eva or evs! 🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧. 18. kansas anymore. physical media. cinnamon rolls. written by s. holden jaffe. guided by elevens. love can’t break the spell. she del on my water till i gap. slut for cameron winter. mentally sling by clairo. met del water gap! i💗sticky toffee pudding. jake minch lover. acoustic guitar. wishes. nobody knows what it’s like to be us! procrastinating. new personality. come on, go there. midas is my song 4eva. joseph david keery.
just a reminder that fics are a gift from a writer, to you the reader. in no way shape or form are you entitled to anyone's creative works, nor do you have final say in what should or shouldn't be in someone's story. just because it's not what you wanted doesn't mean it's okay to demean an author. it's disrespectful and privileged, and frankly disgusting. if you want a specific thing to happen in a fic, write your own! I'm absolutely baffled by the lack of decorum some people have. be better.
warnings: smuuuuut, unprotected intercourse, dom Tucker if you squint
“So he brings a…” You trail off, already knowing that the intern in your green room has been thoroughly prepared for this line of questioning.
“An hourglass… yes,” The younger girl answers with a curt nod, trying to keep some level of professionalism as she clutches her clipboard to her chest like it just might save her the embarrassment of having this conversation. It won’t.
“Right, and the point of that is?” You question, glancing at her through the mirror's reflection as you finish putting sweat resistant powder on your nose.
“Uh,” She fumbles with the clipboard, and notices when your eyes drop to her hands. You can tell she’s nervous and she’s well aware of it. “Well… I’m trying to figure out how to put it politely, what terms to use.” She finally offers with a soft huff. It could be a laugh or just the last of her dignity leaving her body.
“I’m a pornstar, darlin’. Put it in sex terms, yeah? Plain english, just spit it out.” You sigh with a shrug, having heard it all at this point.
“It’s a fifteen minute sand timer.” She finally spills, the words falling from her lips like they’d been begging to since you booked this damn shoot. “He flips it every time he makes you cum, and he starts all over again. He only lets himself finish after the sand has run out.”
“And if the sand doesn’t run out?” You ask with a quirked brow.
“Then he just keeps going…” She supplies with a blush rising on her cheeks. “For as long as he can.”
“Hm, an endurance guy, huh? Alright, what’s the set up?” You ask with an amused hum, already imagining exactly how you expect this to go. Tuck Timely, how corny even for a porn name, like a VHS tape straight from the eighties.
“Uh, old school set up is what he prefers, just you, him and… the camera.” She supplies, and she couldn’t look anymore sheepish if she was actually scratching the back of her neck.
“That… tracks,” You roll your eyes, finally moving to stand up from your makeup chair. You’re only dressed in a thin silk robe covering lingerie. Despite the vintage aesthetics in the air this isn't some scripted– I can’t pay the TV repair man– schtick. “Fine, show me the way?”
You follow her down a few corridors that all look more or less the same. There’s different doors that branch off to the left and right leading to all of the different sets. She stops outside one particular door, and the first thing you notice is that absolutely nothing sticks out about it from the outside. It’s just another door in another hallway.
“Now it will be live, so as soon as you step in there… the stream will see you.” She reminds you like you haven’t done this countless times before. Like it’s not your job. “He’s not in there. He’ll come in after you.”
“Oh great, a grand entrance. This should be good.” You huff out a laugh, unable (or unwilling) to hold it back this time.
“Okay, yeah. Thank you. You can… go. I just need a moment.” You speak up after realizing the intern is still standing there waiting for permission to hightail it, and she does with a mumbled thanks and disappears down the corridor.
You take a moment to steel yourself, letting your eyes close as you take deep breaths.
As soon as you reach out and twist the door handle down, your cynicism about the situation takes a backseat to the paycheck you’ll get from this stream, and a smirk takes it’s place.
“Showtime.” You whisper under your breath, shoving the door open to find a set that’s been dressed like some strange studio apartment. There’s a bed, of course, but there’s also a couch off to one side and a wooden table with whisky and lowball glasses on the other. There’s playing cards spread haphazardly across the table that you run your fingers over as you wait on him.
The hourglass is an old wood and glass style time keeper. It’s bigger than you expected it to be and sits just on top of the headboard of the bed.
The camera in the far corner of the room is already on and blinking. You’re not sure how many people are watching. It could be forty, or it could be four thousand.
You’ve just poured yourself a drink, mostly to pass the time and have something interesting to do with your hands while you wait, when he finally comes in.
He’s not wearing some ridiculous costume either— thankfully. Instead he’s wearing a pair of blue jeans held up by a bronze belt buckle. He’s forgone a shirt all together, deciding to just show off the countless works of art that create a patchwork canvas across his upper body.
“You’re really confident in your ability to make me cum I hear?” You ask, breaking the silence before he can say something awkward or off putting.
“Nah, it’s not that…” Tuck surprises her with a confident chuckle while shaking his head. He barely glances at the camera, giving it one quick scan before crossing the room towards you, towards the table.
“I’m actually challenging myself.” He corrects you, wasting no time to crowd you with his hands on either side of your body, laying them palms down on the table with his back pressed to your chest. “How many times can I get you off before you’re so tired that you let me cum first?”
“So not confident then… just cocky.” You quip back in a hum, still holding the lowball glass halfway to your lips. You haven’t even taken a sip yet when you sit it down and turn to face him.
“I can deal with that.” You conclude, wrapping one of your hands around the back of his neck to haul his face down to yours, lips and teeth touch in a biting kiss. His breath smells of mint and the faint taste of nicotine touches her tongue when he coaxes his into her mouth.
“Fuck, you’re gonna be trouble,” He mutters more to himself than you, the sentiment vibrating against your neck as he bites his way down it. His hands are already twisting in your thin, black robe, lifting you onto the edge of the table without any effort.
Letting go of his neck you help him untie and pull the robe off of your shoulders, leaving you in just your signature lingerie— practically painted on because it’s made to fit so well— and a pair of heels.
“I can deal with that.” He echoes your earlier words when he pulls back to get a full view of you on the table, unwrapped and ready for him to devour. His words are teasing, but filled with praise. Like he sees a new toy he can’t wait to play with— one he wasn’t expecting. You.
“Yeah, let’s get this started…” He decides, his hands gripping under your ass now as he lifts and carries you over to the bed, depositing you sideways on the mattress as his knees hit the rug.
He stretches one of his long arms over to flip the hourglass. Fifteen minutes. Starting now.
He wastes no time peeling open your legs and tossing your heels off to the side, murmuring as he trails his lips up your inner thigh with that same cocky smirk.
“Don’t worry sweet thing, I’ll take good care of you.” He purrs against your skin. Before you can even react he’s prying your thighs apart with his big palms. His tongue finds your lace covered clit, closing his lips around it as he sucks.
“Ah, fuuck,” Your right hand— the one that had been gripping the sheets until now— reaches out reflexively to tangle your fingers in his hair, pressing his face closer as your feet settle over his shoulders.
