Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You wanna tell me why you’re so fucking pissy today?”

“I’m not pissy, why’re you being such an ass? Fuck, you know maybe I just want a little fucking acknowledgment? Can you do something other than be a jerk to me after a long week-”

“Oh my god-you’re not a goddamn baby, Tucker. What? You want me to cradle you? Huh? Tell you how brave and strong you are? Toughen up cupcake, that’s the real fucking world. Exhausting. Why should I have to spent my energy trying to regulate your fucking emotional problems?”

“...”

“Oh, now you don’t wanna talk? See, this is why I can’t with you-when I actually start the conversation, suddenly you don’t want to hear it. I’m not dealing with your attitude tonight. I’m going out, don’t wait up.”

The engine dies, the tap of rainwater over the exterior of the car taking over instrumentals as Tucker just sat in its orchestra for a short time. Though any musical-inclined emotion he’d hoped to coax out of hiding from the barricade made to keep them in doesn’t quite work, so he snatches his stuffed-to-budging bag off his passenger seat, then enters the dreary world again.

His shoes squish when he gets into the entrance hall of the building after getting an unplanned soak while crossing the sidewalk to the front door, his socks having gulped up the puddles.

It was just the cherry on top of the bullshit mountain he’d climbed this week.

The one safety net thrown to him is found at the door of apartment 619-B.

Tucker’s greeting upon being let through emphasizes all of his exhaustion in 1 syllable, like an old radio giving its last hurrah, “hey.”

“Hi,” Washington answers, already stepping himself back so there’s space to pass him. He’s vocally not so zapped of energy, but shows a face tied-down by worry.

“Thanks for letting me crash,” Tucker trudges in after losing his shoes by the coat closet, “I owe you one.”

The door shuts gently behind him as Washington utters a careful, “anytime.”

As Tucker wanders to the unfolded couch, letting his things drop by the edge, he feels like he takes his first breath in days. A knot tying his back up into a giant ache finally loosening one string at a time until he feels his spine regain its elasticity, letting him bend out of watching the ground for eggshells.

His whole self just collapses onto the bedding, feet hanging off the end with wool still grossly clinging onto them, “mind if I use your shower?”

“Not at all. Make yourself at home.”

Tucker can feel how Washington idles in place. When he bothers to do something other than play dead, their eyes catch for a moment before his friend leaves the scene. Tucker knows he wants to ask and ask, probably has a stockpile of questions battling the back of his teeth.

But Tucker appreciates his withholding. He can’t deal right now with scraping out his innards for someone else to examine, regardless of how surface level he makes it.

Despite needing a scrub down from head to toe, it takes a good 15 minutes or so before Tucker is able to pause on relishing the atmosphere of security that the old-fashioned wallpaper and standard apartment carpet encompassed.

When he’s successfully disrobed himself of the day and then pared the worst of his thoughts into the suds that ran off into the pipes, he crawls straight back into bed with zero ambitions to keep trying to charm the universe into giving him a break.

His friend isn’t about, but he sees some snacks have appeared by his mattress side, giving him reason to upturn his frown as he helps himself.

He gets his phone out, just consuming videos as sleep looms over him. His eyes droop as he hops to a clip of one of those pottery wheels, watching as wet hands work a lump of clay into standing, depressing their thumbs into the malleable material, causing a small squirt of water as they widen the opening to a pot.

One moment the corners of his vision fade, the next he’s on his hands and knees, the sensation of being rolled into making the world emanate in a succulent and heady red.

Though not lucid, the prideful way the hands on him unflinchingly graze his belly, worshiping the sculpture of his body, sweat dew vanishing Tucker like he’s a painting needing to be protected; tells him it’s not his bum-ass boyfriend that’s handling him.

Tucker’s forehead lowered until pressed down, making an arc with his spine as he weakened from the pleasure being ravaged onto him, his lower half overheated, ready to pour out from the constant pounding inside him.

He wakes, overly-warm under his blanket, feeling like he’s walked out from a sauna as he uncovers himself, a thrum going through him like an excessively plunked musical string.

Past the now prominent throb between his legs, Tucker takes in the dark room, the lack of Felix’s boney cold back facing him.

Sighing, he rolls onto his side. A cloud of familiar scent comes off of the body pillow lent to him. It was a favorite of Tucker’s from when he and Washington still lived together, long enough to almost match Tucker in height.

Tucker takes a breath, then inhales deeper in the next go as the smell settles in his nose, sitting cushy on his receptors. 

