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DOES LOVE COME AROUND OR DOES ONE COME AROUND TO IT? 𝜗ৎ chuck timely
masterlist! taglist!
i need some high hopes lord knows i could use em!
long story short: chuck never gets laid. something about his personality made him “unlovable” or maybe it was the fact he’s always hungover, or that he’s always late, or that he’s really broke. one of those, probably.
one fateful day, you ended up at joys automobile, god knows what was wrong with your car. greeting you, was no other than mr chuck timely. you’d never met, but obviously you’ve heard stories. he greeted you with a big buck tooth smile, “chuck,” he said shaking your hand “what’s wrong with your car?” you explained to him, even though you didn’t really know what was up,
you sat in the lobby for a couple hours while he worked, honestly you didn’t know what was so bad about him. he was kinda charming? he’d pop out every so often to come say hi and update you on the status of your car. he comes back out a final time to tell you it’s finished, you thank him and pay but inside you’re kind of upset to say goodbye to him. that is until you get in a car and see a paper tucked in the cup holder. you unfold it, “316-348-4313 call me :)” oh my god. none of your friends could know about this, or they would be so dissapointed. chuck timely of all people.
you were knocking on the door of a small, rustic house the following night. he answers and greets you with a hug. “well are you gonna come in?” he jokes. he was honestly a really nice guy when you got to know him! you’d returned home satisfied that night, he wasn’t that bad in bed either.
but he still had the question: does love come around or does one come around to it?
AN: HEYY!! short little fic because i am so up i love you chuck timely
summary: chuck timely x reader. he’s the best man and you’re the maid of honor at the same wedding.
rating: e
warnings: smut, minors dni. submissive tucker/chuck and unsafe sex (wrap it before you tap it). angsty ending. might become ooc later if we learn more about chuck timely.
a/n: tumblr’s first ever chuck timely fic.
—
September 2025
The bride and groom are tired of Chuck’s antics before the wedding even starts.
First, he’s late.
Then he shows up hungover, sneaking in halfway through the ceremony and taking his place like nothing happened. He’s unapologetic afterwards, grinning for photos while your mutual friends just tolerate him.
“You reek of alcohol,” the bride complains.
“Hey, at least I made it at all, huh?” Chuck says, patting the groom on the back.
“You’re the best man, Chuck! That’s not good enough.”
“You threw off the whole wedding,” the bride adds.
“Ah, come on, it wasn’t that bad!” Chuck throws a playful arm around his friend.
The groom shoves him off. “I don’t know why I even expect better from you at this point. You always pull this, showing up hungover, if you don’t just flake. You’re a shitty friend.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Chuck says, putting his hands up in surrender. “That’s a little harsh.”
“Get out, Chuck,” the bride says.
“Alright, I’m going,” he laughs. “I’m going.”
After he leaves, you attend to the less-than-happy couple, trying to cheer them up from what just happened.
***
You go out to get some air during the reception. It was getting too loud inside.
Chuck is sitting on the hood of a car about ten feet away, tapping ashes off his cigarette on the hood ornament before taking another drag. You approach.
“Well, look what the cat dragged out here,” he drawls.
“Is that your car?” you ask.
“No.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
You sit down next to him on the hood of the car.
“He’s right, you know,” he says, handing you the cigarette.
You take a drag. “What do you mean?”
“I’m a shitty fucking friend.” He chuckles. “Shitty fucking boyfriend too. That’s probably why I’m not married yet.”
“I don’t think you’re that bad.”
“Oh, yeah?”
You take another drag, a deliberately long one, before passing the cigarette back to him. “Well, aside from ruining a once-in-a-lifetime special occasion for everyone.”
“Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce. There could still be a next one.”
“I take it back,” you say, grabbing the cigarette from him again. “You’re an asshole.”
“Are you still seeing that guy Jessie?”
“Not really.” You inhale, then blow out the smoke.
“Good. I didn’t like him.”
“Okay. I didn’t ask you.”
Chuck shrugs. “…You wanna go back to my place?”
Your fingers brush as he takes the cigarette.
“Maybe. You live around here?”
“Sorta. ’S a motel room. I never stay anytime”—he coughs—“anywhere for very long. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Best man and the maid of honor?”
“I guess, yeah.”
“Is that a yes to hooking up or yes that it’s the thing?”
You kiss him. He freezes only for a moment before he reciprocates and his free hand comes up to tangle in your hair. He pulls back for air, bringing the cigarette up to your lips. You inhale deeply, then exhale the smoke in his face. He grins.
***
Back at his motel, he helps you out of your satin gown and then pins you down on the bed, lips hot and wet on your neck. You make quick work of his suit jacket and white V-neck tee, peeling them off to expose the patchwork tattoos littered across his arms and torso. Then you undo his belt, tossing everything on the floor as you go.
“I’ve wanted this for a while,” he murmurs against your jaw. “You’re so hot. You’re gonna be screaming my name by the time I’m done with you.”
“Oh, will I?”