You only let him pull away just long enough to tug your panties off of your hips, his mouth immediately finding your bare pussy once they’re out of the way. He buries his tongue inside of you and rubs his nose back and forth across your now sensitive clit.
A low grunt of satisfaction leaves him at the feeling of your nails digging into the back of his head, holding on for dear life. The sound sends a warm set of sparks shooting through you— a sensation you instantly decide you want to feel again.
His fingers join his tongue, eventually replacing them completely as he focuses on kitten licking your clit, his two fingers taking over as they push and hook inside of you.
Your thighs tighten around his ears, and when you crack your eyes open to look down at him he’s already staring up at you. His mouth is far too busy for that stupid smirk, but his eyes are glittering with success. You’re close, and he knows it.
He adds a third finger, one that has your toes curling against his back. His mouth never lets up as he coaxes you to the edge of ecstasy and dumps you right over it. A sinful moan bursts from your lips when you come, your whole body shaking with every thrust of his hand.
He barely gives you time to come down before he’s standing from his knees and flipping the hourglass. It looks like there are about nine minutes left now.
His free hand is sucking his fingers clean, and he sends her that same damn smile when he mutters, “Knew you’d be sweet, sweet thing.”
His reaches for his belt buckle next, and the sound of it thunking against the floor is the next thing you catch. He pulls down his jeans and his boxers along with them, pumping himself in his hand a couple of times.
You can only lay back and watch— boneless and blissed out as he crawls on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress so he can slide his length between your folds. He lets out a satisfied hiss, leaning down to press his lips against yours.
He distracts you with his mouth, his hands gripping your hip and the back of your head while he lines up with your entrance and presses himself inside.
“Fucking… Christ,” Tuck groans out, his grip tightening on you to hold you still. He ruts into you until he’s buried to the hilt.
Tuck’s mouth drops to your nipple, licking the sensitive bud. He wraps his lips around the thin skin and starts to suck while he thrusts. He finds a rhythm that satisfies him, his hands falling to cup your ass and hold you up at a new, much deeper angle.
Your eyes follow his when he glances over at the hourglass. From what you can tell there looks to be five minutes left. You won’t need that long. He can tell by the way your cunt is gripping him, by the way your hands are clawing at his back.
He pops your nipple out of his mouth to lean up and mutter that low, syrupy voice in your ear. “Cum for me, sweet girl. I know you can.”
Whatever snippy comeback was on the tip of your tongue is lost to a fit of moaned babbling as the tip of his cock pounds relentlessly against your g-spot. The second the warmth of his breath hits your ear you’re falling apart again. The low grumbled hiss sound he makes should be illegal, but instead of focusing on it he’s already pulling out, flipping you and the hourglass in tandem.
It’s back at thirteen minutes.
“You gonna let me have this one?” He asks through breathy pants, pulling you down onto his lap. You fold your knees on either side of his thighs and sink back down onto him. “You tired enough yet?” The smirk in his voice is evident, the assuredness of his tone has your stubborn side flaring.
Hands around his shoulders, his cupping your ass, you pick up and drop your knees. The movement is almost second nature to you at this point, to bounce, but you’re not used to having someone who fits so perfectly, who fills her this deep.
“No… no, ‘m gonna cum again,” That stubborn side finally coming out to play. You can’t let him win even if your entire body is starting to tremble under his brown eyed gaze.
“God damn it,” He grits through his teeth, his grip drifting to your hips where he guides you with a steely grip. “Fuck, sweet thing. I need to cum.” He adds, and the way he spits it out seems to take a hint of his cocky pride with it.
“Nuh uh,” It’s your turn to smirk, slamming your hips down against his one last time. You grind against him restlessly as you finish for a more than satisfying three times.
His voice cracks this time when your cunt squeezes him, and it takes every ounce of self control he has not to finish then and there, but he’s too pissed. Now he has a point to prove.
He reaches over and slams the hourglass back on its head. There’s no pretense of gentleness left in his grip as he flips you around once again.
Tuck folds your knees up to your chest, pressing your face against the mattress as he pins you down. He crawls up on the bed behind you, his knees on either side of yours.
“You’re gonna let me… fucking cum… this time,” He punctuates each of his world with a rough thrust of his hips, “You hear me? Watch it. Watch the fucking timer.” He hisses, reaching up to grip a handful of your hair. He pulls your head up so you have no choice but to watch the sand slowly sink to the bottom of the hourglass.
“Don’t you dare fucking cum again.” He chastises you, his palm coming down in a harsh slap against your ass cheek, followed by another one to the other side. And another. “Watch it. Let it run out.”
You’re a whimpering mess under him by now, any pretense of stubbornness being fucked right out of you.
A focused crease appears between his brows, his eyes bouncing back and forth from the sand to the place where your body meets his.
As the last grains start to fall Tuck slams into her at a relentless pace.
“Ah, fuck yes, sweet thing… Fuuuck, that’s it,” He moans, his grip shaking, his balls constricting against your clit as he finally spills hot and deep inside of you.
His moans turn to cries when his orgasm pushes you into your own, both of you falling apart at the seams, lost in the heat of each other. He collapses over you, his chest pressing against your back while he catches his breath.
“Holy… shit.” He pants and rolls over onto his back next to you on the mattress. He has enough sense left to grab the cameras remote from the bedside, pressing a button that makes the red light go dark. They’re officially offline.
“Wanna go again?” He asks, that smirk making another, more tired appearance this time. He manages to cover his face as you blindly swat at him, but you’re both laughing and you both know…
This will definitely be happening again.
A/N- heeeeey y'all. How y'all doin'? (I'm sweating.) It's two in the morning so please excuse any typos. BIG shoutout to Liza for giving me the idea and being my cheerleader on this. Let me know what you think! Okay, love ya bye.
watching primavera sound rn and im gonna get a little sentimental and parasocial
i LOVE role model so much. i think nothing will ever come close to him for me he’s just so special. obviously i love his music so much but i love the community that comes with it @slutevainterlude @camouflagedinglitter @tuckshoney and i are all messaging during this set and im just having so much fun! i love these girls so much i love role model so much i just love him. i’m so glad i found his music he’s changed my life so much i love life
-Runs Pillsbury Auto and Repair that his dad opened in 1982.
-It’s the only auto shop in a town with a population less than a 1,000.
-Drives a ‘78 Bronco that’s always “almost finished”. It’s chocolate brown with a few rust spots on the fenders and a passenger door that sticks.
-He’s built from years of working with his hands. Broad shoulders, strong arms and a bad back (that he’d never admit to.)
-His hair is always a little bit too long. He constantly pushes it back out of his face with his wrist. His logic? Hand, dirty. Wrist? Clean. (It’s not.)
-Speaking of his hands, they’re strong and calloused but incredibly steady. His fingers permanently grease stained and riddled with small scars from slipped wrenches.
-He wears a backwards ball cap when it pisses him off too much.
