topherwrites - Tumblr blog

topherwrites · 2 days

Text

alexa!!! this is so sweet and funny and hot all at once!!!!!

You only let him sweat it for about thirty seconds before you took pity on him. With a light fingertip, you traced along one of the veins on the back of his hand and simply asked, “So other than being a meet cute mastermind, what is it that you do for a living, Bob?”

your writing is just so natural and witty, alexa. the flow between your prose and your dialogue and how you write character's inner monologue is just so artful. it always blows me away.

Bob’s hands had gently wrapped around your wrists before he’d pulled them from your face. And then he’d leaned in close, taking your chin in his hand and kissed you squarely on the lips, his tongue dipping in and sliding against yours to taste the acrylic pigment from your surprised mouth. “Huh,” he’d said, contemplatively. He’d pulled away only far enough to look into your eyes and give you a soft smile. “Celadon blue doesn’t taste like a Cabernet, go figure.”

giggling, kicking my feet, twirling my hair, etc.

“Is this how you wanted me?” you asked, running your fingers through his hair. Bob slipped his hand behind your neck and tugged you in for a heated kiss. “I always want you.”

ugh, the way you write him is so cute.

“God, I love it when you beg for me,” he licks into you again, “Sweetest sound in the world.” Bob drops a sweet kiss on your clit, it’s a stark difference to the filthy way he’d been using his mouth on you. He rises to sit back on his knees between your parted legs.

the only way to accurately express how i feel about the smut in this piece would just be copy and pasting the entire section and then embedding the audio of a long scream. that's my review.

Make Me Your Masterpiece

Summary: Bob credits you for helping him to find his new hobby. And when he asks if he can you paint you, you find you quite like the idea of being his muse.

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd x Female Reader

Length: 4.5K

Warnings: fluff, smut, and basically an ode to Lewis Pullman’s hands (mdni)

(Author’s Note: smutty fics are the new friendship bracelet, spread the word! Happy Birthday, Ames! 🎉 @laracrofted)

You’ve always had a thing for Bob’s hands.

They were one of the first things you noticed about him that day at the coffee shop almost a year ago now.

You’d been reaching for your iced vanilla cinnamon latte when a big hand had wrapped around it just a half of a second before you could grab it. Which you wouldn’t have minded admiring them for a moment under any other circumstances, but after an endless string of meetings you’d been in a dire need of a caffeine fix- and not the weak stuff that people brewed in your office’s communal coffee pot.

“I think that’s-” you’d started.

“Oh, I’m sorry-” the coffee thief backpedaled.

The next thing you knew you were looking into the prettiest pair of ocean blue eyes.

The two of you were startled out of the moment when the barista called out the next order as they’d set it on the counter.

By some kismet or fate, they had been a matching set. But instead of embroidered towels, it was his and hers coffee cups with your names written on them in a hasty scrawl.

Realization dawned over his features as he gave you a sheepish smile, “Think this one might belong to you, Miss.” He spun the coffee until he found the spot with your name. That little smile becoming a full grin as he’d said it aloud before passing the cup to you.

The hands had been good, the eyes had been great, but Bob’s smile directed at you had left you weak in the knees.

You’d been a goner right then and there.

And while you’d ended up almost ten minutes late to your next meeting, you’d also gone back to the office with his phone number written on a cardboard coffee sleeve that was tucked away safely in your purse and a date lined up later that week.

As it turned out fate had a name and it was Robert Floyd.

Barely twenty minutes into your first official date with Bob, his ears had turned a delightful shade of pink as his anxious fingers straightened the silverware on the white linen tablecloth of the Italian spot he’d taken you to. He’d fessed up and apologized as he came clean, telling you that he’d purposefully ordered the same coffee as you in hopes of getting to start up a conversation with the pretty girl who’d been standing in front of him in line.

“I didn’t want to interrupt you, since you looked busy. But I didn’t want to miss my chance,” he’d confessed over candlelight.

