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Fantasy - Ross Lynch

tw!! nsfw. dirty talk. fem!reader. raw(?) (no glove no love!) p in v.

(lol sorry about the shit grammar)

“You drive me crazy”

The tour bus was quiet.

The afterparty had drained the energy out of most of the crew. A few mumbled goodnights. A couple snores from the bunks up front. Someone’s phone still playing the same tiktok over and over again under a blanket. But back here, in the dim back lounge wrapped in the dull glow of a single overhead light, there was only the two of you.

You. And Ross. You had always liked Ross. But the fear of ruining a perfectly good friendship weighed heavy on your mind whenever you wanted to try something, whenever your mind wandered.

He sat across from you on the narrow leather couch, but your bodies had collapsed toward each other over time. Your legs were sprawled across his lap—a joke, at first. A lazy, half-teasing joke about there being “nowhere else to put them.” But forty minutes had passed, and you hadn’t moved. Neither had he.

And now, the air was different. Thicker. Warmer. Weighted.

Ross wasn’t looking away. He hadn’t for minutes.

You chuckle looking at him in return “what?” You ask softly. He smirks and stretches his arms with a yawn, “nothing”.

The golden remnants of stage lights still lingered on his skin, the soft gleam tracing over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the exposed line of his collarbone. His blond curls were damp, sweat-slicked it from the show.

His hoodie—oversized—had slouched halfway off one shoulder, revealing a strip of tanned skin and the edge of a tattoo you’d never seen in full. The zipper was tugged down low enough to show the hollow at the base of his throat, and the top curve of his chest.

Your gaze lingered. You knew it did. So did his.

“So…” you spoke again, voice soft, “You’re quiet tonight.”

Ross blinked, as if coming back to himself—but his eyes didn’t leave yours.

“No afterparty stories?” you teased. “No flirting with fans? Nobody from the crowd peak your interest?”

He exhaled a slow laugh through his nose. Then, he shook his head once, deliberate.

“No” he speaks “I haven’t been thinking about anyone else but you.”

The words hung in the air between you—unchallenged, bold, vulnerable. Your heart tripped in your chest. You opened your mouth to laugh it off, or say something sarcastic, but the moment you caught his expression, you stopped.

He wasn’t smiling. He was dead serious.

“I mean it,” he said, voice low and rough. “You’ve been in my head all night. Hell—every night.”

You shifted slightly, pulse quickening. When you go to sit up you feel some form of weight on your thigh. His hand. His fingers brushed the bare skin just above your knee, slow and lazy, grazing the edge of your thin sleep shorts. You inhaled, sharper than intended.

He noticed.

“I watch you,” he said, eyes darkening, voice a quiet confession. “Not in a creepy way—I just… I see you. You walk past me in the mornings, hair all messy, yawning like it’s the end of the world, and I swear it takes everything in me not to touch you.” He says as he draws patterns on your thigh.

Your breath caught.

His hand slid higher, barely an inch, but the sensation was scorching.

“I’ve been trying to keep it cool. Be professional,” he murmured. “But every time you laugh, or stretch, or say my name like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me…”

“You’re not funny Ross.” “I’m not joking y/n.” Oh

He leaned in.

Slow. Controlled. His face now just inches from yours, his breath fanning across your lips like an electric charge.

“…You drive me fucking crazy,” he whispered.

His lips didn’t meet yours. Not yet. Instead, they hovered—teasing—before brushing softly against the sensitive spot just below your ear. You shivered, a quiet sound escaping your throat. His lips moved lower, to the curve of your neck, his mouth warm and soft against your skin.

“Do you have any idea,” he whispered between kisses, “what you do to me?”

You couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

The heat between your bodies was unbearable.

He pulls you into his lap, hands firm on your hips.

You could feel him—hard beneath you—thick and pulsing through his sweats. He groaned when your hips rolled against his, a raw, low sound muffled into your neck.

“Ross…” you gasped, nails digging lightly into his shoulder.

“That’s it,” he said against your skin, voice rough and unsteady. “Say it again.”

“Ross,” you whispered, again, softer. Then again, needier. Each time, his hands gripped tighter, his mouth getting bolder, trailing down to your collarbone.

Your shirt slipped up as you shifted, and he didn’t hesitate—mouth following every inch of exposed skin, kisses languid and reverent, like he was memorizing you with his tongue. His hoodie was gone in one swift move, and his shirt followed, revealing lean, defined muscle and golden skin flushed with heat.

Wow.

“Wanna know something?” You whisper, all hot and bothered. “Hmm?”

“I’ve wanted you since the second week of tour.”

Something in him broke. Or maybe it snapped loose.

His mouth was on yours in an instant, deeper this time—consuming, as if the restraint he’d been clinging to all these weeks had finally shattered. He kissed you like he was starving. Like you were the thing that kept him awake at night. Like he didn’t know how to stop.

The rest of your clothes disappeared in the haze of heat and hands and tangled limbs. You didn’t remember how or when. Only that your body was pressed beneath his now, the cool leather of the couch a stark contrast to the fever of your skin.

“Ross.. someone could see or hear us” you express, but you don’t really care.

“Don’t care” he murmurs against your collarbone.

His thrusts came slow at first—deliberate, grounding, intimate. But as your nails dragged down his back and his name spilled from your lips like you were afraid you might forget how to breathe if you didn’t say it—he lost control. Completely.

Faster. Rougher. Deeper.

Every roll of his hips made you gasp. Every gasp from you made him moan, his mouth never leaving your skin. His body curved over yours, forehead to yours, sweat dripping down his jaw as he lost himself in you.

“Feel good? Hmm?” he mocks, voice cracking with pleasure.

“Uh huh,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “So good”

“You’re mine right? Hmm all mine?” He asks, breathlessly. He’s close.

You can’t even speak, all you can do is nod and whine, you nod your head, eyes squeezed shut. “Ni use your words”

“Yours”. you say softly “All yours”.

The last few minutes are a blur. You now lay on top of him, trying to steady your breathing. “Wow” “yea” he chuckles.

He goes to say something else when he’s cut off by a very annoyed Rocky.