It’s inviting Tucker to hop on, tugging him to sit in the carousel and just enjoy the ride. Forget everything else, just let the colors spin until the rest of the world has been melded into nondescript brightness.

As his body cramps in its intensifying arousal, he shuffles around until he presses hard into the pillow's form, the material matching all the bumps of Tucker’s physique while eliciting mental images that only worsen the condition between his legs with the scent left casing it.

He groans, sliding his hips over fluff that doesn’t rub back or praise his efforts.

That just serves to spur him on though, fighting for orgasm that hangs just on the line of pleasure he’s contesting. He humps into the unmoving object, biting it as his throat overflows in its capacity of moans.

Another strong whiff spirals him into a bard of desperation, getting him up to straddle the pillow, hips grinding down as he braces himself on his arms. In a final move to cross over the finish line to climax, he tugs down his briefs to let his dick fall out, rutting it over the outer cotton of his ride until he’s leaving a splatter the shape of his seed on it.

It’s not until seconds later under the descended peace, any fabric touching him dampened, that his actions circle back to him.

Now burning with a much less-motivating emotion, he palms his face, praying that he’d actually muffled all his whimpering. Fucking Christ, what the hell! 

The woody undertone of the linens is still in his nostrils, taunting, fastened to it images of his friend who was no further than down the hall in his own bed.

Tucker sat up, retching the pillow out of its clothing while he still had time.

Not even a full day here and the memories imbued in the very drywall of this place were playing Tucker for a fool.

See, this wasn’t just a book of two roommates he was re-visiting, this was a memory lane of nights hot and heavy on a couch, furniture being tested for its sturdiness against two body’s, windows fogging, noise complaint warnings mounting.

Sure, maybe he shouldn’t have gone to someone he’d been causal with for refuge, but Tucker needed shelter and Washington was the first to come to mind when he suddenly gathered his things to leave Felix’s place. Besides, they’ve always been friends above all.

Though what had just transpired begs to differ.

Tucker argues to himself that it’s just because he’s had to sacrifice for the crumbs of affection given to him when Felix found it convenient that he’s now subconsciously looking for it elsewhere.

Which is just another thing to the leaning tower of issues he doesn’t want to be addressing right now.

After putting away laundry with the pillowcase mixed in without getting caught, Tucker has a tense day of trying to get in contact with Felix to no avail, conversation pinned up on the ‘help wanted’ board with no willing candidate calling to answer.

He empties his stuff to count the items and doesn’t know if he should be grateful he could put all his things in a bag to leave or if he should question the fact that he was only ever given enough space to live within a backpack.

“I still have your old drawers,” Washington says as he observes the random pieces of Tucker’s possessions all over the pull-out couch, “they’re half empty if you want to use them?”

In his plan of ditching Felix’s place behind, Tucker hadn’t thought through staying-staying. In light of Washington’s offer, he can’t make sense of leaving, especially when the thought of his other friends doesn’t exactly make him feel inclined to go anywhere else.

He has what he needs right here.

With his old room having been turned into an office, Tucker finds his left behind storage in Washington’s own bedroom.

He’s free to roam in, leaving everything open to his exploration as he finds tokens of the past just about everywhere in the barely altered style of cleanliness Washington kept it in.

Habit has him opening the top drawer before he can remember it's the bottom that’s empty, letting him happen-upon tidily folded undergarments. His face flashes with heat as his brain unhelpfully serves him an image of them being modeled on the very person they belong to.

Swiftly he’s in and out, not having much to throw in before being done.

“Your belt’s on wrong.”

Tucker paused his fiddling, buttons still not completely done as he switched his focus to his waist where he’s managed to loop his leather the opposite side it’s meant to face.

“Oh my god-” His running late for work wasn’t helping his coordination. But before he could rip the thing out to redress himself, hands appeared in his place to pull it out.

The way his back is lined-up against, fitted into the front of another breathing chest puts ideas in his head of positions similar, but far less innocent in activity. He looks up in the mirror, finding Washington doing his strap more properly as he fixes it into place, even going as far as buckling it. His fingers skimming so close to Tucker’s crotch make his imagination run off unchecked.

His proximity brings with it a sort of dessert, like lemonade on a hot day, or the crackle of a fire during a blizzard. Tucker wants to lean into him, let himself lose his balance so Washington’s arms hurry to save him.

“You gonna tie my shoes next?” Tucker tries to laugh, the air of it blowing away from the drum of his chest.

