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Tucker x famous ex! reader posts (sorry in advance.)

TMZ_TV

▶️ saddle again

Liked by POPCRAVE, DEUXMOUI, TUCKERSSTINKY and 3,429 others

TMZ_TV Role Model, AKA Tucker Pillsbury, was spotted having a cozy, intimate dinner at local hot spot Saffy’s with actress Dakota Johnson. Is the ‘Saddle Again’ singer moving on just months after his split with longtime girlfriend and singer, (y/n)? An inside source tells us the pair have been ‘inseparable’ since meeting and that Pillsbury is ‘in a really good place’.

TUCKSRIGHTKNEE Ngl, this one hurts. Hope you're happy, Tuck. ❤️😔

JUSTASADSONG Literally logged on to see this. My heart actually aches for her. 😕

KANSASANYMOREWHORE i’m sorry but the vibes are OFF. This feels like a rebound and I’m not here for it.

WHOISVIOLA He looks happy. Let him be.

TUCKSFRUITSNACKS (replying to WHOISVIOLA) he wrote Frances. He doesn’t get to be happy. It’s in the contract.

USERSHEART So he's just... out here. While she's been radio silent. Cool. Cool. 💔

TUCKSHONEY someone check on YOURUSERNAME. This feels like a knife in the ribs. I just know she’s falling apart.

YOURUSERNAME

▶️ opposite

Liked by USERSBESTIE, YOURUSERPOSTS, USERUPDATES and 1.8m others

YOURUSERNAME heard mirror selfies are in. my counter offer is existential crisis selfies. ✨(scenery optional)✨ i got up just to post this.

anyway. go listen to my new single, “opposite.” it’s out now.

USERSOLDFAN This is giving "put on a happy face" and it's breaking my heart. The piano pic looks so lonely. :(

TUCKERFANBUTDISCO She's so messy. Just let him be happy. This is clearly about him.

GRACIEABRAMS here for you, always. 💛

USERPROTECTOR The way I would commit several low-level felonies for you right now. Just say the word. 😤

HOTSADGIRL this is so real. we're healing, we're breathing, we're NOT looking at tmz.

TUCKUSERSTAN If anyone needs an alibi for tonight, my DMs are open. I have bail money.

Reader’s POV—

It isn’t the darkness, or even the cold burst of air conditioning greeting you, that has your shoulders slumping the moment you walk through the door. It’s the silence.

For the past three weeks, you’ve been met with nothing but silence every time you turn the key. There’s no humming, no tapping, no whistling—which you used to find obnoxious—greeting you. Now, though… now you’d trade anything to hear Tucker attempting an off key rendition of Yellow Submarine with that scrunched-up, concentrated look on his face.

Instead, the only sound that greets you is the soft slam of the front door and the clattering of your keys against the bowl in the entryway as you carelessly toss them. It didn’t used to make that sound. The bowl used to have two sets of keys in it.

You shake the thought before it can linger too long, instead deciding to strip off your bag and coat, which you discard on the rack next to the door.

One of Tucker’s old sweaters still hangs—abandoned. You don’t even try to stop yourself as you reach out and pull one of the sleeves up to your nose; taking in a deep breath of the fading scent of him, a tiny, choked sob escapes your throat.

Your second mistake is lifting your head and catching your own eyes in the entryway mirror, watching your own crumbling face fold in grief. You’d seen the TMZ post. Of course you had, but you’d spent all day painting on a smile for your team in the studio.

You pull your phone out of your pocket, unable to resist the temptation to look again even though it makes your ribs ache.

“Mmmh.” The ache turns to an excruciating knife to the heart when the pictures appear on your screen again. The sound that escapes you is a trembling whimper against his sweater sleeve, which you finally release to scroll.

He’s in a really good place, and you’re drowning in the stillness of the home you once shared.

Your breath catches in a stubborn hitch, trying and failing to keep the tears building in your lashes from falling, but by the time you glance in the mirror again, they’re already streaming down your face.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, the curse escaping as more of a defeated whisper than anything else.

You can’t help it. As you watch your reflection slowly come unglued, your mind starts to race.

We’re so different.

Her hair is long and luscious. He can probably run his fingers through it without them even catching a tangle. Her big, brown doe eyes, openly expressive and crinkled at the corners as she laughs at something he said. Her smile—so warm and genuine—so infuriating when you have to fake yours most days.

Not with him, though. Never with him.

