sure it was a silly shirt, funny even, but what wasn't funny was what had led to you even being this hot and bothered while you watched your boyfriend and his friends practice.

before leaving you and malcolm were getting ready, while you did your hair you could see malcolm in your mirror changing into his shirt, the words mirrored but you could discipher what it said, and frankly, it made you laugh a bit.

malcolm's ears perked at that, a faint smirk on his lips as he asked, "what's so funny?" "nothing, just your shirt, what a claim that is," you replied getting up from your chair, "nothing, just looking at your shirt."

malcolm watched as you walked up to him hummed, "you like it?" he asked as he wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you closer, "I dunno, seems like a pretty outlandish claim," you sighed.

"it's a very factual claim actually," malcolm argued rubbing small circles into your waist, "oh really?" you questioned as malcolm pulled in close to your ear and whispered, "i can prove it to you later."

you sucked in a breath, unconsciously clenching at his words and malcolm? oh he noticed

and that's what led you here, sat on the couch in the studio holding back from jumping malcolm and his stupidly teasing bones.

because you'd think he would have given you the grace to stop being a tease during rehearsals, but you thought wrong, him being in front of friends seemed to only push him to secretly tease you.

by some miracle, rehearsals ended early and you practically perked up hearing everyone say bye.

the carride back was tense, not with anger but with pent up desire from both of you, and malcolm's hand on your thigh wasn't making it any easier.

the moment you stepped foot into the apartment it was as like a rubber band snapped, before you knew malcolm's lips were on yours and he was walking you back into a wall.

what was needy kisses turned into making out which turned into malcolm kissing down the column of your throat leaving faint marks down his path.

as needy as you were, you couldn't help but tease a bit, "malcolm baby slow down," you chuckled softly in which all got in return was malcolm's eyes pleading up at you, "please baby? want it so bad, need it." and how could say no when he looked up at you like that?

"bedroom then, baby" you replied and malcolm quickly picked you up and walked to your shared bedroom to lay you down on the bed.

malcolm continued to kiss all over your neck, finally pulling away to pull your shirt off, "holy shi- angel how are you real?" malcolm groaned kissing over you bare upper body, you could feel his smirk when you let out a soft moan when he wrapped his mouth around your nipple whilst teasing the other with his finger, "malcolm quit teasing, please," you whined raising your hips up to meet his in hopes of getting him to finally cave.

"needy girl, can't even wait two seconds for me to go down on you, huh?" malcolm hummed hummed as his kissed down your stomach, you huffed out a breath and bit back "you're one wearing a shirt saying that eating pussy cures depression, seems you aren't really depressed if your taking so long."

malcolm chuckled at your claim, it was silly at best but he couldn't help but go with the bit as he pulled your pants down, "you're right sweet girl, how could I leave you like this and not cure my depression hm?"

"malcolm I swear to god if you don't-" you were cut off by malcolm pulling you underwear off and immediately diving in.

and malcolm? malcolm was greedy, from sucking on yoy swollen clit to moving down to hole where he teased you with his tongue until you were squirming and nearly closing your thighs on his face, not that he'd complain.

and then when he moved back to sucking and kissing your clit he inserted his fingers into your puffy walls, your reaction only spurred him on as you moaned freely, to malcolm it was music to his ears and it honestly just made him get more cocky as he licked and drank up your juices.

you could feel the coil tight in your belly, your thighs trembled next to malcolms face and you tugged at malcolms hair in hopes to get a grip on the real world, "mac, baby 'm close," you managed to make out between whines, and that was more than enough for malcom to mutter a "let go for me sweet girl, lemme have it"

and that was enough for you to let go. your thighs shook as malcolm continued to drink up you slick and it was until you pushed him away that he chuckled softly and moved up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his mouth.

"ill be right back," malcolm spoke softly before getting up to the bathroom and grabbed a towel to clean you up.

afterwards, malcolm pulled you in and you shifted to rest your head on his chest, drawing small patterns until your movements slowed eventually coming to a complete stop signifying to malcolm that you'd fallen asleep, and not soon after he would too.

toritalks♡-first smut fic, kinda nervy.... erm!! hai srry for going mia again, BUT I hope this is enough for yall fo forgive me 🥹

—

This was supposed to be a peaceful getaway.