Rather than back off, Washington draws himself closer, hands skating over Tucker's middle to finish tucking the remainder of his shirt ends into suit pants before finally leaving a cold front in place of where he just stood. Tucker’s body rattles with want, left with prickles dancing over his flesh where it was touched over his clothing. Like he’s felt the first air of flight after having his wings clipped.

The boldness alone that was possessed left Tucker stumbling out the door.

He can’t help but be reminded of it all over again when he accidentally sees one of his tables, a young couple, playfully flirting, a skirt getting pushed up a knee, ankles getting caressed by feet after their shoes are abandoned.

It takes only until the next night for him to wake up from another dream, hard.

It’s inching into day three at an early 4:04 AM.

Tucker stares up at the ceiling, a dark-wash of missing sun as he adjusts with the weight of his arousal.

He tries to shame himself out of fondling his begging cock in the middle of Washington’s living room, but is battered by the movie leftover from his sleep and can’t help himself for long when the replay of getting sucked-off gets sticky on every other thought.

The lips that puckered on his skin, charted the glans of his prick before taking his shaft down to its base was just a poor performance of what the real thing could do.

But it was enough to remind him how unfed he was, after the lousy method of single rounds with little to no foreplay from Felix left Tucker having withdrawal symptoms.

That’s what he’ll blame it on anyways, as he licks his hand and then rubs himself, kicking his only article of clothing clean off so he can splay himself out naked like he’s just waiting for someone to find him dying in his thirst.

When he finishes, the ending reel of one of many nights spent with his friend stops just as he remembers the taste of cum spurting on his tongue.

He goes back to sleep after telling himself no more, wakes again needing a glass of water.

Now the rest of the world has been up for a while as he goes into the kitchen to stop by the cupboards. Though plenty of cups are within arms length, one of his favorite glasses sits on the top shelf, just a few inches out of his tippy-toed stretch.

Just as he thinks to climb to his victory, another hand comes into view, stealing his goal right out of reach.

Tucker turns around, bumping into Washington who stands just a breath away from him.

“Does the widdle baby need a stepping stool?” Is his greeting.

“Fuck off,” Tucker tries to get the cup from him, only to be thwarted by it being extended far out of his range, “oh my god-don’t start that shit! I’ll kick you in the balls, you hulking bitch-”

Disregarding his state of commando as he played the ‘reach for it’ game, Tucker put himself flush against Washington’s front, naked chest grazing over the soft texture of a tank top, leaving tingles over his nipples. He feels something brush his thigh as he mistakenly rubs between Washington's legs.

Tucker grunts, hitting his friend's pecs as he glares at the gray eyes of his smiling friend, “give it to me!”

“Give you what?” Washington asks, “the glass?”

“What the hell…else…” Tucker blinks as the atmosphere of joshing falls under something denser, his sentence changing with a different light.

Washington doesn’t seem to need anything more as he finally lowers the cup back to Tucker, “nice to see you looking a little more lively.”

It takes a few seconds before Tucker remembers how parched he is.

That same night Tucker returned home tense and wringed out.

Work had been havoc from the first person in the door, making him look up if it was a full moon with the way his tables had been acting like fucking wolves.

He litters the floor with his uniform, making it a future Tucker problem as he crawls under his sheets after stuffing his locs into his bonnet, deciding to have sleep for dinner.

Usually he’d at least pick something up on the way home, but he was just way too exhausted, and his frustration wasn’t going to make for a good cook. It’s whatever, Tucker’s done it before. He’ll deal with the middle-of-the-night hunger when it comes.

Before he can take a quick walk around the block of dreamland however, Tucker is jostled back awake by the noise of someone walking into the room.

“Hey-Tucker, did you throw all your clothes on the floor?”

Tucker’s eyelids flutter, opening them before tossing a look over his shoulder where Washington had entered the room, “urgh, I’ll clean it later man, lemme sleep. I’m fuckin’ done with today.”

His stomach has to go chiming into the conversation with a growl at that moment, making Tucker flinch to press into his abdomen and shut it up.

Washington comes closer, expression etched with concern, “did you eat tonight?”

“Ah, nah, my shift was too busy. I just snacked.”

His friend takes a turn towards the kitchen, announcing as he goes, “I’ll make you something.”

“What? You don’t have to-”

“I’m doing it.”

Tucker scoffs, unbelievably fond with the hard-headedness of his companion. All just so…Tucker would have food in his belly.

