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.
desc: unfortunately, with fame, came tucker not being the best boyfriend. who’s surprised. you’ve already feared of this happening but you thought that with how good your relationship started, he’d never turn his back on you like this. yet, he comes home every few nights, drunk, and not understanding what he did wrong.
cw: drinking, swearing, pure angst. like seriously i don’t think i wrote anything happy in here.
wc: 1.7k
a/n - we’re so back but this is not cute… sorry not sorry enjoy maybe
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he let himself in like he always did. no hesitation. no knock. just the sound of the lock turning and the door shutting behind him a second later, too loud for how late it was.
he stood there for a moment in the hallway like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say something first or act like nothing had happened.
he went with nothing.
she didn’t move from the kitchen counter, a half-empty glass of wine on the counter, her robe tied at her waist loosely like she’s been in bed for a while now. “you’re back,” she said.
flat. not emotional. just fact.
he glanced at her, then away again, already reaching for the fridge. “yeah.” he opened it then closed it. it’s not like anything in there interested him anyway.
“you’re drunk,” she added.
“i’m fine,” he said automatically.
that was enough to start it.
she exhaled through her nose. “stop fucking saying that. it doesn’t change what i’m looking at.”
he finally looked at her properly then. “what, are you counting drinks now?”
“don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“turn it into something dumb so you don’t have to give a serious answer.”
a beat.
he set his hand on the counter, leaning into it slightly. not aggressive. just there. occupying space like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“i didn’t come here for this,” he said.
“you never fucking come here for anything!” she shot back before she could stop herself.
that landed. she saw it land when his jaw tightened just a little.
“i came here because you asked me to,” he said.
“no,” she said. “you came here because you had nowhere else to go tonight. and this is our goddamn apartment. you’re never here. what am i supposed to do?”
silence.
then, a short laugh from him. no humour in it. “that’s what this is now?”
“tell me what it is then?”
he pushed off the counter just slightly, standing straighter. too straight. “i don’t know what you want me to say,” he said almost lazily.
“that’s not an excuse. stop saying that,” she cut in.
“because it’s true.”
“it’s not an answer!”
“it’s the only one i’ve got right now.”
he said it like that should end it. like that should make her step back. it didn’t.
instead, something in him shifted — not instantly explosive, but sharper, like the patience had already been worn thin long before he walked through the door.
he straightened again, jaw tightening, eyes locked on her now in a way that wasn’t wandering anymore. “no,” he said. just that. cold.
she blinked. “what?”
he let out a short laugh, but this one had an edge to it. “don’t do that. don’t stand there like i’m supposed to just—what—perform answers for you at two in the morning.”
“i’m not asking you to perform anything,” she said immediately. “i’m asking you to talk like a normal person for once.”
“a normal person,” he repeated, like he was testing how ridiculous it sounded on his tongue.
she didn’t move, didn’t give him anything to bounce off of. that made him even more irritated for whatever reason.
he pushed off the counter fully now, stepping away from it like he couldn’t stand being anchored to anything in the room. “you want normal?” he said, voice rising. “you think this is about me not knowing how to talk?”
“it’s about you never being here,” she said immediately.
“i’m here now,” he snapped.
“after days.”
“so what do you want, a schedule?” he shot back. “you want me to clock in? check in? what, do i need permission now?”
“don’t be dramatic,” she said, but her voice was tighter now.
that made him stop pacing just long enough to look at her properly again.
“i’m being dramatic?” he said, colder. “you’re standing there acting like i’ve been gone on purpose to punish you!”
“you disappear and come back drunk like nothing matters,” she said, voice rising now to match his. “you’re slurring and i’m supposed to just—what—be fine with it?”
“i didn’t ask you to be fine with it,” he said. “i didn’t ask you to be anything.”
that landed differently.
worse.
her face changed first. not anger now, something thinner underneath it.
but he didn’t stop. he was already in it. already too far past where he should’ve stopped.
“you know what this is?” he said, pointing vaguely between them. not at her. not exactly. just the space. “this you deciding what i’m supposed to be when i’m not even here half the time. you’re trying to fucking hold me back.”
“that’s not what i’m doing.” she adds on almost weakly.
“it is,” he cuts in, not letting her say more. “you want me here but only if i’m here the way you want me to be.”
she let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “i want you here sober enough to have a conversation.”
that hit something raw.
his expression twisted slightly — not hurt exactly, but something defensive and personal.
“don’t talk to me like i’m a problem you’re managing,” he said.
“then stop acting like one,” she shot back.
silence. then he stepped forward again. closer this time. not slow. not controlled. just movement driven by something uglier than either of them wanted to admit.
he was too tall in the space again, and she hated that her body registered it before her mind did. hated that her breathing shifted before she even decided to react.
but she didn’t step back.
“you always do this,” she said, voice lower now. “you get like this, and you just—take up the whole room like it’s supposed to make you right.”
his eyes flashed. “i’m not doing anything,” he said.
“you are right now,” she said, firmer now. “you’re doing it right now.” she could be manic at this point.
“you think you can talk down to me because you’re sitting here waiting for me to be better than whatever version of me shows up?” he said, voice louder now. “that’s not how this works.”
“i’m not waiting for you to be better,” she said, and her voice cracked slightly on the edge of it. just barely. “i’m waiting for you to be consistent.”
he scoffed. “i’m not a fucking routine.”
“no,” she said, and now her eyes were glassy, but she didn’t stop. “you’re just chaos when it suits you and distance when it doesn’t. i don’t know what the fuck happened to you, tucker! you’re not the same person i started dating!”
that stopped him. just for a beat. then it came back sharper.
“you don’t get to say that,” he said.
“why not?” she asked immediately, and now there was something breaking in her tone too. “because it’s true?”
he stared at her, and for a second, it looked like he might actually say something real. instead, he shook his head once, hard.
“you know what your problem is?” he said.
she didn’t answer.
“you act like you’re the only one getting hurt,” he continued. “like i don’t come back here and deal with you looking at me like i’m something you regret letting in.”
that made her go still. not because it was fair—because it wasn’t. and he knew it. but since he’s him, he continues.
“you don’t even like me half the time i’m here,” he said, voice rising again. “you just like the idea of me when i’m not around to mess anything up.”
her breath shook just slightly. “don’t,” she said.
but it wasn’t strong enough and he saw it.
and instead of stopping, he doubled down like he couldn’t help it.
