hold still
bob reynolds x reader
summary: bob can never pretend to be patient when he's in bed with you, so you try to teach him to be.
cw: smut, edging, handjob, sensitive desperate bob lets go, whiny bob lets go, sub!bob, light bondage, praise, bob's power making him break stuff when he comes yayy, fluff, aftercare, like one single mention of drugs
a/n: well...... yeah. I need to make this man whimper I'm sorry. I'm not so used to writing smut I hope it's not so bad pls be indulgent!
word count: 2.6k
masterlist ⋆ taglist ⋆ ao3 ⋆ @eyelessupdates ⋆ ko-fi ♡
Bob can be patient if he really has to. Sitting for dozens of minutes in the waiting room of his psychiatrist when all the previous appointments have progressively gotten delayed, meaning his own is no exception. Waiting for John to put his ego aside and finally call it quits with the punching bag so he can get his turn. Watching Yelena hesitate on which movie to pick from her watching list when really, she could pick any since she plans on watching them all anyway.
One thing he has never gotten acquainted with is being patient whenever he’s in bed with you.
Not when you’re slowly kissing down his neck and no matter how good it might feel to take the time, his pants feel like they’re about to burst from how long he has been hard. He can’t pretend to be patient either when he has you under him on the couch of the Watchtower when no one else is home, lips swollen from kissing, your chest heaving in ragged breaths and your hands buried in his hair, lightly tugging to pull him back to you and kiss him again when if he doesn’t have you touching him elsewhere he’s pretty sure he’s going to cream his pants in the minute.
And he certainly cannot be patient when, just as you are now, you’re straddling his thighs, the palm of your hand gliding along his throbbing cock, slow and languid, your teeth biting a mischievous smile into your bottom lip as you watch every reaction of his.
Your eyes wander over his figure, insistent and lustful as you admire the way his hand digs and paws at the fuzzy pillow over your bed, limbs reacting the only pathetic way they can when he knows he’s close to coming, the muscles of his lower stomach tensing with the intensity of it, hips rolling into your touch, just enough so he doesn’t look so desperate yet.
It’s all so cruel when he very well knows you will stop stroking him before he tips over the edge, letting it all fade away, but some part of him hopes he will get to come before you pull your hand away, even if he will feel guilty that he did and he knows he doesn’t really deserve to.
Because some part of him thinks he deserves to feel the frustration of not being given what he wants, for all the shameful things he’s done, and in some way, he shouldn’t even deserve to come – if he really had to get what he deserved then you shouldn’t even let him, you should just leave him hard and aching.
But the thing with you is you’re too good to him, and he doesn’t even deserve to have you making him feel that good when all he’s ever done in his life has been trying to be just as good and ending up making things worse, for everyone around him, for himself.
So he will have to be patient.
His lower stomach burns as he feels it building, can only hope that this time will be the one you will let him come – he hopes each time, so desperate and lightheaded that his guilt can’t even reach him anymore. Your hand glides maddeningly tender along the length of his leaking cock, and even though his bottom lip almost dents with the way he bites back his sounds, the lightbulb of the dim light over your nightstand starts to flicker betrayingly – just as he’s about to come and maybe break something, you remove your hand, once again. “You’re gonna short circuit something” you say, denying him his orgasm once more tonight. The whimper that leaves his swollen lips as you pull away is almost endearing, his eyebrows pulling in a desperate expression.
“You’re short circuiting me,” Bob whines, voice small but rough, head dropping forward all at once like the strings of a puppet brutally cut, hair draping over his face and hiding the flush over his cheeks.
You fake pout, running a hand through the brown waves of his hair, brushing them back from his face, admiring the visible warmth over it. “I know, but it’ll feel even better once I finally let you come” you say, voice soft with enjoyable pity. Your hand leaves his hair to caress his thigh where you’re straddling his legs, fingers brushing beside where his cock twitches desperately, just inches away. His chest heaves in frustration, fingers clawing helplessly at the soft sheets of your bed like he’s trying to hold onto something other than you or he will burst.