Shortly after sounds of pans being picked up and placed while the click of the stove turning on starts a rhyme of meal prep. Tucker stays laying on his side as he listens, falling deeply into relaxation until he accidently starts dozing.

He wakes up again by something gently shaking him at his hip.

“Tucker.”

He looks towards where he’s called, miffed before he finds the source in speckled white skin tinted in low light with blond hair and icy mercury eyes.

Tucker forgets himself as a smile curls up with a pleased trill, “hi baby…” He reaches to touch, confirming it’s not just a ghost leaning over him.

“Uh-Tucker, it’s not-it’s me, Wash.”

Confused, Tucker almost responds in good willed annoyance that he knows before reality chisels in and he’s snatching his caressing hands back from the meaty biceps of Washington's arms, “ah-uh, shit, sorry, forgot where I was…”

“That's alright,” he says, tender almost, before seemingly shaking himself out of it, “uh, food's all done.”

Tucker blinks, “food-? Oh! Oh, right.”

Washington gets up, motioning for Tucker to follow.

He scoots to the edge of the couch mattress, only bothering to put anything on when the temperature drops outside of his blankets.

Tucker feels something when he sees a hot plate of food being presented to him a second later, dusting away any lingering irritation from being dragged out of bed.

“Ah, dude…you didn't have to do all that, I was probably gonna just wake up on my own later and raid the fridge.” But as Tucker sees the vapor wafting off the freshly made dinner, he knows this was definitely more effort than he would’ve personally done.

“You shouldn’t go to bed hungry, it’ll give you bad dreams,” Washington counters simply, “I don’t mind, it’s been another one of those nights, so I had time.”

“Fucking tell me about it,” Tucker huffs as he scoops up a bite to blow on, feeling his hunger tenfold with the smell coming off it. 

“You too?’ Washington asked.

“Yeah.” 

Washington doesn’t push when he meets resistance asking for details, the quiet settling as Tucker’s brain vaults with irrational worry that he’ll be ignored in retaliation for not giving up information about his mood.

The savory flavors that hit his tongue instantly make him feel better about everything he’d been through tonight.

Felix had all the culinary genius afforded by the buttons of a microwave. Meals between them felt like two college kids living out of a dorm room on a good day, and Tucker never really fought their eventual arrangement of staying in separate parts of the house to eat.

It’s all that he needs to go spilling the day all over himself.

“-and people were fucking ferocious tonight, you’d think they were let out a god damn barn!” He’s half-forgotten the food in his ranting, making gestures outwardly to help express himself, “and I was so close to getting cut tonight too, until Donut fucking sat a family of six in my section. Their kids were so awful, I don’t think they’ve heard the word ‘no’ a day in their life!”

Washington made a noise of sympathy where he sat at the other end of the table, chin resting on his hand, watching Tucker, “did they at least tip?”

Tucker frowns, unamused, “what do you think?”

His roommate shakes his head as Tucker continues, “and Felix hasn’t answered me in three days after a fight he started, like, I’m so done, I don’t know why I try anymore-” He lets his head drop to an awaiting palm, sighing. “So fucking tired man.”

“Anyone would be. Sounds like all you’ve been doing is trying your best and having it thrown back at your face.”

It’s like Washington’s weeded out the very words from his thoughts, making him feel a lot less alone suddenly, “exactly- exactly dude, like holy hell, I just-” He falters, eyes dipping, involuntarily detailing the veins visible in his companions hands as his fingernail scratches distractingly on a scuff over the tabletop, “I dunno.”

“I hear you.” 

It’s funny, after their bumpy introduction and tense period of getting to know each other, Washington had become a wealth of support for Tucker. Though he had his own sources of stress, he always gave the kind of secuirty that made Tucker want to throw away every lesson that taught him to be a version of himself that was easier to swallow.

Warmth lands over his hand as Tucker sights snag on Washington’s stare.

“I’m here if you need anything, okay?” Washington smiles.

The heat widens, consuming the frigidness of stress latched to him as Washington strokes a roughened thumb of the hills Tucker’s knuckles before then squeezing him in quick succession. Tucker feels a compulsion to grab at Washington’s wrist, hold so tight he can’t take back his comfort, but he doesn’t move even as Washington does just that.

Tucker could pull him in, cover the distance so they’re mouths wouldn’t be so lonely anymore.

He licks his lips, “yeah. I appreciate it.”

Washington softens into a considerate gaze, before he inhales and says “...if I see those clothes in the morning, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

The dribble of water flowing over the curves of his body is the most intimacy he’s received in a good while. 

