Here my out. I don't have a solid concept other than Bob finds a sketchbook filled with supersuit concepts so he starts flipping through it and it turns into pictures of the team and then pictures of just him. Anyway reader finds him looking at it and somehow the conversation ends up like "sorry, you're just really pretty in the sunlight. I mean, you're pretty in any light." I just need someone to tell Bob he's pretty π
Velour and Velcro
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader
Summary: You have a hobby of drawing and designing things in your spare time, one day Bob stumbles across your sketchbook and discovers something surprising.
Warnings: Semi Spoilers for Thunderbolts I guess cause Bob. No crazy warnings apart from that partners, just super fluffy, super sweet stuff happening here, with like a hint of intimacy :)
Authorβs Note: Thought Iβd make a cute little one-shot for today as Iβve been focusing on a lot of my bigger works and getting those prepared for posting (thereβs not a lot of editing to do, just want to go through it with a fine toothed comb.). Hope yβall enjoy this one though!
Word Count: 5,939
The common room of the compound had been a war zone not even less than an hour ago.
The aftermath of game night still lingered in the air like smoke after a fireworks showβexplosive, and borderline destructive. A half-empty bowl of popcorn had been flung across the room at some point, scattering kernels into the shag rug. Three pillows had been used as makeshift shields. Walker had accused Yelena of cheating, and Yelena had accused Walker of being a βliving embodiment of a root canal.β Ava had sat back and watched the chaos, while Bucky and Alexei had both quietly removed themselves to get their respective alcoholic beveragesβBuckyβs was whiskey, Alexeiβs was vodka.
Through it all though, you had sat curled into the corner of the oversized grey cloud couchβlegs folded up, sketchbook braced against your thighs, pencil and pen moving in quick, distracted arcs while chaos was blooming around you.
Bob had taken refuge in the open kitchen where he would be able to hide slightly from the chaos, and bake without being totally bothered by people.
The cake he made had started as a peace offering and became a full-blown stress bake the moment he heard someone scream βYOU CANβT STACK DRAW FOURSβ with the kind of fury usually reserved for battlefield decisions. The rich scent of chocolate and vanilla had poured into the air, mingling with the salt and butter from the popcorn, and the faint citrus of someoneβs spilled soda that still clung to the coffee table.
Now, the kitchen was dark. The last flicker of the oven light had gone out. Most of the team had vanished to their quarters, trailing groggy grumbles and sore losersβ muttering. The common room had finally settled, breathing again after the riot of laughter and arguing had burned itself out.
Only a single lamp remained on beside the couch, casting warm, golden rays over the cushions and the floor beneath. The glow hit the coffee table in soft shapes, glinting off an abandoned spoon and catching in the tiny rainbow oil spill of a spilled cup of tea. Outside the windows, the city buzzed onβhe could hear everything even though he was eighty levels up above the streets; car horns honking, peopleβs laughter, the booming bass coming from clubs.
Bob sat on the edge of the couch, right where you had been earlier.
The cushions were still warm, and your blanket was slipping off onto the floor. And thereβtucked beneath one of the throw pillowsβwas your sketchbook.
He had picked it up with every intention of returning it to your room, but it felt so warm in his hands, and familiar because it was yoursβthe temptation was great.
You took it everywhere with youβmission briefings, airport lounges, quiet rooftops. He had watched you doodle in the margins of reports, on napkins, sometimes on your own hands when you ran out of space. Heβd seen you sketch everything from tactical armor blueprints to a cartoon of Alexei in a tutuβas per his request because he thought you would be able to execute it perfectlyβ¦He still has it hanging in his room. Bob admired your creativity, how you were able to conjure anything up onto paper without really thinking about it, and the pride on your face when you made someone laugh with a sketch of them. You took joy in the little things, and Bob loved that about youβ¦It was one of the multitude of things that made him grow so attached to you in such a short period of time as well.
So when he flipped the book open, just to see what tonight had looked like through your eyesβ¦Bob couldnβt help but smile.
The first page hit him like a kaleidoscopeβan explosion of rough linework, little notes crammed into the margins, and the chaotic charm that could only belong to you. A suit with heat-reactive armor filled the center, the panels labeled and crosshatched, but the entire thing was surrounded by doodles of stars and question marks. A sticky note had been pressed into the corner with a scrawl that read:
βWould this melt? Ask Ava. Or throw it into a bonfire and find out.β
Tucked under the edge of the next page was a scrap of metallic blue fabricβshiny, a little torn at the edge, maybe scavenged from a prototypeβand beside it, youβd written:
βLove this for night missions. Or roller disco.β
He flipped another page.
