loved every single second of this đ« ugh i need bob in my life !!!
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 âBobâ Floyd x Female Reader
Length: 4.5K
Warnings: fluff, smut, and basically an ode to Lewis Pullmanâs hands (mdni)
(Authorâs Note: smutty fics are the new friendship bracelet, spread the word! Happy Birthday, Ames! đ @laracrofted)
Youâve always had a thing for Bobâs hands.
They were one of the first things you noticed about him that day at the coffee shop almost a year ago now.
Youâd 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 wouldnât have minded admiring them for a moment under any other circumstances, but after an endless string of meetings youâd been in a dire need of a caffeine fix- and not the weak stuff that people brewed in your officeâs communal coffee pot.
âI think thatâs-â youâd started.
âOh, Iâm sorry-â the coffee thief backpedaled.
The next thing you knew you were looking into the prettiest pair of ocean blue eyes.Â
The two of you were startled out of the moment when the barista called out the next order as theyâd 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, âThink this one might belong to you, Miss.â He spun the coffee until he found the spot with your name. That little smile becoming a full grin as heâd said it aloud before passing the cup to you.
The hands had been good, the eyes had been great, but Bobâs smile directed at you had left you weak in the knees.
Youâd been a goner right then and there.
And while youâd ended up almost ten minutes late to your next meeting, youâd 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 heâd taken you to. Heâd fessed up and apologized as he came clean, telling you that heâd purposefully ordered the same coffee as you in hopes of getting to start up a conversation with the pretty girl whoâd been standing in front of him in line.
âI didnât want to interrupt you, since you looked busy. But I didnât want to miss my chance,â heâd confessed over candlelight.
Heâd told you how heâd only been at the coffee shop because heâd 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 youâd settled on having a second date with him before the first one had even really started.
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, âSo other than being a meet cute mastermind, what is it that you do for a living, Bob?â
It was the best first date youâd ever had.
For your second date with him, youâd bought tickets to a âPaint and Sipâ event at a buzzy new bistro in town your friend had told you about.
You werenât an artist by any means, but during that dinner date his antsy fingers and expressive hands had clued you into how nervous heâd been. Youâd 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 couldnât 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 youâd thought youâd signed up for, youâd willingly paid $86+ tax to watch Bobâs lithe, long fingers delicately grip a paintbrush in a way you thought was going to make you lose your mind.
Youâd spent the whole first hour trying and failing to mix the perfect shade of blue before giving up when youâd realized that the man next to you, in addition to having really great hands, was also very good at painting.Â
Bob had seemed surprised by that too because heâd 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 didnât shy away from the way heâd openly observed you, like you were a riddle he was enjoying learning to decode.Â
Youâd never known a man to be so attentive until him.
Bobâs tongue was peeking out as heâd worked on adding some wispy clouds to the top of his piece. You werenât even sure what step youâd technically stopped at before youâd 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 wasnât totally blank by the end of the session.
Youâd been so zoned out watching him create that it was like a slow-motion sequence in a horror movie. Youâd 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 wasnât the full-bodied red youâd ordered that was coating your tongue, but the murky, gritty paint water instead.
Mortified, youâd looked over just in time to see Bobâs empathetic wince. Youâd been hoping to fly under the radar, but it had turned out that youâd had more than one set of eyes on you.
âAnd we officially have our first casualty of the evening, folks,â the instructor cheerily announced to the group, âThe rest of you can breathe easy now!â
You wanted to be able to laugh at your own expense, but youâd 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.
Bobâs hands had gently wrapped around your wrists before heâd pulled them from your face. And then heâd 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.
âHuh,â heâd said, contemplatively. Heâd pulled away only far enough to look into your eyes and give you a soft smile. âCeladon blue doesnât taste like a Cabernet, go figure.â
He brushed a light kiss against your cheek as heâd passed you your wine glass so that you could rinse the paint water taste out of your mouth.Â
You couldnât help but to still be a little embarrassed, but then youâd caught the way heâd shoot an unimpressed look at the instructor every time they passed by for the rest of the evening. You didnât 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 youâd 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 âPaint and Sipâ date would have inspired him to pick up painting as a hobby.
First, heâd started taking classes at the Rec Center. His once a week classes later turned into him checking out books from the library. And then heâd 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. Heâd 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.
Youâd 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 arenât 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 thereâs really no reason too, but you were adamant about it and heâd eventually caved and scrawled his name in the lower right-hand corner.
Now itâs 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 itâs your favorite moment when people get to see his abstract landscapes. Heâd told you he spends so much time in the sky that he likes to paint whatâs on the ground, the things he doesnât get to see when heâs 50,000 feet in the air.
You could tell Bob was a little nervous when he first asked to paint you.Â
After almost a year with him, youâd think heâd know by now that youâd do anything for him. Not to mention, you were more than a little in love with the idea of being his muse.
âAre you saying you want to paint me like one of your French girls?â youâd teased with a grin, unable to resist the opportunity. You always did have a thing for men with perfectly floppy hair.
Heâd tipped your chin up so that you were looking into his blue eyes- a color you were positive couldnât be replicated- and stated, âNo, I want to paint you like my girl.â
Which is how youâve ended up naked on the floor of his living room.
Youâd 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 heâd laid out on the floor. You figured it must have been from some mismatched set he had stashed in his linen closet because youâd 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 wouldnât be able to do proper justice to Bobâs body. He wasnât 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, âWell, arenât you as pretty as a picture in my shirt.â
âOh,â youâd said, feigning surprise and toying with the hem, âSo it is.â And then youâd slowly lifted it up and off of you, revealing more of your body to his artistâs 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.
