You didn’t get yourself off to TikTok edits of Tucker Pillsbury.

Well, not usually.

It was so fucking stupid, because Tucker was literally your roommate, had been since you met him on The Secret Of Us Tour and he was looking for a place in the city and you had an apartment huger than you needed.

You never thought he was that hot. But your For You page on TikTok had been generously spewing out Role Model content, and you fell down that rabbit hole.

Some people were just so talented.

How did they capture him so perfectly? Those fucking biceps and the tattoos on his skin were taunting you through every clip of every edit you watched.

The thirstiest one yet popped on your screen, and you were already practically an ocean down there, and you needed some release.

Tucker wasn’t home.

Shit, were you really doing this?

It was kind of desperate and lowkey sad, but you do it, the edit playing on repeat on the bed next to you.

And then. Mortification.

Tucker Pillsbury sticks his head into your room. Could he have chosen a worse time?

Tucker was tired, but he wasn’t drunk or high like he was most times he came home late. Usually he’d get home and pass out on the sofa, but since he was decent, he had decided to check on you, make sure you were asleep. Because you had a tendency to just… not.

His eyes widen as you let out a yell.

Tucker ducks his head away, feeling horrified and definitely not aroused. Not.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, straightening yourself up and running out to the hallway, where your roommate stood.

To his knowledge, you were just touching yourself. Everyone did it, right? He hadn’t seen what, or who, you were doing it to. Which you were endlessly glad for.

Tucker stares at the wall and you study his face.

Then, with an awkward, lopsided smile, “Having fun there?”

Because he was Tucker. No matter the situation, he’d make a joke. Even if he knew he had no right to in this situation and he was feeling violated as fuck.