“what, am i supposed to feel bad for showing up like this?” he said. “this is what i am when i’m not on some schedule you made up in your head.”
“i didn’t make anything up,” she said, but it came out smaller now. more fragile.
he laughed again, but it was ugly now. “you did. you built this whole thing where i’m supposed to be here and not be me at the same time.”
that did it.
her face tightened, and she looked away for half a second like she needed air more than she needed to win anything.
when she looked back, her eyes were wet.
that changed the room instantly. even he froze slightly. but neither of them backed down yet because they’re one hell of a stubborn couple.
“you’re not even listening to yourself,” she said quietly now, voice shaking but steady enough to land. “you come in here, you blow everything up, and then you act like i caused it because i reacted.”
his mouth opened, then closed. for the first time, there was no immediate comeback.
she wiped under her eye quickly, annoyed at herself more than him. “you leave,” she said, softer now but sharper in meaning. “and you come back like it resets everything. and it doesn’t. it never does. it just keeps—”
she stopped. because she couldn’t finish it without breaking.
he looked at her then. and the anger didn’t disappear, but it lost something underneath it. like he was finally seeing the cost of it instead of just the heat of it.
“i don’t know how to stop doing it,” he said, quieter now.
not an excuse. just a fact that made everything worse.
she let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh, but didn’t. “yeah,” she said, voice barely holding. “i know.”
a long silence followed. not peaceful at all, no. heavy, for sure.
he ran a hand over his face, dragging it down like he was trying to reset himself physically. when he spoke again, it was lower. less sharp. “i didn’t mean—” he started.
then stopped. because that wasn’t enough. and he knew it.
she nodded slightly anyway, like she understood what he couldn’t finish. but she didn’t soften fully.
because understanding wasn’t the same as surviving it.
and they both knew, standing there in the middle of the apartment they kept ruining in different ways, that this wasn’t the first time it had ended like this.
“i hope you’re sober enough to remember this in the morning, tucker. goodnight.”
Mechanic! Tucker takes her in the back of his Bronco at a bonfire. (This is NOT sunshine! Reader or at all related to the actual story.)
Warnings: sex (duh), no protection (don’t do that), she begs for it.
The sound of music, drunk laughter and the echo of a bottle being shattered float into the open back window of the Bronco the same way the embers from the bonfire roll up into the night sky— unhurried and fading in the distance.
Tucker had dragged her away from the fire with a beer in one hand and a crooked grin on his face. He’d watched one too many guys try (and fail) to get her attention all night. His girl, but Tucker? He’s not jealous, he’s amused.
Amused by the way she simply shakes her head and turns her back on them to talk to her friends. By the way her eyes keep catching his own across the dancing flames. By the way he doesn’t even have to question whether or not she’s leaving with him.
A few hours have passed and by now he’s hauled her into the back of the Bronco, where the seats are still folded down.
Blankets and a couple of pillows are still scattered from a night of stargazing the week before. He barely gave her time to lay down before he was pulling her sundress up over her hips.
He’d closed the tailgate behind them, which he was now using as leverage for one of his feet every time he thrusts his cock up into her from behind.
He has one arm locked around her, keeping her back pressed to his chest. His raspy voice against the back of her neck sends shivers down her spine when he matches his praise to the timing of his hips moving.
“I’m the luckiest fucking guy alive,” He grunts, his grip on her tightening as he whispers into her ear. “I’ve got the sweetest girl with the tightest little pussy— God, you feel so damn good.”
“Always for you.” She breathes out in agreement, though most of her words are just gasps and moans, barely coherent in the heat of the moment. They come and go with each rock of his hips.
“Always for me… only for me.” He adds, his movements against her are lazy, but intense.
Her side is pressed firmly into the blanket that’s sprawled out beneath them, her hands scrambling for purchase anywhere they can grab. The wheel well ends up being the closest thing she can find. “God, please don’t stop…”
The way she practically mewls when he slides inside of her has him grunting against her skin. She’s so slick that he can feel her dripping down his cock, his balls slapping up against her with every stroke.
“Don’t worry,” He murmurs against the shell of her ear. He slides his arms around her waist, holding her securely against him.
“I’m not going anywhere, pretty girl.”
He pulls her back until she’s sitting on his lap, her back to his chest. The angle makes her sink all the way down to the base of his cock. His thrusts are slower like this, but he reaches a little deeper.
Her legs are spread across his lap, with a knee on each side of him. She grabs onto his knee, her nails scraping at his thigh, her other hand gripping the closed tailgate just to keep her upright as she bounces on his length.
“Oh god, Tucker.” She whimpers out, desperate. “Oh fuck, baby. I’m about to cum,”
“That’s it, just like that— take what you need, baby,” He encouraged her, guiding her movements with his hands on her waist.
His words turn to grunts when she starts to get too loud, but it’s hard for him to be upset about it when she’s making his eyes roll back in his head.
“Oh fuuck,” Her own eyes squeeze shut, her chest collapsing against his thighs as she gives in and lets the wave of her orgasm carry her away. She folds in on herself, resting every bit of her weight on him as she rocks mercilessly back and forth.
His breath is hot against the back of her neck as he moans, “I’m not gonna last much longer,” His hands move to grip her hips in a way that’s as solid as it is encouraging.
He sits up until he’s pushed her onto her knees, his own hands now resting over hers on the tailgate. His hips slam up into hers from behind, his balls slapping against her clit with each drive of his cock into her.
“That’s it— gonna let me fill you up, aren't you?” He moans.
“Please,” She moaned as he used her to chase his own high.
She leaned back against him, reaching up behind her to grip on to anything she could reach. His thigh, the crook of his neck— pulling herself closer by the fabric of his shirt. She let herself get lost in the feeling of his teeth on her neck and his cock deep inside her.
“Please,” She repeats, followed by a shameless ramble of begging. “Please— I need it. Wanna feel you come inside of me.”
“Jesus Christ,” He groaned against her neck at the sound of her voice.
He was already close but the way she was whining and trying to pull him even deeper was too much to take.
He wraps his arms around her waist again, trying to keep her still for a moment as he buried himself inside of her as far as he could go. He buried his face into her neck, hips stuttering against her.
“Oh god, I’m— I’m cumming.“ He moaned against her skin. His legs tense around hers, his hips spasming against her ass. His load is deep, hot and heavy between her thighs.
“Tuuck,” She moans again, his name leaving her lips even though it’s hardly intelligible.
