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abrcmswrld · 12 hours

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It's That Simple

Day 16: Praise Kink (Bob Floyd x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Light angst, kinda (Bob gets deflated); talk of panic attacks and self-doubt; smut (handjob); 18+ only.

Word Count: 5656

AN: This was requested by an anon!

AN2: If you've been around a bit, you know the drill: this isn't edited or re-read or beta'ed.

It’s another terrible first date.

Bob struggles to even snag a first date. He’s unassuming; he lacks the swagger and extroversion to stroll up to a woman and talk her up. Most of his dates are obtained from other members of the Daggers—double dates, set-ups, stuff like that.

The latest one was set up by Fanboy, a friend of his sister. Within moments of meeting his date, Bob knows it’ll be a mess: she makes a face when she greets him at the door, and it goes downhill from there.

It ends when she gets a text. An emergency, she tells him, and Bob is too smart and perceptive to buy the lie. But he’s a gentleman, so he nods seriously and offers to drive her home or wherever she’s needed, which she declines. He pays the bill of their abortive dinner, and he pretends not to notice how his date practically skips out of the restaurant and into the waiting car of a friend.

He should go home to lick his wounds. Another failed date, another night alone. He sees the stretch of his life in front of him and despairs that he’ll ever meet someone, and he should go home to sulk, but he goes to the Hard Deck instead.

He might as well break the news to Fanboy, at least, and maybe Nat can cheer him up with her usual sarcastic humor.

-----

The Hard Deck is as packed as always, and Bob—in his date clothes of dress pants and a button down shirt—stands out among the uniformed pilots and fellow wizzos. He finds the Dagger Squad, confesses his failure to Fanboy, then settles into a stool near Nat and Rooster.

Nat puts a hand on his shoulder and gives him a comforting squeeze. “I’m sorry, Bob,” she says.

“Her loss,” Rooster offers.

Bob shrugs. It’s not anyone’s loss but his, but he offers them a weak smile that fools neither of them.

It’s Hangman who sidles up to Bob, and in an uncharacteristic moment of thoughtfulness, the cocky pilot offers to be his wingman—which makes Bob laugh, and it comes out laced with some bitterness.

“No offense, Bagman, but you’d be a terrible wingman,” Bob says.

“What? Why?”

Bob lifts his hands in a helpless shrug. “Because you’re….you. And I’m not like you at all.”

“So?”

He scoffs in frustration at Bagman being so obtuse. As if any woman would look at Bob if he walked up to them with Jake at his side. It’d be like an Aston Martin rolling up alongside an old Honda Civic, and that’s the analogy he uses to make Jake understand. But Jake shakes his head, clasps him on his shoulders and gives him a friendly shake.

“Nah, Baby on Board. You got it all wrong. You just need some confidence.” Another teeth-rattling shake. “Trust me, there’s a girl out there for you. C’mon.”

Bob finds himself powerless to resist as Jake pushes him off of his stool, then shoves him gently in the direction of the crowded bar.

-----

The first pair that Jake sidles up to is a bust, but it’s not Bob’s fault: Jake had hooked up with the one woman before, forgotten about it completely. He’s moments from getting a drink tossed in his face when Bob tugs him away from the danger and they pull back, reevaluate.

The second pair is a bust too. The first woman doesn’t even let Jake get the full sentence out before she’s wagging her ring finger in his face.

“Married,” she says, her words clipped. “Move along, sailor.”

The third pair? The third pair works out. Jake hones in on one immediately, a blonde with big doe eyes, but the second one—you—rolls her eyes at him.

But when you turn to study Bob, you don’t roll your eyes. You hold out a hand, introduce yourself, ask for his rank, then pat the empty chair beside you.

“Settle in, Lieutenant,” and your smile is easy. “Let’s chat while we watch your friend strike out, huh?”

-----

It turns out you’re drunk, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

For one, you’ve fallen in with Bob Floyd, the most gentlemanly man a drunk, single girl could come across. He’d never take advantage, and in fact, he’ll end up driving you home at the end of the night, getting you into your apartment. He will take your shoes off of you, tuck you into your bed, and press a glass of water and a couple of ibuprofen on you before he sees himself out.

For another thing, Bob Floyd has fallen in with you, the most fiercely sweet drunk that a down-on-himself man could come across. You’re one of those loud cheerleader types when you drink; the kind of woman who chats up other women in the bathroom, who tells them they’re beautiful, that you love them. With your friend and Jake otherwise engaged, Bob finds himself caught in the tractor beam of your charm.

“You look sad,” you tell him around the rim of your glass. “Are you sad?”

You’re drunk and Bob is sad, and you’re staring at him with wide eyes that glitter in the low light of the bar, so he tells you. He tells you about his terrible date, the latest in a string of terrible dates, that he’s been single for so long and he’s not entirely convinced he’ll ever meet someone, that he’s too scrawny, that his glasses are terrible (one date called them serial killer glasses), that he’s too reserved to ever catch the eye of a woman, too unremarkable looking, let alone—

“No!” You cut him off by exclaiming it, a near-shout, and your hand finds his forearm and grips him there. “You’re gorgeous, Bill! Don’t even say you aren’t!”

He grins despite himself. “It’s Bob. But thanks. I mean, it’s nice of you to say—”

“Bob. Yes. Sorry. Bob, not Bill. I say it because it’s true.” You release your hold on his arm and sit back in your chair, your eyes narrowed now as you study him closer. You’re quiet for a long beat, and Bob squirms under your attention, but then you tell him more and he swears he breaks out in a full-body blush.

“You’re gorgeous, really,” you tell him. “It’s just that you have a sneakier handsomeness, you know? Like, that one there—” You gesture broadly at Jake. “—He’s, like, Ken-doll handsome. Like, he catches your eye because it’s all symmetrical and stuff, and he’s fine, but symmetry can be boring and someone like you, it’s sneaky. You have a nice face, and these nice blue eyes, and nice hair, and I bet people think about you after the fact like, ‘oh, that Bob guy, he’s not bad at all,’ and then even later it’s like, ‘oh, Bob, he’s pretty handsome.’ Because you’re that sneaky sort of handsome and that’s the worst damned kind.”

Bob isn’t entirely tracking what you mean, but he shakes his head at the unearned praise, and he can’t stop the smile that’s plastered on his face. He probably looks like a dope.

“Why’s that the worst kind?” he asks.

“Because it’s deadly!” You lean forward again, put your hand on his arm again. “Sneaky-handsome guys are like a virus because by the time you realize they’ve infected you, it’s too late.”

Bob chuckles. “I’m a virus? Suddenly my night has gotten worse, somehow.”

“No, not at all. It’s just…” You trail off, polish off your drink. You wave down Penny for another. “It’s just that you sneaky-handsome types never understand the power you have. Ken-doll over there knows he’s hot, and by the mere fact of him knowing he’s hot, he loses a considerable amount of hotness. But you have no idea you’re handsome, and that makes you even hotter.”