He’d told you how he’d only been at the coffee shop because he’d recently returned from a deployment and was fighting the jetlag that came with adjusting to being back on Pacific Standard Time, and that he normally preferred tea but he needed something with a bit more to it to get him through the day.

Instead of getting up and taking the bottle of wine to-go as a consolation prize, like you would have if it had been anyone else, his genuine earnestness had charmed you instantly. And you’d settled on having a second date with him before the first one had even really started.

It was the best first date you’d ever had.

For your second date with him, you’d bought tickets to a ‘Paint and Sip’ event at a buzzy new bistro in town your friend had told you about.

You weren’t an artist by any means, but during that dinner date his antsy fingers and expressive hands had clued you into how nervous he’d been. You’d found your eyes drifting to them on more than one occasion. Partly because they were so enticingly disproportionate to the rest of him, but also because you couldn’t look him directly in the eye for too long without feeling your face heating up.

You thought it would be a good way for the both of you to work past the getting-to-know-you jitters, something that would keep your hands and eyes occupied enough to relax a bit more and have fun together.

Although instead of the seascape class you’d thought you’d signed up for, you’d willingly paid $86+ tax to watch Bob’s lithe, long fingers delicately grip a paintbrush in a way you thought was going to make you lose your mind.

You’d spent the whole first hour trying and failing to mix the perfect shade of blue before giving up when you’d realized that the man next to you, in addition to having really great hands, was also very good at painting.

Bob had seemed surprised by that too because he’d kept flushing that wonderful shade of pink that had quickly become your new favorite color every time you complimented his piece.

He had steady, capable hands. But you were quickly learning that everything about Bob Floyd seemed that way. There was a quiet confidence about him. He didn’t shy away from the way he’d openly observed you, like you were a riddle he was enjoying learning to decode.

You’d never known a man to be so attentive until him.

Bob’s tongue was peeking out as he’d worked on adding some wispy clouds to the top of his piece. You weren’t even sure what step you’d technically stopped at before you’d given up to watch the visual feast of him painting instead. Only halfheartedly adding random bits to your canvas along the way to make sure it wasn’t totally blank by the end of the session.

You’d been so zoned out watching him create that it was like a slow-motion sequence in a horror movie. You’d reached out for your wine glass, lifting it to your lips to take a sip, it had only taken you a split second to realize it wasn’t the full-bodied red you’d ordered that was coating your tongue, but the murky, gritty paint water instead.

Mortified, you’d looked over just in time to see Bob’s empathetic wince. You’d been hoping to fly under the radar, but it had turned out that you’d had more than one set of eyes on you.

“And we officially have our first casualty of the evening, folks,” the instructor cheerily announced to the group, “The rest of you can breathe easy now!”

You wanted to be able to laugh at your own expense, but you’d groaned as you buried your face in your hands.

It was not the way you saw the night going. You wanted to be dazzling, you wanted that pivotal third date with him. But now you were the girl who drank paint water whose canvas looked like it had all the same efforts as an enthusiastic fourth grader.

“Huh,” he’d said, contemplatively. He’d pulled away only far enough to look into your eyes and give you a soft smile. “Celadon blue doesn’t taste like a Cabernet, go figure.”

He brushed a light kiss against your cheek as he’d passed you your wine glass so that you could rinse the paint water taste out of your mouth.

You couldn’t help but to still be a little embarrassed, but then you’d caught the way he’d shoot an unimpressed look at the instructor every time they passed by for the rest of the evening. You didn’t need a knight in shining armor when you had a Bob Floyd with a paintbrush and a cutting side eye.

You took him home with you that night and learned for yourself just how capable those hands of his were.

It was only later that you realized the exact shade of blue that you’d been trying so hard to capture earlier that night was the same color as the eyes that gazed down at you as Bob fucked you for the very first time.

There was no way you could have known that the ‘Paint and Sip’ date would have inspired him to pick up painting as a hobby.