“Yeah,” he says, yanking your panties down. “If you can still form thoughts.”
“We’ll see.”
“You don’t believe in me?”
Your fingers dip beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, carefully tugging them down. You brush your thumb against his hipbone, eliciting a small sound from him. You leverage your weight to roll the both of you over, straddling him.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
There’s nothing to tie him up with, so you have to make do, pinning one of his wrists behind his head. He gasps softly, his free hand coming up to rest on your hip.
You sink down onto him slowly. He stares up at you in awe as you begin to move at the angle you want. It doesn’t seem to matter to him what you do, he’s into it. He’s vocal about every thrust, his own hips bucking in response. The minute you let go of his wrist, it’s on you as well, running over your torso and squeezing lightly wherever he feels like it.
“Ah, fu—”
You lean down to kiss him. The rest of his words and noises are muffled against your lips. You prop yourself up on one elbow while your free hand tangles in his hair, pulling slightly. Chuck nearly whimpers. You don’t let up. His hands flex against your skin, his short fingernails digging into the soft flesh of your waist (you try not to think about the grease under them).
“I can’t, I can’t…” he gasps out. “Are you…? Fuck. Fuck.”
“Not yet,” you breathe, sitting up straight again. “Don’t you dare.”
“Okay, I… I’ll try my best,” he manages, his voice cracking from the effort. “Fuck!”
You’re getting close, but not quite there, so you don’t want him to come yet. He’s barely holding it together. Not that that’s your problem. This isn’t about him.
Chuck wets his thumb with his mouth and reaches down to circle it around your clit, making you cry out.
“That’s it, honey, please, please…” His words are desperate and a bit slurred. That does the trick, and you fall apart around him, collapsing onto his chest. He can’t hold on anymore, and you feel it when it gets the better of him, warm and satisfying inside you. You stroke his bicep, it’s meant to be a soothing gesture as it washes over him.
“Y/N,” he says. His voice is hoarse, broken, and awed.
“Yeah? Did you have a nice time?” you drawl.
He nods weakly.
“Good, I’m glad, baby,” you reply.
Even in the dark, you’re pretty sure he’s blushing. When you slowly climb off of him, he whines in weak protest.
“Shh, it’s okay.” You brush the damp hair off his forehead, laying down next to him.
His heavily tattooed arm encircles your waist as he buries his face in your neck and inhales deeply. After a few minutes, his breathing evens out into sleep.
You lie awake weighing your options, whether to stay the night or sneak out once you’re sure he’s out cold.
desc: joe’s still stuck on you. i mean, how could he not when you keep calling him and complaining about how your boyfriend is a shit show. he knows he could love you better, and you’ve even said so yourself. yet, you love to act clueless about that when you see him act the tiniest bit of jealous
cw: drinking + driving slightly under the influence (don’t do this at all he was just needy), some sexual content (kissing, innuendo, but no smut), some angst, smoking — not proof read!
wc: 3.8k
a/n - i haven’t written in so long and this like is ass + i missed out on so much i wanted to add and i just realized that now but i have too many exams coming up
————————————————————————————————
the city always looked a little unreal from this high up.
all glass and light and blurry yellow taxis, reflections smeared across the windows from inside the penthouse suite. somebody near the kitchen laughed too loud over the music, and somewhere behind you, a camera flashed.
you adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, already regretting coming.
“you okay?”
your boyfriend’s hand brushed your lower back for half a second before disappearing again, attention pulled somewhere over your shoulder. some producer. some actor. some person more important than the answer.
there was no reason for him to check in on you anyway.
“yeah,” you said anyway.
he nodded distractedly, arms length away from you. “i’m gonna go say hi to mark. get a drink or something?”
before you could answer, he was already gone. you stared after him for a moment.
“rough start?”
the voice came from your left, amused and warm and entirely too familiar.
your eyes closed briefly before you turned.
joe leaned against the bar like he’d been standing there the whole night waiting for this exact moment. dark jacket, curls messy around his forehead, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass. his gaze moved over you slowly, not inappropriate exactly — just knowing.
somehow it felt worse.
“you’re lurking now?” you asked.
“you walked directly into my line of sight. not my fault.”
“pretty sure that still counts as lurking.”
his mouth twitched. and god, that smile still annoyed you.
“you look nice,” he said after a second, taking a sip of his drink. the compliment landed too naturally. no weirdness or hesitation. like he still had every right to say things like that.
you hated that your stomach reacted anyway. “thank you.”
his eyes flicked past you briefly. “where’s what’s-his-name?”
you snorted softly. “that’s evil.”
“i know his name. i’m choosing not to use it.” he bites the inside of his cheek before taking another sip of his drink.
“very mature.”
“i try.”
you looked around the room again, pretending not to notice how easily the conversation slipped into place. this was the problem with him. no matter how much time passed, talking to joe still felt like stepping into something half-finished. like you’d only paused.
“he went to talk to someone,” you said finally.
joe hummed once, unsurprised. there was a beat. then: “you seem thrilled about it.”
you shot him a look. “don’t start.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you were about to.”