She clenches around him as she tries to catch her breath, trying to hold onto this moment for as long as possible.
After a moment, she sinks a little further down into the blankets, feeling like she can barely hold herself up. He follows her. He’s a solid, heavy weight on top of her, but she’s grateful for it.
He presses his face against her shoulder, planting soft kisses against any part of her he can reach.
She melts into the blankets, breath still uneven, skin still tingling. His weight is warm and grounding—she can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat against her back. His lazy kisses trail along her shoulder, her neck, the spot behind her ear that always makes her shiver.
"Mmm," she hums, tilting her head to give him more room. Her fingers idly trace the scarred knuckles of the hand still resting on her hip. "You spoil me."
Tucker chuckles the sound low, rough, and still a little breathless. He nips at her earlobe.
"You say that like it’s a bad thing." His thumb brushes circles against her skin, slow and absentminded.
She laughs, soft and breathy, turning her head just enough to catch his lips in a drowsy kiss. “Not even a little bit.”
The night air is cool against their overheated skin, the distant hum of the bonfire still carrying on without them. The Bronco smells like leather and engine grease and them.
"You gonna share that beer now?" she teases, nodding toward the half-forgotten bottle still wedged between the front seats.
He huffs a laugh, but reaches for it anyway. “Who made you so goddamn bossy?" he mutters, but there’s no heat in it—just that quiet, amused affection she’s come to love.
She grins, taking the bottle when he hands it to her. "You did… and you love it."
"Yeah," he admits, easy as anything, pressing another kiss to her temple. "I do.”
“You made a mess of me,” She pants against the mouth of the bottle, laughing at her own disheveled state as she takes a swig and attempts to straighten her dress.
“And now I have to go back out there like this.” Her underwear is stretched awkwardly to one side, permanently, from how he’d pulled it over.
Tucker stretches to open the glove compartment, bringing back clean napkins to help wipe his release that’s now dripping down her thighs.
He takes his time cleaning her up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips when she makes no attempt to move.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, though his tone is anything but apologetic. "Next time I'll aim for something less messy," he teases, before pressing a kiss to her thigh.
She rolls her eyes, swatting his shoulder while he cleans her up. He's slow and meticulous about it, his fingers lingering on her skin just a little longer than necessary.
“No you won’t.” She scoffs, grabbing his hand as he tugs her off of the tailgate and back onto her shaky legs.
“No,” He laughs and shakes his head. “I won’t.”
"C’mon," he says, tugging her by the hand toward the bonfire in the distance. His voice is all lazy satisfaction. "Let’s go give ‘em somethin’ to talk about."
A/N— I had to take a long hard look at myself in the mirror after writing this. Let me know what you think. Or don’t. 😅
hi i did the er request, and you could totally make her pregnant that’s sooo cute !!
Surprise
(I hope you love this as much as I do, 🍎. Thank you for the incredible requests. xx)
The third time she woke up that night, she’d crawled halfway to the bathroom in the dark before Tucker’s voice stopped her.
Fuck, he’s awake.
Looming over her in the darkness, he bends over and scoops her into his arms, carrying her the rest of the way towards the toilet. He pulls the lid up and gathers her hair at the nape of her neck with one hand, the other rubbing soothing circles across her spine. By now she’s only dry heaving.
She hasn’t been able to keep down anything solid, or liquid for that matter, for the past two days. Her body treats everything she gives it like a threat, and immediately rejects it.
When she’d finished and slumped against the cold tile wall, her hair a sweaty mess and her breathing agonal at best, Tucker finally spoke.
“That’s it,” He decides, squatting down to press a cool washcloth to her face. “We’re going.”
“It’s probably just a virus–”
“I don’t care,” He interrupts her, already shaking his head. He’s using his firm voice, but his hands shake against her skin as he wipes her sweat. “It’s been two days, baby. You can’t keep anything down. You’re cramping. You’re–” He steadies himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to reign his thoughts in. “I’m taking you.”
She looked at him, watching the way he fumbles to wrap one of her jackets around her shoulders before lifting her off of the floor. His hazel eyes are tainted by the dark circles under them and there’s worry etched into every small line of his face.
“Okay,” she relents with a halfhearted nod.
He takes her to the urgent care attached to a small hospital. The waiting room reeks of hand sanitizer, the room itself is too cold, and the magazines are from 2019. Tucker holds her hand in the sad, beige purgatory, his thumb brushing steady strokes over the back of her own. He has a hoodie half pulled up over his head, not enough to cover his face fully, but enough that most people wouldn’t look too closely.
A nurse finally calls her name and Tucker helps her to her feet, one hand on the small of her back and the other supporting her elbow.
The nurse who called them back takes them into a curtain drawn cubicle with an exam table and a plastic chair. This room is cold too, and small enough that Tucker’s knee is pressed against hers when he sits.
She answers all of the standard questions that the nurse has– when did the vomiting start? Any fever? How about diarrhea? Abdominal pain?
“Yes,” She answers the last one. “It’s like a cramping feeling down low.”
The nurse hums and makes a small note on her pad. “Any chance you could be pregnant?”
“No,” She answers automatically, an instinct after years of being asked that at every doctor's appointment. “I’m on birth control.”
“Okay,” She replies, making another mark. “The doctor will be in shortly.” She gives them a polite smile before leaving the room.
The doctor comes in after what feels like a lifetime. She has grey streaked hair and tired but kind eyes. She asks more questions, checks her vitals, and presses on her stomach to watch the way her face screws up.
“The cramping could be cause for concern,” The doctor, who they now know is named Dr. Patel, admits. “It could be nothing. It could be from the dehydration or muscle strain from the vomiting, but I’d like to do some more testing to rule out anything structural.”
“Structural?” Tucker questions.
“Ovarian cysts, appendicitis, anything uterine.” Dr Patel explains, listing off conditions like they’re items on a shopping list.
“First thing I’m going to order is a full panel and an ultrasound.” She glances from the doctor to Tucker. He’s gone slightly pale.
“Standard precaution,” Dr. Patel reassures him, her voice calm and even. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll send down the orders and a tech will be in shortly.”
The technician is a younger woman with a slicked back bun who greets them with a smile. She pushes in the ultrasound equipment and stops on the side of the exam table. She introduces herself as Marie. “I’m gonna be doing your ultrasound today, okay? I’m just going to quickly check and make sure everything is still where it should be.”