“I think there’s a string of women in the San Diego area that would disagree with your assessment,” Bob replies. “But I appreciate the compliment, nonetheless.”

“Oh, them.” You flap a hand, a dismissive wave. “There’s a lot of idiots in the world, Bob. You can’t let a string of women in the San Diego area make you feel bad.”

“I guess I just need to find someone who isn’t an idiot.”

“Ah, well!” You set your drink down and wave your hands in front of yourself in a ta-da sort of flourish. “Cal Tech graduate, Bobby. I work for NASA.”

He feels a warm flush at you calling him Bobby. “You’re a rocket scientist? Definitely not an idiot, then.”

“Astrobiologist, actually. And only an idiot sometimes, but never when it comes to the sneaky-handsome men here at the Hard Deck.”

Bob shakes his head, a little embarrassed at how much he likes you, a drunk stranger, talking him up. He tries to dial it back, afraid he’s going to fall in love before last call.

“You’re way too smart for me, then,” he tells you.

That makes you arch an eyebrow at him. “You afraid of smart women, Bobby?”

“Not at all. It’s just that smart, beautiful, and sweet? Do you understand the power you have?” He keeps his tone light, teasing, but he’s in over his head with this: he’s definitely going to fall in love before last call.

Of course he is. His question makes you laugh, a warm sound that knocks free the lump in his chest from his earlier failed date. Your laughter makes him feel drunk even though he hasn’t touched a drop; he feels warm and light and big-headed at how kind you’ve been to him, how sweet, but your laughter is the sound that makes him fall in love with you.

-----

The two of you stay until last call. Bagman and your friend disappear hours before then, and you shrug at Bob, say you called it all wrong, that you didn’t think Jake was your friend’s type.

Bob drives you home. You’re unsteady on your feet, so he hovers near you, but you manage reasonably well until it’s time to unlock your door. He watches you try it, then he reaches out and takes the keys from your hand.

It’s the first time he touches you.

He gets you inside. He gets you to your bedroom, and you flop gracelessly across the mattress, and Bob immediately goes into caretaker mode. He slides your shoes off of you, sets them in a neat row by your closet. He makes his way to your kitchen, gets you a glass of water, then stops in the bathroom. He rummages through your medicine cabinet—you use the same brand of toothpaste as he does, the same type of toothbrush, and Bob marvels at the strange intimacy of learning these things, the everyday things that not everyone is privy to about you. He finds some ibuprofen and shakes two out, then takes them and the water back to you.

You’re already drifting off to sleep, and Bob has to cajole you into sitting up. He gets you perched on the side of the bed and gives you the pills and water, which you take without complaints. He takes the empty glass back from you, and then there’s a moment—

—you sit on the edge of your bed and Bob stands over you, and you look up at him with your bleary eyes and he sees fear. You’re understanding what you’ve done, maybe: you’ve invited a strange man back to your place and you’re drunk, and he could do anything, and Bob sees the flicker of uncertainty, the beginning of fear in your eyes. It makes him feel sick because he’d never take advantage. It makes him sick that the world, being what the world is, makes this fear lance through the whiskey fumes in your head.

He reaches down to the foot of your bed where there’s a blanket neatly folded. He shakes it out, urges you to lie down, and when you do, he covers you up.

“Be sure to drink more water when you wake up,” he tells you softly.

The nascent fear fades out of your expression, and it’s replaced by a loose, goofy grin. You free a hand from under the blanket and give him a sloppy salute. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Bob sees himself out but not before he’s struck with a bit of brave optimism. He sees the little whiteboard by your refrigerator, and he writes out his name and his number. He drives home and sends up a silent prayer that his sneaky-handsome virus has already infected you, charmed as he is by your earnestly drunken (albeit clunky) analogy from earlier in the evening.

He wakes up the next morning and feels less hopeful. He queues up a playlist and sets out on his morning run, but his morning pessimism is misplaced: you call him a mile into his run, and Bob stutters in his steps to hear your voice—a little rough, but sunny nonetheless.

“I’m looking for a guy named Bobby,” you tell him over the phone, and he can hear the smile in your voice. “Lieutenant Blue Eyes.”

-----

The two of you make plans to meet up at the Hard Deck, but you don’t call it a date so Bob doesn’t either. He’s in unfamiliar territory: things have always been a date or not a date in the past, but he’s noticed that many of his Dagger teammates speak in looser terms—meeting up, hanging out—with potential partners. He’s unsure how to handle it; if he seems too casual, you might miss his interest. If he comes on too strong, he might scare you off.

He decides to just turn up in his uniform, as he usually does, and when he arrives at the Hard Deck, you are already there. You’re perched in a bar stool and chatting to Penny, but when he strolls in, you see him.

You smile at him as he walks over to you, but then you shake your head in a mock-rueful way.

“Oh, no,” you say as you hop off of your stool. You open your arms and Bob steps into them, and you hug him warmly like you’re old friends. “I thought maybe it was just whiskey-goggles that night, but you really are cute.”

Bob chuckles. He releases you, then takes the stool beside yours. “Well, I’ve been downgraded. You called me handsome that night,” he points out.

“Sneaky-handsome, actually.”

“There seems to be a whole spectrum here that I was never privy to.”

You wave down Penny who comes and takes your orders. Once your drinks are in front of you—a hard cider for you, a shandy for Bob—you click your glass against his.

“Here’s to the sneaky-handsome men of the world,” you say.

Bob ducks his head and grins “And to the rocket scientists,” he adds.

A date or not a date…the evening passes in a blink, and you leave Bob that night entirely sober after long conversations and a lot of easy laughter. You pull him in for another hug before you part, and this hug lingers longer than the hug you gave him as a greeting. When you pull away, though, you gaze at him with a somber expression.

“I wanted to thank you for the other night,” you tell him. “For being a gentleman when you took me home.”

“Of course.”

“No, I mean it.” Your hands on his upper arms squeeze him a little firmer. “You could have taken advantage, and you didn’t. You’re a good one, Bob.”

He shakes his head, tries to wave you off, but you squeeze him again. You don’t let him shrug off your thanks. You don’t let him downplay his goodness.

“You are a good man, Bob,” you repeat, and you stare at him, like you’re daring him to disagree.

Bob, who finds that you’re something of a force to be reckoned with, wouldn’t dare to disagree.

-----

He’s still not entirely clear if this is dating or not. Neither of you actually says the word. You text each other steadily, and you meet up sometimes at the Hard Deck, but your schedule isn’t great and Bob’s is even worse. He worries that he’s missed his chance. When he talks about it to the other Daggers, Hangman rolls his eyes and tells Bob he should have taken his shot earlier, that Bob is pretty much friend-zoned now, but Nat rolls her eyes at that and says he’s overthinking it.