First, he’d started taking classes at the Rec Center. His once a week classes later turned into him checking out books from the library. And then he’d turned his spare bedroom into a studio, as it has the best afternoon light in the Spanish style house he rents near the Naval base. He’d even bought a comfy chair for you to curl up in as he painted, a little nook of your own in his favorite space in his home. And steadily, the walls of both your apartment and his place fill up with all of his creations.

You’d even had your favorite one professionally framed. The pretty landscape done in shades of soft greens that he gave to you for your birthday hangs in a place of honor above your bed. You like having that piece of Bob as one of the last things you see before you fall asleep and one of the first things you see in the morning on the rare occasion the two of you aren’t sharing a bed. You liked to imagine the hours he spent on it with the sunlight streaming through the open window as he lovingly and painstakingly created something just for you with his own two hands.

Although you did have to beg him to sign it for you. He claimed that since he does it for fun that there’s really no reason too, but you were adamant about it and he’d eventually caved and scrawled his name in the lower right-hand corner.

Now it’s become your personal mission to ensure that every Bob Floyd original has his signature on it when he gives his paintings out as gifts.

Everyone assumes that his art would be all straight lines and precise angles, but it’s your favorite moment when people get to see his abstract landscapes. He’d told you he spends so much time in the sky that he likes to paint what’s on the ground, the things he doesn’t get to see when he’s 50,000 feet in the air.

You could tell Bob was a little nervous when he first asked to paint you.

After almost a year with him, you’d think he’d know by now that you’d do anything for him. Not to mention, you were more than a little in love with the idea of being his muse.

“Are you saying you want to paint me like one of your French girls?” you’d teased with a grin, unable to resist the opportunity. You always did have a thing for men with perfectly floppy hair.

He’d tipped your chin up so that you were looking into his blue eyes- a color you were positive couldn’t be replicated- and stated, “No, I want to paint you like my girl.”

Which is how you’ve ended up naked on the floor of his living room.

You’d been surprised when you came downstairs to see that the furniture had all been pushed to the side to make space for the king-sized top sheet he’d laid out on the floor. You figured it must have been from some mismatched set he had stashed in his linen closet because you’d never seen it before and you spent more than enough time in his bed getting familiar with his sheets.

Bob was shirtless and wearing only a pair of loose-fitting and paint stained jeans that were hanging low on his hips as he worked on getting all of his brushes and paints set up.

You were pretty sure that Michelangelo himself wouldn’t be able to do proper justice to Bob’s body. He wasn’t as built as some of his friends on the Dagger Squad were, but there was an undeniable sturdy steadfastness to him. Those defined shoulders and arms often were the stars of your afternoon daydreams, since you got to admire his handsome face anytime your phone lit up.

He came and met you at the bottom of the stairs, giving you a low whistle, “Well, aren’t you as pretty as a picture in my shirt.”

“Oh,” you’d said, feigning surprise and toying with the hem, “So it is.” And then you’d slowly lifted it up and off of you, revealing more of your body to his artist’s eye.

You never felt as good about yourself as you did when you were naked in front of Bob. The color of his morning skies eyes would always darken to a deep shade of Prussian blue as he took in the curves of you. With him you always felt appreciated, wanted, desired.

His greedy hands came to grip your hips pulling you to him until you were pressed against him.

“Is this how you wanted me?” you asked, running your fingers through his hair.

Bob slipped his hand behind your neck and tugged you in for a heated kiss. “I always want you.”

You never knew true distraction until you’d felt Bob’s lips against yours all those months ago. You’d happily lose minutes, hours, days to them. The thing about Bob is that he never does anything halfway. If he’s kissing you, he’s doing it thoroughly until you’re out of breath.

The sound of the air conditioner kicking on and the light draft that it coasted over you reminded you that there were other plans on the agenda. And that the sooner he starts, then the sooner he finishes, and the sooner you can feel his lips on other parts of you.