It’s been a week since Tucker’s come to stay with Washington and only last night did Felix decide he was bored enough to send his first text back, conveniently ignoring all of Tucker’s previous attempts at communicating with a brainless, ‘hey’.

Tucker had typed out a good paragraph's worth of anger before he realized it wasn’t worth his engagement.

As he went on to start soaping himself, Tucker glances at the ledges of the tub wall, lingering on the few products standing there.

He stops on a green bottle of body wash, not anything especially interesting, a typical man-targeted scent of pine, but it was an essential part of Washington’s practices, who strayed from his personal routine only on special occasions.

Tucker picks it up, the light weight of it telling him it probably only has enough liquid to layer his palm. Washington’s need to conserve stuff to the very last drop could really be annoying sometimes.

Uncapping the top and smelling the aroma off it, Washington pops into his head within a second.

His friend always smelt so good.

Tucker decides there wasn’t any harm in helping himself, it was pretty much empty as he spun the top off with some difficulty, before hitting the opening of it on his hand. Some droplets come out, but not enough to meet Tucker’s par as he slipped a finger in to try and scoop more out.

As he glides into the hole however, he pauses, taking in the white shampoo oozing around the ring of plastic surrounding his digit.

He stares at a few small bubbles created by his watered hand, retracting his finger, then pushing it back in, watching intently as it squeezed more white suds out.

It’s only after a minute of doing this that he realizes himself, causing him to scowl, what the fuck am I doing!

After finally lathering his washcloth, he gets to work scrubbing himself down. Swiping between his pecs, back up over one nipple, making his knees weak as he pays extra attention on cleaning that area. In his head he replaces the source of the sensation, of suction, closing in on perked buds while huffing hot air onto them.

“Oh…” Tucker breathes, opening his suddenly closed eyes, following the trail of bubbles down his torso to his half-hard cock. 

He touches it with his sudsy hand, easily working it into proper stiffness. He wishes it was someone else doing it for him. Not clumsy or impatient, but intentional, prudent.

“Wash,” he begs to himself, trying to keep tabs on his volume knowing keen ears were in the apartment. The room is steamy, Washington’s everywhere, in his nose, behind his eyelids, on his skin, inside him inside him inside him-

His orgasm erupts without warning, filling between his fingers, joining the water draining into the pipes.

“Ah, uh-oohh, fuck,” he shivers, shaking his head as he gets ahold of himself after glowing under the spray of water for a few long moments.

He has to stand a little longer just to attempt to cleanse himself of awkwardness, but eventually pries himself out of the shower just so he doesn't run the utility bill through the roof.

Exiting the tub, he goes to the mirror to start applying oils to his hair. 

At one point he drops the bottle accidently, bending down to grab it when he notices the door underneath the sink isn’t all the way closed, it fighting Tucker’s attempt at shutting it fully.

He opens it, annoyed when he isn’t able to force whatever's on it’s other side back in, pausing when he finds a container of condoms as the culprit.

They stare back at him, advertising their raw-like feeling, fit for large sizes. He blinks, then shoves the offending thing back so he can close them into the dark.

Standing up, he finds himself saddled with a slithering serpent of…jealousy.

He shakes his head, glares at himself in the mirror as his feelings practically fling out unwarranted snippets of his friend bedding other people the way he’s bedded Tucker, strangers clinging and begging him.

Whatever, he’s a grown-ass man with his own needs. We’re not together.

He leaves the bathroom steamed with more than just the H2O molecules from his shower, almost bumping right into the man he was previously thinking of in the process. 

At first Washington just apologizes for the near-collision, but then Tucker sees his nostrils flare, eyes looking over Tucker for a quick second, “you smell nice.”

“Oh, uh,” Tucker shrugs, gathering his locs to throw over his shoulder without reason, “I used your body wash, hope that’s cool? I still have to buy some for myself.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Washington answered, eyes flickering over him again, like there’s something new to see now. “Like I said, make yourself at home.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He almost blurts something about his discovery, tries to go worming for information that isn’t his to have before he manages to march himself the rest of the way out of sight.

It’s as Tucker is in the midst of filling his mouth with a canister of whipped cream that Washington of course comes through the door after his morning run in the devil's winter land.

At first he hasn’t spotted where Tucker actually is, though he shouts his return from the door before walking into view, sweater off and shirt getting pulled right behind it, leaving his sweaty bare chest right there to cause a choking hazard as Tucker swallows down the wrong pipe.

