#funfetti cake

Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader

WARNING: Explicit, 18+

Summary: You joke about never having a fun birthday. Bob makes it his mission to change that—with a donut, a paper crown, and you in his lap.

SUGAR, SPICE & SMUT MASTERLIST

“You’ve never had a fun birthday?”

Bob’s voice goes soft with disbelief, the kind that makes you feel seen in a way you don’t always expect. You glance up from your drink, shoulder brushing his as you lean back on his porch swing, the late summer night humming around you.

You shrug. “I mean, it was always… fine. Just not memorable. No cake fights, no surprise parties. Just candles on a grocery store cake, maybe a gift card from an aunt who thinks I’m still into unicorns.”

Bob tilts his head. “Are you not?”

You laugh. “Only ironically.”

He’s quiet for a second, then you feel his knuckle nudge under your chin, turning your head to look at him. “That’s criminal. Someone should’ve made you feel like the birthday queen.”

You tease, “What, you gonna arrest my childhood?”

“I might. For emotional neglect.” His smile spreads, big and bright like always, but there’s something sharper behind it. A thought forming. “So you’ve never had the whole package—like, confetti, chaos, terrible singing, and a party crown?”

“Nope.”

He leans in, whispering like he’s got a secret plan. “Not even a donut with a candle shoved in it?”

“Is that a Texas thing?”

“It’s a Bob thing.”

You roll your eyes, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’d like a Bob birthday. But only if it includes you in a party hat.”

He makes a dramatic show of putting his hand over his heart. “It would be my honor, sugar.”

—

You don’t think much of it after that. You kiss him goodbye a little before midnight, tease him about his stupidly pretty dimples, and drive home with your windows down.

But the next evening, you get a text that says:

🛻 “Need you in the passenger seat, birthday girl. Don’t ask questions. Wear something you can straddle me in.”

Your jaw drops.

“What the fuck, Bob.”

And yet… twenty minutes later, you’re doing exactly what he asked, stepping out into the soft blue twilight in a skirt you never wear, heart doing somersaults in your chest.

He’s parked down the street in his pickup truck, leaning against the driver’s side door in a faded tee and jeans, holding something behind his back. When he sees you, he lights up.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“What are you—”

Before you can finish, he pulls out a crumpled pink paper crown and gently places it on your head.

“Happy unofficial birthday.”

You gape at him, laughter bubbling in your throat. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke about birthdays.” Then he opens the truck door like a goddamn gentleman, and inside you see the glitteriest donut you’ve ever laid eyes on, sitting on a napkin with a single candle jammed in the middle.

You burst into laughter. “Bob—”

“Make a wish,” he says, climbing into the backseat and patting his lap. “And blow real hard.”

You stare at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious.” His eyes glint. “C’mon, birthday girl. Get up here. We’re doin’ this chaos-style.”

You laugh as you climb in, straddling him in the backseat, the leather warm from the sun and your knees bracketing his hips. The crown slides down your forehead, and he pushes it back up, grinning like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He presses a kiss to your collarbone. “And you’re radiant.”

You glance down at the donut, the candle flickering between you two.

“What do I wish for?”

Bob tilts his head, voice low and smooth. “Wish for me to fuck you until you forget your name.”

Heat flares under your skin.

“You’re supposed to be sweet.”

“I am sweet. I’m the funfetti and the frosting, baby. Now blow.”

You blow the candle out, watching the flame curl into nothing—and Bob pulls you in for a kiss that starts gentle, but turns deep fast. His hands grip your thighs like they belong to him, thumbs tracing your skin as your mouths slide together, needy and slow.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your lips. “You’re all I wanted this year. This is my gift.”

You roll your hips, feeling the hard press of him beneath you. “I thought this was my birthday.”

He grins. “Oh, sugar. Every thrust is a present.”

You laugh into his mouth. “Then stop talking and give me my gifts.”

His fingers hook under your panties, dragging them down. You don’t even bother being shy—he’s already seen every part of you, tasted them too. But something about the cramped space, the ridiculous crown still on your head, makes it hotter. More urgent.

Bob kisses down your chest, pulling your top down to mouth at your nipples, moaning against your skin like you taste like sugar. “Gonna make you so messy, sweetheart.”

Your hands thread into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Then get messy.”

He doesn’t hesitate. His hands lift you enough to pull his jeans down, and you gasp when his cock springs free—hard, flushed, and already leaking for you.

“You’re really gonna fuck me in your truck?”

“I’m gonna make you scream my name so loud we fog up the damn windows.” He grins. “Birthday suits only.”

You help him tug your top off, throw your panties somewhere in the footwell. Then you sink down onto him slowly, both of you moaning like it’s the first time all over again.

“Jesus,” he groans. “Tightest fuckin’ gift I ever got.”

You rock your hips, nails dragging down his shoulders. “And you didn’t even have to unwrap me.”

He thrusts up, hard and sudden, and you whimper.

“Unwrapping’s my favorite part,” he says, breath hot in your ear. “But fuck if you don’t ride like you were made for this.”

You move in rhythm, the truck creaking beneath you, every bounce making you wetter, tighter, needier.

He holds your hips like a man on a mission, fingers digging in as he thrusts up to meet you, each snap of his hips pulling a cry from your throat.

“Sing for me,” he pants. “Wanna hear how much you love your birthday.”

“B-Bob—”

He grabs your face, eyes locked on yours. “Say it.”

“I—fuck—I love it.”

He grins, cock twitching inside you. “Damn right.”

Then, like he’s been planning it all along, he starts to sing.

🎵 “Happy birthday to you…” 🎵

You gasp. “You’re not—”

🎵 “Happy birthday to you…” 🎵

His hips never stop. You’re laughing, crying, clenching down on him as he pounds up into you, voice smooth and filthy and full of love.

🎵 “Happy birthday, dear sweetheaaaart…” 🎵

“Fuck—” you gasp. “I’m gonna—”

🎵 “Happy birthday to youuuuuu…” 🎵

You come with a strangled moan, body shaking in his lap, the crown falling off as your vision whites out. Bob holds you through it, voice soft now, whispering praises as you ride it out.

“There you go, baby. That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You barely register the warmth flooding you seconds later—his mouth dropping open, arms tight around you as he spills inside you with a groan.

Silence, then your shaky laugh fills the truck.

“That was the most chaotic, wonderful birthday I’ve ever had.”

He kisses your temple. “Only the best for my funfetti queen.”

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