“okay,” he admitted. “of course i was about to. how could i not?”
despite yourself, you laughed quietly, his expression softening at the sound.
that was another problem.
joe always looked at you like your reactions mattered. unlike some other unnamed people. like he was paying attention even when he pretended not to be.
you leaned back against the bar beside him. “you’ve been here long?”
“too long. some guy cornered me twenty minutes ago to explain crypto.”
“tragic.”
“i almost killed him.”
“with a cocktail napkin?”
“with my bare hands.” he says with the straightest face.
you smiled into your drink as the bartender slid it toward you.
“still ordering that?” he asked as he noticed.
“what?”
“that drink. jesus christ.”
“what’s wrong with it?”
“it tastes how your lipstick smells.”
“you’re dramatic.”
“you used to make me try it every single time.”
“because you complained every single time!”
“and yet you never listened.”
you looked at him then. really looked at him. even with that shit-ass grin on your face.
he still has the same stupidly pretty face. same easy posture. same soft eyes that managed to catch things before anyone else did. there was a light stubble along his jaw now, rings on his fingers you didn’t recognize.
different enough to remind you time had passed. familiar enough to make it feel meaningless.
his expression shifted slightly under your stare. “what?” he asked.
“nothing.”
“liar.”
before you can answer with something sassy, someone brushed past you hard enough to knock your shoulder. joe’s hand landed on your waist instantly, enough to steady you. definitely just… automatic.
the touch barely lasted a second before both of you seemed to realize it at the same time. his fingers loosened immediately, but not before heat climbed straight up your throat.
“sorry,” he muttered.
you swallowed. “it’s fine.”
except it wasn’t.
because your body still remembered him too well. because he still touched you like he belonged there. because somewhere across the room, your boyfriend laughed loudly without once looking over to see where you’d gone.
of course joe noticed that. his jaw ticked once. “so,” he said casually, staring into his glass, “you gonna spend the whole night babysitting him, or can i steal you for five minutes later?”
you should’ve said no. that would be the smart and normal answer.
instead, you heard yourself say, “depends.”
joe looked unbearably pleased with that. “dangerous response, y/n.”
“don’t make it weird, joe.”
“sweetheart, it’s already weird.”
you rolled your eyes, but he was right.
the worse part was how easy this all felt. standing beside him with the music humming through the walls and people moving around you in blurred expensive outfits, it almost felt every shitty part of the breakup had happened to entirely different people.
almost.
“there you are.” your boyfriend appeared suddenly at your side, one hand brushing your arm absentmindedly. his eyes landed on joe and lit up in recognition. “hey, man.”
joe smiled immediately. polite and effortless. like hasn’t talked shit about him. it irritates you instantly.
“hey.”
“love your stuff,” your boyfriend said, already half distracted again. “we met once, actually. couple years ago?”
“sounds vaguely threatening when you say it like that.” joe says easily, taking a sip of his drink.
your boyfriend laughed. again, joe always did this. made people feel comfortable within seconds. easy smile, easy voice, like he’d known the person for longer than five minutes.
you remembered falling for it too.
“i’m gonna grab another drink from just over there,” your boyfriend said, squeezing your shoulder. “you want anything?”
“i’m okay.”
“cool. back in a sec.”
he disappeared into the crowd. joe watched him go quietly before repeating under his breath, “back in a sec,” he practically scoffed.
you sigh immediately. “joe.”
“what?”
“don’t.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“you literally did.”
“okay, fine.” he leaned against the bar again. “i just don’t understand why he keeps leaving you alone at parties.”
“i’m not gonna combust because my boyfriend walked away for ten minutes.”
“feels longer than ten.”
you looked at him sharply. his expression stayed casual, but you knew him better than that. knew the specific tightness in his jaw, the way he got quieter when something was actually bothering him.
“you don’t have to do this,” you said.
“do what?”
“the weird jealous ex thing.”
he let out a short laugh. not very amused though. “you think i’m jealous of that guy?”
“joe—”
“i think you deserve someone who notices when you disappear for half an hour.” or call you his fucking ball and chain, he wanted to say.
your chest tightened a little at that. because he was right. yet again. and you hated how badly he himself wanted to be right.
“you don’t know our relationship,” you said finally.
his eyes snapped back to yours then. “now, you don’t do that.” he scoffed.
“do what?”
“act like you haven’t spent the last four months calling me every time he disappoints you.”
“why the fuck are you so loud?” you say almost whispering now even though how loud it is around you, stomach dropped.
“why?” he asked quietly. “am i wrong?”
you stared at him. he stared right back.
“that’s not fair.”
“isn’t it?” his voice stayed calm, which somehow made it worse. “you call me at two in the morning telling me he doesn’t listen to you. that he doesn't ask questions. that you feel lonely standing next to him.” joe shook his head once, like the thought of him treating you like that was actively hurting him, eyes fixed on yours, “then you show up places together and expect me to pretend i don't see it.”
“i never asked you to do anything.”