More sketches. Some wildly technicalβcomplete with annotations, chemical compound breakdowns, tensile strength estimates. Others looked like pure fantasy. There was one labeled βBucky but make it James Bondβ with a tuxedo that clearly had at least three concealed weapons built into it and a bowtie that doubled as a GPS tracker. Right beneath it, youβd scribbled:
βHeβs going to hate this. Itβs perfect.β
Next to it:
βNew project idea: suit that deploys snacks for the hangry people on the team.β
There were fingerprints smudged across some pages. A couple places where tea had clearly splatteredβrings of soft brown staining the edges, a few ink trails bleeding where it had touched the lines. Some of the pages had been ripped out and taped back in, corners folded and unfolding like theyβd been touched again and again.
It wasnβt just a sketchbook. It was a journal. A blueprint. A scrapbook of your brain.
On one page, tucked into a hand-stitched envelope youβd glued to the inside of the paper, was a tiny Polaroid of Yelena fast asleep during a mission debriefing, mouth slightly open, arms crossed. Youβd captioned it:
βHer highness at rest. Do not wake unless you want to be attacked.β
There was another one a few pages later: Alpine in full loaf mode on top of Buckyβs clean laundry pile. Her eyes were mid-blink, deeply unimpressed with the camera. Beneath it:
βMake Bucky a serious portrait of her for his b-day. Buy oil paints and a heavy frame. She deserves it.β
Bob laughed quietly to himself, breath fogging a little against the thick silence of the room. The sketchbook was warm in his lap now, heavy with secrets, and he felt like heβd broken into something sacredβbut youβd also left it there, hadnβt you?
Part of him wondered if that was on purpose.
He flipped again. Slower now.
The sketches were less structured as he turned the pages. More personal. Little candid moments rendered in soft lines and shaded pencil.
Ava with her nose buried in a novel, curled under three blankets in the common room.
Walker fast asleep with his mouth open and one sock half-off from Alpine pulling at it, labeled βhe snores like a wood chipper.β
Alexei doing squats with a few books balanced on his shoulders like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Bucky standing in the hall with a grocery bag slung over his shoulder and a faint smile on his faceβcaptured like youβd seen it only once and hadnβt wanted to forget.
He flipped again.
Still more familiar facesβmoments frozen in graphite and ink.
Yelena dancing alone in the kitchen, socked feet sliding on the tile. Ava perched on the compound balcony, wind tangling her hair as she stared out at the horizon. Walker and Alexei arm-wrestling over a stack of pancakes. Even Val, drawn from behind, pacing a briefing room with her phone clutched in one hand like it was a weapon.
Page after page of everyone else. Little snapshots of the people you spent your days with, drawn in affection and detail. Not always flattering, but always seen.
And Bobβ¦
He wasnβt anywhere.
He turned the page again.
There it wasβa suit design labeled SENTRY (high altitude / max durability). It was stunning. Sleek. Reinforced in all the right places. Smart. Sharp. Sharp in a way that felt distant from the rest. Youβd even drawn it over a silhouette that wasnβt quite himβtoo tall, too broad, too composed.
Your handwriting was still there though. All the notes, all the care.
βReduce friction on shoulder seams. They always leave marks.β
βFlexible core armor. He moves quieter than youβd expect.β
βLining should be soft. He wonβt ask, but he hates the scratchy stuff.β
Bob stared at the page, chest tightening.
You paid attention. You always paid attention. But this didnβt feel like the others. It wasnβt him. It was the idea of him. What he wore. What he could withstand. What the Sentry needed to be.
The ache bloomed slowly in his chest, quiet and a little hollow.
Because maybe you didnβt draw him the way you drew them. Maybe to you, he was mostly suit specs and duty. Not laughter. Not stillness. Not warmth. Maybe you only looked at him in relation to what he could doβnot who he was when he wasnβt glowing.
He turned the page anyway. Resigned.
And something fell.
A loose sheet slipped from the bindingβlike it had been tucked there with a kind of reluctant care. Not meant to be lost. But maybe not meant to be found so easily either.
Bob caught it midair.
And his breath left him.
It was him.