Your reflection catches your gaze, and you glance up from where you’d been studying Dakota’s face with the intensity of an art critic. One who can’t find a damn thing to critique.

“Oh, god,” you wrench out, finally lifting your hands to wipe under your eyes. Palm pressed to forehead, you pace a few steps back and forth in front of the mirror before collapsing onto the piano bench just inside your living room.

The worst part isn’t that you can see it. It’s that can feel the way he looks at her in those pictures. It’s the same way he’d looked at you only months before; like he’s in complete awe of every detail about you. His elbow propped on the table with his chin in his hand, that familiar, real grin peeking at the corners of his lips.

How can he just move on while your entire world falls apart? How can he give her those eyes—your eyes—like you never even existed?

Was he lying when he called you beautiful? Were you ever really what he wanted? Is she nice? Is she funny? Is she better in bed?

Does his mom love her?

The tightness in your chest is unbearable at this point, and one of your hands finds its way over your heart, trying desperately to keep it from falling out of your chest. Despite your strangled breaths and blurry vision, you reach out and open a notebook sitting on the piano’s music rest.

Your hands glide across the keys, catching a few times because of your tear-dampened fingers, but you clear your throat all the same. Your voice cracks horribly, but the first words that come to your mind spill out of your chapped lips regardless.

“She looks nothin’ like me,” you whisper-sing, scared that anything louder will crack your tight chest wide open. It doesn’t even sound like a lyric, just a heartbreaking truth that hangs in the air.

“Can’t really tell, should I be…” You pause, looking up at the ceiling like the words you’re looking for might be written there. “Tryna take it as a compliment?”

“It’s kinda feelin’ like the opposite.” Your voice finally breaks completely on the last word, along with your hear. It drops to your stomach like a sledgehammer, destroying every bit of peace you’ve been faking. Your hands slide from the keys to cover your face as a wretched sob falls out, followed by another.

The notebook ends up closed tightly, the lyrics tucked safely inside for another day.

For tonight… just tonight…

Maybe silence is better.

Part two here!

#tucker pillsbury #role model #honey rambles #kansas anymore #my edit #tucker pillsbury au #tucker pillsbury one shot #tucker pillsbury x reader #role model one shot #role model x reader #role model au

hard launch | tucker pillsbury

social media au — tucker pillsbury x singer!reader

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#role model #tucker pillsbury #role model x reader #role model au #tucker pillsbury x reader #tucker pillsbury au

Tucker’s POV of the TMZ date night

Part one here!

The moment Tucker’s shoes hit the edge of his doormat—the one graciously left behind by the old tenants of his new apartment—he releases a breath he’s been holding all night.

He quietly strips off his scarf and thick winter coat, kicking his shoes off with an obligatory wiggle of his sock-covered toes. His hands, however, find their way to his face, where they attempt to scrub the thinly veiled anguish from his skin. He drags them through his hair—a stress habit meant to soothe the weight on his shoulders and the curling ache in his gut.

What the fuck am I doing?

The same thought had been running through his mind all night. Every time he’d glanced up, for a split second he’d expected to see you perched across from him in the cushioned chair, sipping red wine with your legs crossed, your eyes sparkling in the dim light in a way that never ceased to steal his breath.

But instead, he’d looked up to find a pair of different eyes—nowhere near the right shade, not of any fault of her own. Dakota wore a saccharine smile and a slinky black dress, perfectly polite and polished.

She swirled her finger around the rim of her wine glass as she spoke, and Tucker couldn’t seem to focus on anything else. Hypnotized, he’d stumbled through conversation, at war with himself for even being there in the first place.

His team had convinced him it was a good idea. That months had passed, and the lingering questions surrounding you needed to be snuffed out.

“A few dinners with a friend of a friend. Totally organic, just… conveniently public.”

What Tucker hadn’t taken into account, however, was that time passing—weeks, months—gave no room for the gouging wound in his heart to stop bleeding, let alone heal. His entire world had been turned upside down and shattered, but for the sake of everyone else’s curiosity, he was supposed to just move on?

When Dakota had reached for his hand across the table, trying to bring his frayed attention back to her—rightfully so—he’d nearly snatched it back out of reflex. He’d ignored the first impulse and pressed the pads of his fingers harder against the tablecloth instead.

Now, lying flat on his back and staring at the stained ceiling of his new apartment, he can’t stop thinking about it. Her sweet, heavy perfume is still sticking to his clothes, suffocating him by his own doing. With a low groan, he rolls onto his side and digs his phone out of his pants pocket.

