🦋: Butterfly kisses, heated stares.
🦋: Requests closed, Open for Asks and interactions!
🦋. . . call me Nari! 19, expect posts every two weeks, college is kicking her ass rn
🦋. . . an NSFW sanctuary for LaDs, Haikyuu, Jjk, and Genshin.
🦋. . . masterlist . . . to follow
John Tucker who has a cowboy hat hung above his bed, because if you’re gonna ride a cowboy he might as well dress the part.
John Tucker x Fem!reader
There’s three games you play one of you wearing the cowboy hat…under no circumstances can you let it fall off your head whilst you ride John.
“Don’t fall off the bull, sweet thing” he says, bucking his hips and slamming his dick into your cunt. You squeal, not expecting the sudden fullness, but you’re bouncing on top of him chasing his movements in hopes of meeting his thrusts and taking him deeper.
You might be on top riding the waves, but John Tucker has all of the control. One of his hands are wrapped around your wrists and anchored to his chest, his heart beat drumming against your palm all so he can show how much you get him going. The cowboy hats askew, his finger flicking the rim and his dick slips out of you, slick with your mixed arousal between your legs and his body beneath you. Your stomach tightens, thighs squeezing around his hips in a bid to keep yourself on top on him as if you haven’t got a weight on his chest.
“Be careful there,” he smirks, the usual kind nickname going unsaid as you rock back and forth over his shaft. A groan breaks free from his parted lips and he arches his back off the mattress, eyes fluttering shut for a breath. His other hand trails down the column of your throat, fingers tracing your collar bone and the valley between your breasts. He detours his wanted path, rolling your nipple and twisting it between the pads of his fingers. He mimics your moan, gaze flitting to your lips. Your chest’s sweaty, sticky, but his touch trails after the bead of sweat rolling down your stomach. A shiver trembling down your spine. His palm cups your pussy, smiling as you grind down on his hand for a bit of friction.
John’s already coaxed two orgasms out of you. He pulls you back down on his cock, warmth burning between your legs and your stomach tightening. The hat’s still on, barely. Your boys close, his movements slow and timed, both of his hands now settling on your hips. You keep your palms on his chest not wanting to break your connection with him. John’s fingers press into the soft flesh of your hips, but your mind’s a haze, thighs trembling as you let him guide you. Let him take care of both of your releases, your forehead resting on his shoulder as he rides out his own.
He slips out of you as soon as you remove the cowboy hat, arm stretched over the mattress as he you curl into his side. Your ear listening to his steady heartbeat, his lips pressing to your hairline. He smoothes his palm up and down your leg, hooking it over his hip so he can massage the tender and sore aches of being on top of him. All whilst you eye the hat on the floor.
The second game is can John eat you out with the hat still on? If it falls off his head, he don’t get no head.
The third being your favourite though. How long before the cowboy hat can fall off the bedpost?? You’ve still not beat your best time yet, but you’re more than game to try again. Might even drag it out to do over and over again…
Imagine Sylus being so pussy drunk that he doesn't even process that he's overstimulating the life out of you?
You've already snapped your thighs shut around his head, one hand pushing desperately against his hair as if it will somehow detach him from your poor, throbbing clit.
Your entire body is writhing to get away from him.
But his hands are iron-clad in their grip on your skin. You're not going anywhere, even as you manage to fight through the overwhelming pleasure and twist your upper half. Grabbing at the pillows, the sheets, anything for leverage to pull yourself up the bed.
But, Sylus holds firm, mouth latched on to your slippery cunt. You're nearly begging, trying anything to somehow dislodge your beast of a lover from your cunt.
Imagine somehow being able to get yourself from your back to your hands and knees.
Trying so hard to crawl away on trembling legs but you just can't seem to make them move fast enough.
Not that Sylus is letting you get very far. Large arms encompass your lower half in a bear hug, and his face is smushing itself embarrassingly deep into your sloppy sex.
Succumbing to the fact that you're not escaping him, nor are you escaping his eager mouth. Melting into the pillows, slack jawed and watery eyed as you fully give in to the pleasure he's giving you.
Sylus isn't quite about it either, no, he's a loud eater.
He's moaning and groaning into your cunt, slobbering down your thighs, nuzzling his entire head into the warmth between them.
feat. Sylus, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne (No Caleb, you already had Caleb in the previous post)
"Hold on."
He looks up, confused, only for his eyes to widen just a fraction. You've dropped to your knees, and your hand is pulling your hair up.
Oh.
Then you stand up, but you see him shift- and the strain in his jeans is not unnoticeable. You smirk... and stand back up like nothing else happened.
Sylus leans back in his chair, crimson eyes narrowing as you drop to your knees with deliberate slowness. His fingers tighten on the armrest when your hands gather your hair, but the second you rise again without touching him, a low growl rumbles from his chest. The thick bulge straining against his dark jeans is impossible to miss. You smirk, watching his jaw clench.
"Teasing me already?" His voice drops an octave. He spreads his legs wider, one hand palming the heavy outline of his cock through the denim. "Get back down there and finish what you started, kitten."
You stay standing, letting your gaze linger on the way his cock twitches under your stare. Sylus exhales sharply through his nose, then stands in one fluid motion. He grabs your wrist and guides your palm straight to his crotch, grinding your fingers along the rigid length.
"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice rough. "That's what your little game does to me. Now on your knees properly this time."
Xavier's book slips from his fingers the moment you drop. His sleepy expression cracks into something sharper when you lift your hair, exposing your neck. The second you stand again, his cock visibly hardens in his loose pants, a dark spot already forming at the tip.
You smirk. Xavier's ears turn pink, but he doesn't look away.
"…You're cruel," he says quietly, shifting on the couch. His hand drifts down to adjust himself, but the movement only makes the outline more obvious. He swallows. "If you're going to tease, at least stay down there a little longer."
You take a step back. Xavier's hand shoots out, catching your wrist and tugging you forward until you're straddling one of his thighs. The hard press of his cock against your leg is immediate.
"Or," he breathes against your ear, "I could just take what you're offering."
Rafayel freezes mid-brushstroke, paint splattering across the canvas when you sink to your knees. His amethyst eyes go wide, then darken as you gather your hair. The tent in his silk pants is instant and obscene. You rise again, smirking, and he actually whimpers.
"No—wait, come back," he pleads, setting the brush aside with shaking hands. His cock strains visibly, a wet patch blooming at the front. "That's not fair. You can't just… do that and stop."
You tilt your head. Rafayel stands, crossing the room in three strides. He cups your face with paint-stained fingers, pressing his forehead to yours.
"On your knees again," he whispers, voice trembling with need, his hand already guiding yours to the only growing bulge. "C'mon, cutie. You're not that cruel to leave me like this, hm?"
