Priscilla

Hello!!My names Priscilla and im a RoleModel fan. On this page I will be posting fanfiction and other tucker stuff!! My requests are open! Tell me what you would like me to write or post!

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guys highkey sorry i havent been posting october has been kicking my ass

this is my first time doing smthing like this so it might be cringe😓

Part Two

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The next morning, Tucker’s distant.

You notice it immediately—how he avoids looking at you when you board the van, how he laughs at something his manager says but doesn’t glance your way like he usually does. You tell yourself you don’t care. You’re here to work. You’re professional.

Except your brain won’t shut up about the way his voice dropped when he said you make me nervous.

When you pass him your camera that afternoon to check some test shots, he just nods. “Cool,” he mutters, eyes flicking past you.

Cool.

It shouldn’t sting as much as it does.

By the time soundcheck ends, the air between you is all static and unsaid things. He disappears backstage right after, hood up, phone in hand. You stay behind, pretending to shoot the empty venue, but really, you’re just trying to breathe.

Later that night, you’re sprawled across the couch in the lounge, editing again, when you hear him come in. You don’t look up.

He hovers in the doorway for a second before speaking. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he says quietly.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s funny. I thought it was the other way around.”

He exhales, slow. “Yeah. Maybe.”

There’s a pause—heavy, charged. He moves closer, the air shifting as he leans against the counter across from you. His eyes find yours, finally.

“I shouldn’t have… crossed a line the other night,” he says. “You work with us. I don’t wanna make it weird.”

You close your laptop with a soft click. “Too late for that.”

He flinches, just barely. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Guess so.”

The silence stretches until it’s unbearable. You stand, brushing past him to put your charger away—but he steps aside too late, and your shoulder grazes his chest. You both freeze.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“Don’t be.”

He says it too fast, too certain.

When you look up, his face is inches from yours. His jaw is tight, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. God-he’s cute, You think. You swear you can hear his heartbeat—or maybe it’s yours, pounding in your ears.

“Tucker…” you start, but he’s already shaking his head, like he’s fighting himself.

“I told myself I wouldn’t,” he mutters, voice rough.

You swallow hard. “Wouldn’t what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in like he’s been holding his breath all week.

Then he pulls back, eyes flicking to your lips. “This is a bad idea.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Probably.”

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe both of you at once.

The kiss is soft at first—hesitant, testing. But it deepens quickly, his hand sliding up the back of your neck, the other finding your waist. You grip his t-shirt, feeling the heat beneath it. Every inch of restraint he had before melts away as he backs you up against the counter, breath shaky, mouth urgent.

“Tucker—” you start, but he cuts you off with another kiss, this one slower, deeper, like he’s trying to memorize it.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, eyes glassy. “Still think this is a bad idea,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” you breathe, smiling despite yourself. “Me too.”

He laughs softly, forehead still against yours he kisses you again, roughly this time. With urgency, you feel his hands unbuttoning your blouse as he’s kissing you. He stops-and pulls back with his thumb against your jaw, your blouse open he murmurs“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m sure.”

That’s all it takes.

He presses his mouth to yours again, harder now. His hands find your waist, fingers slipping your blouse off to leave you in your bra and jeans. His fingers skimming over warm skin. It’s unhurried but desperate at the same time—like he’s trying to make up for every second he spent pretending he didn’t want this.

You can feel his breath against your neck as he kisses your neck, his words coming out between kisses. “Tried to stay away,” he mutters. “Didn’t work.”

You almost laugh, but it catches in your throat when his hands slide up your back. The tiny space between you disappears completely.

Your fingers find their way into his hair—it’s softer than you expected—and when you tug lightly, he exhales against your shoulder, voice low and unsteady. The room feels to small now as you kneel down on your knees undoing his belt and unzipping his blue jeans in a hurry. He freed himself of his boxers and took off your jeans continuing to, turn you around. As Tucker touched your waist and murmured into your ear he lined himself up with your opening. The sex wasn’t meaningful sadly, you could tell. You wondered if it was just to get him through a heartbreak. Meanwhile he was in you, “that feels so-mm” you managed to say. “Feels so what y/n?” Tucker said teasing you as you sighed and moaned.