Endless notifications greet him as the glow of the screen fills his vision. The TMZ article is everywhere. No doubt you’ve seen it—everyone has. His phone buzzes with a new text notification from Kybear.

Hey so what the fuck??

Tucker’s jaw clenches. He ignores the message, choosing to wallow in self-pity instead. Just a few weeks ago, he’d been a melted puddle of sadness on Ky’s couch, and his friend had been a somewhat gracious host. As gracious as any loyal dickhead best friend could be.

His fingers swipe across the screen again. He lies to himself and says he’s doing it subconsciously—without thinking—but he’s fully aware of the mess he’s about to make.

The text thread between him and you pops up. The last text is from him: a picture of his key—now your spare key—left under the potted plant by the front door of your home.

He types…

‘Hey’

“No, Tucker. ‘Hey??’… Are you fucking kidding me?” he scolds himself with a scoff, letting his phone fall to hit him in the forehead. He picks it up after a breath and tries again.

‘I’m sorry.’

Pathetic. It’s not enough. He writes songs for a fucking living, and the one time he needs his skills, they’re already occupied trying to burn every memory of you into his brain, desperate to keep them there forever.

He can’t afford to forget, because there may not be any more memories to make.

He can’t afford to fuck this up… again.

With a huff, he tosses his phone onto the couch, leaving the message unsent as it bounces and clatters to the floor. He doesn’t bother to pick it up on his way to the bathroom. He needs a shower… a quiet moment to think, he tells himself.

I need to get the smell of her off of me.

The truth rings loud and ugly, but the musky, sweet scent is wrong to his nose. It isn’t your light, citrusy air.

It’s choking him.

For once, the man who always has a point to make can’t find a word to say to fix what he’s broken.

But he will.

#tucker pillsbury #role model #tucker pillsbury au #tucker pillsbury one shot #role model one shot #role model au #he’s so pretty #stinky

How Not To Keep A Secret

In which Tucker Pillsbury plans to propose to his partner at the end of a weeklong vacation in Mexico. He’s determined to keep it a secret. He’s also… kind of winging it. What could possibly go wrong?

@oldrrcliners idea that I… twisted a little.

Warnings: None

Word count: not very many

*Monday— The Arrival*

There’s a soft rustle as Tucker presses record on his iPhone, finally finding the nerve to pull it out of his bag and prop it up in the sand next to him.

“God— look at her. I swear on my life she is both the most brilliant and oblivious person I’ve ever met. She always says I can never keep a secret… me!?” Tucker speaks lowly to the camera and fakes an indignant scoff.

He zooms in closely as you bend over, softly oohing to yourself as you pick up another seashell that you just have to have.

The focus barely has time to adjust before he’s zooming back out again, and back in on a spot in the sand much closer to him, where a perfectly cut engagement ring is nestled and just waiting to be found. A diamond he’d designed months ago just for you.

“Well, she’s right. I’ve been keeping this under wraps for months and it’s killing me,” He fakes a groan and laughs, sounding a bit awed as he continues,

“By the end of the week… that gorgeous, sea shell collecting mess of a woman is gonna be mine forever...” He adds, sounding a bit more breathless as he turns the camera on himself.

He’s sun-kissed behind his sunglasses and covered in sand but still looking off in the distance at you with a small unconscious smile painted on his lips. It's just his natural reaction to your presence, a joy so genuine he can’t help but let it show.

“She’s gonna be my wife, fuck… I may suck at keeping secrets… but I’m pretty damn good at loving her, so if a surprise is what she wants— a surprise is what she’ll get— even if I have to suffer in silence.”

*Camera cuts to black, followed by a title card*

How Not To Keep A Secret: A Video Guide by Tucker Pillsbury

(Edited by Ky Newman… the only witness)

*Tuesday- The Scope Out*

“I knew she’d wanna sleep in this morning,” Tucker starts talking to the camera before he’s even fully propped it up against the metal napkin dispenser on the table in front of him. “So I'm gonna use my free time to scope out PPP’s…that’s code for Potential proposal places—“

He pauses, straightening in his booth seat to look around. His white shirt ripples in the breeze that sweeps through the nearby open doors, bringing the morning light with it.

“Breakfast buffet is already a hard no…” He concludes with a shake of his head, his lip pulling in distaste.