Maybe to some people, a secluded cabin in the woods in the dead of winter in one of the northmost little corners of Maine seems like something out of a horror flick, but to you… it sounded a hell of a lot better than spending one more day in either L.A. or your hometown where your career hadn’t been going anywhere anyway. So you moved out to L.A. about a year ago. You released your debut album; to put it humbly, it did okay. It was well-received by the general public and up for several awards and even won a couple of them. Not a Grammy or anything, but you were off to an auspicious start.

Until you weren’t.

It’s not like you’re always thinking about Tucker Pillsbury (in the moment—fuck, that’s nothing if not catchy), but you can’t pretend that part of this isn’t about him. You don’t like the way you feel about him. But you just can’t help it. You’ve had this one-sided beef with him ever since his album Kansas Anymore narrowly beat out yours for the one award that really, really mattered to you—and to him, it’s just another award. He has enough of them by now. He didn’t need this.

You’d poured your heart and soul and every vulnerable little emotion from your last heartbreak into your debut just for him to swoop in and take it from you. For everyone to agree that his album was just better. It wasn’t better. He’s just—richer. Older. More established in the industry. Better at navigating all the trials and tribulations of such a cutthroat world (…and he doesn’t seem to see everything that way, either). More likable. Maybe even better-looking.

And you just… needed to write a better album.

That was all.

That’s what you came up here to do. Focus on the work. Not the competition. Even if spite is a powerful motivator.

It’s already snowing hard when you get up to the cabin. The roads were brutal coming up and you’re not looking forward to checking out on Monday if the weather stays this bad. The key is stashed exactly where the host told you to look, under a heavy wooden lobster figurine near the door. You let yourself in and immediately start stripping off your winter coat because it’s so much nicer and warmer in here than outside.

You’ve just sat down on the couch with a cup of cocoa when the front door starts rattling pretty hard. The fuck? You stand, slowly approaching the door. It’s probably just the wind, right? The floorboards creak under your feet, and whatever—whoever—is outside starts pounding on the door now.

“Hello? Is somebody in there? I can see the lights on, and it’s really fucking cold.”

You reach to unlock the door. Probably just the owner, you think, and it seems ridiculous, albeit smart, to worry about stranger danger right now. The temperature is well into the negatives. The roads are covered in ice.

Except it’s obviously not the owner, and it’s also not a stranger.

Motherf… Tucker?

“Y/N L/N?” Tucker says, like it’s all one word, because to him, you’re not on a first name basis. He drops several of the logs of firewood he’s holding, clearly surprised. “What are you—fuck, fuck, can I come inside first and ask questions later?”

What are you supposed to say? No? “This is my rental,” you say helplessly.

It takes him a moment to respond, he’s too busy setting his armful of logs down next to the door and trying to warm up as soon as possible. His face twists up in confusion. “No, I found this place off…” He cuts himself off with a scoff. “It got double-booked.”

“Okay, I’ll… I’ll call the host,” you manage.

“Yeah, you can try. You probably won’t get a signal this far out,” he replies.

You take out your phone anyway. He’s right. No signal. But he doesn’t say I told you so.

“Then I’ll go back into town and see if I can find a motel,” you say helplessly, turning around to reach for your coat, the mug full of hot cocoa forgotten on the coffee table now.

Tucker grabs your arm. You hate that it takes you a second to remember you should resist that.

“You won’t make it two miles,” he says. “…We can both stay. I don’t mind.”

He almost looks hopeful about how you’ll answer. Of course he’s throwing you a bone (though maybe it’s not his place to do that and you should be the one suggesting sharing—you were here first). He’s been nothing but nice to you since you met. This isn’t actually personal. It’s not about him. It’s what he represents to you. Failure. And you can’t be around that all weekend. He’s a walking, breathing, talking reminder of it.

At this point, it doesn’t sound so bad to just go back to Los Angeles. You gave up a lot to be there in the first place. Traded your dead-end job for the starving artist lifestyle, your shoebox apartment for an even more expensive shoebox in California, your steady relationship for one good album. But he’s right that the conditions fucking suck.

“There’s only one bed,” you say, even though you’ve given up on really convincing him to let you leave.

“And a couch,” he points out, looking around.

“Great, you can take that,” you reply.

He doesn’t seem too fond of the idea. Good. “Nah, that thing’s, what… five feet long?”

“Well, I don’t want the couch,” you scoff.

It looks like he wants to say something from the way he clenches his jaw for a moment, but then he just runs his hand through his hair and sighs exasperatedly. “Fine. Fine.”

