you down, you'd be bunching up your gown and dragging your bare cunt against his clothed cock-
Johnny's breathing hitches, and suddenly his hands halt on your backside, slowing your grinding.
"You're gonna-" He parts from your mouth wetly, his breath coming out rapid and hot on your lips, "You're gonna make me jizz my pants." He huffs, laughter beneath it. It's a joke, but the visual entices you so much you almost indulge him to see if you can— almost. If it wasn't for the other visual that's been playing on repeat in your head all night.
Pressed against him, you work open his jacket, revealing the embossed material of the soft dress shirt underneath.
It's beautiful. Way more extravagant than what he would normally go for but it really does suit him. A long way off from the beaten up Dickies and vintage tees he seemed to live in, but him.
Your nails tread along the material before drifting south, collecting the fabric and untucking it from his pants.
The pads of your fingers touch the soft skin of his navel. He follows your movements with bated breath and watches your nails tick against the metal of his Knoxville embellished belt.
Before you continue, you look up at him, pause, faces inches apart. His sunglasses are crooked on the end of his nose and you do the favor of taking them off, slipping them into a jacket pocket.
Your insides melt when you finally get a glimpse at those pretty brown eyes, those cursed glasses hiding them from you all night. They're already glassy with desire, and something in them softens at the sight of you.
More. More, please.
You share another kiss, something slower this time, deeper, more sensual, unable to help yourself. Your hands sit between your lower bodies and undo the hefty belt buckle, the clinking of metal loud in the closet.
The big buckle used to be your enemy during your first times together but the motions to open it come like muscle memory now. The belt comes apart under your hands and, in the same breath, you sink to your knees.
"Thought about this all night," You admit shamelessly. You palm the front of his slacks, cupping the weight of him, looking right up into his eyes, "You have no idea how good you look, PJ."
He smiles with teeth, lets out little puffs of laughter. "You don't gotta flatter me now, darlin'. You're already at third base."
That southern lilt coming out is your aphrodisiac. You're entranced, mesmerized, staring up at him as if he's your light.
You open up his slacks with care, revealing more pale skin and faded scars from ages-ago stunts. You trail your nails down the soft hair there that led into his boxers.
Your fingers clip around the waist band and pull them far enough low to spring his cock out. It bobs against his belly, already full and ready for you.
Your mouth waters and your lips part. You look up at him through your lashes, watching him carefully, and trace your tongue along his tip.
You live for it, the sharp, shuddery inhale he makes and the way his eyes fixate on you. The way those brown eyes flutter on command and his mouth falls open. You wet your lips, breathing in as you let his heat pass the seam of your lips. Your hand comes up to stroke his shaft, using your spit as lubrication and the muscles in his abdomen tense.
"Shit," He sighs. He hisses out like it hurts when your mouth easily slides further down the length of him, "Shit. Sweetheart."
You hum around his cock, thighs squeezing together at the unabashed use of your favorite pet name. You decide to reward him with more pressure, a firmer suction that nearly buckles him at the knees.
You allow his breathing to steady out before continuing, your free hand digging into his thigh to keep him stationary, then proceed to take each inch of him carefully.
The head of him bumps the back of your throat and you gag harshly. Johnny's hand instantly curls lovingly through your hair and he lets out a loud groan that you pray wasn't loud enough someone heard.
You relax, eyes closing and focusing on suppressing your gag reflex. You carefully retract back, tracing your tongue along a vein, your mouth pulling back just enough to envelope his head, before taking him all the way to the back of your throat again. His hand tightens in your hair and you moan at the perfect sting of pain and pleasure at your scalp.
He feels your moans vibrate on his shaft and his hips buck involuntarily, briefly choking you.
Johnny immediately stiffens like he's hurt you, babbling out a breathless "sorry" and tries to back up to give you air. You smack his leg, staying put and wordlessly informing him you're fine.
His hand relaxes in your hair and you continue, moving back and forth, each pass getting more sloppier and wet, more obscene.
Your breathing gets more labored, your head starting to spin from the decreased oxygen but your need to satisfy him kept you going.