“Too sticky…” He starts, counting off on his fingers before grabbing a napkin off of the table to prove his point when remnants of syrup cause the fabric to stick to his palm.

“Yeah, no… I’m not proposing to the love of my life with syrup fingers like a toddler…”

“too many old people… too loud… too public… Plus, she is not a morning person, so that would go over like a fart in church.” Tucker sighs, rolling the napkin in his hand into a messy ball. He tosses it back on the table, looking back down at the camera with mock defeat.

“I’m pretty much on my own here. So far Ky’s grand idea included me asking her in the arcade… and then kicking her ass at skeeball, and at this point I’m starting to consider it. Wish me luck, whoever ends up watching this.” He waves at the camera and makes a heart with his fingers before ending the video.

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A/N- I can write the rest of the weeks vlogs leading up if that’s something you guys would want to read… lmk 🤷‍♀️

#tucker pillsbury #role model #kansas anymore #tucker pillsbury au #tucker pillsbury one shot #tucker pillsbury x reader #role model au #role model one shot #role model x reader

The History of Us- Part two!

Find part one here

No warnings

THE BOOK FAIR AMBUSH

The first time you ever catch a glimpse of Mr. Pillsbury is on a random Wednesday afternoon.

The whole library smells of cheap rubber erasers, teen spirit and not nearly enough deodorant. You’d been volun’told’ by your longtime best friend and the current school counselor, Jake, to help him run the semi annual bookfair. The original PTA volunteer backed out last second.

So you’ve been helping…

Helping kids who have no clue how the hell sales tax works, helping yourself to the saddest plate of ‘thank you’ cookies you’ve ever seen and helping put abandoned books back on the metal shelves just to pass the time. Jake has been… well–

“Ugh, look at all this burlap. It’s atrocious…” Comes Jake’s voice, muttering to himself under his breath while nose deep in a Better Homes and Gardens magazine— One he’d stolen from the teachers lounge on the way here.

He’s been perched on a folding chair for the last hour, his chin propped in his hand as he flips through the pages. His nose wrinkles more in disgust with every turn.

“D’ya think this could do any real damage?” You mutter back, flicking a novelty pen that looks like a sword in his direction. For a fleeting moment you wonder if you could test your theory just to get out of sticking around for the rest of the day.

You don’t, obviously, but you are about to add a witty remark about burlap when the library door swings open with a metal groan of protest.

In walks the short elderly librarian, Mrs. Babbage, followed closely by two men carrying stacks of what looks to be old reference books.

The trio slowly trail through the shorter shelves of books towards the front windows; Mrs. Babbage with her hair in a tight, white as snow bun and collared dress. She's a contrast to the taller, lanky man following behind her with dictionaries piled in his arms from his waist to his chin.

He’s dressed in a flannel with elbow patches over a well loved school event T-shirt from years past. His firm arms are dotted with patchwork tattoos that make his skin stand out against the dark ink and his chocolatey hued hair.

The man behind him is shorter, with black rectangle framed glasses, a mess of dark curls on top of his head and a strained look on his face as he tugs a cart of reference materials.

They trail through, neither of the men spotting you smushed amongst the various pencil grips and scented calculators. Once they’ve passed by, you turn to look over at Jake.

“Are you gonna tell me who that was or just keep grinning like that until I ask?” You question, already rolling your eyes at your best friend's bemused expression.

“Which one? The guy who looks like he could recite the entire periodic table by memory, blows things up for fun and follows Tucker around like a lost puppy? That's Ky, or Mr. Newman— chemistry teacher.” He starts explaining despite knowing that’s not who you’re asking about.

“The other one, however, is Tucker Pillsbury. The kids call him Mr. P. He teaches AP history. He has face of a sad indie film star and is the sole reason moms get dressed up for parent-teacher conference night.” Jake gossips shamelessly, his voice barely considered a hushed, let alone a whisper.

“He has a devastating side eye, dry wit that could curdle milk and biceps that make me question my life choices. Also—, single. Tragically, mysteriously, annoyingly single… and totally your type.” He adds, clearly already matchmaking in his head.

“My type?? What’s that supposed to mean?” You question with an incredulous laugh under your breath, your brows raised in question.

“Hot, sad, and depressingly poetic. Don’t even try to argue. I’ve seen your tinder matches. It’s just pictures of emotionally constipated men in flannels.”