“you keep leaning on me like i’m still yours.”
the words hit hard enough that you actually went quiet. it was the real thing underneath under all the jokes.
you crossed your arms tightly. “you could’ve stopped answering.”
his expression changed instantly, hurt flickering there before he covered it. “yeah,” he said softly. “i could’ve.”
but really, how could he? how could he turn down any sort of connection with you?
the music around you two suddenly felt too loud. people brushed past laughing, glasses clinking somewhere nearby, and none of it touched the strange heavy silence sitting between you.
you looked away first. “i need air.”
joe didn’t stop you, which somehow annoyed you too.
—
you pushed through the crowd toward the balcony doors, cool air hitting your skin immediately once you stepped outside. the city stretched endlessly below, glowing gold and white beneath the dark sky.
you pulled out your phone.
no texts.
nothing from your boyfriend.
you waited another then minutes before checking again. he must've been wondering where you are now.
still nothing.
your irritation started climbing fast after that.
another twenty minutes passed. half an hour. and still nothing.
inside, the party only got louder. you spotted your boyfriend exactly once across the room laughing with a group of people you didn’t recognize before he disappeared again.
not even a glance toward you.
not even a fucking text.
“there you are.” a voice says, mimicking your boyfriends from earlier.
you didn’t turn around this time.
joe stepped beside you against the balcony railing, cigarette tucked between his fingers though he hadn’t lit it. “you look mean.”
“i am mad right now. so i’m mean.”
“yeah,” he said softly. “i can tell.”
you huffed out a laugh despite yourself, silence settling in shortly after, but easier this time.
“he leave?”
you checked your phone one more time.
nothing.
“apparently. i mean, i have no idea. for all i know.”
joe’s jaw tightened. “fucking unbelievable.”
“you’ve gotta stop…”
“i’m serious.”
“joe—”
“no.” he huffs out a unamused laugh. “who disappears on their girlfriend at party?”
“it’s not a big deal.”
he's really looking at you now. “you say that every time.” the tenderness in his voice nearly undid you.
you swallowed hard and looked away toward the skyline. “i don’t want to argue or fight tonight.”
“i don’t either.”
another pause.
then joe bumped his shoulder lightly against yours. playful but careful. “come on,” he muttered. “ditch this place.”
you laughed softly. “with you?”
“yeah, with me.”
“that sounds like a horrible idea.”
“probably.”
and it was true. joe didn't really have much going for him. sure, he went out with a couple of people after you guys broke up, but nothing really stuck. he cared too much about you, and still does.
sure, you had your boyfriend too, but he's barely a boyfriend. you have had to lean on joe more than you’d like to admit. sneaky little links with him where you’d end up crying about how your boyfriend doesn't truly love you while he’s just had to watch and do nothing.
if anything, now was the time. he knew that much.
you looked down at your phone again. still nothing.
the ache in your chest sharpened suddenly into anger.
at your boyfriend.
at joe for thinking he could just do this.
at yourself for allowing this to happen.
“fine,” you muttered before you could think too hard about it. “but i’m not going back to your place.”
joe went still beside you. slowly, “oh?”
heat climbed your neck immediately.
shit.
you stared out at the city harder. “i just mean—”
“you inviting me to yours?” he teases, voice gone lower now.
you should take it back. quicker than what's happening now if possible. but instead, “only because i don’t feel like being alone tonight.”
joe stared at you for a long second. then he smiled. “yeah,” he said quietly. “okay.” he swallowed harshly, fidgeting with his rings because otherwise his hands would be doing a whole lotta something else.
—
the drive to your apartment felt strangely familiar.
not because you’d done this before exactly, but because being alone with joe at night had once been the most natural thing in the world.
the city blurred past outside the windows while some old rock song by the doors played quietly through the speakers. joe drove with one hand loose against the steering wheel, rings glinting every time streetlights swept across the car.
you kept catching yourself looking at him.
the side of his jaw.
his hands.
the curve of his mouth when he concentrated.
stupid.
you turned toward the window again.
“you’re being weirdly quiet,” joe said after a while.
“maybe i’m regretting this.”
“a little late for that.”
“i can still throw myself out of the car.”
“please don’t. sally,” which was the name of his old truck. yours was harry before you traded it for some shiny new car. “would never be able to forgive me.” he continued.
you laughed under your breath despite yourself.
he glanced over briefly, smiling a little at the sound.
there it was again.
that awful, easy chemistry.
“you know,” joe said casually, eyes back on the road, “i really thought you were gonna marry me once.”
your head snapped toward him. “what?” you say, your voice weaker than you’d like it to be.
“back when we lived in that shitty apartment with the broken sink.”
“joe—” you say for what feels like the trillionth time that night.
“im serious.” his tone stayed light.
you remembered that apartment instantly.
the mattress on the floor.
his guitar against the wall.
one of your lace bras always draped over the corner of a dresser or lampshade.
cheap takeout containers everywhere.
a pair of both of your socks at the end of the bed every night.
him kissing your forehead while making coffee at two in the morning – you were painting, he was writing most of the time.
it hit harder than expected.