Of course Bob overthinks it. Bob overthinks everything.

He doesn’t know yet that you overthink everything too. That you are going through your own pangs of regret, that you think you’ve missed your chance too, that your friends circle around you too and give you tough-love pep talks to build up your courage to take the lead on this burgeoning thing with Bob.

And ultimately, Bob’s hunch that you’re a force to be reckoned with is correct. In the end, you take charge.

-----

You end up inviting him over for dinner on a night when your schedules align, and Bob overthinks that too.

What if it’s a date-date, and he turns up too casual, with nothing in his hands—no wine, no flowers? Or the opposite—what if he dresses up a little, brings you a mixed bouquet, and it’s just a casual friends-type thing?

Bob has no idea how he can manage the systems on a sophisticated plane because his brain grinds to a painful halt the moment he starts to contemplate this dinner at your place. It’s Nat—it’s always Nat, with her no-nonsense lens into the mystique of her fellow women—who smacks some sense into him.

“Wear a nice shirt, shower beforehand, and take a bottle of wine,” she tells him.

“But what if—”

“It’s always polite to take a gift, Bob.” She rolls her eyes, heaves a sigh. “And it’s always polite to, you know. Shower. Show up fresh-smelling and neat. Jesus Christ. Just go.”

So Bob turns up at your apartment, a mid-tier bottle of wine in his sweaty hand. Freshly showered, a daub of cologne behind his ears, and a nice blue button-down that brings out his eyes.

And it’s a good thing he took Nat’s advice too, because you open the door in the sweetest sundress, and there’s music softly playing and the most heavenly smells wafting from your kitchen. Bob realizes all at once that it’s a date-date after all, and his heart does an alarming little stutter in his chest, enough to stun him until you take his hand and gently pull him inside.

-----

Part of Bob’s issue with women is his inability to pick up on subtle, sometimes invisible cues. He has always fallen in with the sort of women who play mind games, who play coy and say one thing while meaning another. He always feels back on his heels; it feels like women speak a language he’s only slightly fluent in, so he’s always playing catch-up to translate what they mean.

But it’s refreshing with you, in this moment, because as you both sit down to the feast you’ve prepared, you just talk with him. The two of you chat about your lives, you catch each other up since the last time you’ve talked, and Bob almost forgets to be nervous.

Almost. A pair of tapered candles flicker between you and cast your lovely face in a golden glow, and low, bluesy music sets the soundtrack as you eat. You sip at the wine he brought, and he eats your home-cooking, and Bob imagines an entire life like this…and he almost misses the way you keep swiping your palms along your thighs, like you’re nervous.

Almost. He leans into his WSO work, studies you closely like you’re a dashboard of lights and alarms and switches. He watches you a little closer, and he sees the way your throat bobs when you swallow a mouthful of wine, like you’re swallowing past a lump or going all dry-mouthed on him. He sees the deep breaths you take, the way you press the back of your hand to your neck, like you’re flushed and trying to calm yourself.

“You’re nervous,” he blurts out when he realizes it for sure, and you pause in where you’re lifting the wine glass to your mouth and stare at him.

“I am.” It’s that simple. No mind games, no coy pretending.

“It’s just me,” Bob says.

You smile at him, and it trembles a little at the corners. He can feel the nerves in you now, and he reaches out a hand across the table, palm up. He makes a grabby motion with it until your smile firms up and you lay your hand in his, and he grasps you lightly.

“It’s just me,” he repeats.

“And I like just-you,” you tell him. “Like-like, I mean. I wanted to tell you so tonight.”

His heart does that wicked little stutter in his chest, but he squeezes your hand. “Sounds like you just told me then.”

“Guess so.” You watch him, and your smile seems tremulous again, so Bob replies, “I like you too.”

It’s that simple. After you each put yourself through your own overthinking hell, each suffering through your own sleepless nights and needless worrying about dumb things like friend zones, it comes down to a moment so simple that it’s stupid: just the two of you holding hands as you confess your mutual feelings matter-of-factly.

-----

It feels too easy. After months (years) of struggling to even land the occasional first date, suddenly Bob’s dream girl turns up just like that. It feels too easy, and so Bob slips into his overthinking almost immediately.

It goes fine after dinner, when the two of you trade nervous kisses on your couch until the nerves burn off enough that your mouth slotted over his feels natural, that you move in concert with each other—your head tilting one way, his tilting the other, no longer bumping noses or knocking his glasses askew.

It goes fine as you climb into his lap, the solid weight of you a welcome sensation because Bob’s head feels like it’s filled with helium, drunk and fizzy from the feel of your lips against his, your tongue against his own.

It goes fine when you climb off of him, shaky-legged like a newborn foal. When you hold out your hand and take his to lead him back to your bedroom.

The moment he finds himself stripped down to his boxers and lying on your bed is the moment it falls apart.

It’s like every mean comment, every brush-off and ghosting, every roll of the eyes and beleaguered sigh and overheard commentary about him crowds into the room and leaves no space for this moment with you. Bob thinks of all the feedback he’s ever gotten on dates—the serial killer eye glasses, the lack of muscles, the lack of game. He tries to take a deep breath and finds he can barely pull in a lungful, and his throat feels like it’s closing on him—

And he can’t get hard. His near-erection from making out on the couch deflates, and even though you are perched over him—you’ve shed your sundress, and you’re in the sexiest, sweetest lingerie set, powder pink, like the underside of a cloud at sunrise—he cannot coax himself back to attention.

The panic that floods him—he recognizes the feeling. He’s felt it a million times. He feels the hot, splotchy redness as it breaks out across his chest and neck, and his face flushes furiously bright, and you notice it all in real time. The sultry, heavy-lidded look on your face disappears and is replaced by pure concern.

“Bob? Bobby? Are you…okay?” You reach a hand out and cup his face, and your palm had felt warm earlier but now it feels cool….which proves how hot he’s flushed, how feverish his panic makes him feel.

“I’m sorry. Shit, honey. I’m…I gotta go.” He tries to sit up but your mattress is soft and he flails a moment, and if Bob were just a bit younger he’d burst into tears at how sideways this has all gone so suddenly. You served him up the perfect evening, you’re kneeling right beside him in the hottest fucking lingerie, and he’s been reduced to a stuttering, red-face idiot who can’t even get hard—

“Hey.” You lay your hand on his bare chest, steady him. “Hey, hey, hey. Take a second. Just breathe, Bobby.”