You go slow then fast, fast than slow, sneaking up glances through your watery eyes to watch him fall apart. Your filthy wet noises and muffled moaning around his dick was enough to get him to spiral.
"Fuck," He gasps. You hear the vague sound of a dull thud and realize it's the back of his head lobbing back onto the wall. "That's it, sweetheart. Just like that."
He rambles almost drunkenly, in a raspier tone that's thick with his Tennessee accent, a telling sign you're giving him a really good blowjob, "Feels so fuckin' good."
His fingers knot further into your hair, into the back of your head and you feel the tiniest pressure of his palm, in time with how you move. You can tell he wants to fuck your mouth with abandon but he's hesitating— ever the gentleman.
There was always a hint of hesitation when he was receiving, always a concern for your own well-being even when you reaffirmed it was about him. He always needed a little convincing to let go fully and you're always willing to entertain.
You pull off his cock, continuing to stroke him lazily as you catch your breath, staring up at him with tears threatening to spill from the corners of your eyes. You wait for him to look down at you. And oh your poor, poor stuntman.
He looks beautifully spent. So worked up. His silver hair is sticking out in all directions from your earlier petting, a blush all the way to his ears and his fancy little shirt is crinkled and the bow-tie is sideways.
"In my mouth, Johnny, please. I want it." You whimper out the i want it, drawing out the words with a tone full of nothing but lust. You bob his cock against your extended tongue and he makes a noise like the wind's been knocked out of him.
You hum around him, jaw well accustomed to him now, he slides down your throat with ease, and the way his body trembles you sense that hesitation is starting to break.
His breathing is getting labored. His collar feels far too tight. His face feels hot and Johnny can't look at you anymore so he screws his eyes shut.
" 'Course, baby," And there it is. His hand pushes on the back of your head, guides you onto his cock with the rhythm of his hips snapping forward.
You choke, gagging loudly and drool pools onto his cock. Your nails sharply drag along the planes of his stomach, leaving red lines behind and he lets out another deep groan that could be the star feature in a porno.
Gladly taking him to the hilt now, you go in for the kill. You hollow your cheeks, bobbing your head in a way you know he can't handle and suddenly his body shifts back.
His hand loses it's grip in your hair and lands somewhere behind him on the wall. Praises start to pour of him and you know he's not far from finishing.
"Darlin'-" He dares look down at you. His breathing going shot when he sees you, hair sticking to your face and tears streaming down your red cheeks and that perfect mouth of yours flexing relentlessly around him.
He lets out a long, wavering breath, his abs rising and falling rapidly against your fingers, the band in his stomach winding impossibly tight. "I'm fucking gonna- fuck."
Your nails dig into his skin hard enough to draw blood and the pain sends him over the edge.
His whole body goes still, muscles in his body tightening up, his dick buried down your throat as he cums. A long, satisfied groan leaves him when you feel the first hot ropes of his release hit the back of your throat.
You swallow obediently, soothing your hand comfortingly down his scratched stomach, holding him through his orgasm. His hips jerk forward with each wave, worn out groans flowing freely out of him as the aftershocks seem to rack through his whole body.
You stay put, letting him finish fully down your throat, swallowing each spurt of his release with practiced ease. You savor the final bit of his load before parting off him with a soft click, kissing the sensitive head and making him wince.
You sit back on your haunches, taking deep breaths in order to get the oxygen back into your lungs. Your throat feels raw and your knees are aching but you could give less of a shit.
This, the ruined sight of Johnny above you, recovering from a earth-shattering blowjob in a suit more expensive than yourself, this could cure everything wrong with you.
You gently slip him back into his slacks as his breathing quiets. You do up the front of him with extra care and try to flatten out any wrinkles. You wobbly stagger back to standing, in bare feet, your heels gone missing at some point.
He observes the whole thing, a post-orgasmic haze clouding his dark eyes, half-folded against the wall, watching you silently string his belt back together-
Before you can even touch the buckle he's kissing you deeply, capturing your face with two hands and pulling you against him almost clumsily. You kiss him back, sighing through it, still dizzy off the head you gave him.