Zayne's medical report crumples in his fist the instant you drop. His usually composed face flushes when your fingers lift your hair, and the thick line of his cock pushes hard against his slacks. You stand up smirking, and his breath hitches audibly.
"…That was deliberate," he says, voice low and tight. He adjusts himself once, twice, but the erection refuses to calm. His eyes track your every movement. "If you intend to finish what you started, get back down. Now."
You don't move. Zayne steps forward, crowding you against his desk. One gloved hand slides into your hair, gripping firmly as he guides your head down until your lips brush the bulge in his pants.
summary. You've been asking the same thing over and over. With additional implications that comes from you testing the boundaries of this thing you call friendship between you can Caleb. Unfortunately (not really), Caleb's patience seem to have snapped when you ask it again.
note. messy ahh plot dont talk to me i js wanted caleb smut LAFASJD
The question slips out before you can stop it, casual as anything, like you haven't been pushing this exact boundary for weeks now.
"We should practice kissing."
Caleb's head snaps up from his tablet, eyes wide. The blue glow from the screen catches the sharp line of his jaw, illuminates the sudden tension in his expression. You're sprawled across the worn dorm lounge couch while he's taken the armchair, a safe distance away. Or at least, it used to feel safe.
"What?" His voice comes out flat. Controlled.
You shrug, fighting to keep your expression innocent. "I said, we should practice kissing. You know. For experience or whatever."
He stares at you. The silence stretches thin.
"...This isn't the first time you've asked me this." His thumb swipes across his tablet screen, locking it. The room dims. "Pips, this is the fourth time this month."
"So?"
"So?" Caleb sets the tablet aside with deliberate care. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and the casual sprawl of his body disappears into something more alert. Predatory. "So usually you'd laugh it off. Make it a joke. But you keep asking."
Your pulse kicks up. In your head, this played out differently—Caleb rolling his eyes, maybe throwing a pillow at you, the two of you dissolving into familiar banter that went nowhere. That's how it always went. That's how it was supposed to go.
Because you're friends. Childhood friends. The kind who shared crayons and later secrets and later still, the kind who danced around this exact thing without ever naming it.
"I'm serious this time," you say. You tilt your head, going for nonchalant even as your heart hammers against your ribs. "Why? You don't want to?"
Caleb's gaze darkens. Something shifts behind his eyes, a hunger you've caught glimpses of before but never fully—never like this. He stands. You have to crane your neck to look up at him now, and the height difference hits different when his shadow falls over you.
"You're playing with fire," he murmurs. He takes a step closer. Then another. "Teasing me like this. Testing me."
Your sink further into the couch, back pressing against the cushions like it would save you from what you had started.
"Maybe I want to get burned." The words escape before you can think them through.
Caleb laughs, soft and dark. He braces one hand beside your head, caging you in. His other hand reaches up, two fingers tilting your chin back. His thumb strokes along your jaw. "Alright. If you keep asking." He leans down, breath warm against your mouth. "Don't blame me if it stops being practice."
His lips crash into yours.
It's nothing like you imagined—nothing gentle or exploratory. Caleb kisses like he's been waiting, like every teasing comment and loaded glance has been building to this exact moment. His tongue pushes past your teeth, claiming your mouth with deep, wet strokes that make your breath catch.
"You have no idea," he growls against your lips, "how long I've wanted to shut you up."
He walks you backward without breaking the kiss, tumbling you both onto the couch. His weight presses you down into the cushions, hips settling between your thighs, and you feel him—hard and thick even through his jeans. You moan into his mouth, hands fisting in his shirt.
"Open wider."
The command makes you shiver. You part your lips further and he dives back in, sucking on your tongue, biting your lower lip until it throbs. His hand slides down your side, grips your ass hard enough to bruise, and lifts you.
Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct.
Caleb rocks against you—slow, filthy rolls of his hips that drag his cock against your core. The friction sparks pleasure through your veins, your pussy clenching around nothing, desperate for more.
"Fuck." He pulls back, lips shiny. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide. "This is already way past practice."
One hand yanks your shirt up. Cool air hits your bare breasts, and then his mouth follows—latching onto a nipple, tongue flicking rough and hot while his teeth graze the sensitive peak. You arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair.
"Caleb—"
He switches to your other breast, biting down just enough to sting before soothing it with long, wet licks. His hips never stop moving, grinding against you in a maddening rhythm that has you dripping through your panties.
"Pants off," he orders.
He lifts you just long enough to shove your bottoms down your legs. Cool air hits your slick folds, but Caleb's fingers replace it immediately—parting you, circling your clit with two thick digits while you whimper.
"So fucking wet already." He pushes one finger inside you, then two, pumping slow and deep. His thumb works your clit in tight circles. "All from kissing? Or were you hoping it'd turn into this?"
You can't answer. Can't think. His fingers curl against that spot inside you, and your thighs shake.
"Answer me."
"I—y-yes—mngh-"
"I know." His voice drops. "I've seen how you look at me. How you've always looked at me."
He spins you around. Your chest presses to the couch armrest, ass in the air. The sound of his zipper is loud in the dim lounge.
The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance. "And trust me, it's mutual, Pips."
He doesn't ease in.
Caleb thrusts hard, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke. You cry out, walls stretching around his thickness, clenching and fluttering as you adjust. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise. "Caleb- ah!"
"Fuuuck, you're tight—" He pulls back and snaps forward, setting a brutal pace. Each thrust slaps skin against skin, his cock dragging along every sensitive inch inside you.
His hand reaches around, fingers finding your clit again—fast, focused circles that make your vision blur. His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back so he can bite and suck marks into your neck.
"That's it. Take it." He grunts between thrusts. "Practice my ass—this pussy's mine now."
Your orgasm builds fast—coiling tighter with every snap of his hips, every wet, filthy sound of him fucking into you echoing in the dim lounge. "Hah, ngh!" He pulls at your hair, and you moan as the pleasure reaches its peak..
Caleb slams deep and grinds, cock pulsing as he comes, a groan of your name slipping off his lips as his head drops to your back. Hot spurts flood your insides, and the sensation pushes you over. You spasm around him, milking every drop while white explodes across your vision.
He stays buried inside you, breathing hard against your shoulder.
Slowly, he pulls out. Warmth drips down your thighs—his cum, your slick. Caleb watches it with dark eyes, fingers scooping some up and pushing it back inside you.
"Round two?" He's already hardening again against your ass. His breath is hot against your ear. "Or you wanna try that practice thing with my tongue somewhere else?"
Your thighs tremble. The lounge door is right there. Anyone could walk by. Anyone could hear.