“Where do you want me?”

“In my bed,” he murmured against your lips.

His name started as a laugh but turned into a sigh as he dropped a line of kisses down your neck, “I meant, like on the couch or on one of the chairs from the kitchen.”

Bob pulled away and peered deep into your eyes, “Darlin’, I wanted to paint you.” He trailed a teasing finger down your soft stomach. “If that’s alright with you.”

You thought you were just going to be his subject, but as it turns out he wanted you to be his canvas too.

You’re trying not to shiver as he meticulously coats your overheated skin with cool paint. Goosebumps follow in the wake of every delicate stroke he makes along your body.

His hair was curled over his forehead in a way that had your fingers aching to touch him. There was a slight furrow between his eyebrows as he concentrated on the deliberate lines and curves he painted on you. The paint smudge on his cheek only made him all the more attractive to you.

Bob had tucked a pillow beneath your head before he’d started, a gesture that you appreciated now because time had lost all meaning to you. You had no idea how long you’ve been lying there. You were pretty sure every inch of you had to be covered by now.

He’d started along the plane of your stomach and steadily worked his way out from there. Up your arms. Along your clavicle. Over your breasts and tops of your thighs. You didn’t miss the way he’d smirked when you arched into that soft to the touch paintbrush as it glided over your peaked nipple. Or the way he’d hummed pleased when you’d try to subtly rub your thighs together to relieve the need that had been building as you laid there.

Bob loves taking his time with you. In bed, he loved teasing you until you had tears in your eyes and were begging for his cock. And it became clear very quickly that this would be no different.

There was an electric thrum that was pulsing through your body with every dip and swirl and brushstroke. The muscles of your stomach jump involuntarily as the fine hairs of his paintbrush drift over your hypersensitive skin making you whimper.

He tsks, “Gotta stay still for me, pretty girl. I’m almost done, promise.”

You release a shaky sigh and nod, not trusting your voice to betray just how needy you were for him. Although the self-satisfied smile on his face told you everything you needed to know.

You try to control your breathing as he works on finishing, but your shallow breaths sounded loud in his living room. You love getting to watch him work normally, but the intense way he is looking at you- his eyes your favorite shade of Prussian blue now- is too much for your hummingbird heart.

Just as your skin was collecting layers of paint from his brush, the space between your thighs was steadily collecting your wetness. You were so desperate for him to touch you, the need made you want to crawl out of your skin.

You hear the sound of a watery swish and the clink of a brush against glass and your breath catches in your throat in anticipation.

“God, look at you,” Bob breathes, reverently, “You’re so beautiful. This might be my best work ever.”

Instead of the paintbrush, you can feel the path of his flame blue gaze traveling over you as he takes in the art he’s made out of you.

You open your heavy eyes and see Bob wiping off his hands with a frayed towel.

“There she is,” he says, giving you a smile that makes your toes curl. You didn’t notice it sitting there with all his paints until he was reaching for it, his dad’s old film camera. He holds it loosely in front of him like a question, “Can I take a few just for me?”

The answer is easy, “Yes.”

You trusted Bob more than any other man you’d ever been with. He’s never once given you reason to doubt his words because his actions always spoke for themselves.

The guys you’d been with before had been boys, Bob Floyd was a man.

The tension between the two of you is thicker than the acrylic he’d been using earlier as he snaps photo after photo. You admire the way his muscles shift as he bends and angles himself to get the perfect images.

He stands over you, the lens pointed down at you, “Look at me.”

You can barely breathe. You feel yourself getting even wetter at the thought of seeing yourself through his eyes. No one has ever made you feel the way he does.

“Bob”, you whine.

The camera clicks.

“I know,” he hums, “You’ve been so good for me.” He sinks to his knees between your legs and hooks a hand behind your knee, pulling it up so it’s propped on the floor. And then he does the other so that you’re sprawled open for him, just the way he likes you to be, “Just one more, darlin’.”