“This might be cold for just a moment,” Marie warns as she squeezes a bit of gel onto the wand.
The wand is then pressed against her lower belly, and she sucks air through her teeth at the cool sensation. The technician doesn’t even flinch, her eyes moving across the screen in front of her with dialed in focus.
Until…
Her eyes flicker to Tucker, just for a second. A double take so quick that she almost misses it. Marie looks back at her screen. Her face doesn’t change, still a very carefully neutral expression that she’s most likely perfected over the years, but her hand pauses with the wand.
“Hm,” She hums, clicking a few keys on the ultrasound machine.
Both herself and Tucker raise their eyebrows.
“Ah, just a moment.” Marie tells them. Her voice is calm, but there is something else underneath it. It almost sounds like suppressed excitement. “I’ll need to get the doctor to go over the results with you.”
Marie places the wand back in the stand, wipes her own hands and the gel from her patient's stomach before leaving the room.
“Get the doctor?” Tucker blurts as soon as she’s gone, still staring at the closed door. “Why would she need to get the doctor? They only say that when something bad is happening.”
“Tucker–”
“She said ‘hm’,” He continues, too lost in his own spiral of thoughts to keep them from spilling out of his mouth. “I don’t like ‘hm’. That’s not a medical term, that’s– that’s the sound you make when you run out of shampoo mid shower.”
“Tucker–” She tries again, this time grabbing ahold of his hand while trying to hold back a laugh at her sweet, overthinking man.
“What?”
“Whatever it is… we’ll handle it together, like we always do.” She reminds him and squeezes his hand. “Just give them a minute before you start freaking out.”
Tucker nods and forces himself back into the hard plastic chair. He holds her hand and watches her face, counting her breaths and the seconds that go by until the door opens again.
Dr. Patel comes back with a tablet in one hand and the technician in tow behind her. Both of them are wearing expressions that are incredibly hard to read (much to Tucker’s dismay).
“So,” Dr. Patel speaks, sliding up bedside on a rolling chair. “The ultrasound came back.”
“And?” Tucker asks impatiently, white knuckle gripping the armrests of his chair.
The doctor looks at her. Then at Tucker. Then back at her.
“There’s no signs of appendicitis or any ovarian cysts,” Dr. Patel speaks carefully and measured. “But we did find something unexpected.”
“Unexpected? What– what kind of something?” She asks, trying and failing to stop her heart from racing.
Dr. Patel turns the tablet towards them, leaning it against her chest while pointing with the tip of her pen.
She sees shapes. Blurry, tiny greyscale shapes. Two of them flickering like pinhole stars on a black and white sky.
“These are gestational sacs,” The doctor explains plainly. “Two of them.”
“I’m sorry, two?” She questions. “Like… plural?”
Dr Patel simply nods, letting a small smile show on her lips.
“You’re pregnant,” She tells her very gently. “With twins.”
The room falls drop dead quiet.
She can’t pull her eyes away from the screen. From the two flickering heartbeats. From her babies.
Twins.
Their twins.
She turns to look at Tucker. He’s still sitting in his chair— kind of. His hands are still gripping the armrests, but his ass is hovering a few inches above the seat, like he started to stand and forgot how. His eyes are wide and fixated on the screen, unblinking.
He’s the human embodiment of a question mark.
“Tucker.” She tries.
There’s no response. Not even a blink.
“Tucker—“ She tries again.
He finally blinks and turns to look at her. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
“W—“ He swallows dryly and starts again. “We’re having two babies?” He asks, his voice cracking on the word two.
“That’s what the doctor said.” She answers, still not quite believing it herself.
He glances at the screen, back at her, back to the screen, to her stomach, to the doctor. His eyes can’t seem to stay in one spot for very long.
“I need to sit down.” He concludes.
“You’re already sitting down, babe… kind of.” She uses her hand to nudge his shoulder, gently pushing him back into his seat.
“Oh… right,” He realizes in a quick breath.
She glances at the doctor and tech who are already quietly leaving the room to give them a moment.
After they’re gone, and Tucker breathes, he stands up properly this time and moves to sit on the edge of the bed next to her.
“There’s two of ‘em in there?” He asks again, staring down at her still bare stomach.
“That’s what they said, yeah.”
“Two.”
“Two.” She nods.
He’s quiet for a long moment, his face going through too many emotions at once to name them all until slowly he starts to grin. It’s like watching the sun come out on an otherwise cloudy day, and then he starts to laugh. A watery, disbelieving sound that fills the whole room.
“Tuck?”
He looks up at her, his eyes red rimmed and filled with unshed tears. His nose is running, but his smile is so wide it looks painful.
“I’m gonna be a dad.” He breathes. “Two two babies.”
“Yeah, you are.” She can’t help it, her own eyes swimming as she lets out a laugh.
“To two little stinky babies.”
“Our babies will not be stinky.”
“They’re mine. Of course they’re gonna be stinky. They have my genes.”
“Stop saying stinky.” She can’t stop giggling now, letting her tears fall as she reaches out to smack his arm, but he catches her fingers and presses a kiss to her knuckles.
He slides up the side of the bed, moving to cup her cheeks between his palms like she’s made of the most precious material he’s ever touched, and wipes away her tears.
Then he kisses her. A messy, teary perfect kiss. She’d just handed him his whole world. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against hers.
“I love you.” He tells her, one hand sliding down to rest over her still flat, still upset stomach. “And I love them too. I haven’t even met them and I already love them.”
“I know.” She whispers, leaning up to kiss his forehead this time. “We love you too.”
Later— after she’s discharged with anti nausea meds and a referral to an OB that specializes in multiples, he helps her into the car, ignoring her protests and clicking her seatbelt like she’s suddenly made of glass.
He jogs around the front of the car and gets in the drivers side, but he doesn’t start the engine yet.
“We’re gonna need a bigger apartment.” He murmurs his train of thought. “Hell, we’re gonna need a house… with a yard.”
“And a bigger car,” She muses, turning to look in the backseat. “With two car seats.”
“How do you even fit two car seats?” He asks, sounding incredulous as he turns to look with her.
She laughs before looking over at him. His eyes are bright, tired and softer than she’s ever seen them.
“We’ll figure it out together.” She tells him. “We always do.”
“Yeah,” He breathes, those pretty eyes directly on her now. “We always do.”
could you write something where reader and tucker are dating and they wake up in the middle of the night because tucker has a bad low(i’m sure yk he’s diabetic)?? ty!!