“P-put on a fucking bra you slut,” Tucker hacks, spittle of white drooling down his corner and bottom lip.

Washington stops where he is, looking right at Tucker before pivoting his way, “Tucker, are you seriously eating right from the container?”

Tucker tries to ward Washington off with his arm out, but the man isn’t deterred, grabbing the wrist of the hand still holding Tucker’s snack, “give me that.”

“Ew! Get away from me, you’re all sweaty and gross!”

The whipped cream is easily taken from him, set aside as Washington then rips off a piece of paper towel to plant right on Tucker’s mouth, waiting as it was taken disgruntled.

Idly Tucker wishes it was Washington's thumb pushing the excess cream back into his mouth instead.

After that's done, Washington lets Tucker have some space again, the full marble of his anatomy still causing distraction.

“Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask…”

Tucker hums, balling up the tissue.

“Do you want me to set up your old room again? The couch can’t be comfortable.”

Tucker blinked, surprised, swarmed with cautious hope, “uh, I mean…”

He was so settled already, he hadn’t even thought about the fact he and Washington didn’t officially live together anymore. The first foot in the apartment felt like he had never really left at all, with the exception of his sleeping arrangements.

The idea that a place was reserved for him was…relieving, which begged the discussion of what his verdict was on Felix, who he’d left on read for days now.

“I dunno…I-” He looks from the gorgeous muscles, skating his eyes elsewhere as they begin surfing the line of Washington’s treasure trail down, “I can’t think with you like that! Go take a shower.”

He gets surrendering hands flying up for this, but Washington goes, giving Tucker respite from conjuring up other scenarios where he’d be left in a similar state of exertion.

Despite fighting the advances of the apartments cold fingers walking up and down his arms, Tucker’s finally had it, knocking on Washington’s door as a preemptive to his barging-in.

He by-passes the annoyed man reclined on his bed for the dresser, kneeling down to plunder the bottom drawer as Washington comments, “you know, it’s common practice to actually wait to be welcomed in.” 

“I’m fighting the arctic out there, I need a shirt,” Tucker complained in reply.

“You are such a delicate baby, I have the thermostat set to 65.”

Ignoring how Washington’s heckling doesn’t cause the same exasperation that Felix’s does, he pulls out a worn fleece, “thats not fucking habitable, I need real human warmth!”

“Boo-hoo.”

“You’re lucky I don’t start a campfire out here.” Tucker pulls it on, sleeves a little stretched from a constant tug-of-war with his fingers. Once it’s properly on him, his eyes happen to glance away from the mirror hanging on the wall above the furniture, glimpsing the surface. 

Some picture frames sit on top of it that he’s never given much thought towards, however he takes a gander now, picking up one whose details reel him closer.

It’s just an ordinary image of him and Washington. A selfie captured in the midst of a hangout day. However, he recognizes that it’s a snap from his old camera roll on his phone.

The fact it’s been printed out is so like his friend to do, causing his insides to get cramped with a growth of endearment.

His thumb unconsciously strokes over the face of Washington, who was able to crack a smile for the picture, if small.

Tucker yearns for something, lost and left behind with the very man. Tucker didn’t always need to be so calculated with his wants. Once he’d just ask, knowing it was more of a courtesy as there wasn’t ever a ‘no’ given to him unless it was meant to draw things out for a better finish.

Whilst tracing random lines over the glass, he’s snuck up on, a spread of someone solid coming up against his back to then lean in and murmur against his ear, “you remember that night?”

Tucker feels how his body wants to burst, how his neurons dance with excitement, creating dangerous sparks underneath their collective gyrating across all his senses. He fishes his brain, “uh, it was…it was Donut’s birthday, right?”

The hum of agreement that vibrates in Washington’s voice has Tucker weak unfairly easily as his body lists into the bigger frame bracketing him without Tucker’s prior permission.

“Yeah, it was a crazy night.” Washington’s hand invites itself to curl over Tucker’s wrist, thumb poking under Tucker’s sleeve, riding it up the length of arm to then carefully stall at the crook of Tucker’s elbow, “do you remember what happened after?”

As the shadow of heat marks where Washington touched him, Tucker takes some time sorting through his rapidly melting thoughts. They partied, had drinks, Tucker thinks there were body shots at some point, which he and Washington had indulged in…

They got a ride home, both of them tipsy and hungry.