The heat in his eyes has dried up all the words in your mouth.

He trails a finger down the soft skin of your inner thigh and you gasp.

The sound of his camera reverberates in your head.

“You’ve made such a pretty mess,” he drawls, as he gently sets the camera on the floor next to you. “It’s a good thing I put something down. You’re damn near dripping.”

“Bob, please.” You arch towards him like a flower in the sun.

He settles between your thighs and pushes them apart further so that his broad shoulders fit between them. The paint is still drying on your skin, but neither one of you cares about that now.

“You were so perfect for me. I appreciate you staying so still.” He drops a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Don’t worry, I know just how to thank you.”

Your body jolts at the first touch of his tongue on your clit. You can feel his smile against you, he knows exactly what he does to you.

Bob has always eaten you out like it’s what he was put on this earth to do.

Normally, he’s teasing you with gentle licks and tracing nonsensical shapes on your clit with his tongue until you’re a squirming mess for him. He knows your body so well, always building you up to the point where you’re breaths away from tipping over the edge and then pulls himself back before building you right back up again.

But tonight, there’s nothing playful about the way his mouth is working against you. His hot mouth is sealed to your clit. Bob hums in satisfaction with every keen and whine that he pulls out of you. He laves at you until you’re writhing underneath him, your thighs already shaking.

“Wanna paint you just like this,” he murmurs, sucking at the spot where your leg and hip meet. “But I don’t think you’d stay still long enough for me to finish.”

Bob dips down and gives you another long broad stroke of his tongue. He pulls back only long enough to spit on your cunt before diving right back in, chasing after his own taste on you.

Your hands are in his hair. Clutching at his shoulders. It’s taken him no time at all getting you to the point where you’re trembling and taut.

All the air leaves your lungs when he buries two large fingers into you. Your hips cant into his mouth on their own and he moans. Bob wraps an arm around your hips and presses down on your lower stomach to hold you in place.

You feel the pain smear beneath his warm palm. You were dying to see it. You hoped there was a handprint- his handprint- that disrupted all the lines and swirls of color that he’d decorated you with. Something that was distinctly him.

You were wearing his art and now you’re wearing him. The evidence of this moment in time on your skin.

His fingers and tongue weren’t enough.

You needed more.

“You cock, Bob, I need your cock,” you pant, tugging at his hair.

He meanly sucks your clit into his mouth in a way that has you crying out and jerking against him. You love it, you love him.

“God, I love it when you beg for me,” he licks into you again, “Sweetest sound in the world.”

Bob drops a sweet kiss on your clit, it’s a stark difference to the filthy way he’d been using his mouth on you. He rises to sit back on his knees between your parted legs.

He looks so good kneeling above you the way that he is. His cheeks are flushed and his hair is a mess. That knot behind your bellybutton twists tighter because you did that to him.

He unzips his jeans and tugs them down low enough to pull his hard cock out.

It’s pretty enough to be featured in a gallery, you think to yourself, even in your desperate haze. It’s long, thick, perfect and yours.

Bob smirks when he notices you admiring him, pumping himself slowly a few times for your viewing pleasure.

The only time Bob Floyd was ever a show-off was when he was in bed.

He grabs your thighs and pulls them over top of his own, so that yours are draped over his obscenely, and then he thrusts easily into you.

You gasp at the sensation of being so full of him. It always takes you a minute to adjust to his cock, no matter how many times you’ve taken it now. His thumbs make little circles along your hipbones as your body relents and yields to the size of him.

“There you go,” he says, rocking into you, working you open, “Just needed this cock, didn’t you?”

You whimper your agreement. Your hips tilt into the pressure like you’re trying to get as much of him as you can. Wanting to show him how much you can take. You know you’ll never get enough of him.

He fucks into you at a reckless and unrelenting pace. You’re high off the feeling of seeing Bob like this, that you’re the one who gets to see him unreserved and uninhibited. He has your hips gripped so tightly, keeping you closer than close. And when you clench around him, you’re treated to a wrecked groan.