And Caleb is already sinking to his knees behind you.
author’s note 𓂃 requested by @myst3ryin0rperated 💌 this ended up being way longer than planned, but honestly? tuck deserves the attention. i love parts of this, but i’m also not fully sure how i feel about it yet, so i’d love to know what you think <3
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The first time Tucker saw you, you almost took out an entire row of glasses at Malone’s. Not one, not two, but an entire row.
It happened on a Friday night, which meant the bar was already packed with students pretending they didn’t have assignments due, hockey players pretending they weren’t exhausted from practice, and Della behind the counter pretending she wasn’t five seconds away from throwing someone out for ordering another round only to forget what they’d asked for immediately.
You were new, and that much was obvious. Not because you were bad at the job, exactly, but because you still had the bright, nervous energy of someone who hadn’t yet learned that Malone’s on a Friday night was less a bar and more a sticky-floored battlefield.
You came out from behind the counter with a tray balanced carefully in both hands, brows pinched in concentration as your bottom lip caught between your teeth. You were wearing black jeans and a Malone’s blue shirt, your hair pulled back messily, as if you’d done it in a rush, and Tucker found himself noticing you before he could think better of it.
He noticed the way you smiled at a customer who was definitely being too loud. He noticed the way you thanked Della twice when she moved around you. He noticed how hard you were trying to do everything right.
And then you set the tray down on the bar too quickly, caught the edge of a napkin holder, and sent three clean glasses tipping into each other with a loud, terrible clatter.
Everyone at the table flinched. Dean was the first to turn around, Garrett’s attention snapped away from whatever Hannah was saying, and Logan started laughing before he’d even fully figured out what had happened.
You froze immediately.
“Oh my god,” you said, hands flying up like you were surrendering to the glasses. “I’m so sorry. I swear I’m usually less of a disaster when no one’s watching.”
Della sighed, though there was already affection in it. “Sweetheart, nobody expects grace here. Just survival.”
Dean grinned from the booth where he sat with the boys. “Ten out of ten entrance.”
Garrett kicked him under the table without even looking at him.
You winced, cheeks burning, and immediately started gathering the glasses before any of them could fall off the bar.
Tucker was on his feet before he’d even thought about moving.
“Here,” he said, already grabbing a stack of napkins from the end of the counter and stepping closer. “I got it.”
You looked up at him, startled, like you hadn’t expected someone to help instead of laugh. Something weird shifted in Tucker’s chest.
“Oh,” you said, your voice softening. “Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, steadying one of the glasses before it could roll off the edge. He gave you a small smile. “First Friday?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only a little,” he said, smile tugging at his mouth.
Your mouth curved into an embarrassed but sweet smile, and Tucker noticed the way your whole face seemed to warm with it.
Dean, because of course he did, leaned over the booth and said, “Careful, Tuck. She might make you work for free.”
You glanced between them, your smile still lingering. “Tuck?”
“Tucker,” he said, handing over the glass he’d rescued. “John Tucker.”
You took it from him, your fingers brushing against his for half a second.
“I’m [Y/N],” you said. Then you looked down at the glasses, sighed, and added, “Apparently also a public safety hazard.”
Tucker laughed, not because it was that funny, though it was, but because you were smiling at him like you were happy he had.
That was the first thing Tucker noticed. Not that you were the prettiest girl in the room, though you were. Not that you were the clumsy new waitress, though the boys would absolutely bring that up later. Not even that you were the transfer student Hannah had mentioned once, the one who’d started working at Malone’s because she needed extra money, and Della liked hiring people she could boss around.
The first thing was that you looked at Tucker like he was the one you were talking to — not the guy beside Dean, not Garrett’s friend, not one of the hockey boys. Him.
It was a stupid thing to notice, so of course Tucker noticed.
Over the next few weeks, you became part of Malone’s the way some people became part of a song — slowly at first, then all at once.
You were there on Fridays and sometimes Saturdays, always with your hair tied back in a way that never lasted more than an hour before pieces started falling loose around your face. You learned the regulars’ orders faster than anyone expected. You learned Della’s moods, learned that Dean always said he wanted something different before ordering the same beer anyway, that Logan would steal fries from whoever sat too close, that Garrett was polite because Hannah elbowed him when he forgot, and that Allie always tipped too much because she knew what the job felt like.
And Tucker — you learned his drink by the third Friday. That shouldn’t have affected him. It did anyway.
“You want the usual?” you asked, already reaching for it as he and the boys slid into their booth after the game.
Dean stopped mid-sentence and turned slowly toward Tucker, wearing the most irritating smile imaginable. Logan looked absolutely delighted. Garrett looked like he was trying very hard not to seem delighted. Tucker ignored every single one of them.
“You remembered?” he asked, which was the wrong thing to say because it made him sound surprised.
You blinked at him, then smiled. “You order the same thing every time.”
“So does Dean,” Tucker said.
“Yeah, but Dean changes his mind three times before going back to the same thing. You have to prepare for that emotionally.”
Garrett laughed quietly into his drink.
Dean put a hand over his chest. “I feel attacked.”
“You should,” Allie said, appearing beside him like she’d been summoned by the opportunity to tease him. “It was accurate.”
You grinned and slid Tucker his drink first, and he hated how quickly he liked it—hated how his eyes followed you when you walked away to help another table. Hated even more that Dean noticed immediately.
“Oh, you’re so in trouble.”
Tucker glanced at him. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t even say anything specific,” Dean said.
“You didn’t need to.”
Logan leaned forward, as if this were crucial evidence. “She gave you your drink first.”
“Because I was sitting closest.”
“You weren’t,” Garrett said.
Tucker shot him a look. “Aren’t you supposed to be mature now?”
Garrett shrugged, his arm around Hannah. “I’m in a relationship, not dead.”
Across the room, you laughed at something Della said, nearly dropped a pen, caught it against your chest, and looked far too proud of yourself for saving it.
Tucker tried not to smile, and failed.
Dean pointed at Tucker’s face as he’d just found evidence. “That. Right there. That’s pathetic.”
Tucker picked up his drink, unimpressed. “You’re literally dating Allie.”
“Yes, and I became pathetic in public. It’s part of the process.”
“I’m not becoming anything,” Tucker said.
“Sure,” Dean said.
Tucker knew exactly what they thought.
He knew how it looked: new girl, pretty smile, sweet enough to make everyone in the room feel like she was happy to see them. Of course, he liked her. Everyone probably liked her. You were the kind of person people noticed because you made it easy for them. You asked questions, laughed without trying to seem cool, apologized to chairs when you bumped into them, and once gave a drunk sophomore a full pep talk because he looked sad over mozzarella sticks.