“you also thought you were gonna buy a horse,” you muttered.
joe grinned immediately. “still might.”
“you live in los angeles.”
“horses love los angeles.”
“that is objectively not true.”
“wow,” he said softly, amused. “you used to support my dreams.”
you rolled your eyes, but your chest hurt a little.
the car fell quiet again after that when you finally pulled into your building’s underground garage, neither of you moved right away. joe turned the engine off and even more silence rushed in.
you unbuckled first just to break it. “you coming?”
“thought you’d never ask. thought i was gonna have to get on my hands and knees.”
“gross.” you blush either way.
“you invited me home after emotionally devastating me at a party. mixed signals, y'know?"
“i did not emotionally devastate you.”
joe looked at you flatly.
you smiled despite yourself. “okay, maybe a little.”
—
the elevator ride up felt too small.
you stood shoulder to shoulder beneath harsh yellow lighting while the numbers climbed slowly overhead.
two.
three.
four.
joe leaned back against the wall watching you openly now.
“what?” you asked finally.
“nothing.”
“you’re staring.”
“yeah.”
your stomach flipped annoyingly. “you’re annoying.”
“you say that like it stopped you before.”
you looked away quickly after that.
five.
six.
“you know what your problem is?” joe asked suddenly.
“ouch, i thought i was perfect. but, i’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”
“you think if you ignore someone long enough, it disappears.”
“you’re a little too honest right now.” you frowned slightly. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
“drank a little too much.” he grimaces just slightly cause he drove here perfectly fine. “you know exactly what’s wrong with your relationship.”
the irritation came back instantly. now he’s drunk and honest? plus, starting an argument after he said he didn't want that.
“and you think you know everything because i vented to you a few times?”
“a few times?” joe laughed softly. “baby, you called me crying from your bathroom three weeks ago.”
your cheeks burned. “you’re so fucking loud. keep your voice down.”
“nobody’s even here. you embarrassed?”
“no, actually, i’m annoyed.”
“at me?”
“at you acting like this.”
the elevator dinged. the doors opened onto your floor.
you stepped out first, already digging through your bag for your keys while joe followed behind more slowly.
“acting like what?” he asked, eyes focused a little too hard on your back profile before focusing again.
you unlocked your apartment harder than necessary. “like i owe you something.”
joe went quiet behind you.
that should’ve warned you.
you pushed the door open and stepped inside, kicking your heels off immediately near the entrance. joe lingered a second before following, eyes moving around the apartment like he was re-learning it.
he’d only been here once before.
back when you first moved in.
before things got messy again.
“nice,” he said quietly.
“don’t change the subject.”
the door clicked shut behind him.
“i’m not saying you owe me anything,” he replied. “i’m saying i’m tired of pretending this doesn’t mean something.”
your heartbeat sped up instantly. you open your mouth to say his mouth in hopes of stopping him from talking but he continues anyway.
“you call me when you’re sad.” his voice stayed calm now. too calm. “you call me when you’re lonely. when you fight with him. when you can’t sleep.” he stepped closer slowly. “then you look at me like i’m insane for thinking maybe some part of you still belongs to me.”
the room suddenly felt too warm. you swallowed hard. “that’s not fair, joe.”
“none of this is fair.”
he was close enough now that you could smell smoke and cologne and something that was just him underneath it all.
familiar enough to ache.
your voice came out quieter. “you don’t get to say things like that.”
joe looked down at you for a long moment. “yeah?” he murmured. “then why’d you bring me here?”
you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. because there wasn’t a good answer.
his eyes dropped briefly to your lips. then back up again. that tiny movement alone nearly ruined you.
“joe.” you said softly. though you weren’t even sure what you meant by it anymore.
a warning?
a plea?
just his name?
all of the above?
his hand brushed your waist carefully, like he was giving you time to stop him.
you didn’t.
and that seemed to break the last bit of restraint he had left.
joe kissed you suddenly and deep enough to steal the breath straight to your lungs. like he’d been holding it in for months.
his hand tightened against your waist immediately, pulling you into him while your fingers grabbed instinctively at the front of his jacket. the kissed turned messy almost instantly – familiar in the most dangerous way, all heat and frustration and want.
the second you kissed him back, joe made this quiet sound against your mouth like relief mixed with frustration. after all, he’d been waiting for this longer than he wanted to admit.
his hand slid from your waist to your jaw, thumb pressing lightly beneath it as he kissed you deeper, slower now, like he was trying to remember every part of you all over again.
or maybe prove he never forgot.
your back hit the wall near the entryway softly but neither of you acknowledged it.
“fuck,” joe murmured against your lips, almost laughing once after. “this is such a bad idea.”
“you’re the one kissing me.”
“you invited me upstairs.”
“you followed.”