You glance back over just in time to see Tucker gently place his overflowing stack of dictionaries down, his inked arms flexing in a way they have no business doing in a high school library. Your attention is pulled back to Jake, now flipping through his contraband magazine again with a “Hmm, interesting…”

“Whatever you’re planning on doing… don’t. That’s Chloe’s favorite teacher.” You scoff in reply, already shaking your head at the sound of him scheming.

“How dare you!? I’m not gonna do anything outside of my job description.” He gasps scandalously, feigning offense, but the mischievous glint in his eye and poorly hidden smirk that give him away.

There’s a few seconds of peacefulness between them, only the pages of Jake’s magazine being turned fills your ears. You’ve just started to think the drama storm has passed when he speaks up again.

“…Sooo how would you feel about helping set up for the homecoming dance?” He asks with fake innocence, now fully grinning down at the glossy paper. You only groan and roll your eyes as an answer, but he knows that means you’ll do it. He’s already invested… and he hasn’t even heard about the pen exchange yet.

#tucker pillsbury #role model #kansas anymore #the history of us #tucker pillsbury au #tucker pillsbury one shot #role model one shot #role model au

Y’all aren’t ready.

Frat boy!Tucker insta posts

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TUCKPILLS

▶️ Mr. Brightside

Liked by YOURUSERNAME, THENAMESNEEMA and 532 others

TUCKPILLS proof I go to class sometimes.

VARSITY_LEGEND frat dog

KYNEWMAN frat dog

THENAMESNEEMA is that my hat??

PHILOSOPHYBRO *you’re… also frat dog

TUCKPILLS @/PHILOSOPHYBRO ur mom’s next

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TUCKPILLS

▶️ last Friday night

Liked by YOURUSERNAME, KYNEWMAN, THENAMESNEEMA and 721 others

TUCKPILLS last night was a movie fr

THENAMESNEEMA you owe me twenty bucks

TUCKPILLS i got a high five with your name on it.

SIGMASOPH omg i didn’t know you were in a frat! we should pregame tg sometime 💕 (liked by TUCKPILLS)

KYNEWMAN we party hard on tuesdays

TUCKPILLS yeerrrp 🚨

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Frat boy Tucker is fun 😂

#tucker pillsbury #role model #tucker pillsbury au #tucker pillsbury one shot #role model one shot #role model au #my edit #honey rambles #kansas anymore

Sabotage And The Shock Factor (3)

No warnings, just enjoy. :)

A laminated sheet of paper with the heading “Homecoming Carnival: A Night At The Circus!” was pasted to the outside of the teachers lounge with way too much scotch tape and not enough enthusiasm. The paper was crooked, and the 2008 WordArt font wasn’t doing much to help.

Chloe carefully scanned the pages, reading past the different sections. Decorations, no. Catering, no. She let out a soft ‘ah’ when she found what she was looking for. She’d planned this for a few days now.

Just one quick innocent scribble of her sister’s name on the booth chaperone sign-up list—conveniently next to Mr. P’s—and she’d solve this whole thing with a little forced proximity. It was genius, and harmless. Who was gonna notice a tiny clerical error in the grand scheme of things?

She scanned down the page, clicking her pen, fully prepared to forge her sister’s signature when she spotted ‘Mr. Pillsbury’ on the left side—the teachers’ column. She moved her eyes across to the right side of the graph—the side that was supposed to be blank—and was shocked to find the line wasn’t empty. Official. Formatted and typed in Times New Roman was ______.

The gel pen slipped from her fingers and landed on the cheap linoleum with a plasticky thud, but she didn’t even notice.

No. Fucking. Way.

She leaned in closer to the page, almost tempted to rub the names with her finger to see if they’d just smudge off the slick laminate. They wouldn’t. This was planned. By adults. With printers.

“My life is a fucking sitcom,” she whispered under her breath, as if she hadn’t been about to sign her sister up for the same fate. Now she’d have to bear witness to the inevitable. The awkward charm of Mr. P combined with… all of her sister. It was either going to be cute or an absolute disaster. Either way—it would be hard for Chloe to watch.

“Well, at least I don’t have to commit felony forgery today,” she concluded with a shrug, finally bending down to pick her sparkly gel pen off the floor. She glanced at it for a second and thought, pens are a real theme lately, but dismissed the coincidence as she shoved it into her jacket pocket and quickly made her getaway, pulling out her phone to type ‘find cute fortune teller outfit’ into her notes app.