Low
(Here's what I came up with for your request, I hope you enjoy!)
What first woke her up was an incessant buzzing.
Not her phone. Her screen is pitch black. Not his either. He'd silenced it hours ago with a grumbled, “Son of a bitch,” after the third time his dexcom alerted him of a false low. That tends to happen when the sensor is worn out and he lays on his arm for too long.
She blinks awake slowly, feeling disoriented momentarily in the curtain drawn darkness of their hotel room. Outside, whatever city they’re staying in is still alive with early morning life, but in here everything is still.
Too still.
The buzzing stops… and then starts again.
Tucker is curled against her side, but something is off. He’s too still, too quiet. She feels his skin when she reaches across his clammy shoulder to grab the buzzing device. It’s his receiver– the screen lights up in her hand and her stomach drops.
52 mg/dL ↓↓
URGENT LOW
Below it, a graph with a terrifyingly sharp line pointing straight down.
“Tucker.” She shakes his shoulder gently and gets no response, just a long shallow breath that doesn’t sound right.
“Tucker, baby, wake up.” She’s louder this time, more insistent. She sits up, fumbling around until she finds the switch to the lamp on the nightstand.The light clicks on, flooding the room with a harsh, too yellow light she has to blink against.
He’s still curled on his side with his face half buried in the pillow, but his lips are pale. There’s a sheen of sweat glistening across his forehead despite the air in the room being set on low. His hands– the ones that he wrapped around her so gently as they fell asleep– were now tucked into himself and trembling against the sheets.
She reaches out and gives his shoulder a squeeze.
“Tucker.”
This time she gets him to stir. He makes a small, confused sound, but doesn’t open his eyes.
“Hey.” She keeps her voice calm and measured, the way she’d learned to do over the years– from every close call that would’ve only been made worse by panic. That doesn’t stop the hammering in her chest though. “I need you to wake up for me, okay?”
“Open your eyes for me, yeah?”
His brow furrows, creating a little crease between his eyebrows. The same one that she’d kiss away when he was stressed, but this isn’t stress. It’s struggle.
His eyelids flutter twice before they finally, finally open.
His eyes are glassy and unfocused. His pupils blown wide as he looks up at her with a thousand yard stare— like he couldn’t recognize the stranger looming over him in the dark, and that scares her more than anything else.
Her heart cracks, just a little.
“Hey,” She murmurs softly, her hand sliding up to cup his cheek. “There you are.”
“Wha—“ His words are thick around the edges, like his tongue won’t cooperate with his mouth. “What’s…”
“You’re low, baby.” She answers, her fingers trailing even further up to brush his sweaty hair back off of his forehead. “Really low. I need you to sit up. I’m gonna help you. Can you do that?”
He stares at her for a moment too long. Too long for her to be comfortable with— like it’s taking time for her words to fully process. Then he nods, or tries to as his head lulls slightly to the side.
“I’m gonna help you.” She repeats as she wraps her arms around his middle, resting his arms over her shoulders. “Just hold on to me.” She instructs, using every ounce of strength and adrenaline in her body to push his lanky frame up against the headboard.
He doesn’t hold on. Instead he clings and shivers.
He’s heavier than usual, his dead weight and muscles refusing to cooperate certainly don’t help, but she manages. She catches his chin when it falls forward, tipping his head back before it can touch his chest.
With her free hand she reaches for his bag. The one that is never too far away. It’s a leather satchel resting on the nightstand stocked with everything he might need in a moment like this— meter, test strips, lancet, glucose gel.
“I need to check your sugar, okay?” She murmurs while pulling out what she needs. “The old school way. I’m gonna poke your finger.”
He blinks at her and swallows hard. “‘Kay,” he breathes.
His hand is still shaking when she grabs it. Her own are steady because they have to be.
She pricks his finger, squeezing until there’s a tiny bead of blood that she presses the strip against. The meter counts down from three.
Two.
One.
47 mg/dL
That’s even lower than the alert said. He’s dropping fast.
“Okay, okay okay…” She says to herself more than him, before recentering. “We need to get some sugar in you. Now.”
She reaches back into the bag and pulls out a tube of glucose gel. It’s his least favorite method of getting his sugar back up, but right now they don’t really have a choice. She rips open the end of it with her teeth and holds it up to his lips.
Just as she expected he grunts, clamping his lips shut and trying to turn his head away. His sugar starved brain is fighting against him.
“No, ‘s gross.” He mutters stubbornly. He acts like the artificial sweetness even touching his tongue is torture.
“I don’t care if it’s gross. You’re gonna take it anyways.” She mumbles back, matching his energy as she squirts a bit of the gel on her finger and promptly sticks it in his mouth, rubbing it against his gums and clenched teeth.
She pulls her finger out of his lips and uses her hand to cup under his chin, double tasking as the other hand reaches for one of the juice boxes on the nightstand. Apple— the kind with the bendy straw, which is his favorite. She peels the plastic from the straw and stabs it through the foil.
Holding it up to his lips she murmurs again, “Drink. It’ll help with the taste.” She helps him lift his arm and presses the juice box into his hand.
“All of it, baby. Drink the whole thing.” She encourages, her fingers linked tightly around his still trembling ones. He takes a sip. And then another. Slow, too slow at first until the sugar slowly hits his system and his body realizes what it’s been missing.
He obeys, his throat moving with each swallow, and she watches closely for any sign that he’s coming back to her. The glassiness in his eyes is starting to clear up, and he’s shaking but holding the juice box on his own. All good signs.
When the color starts to creep back into his cheeks she feels something in her chest unclench.
“There you go, that’s it.” She breathes and takes the empty juice box from his hands. “You’re doing good.”
She reaches over to the nightstand and checks his receiver.
82 mg/dL ↑
Better. Not safe yet, but much better. The number on his receiver slowly continues to climb.
The next ten minutes are a familiar ritual for both of them. Although uncommon— Tucker’s tech is normally more reliant when it’s used properly— it does happen.
She makes him drink another juice box and eat a few fruit snacks that she forces into his hand despite him insisting that he’s not hungry.
She’d moved to sit beside him against the headboard, watching as the tension slowly bleeds out of his shoulders, and his hand (now warm), finds hers under the covers.
“Sorry,” He mumbles, his voice sounding wrecked. “I slept through it.”