-His voice is low and raspy from years of breathing exhaust fumes.
-He doesn’t talk much but he isn’t shy, just selective. So when he does speak, people listen.
-His ‘uniform’ is a pair of Dickey’s coveralls, usually unzipped halfway and tied around his waist and steel toe boots.
-He wears a thermal Henley under the coveralls in the winter and a grey tank top in the summer. (He says grey hides the grease better. It does not.)
-He always carries chewing gum and a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He’s been trying to quit for three years, but hasn’t yet.
-He knows everyone and can tell who is coming down the street by the sound of their engine.
-He talks to cars. Not in a weird way. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until he's muttering “C’mon sweetheart, Start for me,” under his breath and “There you go baby, that’s it.” when it finally does.
-The ladies in town love him, young and old.
-The older ones call him ‘handsome’ and he just assumes they’re being nice.
-The younger ones find reasons to bring their cars in. He just fixes the problem and sends them on their way.
- He has a dog named Socket that wandered up skinny and skittish a four years ago. He fed her a breakfast sandwich from the gas station and she never left.
-He swears she’s not his dog. She has a bed under the front counter and a treasure trove of stolen shop towels, but chooses to lay across the doorway where he has to step over her constantly.
-He’s never left his small town for more than a weekend, and doesn’t care to.
-He thinks he’s invisible. He’s very, very visible.
The Shop-
-Still stuck in the late 90’s.
-Yellowed (once white) cinder blocks with a red and white sign out front. The bulb for the ‘R’ in ‘Repair’ flickers. Tucker has been ‘about to change it’ for years.
-There’s two bay doors. One of them groans like it’s dying every time he opens it. He calls it character.
-The waiting room has a coffee machine older than him, cracked leather chairs and a front desk that creaks if you lean against it.
-It always smells like coffee, engine oil and rubber from the display tires.
-The walls are covered in pictures of restorations over the decades, a calendar from the feed store that’s from 2015 and a cork card with sticky note IOU’s and random business cards.
-The bell above the front door that alerts him to someone coming in always seems to ring when he’s elbow deep in something and cursing under his breath.
-The coffee pot gets turned on at 6 am. He drinks it even if it’s burnt, and will offer you a cup without warning you that it’s terrible.
-His dad and the old guys from the diner still show up at 8am sharp to sit on a bench and critique Tucker’s form with a cup of burnt coffee. Tucker pretends to hate it, but he doesn’t.
-The shop floor is stained with decades of oil and scratches in the concrete.
-Half of Tucker’s tools still have his dads initials scratched into them.
-There’s a radio on the tallest shelf that only plays classic rock and the occasional sad country music. Tucker hums along when knows he’s alone.
-He lives in a small house behind the shop. It’s not much. A bedroom where he sleeps, a kitchen where he eats over the sink and a living room with a tv that goes staticky when it rains.
-His shower has horrible water pressure. The fridge is mostly condiments and old takeout boxes. The couch is permanently dented on one end. (That’s Socket’s spot.) He’s never once thought about moving.
Hey, y’all… this is a mess, but there’s so much more. If you want it let me know ❤️. (I’m gonna post it anyways.) Socket, Ky and reader will make an appearance of course.
desc: you’re the quiet one in town, not really known by people, just kinda there at the towns favourite diner. and gator? well, gator has that reputation that bleeds from his fathers. your coworkers warn you, the customers look at you weird, his coworkers make fun of him. that doesn’t change your opinion about him though, cause you know him. really know him. he tells you things he doesn’t tell anyone else. and thank god it stays between the two of you.
cw: nothing really just some language but basically all fluff
wc: 3.5k
a/n - i’ve never written primarily like fluff or normal stuff sooo again feedback is appreciated MWAH and thank you to this request for the idea i feel like it didn’t rlly fit but whateva… hi eva…
————————————————————————————————
it starts before the diner, before you, before anything that could be called a pattern.
the station’s quiet in that stretched-out way it gets toward the end of the day, not much coming in, not much going out, just the low hum of voices and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor.
gator’s got himself leaned back like he’s settled in for something, boots out, chair tipped just enough to make it look like he doesn’t care if it gives out under him.
he’s half-listening at best.
someone’s talking about a call from earlier, something small, already turning into a story bigger than it was, and he lets it wash past him until his name slips into it, casual as anything.
“you still goin’ over to that diner all the time?”
it takes him a second to realize they’re talking to him.
he doesn’t move right away, just lets the chair rock forward onto all fours again, slow, controlled. “what about it.” he says flatly.
there’s a pause, the kind that fills up quick in a small room.
“nothin,” one of them says, but there’s already a look being passed across the room, something easy and knowing. “just hear things.”
gator’s mouth presses thin for a second. “yeah? from who?”
“people.”
that’s all it takes. it’s always all it takes.
another voice cuts in, louder this time, not bothering to keep it quiet. “that girl still workin’ there?”
gator looks up properly now, his eyes moving between them, slower than necessary. “what girl?” and god, his words are not convincing. not really.
someone huffs out a laugh. “c’mon, gator.”
he holds the look for a second longer than he should, then pushes up out of the chair like he’s done with it. “she’s just a waitress.”
“sure she is.”
there’s something underneath it, something that sticks, even after he turns away from them. he doesn’t give it anything else. just grabs his keys and heads out before it can turn into more.
it follows him anyway. it always does.
the air outside’s colder than it looks, that dry kind of cold that sits in your lungs a little too long. he crosses the lot, gravel crunching under his boots, jaw set tighter than it does to be over something that shouldn’t matter. but it does.
and he knows it does, which makes it worse.
he gets home and finds his dad out back, like he expected, like there was never a version of this where he wouldn’t be there. roy doesn’t look up right away, just stands there with his hands resting easy, like he’s got all the time in the world.
gator tries to pass him without stopping. but obviously that doesn’t work out.
“you been spendin’ a lotta time in town.” and it’s said lightly. like it’s almost nothing.
gator slows anyway around him. “work.” he says simply.
“that so.”
“yeah.” he keeps walking, but not far.
there’s a small pause behind him, just long enough to settle in. “that diner’s got you workin’ late, then.”
gator exhales through his nose, something sharp behind it now. “what’s your point.” he says flatly.
roy shifts his weight, finally looking at him proper. “no point.” another pause. “just hear things.”
same words as before. they land heavier.
gator turns this time, not all the way, just enough to meet his eyes. “people talk.”
