Once Elliot’s eyes droop shut, and the pitter patter of his anxiety-plagued heart turned to a steady beat of a drum. That’s when it was safe for Mr. Robot to emerge. Ever since he was a kid, Elliot has had issues sleeping. The red puffiness that showed on his bottom lids was nothing out of the ordinary. Mr. Robot just had to wait for the right moment. Before his tense muscles go limp, but after his eyelids dropped like a lead curtain to hide him from the cold world that surrounded them.
There had been two instances which Mr. Robot almost fucked up immensely, and put his planning in danger. And both of those instances began and ended with Tyrell Wellick . The fucker was smart, Mr. Robot had to give him that, but he was far from acting his own age. At the beginning, when they first met Tyrell, he was clean-cut, not a hair out of place. His translucent eyes scanned for things. Little things; anything out of place that might matter later on in the game.
Now, all those intelligent eyes did were look at the back of his neck while Mr. Robot clacked away at the keys. He began to startle Mr. Robot with shoulder rubs that lasted two seconds too long and gentle cheek-cupping. Smiles that started to get wider and wider.
And distracting. It was obvious the guy had a thing for ‘Elliot’. But at this point, Mr. Robot would say that a dreaded 75% of that was now being pushed onto him , rather than Elliot Elliot . When Mr. Robot realized this, however, it was too late.
Preventable instance numero uno happened late on a Sunday evening. A chaste peck to his lips sent Mr. Robot into a slightly-off guard jump that almost woke Elliot. Luckily, he was able to catch a grip before that happened.
The second time, he wasn’t so lucky. It happened two days after the first one. Mr. Robot had put his guard up on high alert. He promised himself a tiny little kiss wasn’t going to phase him.
And he was right.
What did, however, send Mr. Robot into a temporary panic mode, was Tyrell pressing the palm of his hand to Mr. Robot’s jaw to deliver a wet, not-so-chaste kiss to his trapped upper lip. Elliot awoke with a start, their heart beating as one like a child’s would.
If it weren’t for the grogginess that hung around Elliot as his mind tried to awake, Mr. Robot might have not been able to put him down under.
If this happens again, we’re goners , he thinks. A very stupid plan blooms in the back of Mr. Robot’s thoughts, and he pushes it off for almost a week before the ducking and dodging of affection becomes too much to handle. Tyrell was getting whiny, and whatever the hell was stuck in his system that was making him this way had to get out .
The next day they meet, he puts it into action. After an hour or so of their usual routine, Mr. Robot presses on the subject.
“You’re not as focused as you need to be.” His words break the twenty minute silence that had hung thick in the air between them. Mr. Robot pushes himself up and out of the chair, a groan emitting from the ground as it’s scraped against by metal legs.
Tyrell frowns, his brow knitting together to feign confusion, as if doing that would work. He knows exactly what this is going to be about. “What do you mean, Elliot?”
“Come on. Quit playing dumb,” Mr. Robot hisses. He grabs Tyrell’s fancy tie and yanks on it. A shred of dignity can be felt leaving his chest as he pushes out the next words through grit teeth. “You’ve been gawking at me like you want to fuck for the past week.” God, is this what it has come to?
“What exactly are you implying?” Tyrell’s light, quirked brow is not complemented well by the knowing glimmer in his eyes.
“If we get this over and done with, will you stop your drooling and help get us through this in one piece?” He can’t believe any of these words are leaving his dry mouth. What if his theory was wrong? What if Tyrell ended up getting worse after this?
No. He was a one-and-done type. Mr. Robot could feel it. He opens his mouth to repeat himself more clearly but is abruptly cut off as chapped lips clash clumsily together. Besides the familiar jump he gets, Mr. Robot keeps it under control. If Elliot feels any of this, it will seem like nothing more than a wet dream with a blurred face. As far as he knows, he’s still asleep in his own bed.
Though not touched by the breathless murmurs of I’ve wanted this for so long , yadda yadda, Mr. Robot coaxes Tyrell in careful steps backwards between the kisses and gasps for air. Once he feels the edge of the desk push against his lower back sharply, he breaks away to dig into his pocket for a packet of lube he had tucked away in preparation.
If he had to choose, Mr. Robot would pick taking a few punches over the sex. It was less humiliating to get a few bruises rather than sleep with Tyrell Wellick.
Tyrell’s eyes flicker with lust as he takes the packet from between Mr. Robot’s clamped pointer and middle finger, holding it between his lips before he reaches for Mr. Root’s pants and--
--a hand grips his wrist tightly. They make eye contact briefly. The panic in Mr. Robot’s face is wiped away when he realizes that Tyrell would do this his way, not his own. If he was on the receiving end, Elliot would feel it in the morning. He didn’t need that. With an aggressive snarl, Mr. Robot protectively barked out, “I don’t bottom.”
He’s too lovestruck to argue. After several, several more kisses from Tyrell, Mr. Robot begins to press at the bulge in his trousers. A soft gasp escapes Tyrell, and he presses eagerly into even the smallest bit of friction. He’s mumbling things in a foreign language, and Mr. Robot is grateful that he has an excuse not to respond as Tyrell’s jacket and tie are pulled off, his shirt is unbuttoned, and his pants are dropped down to his ankles.