You were sunshine in a place that mostly smelled like beer and fried food.
Tucker told himself that was all it was: you were friendly, and he was interested because of it. It didn’t mean you were interested back.
Girls usually went for guys like Dean: loud, confident, easy to flirt with because he did half the work for them. Or Garrett, with the captain thing and that accidental golden-boy charm, even though Hannah would probably murder anyone who tried. Or Logan, who looked like trouble and knew exactly how to make it work.
Tucker was the nice one, the safe one, the one girls asked to hold their coats while they danced with someone else.
He’d made peace with that a long time ago — mostly. Then, on the fourth Friday, you proved you were going to be a problem.
It was later than usual, with the crowd thinning out around midnight and the booths left sticky and half-empty. Tucker had ended up at the bar while the others argued over whether to go back to the house or order food. You were wiping down the counter with your sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed from the long shift.
“You’re staring again,” you said, not even looking up.
Tucker blinked at you. “What?”
You glanced at him, eyes bright with amusement. “I said you’re staring.”
“I wasn’t,” he said.
“You were,” you said.
“I was just thinking,” he said.
“About the counter?” you asked.
“It’s a very interesting counter.”
You smiled, and Tucker felt stupidly pleased with himself for being the reason.
“You always do that,” you said, still smiling.
“Stare at counters?” he asked.
“No,” you said, leaning your hip against the bar. “Make jokes when I catch you looking at me.”
Tucker’s throat went dry.
That wasn’t fair. You couldn’t look that sweet and then say things like that.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You hummed like you didn’t believe him, which was fair, considering he sounded ridiculous.
Dean appeared at Tucker’s shoulder at the worst possible time, because of course he did. “He never does.”
Tucker closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “Go away.”
Dean grinned at you because, apparently, subtlety had never been an option. “Has he asked you out yet?”
Tucker’s head snapped toward Dean. “Jesus Christ.”
You froze for half a second before your face went pink.
Dean looked like Christmas had just come early.
“Oh,” Dean said slowly, looking far too pleased. “Interesting.”
“Dean,” Tucker said, warning clear in his voice.
You cleared your throat and turned back to the counter, trying to hide your smile. “Does he need help with that?”
Tucker stared at you, Dean made a sound like he’d been shot, and Garrett yelled from the booth, “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Tucker said, far too quickly.
Dean turned back toward the table. “Tucker’s dying.”
“I’m fine,” Tucker said.
You were still smiling down at the counter like you hadn’t just caused chaos.
Tucker didn’t recover for the rest of the night.
After that, things changed. Not dramatically, and not enough that anyone else would’ve called it obvious — except maybe Dean, who called everything obvious if it helped him be annoying. But Tucker felt it.
You started lingering near him when the bar slowed down. You leaned across the counter when you talked to him, chin propped in your hand and eyes warm with focus. You asked about his classes. His practices. His stupid sandwich preference after Logan tried to convince you Tucker had “boring taste,” which somehow turned into a ten-minute argument about whether turkey counted as a personality flaw.
You also started touching him. Not much, just enough to ruin him.
Your fingers brushed his wrist when you set down his drink. Your knee bumped his when you sat beside him for five minutes during your break. Your hand landed briefly on his shoulder when you squeezed past him behind the bar, soft and apologetic and completely unnecessary.
Tucker told himself you were probably like that with everyone, right up until he watched you tell Dean to stop leaning over the bar because he was “ruining the ecosystem,” and decided maybe you weren’t.
By the sixth Friday, Della had started looking at both of you like she knew something neither of you had admitted yet.
That was also the night everything finally clicked into place.
The boys came in late after an away game, tired and loud, their faces flushed from the cold. Hannah and Allie were with them, bundled in coats and already claiming a booth while Dean declared he was starving with the drama of a man who hadn’t eaten in years.
You were working closing again, and Tucker tried very hard not to look too happy about that. Failed, probably.
From behind the bar, you caught his eye and smiled so brightly that his chest went warm.
“The usual?” you asked.
Dean groaned, as if he were personally offended. “This is disgusting.”
You laughed, confused. “What?”
“He’s smiling like an idiot,” Dean said.
Tucker elbowed him in the side.
You looked at Tucker, smile softening as you asked, “Are you?”
“No,” Tucker said.
“He is,” Logan called from the booth.
“He absolutely is,” Garrett added from the booth.
Tucker stared at Garrett. “You too?”
Garrett lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just observing.”
You set his drink down in front of him, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “For the record, I don’t mind.”
Tucker forgot how to speak, and you walked away before he could find a response.
Dean leaned closer, his voice low enough that only Tucker could hear. “If you don’t ask her out tonight, I’m doing it for you.”
“You are not doing anything,” Tucker said.
“Then do something,” Dean said.
Tucker looked toward the bar, where you were reaching for a stack of napkins and laughing at something Hannah had said. You nearly knocked over a bottle with your elbow, caught it just in time, and then looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Tucker had. You saw him seeing you, and your nose scrunched with embarrassment. He smiled before he could stop himself.
Dean sighed, as if this were personally exhausting. “God, you two are unbearable.”
Tucker looked away, like that settled it. “She’s just friendly.”
Dean stared at him.
“What?”
“Are you actually stupid?”
“Wow. Very helpful.”
“I’m serious,” Dean said, glancing toward you before looking back at Tucker. “That girl has been making heart eyes at you for a month.”
“She’s nice to everyone,” Tucker said.
“She threatened to pour soda on Logan last week,” Dean said.
Logan looked up from stealing Allie’s fries. “I deserved that.”
Dean continued, with the patience of someone explaining something painfully obvious, “She likes you.”
Tucker shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of the words. “You don’t know that.”
Dean’s expression softened slightly, which was somehow worse. “Tuck.”
“Don’t,” Tucker said.
“I’m just saying,” Dean started.
“I know what you’re saying,” Tucker said, his voice coming out lower than he meant. “But she’s new. She’s nice. And she has all of you literally sitting here every week. I’m not going to assume she’s looking at me like that just because I want her to.”
For once, Dean went quiet.
Tucker regretted saying it immediately. Not because it wasn’t true, because it was, but because he’d never said it out loud before. And, of course, because timing apparently wasn’t on his side, he looked up and saw you standing a few feet away with a tray in your hands, your expression caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.
Tucker’s stomach dropped. You had heard. Maybe not all of it, but enough.
You blinked once, then gave him a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Della said last call.”
Then you turned and walked back to the bar.
Dean leaned back slowly, the teasing finally slipping from his face.
Tucker dragged a hand over his face, guilt hitting all at once. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, quieter now. “That one might be on you.”