“Don’t apologize,” She replies with a shake of her head, using her hand to lean his head until it’s resting on her shoulder.
“I scared you.”
“I’d rather wake up scared a million times than sleep through something happening to you.” She murmurs and presses her lips to his temple.
“How bad?” He asks, already cringing before she answers.
“54… straight down.”
“Fuck… I hate that you have to do this.” He admits in a soft breath, one that’s filled with a mix of guilt and embarrassment that she has become used to. “Take care of me like this.” He elaborates with a huff.
She turns and cups his cheeks between her hands, studying his expression. There’s something soft, tired and a little bit broken in his eyes. Her thumbs brush over his cheekbones, wiping away the last of the sweat that’s there.
“Tucker Pillsbury,” She tells him, making sure he’s looking her in the eyes. “I’ll wake up at four AM and force feed you apple juice and fruit snacks as many times as you need me to. Okay?”
“Okay,”
“Just rest until we have to check you again,” She says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“Okay.”
He hesitates just a moment before falling back asleep, long enough to lift his hand up to her face. His fingers caress her cheek as he tilts his chin up and catches her lips in a kiss that tastes of apple juice and glucose gel.
“I love you.” He mumbles, tired but fierce.
“I know. I love you too.”
She reaches over and flicks the lamp back off, keeping his receiver close while tucking the blankets up around them both. She probably won’t get any more sleep tonight. But he’s here. He’s safe, and that’s all that matters.
The only gas station in town is the one on the very edge. It sells a little bit of everything. From energy drinks, to warmed up taquitos, to bags of ice, to live bait– anything you need in a hurry, you can find there.
That’s why Tucker can be found there most mornings buying a breakfast sandwich wrapped in foil– one that will no doubt leave the first grease stain of the day on his pants– a pack of gum, and a small bag containing three strips of bacon for Socket. (The peppered kind. She’s picky.)
The gas station always smells like old coffee, half stale pastries and bleach from someone scrubbing the floors at 5 AM. Ms. Mabel, who was working here before Tucker was even tall enough to see over the counter, is in her usual spot at the register when he puts his stuff down.
“Rough night?” Mabel asks, clearly noticing the dark circles under Tucker’s eyes. He’d spent all night staring at a crack in the ceiling above his bed, thinking about the way she smiled at him.
“Rough life.” He mutters back.
“I hear ya on that one,” Mabel agrees, the same mindless, polite conversation they have in different fonts each morning.
He’s reaching into the back pocket of his coveralls for his wallet when he hears it. An engine. The low, familiar rumble of a red truck that’s seen better days pulling up to the pump right outside the window.
“You gonna pay for those or just stand there and stare?” Mabel gently clears her throat, not even bothering to hide the knowing grin on her face.
Tucker blinks, glancing back down at his wallet. He pulls out a few bills and slaps them on the counter.
“This will cover mine… and her pump,” He gestures outside towards the truck. “And whatever else she wants. Hold onto these for me, will ya?” He asks, shoving his sandwich and the bacon towards her. He doesn’t give her the chance to argue because he’s already heading outside.
By the time he reaches the pump she’s just getting out of her truck– her hair is messy, wearing a cardigan over a t-shirt that says something about books, looking at him like she might still be in bed dreaming.
“Are you following me?” She asks, folding her arms across her chest.
“I am not following you,” He quips back, placing a hand over his heart to feign heartache at the accusation.
“You’re at my gas station.”
“Your gas station? I get gas here everyday. This is my gas station.” He scoffs, dropping his hand to reach out and grab the nozzle from the pump.
She blinks. “No it’s not.”
“I’ve been coming here since I was twelve. I have a relationship with Mabel.” He argues while popping open her gas cap.
“You have a relationship with Mabel?” She raises her eyebrows at him.
“You know what I mean. She knows my order.” He rolls his eyes, placing the nozzle in her truck with a squeeze of his fingers.
“I can pump my own gas.”
“I know,” He doesn’t stop. “That doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it.”
She wants to argue. Wants to bump him off to the side and take the nozzle herself just to prove a point. But he’s leaning against her fender now with one hand in his pocket, the other one stretched out on the bedside panel, looking like he has all of the time in the world and nowhere better to be.
He finishes pumping, pops the cap back on the tank and closes the latch and puts the nozzle away, but he doesn’t walk away. He just stands there, both hands in his pockets now, watching the way the sunlight hits her freckles.
“You eat breakfast yet?” He asks.
“I was gonna–” She glances over at the gas station’s glass doors.
She blinks at him again, like he’d spoken a foreign language. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.” He shrugs, already turning towards the doors but keeping his eyes on her.
“Tucker.”
“Sunshine,” He mocks. “Just let me do somethin’ nice, alright?”
“Tucker…” She repeats.
He finally turns back around, calling out her real name this time. Maybe so she’ll take him seriously. Maybe just to remind her that he still knows it.
“Thank you.” She calls back, quiet and genuine.
He just nods, ducking back into the gas station to grab his stuff. Mabel is still behind the counter, still looking at him with those eyes that are begging for details.
“Who was that?” She asks as she passes him the grease soaked bag and foil wrapped sandwich.
“Nobody.” He answers dryly as he grabs them from her and heads back for the door.
“That wasn’t nobody.”
“Nobody that's any of your business, Mabel. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He salutes her with the hand holding his pack of gum.
The Bench
It’s around 8:15 when the Bronco finally rolls up and comes to a stop outside of the shop. Tucker reaches over and pushes the passenger side door open from the inside to let Socket out. (It doesn’t open from the outside. He’ll fix it… eventually.)
The old timers have already taken their unofficial assigned seats on the bench. The one they’ve been sitting on so long the wood has slowly molded to fit their asses. There’s Mr. Miller from the hardware store, who’s been retired for as long as anyone can remember but still shows up to move stuff from shelf to shelf. Red, who earned his nickname back before he lost all of his hair. The name stuck anyways.
And in between the both of them is Tucker’s dad, Rusty, with a thermos tucked in one hand that he’s been hauling around since he carried it under one arm and Tucker under the other.
“You’re late.” His dad points out.
“It’s my shop. It opens when I get here.” Tucker gruffs back as he searches through his keys.
“You’re late.” His dad repeats. Tucker is never late. He lives behind the shop. He has no reason to be.
“Yeah, yeah Pops. I heard you.” Tucker answers, clearly ignoring the question in his dads voice as he pushes his way into the office door.