The afternoon of the dance…

“…it’s about camaraderie! Community engagement, Tuck! Let them see you’re human! In a slightly damp—preferably white—tshirt!” Jake scoffed, half-leaning against one of the desks Tucker had just wiped off after his last period of the day. Jake had been trying to sweet-talk him into being the dunkee for their dunk tank.

“I am not developing hypothermia in the name of school spirit, Jake. What do you mean, ‘slightly damp, preferably white?!’ This is a public high school, not an episode of Pretty Little Liars,” Tucker clicked the end of the red pen in one hand while angrily scrubbing at some unknown sticky residue on a desk with the other.

“You watched Pretty Little Liars?!” Jake shrieked at the revelation, not sure if he should be proud or disturbed by this new information.

That was the only part he seemed to be listening to, much to Tucker’s dismay.

"Look, Jake… I am not getting in a tank of stale hose water so Braden on the baseball team can try to impress his girlfriend. My dignity is threadbare, but it exists. The fortune teller booth is fine. It's indoors. It's dry. We give bad advice, they laugh, we all go home," Tucker concluded, his hands crossing in a ‘safe’ motion.

He was actually kind of excited at the thought of handing out nonsense fortunes to freshmen.

“Okay, are you sure about that, though? You’d be paired with Susan Watkins… you know, the lady who makes gluten-free brownies that taste like cardboard and always finds an excuse to squeeze your biceps…”

“No—God, no. Please tell me you didn’t. You swore this would be painless and neutral! Jake, if you paired me with her, I swea—.”

A soft knock on the already open door caught both of their attention, and they turned their heads.

Tucker’s barbed words immediately died in his throat.

The woman standing in his doorway was not Susan Watkins. His eyes tried as quickly as possible to catch every single detail of her.

She was dressed in a dusty rose corset top with rust-red lace details under a deep chocolate-shaded robe covered in golden starbursts.

Her skirt was layers of deep wine-colored velvet—the pattern printed on it in places, making it more sheer.

She had three belts layered: a thick leather one cinching her waist, and two metal ones—adorned with tiny moons and medallions that jingled with her gentle movement through the doorway.

Loose tassels hung from the bottom of her skirt and met her rust-red knee-high boots, which seemed to lace all the way to the top.

Tucker’s brain offered a series of rapid, useless observations:

Observation one: Not Susan.

Observation two: Boots have a lot of laces. Impractical. Fascinating.

Observation three: She smells like vanilla and old books. How is that possible?

Observation four: …Chloe’s sister.

The last one punched him in the solar plexus and took his breath away momentarily. This was the sister with the writing genes. With the impeccable taste in ballpoint pens, and whose email had him laughing to himself in an empty classroom.

She’d been a witty, slightly intriguing voice up until now. Until she walked into history homeroom 214 looking like she’d just stepped off a caravan and out of his dreams.

He was staring. He should stop staring. He couldn’t stop staring. He hadn’t blinked or taken a breath from the moment she’d rounded the corner.

“Hi!” She broke the tension in the room that she seemed completely unaware of. “Sorry I’m late! I guess crystal balls don’t account for time stuck in traffic.” She joked, and her crooked grin had him clearing his throat just to get ahold of himself.

“Now this is what I’m talking about! This is dedication to the theme! Finally—someone around here who takes things seriously!” Jake exclaimed with a scoff, giving a raised-brow side-eye at Tucker’s worn-out ‘Panthers’ t-shirt and jeans.

It was casual Friday, but for the first time in his career, he wished he’d at least worn the jacket currently tossed over the back of his chair.

“Oh god, Chloe dressed me. Is it too much? Should I take something off?” she asked with a heavy sigh, as if she’d already anticipated this possibility. She was already fiddling with one of her belts when her eyes floated up to meet Tucker’s.

“No,” he stuttered out, the words tripping over themselves. “I—I mean no… you’re not—you look… good.” It was the least eloquent way he possibly could have said it, not wanting her to think he thought she was too much. He fumbled to stick the red pen in his hand into his pocket, hopefully before she noticed, almost as if he were embarrassed he was still holding it.

“Uh, Tucker… Mr. Pillsbury,” he managed, offering his now-free hand in the obligatory teacher handshake. “And you must be Chloe’s sister, _______. Nice to uh—nice to finally meet you.”

He didn’t anticipate the warmth that crawled up his sleeve when she laughed and placed her smaller palm in his, his hand still lemon-scented and slightly damp from the disinfectant wipes and his own nerves.