“I gotta—”

“Just relax.” You press against his chest, tap your forefinger against his skin. “Breathe for me, okay? Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not. Fuck, it’s not!” He raises his voice, winces at how shrill he sounds, and the dam in him breaks. Something in him dislodges, and it all spills out: every mean, rotten thing he’s ever thought about himself. Every bit of unfair criticism, every insult and slight and how his own insecurity has twisted it all into a crippling imposter syndrome. How he only ever feels competent at his job but how he struggles with everything else, and now how he’s fucked it all up with you because he’s overthinking, always trapped in the own tangled maze of his mind, always waiting for the other shoe to drop because he’s not good enough, he can’t even get hard even with you looking like a dream—

“Hey. Whoa.” You remove your hand from his chest, but you scoot over to sit beside him, turned to face him, your expression very similar to the night he met you—the same easy smile, the same studious eyes.

“Nothing’s ruined. You haven’t fucked anything up. Take a breath. Is this because of that bad first date you had the night we met?”

He nods. “A little bit.”

“There’s been other bad first dates, I guess?”

Another nod.

“And now you’re worried this is just another bad first date?”

“Yeah.” It comes out a croak, a roughness in his throat.

“Hmm.” You lean forward, press a soft kiss to his forehead. “You wanna hear about my worst first date ever?”

“No, honey, it’s okay—”

“His name was Justin.” Another soft kiss, this one to his temple. “Good job, good looking.” Another kiss, to the other temple, right at his hairline. “Picked me up and gave me flowers, took me out to San Diego’s most exclusive restaurant that has a reservation list a mile long.”

Bob chuckles weakly. “Sounds awful,” he says, wry.

You hum again, kiss his flushed cheek. “He was charming at dinner.” A kiss on his other cheek. “Said all the right things. Asked about my life and listened to my answers.” The lightest of kisses on the tip of his nose, and it makes him smile despite himself.

“Halfway through dessert, a woman comes up to our table.” Bob feels the gentle press of your lips at the corner of his mouth, and he turns his head to kiss you back, but you pull away.

“It was Justin’s wife.” A flurry of kisses now, to his chin, along his jawline, near his ear.

“He was cheating,” Bob says.

“Nope.” A kiss, this one lingering, under his jaw, on his neck. “Turns out, this was a little game he and his wife play. Some weird cheating, cuckolding fantasy.” Your lips skate over his pulse point. “He takes a girl out, his wife pretends to catch them, and then they go to a nearby hotel to fuck each other senseless.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit is right.” You lift your head to gaze at him. “Asshole left me with the bill for dinner too. So Bobby….you’re not my worst first date. You’re not even close.”

“Honey—”

“You have no idea how hard you’re gonna have to work to really, honestly fuck this up.” You grin at him, and then you straddle his lap again, and he lays his hands on your hips and stares up at you.

“Because you’re, like, exactly the sort of man I’ve always been looking for. You’re that sneaky-handsome sort, and you’re smart and sweet, and you took care of me that first night when I was too drunk to make good choices.” You cup his face in your hands, and you stare at him hard, that sweet forcefulness on full display, like you dare him to disagree with you.

“It’s already a sure thing, Bobby.” You lean forward, kiss him gently. “There’s no pressure to do anything tonight. Don’t even think about needing to do anything. How about you just let me love on you, and you just relax, and if you can keep your secret wife from busting in and turning this into a cuckolding fantasy, we’ll end the night just fine, okay?”

That makes him laugh, and it breaks the spell of his terrible ruminating. Bob laughs, and he slides his hands from your hips up to your waist to feel your soft skin.

“I didn’t even think of getting a secret wife before I came here,” he confesses.

“See? It’s a sure thing, then.” You lean forward again, whisper in his ear, your warm breath making him break out in goosebumps as you tell him to just relax and let you love on him.

-----

The antidote to Bob’s awful overthinking, as it turns out, is your care and praise.

As far as first dates go, this is the one where Bob learns something new about his own sexuality. He learns, thanks to you, that he has a praise kink, because your hands and mouth and body on his feels amazing, but it’s your words that make him hard.

Loving on him means you touch him everywhere. You kiss him everywhere. You stroke him, press your soft lips to him, lick against parts of him until he feels like he’s on fire in a way that is completely different than his panic attack. You kiss every inch of his face and neck. You trail your mouth over his shoulders and collarbones, across every bit of his chest and belly, and you praise him whenever your mouth isn’t otherwise occupied.

Look at you, Bobby. Hiding this body away under that uniform.

You praise his arms, the muscles of his chest and abs. You praise his shoulders and back, the smattering of chest hair, the trail of hair that leads down and disappears under the waistband of his boxers, and you glance up at him, the question in your eyes as you toy with the elastic.

“Can I?” you ask, and Bob nods, swallows hard, and you go lower, you push his boxers down and his cock is there, hard from your honied words.

“Holy shit,” you blurt out. “Bob, are you for real with this?”

It probably seems like a cliché, like the pretty girl in a movie who somehow never realized she was pretty, but Bob has never really considered his size. He’s been around plenty of other penises through the course of his career, but he’s never exactly eyed up other men and measured himself against them. The handful of women he’s slept with never said anything so he assumed he was average, but you praise him here too—you tell him he has a beautiful cock, and Bob blushes at the compliment. He’d never call it beautiful, but when you wrap your palm around his shaft and grip him gently, he’d agree to any adjective you might offer, so long as you never let him go.

This feels too easy too, but the panic never claws at Bob’s throat again. You’ve chosen him, you’ve made it a sure thing for him, and you’ve cut through his awkward moment of near-flight to get him to this: your body stretched alongside his, your breasts pressed against his arm, your hand working against his cock while you whisper praise in his ear.

And every time doubt starts to creep in—he should be touching you too, he should be making you feel good too—you hush him, you still his mouth by kissing him, and you tell him that he has all the time in the world for touching you, but he should let you take care of him now.

His orgasm creeps up in fits and starts, and it seems to ratchet closer with each bit of praise you lavish on him, more so than each movement of your hand working against his cock.

“I want you to come for me, Bobby,” you whisper against his neck. You kiss his pulse point, a plush, open-mouth kiss that makes him shiver as you grip him tighter, work a faster rhythm with your hand. “Come for me like a good boy.”

He wants to be good for you; he wants to do as you say. Some not-so-small part of him craves your approval, and maybe the two of you will play around with that sort of dynamic in the future, but for now, he just wants to obey you. He wants to do his part to salvage the night he thinks he almost ruined, so he breathes in time to your strokes, focuses on every sensation—the softness of your breasts pressed against him, your wet, hot mouth kissing him, the light scent of your perfume. The tension in his belly is a coil, and it tightens and tightens until it snaps, and his hips stutter against your grasping hand. He gasps out your name, warns you, and then a beat later, he comes. He spills over your hand, thick ropes of cum coating your fingers and wrist, spilling over onto his belly.

“Just like that, baby.” You kiss his panting mouth, and he feels the curve of your lips as you give a pleased smile. “It’s that simple.”