Your skin prickles with desire and the feeling of paint drying on you. His cock is hitting just the right spot inside of you and you know you won’t be able to hold off for much longer, not with the way he’s grinding against your aching clit.

Bob’s eyes glued to the spot where you two come together. You’re on full display for him. He watches the way you stretch and spread around him with every deep thrust with the same appreciative gaze that he admires his favorite artists.

It’s under his river blue gaze that your orgasm swiftly sweeps you away. And with your back arching and thighs quaking around his, you give yourself up to the endless current of it.

You know he’s close when his hips start to stutter.

Bob pulls out of you and wraps his large hand around his slick-shined cock and works himself with rough, purposeful strokes.

This time he paints you with himself, his come covering your stomach.

The only sound in the room is the two of you breathing hard, trying to catch your breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob huffs, raggedly, taking in his handiwork, “You’re my masterpiece.”

You’re covered in paint and come, but you’ve never felt more beautiful than you do right now as he looks down at you in awe.

“Did you remember to sign your work this time?” you ask, out of breath but teasingly.

“I think I left my mark, darlin’,” he says, with well-earned smugness in his voice. You can’t help but giggle. He flops down next to you, throwing his arm over his eyes, “Goddamn.”

You prop yourself up onto your elbows to look at yourself.

“Baby, I think you gave Jackson Pollock a run for his money.” You grin widely when he lets out an amused snort. “Wait, where’s your camera?”

He passes it to you, the fondness in his eyes makes your chest feel warm. You scooch in close to him and hold it up above your heads, the camera flashes when you kiss his flushed cheek.

That picture is the first one that gets put up in the new house, the one the two of you chose together when he asked you to marry him six months later. Followed by the soft green landscape that now hangs above your shared bed.

It’s your favorite picture of the two of you, happy and in love. You can just see a hint of the cloud he’d painted on your shoulder.

That night Bob had decorated your body with the place he loved best.

He gave you the sky and he made you his world.

Happy birthday, Ames! Your gift will be mailed eventually, it really was a lesson in chemistry, lol! Enjoy a Bob fic just for you in the meantime!

A big, bigggg thank you to the Bob Babes/Lew Crew girlies! @callsignspark and @attapullman I appreciate you two so much for being such ultimate hypegirls! And thank you to @theharddeck, you helped me out of my writers block and I've been so excited to write this since we talked about it back in January!

You can read my other stories here!

taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

#bob floyd x reader #ficrec #love!!!!!

269 notes · View notes

topherwrites · 2 days

Text

new light: next to you

new light series masterlist

summary: you receive quite a few valentines, and rafe is not sure how he feels about that.

warnings: swearing

a/n: happy v-day lovers! have some petty high school rafe <3

“sorry i’m late.”

rafe looks up from where he’d just finished dating his paper in the top right corner, february 14th; he was honestly only a few seconds away from texting to see where you were—you were never late for this class (or any class), and rafe, like, really needed to copy your homework from last night. he’d told you as much while you rode together to school that morning, but then kelce had shouted his coffee order from the backseat as soon as rafe pulled into the drive-thru and the conversation fell through the cracks as rafe had to gun it the rest of the way to school—the three of you definitely should not have stopped for coffee, but how could rafe say no when you asked him?

he shrugs. “no worries.” he eyes you standing in front of your desk, a pile of cellophane-wrapped hard candy and love notes bundled up in your arms. rafe blinks. “wow. that’s quite the haul, y/l/n.”

you glare at him, setting your pile of heart-shaped lollipops on the desk you shared with a huff. “you wanna know the worst part? i don’t even like these kinds of lollipops.”