His mind is still somewhere else. It’s still at the gas station, thinking about the way her ears turned red when he called her sunshine. How her cheeks turned when when he called her by her real name.
By the time Tucker flicks on the ancient coffee pot, turns on all of the lights and compressors, and lifts the bay doors he’s whistling without even realizing it. A tune he’s got stuck in his head.
“Is there a damn bird out here?” Red asks, glancing up at the awning above their head.
“That ain’t no damn bird, you old bastard. That’s the boy. I think he’s whistling a song.” Miller grunts in response, lifting his paper coffee cup to his lips.
“Whistling? Yeah, right. He don’t know how to.” Red ponders with a grumble of his own.
“Huh,” Is all Rusty mutters. The one sound saying everything he’s thinking. I forgot he could still do that.
“Never heard that boy whistle a day in his life.” Miller adds.
“Maybe he’s sick.”
“Maybe he’s happy.”
“I can hear you, you know?” Tucker speaks up, sliding out from where he’s just been under a mini van with a bad belt. “And I’m not happy. I’m just—“
“Whistlin’,” His dad finishes for him.
“I whistle, I’m allowed to whistle.” He argues with a scoff. The word ‘whistle’ is being said so much it doesn’t even feel like a real word anymore.
“You hum. There’s a difference.” There’s a smile on Rusty’s face now, one that tells Tucker his dad is about to be insufferable about this.
There’s a moment of silence between the four of them. The radio plays. Socket snores, Tucker wipes his forehead with the rag from his back pocket.
“It’s just a song.”
“Oh I know what song it is. You Are My Sunshine.” Tucker freezes at his dads words, like even he hadn’t realized what tune it was until it was pointed out.
“That’s a love song, ain’t it?” Miller asks with newfound interest, leaning forward in his seat. “Who is she?”
“Nobody.” Tucker answers too fast. “And it’s a lullaby, not a love song.”
“Oh it’s somebody.” Rusty laughs back, but doesn’t push any further than that. He knows his son is selective on his best day.
“Don’t y’all have something better to do than be botherin’ me?” Tucker grumbles as he slides back under the van.
“Nope.” Miller sighs and leans back in his seat to get comfortable.
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.
The afternoon sun is just past the crest of midday, hitting the garage floor and scattering it’s warm light over the dark stone. There’s a gentle breeze, the movement in the trees being cast in shadows that dance across the dusty flooring. The sign on the shop still flickers, as it has for a couple of years now– Pillsbury Auto And Repair, Est. 1982.
The bench next to the bay doors has been long since abandoned, the only sign that the morning gossiping session between the town’s elderly men happened is three empty coffee cups, the paper ones from the gas station, sitting in a near perfect little row.
She kills the engine and tries not to cringe when it shudders before going quiet. The check engine light that she’s been ignoring with a convenient tilt of her chin still stares back at her. It’s mocking at this point, as if it’s screaming I told you so.
“I know, I know,” She mutters to it and herself. “I’m going.”
The bell over the door dings when she walks in.
The shop is exactly how she remembers it from coming here as a kid with her dad. It smells of burnt coffee, engine oil and something new, something distinctly him. Cologne, maybe? Something leathery and warm that fills the whole space.
A white and black dog– one ear perked and the other flopped– picks up it’s head. It gives her a silent scan before thumping it’s tail once against the floor and collapsing back into it’s spot. This acknowledgement is an approval, it seems.
Tucker is under a car.
She can see his boots sticking out, the long leather laces wrapped around the top of the shoe. His signature coveralls are nowhere to be seen. He slides out from under the vehicle wearing a white t-shirt that’s a touch too tight around his arms. It’s dirty, of course, with a small tear at the collar. His faded black jeans are held up by a bronze belt buckle, and he looks unfairly soft in this light.
He doesn’t look up when she walks in, doesn’t say anything. There’s no rush in him, nothing hurried as he unfolds himself, long and slow until he’s sitting up on the creeper. He reaches into his back pocket, having to transfer his weight to one side to do so, and pulls a rag from it. He takes his time to wipe his hands and the wrench he’d been using. There’s a radio on a high shelf humming a song she might recognize if it were playing any louder.
“You brought it,” He says. His voice echoes off the concrete, low and easy.
“You said to.” She answers, and it’s followed by a pause. “So I did.”
“You’re early.” He finally looks up, still wiping his hands on the rag. His hair is pushed back out of his face, but one stubborn piece has fallen that he doesn’t bother trying to fix.
“I’m always early.” She shrugs.
“Mm,” is the mumble of a response she gets. He stands, tossing the rag off to the side haphazardly. He’s too busy looking at her to care where it lands. She looks back at him. The afternoon light spills in from the bay doors and big window, catching the dust motes floating in the air between them.
“You gonna just stand there all day or you gonna help?” He asks, the corners of his mouth twitching up.
“Help?” She asks, a soft incredulous laugh escaping her lips.
“It’s your truck. You should learn how it works.”
“I don’t know anything about cars.” It’s an excuse that sounds a lot like a warning.
He tilts his head, his mouth quirking up again. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s a preview of one. “You don’t need to know anything. You just need to listen.”
She should say no. She should go sit in the waiting room like a normal customer and pretend she’s not staring at him by scrolling on her phone, but the challenge in his voice is what stops her. Like he’s in on a joke that she wasn’t aware she was telling.
She looks down at the wrench he’s now holding out to her. She studies his hands, then his face. There’s a smudge of something dark across his jaw that he doesn’t seem to notice is there. His smile grows wider, more crooked when she says, “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not not enjoying it.”
They eventually get the truck pulled into the empty bay, her hands gripped tight around her steering wheel like she didn't just watch every muscle in his inked arms ripple when he stretched to lift the rolling door.
Once it’s parked she hops back out while he pulls the level and props the hood open. She stops next to him, close enough to feel the warmth coming off of the engine. Close enough that she can smell him now. That same leathery cologne mixed with coffee, grease and the mint gum he’s working in his sharp jaw.
He passes her a wrench, neither of them blinking when his warm, calloused fingers brush hers.
“You see that bolt?” He gestures towards the engine block as an entirety, trying not to crack another smile at the clueless crease between her brows.
“Which one? There’s like a million of ‘em.” She asks, having to stand on the tips of her toes just to get her chest across the front fender.