“they do.”
roy studies him, not hard, not obvious, just enough to make it feel like he’s already decided what this is. “girl like that,” he says after a moment, voice even. “don’t seem much.”
it’s not an insult. not exactly. but it sits wrong.
gator’s jaw shifts. “she’s just–” he stops himself, doesn’t finish it, figuring that he doesn’t have anything that sounds right.
roy notices that. of course he does. he hums once, quiet, and leaves it there, which is worse. his scrutiny, the way that he would’ve told him how a real man should treat a woman, all of the bullshit he carries in his brain.
by the time gator’s in the truck, again, the sky’s already gone dull at the edges, the light flattening out into something gray and thin. he sits there for a second with his hands on the wheel, not moving, like he’s waiting for the feeling in his chest to settle into something he can name.
and it doesn’t.
so he starts the engine anyway.
the diner looks the same as always.
bright in a way that feels a little too clean, a little too steady, like it doesn’t change no matter what happens outside of it.
you’re halfway through wiping down a table when the bell above the door rings, and you don’t turn right away, because you don’t need to. you already know who it is. you’ve already noticed the way the room shifts, even if it's small and subtle.
but it’s there. that’s for sure.
marlene catches it first, glancing up, then over at you. “oh, great.”
you look at her, not stopping what you’re doing. “what?” you say softly.
she tips her chin towards the door with a half smile. “your friend’s back.”
you follow the gesture just enough to see him coming in. same as always.
same pace, same expression, same way people go a little quieter without meaning to.
“not my friend.” you say it like it doesn’t matter.
“mhmm,” marlene hums like she doesn’t believe you.
he heads straight for the booth he’s taken to using, sliding in like it’s already his.
you grab a mug before thinking about it and of course marlene notices. “you don’t gotta do that.” she says.
“it’s fine.”
“i can take him.”
you shake your head once. “i got it, marlene. seriously.” you smile.
“god bless you.” she whispers almost to herself as she watches you go, something unsettled in the way she doesn’t say anything else.
gator was the talk of the town for all the wrong reasons. his dad’s reputation, his own reputation, but that all flew past your head every time you spoke to him.
you set the coffee down in front of him.
black.
he looks at it, then up at you. “didn’t order yet.”
“you don’t need to.”
it’s not said like anything. just a fact.
he leans back a little, one arm hooked over the back of the booth, eyes still on you. like always. “you just decide things for people, or–”
“just you.”
it comes out easy. and it’s not like you mean anything by it. but it lands anyway.
he goes quiet for a second, like he wasn’t expecting you to answer him like that. “yeah?” he smiles a little, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips before he looks you up and down quickly.
you shrug, already shifting your weight. “you don’t change it.”
“guess not,” he says slowly. like for the first time ever, he's actually thinking about it.
the place settles back into itself after a while, or at least tries to.
you move through your shift the same way you always do, keeping your head down, keeping things moving, not letting anything linger long enough to turn into something else. but of course it does anyway.
it always does.
marlene corners you near the counter later, voice lower this time as she says, “you should stay away from him, hon.”
you don’t look at her, continuing to wipe down the counter as he continues to sit in that damn booth. “why.” you say almost flatly.
“because that ain’t normal.”
“what isn’t?” you ask.
she gestures, not subtly at all, towards the booth. “that. him. you. the whole thing.”
you glance over. luckily, he’s not looking at you right then. but, there’s a tension in the way he’s sitting, like he’s aware of everything happening around him even when he’s not showing it.
“he just comes in.” you say with a soft sigh, looking at her now.
“yeah,” she says, a little sharper now, “for you.”
you shake your head, small. “no.”
marlene studies you for a second, a little taken aback. “you really don’t see it, y/n?”
you don’t answer, because you don’t see it. not in the way she means. sure, you guys have sat in that booth together talking about shit, but not in the way she means.
he stays late again. later than most. later than makes sense. who’s surprised.
by the time he stands, you’re already by the door, your shift has ended, shrugging your jacket on, ready to leave. and of course he notices.
he always notices.
“you headin’ out?” he says, already by your side, looking down at you, shoving his hands into his pocket.
“yeah,” you say, nodding, glancing up at him.
he hesitates, just for a second, like he’s working up to something he doesn't usually have to think about. he’s nervous, for what seems like the first time in his life.
“you walk?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know your schedule, the way to your home… shit. stalkery-ish, but you can’t really blame him. he’s the sheriff and all that anyway. and to be fair, he’s taken you home twice before. but nothing’s happened. this time feels different.
“most days.” and there’s another pause.
he shifts on his feet, glancing toward the door, then back at you. “i can take you.”
it’s different from how he usually talks. hes quieter, almost less sure. you notice it, the people still left in the diner notice it, even if they pretend not to. the whole fucking town notices it.
you think about it for a second, your gaze meeting in. then–
“okay.”
outside, the cold hits sharper now, the kind that settles into your fingers even through fabric. his truck’s parked right out front. he opens the door for you without saying anything, waiting until you’re in before shutting the door in an uncharacteristically gentle way.
he goes around to his side, hopping in, closing the door behind him. it’s quiet in the truck once the door shuts. the only sound coming from you rubbing your hands together to keep any sort of warmth.
“you cold?” he asks, starting the engine, heater kicking in low, the air carrying that mix of smoke and… his cologne?
“i’m fine.” you say, turning your head to look at him, just to see him giving you a look that says really? with a small smile on his face. “really, i’m good.” you say, a shiver passing through you at the worst time.
“jesus.” he shakes his head with a soft chuckle, leaning forward to shrug off his jacket before moving to place it around your shoulders. “don’t want you to get sick or anything.”
he doesn’t pull away after that. “y’know, they– they… they say things.” he exhales deeply at the silence. “people, i mean.”
you glance over and nod with the smallest shrug. “they always do.”
he taps his fingers once or twice against the wheel, the stops. “don’t listen to ‘em.” it’s not advice. not really.
you look out the windshield, leaning your head against the headrest. “i don’t.”
that seems to settle something in him. just a little. he pulls out of the gravelly parking lot after that, turning onto the main road.
the drive’s quiet. not empty, but steady. he keeps glancing over every few seconds, quickly too, like he’s simply just checking you’re still there. making sure you didn't fall out the car or something like that.
“you don’t think it’s weird.” it sounds like it’s supposed to be a question, but it’s not quite one.
“no.” you shrug.
“why not?”
you think about it, but not for long. “you’re just… you.” it’s simple. nothing behind it. but it hits him anyway. “i’d like to think i know more about you then the others do.”
you can see it in the way his grip tightens slightly on the wheel, in the way he just doesn’t respond, letting you continue to give him directions to your place.
when he pulls up outside your place, the engine doesn’t cut right away.
it idles low, steady, the headlights stretching out across the front of your house, catching on the edges of things you don’t really notice this late – the uneven steps, the railing that leans just a little to the left, the patch of ground that never quite grows grass.
you reach for the handle like before. he doesn’t say anything this time. but he doesn’t move either.
you pause, hand resting there for a second, then glance over. surprise, he’s already looking at you. not in that sharp, watchful way he usually does. something quieter. like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do.