#i loved every second of this #abram’s recs☆#gonna start reblogging recs more i have been neglectful

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abrcmswrld · 3 days

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Icing | Bob x Reader x Rhett

Word Count: 5,300 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, improper use of icing, food is mentioned several times, blow jobs, grinding, hand jobs, overstimulation, planning for a wedding 💐 it's porn with a very vague plot Brief Summary: This icing, in particular, is not going on the cake, but you don't mind so long as it's on Bob Floyd.

"Are you sure this is how we're supposed to do it?"

"What makes you ask that?" Bobby chirps, barely audible over the hum of the hand mixer. His eyes flick down to the cake pan held between your hands. "Seems perfectly fine to me."

The beater bumps into the edge of the bowl. Icing splatters across the countertop.

You think that might be the whisper of a swear, crossing the room.

"I don't know, it just...feels weird," but you're pulling open the door to the oven, anyhow. A plume of heat washes across your face, like the blaze of a campfire, threatening to roast you alive.

But fortunately, the only thing being baked is this tiny pan of cake batter. Locked away to its doom of inhumane temperatures until it rises to perfection.

"Honey, there are only so many ways you can bake a cake," Bob's entirely unaware of the blue icing staining his cheek as he reaches for a damp cloth. Now that you give it a squint, you reckon it might be up in his hair, too.

"Well, last I checked," reaching out to swipe at his face with your thumb, raising it to your lips. Different color. Same taste as before. "Most folks don't have to bake their own wedding cake samples."

His head turns back to the thin list of instructions, scanning over where he left off, and—oh, well, he's got blue in his hair, too.

"Hey, get a load of this," Rhett's voice echoes from the living room, socked feet thumping across the hardwood. "They're sellin' that ol' rodeo property in town."

You're not entirely sure what woke him; if it was the clatter of skillets as you clumsily withdrew them from the oven, or if it was the bickering over why Bobby continues to use the appliance as a storage unit. It had to have been something you two did; fifteen minutes is astronomically short for a Rhett nap.

Maybe he never went to sleep to begin with because he's got a newspaper in hand. Today's date sits proudly in the corner, next to his thumb; he must have picked it up from the gas station on his drive home.

"We should buy it," waggling the paper in his hand, like it'll somehow convince you and Bobby to scrounge up ninety-five grand for an arena that has been abandoned for the better half of two decades.

"Sure thing, sweetheart," Bob's mixer kicks back on, an obnoxious noise sounding through the kitchen. Surely, there have to be quieter models out there. "We'll put an offer in next week."

"Ha. Ha," Rhett's eyes roll, the newspaper falling onto the recently cleared counter, right where Bobby was saving space for the blue icing. "Funny."

His mouth opens like he's got more to say, but nothing slips past those thin lips. Soft blue eyes flicker across the counter, scanning across your rainbow assortment of icings, the sample baggies of sprinkles and candles, and the portfolio of decorative figures. Not one of the premade couples comes with a third partner, but you're not entirely sure if you want to go that route to begin with.

Rhett's nose wrinkles; lost. You've got nothing more than a shrug to offer.

"All I'm sayin' is," picking back up on the hanging conversation, he reaches out to poke his finger into an open dish of sprinkles. The ones made to look like pearls. There were more, but half got lost when you accidentally ripped the package open. "You'll have a lotta time on your hands when ya leave the Navy."

The mixer shuts off.

"Who said I was leaving the Navy?"

Rhett's lifting a pearl to his mouth, obnoxious tongue poking out to catch it. "You, last night."

"And the night before that." You add, with a nudge of your shoulder.

And the night before that one. Sometime five mornings ago. Again, last week. After the most recent deployment and the one before that. Before the engagement and way before the house was bought...actually, when has he not talked about this?

The pearl cracks so loud that you almost wonder if it chipped Rhett's tooth. His brows furrow, shifting the hunk of sugar around in his mouth. "The hell are you two doin'...?"

"We're baking our wedding cake samples," and even with Bob saying it so matter of factly, it doesn't sound right. Nothing about this picture is correct.

Rhett's head tilts to the side. Even the dark hair cascading into his face can't hide those questioning eyes.

"See?" Throwing your hand out as if Bobby hasn't noticed the puppy-dog of a man standing on the other side of the island. "Even he's confused by this."

Nobody bakes their own wedding cake samples. This is your sign to find a better bakery! Before the stakes grow even higher!

Careful, Bob pulls the mixer from the bowl, turning around to drop the beaters into the sink. "He's always confused."

"Hey!" Rhett squawks. "Ya jus' gonna say that 'n turn your back to me?"

Not a word leaves Bob's mouth, deliberately keeping his back to you and Rhett as if to drive home his unspoken point. He's doing his best to remain firm, but even so, you can see the way the corner of his lip rises with every passing second. Must be able to hear the way Rhett's rounding the corner, big hands reaching out to grab hold of bony hips.

It's a little too easy for him to force Bob to turn.

"What, can't say it to my face?" Any venom in Rhett's tone is lost in the midst of his chuckle. Amused.

Still, Bobby remains quiet, defiantly folding his arms across his chest, like that will somehow stop the smile from bursting onto his pale face. It's a losing game. Rhett knows it. You know it. He knows it. The whole world knows it.

Rhett's tilting his head, leaning close. "Say." Kiss. "It." Kiss. Bob's hand reaches out toward the counter. "To." Kiss. "My." Kiss. His finger dips into blue icing. "Face." Kiss. "Pal." Kiss.

One blink, and you nearly miss it. The swift drag of Bobby's fingertip, smearing the artificially dyed sweetness onto Rhett's thin lips. Leaves just a big enough mess for him to lean in and press his mouth to Rhett's, that soft pink tongue darting out to lick it off. It ends as quickly as it started, with Bobby turning back to the counter, already beginning to pour another pack of sprinkles into an empty container.

Rhett's wide eyes meet with yours. Bewildered.

...huh.

"What do we think of lemon?" Bobby's speaking as if nothing ever happened. Acting it, too.

You're not entirely sure what he means by that. "I'm sorry?"

"Cake flavors," holding up a non-descript packet of mix. "There's lemon in here."

Rhett's nose wrinkles, and you can't help but wonder if he's recalling the sourness of the lemon pie you two tried to put together for Bobby. Worst damn welcome home present you've ever made.

"Is there a difference to the icin'?" Rhett asks, poking at one of the bowls.

"They're all the same." Bob's head shakes, sprinkles audibly pouring out of the packet and into yet another bowl. Who's gonna wash all these dishes, anyhow?

Rhett's eyes meet with yours. Brows furrowing, like this is the most absurd thing he's ever heard. If the initial confusion hadn't already worn off, you reckon you'd be feeling the same damn thing. Who does this, and why are you just letting it happen? Is your life so devoid of joy that this is what you've allowed yourself to resort to?

Or is Bob Floyd just very, very good at convincing you to blindly follow his lead?