Drawn entirely in pencil, soft and textured. He was sitting on the common room windowsill in profile, knees pulled up, chin resting on his arm. The city behind him glowed like a galaxy, but the light youβd shaded most carefully wasnβt the skyline. It was the way it spilled across his shoulder and cheek.
Sunlight. Or something that felt like it.
He stared at it, stunned.
There was no suit. No armor. Just Bob. Just quiet.
He flipped the page.
Another sketch.
Bob on the rooftop, hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders, the wind ruffling his hair. He was mid-laugh. The kind of laugh that closed his eyes, tilted his head back. Youβd captured the movement like you hadnβt wanted to forget a single detail. And againβthere was light. Sketchy, warm, bleeding across the horizon and catching in his smile.
He flipped again. Faster now.
There he wasβdozing on the Quinjet, arms crossed, sun pouring through the window and across the bridge of his nose.
Thereβleaning against the railing in the compound garden, hair mussed, holding a mug. His silhouette edged in early morning glow.
Thereβhalf-turned toward you in the middle of a conversation, eyes soft, lips parted. Lit from the side like youβd drawn him straight from memory. Every version of him surrounded by brightness. Like you couldnβt separate him from light even if you tried.
The ache in his chest cracked open into something else.
Wonder.
Disbelief.
Hope, soft and new.
He turned one last page.
This time, it was just his face. Close-up. No background. No distraction. His eyes were openβlooking just slightly off to the side, like he was listening. A small crease between his brows, his lips parted as if heβd just started to speak. The light hit only one side of his face, casting the rest in gentle shadow.
And under it, scrawled in your familiar, almost apologetic handwriting:
βI donβt know why I always draw him in the sun. Maybe because thatβs how I see himβ¦My Golden Boy.β
Bob stared at the words; My Golden Boy.
His heart thumped once, hardβthen stuttered like it was trying to reset itself, like it completely forgot its job. The breath caught behind his ribs trembled, and slowed when it left him. He wasnβt used to seeing himself like thisβnot as the Sentry, not even as himselfβ¦But as someone you looked at with wonder. With affectionβ¦With light.
He pressed his hand gently to the page, fingers trembling slightly as if the graphite might smear. His name wasnβt written anywhere, but it didnβt have to be. It was all him. The way youβd drawn the softness in his expression. The warm shadows. The quiet tension in his brow that only surfaced when he was thinking too hard and trying not to let it show.
He could still feel the echo of your voice in the caption, even though he hadnβt heard it out loud.
Maybe because thatβs how I see himβ¦
Bobβs fingertips were still hovering over the pageβhis pageβwhen he heard the quiet creak of the hallway floorboards.
He sat bolt upright.
And then you appeared in the doorway.
Fresh from the shower.
Your maroon robe clung to your shoulders, cinched loosely at the waist, and the dim light from the lamp pooled over your damp collarbones and down the glisten of your chest like water still hadnβt finished tracing its path across you. The robe stuck slightly to your skin in places, hinting at curves and damp warmth beneath. Your hair was wet, curling and dripping at the ends, your legs bare and gleaming from the knee down. You looked soft. Blurred around the edges from heat and water. And the way your eyes swept the room like youβd just remembered something important made Bob feel like the oxygen had been sucked out of the compound.
βOh,β You said, eyes landing on him, then on the sketchbook. Your lips curled into a sly, sleepy smile. βCaught you red-handedβ¦βBob opened his mouth. No sound came out.
You stepped into the light, unbothered, tugging the robe closed just slightly more as you approached.
βSorry,β You murmured, mock whispering like you were letting him in on a secret, βForgot I left it out here. I usually hide my embarrassing fanart in my room.β
He blinked, surprised by how casual you sounded. βThis isnβtβthis isnβt embarrassing.β
βOh no?β You asked, arching a brow. βNot even the page where I drew a suit that dispenses emergency pizza rolls?β He let out a breath of a laugh, eyes dropping to the sketchbook that was still open in his lap.
βI d-donβt think I made i-it to that page.β He muttered, his voice soft and nervous. He was always nervous around you, and his stutter became worse when you were around him. Bob swallowed hard, fingers still curled protectively around the edges of the sketchbook as you settled onto the couch beside him, tucking your smooth, bare legs up under you with ease. The robe shifted againβjust slightlyβbut it was enough to make the air leave his lungs slowly, like they were also resigning from working. You noticed his sudden stillness and smirked like you knew exactly what you were doing.