After getting through the doorway, Tucker fell on the couch with Washington on top of him-

“You…we, um…”

Parts of him are already reliving the memory, veins growing richer with increased blood flow, suddenly making the endeavor of finding more clothing a redundant cause.

Tucker shifts a bit as he grows bothered, rubbing his rear against Washington in the process.

“I think it was the very next day the property management had sent a letter about all the neighbors being mad about the amount of noise we were making.”

Washington's other hand sneaks its way around Tucker’s hip, wrapping around until Tucker’s belly was cupped.

Tucker felt his face inflamed with his arousal, getting closer as Washington's hand rubbed up his stomach. At some point the photograph in his hand was lowered back down.

“Since the day you came, it’s been torture, holding myself back.”

The palm flat over his sternum journeys back down to Tucker’s groin, seeking it under all the layers currently worn.

When Tucker opens his closed lids, he catches the eye of his reflection, watching as he lets himself be crowded in, while warmth bathes his ear, down his neck where lips descend on his suddenly bumpy skin.

“He wasn’t taking care of you, was he?”

The only answer Tucker provides is baring his neck while he trembled, which seemed to be all that Washington needed.

“That’s it, you don’t need to worry anymore.”

He canted into Washington’s barely moving hand, loving how the pulse of his throat was mouthed.

“Look at you, so ready with barely a touch. Come on, you’ve been neglected long enough.”

Tucker shudders, feeling up the strength of Washington’s arm not tangled with Tucker’s own.

He tries to resist temptation, only to run into the problem that he doesn’t have a reason to. Why should he? Felix had made it abundantly clear what his stance on them was. 

Washington’s right, he’s been deprived .

Tucker shifts, feeling a poke as he does.

“You’re hard,” he whispers, feeling his grip on English loosening by the second.

“Yes. Do you want to feel how bad?”

“Fuck, yes.”

They shuffle around a bit, Washington bringing Tucker’s hand to his crotch.

“You did that.” He hisses, growly, a sign he was on the edge of taking Tucker apart in the best way.

Tucker gropes the muscle in his hand, relishing in the noises it gets out of Washington as he plays with the thick length of his sex over his sweats.

Before he has a chance of doing anything about it, Washington pushes him, walking him forward until he’s being urged onto the bed to lay down, PJ bottoms yanked off as they go.

Washington kissed his jaw, burrowing his hands under Tucker’s shirt to feel up the brown chest while his mouth hiked the length of Tucker’s jugular to his collarbone. It leaves Tucker twitchy, too little yet too much.

As Washington makes his way down, he bunches Tucker’s shirt up above his pecs so Washington has room to suckle. All the way until he stops to nuzzle soft pudge on Tucker’s underbelly, nipping, then open-mouth kissing across.

Tucker squirms, his sensitive stomach shy with Washington’s forwardness. Attention is redirected to dip lower soon after, teeth scraping over the tent of Tucker’s boxer-briefs as hands slip underneath the pant legs to cop a feel.

Suddenly he nuzzles Tucker’s bulge, inhaling deeply, his breath shuddering back out hot, “god, yes…”

Tucker feels himself pulse against lips that purse over the cloth of his underwear and he preens, pleased and wanting as he rolls his hips, seeking friction. Eventually he pokes out from the hole sewn into the front of his garments, letting his dick feel the breeze of Washington’s panting, then the wetness of his mouth.

Washington’s hands squeeze him from where they’re buried under the seat of his clothing, causing it to strain as it tries to accommodate them. Tucker doesn’t notice when they suddenly exit their task of fondling him, grabbing at the sides of his underwear where he suddenly hears a loud tear proceeding a cold front.

“Ha-Wash! Dude-” He whines as they’re ripped apart, causing a fierce bolt in his libido, “I paid for those!”

Washington pulls the shreds off of Tucker, letting him lay completely exposed as a fresh bubble of pre-cum surfaces from Tucker’s cock tip.

His prick gets a peck for his troubles, “I’ll get you a new pair. Now,” he slides his lips over to play with the hood of Tucker’s foreskin, “I’m going to make you forget Felix ever fucking existed.”

A quake passes through the fucking roots of Tucker’s skeleton as he keens.

“Yes, that’s it. Let me make you feel good again.”

“Yes,” Tucker feels himself throb, one leg hooking over Washington’s shoulder, “fuck yes, I want it.”

Washington knows exactly what to do, is practiced, memorized Tucker like sheet music. His fingers pluck, tease the keys of Tucker’s pleasure until his melody is bowing in the heightening of bliss.