it was a treasured kildare academy rite of passage, the valentine-grams. it only took a dollar and the help of the student council (topper got caught up in it this year, much to his chagrin—rafe couldn’t find it in himself to sympathize after he spent weeks making posters and throwing ‘topper for president’ parties that definitely defied some stupid campaign rule) to send someone a lollipop and a cheesy love note, embarrass them in front of the entire class while prying minds tried to guess who it was from and turn it into the gossip of the day.

rafe eyes the stack you’ve unloaded onto the desk once again, feeling his jaw twitch as he counted. and re-counted. it was only third period, and you already had eight. “well, they certainly seem to like you.”

you roll your eyes, taking the seat next to him. “half are from gretch, you know how she is.”

rafe smiles, thinking about how he’d already eaten the lollipop he got from gretchen in wood shop last period. she did that for all of her friends every year—it was her favorite holiday. rafe’s pretty sure he saw her from across the hall wearing actual heart stickers on her face, but that was just gretchen.

rafe realizes he’s still scrutinizing the pile of lollipops when you push it to the side, your notebook taking its place while you flip through it quickly. you glance up and rafe follows your gaze to where mr. torres is typing at his computer. “alright, just be quick.”

rafe gets to work copying down the homework from the night before, easily reading your scrawl as he’s become so used to over the years. he gets caught up on one problem, noticing how thin and damaged the paper looks—picturing how long you must have poured over it, writing and erasing. sitting at the desk in your room, huffing in the way you always do that sends some of your hair flying out of your face. it’s almost enough to make rafe feel bad for copying it down in five minutes flat, almost. but you’d done the same thing a dozen times.

it’s quiet between the two of you, while the rest of the class buzzes about the holiday in the last few moments before class starts, and rafe copies the problem set fast so he can slide your paper back over before mr. torres sees what you’re both up to.

he turns to thank you, but watches you for a second, your eyes taking in the handful of girls in your class holding flowers or bears, gushing and comparing their heart-shaped boxes of chocolates—rafe even sees a few balloons parked in the corner. you’re still sipping from the iced coffee you picked up on the way to school, taking it all in, before your eyes flit back to rafe.

“did you say something?”

rafe’s been caught staring, and his eyes search for anything in the vicinity that will give him an out. all he sees is the lollipops. “yeah—uh. just wondering who the rest were from.”

“oh.” you take another sip before you sort through the stack, tossing suckers aside as you count them out, completely unfazed while rafe hangs on your every word. “kelce, margot… two from griffin.”

rafe feels his eyebrows raise involuntarily. “griffin?”

you wince. “griffin.”

“two?”

“…two.”

it’s at that moment that rafe remembers griffin is in this class with the both of you. he sits front and center so he can ask a million questions—one’s that don’t even relate to the lecture, sometimes—a stark contrast from where rafe had snagged the two of you the table in the back corner on the first day of class last semester. not that that deters him—griffin always found an excuse to come over and say something to rafe about practice or the game time that day, hoping it’s lead to some flirting with you. rafe looks over, and sure enough, griffin’s already looking back at the two of you. “wow. you gonna go for it?”

“go for it? what—no,” you say quietly, your eyes widening in amusement.

“why not? spent a whole two dollars on you, y/l/n. griff’s pulling out all the stops,” rafe teases. “i bet he wrote some sappy little love note too, huh?”

your smile goes a little sad, your tone going for admonishment. “rafe, don’t be mean. he’s just being nice.”

and rafe might agree with you if he didn’t captain a team that griffin is on and share an unlimited amount of locker room time with him—might give him the benefit of the doubt if he hadn’t heard first-hand what griffin would say about you when you weren’t around. but rafe’s not as nice as you are, he knows the truth, and he’s feeling petty, because—two? seriously, two? so he picks up the valentine-gram from the pile with griffin’s name written on it, clearing his throat before he reads the message. “‘y/n, will you be my valentine?’”

“rafe, stop,” you groan.

“zero points for originality. maybe his second one is better?” rafe lightly smacks your hand away as you go to cover the candy from his reach, grabbing it anyway. “‘y/n, you’re as sweet as this lollipop.’”