The next twenty minutes were horrible. You weren’t rude, and somehow, that made it worse. You were still sweet when you cleared the table, still smiling when Hannah hugged you goodbye, still telling Logan he couldn’t take the basket of fries with him because it was “not a souvenir.” But you didn’t linger near Tucker, didn’t brush his hand, didn’t smile at him first.
By the time the others left, Dean gave him one very pointed look from the door. Tucker ignored it, mostly because he deserved it.
He stayed behind while you wiped down the bar, sitting at the end with his coat folded beside him like he wasn’t sure where else to put himself. Della had disappeared into the back, clearly on purpose, and without the usual noise, the bar felt strange. Softer. Too quiet.
You didn’t look at him for a while, and Tucker let you have that.
Eventually, you set the rag down with a sigh. “Are you waiting for Della or me?”
“You,” he said. You glanced up, and he swallowed. “If that’s okay.”
You looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.” You seemed surprised by that, so Tucker kept going before he could lose his nerve. “For what I said earlier. You weren’t supposed to hear it.”
“Would it be better if I hadn’t heard it?”
“No,” he said, looking down at his hands before meeting your eyes again. “Probably not.”
You crossed your arms and leaned against the bar. “Do you really think I’m just being nice?”
Tucker hated how gentle your voice was.
“I think you are nice,” he said.
“That’s not what I asked.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. “No, it wasn’t.”
You waited, giving him time to answer.
Tucker exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what I think. I guess I’m trying not to assume.”
“Assume what?” you asked.
“That you’d choose me.”
The words settled between you, quiet and honest and too exposed.
Your expression softened when you said his name. “Tucker.”
He let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I know. It sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t,” you said.
“It kind of does,” he said.
“No,” you said, walking slowly around the bar until you were standing in front of him. “It sounds like you don’t see yourself clearly.”
He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was still flushed from work, hair coming loose around your cheeks, your eyes tired but warm. There was nothing teasing in them now.
“You keep acting like I’m looking past you,” you said, voice soft. “I’m not.”
Tucker went completely still.
You swallowed, a little nervous now, and somehow that made the words hit even harder. “I saw all of them first. I still looked at you.”
For a second, Tucker couldn’t speak. He’d imagined you saying a lot of things. Not that. Never that.
“[Y/N],” Tucker said quietly.
Your smile wobbled slightly. “Too much?”
“No,” he said, voice rough. “No, not too much.”
Della chose that moment to appear from the back, took one look at the two of you, and turned right back around. “I forgot absolutely nothing. Continue.”
You laughed, breaking the tension just enough for Tucker to breathe again.
He stood and grabbed his coat. “Let me walk you home.”
Your eyes lifted to his, softer now. “Okay.”
Outside, the cold air hit your face, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. Tucker walked beside you, close enough for your shoulders to brush every few steps, but not close enough to crowd you. The streets around Briar were quieter now, wrapped in the kind of late-night stillness that made every little sound feel louder — your shoes on the sidewalk, Tucker’s breath in the cold, the distant noise from another bar down the street.
For a minute, neither of you said anything, and then you laughed softly.
Tucker looked over at you. “What?”
“I just realized I basically confessed to you in front of a bar counter that still smelled like spilled beer.”
His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Very romantic.”
“I’ve always been known for my elegance.”
“You did knock over four glasses the first night I met you.”
“Three,” you said, pointing at him. “It was three.”
“One almost fell off the counter,” he said. “I’m counting it.”
“You’re cruel,” you said, trying not to smile.
“I did help.”
“You did,” you said, your voice softening. “That’s why I remembered you.”
Tucker’s chest tightened at that.
You kept walking for a few more steps before adding, “Everyone else laughed. Not in a mean way, but still. You just helped.”
“It wasn’t exactly heroic.”
“It was to me,” you said quietly.
He didn’t know what to do with that, so he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and looked down at the sidewalk like it might tell him what to say.
You smiled at him, and somehow Tucker felt it even without looking.
By the time you reached your apartment building, the tension had changed shape again. It was still soft, still warm, but there was something electric underneath it now, something that had been building for weeks across bar counters, half-finished conversations, and every smile you’d given him like it wasn’t ruining his day in the best way.
You stopped when you reached the door.
“This is me,” you said.
Tucker nodded, like he knew that and still wasn’t ready to leave. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moved. Then you looked up at him. “Do you want to come in?”
His eyes lifted to yours. The question was quiet, but there was nothing unclear about it.
Tucker’s voice dropped when he asked, “Do you want me to?”
You stepped closer, your eyes still on his. “Yes.”
That was all Tucker needed.
The elevator ride was silent, broken only by your uneven breathing and the small ding of each floor passing. Tucker stood beside you with his hands at his sides, not touching you yet, though the restraint in him was obvious. You could feel it — in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his eyes kept flicking to your mouth before he forced them away, in the way he seemed to be waiting until you were somewhere private before letting himself want you properly.
Somehow, it only made you want him more.
Your apartment was small and warm, a little messy in a way that made you immediately wince as you unlocked the door.
“Don’t judge,” you said as you stepped inside. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
Tucker looked around at the books stacked on the coffee table, the blanket slipping off the couch, the mug in the sink, and the tiny lamp glowing in the corner before looking back at you.
“I like it,” he said softly.
You smiled at him. “You’re very easy to impress.”
“Only when it’s you,” he said.
The words were quiet and simple, and they stole the air from your chest.
You closed the door behind him, then turned the lock.
Tucker’s eyes dropped to the movement, and his expression shifted. When he looked back at you, something had changed. He was still Tucker — still warm, still steady — but the softness in him had sharpened into something more focused.
You swallowed, voice suddenly smaller. “Hi.”
His mouth curved, just barely. “Hi.”
“You’re standing very far away,” you said.
“I’m trying to be respectful,” he said.
You stepped closer, eyes on his. “You can stop.”
His eyes darkened at that. “Yeah?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Tucker moved then, closing the small space between you in two steps. His hand came up to your jaw, gentle at first, like he was giving you one last second to lean away.
You leaned into his touch.
After that, the kiss wasn’t gentle. It was warm, deep, and immediate, like weeks of almosts had finally found somewhere to land. Tucker’s hand slid into your hair, the other settling at your waist as he pulled you close enough for your chest to press against his. A soft sound slipped out against his mouth, and Tucker’s grip tightened.
“There you are,” Tucker murmured against your mouth.
Your stomach flipped at the sound of his voice.
You kissed him harder, your hands sliding up his chest and feeling the solid warmth of him beneath his jacket. Tucker walked you back until your spine met the wall near the door, his body caging yours in without ever making you feel trapped.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he said, his mouth brushing your jaw.