She was goddamn gorgeous. Her eyes seemed to glimmer under the harsh fluorescent lights in a way he didn’t even know was possible. Her hair was teased and pulled into a dramatic side braid, with loose, curled strands strategically pulled out to frame her soft, kind-looking face.

“Well, I guess now we know who will be coming up with the fortunes,” Jake said, eyeing Tucker once again with a half-smile. “And who will be giving them out,” he added as he spun on his heels to watch her approach from across the room, almost floating in a way that was unfair to the buzzing in Tucker’s brain.

No. Focus, Tucker. This was a school event. She was the guardian of one of his students, not a pretty girl in a bar.

“Uh, I had some ideas… for fortunes… if you wanted to hear them,” Tucker spoke up, sounding (thankfully) much more coherent than before, but shyer than even Jake had ever heard him.

“Okay. Yeah, sure. I’d love to,” she answered, flashing that sweet grin at him as she slipped into one of the plastic chairs. He did the same directly across from her.

Jake read the room and muttered something about needing to check on streamers and balloons before very conveniently slipping out of the room and shutting the classroom door behind him. The last thing anyone wanted (or needed) was Susan actually crashing in on that with her godforsaken brownies.

——————-

A/N- I don’t really like this one but it is what it is. The next chapter will be Reader’s POV. ❤️ Below is ____’s outfit for reference. If you don’t like it… pretend it’s something else idk. Dividers by @pixopix

#tucker pillsbury #role model #honey rambles #kansas anymore #he’s so pretty #tucker pillsbury au #tucker pillsbury x reader #role model au #role model x reader #the history of us

Sabotage And The Shock Factor (3)

No warnings, just enjoy. :)

The gel pen slipped from her fingers and landed on the cheap linoleum with a plasticky thud, but she didn’t even notice.

No. Fucking. Way.

She leaned in closer to the page, almost tempted to rub the names with her finger to see if they’d just smudge off the slick laminate. They wouldn’t. This was planned. By adults. With printers.

The afternoon of the dance…

“You watched Pretty Little Liars?!” Jake shrieked at the revelation, not sure if he should be proud or disturbed by this new information.

That was the only part he seemed to be listening to, much to Tucker’s dismay.

He was actually kind of excited at the thought of handing out nonsense fortunes to freshmen.

“No—God, no. Please tell me you didn’t. You swore this would be painless and neutral! Jake, if you paired me with her, I swea—.”

A soft knock on the already open door caught both of their attention, and they turned their heads.

Tucker’s barbed words immediately died in his throat.

The woman standing in his doorway was not Susan Watkins. His eyes tried as quickly as possible to catch every single detail of her.

She was dressed in a dusty rose corset top with rust-red lace details under a deep chocolate-shaded robe covered in golden starbursts.

Her skirt was layers of deep wine-colored velvet—the pattern printed on it in places, making it more sheer.

She had three belts layered: a thick leather one cinching her waist, and two metal ones—adorned with tiny moons and medallions that jingled with her gentle movement through the doorway.

Loose tassels hung from the bottom of her skirt and met her rust-red knee-high boots, which seemed to lace all the way to the top.

Tucker’s brain offered a series of rapid, useless observations:

Observation one: Not Susan.

Observation two: Boots have a lot of laces. Impractical. Fascinating.

Observation three: She smells like vanilla and old books. How is that possible?

Observation four: …Chloe’s sister.

She’d been a witty, slightly intriguing voice up until now. Until she walked into history homeroom 214 looking like she’d just stepped off a caravan and out of his dreams.

He was staring. He should stop staring. He couldn’t stop staring. He hadn’t blinked or taken a breath from the moment she’d rounded the corner.

It was casual Friday, but for the first time in his career, he wished he’d at least worn the jacket currently tossed over the back of his chair.

“Uh, Tucker… Mr. Pillsbury,” he managed, offering his now-free hand in the obligatory teacher handshake. “And you must be Chloe’s sister, _______. Nice to uh—nice to finally meet you.”

No. Focus, Tucker. This was a school event. She was the guardian of one of his students, not a pretty girl in a bar.

“Uh, I had some ideas… for fortunes… if you wanted to hear them,” Tucker spoke up, sounding (thankfully) much more coherent than before, but shyer than even Jake had ever heard him.

“Okay. Yeah, sure. I’d love to,” she answered, flashing that sweet grin at him as she slipped into one of the plastic chairs. He did the same directly across from her.

——————-

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