It goes like that for a minute, heavy and slow kissing, your bodies swaying back and forth until he's somewhat steady on his feet.
Then, he's shoving one hand up your dress, hurriedly and desperate, searching for your bare cunt like a man starved— not very gentleman-like but you love it when he gets handsy, it was rare.
"Johnny," You whine his name when his fingers slip through your soaked folds. His thick middle and ring fingers sink inside you with impatience. He grunts at feeling your walls gripping tightly around him, already warm and slick.
He bends his wrist, barely, and you cry out, hand latching down onto his arm but it's not to stop him and he's a lot stronger than you.
He curls his fingers, massaging your inner walls and you feel the muscles in his forearm tensing with each movement.
He starts a rhythm, fast and unforgiving, the evidence of your arousal becoming audible in the room.
He slots his mouth against your ear. His accent is dangerously thicker post-orgasm. "We ain't goin' back until you cum."
It wouldn't be long. You're way too far gone to have any chance of lasting relatively long.
He sucks your neck while his palm fumbles on your swollen clit. You arch your body into him, your hips moving on their own to ride his fingers. Your head falls into his shoulder and you bite down on the fabric.
His fingers angle inside you and finds the spot that makes you see stars. You feel your wetness pooling onto his knuckles and you can't find your voice to warn him how close you are.
He's well-versed with the signs, and promptly slides a strong arm around your waist to prevent you from collapsing.
"Come on, babygirl. I gotcha." That sweet like honey southern voice, coaxing away lovingly at your ear snaps the coil in your stomach.
You spasm around him, cunt fluttering around his fingers. You let out a choked sob, burying your face in his shirt, breathing in the scent of him and leaking down his wrist. Something that when he notices, he's stupidly proud of.
"Atta girl." He rasps quietly, pride in his tone.
"That's my good girl." He keeps his lips pressed against your ear, murmuring praise and sweet things that leave tingles all over your body.
His fingers continue to pummel you through it, steadily fucking you until you're whining out in overstimulation.
He eventually slips out of you, making a show of shaking off your excess slick from his hand, before taking each digit to his mouth and licking them clean.
You stand in each other's space for a few silent minutes only punctuated by your breaths. Johnny holds your weight and at some point retrieves a handkerchief from a pocket.
He urges you to part your legs in a soft voice and you listen, feeling the silky fabric pad away at your soiled, sensitive skin. You feel warmth pool in your cheeks at the gesture, and remember his belt buckle was still open, and shakily do it up for him in return.
The two of you spend the moment cleaning yourselves up and adjusting your clothes. Helping each other spot any blemishes that would raise suspicions to your activities.
He puts his sunglasses back on as you spike his hair back into place and straighten his bow-tie. He fixes the smudges in your makeup and the frizz in your hair. He holds your hand as he helps you slip into your heels.
"I can't believed you showed up commando." He says, amused and still in disbelief.
He makes a face at you, "Pervert."
You giggle, "Had to surprise you somehow. It's a special night."
Even through his dark glasses you can read his pointed look any day, "You planned this?"
"Yes. Not really. Either way I was gonna take you home to do the same thing. I guess I got impatient from watching you all night."
Johnny smiles and it's one of those smiles you only got to see. The softer kind that brings out the age lines in his face you adore. His hand provocatively flaunts down the front of his suit, wiggling his brows, "I take it I should wear this thing more often."
Once you've decided you both look adequate, Johnny stamps a lingering kiss to your cheek as he leads you out of the room, hand pressed lovingly to the small of your back.
You already anticipate being on the receiving end of relentless questioning from the Jackass guys, about where the hell you two have been.
But you also anticipate Johnny has an over-the-top story already prepared about how you both got lost in the building and had a near-death experience or something. A story he'll defend until he gets the very last word.
SAY NO TO “REALISTIC” CREEPYPASTA SAY YES TO SLENDERMAN BEING A FATHER FIGURE, SAY YES TO THEM LOVING AND BEING NICE TO Y/N SAY YES TO SLENDERVERSE LIVING IN THE MANSION!! SAY YES TO THEM BEING A BIG HAPPY FAMILY!
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