βYou really didnβt get to the pizza roll suit?β You asked, kissing your teeth, βWhat a tragedy. Itβs probably the most important contribution Iβve made to modern tactical gear.β Bob let out a shaky laugh, feeling it catch in his chest briefly. You smelled like fresh citrus, like someone had cut up lemons and limes and saved the skin and sprinkled sugar on them. You always smelled sweet to him, and now with the close proximity it was apparent that it was definitely a mixture of your natural scent and a lotion of some kind that gave you that essence.
βI-Iβd wear the pizza roll suit,β He started, βIf i-it meant I got to be in your s-sketchbook more often.β You tilted your head at him, eyes sweeping his face with a smirk that softened the edges of your mouth.
βBob Reynolds, are you flirting with me?β Bobβs face went pink almost instantly. It wasnβt a quick flush, eitherβit bloomed slowly, like heat rising from the collar of his shirt to the tips of his ears. His mouth opened, then closed again, like he was cycling through a thousand possible replies and discarding every single one.
βIβuhβn-noββ He stammered, then gave up with a breathy laugh. His eyes flicked to the sketchbook and then quickly away, like it might catch fire if he stared too long. You tilted your head, grinning softly.
βI like it,β You murmured, and your voice was quieter now. Gentler. βYou, flustered. Itβsβ¦Sweet.β
Bobβs eyes widened slightly, as though he didnβt know what to do with a word like that in your mouthβlike it wasnβt meant for someone like him. He glanced down, fumbling for something safe to say, but his gaze caught on the sketch again. The one you knew heβd been looking at.
βThat one,β You said, following his eyes. Your voice dipped low. βItβs one of my best.β He looked up at you slowly.
βWhy do y-you call me that?β He asked, almost a whisper. His hand brushed lightly over the corner of the page. ββG-Golden boy.ββ
You shifted beside him, your knee brushing his. The robe slipped a little on your shoulder but you didnβt fix it. Instead, you leaned in slightly, voice so soft it nearly caught on the warmth between you.
βBecause you look pretty in the sunlight,β You responded, like it was the simplest truth in the world. The words lodged somewhere between his ribs and his throat, reverberating through him like soft thunder. He didnβt know how to hold them. They werenβt something heβd ever been given beforeβnot like this, not in a tone that curled with heat and truth and something dangerously close to want.
You were so close he could feel the steam from your shower radiating off your skin, could see the droplets still clinging to the edge of your collarbone, the damp sheen painting your clavicle in a way that made his mouth dry. And then you tilted your head, eyes catching the lampβs glow like they were catching him, and with a sultry little smile.
βFor the record thoughβ¦You look pretty in any lighting. But the sunlight just does something to youβ¦β It was spoken like sin and silk. Like worship. Bob looked at you like youβd peeled the sky back and let the sun touch just him.
Your words lingered in the air like smoke after something massβYou look pretty in any lightingβ¦But the sunlight just does something to youβand he was burning from the inside out. Blushing so deep it felt inhuman, like even his bones had turned a soft shade of pink. The warmth of your voice, the way you leaned in just enough to let the intimacy rest on the space between youβit was unraveling him. Gently. Completely.
His throat bobbed. His breath shook. And then, barely above a whisper, he answered:
βI thinkβ¦I only look l-like because of the way you see meβ¦β
It wasnβt a line. It wasnβt practiced. It fell out of him soft and raw, stripped of armor, the kind of honesty that only exists between two people sitting too close in a quiet room.
And you smiled.
Not the teasing kind, not the cocky kindβbut a slow, molten thing that curled at the edges of your mouth like you were letting him see something private. Something treasured.
βDo you want a live demo?β She asked, glancing at the sketchbook, before returning your gaze to his. Bobβs breath caught in his throat, and his eyebrows raised slightly, confusion and panic blooming all at once in his eyes like twin stars flaring to life.
βIβuh, IβI donβtβI mean, y-you donβt have toββThe words stumbled out, all jagged and half-formed, tumbling over one another in a panic that came from hope. From longing. From the quiet, desperate part of him that had spent so many nights dreaming of being this close to you and never once dared imagine it could feel like this.
You smiled againβsoft and amused, but there was nothing mocking in it. If anything, there was kindness there. Heat. Want.