After they’re both completely unclothed, shaking from energy with no outlet, the springs underneath them squeak as Tucker is aligned with Washington’s erection.

Although he’s already prepped with lube, Washington spits on his hole for good measure.

“Ahhn, ah, fu-fuck-”

Tucker burns, feeling vulnerable in the best way as butterflies swarm his gullet, threatening to spill right out of his mouth in fluttering moans. He’s overwhelmed, damp everywhere from his sweat glands being over excited as the world stained in his desire.

He’s hauled up to sit, brought up onto Washington’s awaiting lap. When Washington pushes in, forcing Tucker’s entrance out, the man arches and gasps embarrassingly. The stretch is wide, just the right amount of burning, helped by the hands cupping his asscheeks and spreading them wide.

“Fuck,” Washington hisses, pulling his tip back as he holds Tucker up, then reentering deeper, “you’re so tight-did he not fuck you right either?”

Tucker digs his nails into Washington’s back just as Washington does the same to his bottom, pushing shallow inside him, shuddering from his bones as he’s positioned for the deepest penetration. He claws up, feeling as Washington's spine curves with the branding of his nails, “Fe-Felix is…smaller than you…”

Washington grunts, a smirk curing his lips as he sinks ever-more, maintaining eye contact while filling Tucker up, making him feel like he’s the only thing in the entire universe.

Tucker’s missed the feeling of this, being fully and completely taken, fucked to the brim. “Ah-ha-”

“I guess I have to do his fucking job for him.”

Tucker gasps as he plunges, causing a burst of tingling all over that renders Tucker near-incoherent in one go. 

“That’s it sweetheart, take it, it's all about you tonight.”

Washington’s dick leaves an impression of its shape inside of him, hitting all the right spots that have gathered dust from being unreached for so long. Tucker wiggles, writhing as he’s moved up and down on it, his hole growing taut with its rough dragging. Plunging in, lapping hard in the meat of him as his sweetness ignited every atom.

Tucker lets his head fall back as he receives Washington’s passion happily, moisture building at the line of his closed lids. Fuck yes.

“I can feel how much your body's missed me.”

A broken moan pitches from him, hands trying to find purchase as he feels his abdomen contract with harboring release. He’s descending into ecstasy, as everything is reduced to where he and Washington connect with repeating slaps of skin on skin.

He doesn’t care. Call him fucking clingy, he’s wants all of what they were again. The spontaneous love-making, the worry of making things too real, of tripping into commitment, devotion. 

Leaving it behind for something that couldn’t measure up had amounted to nothing.

The bed is squeaking, valiantly holding up their coupling as the floor creaks with the bedframe. 

Yes-yes, break the bed fucking me-

He seizes with orgasm before long, crying out as he keeps riding, bouncing himself as he leaves a streak on Washington’s stomach.

“That’s it,” Washington groans, “let it all out pretty, let go of all that stress.”

He leaves welts over Washington’s muscles, marking him while his movements lose energy, his sinking slowly into lethargic strokes, shaky uneven moans falling like honey from his lips that Washington can not help but catch on his tongue.

Inhaling deep, a few tears fall. Washington brings him flush, arms embracing him fully as Washington kisses at his temples to his cheeks, before gently laying him down on his back, pulling out to leisurely stroke his wet dick.

“Wash,” Tucker called softly, dazed, “Wash…”

Washington moans, greasing his hand with fluids, “you want me to eat you out?”

Somehow he’s still able to feel his lust gape open, as he nods, needy.

He feels like he’s a feather, limbs unwilling to move at their own volition.

He’s rolled over, before he knows it, a mouth appearing on him. His attention narrows to his poor hole, sticky with seed as it tries to wink closed at Washington’s greeting. It hasn’t been so fucked-out in ages, laxing as it’s eaten out.

The pillow he wraps his arms around gets squeezed, clutch tightening and slackening intermittently, his insides messing up while his hips are lifted for a better angle of attack.

Washington sucks off after taking his time, causing a quiver to shoot throughout Tucker’s limbs while a whimper squeaks out of him.

“Hooh my god, fuck baby…”

Washington kisses at the scratch lines his left on one of Tucker’s cheeks, lifting himself up to lay down next to Tucker who immediately is turning over to leech his warmth.

“So,” Washington says after a few moments of them winding down, making circles with his index finger on Tucker’s lower back, “about you staying…”

Tucker grins, muffling, “do I really still need to answer that question, asshole?”