Idle, Rhett's hand dips into some of the icing. Slow. Flying just below the radar of Bobby's peripheral. "So why'd ya make every color?"

And your poor WSO hasn't the slightest damn clue, reaching for yet another container of sprinkles. "To see what—"

Rhett's big hand presses into Bob's pale cheek, vibrant orange icing splattering against his skin. Dragging down, down, down his neck and onto the little bit of chest peeking out from the low collar of his shirt.

You know what's going to happen before it even starts. Bobby's fingers dive into a pool of pale yellow. Smacking it into Rhett's broad chest, gets the base of his neck and all. And Rhett's reaching for the pink, dragging it across an unwitting forearm. Bob's going for green. Reaching for Rhett's scruffy jaw. Giggles bubble through the air.

Blue splatters across the kitchen floor and across your shirt.

Your white shirt. "Hey!"

"He started it!" Bob squeaks. But he's stumbling backward, bumping into you as he reaches for another bowl—ammunition for the next attack.

All Rhett can do is grin. "Did I?"

Insufferable.

Your hand darts out from your side, venturing to the counter.

Purple splatters across Bobby's clothed belly. The only spot you could reach.

"Both of you?" Bobby's squawking. Twisting. Turning until he's got his back to the sink and not you or Rhett, his vibrantly colored hands held toward the ceiling. Surrender, or preparing his next move? You're not sure yet.

God, he's a mess. Splatters of orange, pink, blue, and plain white, stretching from his nose to his belly; you think there might be a little bit of purple lurking beneath his chin. Rhett's not doing much better, green clinging to his jaw, chest decorated with a vibrant smear of yellow.

"What else are we s'pposed t' do with all this icin'?" He asks, lifting his fingers to his lips, short pink tongue darting out to lap up the sweetness clinging to his skin.

Bob's eyes roll. You wonder if he's noticed the drop of green on his lens. "Well, wearing it shouldn't even make the list!" But it's nothing compared to the icing on his neck, sickly sweet and spread thin over the thick vein that bulges from beneath his skin.

"I can think of a few ideas," muttering, entranced.

Out of his peripheral, Rhett meets your eye. The corner of his lip twitches up, fingers slipping out of his mouth with a wet 'pop' so loud that it echoes through the kitchen.

"What..." Bob swallows. Adam's apple rising and falling. Soft blues flicker between you and Rhett; must be able to read the thoughts filtering through your head. "Would that entail, exactly?"

You don't know who steps forward first. But one way or another, your sticky hands are finding their way to Bobby's chest, bracing yourself as you lean in. Rhett's so close that his hair tickles your cheek; he had a longer distance to cross than you did, and yet he's already beating you to the point. Licking a fat, wet stripe up the side of Bob's neck.

And you're in hot pursuit. Licking up the other side, trailing across that thick vein, multicolored icing greeting your taste buds. But that sugary sweetness is nearly dulled in comparison to the soft mewl that rolls out of Bobby's mouth, his head rolling backward.

"Okay..." he breathes, "that's..."

The flavor of this icing is far from your favorite; it isn't even close to the one you had in mind when contacting the bakery, but you can hardly pay it any attention. Nothing but a mild annoyance when you've got this to preoccupy your mind with. Bob's hand, working its way up your side. Rhett's soft hum, downright delighted with this predicament.

Careful, your lips press to a soft patch of skin beneath his ear, sucking lightly. Not enough to bruise his terribly sensitive skin, but still managing to leave behind a faint redness in your wake. One tiny little mark after another, spots blending amongst the vivid orange that you've yet to lick up.

This icing, in particular, is not going on the cake, but you don't mind so long as it's on Bob Floyd. Him and his sticky, heaving chest, squirming as you work lower, lower, lower. Teeth grazing across his collar, tugging on the flesh stretched thin over the bone there.

Rhett's shoulder knocks into your side, a little too broad to be squeezing himself in next to you. His hands venture to the hem of Bob's horribly stained t-shirt, yanking upward.

"The cake," Bob's panted protest is hardly one at all, "you can't...it'll burn." And yet he's obediently lifting his arms, letting Rhett pull the shirt over his head. Maybe letting it fall to the floor isn't the best idea, but you're in no position to raise even the slightest objection.

"We have time," you murmur. Lie. You don't even know if you set the timer.

Frankly, you don't care. It's just too damn easy to forget about. Letting your mouth find its way down Bob's pale chest, a thin trail of saliva marking your path as if you could possibly become lost in this familiar terrain.

But even though you've had a head start, Rhett still manages to beat you to the checkpoint, his lips wrapping around a delicate nipple. So sudden that Bob jerks beneath you, his feet stumbling. Two can play this game, though, and Rhett can only pay attention to one thing at a time.

Without the slightest warning, you sink down. Knees thunking heavily against the cold kitchen tile. They'll ache when you ultimately climb back to your feet, but that's for the future version of you to worry about. Right now, your bold hand is soothing over the heavy bulge in these sweats, feeling how Bobby twitches from the simplest touch.

"Can't believe you're already hard, Robby," teasing, your thumb swipes right beneath his tip. The wet spot forming in the thin gray material is like a reward.

"You're..." his head rolls, fingers tugging at Rhett's hair, "surprised?"

Not in the slightest.

It's Rhett who reaches for the thick elastic of Bob's waistband. Watching through thick lashes as you help pull it downso swiftly that his cock brushes your cheek as it springs up to smack against his belly. Flushed a bright ruby, a small bead of precum running down the underside of him.

"Shit," Rhett swears; it's so quiet that you can hear the way his knees creak as he settles down next to you.

And now both of you are down here, caught up in some kind of perfect synchrony, leaning forward to run your tongues up the sides of Bob's cock. Relishing in that shuddered gasp as you and Rhett meet at his head, lips brushing in what was meant to be a sloppy kiss, but it's more of a clash of tongues than anything. Broken apart by Bob's soft cock head, caught perfectly in the middle.

"You...." Bob's hand bumps into your cheek, thumb stroking the skin there, "fuck, you two are..."

Rhett's chuckle is all it takes to have Bob's sharp hips bucking forward, pushing himself right past your parted lips. Wasn't exactly next up on your itinerary, but you're rolling with it as if it was. Sucking gently, tongue swiping back and forth beneath it. Teasing while you still can.

Not a single beat is missed. With the delicate hollow of your cheeks and the lazy way Rhett mouths at the side of him, it's almost hard to believe that this wasn't choreographed earlier in the day. As if anyone could have predicted that Bob was serious about this whole 'baking cake samples' thing.

"Y' likin' that, Bobby?" Rhett hums, pausing to graze his teeth against delicate skin. "Watchin' both of us on our knees for ya?"

You're leaning back, and Rhett's moving in to take over for you. Doesn't need to use his hands, as he sucks that leaking tip into his mouth.