“Good!Mm feels  good” You said not meaning to be so loud. “Are you close yet?” He asked. You frantically nodded “I think im gonna c-“. As you finished he did too, biting into your shoulder. After he half-assed to clean you up you put your clothes on and he did too. He looked sweaty and flushed as he leaned against the doorframe tapping it. He said sounding bored “Well um-im going to go shower. Goodnight.” You were confused why he was treating this like nothing you managed to say while nodding “Um okay then.” He nodded and awkwardly closed the door to the bathroom leaving you standing there sweaty and confused.

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Part One

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The first time you meet Tucker Pillsbury, he’s sitting cross-legged on the edge of the stage, wearing a wrinkled Brandy Melville tee and beat-up Converse, half-laughing at something his tour manager said. He looks up just as you walk in, camera bag slung over your shoulder, you say “Im the photographer I was told to meet here.”

He blinks, then stands slowly, brushing his hands down his jeans.

“So you’re the one making us look cooler than we actually are,” he says, offering a lopsided grin and a hand to shake.

“Depends,are you going to awnser my question?” you reply, sliding your hand into his. “Sorry, yes you are in the right place.” He says in a matter of fact tone as he lets out a soft chuckle, eyes narrowing in amusement. “Definitely a work in progress.”

You’re used to musicians being guarded, cocky, or way too interested. Tucker is… none of that. He’s relaxed, a little awkward, maybe even shy—but there’s something behind his gaze that lingers a beat too long when he looks at you. Something curious.

By the time soundcheck ends, you've already caught a few candid shots of him hunched over his guitar, lost in thought. When you show him the photos later on your camera screen, he pauses.

“You made me look soft,” he murmurs, quiet, almost surprised.

You glance at him. “You are soft.”

His mouth twitches, like he wants to say something but decides against it.

That night, on the tour bus, you stay up late editing photos in the dim light of the kitchenette. Everyone else is asleep or plugged into headphones. You're scrolling through your shots when you hear the soft creak of someone moving behind you.

He’s shirtless—just loose plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips, you can see the Calvin Klein waistband of his boxers, tattoos catching the dim light. His hair’s a mess. You try not to look.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles, voice raspy with exhaustion.

“Me either,” you say, eyes flicking back to your screen. “Just finishing up some work.”

He slides onto the bench beside you, too close for your nervous system to handle at this hour. He smells like cedar soap and laundry detergent and something warmer—skin and heat.

“What are you working on?” he asks, leaning in.

You hesitate before turning the laptop so he can see. His arm brushes yours. He doesn’t move.

There’s a long pause as he scrolls. Then, softly:

“You  smell like vanilla.”

Your hands freeze on the trackpad.

“…What?” You say slowly.

He blinks, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “Sorry. That was weird.”

“No, just—unexpected.”

You glance at him, and his eyes are already on you, half-lidded and unreadable. The tension is so thick it hums in the air like feedback before a show.

You finally ask, “Do you always flirt like this with your tour crew?”

He leans in just a little closer. “Only the ones who make me nervous.”

Your breath catches. The room feels too small. His knee is still pressed against yours, fingertips grazing the edge of your laptop. For a moment, it feels like the world has narrowed to just the space between his mouth and yours.

Then—

A door creaks open. Footsteps.

You both spring apart like teenagers caught sneaking out.

Tucker clears his throat, running a hand through his hair. “Guess I’ll, uh… try sleeping again.”

You nod, heart racing. “Good night.”

He lingers for a second before disappearing down the narrow hallway.

You stare at your screen, but you’re not seeing photos anymore.

Only him.

And the way he said you make me nervous like it was the most obvious thing ever.

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