“obviously i followed you.”
despite everything, you smiled against his mouth.
he paused for half a second before kissing you again. like that tiny expression from you was enough to undo him.
his fingers slipped into your hair, careful at first before tightening slightly when you pulled him closer by the front of his shirt. the tension between you felt months old. maybe years.
every unfinished conversation.
every late-night phone call.
every almost-confession.
all of it is sitting here right now.
your breathing turned uneven when he mouth moved briefly to your jaw.
“joe,” you whispered.
“hm?” he hums, distracted.
“this doesn’t fix anything.”
“i know.”
another kiss. slower this time.
“still wanna do it though.”
you let out a quiet laugh that disappeared into a shaky breath when his lips brushed your neck.
there he was.
that dangerous combination of playful and devastating.
his hands settled back at your hips, pulling you flush against him while he kissed just beneath your ear. your fingers curled tighter into his shirt automatically.
it felt too easy to fal back into this.
joe pulled back just enough to look at you, curls falling slightly into his eyes now.
“tell me to stop.”
you stared at him. really stared at him. and his expression wasn’t smug anymore. wasn’t teasing.
just open in a way that made your chest ache.
because underneath all the jealousy and sharp comments and tension, joe had always loved you very honestly. you could see it all over his face.
your hand lifted before you could think better of it, brushing hair back from his forehead gently.
“that’s not stopping me,” he said quietly.
“i know.”
he leaned into your touch for half a second. then his mouth found yours again before either of you could say something too real.
the kiss deepened quickly after that. less hesitant now.
your hands slid beneath his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt underneath while joe’s grip tightened at your waist like he physically couldn’t keep you close enough.
he kissed like he talked when emotions got too big — messy, sincere, a little overwhelming.
you felt him smile briefly against your mouth when you tugged him closer again.
“missed that,” he admitted softly.
your stomach flipped hard. “don’t say things like that.”
“why?”
“because.”
“great argument.”
you rolled your eyes weakly, and joe laughed quietly before kissing you again.
your apartment was dim except for the city light spilling through the windows, painting soft gold across his face every time you looked at him. his rings brushed your skin when his hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt slightly, warm fingertips pressing against your waist.
it’s like he’s questioning. giving you room to stop this. you should. instead you pulled him back in again.
joe exhaled sharply through his nose at that, forehead dropping briefly against yours. “you’re killing me,” he muttered.
“dramatic.”
“you used to like that about me.”
“used to?”
his eyes lifted immediately at that. the tension shifted again. less teasing now. something heavier underneath it.
“careful,” joe murmured softly. “you say shit like that and i start getting hopeful.”
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-Ky has been Tucker's best friend since high school, when he was forced to take shop class.
-He knew nothing about cars. Tucker took pity on him and they've been inseparable ever since.
-He has a day job at the town's only bank as a loan officer.
-He wears a tie to work. He hates the tie. He takes it off before he even walks in the shop doors.
-He's more lean and shorter than Tucker.
-He wears glasses that are always slipping down his nose. He pushes them up with his middle finger. It looks rude, but it's just a habit at this point.
- He 'manages' the front office part time, for free. (It's just an excuse to hang around.)
-He mostly answers phones, drinks the terrible coffee and entertains Socket while Tucker's under a car.
-He's the only one who remembers to order hand soap for customers (not just the gritty orange soap Tucker uses) and refills the ancient vending machine.
-Ky is also the only reason that the shop has a functional website.
-He's set Tucker up on two dates in the last year.
-Neither of them called him back. Ky says it's because he has "the romantic instincts of a rock." Tucker tells him it's because Ky's taste is bad. They're both right.
-He handles the shop's books because Tucker "doesn't do numbers that aren't a firing order."
-He organizes the car club that meets up at the shop once a month. He still doesn't know much about cars, but he likes the people and the gossip.
-He's the talker to Tucker's listener. He tells long winded stories that go nowhere and complains about his day job, but Tucker just lets him fill the silence.
-Ky worries about Tucker constantly. Tucker's diet, his lack of social life, his back.
-Ky can't keep a secret to save his life and he meddles, but he's fiercely loyal.
-He is the only person who can make Tucker laugh when he's in a bad mood. Even if it's a breathy huff he considers it a win (and a public service).
Socket-
-She wandered up to the shop four years ago, skittish and skinny with ribs showing through her matted fur.
-Tucker was sitting on an overturned bucket by the bay door, eating a gas station breakfast sandwich.
-He tried to act like he didn't see her. She sat close to the dirt road between his place and the shop and just stared at him.
-He eventually pinched a piece of sausage off of his sandwich and threw it. She flinched, but eventually ate it.
-This continued for about a week. By the fourth day she let him touch her. On day five he bought a second sandwich just for her.
-On day six she slept under the front counter and just... never left.
-Tucker still lies and says she's not his dog, she "just hangs out here."
-Now she lays across the doorframe between the waiting room and shop like she owns the place and picks her head up to grumble when the door bell chimes.
-Tucker says she's a good judge of character. She's skeptical of strangers, but warm once she approves.
-Some people walk in and she is belly up, begging to be scratched. Others she watches from under the counter, unmoving until they leave. She's never been wrong.