âIs this how you wanted me?â you asked, running your fingers through his hair.
Bob slipped his hand behind your neck and tugged you in for a heated kiss. âI always want you.â
You never knew true distraction until youâd felt Bobâs lips against yours all those months ago. Youâd happily lose minutes, hours, days to them. The thing about Bob is that he never does anything halfway. If heâs kissing you, heâs doing it thoroughly until youâre 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.
âWhere do you want me?â
âIn my bed,â 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, âI meant, like on the couch or on one of the chairs from the kitchen.â
Bob pulled away and peered deep into your eyes, âDarlinâ, I wanted to paint you.â He trailed a teasing finger down your soft stomach. âIf thatâs alright with you.â
You thought you were just going to be his subject, but as it turns out he wanted you to be his canvas too.
Youâre 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 heâd started, a gesture that you appreciated now because time had lost all meaning to you. You had no idea how long youâve been lying there. You were pretty sure every inch of you had to be covered by now.
Heâd 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 didnât miss the way heâd smirked when you arched into that soft to the touch paintbrush as it glided over your peaked nipple. Or the way heâd hummed pleased when youâd 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, âGotta stay still for me, pretty girl. Iâm almost done, promise.â
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. Â
âGod, look at you,â Bob breathes, reverently, âYouâre so beautiful. This might be my best work ever.â
Instead of the paintbrush, you can feel the path of his flame blue gaze traveling over you as he takes in the art heâs made out of you.
You open your heavy eyes and see Bob wiping off his hands with a frayed towel.
âThere she is,â he says, giving you a smile that makes your toes curl. You didnât notice it sitting there with all his paints until he was reaching for it, his dadâs old film camera. He holds it loosely in front of him like a question, âCan I take a few just for me?â
The answer is easy, âYes.â
You trusted Bob more than any other man youâd ever been with. Heâs never once given you reason to doubt his words because his actions always spoke for themselves.
The guys youâd been with before had been boys, Bob Floyd was a man.
The tension between the two of you is thicker than the acrylic heâd 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, âLook at me.â
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.
âBobâ, you whine.
The camera clicks.
âI know,â he hums, âYouâve been so good for me.â He sinks to his knees between your legs and hooks a hand behind your knee, pulling it up so itâs propped on the floor. And then he does the other so that youâre sprawled open for him, just the way he likes you to be, âJust one more, darlinâ.â
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.
âYouâve made such a pretty mess,â he drawls, as he gently sets the camera on the floor next to you. âItâs a good thing I put something down. Youâre damn near dripping.â
âBob, please.â 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.
âYou were so perfect for me. I appreciate you staying so still.â He drops a kiss to the inside of your thigh. âDonât worry, I know just how to thank you.â
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 itâs what he was put on this earth to do.
Normally, heâs teasing you with gentle licks and tracing nonsensical shapes on your clit with his tongue until youâre a squirming mess for him. He knows your body so well, always building you up to the point where youâre breaths away from tipping over the edge and then pulls himself back before building you right back up again.
But tonight, thereâs 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 youâre writhing underneath him, your thighs already shaking.
âWanna paint you just like this,â he murmurs, sucking at the spot where your leg and hip meet. âBut I donât think youâd stay still long enough for me to finish.â
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. Itâs taken him no time at all getting you to the point where youâre 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 heâd decorated you with. Something that was distinctly him.
You were wearing his art and now youâre wearing him. The evidence of this moment in time on your skin.
His fingers and tongue werenât enough.
You needed more.
âYou cock, Bob, I need your cock,â 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.
âGod, I love it when you beg for me,â he licks into you again, âSweetest sound in the world.â
Bob drops a sweet kiss on your clit, itâs a stark difference to the filthy way heâd 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.
Itâs pretty enough to be featured in a gallery, you think to yourself, even in your desperate haze. Itâs 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 youâve taken it now. His thumbs make little circles along your hipbones as your body relents and yields to the size of him.
âThere you go,â he says, rocking into you, working you open, âJust needed this cock, didnât you?â
You whimper your agreement. Your hips tilt into the pressure like youâre trying to get as much of him as you can. Wanting to show him how much you can take. You know youâll never get enough of him.
He fucks into you at a reckless and unrelenting pace. Youâre high off the feeling of seeing Bob like this, that youâre 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, youâre 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 wonât be able to hold off for much longer, not with the way heâs grinding against your aching clit.
Bobâs eyes glued to the spot where you two come together. Youâre 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.
Itâs 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 heâs 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.
âJesus Christ,â Bob huffs, raggedly, taking in his handiwork, âYouâre my masterpiece.â
Youâre covered in paint and come, but youâve never felt more beautiful than you do right now as he looks down at you in awe.
âDid you remember to sign your work this time?â you ask, out of breath but teasingly.
âI think I left my mark, darlinâ,â he says, with well-earned smugness in his voice. You canât help but giggle. He flops down next to you, throwing his arm over his eyes, âGoddamn.â
You prop yourself up onto your elbows to look at yourself.
âBaby, I think you gave Jackson Pollock a run for his money.â You grin widely when he lets out an amused snort. âWait, whereâs your camera?â
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.
Itâs your favorite picture of the two of you, happy and in love. You can just see a hint of the cloud heâd 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!
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