With a strong grip, Mr. Robot bends Tyrell over the desk, pushing papers and whatever the hell was resting nearby onto the ground. A little mess wasn’t going to bother him, as long as this gets done . And hey, he could use a stress reliever. Could do some good for the both of them.
Tyrell whimpers impatiently, arching his back to present his ass better to get the attention he craved. Mr. Robot almost scoffs as he rips open the packet of lube, coating his fingers haphazardly before he let a digit push inside.
A soft moan escapes Tyrell as his legs slide apart bit by bit.
Mr. Robot presses his chest against Tyrell’s warm back, nipping at the top of his ear. “You look like Bambi the way you’re struggling to stay up. How adorable,” he practically growls out the words when he shoves another finger inside of his tight hole. It takes a couple minutes of Tyrell’s whining and squirming to stretch him out somewhat well, but once he is, Mr. Robot has to admit, he had gotten pretty hard himself.
Mr. Robot didn’t have the time to be promiscuous. There were important things to take care of. The complex sexuality that lingered between the two sides was hard to comprehend. So, he tried not to question it, and kept an open mind. Not that it’s exactly the first thing in his thoughts in most circumstances.
“Elliot, please-- ” The plead snaps Mr. Robot out of his train of thought. Tyrell was waiting, and as much as he would love to hear him keep complaining, Mr. Robot wanted this to end already. He unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out to slick it up with the rest of the lube.
With a muttered warning, Mr. Robot slides into him. He has to bite back a curse. The only time he was able to feel any sort of pleasure before this was through Elliot--and God is that not happening often, if at all.
Tyrell doesn’t hold back a single sound. His nails dig into the old wood of the desk as a satisfied purr gets stuck in his throat.
Mr. Robot reaches up to tangle a hand into Tyrell’s messy locks of hair to yank on them. “You gonna let me move, hm ?”
Tyrell wets his dry lips and laughs breathily, that stupid smile on his face. “Of course.”
With the permission, Mr. Robot puts all the possible outcomes aside to let his body do all the work. The thrusts come sharp and quick, though the pace is slow and teasing--just to fuck with the guy a little. Each desperate cry for more from Tyrell is just a little too amusing.
With a tight grip on Tyrell’s hip, he begins to pick up the speed. Mr. Robot feels his stomach drop and his hips numb, and can’t help but allow a low groan fall from his lips. Tyrell is starting to slur out words in bastardized languages that probably wouldn’t be understood on either end, and the very coy businessman persona he wears so well is nothing but a memory.
Jaw falling open, eyes dark, Mr. Robot keeps thrusting. The hand in Tyrell’s hair keeps its firm grip through the haze that starts to cloud his brain. What starts to happen can only be described as a flickering candle. One moment he’s physically here, fucking into Tyrell Wellick, and the next, he’s gone, and Elliot takes his place.
It starts in small, short bursts that are hard to comprehend at all. Even when Mr. Robot is flickering out, he still feels every inch of the hot and heavy thrusts that are putting him on edge. But when Elliot is back on the bed, he’s writhing around, hips rolling up into the air.
They’re both feeling this.
No matter how hard he tries, nothing can shove Elliot back into his fake fantasy of sleep. He hears moans from Tyrell, moans from himself, and moans from his other half. It’s dizzying; It’s intoxicating . His steady pace turns into a mess. His skin his glimmering in a sheet of sweat. His mind is saying no, but his body has long since taken over to scream hell yes .
He felt high in a way that morphine could never let him be. Everything is being doubled. The intensity, the hip-numbing pleasure, his stamina-- everything.
Mr. Robot feels the air get knocked out of his lungs--and so does Elliot, squirming and rolling in the made-up bed with fists clenching sheets, his back arching. Neither of them thought it was possible to come so hard, but hell, does it happen. Their bodies shutter together as they ride out some sort of fucked up orgasm that leaves them both out of breath.
Hands unattach from Tyrell in a shock. Mr. Robot’s mouth gapes open, gasping for air like he had run a marathon. The past few moments had been a blur, but by the look on Tyrell’s face as he turned over, he did this damned right .
Elliot awakes the next morning in his bed with utter confusion. As his eyes blink away the blur of sleep, a hand slides down under the sheets to feel an inconvenient case of morning wood.
What the fuck was that dream he had? Where the hell did it come from? More questions remaining unanswered, he sighs to himself and drags his feet to the shower to take a quick cold one. He wasn’t in the mood for beating it out. He feels fucking exhausted, more than usual, and his legs were a little shaky.
Cold shower doesn’t seem to do the trick at all. With a hiss of a curse, Elliot presses the pad of his hand to the shower wall, wraps a hand around his dick, and starts to jerk of irritatedly. The fact that Mr. Robot might be around watching this made him cringe.
Elliot is never very vocal when it comes to pleasure. His breathing would go ragged, and occasionally, a tiny grunt would fill the silence, but nothing more than that.
For some reason, he’s really sensitive this morning. He isn’t sure if it’s because he’s exhausted, or the lack of attention his dick got anymore, but each stroke his hand delivered was putting him on edge.
There were flashes of someone pale being bent over a table behind Elliot’s eyelids. Heavy breathing. Echoing moans in an empty room--
Before Elliot could comprehend any of it, his hips twitched and he rode out a strangely long orgasm. A breath he didn’t know he had been holding in is released. His weak knees signal he had to sit down soon, so after a quick scrub-down, Elliot takes a moment to sit on his bed to take a breather.