And that’s that.

***

The heat in the cabin goes out sometime around midnight.

You only know this because you wake up to Tucker shaking you. It doesn’t take long before you stir, confused and groggy, immediately irritated with being woken up and that he’s the one who woke you. “Wh—huh?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he gets out. “But the radiator died and the couch is literally killing me. Can I please just sleep in here? I swear I won’t bother you too much, cross my heart. Please? I really don’t want to get hypothermia and die.”

He can hardly get the words out because he’s shivering so badly. You’re pretty sure he really doesn’t want to do this either, but it’s cold, so he kind of has a point and he knows it too. He’s already crawling under the blankets.

You let out a tired whine, still trying to figure out what’s going on. He’s not exactly touching you, but definitely invading your space. You shove at him weakly. It doesn’t do much.

“I know, sorry to wake you,” he murmurs. “You okay? It’s cold in here, too.”

“What the fuck, Tucker?” you groan.

“It’s cold,” he says.

“Yeah, I can see that,” you retort, your teeth chattering a bit.

Tucker reaches for you. “Come here.”

You resist it. You are cold, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. “I don’t wanna!” you whine.

He stops. It’s only then that you make a beeline for him, settling into his arms with a petulant huff. He tenses up for a second before he buries his face in your neck.

…It’s kind of nice.

“Did I do something?” he asks softly. Almost hesitantly.

“You woke me up.”

“Yeah, to not die,” he mutters. “No, before that. You’ve been bitchy all day. It’s not my fault that I’m stuck here, too. You don’t have to be mean to me.”

“I don’t like you,” you blurt out.

“I know that, but what did I do?”

“That award was mine,” you say, trying to sound stern, but your teeth chatter again halfway through and it ruins the effect.

“Wh—what award?” Tucker asks, incredulous.

“Last year. For my album. We were both nominated, mine was better and you know it, but you won.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Is it really that big of a deal? Trust me, that award isn’t the end of the world.”

You scoff. “Maybe to you! You have everything, Tucker!”

“I don’t have everything,” he replies. You can almost hear his expression, his face scrunching up in confusion.

“No, just the awards, the money, the career recognition.”

“None of that will actually make you happy.”

If anyone asks, you were totally prepared with a clever comeback. A shiver runs through you before you can get it out. Instead, you tell him, “Take off your clothes.”

He makes a shocked noise, but doesn’t stop you from palming at his shirt. “What?”

“It’s supposed to be warmer that way,” you insist, pulling it over his head. “Skin-to-skin.”

“Fine, but—” Tucker tugs your flannel pajama pants off, leaving you in just a tank top and underwear. You tangle your legs with his, which he seems to like, pressing a cold foot against his calf, which he doesn’t seem to like so much. “Y/N.”

Uh-oh. He’s scolding you? Is it bad that you kinda like it?

“Oh, my God. They’ll warm up, don’t be a baby,” you say.

“You’re the one who’s mad at me just because a committee liked my album more than yours.”

You respond by helping him out of his pants. You can’t make out much of him in the dark, but his breath hitches. You don’t escalate it even though you really kind of want to; you just snuggle up next to him as close as you can get.

He hesitates a moment longer like he’s not quite sure what exactly the boundaries in this situation are. His entire body is still trembling—probably from the cold—and you’re shaking from nerves because he’s not just physically warm, but maybe figuratively hot, in a way, and this feels weird.

“I’m still mad at you,” you say. You don’t want him to get the wrong impression.

He scoffs lightly. “…I’m going to sleep. I’m too tired for this shit.”

“Fine,” you huff.

He pulls you closer, already nodding off. Somehow, even though you’re mad at him and now he’s mad at you, it feels safe. You rest your cheek against his bare chest, trying not to think too hard about the awkward circumstances.

***

Neither of you sleep well.

You wake up groggy and he protests with a groan when you shake him awake. “Tucker.”

“What? What is it?”

It’s still dark out.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, my God.”

***

He kicks you awake a little bit later, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep, right in your ear.

***

When the heater finally whirs back to life, it’s loud, waking both of you.

“Heat’s back,” you mutter.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“You can go now.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Tucker—”

“’M comfy.” He burrows closer, face in your neck.

“Tucker.”

“Not leaving. Just in case it goes out again, so we don’t die.” His voice is low and drowsy, muffled by your hair.

“…Okay,” you acquiesce, already drifting off again.