βRelax, golden boy,β You murmured, rising from the couch with an easy grace that made his stomach twist. You crossed to the low coffee table, brushing past the old Uno cards and empty mugs and remnants of popcorn carnage, and picked up your favorite pen from the chaos. As you turned back toward him, the lamp caught the curve of your throat, the warmth on your cheeks, and the dampness that lined your collarboneβand Bob swore heβd never seen anything more radiant in his life.
βItβs not a big deal,β You said gently, as though you werenβt walking him toward the edge of a moment that would burn into the rest of his existence. And thenβslowly, deliberatelyβyou crossed the room to him again.
Your hand found his chest.
Not forceful. Not hesitant. Just sure. Steady.
Your palm rested right over his heartβwhere it was pounding, thunderous under his ribs like it wanted to climb out just to get to youβand then you pushed. Softly. Gradually. Until Bob let himself be moved, shoulders sinking back into the plush cushions, legs parting slightly for balance, arms trembling where they rested at his sides.
You bit your lipβjust a littleβconcentrating, maybe. Or maybe just savoring the moment, the way he looked with his head tilted upβadmiring you. Awestruck. Unmoored.
Then you reached for the sketchbook still balanced on his lap, sliding it away gently, like it was no longer neededβbecause what you were about to draw wasnβt on paper.
Bob didnβt have time to ask what came next.
You climbed onto him.
One knee, then the other. Thighs bracketing his hips. Bare skin to soft cotton. You moved like waterβlike gravity had chosen you as its favoriteβand then you settled, slow and devastating, into his lap.
Bobβs breath left him in a rush.
A whimper, almost. A sound he hadnβt meant to make.
His hands gripped the edge of the couch like they might keep him from floating away. Every part of you pressed against him nowβyour thighs warm and damp from your shower, the robe parting just enough to reveal the bare skin of your chest, your breath brushing his cheeks. The heat of youβyour weight, your scent, your nearnessβit made everything else disappear.
Time bent.
You were straddling him like you were meant to live there. Like he was built for this exact moment. And you were close. So close. He could see the tiny beads of water still clinging to the fine hairs at your temples. The curve of your bottom lip. The way your eyes searched his face with an intensity that made him feel nakedβnot in body, but in soul.
You rested the sketchbook on his stomach, the spine nestled against the slow rise and fall of his breath.
Then you leaned in.
βDonβt move,β You whispered, the pen now poised in your hand. βI want to remember this expression. The one where you look like you donβt know if youβre dreaming.β
Bob swallowed. Hard.
His voice, when it came, cracked like light through stained glass.
βI-I donβt think I am. But if I am, pleaseβ¦Donβt let me wake up yet.β His breath stuttered in his chest, shallow and tremoring, and his hands clenched tighter around the edge of the couchβwhite-knuckled, desperate. Like if he let go, he might reach for you. Might pull you closer. Might ruin this moment with the sheer want bleeding out of him.
Because he was trying not to think about your legs, draped warm over his thighs.
Not to think about the dip of your robe, the way it shifted every time you breathed.
Not to think about your scent curling around him like a memory he hadnβt earned.
And especially not to think about the way you looked at himβas if he was art already. As if he was worthy of being captured.
But God, he could feel everything.
The press of you against him. The delicate weight of the sketchbook rising and falling on his stomach like it had synced with his breath. And your handβyour hand was moving, slow and fluid, sketching something onto the page with such focus that it made him ache.
You were so close he could see the way your lashes kissed your cheeks when you looked down. The way your mouth curved softly in concentration. And still, his gaze driftedβdevotional and restless. First to the hollow of your throat. Then to the curve of your knee. Then back to your mouth like it was something sanctified. Forbidden.
You glanced up and caught his eyes, smiling.
βYouβre fidgeting,β You murmured, the pad of your thumb smudging a line across the paper. βWhat are you thinking about?β Bob could feel his throat tighten a bit, as he coughed a bit. His fingers spasming against the couch cushion.
βI-Iβm not,β He whispered, too fast to sound convincing. Your brow arched, slowly.
βNo? That blush says otherwise.β He could feel his cheeks grow hotter beneath your stare as he looked down at your hands, βWhatever is on your mindβ¦Better tell me nowβ¦Or else Iβll have to draw you with steam coming out of your ears. Might ruin the composition.β You added, sweeping long graceful lines across the page. Bobβs throat worked around a sound that didnβt quite make it out. He shifted beneath you, breath fluttering through parted lips, and sighed.