“i hadn’t even read that one yet,” you say, face buried in your hands.

rafe’s laughing under his breath, and you must realize at that moment that griffin’s been watching the two of you the entire time, because you kick rafe’s shin under your desk. “fucking ow.”

“be nice. it’s valentine’s day.”

“i’m always nice.”

“rafe,” mr. torres calls from the front of the class, the both of you sitting up straight immediately. “you can flirt with your valentine after class. eyes up here.”

rafe’s cheeks burn and from the look on your face he can tell yours do too, the two of you tucking yourselves into your notes for the next several minutes. in the last half of class, mr. torres sets everyone loose to work on the graphing calculators with their partners—the two of you figure it out pretty quickly, leaving the heart-shaped graph sitting on your desk when you’re done.

“any big plans tonight?” rafe asks, turning in his seat to face you, back leant against the wall. you turn to face him and rafe catches a whiff of your perfume.

“galentine’s with margot and gretchen.”

“of course,” rafe nods, knowing it’s a time-honored tradition between the three of you. “but you’re not gonna give griff a shot?”

“i’m not into him,” you sigh, your gaze shifting to the front of the classroom again. griffin’s scratching his head, not even halfway through the graph. “i dunno, maybe i should be, but…”

“nah,” rafe says, shaking his head. “if you’re not into him, you’re not into him.”

“sometimes, i just… i don’t know,” you say quietly, your head tipped to the side in consideration.

“what?” rafe asks, a foot nudging the leg of your chair.

“i just wonder if i’m holding out for no reason. like, griffin’s obviously into me. he’s not that bad, he’s tall, kinda funny sometimes. so, i should be into him, right? like, maybe i could give him a shot and he’d surprise me. he’s perfect on paper, my mom and his mom are close…” you say it like you’re ticking off boxes on a mental checklist, and for a millisecond rafe tortures himself with the thought of how many boxes he’d tick if you ever looked at him that way. he can’t imagine it’d be many.

his silence must be taken for something he didn’t mean, because you speak up again, sounding unsure. “sorry. i’m just getting caught up in all of the love stuff today.”

“nah, hey,” rafe says, sitting straight in his seat again, leaning over to bump his shoulder into yours. “you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. if you don’t like him, you don’t like him, no matter how many of these stupid lollipops he sends you. there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“yeah?”

“yeah,” rafe says, considering his next words, mechanical pencil twitching in his fingers. “there’s… there’s definitely someone out there for you. i don’t think it’s griffin.”

“rafe,” you say, your voice syrupy sweet, and rafe’s cheeks flame. “you’re going soft on me, aren’t you? first the red shirt, now this? cupid behavior.”

rafe groans as you flick his short-sleeve. “oh, bite me. rose told me to wear it.”

“rafe the romantic,” you tease. “sure you don’t wanna join our galentine’s? we’re gonna watch nicholas sparks movies.”

“as if margot would let me. i heard what happened when kelce tried. and you’ve got a lot of nerve calling me the romantic when it’s 10am and you already have two lollipops from a potential suitor.”

your groan quietly at that, and you’re suddenly somehow sitting so close to each other that it takes no effort at all when your forehead presses into his shoulder.

and it’s not like rafe finds griffin’s eyes on purpose—he’d averted his gaze from the top of your head and griffin just happened to be sitting in his line of sight, staring right back at him with a funny look on his face.

if rafe were a nicer guy, he wouldn’t dig through the pile of candy on your desk, tossing aside all of gretchen’s and the ones from margot and kelce until he found one of the suckers that was sent to you by griffin, careful not to jostle you as he does. “can i have this one?”

“mhm,” you murmur, not even looking at it.

rafe unwraps and pops it in his mouth, his eyes not leaving griffin’s once as the note falls to the floor.

#rafe cameron x reader #ficrec #new light

411 notes · View notes