You Cant Tell Me Wash And Tucker Dont Spout Off Dad Jokes All Day Long.

You can’t tell me Wash and Tucker don’t spout off dad jokes all day long.

Palomo: Hey, I’m curious—

Tucker: Hey Curious, I’m dad

Palomo: Are you serious?

Wash: No, he’s dad.

Palomo: Ugh! You guys are the worst

Tucker: I thought I was serious?

Palomo: That’s it! I’m done!

Wash: No, you’re curious

Tucker and Wash proceed to cackle at the symphony of groans they procure from everyone

Do you have any known queer relatives?

Fuck it, I’m posting the first part while I finish the rest take it

Here’s God!Tucker au: Part 1

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Wash found Tucker by accident.

He had been traveling, trying to get back to Armonia in time for the peace talks, but he’d gotten sidetracked helping out a town with some trouble makers and then was delayed when the bridge that marked the border crossing into Chorus broke down, forcing him to go all the way around.

And then the storm rolled in.

By the time he found shelter in an abandoned temple, he was soaked to his bones, armor completely ruined by the wet that seeped into them. He guided his trusty steed in, mumbling a quick prayer of thanks for the shelter and please don’t strike me down for bringing my horse in here. I really don’t want to leave her outside in the rain.

Wash gasps when he enters, gazing in awe as he looks at the scenery around him.

The temple is large and open, beautiful columns of stone lining the whole room. Even with the flora that has seeped in, vines winding around pillars and across the ceiling, flowers blooming from their bushes, branches of a large unkempt tree escaping into the ceiling, it all has an air of elegance that has Wash holding his breath, like it’d be disrespectful to let the air from his lungs taint the marble and stone.

But the most glorious thing about this place, the thing that has Wash making his way deeper into the temple, is the giant sculpted statue on the back wall. It almost reaches the ceiling, the figure depicted kneeling as he reaches out with his hands cupped. Rain water fills it now, but Wash sees the glisten of gold coins as an offering sunken at the bottom.

The figure is surrounded by decaying gifts, bouquets that have long since eroded, food that is barely identifiable, and trinkets made of the finest metal and gems rusted and broken after years of neglect.

Wash thinks he understands why this god was so well-loved. His face is soft and kind, the curl of his lip happy and maybe a little mischievous, long locs fall over his shoulder and down his back, gold making up the beads of his lovingly carved hair. He looks like a dream, a figure Wash would’ve been more than happy to worship just to look at him.

He steps in front of the statue, carefully observing every detail. On the back wall, right above the figure, a single line of carved text reads:

Long live the god of giving

God of giving, huh?

Something rises in his gut when he realizes the name of this god has been left out, not a trace of it written anywhere on the walls or on the trinkets left behind.

It dawns rather suddenly on him as he tries to name the feeling, something oddly familiar about the situation of a god so beloved also being so quickly forgotten.

This wasn’t a god the people worshiped, this was a god the people used.

The decaying gifts ring hollow under Wash’s revelation, the statue, while still beautiful, humming with a new sense of entrapment and sadness. By the state of the temple, it seems like this god ran out of things to give, abused and rung out for all he was worth until he stopped being useful.

Wash has seen it before, watched people beg for favors, for miracles, for the impossible, only to ditch their god the minute they receive their blessing, never even giving thanks, only ever coming back to ask for something else. He’s seen temples be built, be full and then be torn down and left for ruin in a matter of months.

He usually doesn’t care, doesn’t pay enough mind to all the new gods coming and going. He really only prays and worships out of habit, a polite set of manners that have been engraved into his soul (and he doesn’t have a death wish. There are certain gods willing to kill if you disrespect their temple or their people).

But there’s something about this statue, about this god of giving, that makes Wash wonder if maybe he’s a spiritual man after all.

“I would’ve never stopped worshiping you.” He whispers to himself, slowly getting on his knees and reaching up to cradle the underside of the statue's hand.

“I would’ve given you everything. Lose myself by offering you all I am. Maybe it’s a good thing you’re gone because…

Because I think I would’ve given you all my love.”

“Is that a promise?”

Wash turns to face the voice, his sword already unsheathed and ready to cut down the intruder—

Oh. Oh shit.

“You— You’re—“

“Lavernius Tucker, god of giving. Pleasure to meet you.” The man smiles brightly, the same warm and mischievous one depicted on his statue.

Wash eyes widen as he snaps to look back and forth from the man and the statue and—

Holy shit.

He’s… smaller than Wash was imagining, not the same plump and soft figured man they carved into the stone. He’s got more angles to him, lean and thin without much mass covering his body. There’s a tired droop in his shoulders, eyes weary and slanted. Wash thinks he’s leaning on a pillar more for support than for seduction.

“Are you alright?” Wash snaps out of his daze, shaking off the shock as his blood bred need to help takes over. He steps towards him, dropping his sword without a second thought in case the god keels over suddenly.

The man—Tucker—seems surprised at the question, standing a little taller as Wash comes forward with the same energy as a mother hen. He lets Wash crowd him, his hands gently skimming over his body for injuries.

“Uh, yeah. I’m okay. Just been a while since anyone has come here, especially someone as… sweetly devoted as you are.” He sways forward into Wash’s touch, his eyes fluttering as he soaks up the blessed affection.