“you don’t gotta just drop me off,” you say with a soft smile. not accusing, not anything, just putting it out there.
it takes him a second. then he nods once, like he needed the permission more than he expected to. “yeah…” he says quietly, weakly before following it with a more solid, “yeah.”
he kills the engine and the cold hits harder when you both step out, the night settled deep now, quiet in that way that makes every small sound carry – the shut of the truck door, the crunch of gravel under your shoes, the faint hum of something far off you can’t quite place.
he falls into step beside you without thinking about it. he’s not too close but not far either. just… there.
you walk up the short path together, neither of you saying much at first, the silence not heavy, just filled with the kind of things that don’t need to be said out loud.
halfway up, he glances at the steps. “that one’s loose.” you look down to look at what he’s looking at. “the second one.”
you step over it automatically with a more bold smile now. “you noticed that.” not a question.
“yeah,” he pauses lightly. “you always step around it.”
you don’t respond right away, just keep walking with his jacket around your shoulders. but there’s something in what he said, something quiet and real. he’s been paying attention, more than you thought.
more than anyone usually does.
you guys reach the door, keys already in your hand but you don’t unlock it right away. he stops just behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the cold air, but he doesn’t crowd you.
doesn’t rush it. never. no, definitely not with you.
“they still say things,” he says after a second, voice lower out here in the cold, like the night calls for it.
you glance back at him. “when do they not?”
“it’s about you.”
you turn a little more, leaning back against the door instead of opening it, looking up at him, arms crossed behind your back. “they don’t know me.” you shrug.
“no,” he says, softer now. “they don’t.”
there’s a small pause letting you study him for a second, head tilting just slightly. “you listen more than you act like you do.”
he frowns. “what’s that supposed to mean?” he says, arms crossing over his chest, hand rubbing at his exposed wrists.
you nod toward him, like it’s obvious. “you remember things.”
“everyone remembers things.”
“not like that.”
you glance down at his sleeves, then back up. “you always roll your left one higher.”
he glances down automatically, tugging at it a little like he’s been caught doing something he didn’t realize he did. “that don’t mean anything.”
“means you’re paying attention.”
“what? how does that make sense?” he says with a soft chuckle.
“‘cause it just does.” you shake your head. “you pay attention but not where people expect.”
he exhales through his nose, something almost amused flickering in his gaze. “you always do this?”
“do what?”
“talk like you know things you ain’t sayin’ all the way.”
you think about it, just for a second. “maybe.”
that earns you a look. a real one. then, quieter, he adds on, “you ain’t like how they say.”
you tilt your head, arms crossing at your front now like you just can't stop moving. “what do they say, then?”
he shifts, glancing to the side before looking back at you again. “like you’re… not all there.” he almost hesitates to say.
your brows lift, just slightly. “that’s rude.”
“yeah,” he mutters, jaw tightening a bit. “it is.”
“you believe it?”
“no.” he answers too fast.
you nod once, like you already knew that. “good.” a small beat passes, then you add, just a little lighter, “be embarrassing for you if you were wrong.”
he lets out a short breath, something between a scoff and a laugh. “yeah?”
“yeah.” you glance at him, just a hint of something playful now. “you’ve been comin’ around too much to be wrong about me.”
he looks at you then, properly, something in his expression shifting again, but not closing off this time. just loosening. “maybe i just like the coffee.”
you hum. “you don’t even drink it half the time.”
“tch. that ain’t true.”
“it goes cold.”
“that don’t mean i don’t like it.”
you smile a little, barely there. “sure.”
he watches that, like it’s something new. cause for the first time it’s not something he imagined he saw, he actually saw your smile.
“you notice things too.” he adds on quieter.
you nod. “see, i told you.”
“yeah, well,” he shifts his weight, closer now without making it obvious, “don’t go tellin’ people that.”
“what, that you’re observant?”
“that i’m anythin’ but.”
you tilt your head slightly looking away like you’re considering it. “your secret’s safe.”
“good.”
“wouldn’t wanna ruin your reputation.” you add on softer like a little jab which earns you another small huff from him, but it’s easier this time. less sharp. more real.
the space between you feels different now. it just feels closer, not tense at all, but aware.
his hand lifts like he’s going to do something with it, then hesitates halfway, like he’s not sure where it’s supposed to land.
and obviously you notice.
so you reach out first, fingers brushing lightly against his wrist, grounding it here. “you can relax, you know,” you say quietly.
“i am.” he says, earning a look from you. he exhales, something softer breaking through now. “tryin’ to be.”
“better.” your thumb shifts slightly against his wrist, absently like you’re not really thinking about it, causing him to still for a second.
he lets himself stay there. lets himself lean in slow, giving you time to move if that's what you wanted for whatever reason. at this point he was just praying that he wasn’t reading this wrong.
and thank god you don’t.
he leans in more, the kiss brief and soft. his lips meet yours gently like he’s testing the waters, just scared shitless that he’s going to do the wrong thing.
he hand cups the back of your neck just right as the kiss deepens barely. just enough to taste you, enough to satisfy him and you for the night.
you pull away just for a moment before leaning back in, the kiss still soft, still light, still gentle. your hands reach to hold his shoulder as you two continue to kiss.
then he pulls back, not going far. just enough to look at you. “you always do that?” he asks, his voice just a whisper now.
“what?”
“make things feel easy.”
you act like you’re thinking about it. “not on purpose.”
he nods, like that makes sense. “figured.” he smiles.
there’s a small pause as he removes his hand from your neck hesitantly, running it over the back of his neck like he’s working up something to say again.
“um, there’s a place out past the highway,” he says, a little uneven but pushing through it anyway. “not much there. just quiet. nobody really goes.”
“you takin’ me somewhere no one goes, gator?” you grin.
“didn’t say it like that.” he gives you the best attempt at a held-back smile.
“kinda sounds like that.”
“it ain’t”
“okay.” you nod.
“okay?”
“yeah.” you shift your keys in your hand. “when?”
he answers quicker this time like he's scared you'll change your answer if he takes any longer. “tomorrow.”
you glance up at him, your amusement showing on your face now. “you plan things that fast often?”
“no.” he shakes his head, his tongue running over his top teeth as he fixes his hat.
“just with me?”
he hesitates, then… “yeah.” and that lands softer than anything else.
“okay.” you nod once.
that settles something in him, properly this time. you can see it in the way his shoulders ease, the way he finally takes a small step back, even if he doesn’t really want to.
“night. goodnight, y/n.”
“night, gator.” you smile, unlocking the door and opening it. you lean in to press a quick kiss to his lips, his jacket still over your shoulders. “i’ll return this tomorrow.”
“keep it ‘till the weather gets better. or forever. doesn’t matter. okay, shit. goodnight.”
you chuckle softly, a grin on your face now as you step inside, sparing him one last glance before shutting it behind you, the warmth of his jacket and house enveloping you.
Tucker’s call came in just after three in the morning, and seeing his name pop up— Ky almost ignored it— but Tucker wouldn’t try to get ahold of him this late unless something was on fire.
Ky rolled over and snatched his phone off of the nightstand, answering the call with a grunt sound meant to be a greeting.
There’s a soft, cracking sound from the other end. It could be a bad connection, but it sounds more like someone struggling to find their words, choking on the weight of them.