Your head tipped back as his lips moved to your neck. “I wanted you to.”
His hand tightened briefly at your waist.
“Yeah?” His voice dropped lower. “Wanted me to walk you home?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
“Wanted me to come upstairs too?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
His mouth hovered near your ear, voice low. “Wanted me to touch you?”
Your breath caught before you could answer. “Tuck—”
He kissed the spot just beneath your jaw, pulling a sound from you that was almost a whimper.
His voice went rough. “Say it.”
You swallowed, your fingers curling into his shirt. “Yes. I wanted you to touch me.”
He groaned, low and restrained, before his mouth found yours again, hungrier this time. Your hands pushed at his jacket, clumsy with urgency, and Tucker helped you pull it off before shrugging out of it and tossing it somewhere near the couch.
You laughed breathlessly as it knocked into a chair.
“Sorry,” you breathed.
“Don’t care,” Tucker murmured, already kissing you again.
Your back hit the wall hard enough to make your whole body light up, but not enough to hurt. Tucker’s thigh slid between yours, and the second you rocked down against it without thinking, his hand tightened on your hip.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’re going to make me forget how to be nice.”
Your lips curved against his. “Maybe I don’t want nice.”
His eyes lifted to yours, and there it was again — that quiet intensity.
“I can do both,” Tucker said, voice low.
The words went straight through you, sharp and warm all at once.
His hands slipped beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your skin. He touched you slowly at first, almost reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. Then your hips moved against his thigh again, and his control slipped just enough that his fingers pressed into your waist.
“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, voice rough. “I’ve been thinking that since the first night.”
“When I dropped the glasses?” you asked.
“Especially then,” he said, like it was obvious.
You laughed, only for it to break into a gasp when his mouth found your neck again, his teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothed the spot.
“Tucker,” you breathed.
“I know,” he murmured, his hand moving higher until his fingers brushed the underside of your breast through your bra. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
You shook your head quickly, voice barely steady. “No.”
“No?” he asked, voice low.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered.
His eyes darkened at that, and then he kissed you like those words had undone something in him. The warm, steady Tucker from Malone’s was still there, but this version of him felt different — more confident, more direct. His hands knew exactly where they wanted to go, his mouth knew how to make you melt, and every quiet groan he gave you made your knees a little less reliable.
He pushed your shirt up slowly, and you lifted your arms for him. The second your shirt hit the floor, his gaze dropped to your chest, and his jaw flexed.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
You almost made a joke. Almost. But the way he looked at you made it hard to hide behind one.
His hands came up to cover your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing slowly over the thin fabric. Your back arched off the wall as a soft moan slipped out before you could stop it.
Tucker’s mouth parted slightly, his voice rough. “Don’t hide that.”
“What?” you breathed.
“Those sounds,” he said, his thumb moving again just to make your breath catch. “I want to hear them.”
Your cheeks warmed, but your body answered before your mouth could, another quiet whimper slipping out when he leaned down and kissed the top of your breast.
“Like that?” Tucker asked, voice low.
“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his shirt. “Like that.”
He undid your bra carefully, sliding the straps down your arms before letting it fall between you. His eyes moved over you more slowly this time, and something about the softness in his face made your chest ache.
Then his mouth closed around your nipple, pulling a moan from you as your head knocked back against the wall.
Tucker groaned against your skin, one hand firm at your waist while the other covered your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until you started shifting against him, needy and restless.
“You’re so responsive,” Tucker murmured, kissing across your chest. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
You swallowed, surprising yourself with how steady it sounded. “Tell me.”
His eyes flicked up, and for a second, he looked surprised. Then his expression shifted, a small, almost dangerous smile tugging at his mouth.
“It makes me want to take my time,” he said, voice low. “Makes me want to find out every way to make you sound like that again.”
Your thighs pressed together, and Tucker noticed immediately. Of course he did. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers pausing at the button of your jeans.
“Can I?” he asked, voice low.
“Yes,” you whispered.
He unbuttoned your jeans slowly, eyes fixed on your face as he pushed the denim down your hips. You kicked them off awkwardly, nearly tripping in the process, and Tucker caught you with a quiet laugh, his hands steady on your waist.
“Still clumsy,” he murmured.
“You’re very distracting,” you said.
“Good,” he murmured.
You were about to answer, but then his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, and every thought disappeared.
He touched you over your panties first, two fingers pressing against the wet fabric, and his breath caught.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re wet.”
Your face burned at the way he said it. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not,” he said, fingers moving slowly over your clit through the soaked material. “Just trying to process the fact that you wanted me this badly.”
“I did,” you whispered.
The admission came out soft and honest.
Tucker’s eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze, even though it made you feel exposed.
“I wanted you,” you said again, softer this time.
Something shifted in his face. Then he kissed you hard, fingers pushing your underwear aside and sliding through your wetness. The first touch of his skin against your cunt pulled a gasp from you, your hips bucking toward his hand before you could stop them.
“There you go,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “That’s what I wanted.”
His fingers circled your clit slowly, steady and precise, and you clung to his shoulders as pleasure sparked low in your stomach.
“Tuck,” you whimpered, fingers tightening on his shoulders.
“Right here,” he murmured, his forehead touching yours. “I’ve got you.”
He slid one finger into you, eyes fixed on the way your lips parted, then added another when your hips rolled against his hand. The stretch pulled a louder moan from you, and Tucker’s jaw tightened like the sound was testing every bit of his restraint.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough. “You sound so pretty.”
His touch grew deeper and more deliberate, his thumb finding you again as you stayed pressed against the wall, nearly bare while Tucker was still fully dressed. The imbalance should have made you embarrassed.
It didn’t. Not with him looking at you like that, not with his hand between your thighs, his mouth at your jaw, and his voice low in your ear.
“Tell me what feels good,” he murmured.
Your breath shook around the answer. “Your fingers.”
“Yeah?” he murmured.
“Yes,” you breathed, gripping his shirt tighter. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
His fingers curled again, and a moan broke from you into the quiet room.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough. “Let me hear you.”
The pleasure built faster than you expected, heat tightening through your stomach and thighs, but just before it could break, Tucker pulled his fingers away.
A frustrated sound slipped out of you. “Why—”
He dropped to his knees, and your mouth went dry as Tucker looked up at you from the floor, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs.
“I’m not done with you yet.” It should not have sounded as hot as it did.
Then he pulled your underwear down, slow and deliberate, before lifting one of your legs over his shoulder.
“Tucker,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair.
His mouth pressed against the inside of your thigh. “Hold onto me.”
Your fingers slid into his hair, and then his mouth found your cunt.