Bob sucks in a breath. His other hand dives into Rhett's hair, tangling in the mess of it. "How could I—mhm, not?"

All of a sudden, Rhett's sliding further down, eyes scrunching shut as Bob knocks into the back of his throat, but that's never been enough to deter him. It's a wonder he's got a gag reflex at all. You can't help but twist yourself around, a hand coming to rest on his lower back, bracing yourself as you find your way to the underside of his jaw. Air audibly puffs through his nose. Always has been sensitive here.

Sweet, too, with all of this icing to be licked up. There simply isn't another person cut out for this sort of job. The artificial flavor is far from your favorite, but you can't be inclined to share. Not when he tries to lean into it, a muffled grunt rumbling out of him.

Above you, Bob can't close his mouth. "That's...oh, that's—"

A shrill beep tears through the air. Once. Twice. Thrice.

So you did set the timer. Lucky him.

And Rhett laughs. Barely able to pull away before he chokes, swollen lips glistening as they meld with the shape of his smile. "Guess ya gotta check that, flyboy."

This is the first and likely the last time you'll see Bob Floyd check an oven with his sweats pooling around his thighs, heavy cock bouncing as he leans down to see what he's doing. Is the cake done? Or burnt? You haven't the slightest clue because Rhett's kissing at the side of your neck, and any self-control you had left dissolves in an instant.

"Shame y' didn't get more of this on ya," he's speaking into your skin, vibrating right up into your head and rattling all your thoughts off their metaphorical shelves.

The stain on your brand-new shirt is speaking otherwise. "This stuff doesn't even taste that great."

"'s good when it's on one of you," he does, unfortunately, make a really good point. The kind that lets him get away with pushing your pants down your legs, underwear and all, right here in the damn kitchen. So much for trying to break the habit of kitchen shenanigans.

You wonder if this memory will wander back into your mind the next time you invite guests over and eat in this kitchen.

Rhett's hands settle on the sides of your waist, pulling you into him as he leans backward. Knocking the back of his head against the tile can't feel good, but he doesn't react in the slightest. Too busy pulling you on top of him, your legs straddling his wide hips. They hitch upward, so strong that they push you along with it, as he shoves his shorts down his legs, cock audibly smacking against his belly, swiping against your thigh as it drifts past.

"Are you doing what I think you're doing?" Your hands brace against his chest, chasing the illusion of stability.

"Mhm," is the best he's got to offer, and he's hardly got to guide you any further. You're already beating him to the punch, grinding down against his length, letting him slip between your parted lips.

Fuck, it's been a while since you last felt his weeping cock head drag against your clit. You wonder if he can feel the way you involuntarily clench around nothing, sent into a mindless spasm from that alone.

Bobby's knees audibly knock against the floor, and you're not entirely sure where his sweats went. "You two move too damn fast."

"Maybe you're just slow," there's nothing but playfulness in your tone, albeit the slightest bit breathless. You can't help it. Not when you've got this going on between your legs. Rhett and his big cock rolling up into you, chasing the feeling of your pussy against him. Beads of precum slicken the glide, every motion punctuated by a sickly wet little noise.

"'n ya say I'm the one always givin' ya trouble," Rhett's not doing much to help his own case, but then again, you don't think that was his goal.

It's an awkward angle, with Bob sitting on his knees and Rhett laying against the floor, but he's craning his head up, tongue greeting the underside of Bob's cock. A fleeting sort of thing that only lasts a moment or three.

"You're gonna upset your shoulder if you keep doing that," Bobby hums, not making any move to stop Rhett from trying at it again, lips stubbornly wrapping around his mushroom tip.

There's a spin in your head that wasn't there before. Lightheaded over the sight before you and the sweet throb of your cunt, sliding against Rhett's shaft like you're aiming to win a first-place trophy. Hands flat against his heaving chest, trembling arms hardly keeping your body upright as your hips roll.

"Can feel ya gettin' wetter round me," Rhett's eyelashes are fluttering, and it's all he can do to keep himself from knocking his skull against the tile again. "Fuck."

"As if you're not dripping like a damn faucet," your words hitching on a gasp, the embers of a whine building in the back of your throat. Getting off to this wasn't on your list of plans, but with every soft massage of his plush tip, you're growing closer to writing it at the very top.

Rhett's back arches off the ground, legs kicking beneath you, like he can feel the heat that's flooding your lower belly. Makes it so damn hard for you to keep moving your body back and forth, hopelessly grinding back and forth, obsessed with the way he kisses your clit on every pass.

"God, you two should see yourselves," Bobby says it like he's caught up in a trance; you don't think you've seen him blink since he knelt down here.

"Enjoying the show?" Speaking through a gasp. Fuck, fuck, fuck, your eyes are rolling backward, and Rhett's twitching against you, and it's so, so much.

His hands settle on your aching thighs. Blunt nails digging into the meat of them. Does nothing to ward off the shiver that's settled into the muscle there. But his hips are rising up off the floor, and he's rutting himself into you properly now, rubbing against your poor clit over and over and over.

"Rhett—" whimpering high in your throat. Head tilting back. You're...he's...

"C'mon," in that raspy tone of his, wavering with the motion of his body, "cum on my cock."

Bob's cool hand glides up the side of your neck, and that is it.

A choked noise echoes through the kitchen and into the living room. Spasming, cumming to the drag of him against your clit alone. Clenching helplessly around nothing but air, a ripple running up your spine. Your arms crumple out from under you. Stars sparkle behind your eyelids like the night sky. Falling into a messy heap on Rhett's chest, helpless as his cock keeps rubbing against your dripping cunt.

"Ah—Rhett!" Jolting. Oversensitive. And it's all you can do to slide off of him, letting gravity drag you down to his side instead, a leg lazily sprawled overtop his thigh. You don't know if he's laughing or if you're hearing the hammer of your heart beating away in your ears.

"Awful quick," Bob's eyes flick to you, hardly able to conceal the playful glint in them.

You ought to give him trouble for such a comment, but your head is still spinning like it's about to float up into the clouds. The best you can do is to swipe out with your hand, smacking against his belly. "Like you're any better."

Rhett's chest rumbles with a chuckle. You're not entirely sure when he got his arm around you, but it's carefully squeezing you into him. Keeping you snug against his chest as Bobby moves to settle between his legs.

And this...this is a hell of an angle to be observing from. You don't have to move your eyes or tilt your head at all, comfortably gazing at the sight of Rhett's plush thighs caging Bob's waist. On its own, your hand darts out, grabbing a handful of one. There's so much more to squeeze compared to when you first met; he's exchanged that wiry frame for something thicker, stronger, too.

Bob's reaching for his own cock, still wet with saliva, as he leans forward, fingers darting out to wrap around Rhett, too.

One stroke and Rhett's hips lift off the floor. "Shit."