When he finally does find them, Tucker's voice is hollow and wrong, not just his usual dryness— it’s empty. The sharp shrill sound of Theo’s cries break through like his protests are so loud, so insistent, that the microphone can’t keep up.
“She’s gone, Ky. She— she left him here. She just left him.”
His voice cracks, and Ky can hear the rough scratch in his throat as he swallows and tries again.
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help him.” The sound of Tucker’s barely concealed tears cause his voice to waver in a way that makes Ky’s entire chest lock up.
“Ky, I need you.”
“I’m on my way.”
Ky shows up twenty minutes later, having circled the apartment building cursing at his GPS for much longer than he would have liked. The apartment door is unlocked.
The only light coming from inside is the harsh glow of the muted tv reflecting off of the white walls. A soothing baby music video that had obviously been an abandoned effort is playing silently. He notices the half empty drawers pulled open and the messy bathroom counter, like someone had swept everything into their bag in a hurry. The smell of spilled perfume and spit up is a sharp reminder of the loss Tucker just endured.
He finds Tucker in the kitchen with his back pressed against the cabinets. Theo is still screaming his head off, eight weeks old, purple-faced and wailing. More concerning than that is Tucker crumpled in on himself— with one hand on Theo’s back— and the other covering his own mouth as if physically trying to hold in his own pain to spare his son any more heartache.
He’s wearing a hoodie covered in spit up, and one of his socks is only halfway on. It takes him a moment to even register that Ky is standing in front of him. Long enough that Ky walks over and slides down next to him with a sigh.
“She’s gone,” Tucker chokes out.
“I know. You said.”
“No, I mean she’s like gone gone. She signed papers before she even left. She— she already had them. She just left him and I—“ His voice cuts off with a sharp breath in, and instead of finishing his sentence he just stares down at Theo.
He couldn’t imagine what kind of person could leave behind their own child. Not when he looks down and sees his own reflection staring back at him— needing him, counting on him.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to— he won’t stop— I’ve tried everything, I—“ His voice breaks off again, his free hand sliding up to press his fingers into his eyes.
“Can I hold him?”
“…What?” Tucker blinks.
“The baby… Theo. Can I hold him? I’ll just… I don’t know— walk him around in circles or something? My mom always says that movement helps.”
“Have you ever held a baby before?” Tucker asks, but he’s already slowly moving Theo towards Ky, as if he can’t resist the reprieve.
“Like two… so I’m pretty much an expert.” He hasn’t. When Ky’s sister brought his niece to Thanksgiving last year he hid in the basement, but Tuck doesn’t need to know that.
Tucker watches Ky from his spot on the floor for the next few minutes. He starts walking in small circles around the pack and play, muttering “support the head, bounce the baby” under his breath. It’s the only two things he knows.
After a few minutes of pacing and bouncing Theo’s cries start to fade into whimpers. The kind of whimpers mixed with hiccups that mean his tiny body has surrendered to the exhaustion from his fit.
Ky doesn’t notice at first. He’s too busy focusing on not dropping him that his arms are stiff and shaky, but when he looks down to see Theo’s wide eyes half closed and watery— his tiny hand clenched around Ky’s pointer finger— the whole room seems to take a breath.
He doesn’t stop walking though, terrified that Theo will start screaming again and his best friend will crack right down the middle. For one quick moment before his little eyes finally shut, the corner of Theo’s mouth quirks up at the corner.
“He just… I think he just smiled at me.” Ky whispers, sounding proud of his accomplishment.
“It’s just a gas reflex.” Tucker mutters back, his voice dry and devoid of much other than a tired breath that could be a laugh.
“No it’s not. Don’t take this moment from me.” Ky scoffs, a hint of their usual playful dynamic returning.
Then Theo farts.
And Tucker actually laughs despite the pain in his chest.
Ky keeps bouncing, keeps pacing long after Theo has fallen asleep against his chest. Neither of them say it out loud, but it’s clear that Ky isn’t leaving.
That night he sleeps on the living room floor, his hand pushed up against the mesh of the pack and play to feel for any movement— Tucker sprawls out on the other side, laying at an angle that will definitely hurt his neck in the morning, but sleep is sleep.
Despite the signed papers still sitting on the kitchen counter, and the hole left in Tucker and Theo’s hearts from tonight, he knows they’ll be okay.
Eventually.
Especially when Theo has an uncle like Ky.
Over the next few days boxes started appearing at the apartment one by one, lovingly labeled (by Neema) as ‘Ky’s shit’, ‘more of Ky’s shit’ and ‘Ky seriously stop buying shit’. The tiny guest room was emptied out and filled with said ‘shit’.
a/n - i'm back!! this was honestly so fun to write, and i've had this idea for so long i just didn't feel like writing the math lol. i have so many drafts so expect many fics soon :) missed u guys
the ‘c-’ felt like a personal insult. tucker traced the red circle with his finger, a familiar knot of frustration tightening in his chest. he understood the concepts in class, he really did. but sitting alone with the homework, the numbers and symbols just swarm together. the only thing that made sense was you. his tutor.
it wasn't really an all-consuming obsession, more like a persistent infatuation. he liked you. ok, he really liked you. he liked the way you'd tap your pen against your bottom lip when you were thinking, the way your eyes would light up when he finally got a problem right, and most of all, he liked your voice.
so when you texted, "phone call tonight? might be easier to walk through some of this stuff," he was on his bed, phone in hand, before he'd even fully processed the message.
"okay," you said, your voice already filling the silence of his dorm room. "let's just start with the first section. i think the main issue is you're overthinking which rule to use."
"right," he agreed, his eyes closed. he wasn't looking at the book anyway. he was just listening.
"so look at number one. you have a function, and inside that function, you have another function. that's a dead giveaway for the rule."
as you spoke, his hand drifted from his chest down to his stomach, resting flat against the worn cotton of his 'the 1975' t-shirt. the low, even hum of your voice was like a physical touch, a warmth spreading through him.
"you take the derivative of the outside, leave the inside alone, then multiply by the derivative of the inside." you continued, oblivious. "so the derivative of the square root is one over two times the square root."
he let his hand slide under the hem of his shirt, his fingers tracing the line of his hipbone. the skin there was warm. he was already getting hard, a slow, heavy ache that bloomed in response to your voice. it felt secret and thrilling and a little bit dangerous.
"tucker? you with me?" you asked, your voice pulling him back for a second.
"yeah," he breathed, his voice a little thick. "keep going."
"okay," you said, a slight hesitation in your voice. "the next one is a product rule. you see two things being multiplied, so you use the product rule."
he hooked his thumb into the waistband of his sweatpants, pushing them down just enough to free himself. the cool air on his overheated skin made him shiver. he wrapped his fingers around his cock, hissing at the contact. he started to stroke himself, slow and lazy, matching the calm pace of your voice.
"…so the derivative of the first part is e to the x, which is just e to the x,""
a soft whimper escaped his lips before he could catch it. he quickly turned it into a cough, his heart hammering against his ribs. he was being careless.