The first stroke of his tongue made your whole body jerk, a sharp moan slipping out as his hands tightened on your thighs. He ate you like he’d been waiting weeks for it, slow and deep at first, tongue dragging through your wetness before flattening over your clit.
“Oh my god,” you gasped.
He hummed against you, the vibration making your knees buckle slightly, and Tucker held you up.
His mouth worked over you with a patience that felt almost unfair, tongue circling your clit, lips sucking softly while his fingers dug into your thigh every time you tugged his hair. You could feel how wet you were, could hear it too, and the sound made your face burn even as your hips started moving against his mouth.
“Tuck—fuck, right there,” you gasped.
He groaned like the words had gone straight through him, focusing there until the pleasure turned sharp and bright. Your head fell back against the wall, one hand still buried in his hair while the other braced beside you.
You were close, close enough that your thighs started trembling.
“Tucker,” you gasped. “I’m—”
He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He only held you tighter, mouth sealed over your clit until you came with a broken moan, hips jerking against him as pleasure rolled through you. He stayed with you through it, easing the pressure when you started to shake and pressing kisses to your inner thigh when you finally whimpered from the sensitivity.
When he stood again, his mouth was wet and his eyes were dark.
You could only stare at him.
He wiped his thumb across his lower lip before leaning in to kiss you. You tasted yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as Tucker made a rough sound against you.
“Bedroom,” he said, voice rough.
You nodded quickly.
The walk there was not graceful. You bumped into the side table, Tucker knocked into the doorframe, and you both laughed against each other’s mouths until the laughter turned into another kiss the second you reached your room.
Tucker pulled his shirt off, and you finally got to touch him properly.
He was warm beneath your palms, solid and broad, and his stomach tightened when your fingers dragged lower toward his belt.
“You okay?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
His eyes met yours, dark and unsteady. “I’ve been better.”
You laughed, but then your hand brushed over the hard outline of him through his jeans, and his smile vanished.
“Oh,” you whispered, your smile fading too.
Tucker caught your wrist gently, his voice rough. “Careful.”
You looked up at him, pulse jumping. “Or what?”
His expression shifted again, that quiet confidence settling over him like he knew exactly what you were doing.
“Or I’m gonna fuck you against that wall before we even make it to the bed.”
Your stomach dropped, but you held his gaze. “Maybe I’d like that.”
For a second, neither of you moved. Then Tucker kissed you hard enough that you stumbled backward.
Your back hit the bedroom wall, his body pressing close while his hands lifted you by the backs of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, and Tucker groaned when you rolled your hips against him.
“Condom?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Nightstand,” you said, breathless.
He carried you to the nightstand just long enough to grab one before returning you to the wall, laughing low when you kissed his neck impatiently.
“Eager,” he murmured.
“You’re the one who mentioned the wall,” you said.
“I did,” he said, voice low.
“Then stop talking,” you breathed.
Tucker’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Yes, ma’am.”
He shoved his jeans down just enough to roll the condom on, then stepped between your thighs again, one hand sliding over your hip while his other arm kept you steady against the wall.
The head of his cock brushed through your wetness, and for a second, both of you went quiet.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, voice barely steady. “Tuck.”
His forehead pressed to yours. “I know.”
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open while holding you like you were something precious and something he wanted badly enough to ruin all at once. The angle was intense, your back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, his body doing all the work as he filled you completely.
Your mouth fell open, breath catching in your throat.
Tucker groaned, the sound rough against your mouth. “Fuck, you feel good.”
“You too,” you breathed, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You feel so good.”
His eyes squeezed shut for a second before he started moving. Slow at first. Controlled. Deep enough that every thrust stole your breath, his hips pinning you to the wall while his hands kept you steady. You were still sensitive from his mouth, still wet and aching, and every drag of his cock pulled another moan from you.
“Tucker,” you gasped.
“I know,” he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw. “I’ve got you.”
“You keep saying that,” you breathed.
“Because I do,” he said, voice steady.
Your chest tightened, but then his hips snapped a little harder, and the feeling turned back into heat.
“Oh, fuck,” you gasped.
“There?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Yes,” you gasped.
He adjusted his grip, holding you higher before hitting the same spot again, and your head fell back against the wall with a moan.
Tucker’s eyes locked on your face. “That’s it.”
His pace built slowly, not rushed but intense, every thrust dragging sounds from you that you couldn’t hold back. The wall was cold against your back, his skin hot against yours, and your whole world narrowed to Tucker’s hands, Tucker’s mouth, Tucker’s cock moving inside you like he’d been waiting weeks to prove exactly how well he could ruin you.
“You have no idea how hard it was,” he murmured against your throat, “watching you smile at me from across that bar.”
A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it.
“Thinking you were just being nice,” he said, hips driving into yours harder until you gasped. “Thinking I was making it up.”
“I wasn’t,” you breathed, clinging tighter to his shoulders. “I wasn’t looking at them.”
Tucker’s grip tightened, and you pulled his face to yours, kissing him messily. “I wanted you.”
He groaned against your mouth.
The next thrust nearly tore a cry out of you.
“Say that again,” he rasped.
“I wanted you.” The next thrust hit harder, stealing the rest of the sentence from you. “Tucker—”
“Again.”
“I wanted you,” you moaned, nails dragging down his shoulders. “I wanted you so badly.”
That broke something in him. His pace turned rougher, still controlled but less careful now, hips snapping into yours as he held you against the wall. You clung to him, moaning his name, letting him hear every gasp and broken sound because he seemed to need them as badly as you needed the way he moved.
“Touch yourself,” he said suddenly, and your breath hitched.
His eyes met yours, dark and intent.
“I want to feel you come around me.”
Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the first circle made your whole body jolt. Tucker cursed, forehead dropping to yours as you clenched around him.
“Fuck, that’s it.”
Your fingers moved faster, clumsy from how badly you were shaking, but the pressure built quickly with him still fucking into you, his voice low and constant in your ear.
“Look at you,” he murmured against your ear. “You’re so pretty. Doing so good for me.”
Your breath broke.
“Come on, baby.” His grip tightened. “Let me feel it.”
The orgasm hit hard, your body tightening around him as your moan broke into something helpless. Tucker held you through it, thrusting deep and uneven as you pulsed around him, until he followed with a rough groan, hips jerking as he came.
He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard against your neck, holding you up like letting go was not an option. Then he laughed softly.
You opened your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, his mouth brushing your shoulder. “Just thinking Dean’s never going to shut up if he finds out.”
You laughed, still breathless and warm. “Then don’t tell him.”
“He’ll know,” Tucker said.
“Why?” you asked, smiling against his skin.
Tucker pulled back just enough to look at you, his smile softer now. “Because I’m not going to be able to stop smiling.”