He reaches for her free hand not to hold it, but to guide it. His palm is rough over the back of hers, but his grip is gentle. He stretches both of their arms out until he’s pressed her fingers over the bolt in question.
“That one. Feel that?” His voice is lower, and much closer than it had been.
He leans in, his arm still stretched around her shoulder and reaches past her arm for something else, something deeper. There’s a metallic clink as he fiddles, but all she can focus on is the warmth of him, the solid weight of his chest against her back. He’s not quite touching her, but she can feel every place he almost is.
He must have been satisfied with whatever he was checking, his breath against her ear now. He helps her position the wrench over the bolt, both of their free hands falling away as he speaks. “Okay, just like that. Now turn it.”
She turns it. The bolt shifts and something clicks.
“Good.” He murmurs, and she can hear the grin he’s hiding in his voice. “Now turn it the other way.”
She turns it the other way. The bolt loosens and he makes a sound. It’s not quite a sigh, nor is it a hum. It’s a satisfied noise that rumbles from deep in his chest– like she’d done something right.
“See, you’re a natural.” He adds after a moment, and she can’t tell if he’s joking.
“I’m just following instructions.” She quips back, surprising herself for keeping her voice as steady as it is.
“Same thing.”
He finally leans back, the heat of him fades, but not all the way. He’s still close, still watching every little movement of her hands. Still not looking at her face. She wishes he would, but is glad he doesn’t. He hands her another tool. One with a handle and a hinge.
“This part’s trickier,” He warns, the sight of him in her peripheral vision makes her pause. “This is the part where you really listen.”
She does, gladly.
He talks her through the process step by step– slow, patient, every step measured like he has all of the time in the world. Tighten that. Careful not to strip the bolt. There you go, just like that. His voice is something she could lean into.
She doesn’t close her eyes, but the temptation is there. She keeps them on the engine, on her own hands, on the various tools he places in her palm. But she feels him there beside her, behind her. Everywhere.
When it’s finally done, a new belt in place and the bolt tightened once more he let’s up while taking the last tool from her hand. “Go try and start it.” He instructs, already reaching for the discarded rag to wipe his hands on.
She climbs back into the truck and watches through the windshield as he shuts the hood, swiping his wrist over his forehead to push back more hair that’s fallen. She turns the key and the engine starts– no groaning sound, no engine light. Just the slow and steady hum of success.
“It’s fixed!” She says, cracking a grin as he rounds the hood and pulls open the driver’s side door before she can do it herself.
“It’s fixed.” He confirms.
“We did it.”
“You did it.” He corrects her, not even bothering to hide his lip twitch this time as he holds out his hand to help her back out of the seat. She takes it with no hesitation despite not needing it. She hops in and out of it every day, but if he’s offering then she’ll certainly accept.
“So what do I owe you?” She asks, dropping his hand as she turns to face him properly.
“How much do you have?” He asks in return, lifting one of his brows.
“Probably not enough.”
“Then we’ll settle it later.” He decides, giving her a swift nod of his head. A reason to see him again.
“Okay.” She agrees.
“Okay.”
She looks at him one last time. The afternoon light is now fading as the sky turns syrupy with the beginnings of a sunset. His hair is falling back in his eyes. He’s not trying to be anything he’s not. He’s just standing there, grease on his hands, his white shirt even dirtier than it was when they started, looking at her like she’s the only thing in the room that matters.
“I’ll see you around, Tucker.”
His face splits into a small smile when she says his name, he turns on instinct when the radio changes and then turns back to watch her climb in the truck.
“See you later, Sunshine.”
She’s heeere. Sorry this took me so long I’m literally so sick. :( I’m really proud of this one tbh. Okay, love ya bye.
♡ She’s from the same tiny town as Tucker. She was two years behind him in school.
♡ They orbited each other, separate circles that always ended up overlapping at someone’s cousin's birthday bonfire.
♡ The one memory she can recall clearly of him is from one of those parties.
♡ He offered her a hoodie from his truck, slightly grease stained with a logo she didn’t recognize across the front.
♡ “You don’t even know me.” She tried.
♡ He just shrugged and said “you’re cold,” like it was that simple. It was.
♡ She left for college after graduation and swore she’d never come back for more than a weekend.
♡ She majored in English, planning to become a writer or an editor- someone that she felt mattered.
♡ Then her dad got sick. She came home, he got better, but she stayed.
♡ It’s been two years since her temporary homecoming.
♡ Coming home felt like putting on an old sweatshirt, remembering how soft it is, and refusing to take it off again.
♡ She realized how much she missed Mrs. Janet at the diner. How she’s had her order memorized for as long as she can remember no matter how many times it’s changed.
♡ She missed the way the morning light rolls over the hills, visible even when it’s foggy outside.
♡ She missed being somewhere everyone knew her name.
♡ She took a job at the same school they graduated from teaching juniors and seniors English.
♡ They call her the ‘chill’ teacher, but the seniors are always terrified of her essay feedback.
♡ She sometimes feels like teaching means she didn’t end up becoming someone who matters. She’s wrong.
♡ She sold her sensible college car in favor of her dads old beat up truck. Teachers don’t make much. She saves money any way she can.
♡ That’s her excuse for driving it, but the truth is she learned to drive stick in that truck. (She still sucks at it.) She had her heart broken for the first time in it. It’s hers.
♡ Tucker says the old red rust bucket is “tough, stubborn and refuses to die.” She thinks that sounds a lot like her too.
Her reunion with Tucker-
♡ Her check engine light comes on. The truck is making a sound it definitely isn’t supposed to be making, but she’s stubborn so she ignores it.
♡ Ky mentions it to Tucker offhandedly. “She’s been driving around with that thing sounding like a dying animal.”
♡ Tucker finds her in the grocery store parking lot, the one that shares spaces with the post office and doubles as overflow church parking on Sundays.
♡ She’s standing with her hands on her hips, hood up, staring at a bunch of metal that means nothing to her like she might just fix it herself.
♡ He pulls in beside her, gets out, and doesn’t say hello. He just leans over the fender for a few seconds and listens.
♡ “It’s your alternator.” He tells her.
♡ “I know.” (She didn’t. He knows this.)
♡ She looks at him. He looks at her. She’s not sure if he remembers her or not, but she doesn’t ask.
♡ “Bring it by tomorrow. I’ll take a look at it.”
♡ “I don’t have an appointment.”
♡ He lets out a breath, possibly a laugh, possibly exhaustion and shrugs. “You do now.”
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