-Socket has opinions. She barks when the bay door squeals too loud. She sighs heavily when Ky is talking too much.
-Tucker's dad always brings her a piece of bacon from the diner. She expects it now.
-She has one ear that flops and one that's always standing at attention. They're her top two features and she knows it.
-Tucker has a habit of rubbing the floppy ear between his fingers when he's thinking too hard.
-She's black and white with two white 'socks' on her back paws. The left one comes up higher than the other, and Tucker thinks it's hilarious.
-She wears a red bandana that's slightly grease stained from rolling on the concrete floor. Tucker has given up on trying to stop her.
-She's not a cuddler, except with Tucker. She follows him back and forth from the shop to the house like a shadow and sleeps curled at the foot of his bed.
-She loves car rides. She sits in the passenger seat of the Bronco with her head out of the window and her floppy ear blowing in the wind.
-There's always nose prints on the glass that Tucker can rarely force himself to wipe away.
-She's filed under "Socket Pillsbury" at the vet. Tucker will take this knowledge to his grave but also won’t change it.
A/N- Oop, hi. It's me again. I've been working on this for a while. Next will be the introduction of reader and how she ties in to everything.
all of a sudden, i hear this agitating, grating voice…
summary: you and tucker get snowed in for the foreseeable future in an isolated cabin in maine.
rating: t
tags/warnings: musician!reader, very vague on details so you can imagine whatever you want. use of y/n. established relationship dynamic (y/n is his n1 hater for literally no good reason and is just jealous asf). forced proximity. only one bed. mild enemies to lovers. no beta. not much logic to the plot, don’t think too much about it. rpf.
thank you my homeslice @tuckshoney for helping me flesh out the idea!
—
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.
au: basically a pt2 to king of thieves, also my first time writing smut so no hate xx
You and Tucker have had sex before, especially considering you’ve been together for a while. Though what you hadn’t experimented with was Tucker’s spider abilities. As in webs.
You were hesitant at first, but he persisted. He reassured you that he wouldn’t do anything you weren’t comfortable with and that it was fully up to you. So, eventually, you agreed.
It started with a slow kiss, then his lips moved from your lips to your jaw, then to your neck. He moved your arms up so he could take your sweater off. The cold air hit you with a chill that was so quickly extinguished by the warmth of his body.
Taking the chance he had, he held your arms up against the wall and shot a few small webs, sticking your wrists to the wall.
His mouth traveled around, nipping softly at your neck. “You’re such a good girl.” He murmured against your neck as his hands fumble with your bra clasp.
He pulls it off, and admires you for a minute. “God, you’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, his voice low and full of want.
His lips trail down from your neck to your chest. Once he makes it your chest, his mouth lands on your nipple, sucking and licking. His other hand wanders to create a circular motion on your other nipple.
He kisses lower and lower, sinking to his knees. He looks up at you, “this okay, baby?”.
All you can do is nod weakly. His hands quickly unbutton your jeans, discarding them quickly. His hands slow down when it comes to your underwear.
His hands trace your hips, your thighs, your ass, then finally, with a shit eating grin, he pulls them down.
“Mmh, fuck, baby, you’re so wet.” He runs a finger through your slick heat. He pulls his finger away licking it clean as he looks up at you.
He brings his finger back, now adding a second one, coating it in your slick before slowly sliding them in. He curls his fingers, his thumb beginning to rub your clit.
“Do you like that? Huh? You like being webbed up, baby?”
You couldn’t answer, all you could get out was a breathy gasp.
“Baby, that wasn’t a fuckin’ answer.” His fingers slowed.
You let out a whine before responding, “yes, yes, Tuck, I do.”
“That’s what I fuckin’ though.” He takes fingers out, licks them clean with a groan, and lowers his mouth on you.
His tongue lapped and lapped. A whimper escaped him, “mm-so good. taste so good, baby.”
With every movement of his mouth you got closer and closer. At one point he webbed your hips to the way, “stop squirmin’.”
Finally, you reached your climax, seeing pure stars. You were almost certainly that everyone in the apartment complex could hear you. And who you were doing it with.
His tongue didn’t stop until he drank every last drop of you. When he did pull away, he was grinning, the bottom half of his face glistening. He leaned back down and pressed a few scattered kisses to your inner thighs.
He stands back up and kisses you, so gentle it was a bit jarring. “You did so good, bug.” His hands move to pull the webs away.
He picked up your sweater, putting it on you. He leaves and comes back with a damp towel, kneeling, not to go again, but to clean you up.
“Love you, bug.” He pressed one final kiss to your thigh.
all of a sudden, i hear this agitating, grating voice…
summary: you and tucker get snowed in for the foreseeable future in an isolated cabin in maine.
rating: t
tags/warnings: musician!reader, very vague on details so you can imagine whatever you want. use of y/n. established relationship dynamic (y/n is his n1 hater for literally no good reason and is just jealous asf). forced proximity. only one bed. mild enemies to lovers. no beta. not much logic to the plot, don’t think too much about it. rpf.
thank you my homeslice @tuckshoney for helping me flesh out the idea!