Your heart did something stupid in your chest.
After that, he carried you to the bed and set you down carefully before disappearing to clean up. When he came back, he had a damp cloth in his hand, cleaning you gently and murmuring an apology when your thighs twitched from sensitivity.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded, still a little breathless. “Very okay.”
His mouth curved. “Good.”
He lay beside you, and for a second, a strange shyness settled between you again. Not awkward. Just new.
You turned onto your side to face him. “You can stay.”
His eyes softened at that. “Yeah?”
“If you want.”
“I want,” he said, without hesitation, and the answer came fast enough to make you smile.
Tucker pulled the blanket over both of you, and you curled into his side like it already felt familiar. His arm came around you, warm and steady, fingers tracing slow lines down your back.
For a while, neither of you said anything. Then you whispered, “I meant it, you know.”
His hand paused against your back. “What?”
“I saw all of them,” you said, tilting your head up to look at him. “I still looked at you.”
Tucker stared at you for a second, something tender and disbelieving crossing his face. Then he kissed you, soft this time, slow, like he finally believed you.
The next morning, Tucker woke with your leg thrown over his and your face tucked against his chest.
For a second, he didn’t move. He just looked at you — at the sunlight slipping through your curtains, your hair messy against his skin, the tiny crease between your brows like you were arguing with someone in your sleep.
He smiled before he could stop himself, which, as it turned out, was exactly the problem. Because when he finally left your apartment in yesterday’s clothes and walked into the hockey house just before noon, Dean was sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal.
Dean looked up. Tucker froze. The spoon stopped halfway to Dean’s mouth as a slow, terrible smile spread across his face.
“No way.”
Tucker sighed. “Don’t.”
Logan appeared from the kitchen immediately, because he had a sixth sense for chaos. “What? What happened?”
Dean pointed his spoon at Tucker. “Our boy didn’t come home last night.”
Garrett looked over from the table, his brows lifting.
Logan’s face lit up. “[Y/N]?”
Tucker tried to walk past them. “I’m leaving.”
“You just got here,” Dean said, delighted.
“Then I’m leaving again.”
Garrett laughed under his breath. “Good for you, man.”
That was somehow worse than the teasing. Tucker shook his head, but he was smiling, and Dean noticed, because Dean noticed everything that made life unbearable.
“Oh, he likes her likes her.”
“Shut up.”
Logan grinned, leaning in like this was the best news he’d heard all week. “Did she finally get tired of waiting for you to make a move?”
Tucker paused at the stairs. Thought about your smile, your apartment, your voice saying, I still looked at you. Then he turned just enough to say, “Actually, she made the move.”
The room exploded. Dean yelled, Logan swore, and Garrett laughed properly this time.
Tucker headed upstairs before any of them could ask anything else, but he still heard Dean call after him.
Xavier’s tongue is relentless between your thighs, the sounds coming from him filthy and utterly messy. Your hands move frantically from the sheets, to his hair as his tongue licks, laps, and swirls over your slick folds, dragging a hot, wet stripe from your entrance up to the swollen nub of your clit. He moans against you, the vibration sending shivers up your spine, and you arch, pressing your hips harder into his face.
His breath hitches as he sucks gently on your clit, then releases it with a soft pop, only to dive back in, his lips sealing around your pussy as he begins to fuck you with his tongue. Each thrust is deep, deliberate, his tongue curling and flicking, teasing the inner walls before pulling back to lap at your juices, which glisten on his chin and drip onto the sheets. You can feel the heat building, a tight coil in your belly that threatens to snap with every swipe of his adept muscle.
You tug at his hair, nails scraping his scalp, urging him faster, harder. Xavier responds by increasing the pressure, his tongue now a relentless piston, sliding in and out, hitting that sweet spot that makes you gasp and whimper. The wet, squelching noises fill the room—his saliva mixing with your arousal, creating a lewd sound that only fuels your desperation.
“More… Xavier, please…” you pant, voice ragged, as he pulls back just enough to look up at you, eyes dark with lust, lips glistening. He smirks, then dives back in, this time sucking hard on your clit while his fingers—two thick digits—slide into your soaked entrance, curling to find that spongy spot inside. The dual sensation sends you over the edge in a shuddering climax; your back arches off the bed, a choked cry tearing from your throat as waves of pleasure crash through you, your pussy clenching around his fingers and his tongue still lapping greedily at your essence.
He continues to lick you through the aftershocks, drinking every drop of your cum, his face a mess of your juices and his own saliva. When the tremors finally subside, he pulls back, breathing heavily, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your inner thigh before rising to hover over you, his own erection hard and leaking against your stomach.
“Your taste…” he murmurs, voice husky, “is addictive.”
You smile, dazed and satisfied, and pull him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue.
Tucker finally catches you staring at his thighs and decides a cooking lesson isn't what you actually need.
word count : 2.1k — explicit — thigh-riding — dry-humping — praise — tuck being super sweet and cute and a giver — tuck (he deserves a warning cause damn) — my boy tucker deserves the filth so i'm not sorry about that one — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
There was a fine line between patience and sheer torture, and John Tucker had been dragging you across it for months.
It wasn't his fault, that was the worst part. He wasn’t playing games—he was just genuinely, wholesomely oblivious. Every time you wore his favorite jersey, or intentionally leaned close to touch his forearm while he laughed, or made a pointed comment about how he’d make an incredible boyfriend, Tucker would just beam, give you that sweet, devastating dimpled smile, and say something like, "Appreciate you, darlin', always so good to me."
Always so good to him. His polite deflections were a special kind of psychological torture.
Right now, you were sitting at his kitchen island, supposed to be chopping garlic for the shrimp scampi alfredo he was teaching you to make. Instead, you were entirely hypnotized by the view.
Tucker was standing at the counter, leaning over a cutting board. He was wearing a pair of very, very thin, gray athletic shorts. Because he was leaning forward, the fabric was pulled tight, completely mapping out the staggering size of his thighs. They were dense, farm-boy quads carved out by years of heavy squats and explosive skating. You could see the distinct, powerful sweep of muscle definition, and the way they flexed every single time he shifted his weight.
You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—
"Uh, darlin'?"
Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.
You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.
"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.
"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.
"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."
"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."
"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."
Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.
The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.
You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.
"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"
Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.
"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"
"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."
Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."
You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.
You just stared.
Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.
He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.
You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.
"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.
He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.
Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.
"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.
A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.
"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"
You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.
"Yes," you whimpered.
The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.
He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.
"Come here."
Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.
Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.
The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.
"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.
Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.
The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.
Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."
All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.
The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.
The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.
As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.
You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.
He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.
"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."
You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.
His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.
Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.
"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."
He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.
"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."