βI-Iβ¦Y-Youβre justβ¦β He trailed off, blinked hard, and took a deep breath before continuing, βY-youβre r-really closeβ¦β
Your pen paused mid-stroke. That tiny smile flickered again across your lipsβmischievous, but not unkind.
βSo thatβs what your fidgeting is about, hm?β You asked, cocking your head just slightly as if inspecting him from a new angle. βAll this tension just because Iβm close?β You dragged the tip of the pen lightly across the paper againβnothing dramatic, just a line to keep your hand busy while you watched him melt.
Bob opened his mouthβprobably to deny itβbut all he managed was a shaky breath and another glance down. His fists had tightened on the cushion again, knuckles white, like the couch was the only thing anchoring him to the moment. You followed his gaze and saw the way his fingers were digging into the fabric.
You didnβt say anything for a moment.
Then, soft and playful:
βYou knowβ¦β Your voice dropped to a purr as your eyes flicked back to his, βYou could put them on my hips. I promise itβd be better than the poor old cushion.β
Bob inhaled sharplyβlike the suggestion itself was enough to knock the wind out of him. His eyes met yours again, wide and caught between wonder and panic.
βIβI d-donβt wanna mess this up,β He admitted in a hush, the words barely held together by breath. βI-I donβt wanna touch you wrong. Orβor make you uncomfortable. I j-justββ
You leaned in a fraction closer, your breath brushing the corner of his mouth.
βYou wonβt,β You whispered. βI promise.β
Then, slower, softer, like an invitation dressed as a tease:
βI want you to. Thatβs kind of the reason why I climbed on top of you in the first placeβ¦β Your hands stayed steady on the sketchbook, but your thighs squeezed gently around him in reassurance. His hands twitched against the cushion again. He looked like a man at the edge of a precipiceβequal parts terrified and desperate to fall.
You sighed softlyβbarely a soundβand lowered your pen to rest atop the sketchbook that still remained on his stomach. Your gaze flicked back down to his hands, which were back to being clenched into the cushion, as if it was going to save him from coming undone.
βAlrightβ¦I guess Iβll fix it myself.β You murmured, voice like velvet against his ears. Bobβs eyes darted up to yours, startledβuncertainβbut he didnβt move, he just froze in his spot.
You reached for him slowly, deliberately, your fingertips brushing the air before touching down gently on the inside of each of his wrists. And the moment you made contact, something happened. His breath stuttered. His jaw tightened. He frozeβnot from fear, but from the overwhelming awareness of your skin on his. You were the first person to touch his hands in what felt like forever.
You curled your fingers around his wristsβcarefully, tenderlyβand lifted them. They didnβt fight you. If anything, they followed the motion like they were tethered to you by something deeper than bone. He watched, helpless and wide-eyed, as you guided his trembling hands up to your waist. The fabric of your robe was still damp, soft against his skin, and your body underneath was warm and alive and impossibly close.
And thenβyou placed his hands on you.
Right on the curve of your hips.
You didnβt let go right away. You kept your hands atop his, cradling them. Holding them in place like you were making sure they knew they belonged there. Like you were grounding him with something far more intimate than words.
Bob exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching instinctively. His thumbs flexed but didnβt dare moveβnot yet.
Your thumbs brushed over the backs of his hands in slow, gentle strokes. Tracing the veins. The bones. The skin that trembled under your touch. You could feel how warm his hands were. How careful. How desperately he was holding himself back.
Then you leaned forward, just a breath. Just enough.
And Bob tensed.
You saw it in the sharp tick of his jaw, the way the muscles there fluttered under his skin like wings struggling not to fly. His breath caughtβagainβand his eyes, wide and dark and searching, darted to yours.
Still, you didnβt speak.
You let the silence cradle you both, let the hush between your bodies fill with everything unsaid. The air was thick with heat, your knees snug around his hips, your chest nearly brushing his.
βKiss me Bobβ¦β The words were softβbarely above a whisperβbut they hit him like a solar flare. No fanfare. No hesitation. Just truth. Raw and crystalline and glowing at the edges.
Bobβs breath stilled in his chest. His hands, still resting on your hips beneath your own, trembled like a leaf caught between seasons. His pulse roared in his ears. His jaw clenched tighter, the muscle jumping as he stared at you with wide, reverent eyesβlike he wasnβt sure if you were real, or if his dreaming had finally bled into the waking world.