Wash shuffles in his feet but doesn’t pull away. He’s never really met a god before, so he’s not sure what the proper reaction to a god showing favor is. It certainly doesn’t feel right since Wash just got here. “I— I haven’t

even worshiped you before.”

“Mmm, but I can practically taste it off you.” Tucker traces his hands over Wash’s chest until they hang gently on his shoulders, the touch sending shivers up Wash’s spine. “You may have stayed here to hide from the rain, but you didn’t need to say anything to me, didn’t need to pray or give thanks. But you did. You did and now I’m bound to you, my loyal little devotee.”

“Bound to me?”

He nods, giggling as he pushes himself closer to Wash to clasp his hands behind his neck. “You’re my only follower now, silly. You’re the one whose belief gives me power and with power…” He nudges his nose into Wash’s cheek and Wash can’t help but drop his head to meet him there, something deep in his bones singing as this gorgeous god seeks out his attention.

Tucker practically whimpers at him, resting their foreheads together as Wash moves to place his hands respectfully on his waist. He’s shaking, Wash notes, possibly from years left neglected and bound to this fragmented temple.

He breathes in deep and slow, savoring the feeling of being so carefully worshiped, something he’s never had in all his centuries of existence.

“With power,” He continues, “I can give you anything you want, just say the word.”

Right, god of giving. Probably thinks that Wash’s affections are an offering in turn for a wish or a miracle. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he doesn’t want to seem rude or ungrateful to this fragile looking god. He deserves to be worshiped, to be loved and respected, his name sung in glory by all those who follow him.

Wash makes his choice.

“What if I just want you?”

Tucker startles at that, shock evident on his face. Wash keeps his face serious, not a single bit of doubt or hesitation to be found. He wants this, wants him, whatever that means.

His god seems to drop at that, like a puppet without its strings. He practically glows when he smiles again, something so much more genuine and happy then the one he had before, the one that’s immortalized on his statue.

Wash thinks that this is the Tucker that they should've worshiped all those years ago. Tucker kisses his cheek, a submissive little thing that has Wash heating from his cheeks to his shoulders, and proudly proclaims to Wash—

“Then I’m yours.”

Motorcyclist Tucker and Wash constantly knock their heads together because they want to kiss their boyfriend but keep forgetting they’re wearing helmets.

Wash will try to kiss Tucker’s cheek and accidentally hits him in the face because he’s still wearing his helmet. Tucker tries to kiss Wash’s back when he’s backpacking and just thunks against his shoulder really hard instead. They both try to kiss while they’re parked at a gas station and bonk their helmets together.

It doesn’t matter how long they’ve been riding for or how long they’ve been together, they keep bashing their heads together. They’re just really eager to kiss their boyfriend, okay? They can hardly be blamed if they forget to take off their helmets in the process.

Wash would be very insecure about sleeping with Tucker, whether for sex or for cuddles.

Not because he hasn’t been with someone since before Project Freelancer nor because he’s lackluster in bed. It’s not even insecurities about his body or his deteriorated mental state.

No, Wash is insecure about sleeping with Tucker because it takes him a full ten minutes to pull out all the knives he has stashed away on his person.

Tucker is both confused at how Wash keeps pulling knives out of his pocket and amused because this Looney Tunes ass just keeps on pulling knives out his pocket.

Wash is bright red by the end of it and Tucker is no help at all.

Tucker: So all those times I thought you were excited to see me—?

Wash: Shut up. Shut up right now.

Okay, bit of a long one that went from headcannon to a fic snippet as I wrote it but whatever.

So, it's a pretty common and cannon supported (from what i recall) take that Tuckington as a pairing can read eachother like picture books, they know eachothers tics, are really good at spotting them, etc.

However, I find it to be best (and very funny mostly) if taken to the hardest extreme, to the point where their weird silent communication but just looks like straight telepathy from the outside.

I like to envison this happening on Chorus because I think it would happen alot at practice and stuff, and the luitenants would be the most weirded out by it, (unlike the other Reds and Blues because honestly they're used to it), usally going something like this:

(Ps, they're all out of armour for the sake of this scenario, just dont worry about it)

Wash is watching over practice, or rather he's supposed to be, his gaze instead catching on Tucker, maybe even tracking a little further down the aqua soilders torso than it really should as he stretches, preparing for his first lap.

Tucker glances over his shoulder mid stretch, barely catching the slight shift in the height of Wash's eyeline.

Tucker's left eye twitches, and his brows pinch slightly, ("Were you just?")

Wash's eyes widen just barely, relaxing away from his usual glare at training, and it's only for a half a second---

Tuckers already grinning, ("oh you so were.")and Wash's expression snaps back, attempting to hide the small panic of being caught as fast as possible. "I was not!"

"Yeah right! My eyes are up here, Wash!" Tucker called back, the rest of the training hall pausing to look between the two like a tennis match.

"I'll make you run laps." Wash threatened in one last ditch effort.

"What? So you can get a better view!?" Tucker mocked, standing up and already making a start on said laps.

Wash restrained a groan down to a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly as he willed his face not to go red.

"Uh, sir?" Palomo questioned, suddenly beside him.

"Yes Palomo?" Wash replied, not looking up.

"What the fuck was that?" He followed up, and Wash finally glanced up to find almost the entire stadium staring at him with a confused look, all except for Tucker, who was happily running his laps around the gym.

Fuck.