“The…” he vaguely gestures to his side, glancing there for nothing more than half a second, a helpless exhale leaving him. “The lamp is telling you”
You look at the lamp over your bedside table, the light stabilized now. “I could tell even without the flickering” you declare, a chuckle escaping your lips. Even without the lamp, there is no mistaking the way he thrusts into your hand when he gets closer, desperate for more friction. You adjust your position over his lap, hand caressing over his bare thigh. “You’re doing so good for me Bob,” the already satisfied smile over your face grows with the way his dick twitches at your praise, and the ache between your legs strengthens too, painful and obvious, but that's a matter for later. “Just a few more and I’ll let you come, okay? Gonna make you feel so good baby.”
He nods eagerly, brows still knitted in a pitiful expression.
There’s a desperate humming vibrating into your mouth when you kiss him, tongue brushing against his as his chest heaves with a moan when your hand runs along the hard plane of his abs, fingers tracing down his happy trail to eventually close around his cock again. Your hand isn’t even moving, and he’s already almost just as close as he was when you stopped, quiet whimpers hummed into your mouth that turn into full moans when you let your thumb focus and rub on his sensitive tip. You've been at it for so long and he has never stopped leaking, probably a curious side effect of the serum. Maybe the fact that he’s so easily worked up and sensitive is part of it too.
“Do you remember,” you start, lips still so close to his, thumb teasing around the sensitive tip of his dick and spreading the bead of precum leaking from it. A shuddering halt escapes his mouth and he looks down to where your hand is working, his breathing starting to get thicker again. “That time you came so hard you couldn’t stop laughing?”
His chest lifts with a laugh, and you feel the breath he huffs out. “Yes”, he says, ears turning red at the memory, still vividly remembering the weird mixed feeling of ecstasy and disbelief.
“I’ve been meaning to make you do that again” you declare, teeth sinking into your lower lip with a smile.
A whispered curse slips from his lips as he bucks into your hand, his laughter immediately dying down as the focused frown takes place over his face again, trying not to come right then and there. “Shit, okay” his eyes squeeze shut, head sinking back into the pillows of your bed, a loud sigh leaving his chest. “I’m gonna come if you keep it up and tell me stuff like this” he warns, eyes half lidded from the weight of all the sensations he’s bearing.
“Oh, okay.” your mouth twists in a grimace. “But that’s kinda the plan, you know. Eventually”
He hums a low sound and his eyes open to the ceiling, a low whine coming from his chest when he adjusts his position, shifting your weight over him, and uses it as an excuse to thrust his dick into the palm of your hand. His hands rest at your hips, broad and warm, his sense of discipline off as his thumbs ever so lightly slip into the hem of your underwear, and you let him for a second, until you remove your hand from his dick and his chest caves with another pitiful sound. “Bob, do I have to tie you up?”
He knows better than to speak. Or even think about it. He knows he’s fucked if he allows himself to imagine being bound and at your mercy for more than a second.
“You’re lucky I even let you thrust into my hand”
“Sorry” he mutters, hiding his face in the crook of his arm, a sigh leaving his chest. “I’m really trying to focus, but–”
“I bet you are” you cut him off, climbing off his lap to get off the bed. His throat tightens with confusion when he thinks you are leaving him here like this, and he props himself up on his elbows, watching as you rummage through a drawer of the dresser, his breathing still short. “I’m still tying you up”
When you walk back to the bed it’s with a belt in hand, and Bob swears he could come right then and there. You’re really doing it. “Oh–” he lies back on the bed when you straddle his lap again, purposefully grinding against his dick when you grab his wrists. His eyes carefully follow each of your movements, an obvious awe over his face, and he lets you handle him with ease, completely pliant under you when you wrap the belt around his wrists, gently tightening the loop. “I’m sorry” he murmurs as he watches you above him.
“That’s alright,” you declare as you let his arms rest above his head once you’re done binding him. “I’m doing this because I knew you’d like being tied up but would be too afraid to ask for it” you grin, giving his thigh a gentle pat. His face scrunches into a grimace of awkward agreement, and his dick twitches with need like a poor thing denied attention. “Look at you, Bob. You’re a mess” you grin before you lean to kiss his cheek.
He could break his bounds easily if he wanted to, could get this over with quickly. He’s never really had to wait before, the drugs wouldn’t really allow him to – but he wants to, wants to be good for you, needs to ignore the pressure in his loins as your mouth trails from his jawline to his neck in soft kisses. It’s evil that this is the thing that almost undoes him – he would hate to end up having a ruined orgasm after all of this.