You could feel itβthe way his fingers curled just slightly against you. The way his breath shuddered as it passed your cheek. His lips were parted, damp and trembling. And when your nose brushed hisβwhen the air between you seemed to collapse under the weight of wantingβhis eyes fluttered closed for a second like the moment alone might undo him.
He was so warm beneath your touch.
So human.
And so afraid to move.
Your hands slid from atop his fingertips gliding up his wrists, along the crook of his elbows, to the dip in his shouldersβslow and patient, grounding him inch by inch. He followed your motion like a tethered thing, like a current pulled toward a shore he didnβt dare believe in. You cupped his face gentlyβjust the edges of his jaw, your thumbs brushing along the sharp lines softened by aweβand tilted his gaze back to yours.
βOnly if you want to of courseβ¦β You whispered, breath ghosting across his lips like the first touch of dawn.
Bob didnβt answer right away. He couldnβt. He was still unravelingβthread by golden threadβunder the weight of the moment. The way you were looking at him was unbearable in its tenderness. Like he was beautiful. Like you were waiting for him. Like he was safe here, in your hands.
βI do,β He breathed, and it was hoarse with want. βIβIβve w-wanted to forβ¦for so long, Iββ
You silenced him with nothing but the brush of your forehead against his. Close. Closer. Until the world fell away and there was only breath. Skin. Heat. Until the tip of your nose nudged his again, teasing him, beckoning him to come closer.
He leaned in like a man surrenderingβlike he was handing himself over with shaking hands and an open heart.
And when Bob kissed you, it wasnβt practiced or perfect. It wasnβt confident or slick. It was slow. Soft. Starved. Like his lips had never truly known what they were for until they found yours.
The kiss started as a brushβbarely there. Like the whisper of silk against skin. His breath trembled as it left him, catching on yours, and then he kissed you again. Firmer. Deeper. Still slow, still trembling, but real. Like he meant it. Like he needed it.
His lips were warm and unsure, moving with reverent caution, and you could feel itβthe aching restraint thrumming through every fiber of his body. He wasnβt holding you like he wanted to devour youβhe was holding you like he was afraid you might disappear.
You responded with a steadiness he couldnβt manage, your mouth tilting gently into his, coaxing him closer. You kissed him like you knew he could take more, like you knew he wanted to be undone if you did it slowly enough.
Your hands slid up into his hair, threading through the soft, messy strands at the back of his head. He gasped into your mouth at the feelingβbarely a sound, more like a breath catching on something too big to hold. And then you did it againβfingernails grazing his scalp, thumbs sweeping across the hinges of his jawβand his whole body gave the faintest shudder beneath you.
He whimperedβsoft and broken and so full of want it made heat bloom low in your stomach.
You opened your mouth against his just slightly, inviting him inβand Bob kissed you harder. Still careful, but with a new desperation under the surface. Like something in him had finally snapped loose. His hands, once trembling against your hips, flexed and pulled you in tighter. Not greedyβyearning. Anchoring. Like if he pressed you close enough, he could finally quiet whatever storm had lived inside his chest since the day he met you.
When your tongue touched hisβsoft, tentativeβhe gasped like he wasnβt prepared for the heat of it. His whole body stiffened beneath you, then melted so quickly you almost collapsed into him. The kiss deepened by inches, by instinct, until it was slow-burning and sultry, hot and aching and so much.
Your lips parted only slightly, breath mingling with his, and you murmured something soft against his mouthβsomething he couldnβt even register, because the sound of you speaking into his kiss lit a fuse inside him he didnβt know he carried.
He kissed you again, and again. And again.
Each one a little longer. A little slower. A little more desperate.
Your robe shifted with every moveβslipping just a touch more from your shoulder, brushing across the backs of his hands, baring more skin to his touch. His thumbs skated over your waist now, unthinking, and slow. As if he was mapping you. Memorizing you.
You broke the kiss with a whisper-soft sigh, eyes half-lidded, your lips still brushing his.
βStill feel like you donβt know what youβre doing?β You asked, breathless and smug and sweet.
Bob didnβt answer right away. His mouth chased yours again, stealing another kiss that was softer than the last. Sweeter. Like a thank you.
βI feel like I c-could kiss you forever,β He said, and his voice cracked beautifully on the last word.
You smiled at him. βGood,β you whispered. βBecause I donβt want you to stop.β