"you okay?" you asked.
"fine," he managed, his voice tight. "just… concentrating."
the line went quiet. a beat too long. he froze, his hand stilling on his stomach. he’d been caught. he knew it.
"tucker," you said, and your voice was different. lower. softer. it wasn't the tutor voice anymore. "what are you doing?"
he couldn't answer. his throat was dry, his face burning with a mix of shame and a sick, thrilling arousal.
another beat of silence. then, "are you touching yourself?"
the whimper he let out this time was unmistakable. it was small and pathetic and a complete confession. he braced for you to hang up, to tell him he was a creep.
instead, he heard you take a soft, shaky breath. "oh," you whispered. "okay."
he waited, his entire body tense. but you didn't hang up.
after a moment, you spoke again, your voice a little lower, a little softer than before. "okay. so… you have to use the quotient rule on the next one. it's low d-high minus high d-low."
tucker’s eyes shot open. his hand, which had been frozen in shame, started to move again, hesitantly.
"so the bottom function is x squared," you continued, your voice gaining a new, hypnotic rhythm. "and the top is x plus one. the derivative of the top is just one. the derivative of the bottom is two x."
he was stroking himself again, faster this time, the shame melting away, replaced by a white-hot surge of arousal. you knew. you knew, and you were still talking. you were helping him.
"so you plug it in," you murmured, your voice like velvet. "see? you just have to be careful with the algebra."
"fuck," he gasped, his entire body tensing. "y/n, i'm…"
"i know," you whispered. "it's okay. just listen. the derivative of the bottom is two x. just focus on that. come on, tucker. finish the problem."
that was it. the combination of your permission and the mundane, academic words sent him spiraling over the edge. he came with a strangled cry, his back arching, spilling over his hand and his stomach. it was the most intense, shattering orgasm of his life.
he collapsed back against the pillows, boneless and panting, the phone still pressed to his ear. for a moment, there was only the sound of his breathing.
"so," you said, your voice back to its normal, sweet tone, as if nothing had happened. "do you think you get it now? or should we go over it one more time?"
Today was a very lively day in the kingdom. Today, was the knight jousts.
This was very exciting not only for you, but for ladies all around the kingdom, as this year Sir Tucker would be jousting.
You hadn’t failed to notice that all the girls were very fond of Sir Tucker. You could see why. He was tall, muscular, handsome, and charming when he wanted to be.
Though something about it frustrated you. They did not know what he was like as a kid. They did not know how his laughter sounded like. You had known him much better than anyone.
In a way it did not matter how you felt, as he would eventually marry someone in his own noble status as would you. Something that would be happening especially soon.
You did not dwell, as it seemed like that is all you did these days. You focused on the jousts.
Sir Tucker was always a pleasure to watch, not just because he was easy on the eyes, but because he was amazing at it.
He was expected to win as he did every year. You loved when he won. He would smile, even if sheepishly. You could look at that smile all day.
His smile was something that was mostly reserved for you. Though it was harder to get out than it was when you were children.
You hated thinking about how he had put distance between the two of you as you aged. You understood why, but it didn’t bring any comfort.
The two of you were attached at the hip from the ages of three to eighteen. You would spend hours in the garden, in the forest, or in the seamstress’s office.
Though once again, you were not to dwell. You focused on the joust before you.
Sir Tucker was doing well as he always did. Until he was not. Suddenly, he was thrown off his horse, quickly being taken off the tiltyard.
You had risen before anyone was able to stop you. You were running, quite informally, to the infirmary.
When you got in there he was trying to nurse a cut on his back. You were a little stunned at first, even feeling the blood rushing to your cheeks.
“Sir Tucker.” You said, your voice coming out a little too breathlessly.
He quickly grabs his gambeson, holding it up to him in an attempt to hide his bare chest.
“Lady-“ he clears his throat, trying to shake off his own flustered feeling. “Lady Y/n, what ever are you doing here?”
“I saw you fall and I got worried. Do you need help with that?” You say, awkwardly pointing at his cut.
“No, Princess, I am able to do it myself.”
“Clearly you are not, let me.” You were already approaching, giving him no out.
Once you get close enough, you slowly clean his cut with some water. Then you grab a piece of fabric of the side table to wrap around his torso to cover his cut.
“There.” You were done, but your hands didn’t move from where they were placed on his chest and back.
You looked up at him and he looked utterly mesmerized. It was like the two of you were being drawn together.
His gaze roamed your face. He was asking a silent question. All you could do was stiffly nod. Just when it was about to happen, when the barriers would be fully lifted, a quick knock, short and authoritative.
“Sir Tucker?” It was the king. King Ulric of Illyria.
Hockey!Dad! Tucker is back, and he brought friends. (I’m really immersing you into this world before I introduce a reader! character.)
Disclaimer: I have no idea who any of these hockey players are. Enjoy. ❤️
Ky ‘Uncle Keeky’ Newman, #1
Starting Goalie
Super senior, 22
Tucker's roommate since freshman year and best friend since they were seven. Ky originally stayed in the dorms when Tucker moved for Theo, but the night Tucker called saying Theo’s mom walked out— he showed up at the apartment at 3am— and never left.
He slept on the floor with Tuck next to the pack and play for the first three weeks of Theo’s life. His stuff from the dorms eventually followed.
Theo uses the same sound for Ky’s name that he does for kitty. So he’s Uncle Keeky. He pretends to hate it, but he doesn’t.
Taught Theo to say “puck you” under his breath when a ref makes a bad call. It has since extended into… every part of life. Tucker is mortified. Ky is proud.
Theo’s first favorite person— after Tucker. Ky is the only person Theo will let take his temperature without a fight.
He’s also the only person Tucker fully trusts with Theo. He has a permanent emergency contact card in his wallet, right behind his ID.
Ky’s flaw— can never say “no” to Theo— like ever. If Theo asks for a third cookie? Ky's hand is already reaching. Tucker has to physically intervene.
Neema ‘Neems’ Sadeghi, #12
Right Wing
Senior, 21
The fun uncle, the hype man and Theo’s favorite person to get into trouble with. He has four younger siblings, so chaos is in his DNA. Fully trained in toddler wrangling and good at it.
Neema is warm, loud and incapable of whispering— these are also Theo’s go to volume settings. Neema buys Theo the loudest toys just to annoy Tucker and Ky with.
Showed up to the hospital with a bear for newborn Theo that was twice his size. He held the bear the entire time while Tucker held Theo and laughed.
Secretly loves walking around campus with Tuck and Theo because the sorority girls swoon.
He taught Theo to growl at opposing teams through the glass. Now Theo does it all on his own.
Neema’s flaw— he has no impulse control around Theo.
“Should we let this four year old attempt to pour his own juice?”
“Yes, absolutely. Get the camera.”