He's so damn wet, with what mess you've made of him and the precum spilling out of his inflamed tip like a dripping faucet. Bob's thumb swipes out, collecting the clear fluid and spreading it onto himself, but before he's done there's already another bead of it forming.

"Good lord, Rhett," Bob mutters, and you're not entirely sure where he got that packet of lube from, tearing it open with his teeth, already beginning to pour the sticky substance onto their cocks.

So much for trying to break Rhett of that habit.

If he'd give Rhett a few minutes, you think he'd spill out enough to warrant forgoing lube altogether, but Bobby can only stretch his patience so far. Never has been able to hold out for very long when it comes to you and Rhett. That big hand of his gives an experimental stroke, a wet squelch sounding through the delicate air; you don't know who groans louder.

What you do know is that the sight before you is downright obscene. Rhett's legs squeezing around Bobby like he'll disappear if he doesn't, their heavy cocks twitching into one another. How Rhett's tip has a darker shade of red as compared to Bob's pale pink. They look so similar until they're right next to each other like this; it's the only way to tell that Bob's a fraction longer but not quite as thick as Rhett is.

Bob jerks forward, pressing impossibly closer. "Does that feel good?" As if he's not speaking around his own strangled breath.

You have to lift your head to get a better look at Rhett's face. Eyes scrunched shut, teeth worrying his thin bottom lip, cheeks flushed with a newfound redness. "Uhuh." His head shakes with what you think is a nod.

Maybe that's an answer Bob was looking for, but you want to hear more. "Use your words, cowboy."

"It feels—" Swallowing hard. A microscopic mewl breaks past his lips. "Feels good!"

He's already dissolving into a mess of squirms, wriggling back and forth, the swift stroke of Bob's hand too much for him to handle. Bucking upward, only to try and draw away, unshaven jaw shivering like a leaf in the wind.

Your fingers drift upward, nails dragging across the soft meet of his inner thigh, knuckles brushing against his balls as you drift past. Lightly rolling them in your palm would draw the prettiest sounds out of him, but today, you've got a slightly different plan in mind. Fingertips wander into the soft expanse of skin behind them, rubbing in loose circles.

A pitchy cry rings in your ears. Rhett's hand flies up. Tugging at his own hair. Desperate to grab hold of something. "Fuck! 'm gonna..." His head thrashes, pretty neck barred to the world. "I'm, I'm—"

"You fixin' to cum for us, sweet thing?" Bobby's voice sounds akin to thunder, a little twang in his tone. His thumb darts out, rapidly swiping back and forth across Rhett's plush cock head.

Curls bounce with Rhett's nod. Hardly able to close his mouth and stifle his moan. Yet, it's so loud that you can hear it anyway. Your fingers keep spiraling, pressing the slightest bit harder. You're almost certain that you can feel the sporadic twitch of muscle as his back arches, cumming with a wail.

A rope of white paints across his belly. The next one caught by Bobby's still moving hand. Disappearing into the squelching mix of lube and precum and your own juices, some kind of lewd recipe for disaster. Rhett's hips jerk. Yanks a grunt out of him.

But Bobby's not stopping. Still pumping their cocks together as if nothing ever happened. If anything, you think he's going faster, and it's got Rhett jumping around like a wounded animal. Mouth wide open. Brows knit together.

"Too much, too much, that's not—ah!" He squeals. Panting hard. Frantically pawing at Bob's hand, but it's doing nothing to end his torment.

"Hang on for me," Bob's eyes scrunch shut. Hissing through his teeth. Close. "You can do it."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, you can't, that—haah!" Rhett's twitching. Wailing. Legs kicking in the air.Still smacking at Bob's rapidly jerking fist as if that can possibly save him, but he's not uttering a single note of his safe word. Merely dissolving into a frenzied babble of, "Bobby, Bobby, Bobby!"

That's all it takes for Bob's pale blue eyes to roll into the back of his head with a soft, deepened groan. Set off by the babbled cry of a helpless cowboy, trembling like a leaf beneath him. Rope after rope of cum, splattering against Rhett's lower belly and all over his softening cock. A visible shiver rakes its way up Bob's spine, and for a moment you think his glasses are about to fall off.

Finally, finally, the motion of that big hand is beginning to slow, loosening until Rhett's length slips from his grip entirely, smacking against his skin. Between the wateriness of Rhett's eyes and the redness in Bob's cheeks, you're not entirely sure where to look. Each are tempting in their own right, but not enough time to focus on both.

You suppose your distraction is why it takes a moment to realize that Bob's actually moving. Leaning down at a snail's pace, his lips pressing to your forehead, lingering for a moment or three before moving on to Rhett's, pressing a kiss to him, too. "Maybe we should call a different bakery," he murmurs, half-lidded gaze flickering to you.

If this is all it took, then next time, you'll skip the arguing and jump right into kissing down his neck. "You think?" There's a hoarseness to your voice that wasn't there before; you blame the icing.

Whether or not he caught the sarcasm in your tone, you have no idea.

"Yeah..." Bobby pauses as Rhett leans in to steal a proper kiss on the lips. "Now we've gotta do something with all these ingredients."

Rhett hums. Sounds akin to a cat purring. "I have a few ideas." You wonder if those ideas include smearing each other with icing again or offhandedly snacking on sprinkles for the next several months.

"I'll hear you out on those ideas," yawning, a strangled little noise escaping you, "when we're in bed."

A valid request, but Bobby's wrinkling his nose at it. "How about a bath, then bed."

"Y' act like we were just rollin' in mud," Rhett's fingers tap at your shoulder, gently squeezing.

"I love you two, but I draw the line at sticky sheets." Well, if Bob wants you to take a bath so damn bad, then he's gonna have to help you find the strength to get off this floor. Your hand reaches out, opening and closing in a grabbing motion.

It takes a couple seconds of looking at it for him to realize what you're asking, but after a moment, he slips his hand into yours, holding it as he rises to his feet. Something in your knee audibly pops as he pulls you up, an ache blooming in the bone from digging into the floor earlier. Your feet stumble, knocking into Rhett and nearly taking him back down with you.

"You're a mess, sweetheart," Bob laughs, pulling on your hand as if you're still due to fall at any moment. You're not entirely sure when you acquired the purple icing on your thigh or the smear of green running down your leg; you refuse to acknowledge the array of colors on the floor until after you've had a nap.

"So are you," not an ounce of venom in your tone, despite the attempt at mustering some kind of sarcastic bite. Behind you, Rhett hums his agreement. Someone started this, and it certainly was not you or Rhett.

"No, I'm not," Bob's beaming, almost proud of himself. "You two licked me clean, remember?"

It'll take the rest of the day for him to notice the icing on his glasses.

#i’ve been waiting for this one TURN IT UP #i’ve reread this au series in full at least 7 times this week and it gets better every time #danonation followers….i am on the greatest side quest ever #abram’s recs☆

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