“You’re gonna be good for me now?” you ask, talking between kisses against the slope of his throat. He nods, eyes shut tight and assured, and you sense his throat tightening where your mouth feels it, can feel it budge with anticipation when your fingers trail down his defined abs to meet the core of his need again. Your face is still tucked in his neck where you can directly feel the vibration of his whimpers of relief – or oppositely, of frustration because he’s still trying to hold on – when your fingers wrap around his throbbing, aching cock again. “I’ll let you thrust.”
His head digs further back into his pillow, eyelids fluttering back and forth as your hand starts to work on his sensitive cock. He won’t get sheepish on the one thing he’s allowed – he bucks into your fist, fucking your hand further than you do it, chasing the pleasure you're giving him. The feeling of your soft palm gliding over his aching cock gets much more maddening now that he controls the pace, and he knows he can and will probably sabotage himself with it, but he can’t help it, he’s far too deep into it now, he’d rather suffer the consequences later than have you deny him his orgasm once again.
“Please,” he brokenly pleads when the light flickers again, when what’s resting over your bedside table starts to tremble with the way he bucks into the palm of your hand with erratic, desperate thrusts. His wrists strain against his bounds, the muscles of his stomach tensing, sweat beading at his temples when he tries to hold it, still guiltily moving against your touch. “I can’t–”
“It’s okay, Bob” you murmur. “Let go”
His face contorts with a whimper of relief, and his frown of focus turns into one of determination when you finally let him loose; he bucks wildly, fucking your hand with short, sharp thrusts until the pleasure is too intense, too much to bear.
He’s been there before tonight, only this time, he doesn’t have to hold it, and white flashes before his eyes when with a guttural cry, he hilts inside your fist, his cock pulsing and jerking as he starts to come – the lightbulb explodes with the force of it in a sharp sound.
He’s too far gone to notice, and you can’t let the sudden fright of it stop you guiding him, so you keep helping him through it, maintaining his pace when his body gives up on the effort and only sinks into the mattress when he can’t give any more.
He’s wrung dry, dizzy with the intensity of it, soul up to the ceiling or even well up above at this point, but completely out of his body, he’s sure. He only feels the ghost of your touch over his cheek, just feels the warmth of your mouth after it has left it, barely hears it when you praise him and help him down the slope of it all. His eyes fall shut, chest heaving heavily as he catches his breath, blood pumping and limbs light when you free his wrists and guide his arms down.
He nods when you make sure he’s okay, body doing it on his own, eventually smiling when he finally regains sentience. His hands cover his face, and while he knows he’s safe with you, he starts giggling – either in embarrassment or relief, he has no idea, but he can’t help it, and it lasts a good while but eventually helps him fully come back to his senses.
His eyelids prickle with the weight of everything that has come crashing down, a beaming smile over his face as he looks over at you when you lie down next to him. He's never felt so lighter before, has never felt like an empty shell in the good sense of it.
“You broke the lightbulb” you murmur, pushing back the strands of damp hair sticking to his face. He usually easily gets sweaty, but it has never been that bad before.
He grimaces guiltily, watching to the side, seeing the chunks of glass scattered over the bedside table. “Sorry… Did you– did you get hurt?”
“No” you shake your head reassuringly, watching the worry fade from his face. “But we’re gonna have to invest in candles” you tease. “Unless you turn them into flamethrowers”
He huffs out a laugh, face beaming in guilty amusement. “I’ll try not to”
He blinks, slow and heavy as his hand holds yours over his chest rubbing back and forth, and it’s obvious he’s exhausted and probably won’t hold on too long before he gives up on remaining awake and sleeps like a log. “Don’t fight it,” you smile softly. “I’ll clean you up”
“Thank you” he murmurs, chest heavy with what remains of it all. “You were right. It was great”
“You were great” you whisper, kissing his cheek. “You weren’t that bad on the patience matter.”
He smiles, somewhat proud of himself for it.
At least, he will know he has it in him the next time Valentina ambushes him into an excruciatingly long mission meeting.
—
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