Andrew ‘Dre’ Jackson, #4
Defenseman
Senior, 21
The gentle giant. He doesn’t talk much, but he sees everything. He notices when Tucker hasn’t eaten and sneaks a protein bar in his duffle bag. He reads to Theo in a low, rumbling way that puts him to sleep in a few minutes flat. The guys think it’s funny, but Dre is proud of his skill.
He was terrified of babies before meeting Theo. He held him for the first time when he was six months old because, “He’s too small, Tuck. I might break him.”
When he finally did hold him— Dre froze— until Theo grabbed his nose and laughed. Dre hasn’t put him down much since.
Dre’s flaw— he will do anything Theo asks. He once wore a plastic princess crown for an entire practice. The team took photos while Coach pretended not to notice.
Leo ‘Rook’ Martinez, #19
Left Wing
Freshman, 18
The bewildered new guy of the team. He saw the small 7 ½ jersey on the tiny chair in the locker room and thought was a prank. It was not. He showed up expecting hardcore hockey culture, and got snack time rotation instead. No one calls him by his real name.
He once heard Ky refer to Tucker as ‘daddy’ when talking to Theo and leaned over to ask, “We don’t… all have to call him that, right?” Ky will never let him live it down.
‘R’ sounds are still tricky for Theo so his name always comes out as ‘Wook’.
Theo spotted Rook shaking his hands out nervously in the tunnel before his first game. He dropped Tucker’s hand and walked over to pat Rook’s knee guards. “You got this, Wook. I believe you!” Rook scored his first college level goal that night, and credits Theo every time it’s brought up.
Rook’s flaw— He doesn’t really know how to talk to children. Tucker caught him once practicing a conversation with Theo in the mirror. He almost died of embarrassment but Tucker just patted him on the shoulder and said, “You like hockey. He likes hockey… just talk to him.”
Jim ‘Coach’ Harrington
Head coach
22 seasons
Former NHL enforcer (briefly)
Coach played three seasons in the NHL before a knee injury ended his career. He coached juniors for a while, but moved up to the college level and found his love for hockey again in the strategy of the game.
His wife died when his daughter was six. She’s now in college herself. She is his whole world.
Tough but fair, he will bench players for having a bad attitude, but will also pick any of his guys up for a safe ride home from a party with no questions asked.
Coach was there the first time Tucker brought Theo to practice— in a baby carrier. He had dark circles under his eyes and a resignation from the team already on the tip of his tongue when Coach said, “There’s a heated bench in the penalty box. Get him settled and get your ass on the ice.”
Has a picture of Theo thumbtacked on the bulletin board in his office right next to a picture of his daughter. He shows it to everyone.
Bought Theo his first real hockey stick because “if he’s gonna bang on the glass, he might as well do it right.” Tucker does not let him bring it to games.
(A/N: Coming next: The team and Theo— a story timeline)
summary: you help tucker wind down after a show. veryyyy slight popstar!reader.
rating: e
content warnings: smut, minors dni. rpf. no y/n.
requested!! with a little inspo from my dearest @tuckshoney
You’re sitting on the hotel bed, listening idly to the sounds of the shower running as Tucker does his post-show ritual—come home sweaty as hell and spend an eternity in the shower. It’s very predictable, and in fact, very boring for you. Seeing him shortly after he gets off stage is very, very interesting and then he spends almost no time with you in that state, which is a travesty.
You pad across the carpeted room and carefully open the door to the en suite bathroom. There’s steam everywhere, the mirror is foggy, and he’s humming incoherently to himself. When you shut the door with a click, he stops humming.
“Baby?” he calls out.
“Yeah,” you say, shimmying out of your sweatpants.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” You pull your tank top off.
“You need something in here?”
“Kinda.” You slide open the glass door, slowly stepping inside and shutting it behind you.
Tucker looks exhausted and pink from the hot shower, but no less happy to see you, especially wearing nothing. You slowly approach him, your arms wrapping around his waist as you press a kiss to his collarbone. He sighs softly.
“What’s that for?” he murmurs.
“You don’t spend enough time with me,” you pout, mouth moving up his neck. “You don’t pay attention to me when you have a show.”
“I’m tired, I’m sorry,” he replies, losing his grip on the washcloth he’s using. There’s a soft plop as it hits the floor. “You understand how much work it is.”
You nip at his shoulder. “That’s not an excuse.”
“I wasn’t trying to make one,” he says softly.
“I don’t like when you ignore me…”
“I know.”
You press one final kiss to his neck before kissing and lapping your way down his torso as you drop to your knees, his body mostly shielding you from the water.
He’s basically already hard. Good. It’s flattering, which almost makes up for how he’s been rudely ignoring you lately. He tenses up when your knees hit the ground, freezing like he’s afraid you’ll stop if he moves. You take him into your mouth. He gasps, his hand flying out to brace himself against the tile wall.
“I’m not ignoring you now,” he grits out.
You don’t let up, alternating between licking and sucking until he’s trying and failing to restrain himself from bucking his hips into your mouth, half-swallowed groans echoing in the small bathroom. You haven’t done this with him before, haven’t had the opportunity yet, but that’s always a good sign.
“Stop, baby,” he murmurs suddenly, gripping your hair like a vise.
You do.
“Did I do it wrong?” you ask, staring up at him from where you’re kneeling on the floor. Your voice cracks a little. You didn’t think that was wrong, he seemed to really like it—
“No, no, fuck, I—I just don’t wanna hurt you, come here…” he rushes out, his chest still heaving as he helps you up, pressing you against the wall. The tile is cold against your cheek and chest, it’s actually kind of uncomfortable except for the warm water hitting your lower back, but you’re too distracted to worry about that.
Tucker pushes into you from behind. You throw your head back, moaning. Whatever you had in mind about being in charge when you walked in here is out the window now. He nuzzles against your neck, getting even more vocal than he was a minute ago. You’re not complaining.
You let him do what he wants because you’re not picky as long as his focus is finally on you for once. His hand snakes down to circle your clit, and it doesn’t take much for you to get off, falling apart around him until he comes too.
He rests his forehead against yours, awkward because of the angle you have to crane your neck at, so he pulls out and turns you around. You’re lucky he holds you up, because you feel unsteady on your knees. “Fuck,” he pants. “You’re so hot. That was so hot. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” you say shakily.
He pulls you into his arms and reaches for his sudsy washcloth again. He gently rubs it over your shoulders and back, kissing your forehead as he cleans you both up.
You have to share the huge white hotel towel because it’s all that’s in the bathroom, but he does help you into your complimentary robe once you’re both dry. You lay on his chest in the bed, your cheek pressed to the exposed patch of skin beneath his own bed, listening to his heartbeat. He’s stroking your damp hair, mumbling mostly unintelligible sweet nothings with the softest smile on his face. He’s always calm after he gets his alone time in the shower, just enough for him to recharge a little after a big day, but judging by how relaxed and happy he is tonight, how he’s being extra affectionate right now, you think you might just have to join him more often.
kiss in the kitchen like its a dance floor @asfareastasthemapgoes - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