—
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.
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i’m a sucker for “fangirl” behavior sooo since you write for tucker, could i request a tucker x fashionista / fashion student!reader who goes to all his concerts in outfits designed by herself and inspired by his albums / album covers
idk maybe it gets him all giddy because it’s a surprise for him everytime and she’s like his #1 fan
pretty
tucker pillsbury x reader
val speaks - i luuuuv this req alsoooo first time writing for tucker on here how fun
word count: 930
you spent all week on the shirt.
between classes, late nights in the studio and with scraps of fabric scattered across your apartment floor.
it slowly came together exactly the way you pictured it in your head. soft white cotton, slightly oversized, cropped just enough to sit perfectly with your jeans and across the front, in your own hand-drawn lettering, the words slipfast get carried away curved gently across the chest in washed blue ink. beneath it, stitched delicately near the hem, was a tiny little design, a pair of wings wrapped around a star.
that was your thing.
every show, every city, every time you went to see tucker, you made something new.
sometimes it was lyrics, sometimes it was little references the fans would understand and sometimes it was artwork inspired by melodies.
tucker loved every single one.
more than loved them, honestly.
he waited for them.
it had become a quiet little ritual between the two of you, one that made his heart race in the stupidest, sweetest way. no matter how packed the venue was, no matter how bright the stage lights burned in his eyes, some part of him was always searching the crowd for you. not just for your face, though god, he could find that anywhere, but for your shirt.
he always wanted to know what you'd made, what lyric you'd chosen, what piece of him you'd turned into something beautiful with your own two hands.
and tonight was no different.
the venue was electric, bass humming through the floorboards, lights flashing silver and blue, voices screaming every word back at him, but somewhere in the middle of it all, tucker caught sight of you.
front left, just where you always somehow ended up.
his breath caught for half a second.
there it was.
slipfast get carried away.
and even from stage, he could make out the little design on the front, could see the careful detail. he smiled mid-lyric, soft and helpless, and shook his head to himself, laughing quietly because of course you'd somehow outdone yourself again.
of course you did.
suddenly the whole show felt lighter, warmer.
he played like he always did, poured everything into it, but there was this little glow tucked right beneath his ribs the whole night, this giddy little feeling that made him feel sixteen and ridiculous, because his girl was out there wearing something she made for him, inspired by his music, proudly loving him in the most thoughtful way anyone ever had.
it made him feel like the luckiest man alive.
backstage, when the show finally ended and the adrenaline was still buzzing through his veins, he barely had patience for the usual post-show chaos. he was distracted, eyes flicking toward the hallway every few seconds, waiting.
waiting for you.
and then you walked in.
your cheeks were flushed from singing, hair a little messy, eyes bright, still glowing from the concert, and there was your shirt up close, somehow even prettier than it looked under stage lights.
tucker's entire face lit up.
"baby" he said immediately, like the word had been sitting on his tongue all night, warm and full of affection.
he crossed the room in seconds.
his hands found your waist, pulling you close, and he leaned back just enough to look properly at your shirt, fingertips brushing lightly over the lettering, over the little stitched wings near the hem.
his smile turned soft. the kind that reached his eyes, crinkling at the corners.
"you made this?" he asked, even though he already knew you did.
you laughed quietly. "yeah."
he looked at you like you'd hung the moon.
"it's so good" he said, voice full of genuine awe, shaking his head like he couldn't believe you were real. "seriously... you always do this n every time i think there's no way you can top the last one, then you show up wearing something like this."
his thumb rubbed gently against your side.
"you have no idea what this does to me."
you smiled. "what, embarrass you in front of your whole crowd?"
he laughed, that warm honey laugh that made your chest ache.
"no," he said softly. "makes me ridiculously happy."
his eyes dropped to your shirt again before lifting back to your face, lingering there, full of that unmistakable tenderness he only ever seemed to have for you.
"and you look all pretty in it," he murmured. "always so pretty."
then, because he couldn't help himself, he leaned down and kissed you. big and lingering and full of affection.
one hand cupped your cheek, the other still resting at your waist, pulling you just a little closer like he wanted to memorise the feeling of you there.
when he pulled away, he pressed his forehead against yours, grinning like a fool.
"already excited for the next one" he admitted.
you laughed. "the next shirt?"
"yeah."
he kissed you once more, quick and sweet.
"but mostly seeing you in it."
and the way he said it made it clear that it had never really been about the shirts at all. it was the thought.
the love tucked into every stitch, the way you listened so carefully to what he created and turned it into something tangible, something beautiful.
to everyone else, it was just a shirt.
to tucker, it was proof, over and over again, that someone loved him enough to make art out of the pieces of him he left behind in songs.
and every single time, without fail, it made him fall for you all over again.
‘Daughter from Hell’
My third album is out July 17
Hit the Wall this Thursday night
Whoa whoa whoa
Freaking out
I am so ready for it to be yours
❤️
Available to pre-order now
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
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