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"So you love me, huh?"
Tyrell actually flushes, as if he hadn't been about to say the words himself only moments ago. "I thought—some things—"
"Better left unsaid, yeah," Mr. Robot interrupts impatiently. "But on second thought...sometimes it's good to know exactly how other people feel about you," he says, leaning back against the desk, looking down at the gun held loosely in his hand, inspecting it. "You know? It's useful. To know exactly what they're willing to do. How far they're willing to go."
Tyrell's gulp is audible, and Mr. Robot almost chuckles. He runs his fingers over the gun, brushing them against the metal thoughtfully. He doesn't need to look up to know that Tyrell's eyes are fixed on it.
He knows now that Tyrell would take a bullet for him, but what if the situation is reversed? Would he put a bullet in him—or rather, Elliot? Because as much as Mr. Robot hates to admit it, he can see Elliot interfering in their plans to the point where such a step could be necessary. And he needs somebody who would do it, no questions asked. Tyrell's certainly batshit enough, and clearly, he's fiercely devoted—not just to the cause, but to Mr. Robot himself. The only thing Mr. Robot needs to make sure of now, is that some part of him is willing to cause Elliot pain. Or at least that he's able to, if the situation calls for it.
In one swift movement he points the pistol back at Tyrell's face, willing him, this time, not to just accept his fate but to wrestle back control. Mr. Robot holds the gun loosely, his finger barely touching the trigger, making it easy for Tyrell to try and grab it off him, but Tyrell just stares in vacant confusion. This is a test, you idiot, Mr. Robot thinks irritably, figure it out. Tyrell frowns, a crinkle between his brows—he looks like he's trying to see into Mr. Robot's brain, work out what's expected of him. All he needs to do is reach for it, make an attempt. Mr. Robot will be satisfied enough by that. He moves the gun closer to Tyrell's face as if to prompt him, or at least just trigger some dormant survival instinct. He's looking for the Tyrell that strangled a woman to death with his bare hands. The guy is lovesick now, stupid with it, but Mr. Robot hopes that bloodlust is still in there somewhere.
Tyrell's eyes flicker back down to the barrel of the gun, and suddenly he's opening his mouth, tilting his chin forward and putting his lips around the muzzle, firm and decisive. His eyes shift back up to meet Mr. Robot's and they are utterly clear, blank.
Mr. Robot stares back at him, honestly blindsided. Of all the reactions he might have expected Tyrell to have, this was nowhere on the list. He's done a fair amount of pointing this gun at Tyrell's face tonight and he thought Tyrell would have guessed that, this time, the intention wasn't for him to just sit there and take it. After all, they've already established that Tyrell is willing to die if it's what Mr. Robot decides is best—and Mr. Robot has shown him that he's decided against it. He doesn't know what this is supposed to prove, exactly, besides that Tyrell is a little wrong in the head, and he's sure everyone who's ever met him is already well aware of that.
He's about to pull the gun back when Tyrell pushes his lips further down the barrel, swallowing uncomfortably around it. The action makes Mr. Robot freeze. Tyrell is placid, sitting calmly in his chair with his palms flat on his knees, eyes still fixed on Mr. Robot, sure and trusting. Like he's satisfied he made the right choice, did what Mr. Robot wanted.
"Okay," Mr. Robot murmurs, mostly to himself. He lets his finger slip from the trigger, subtle and quick, and this time when he draws the gun back a little, he has no intention of pulling it away; he just wants to see what will happen.
Tyrell lets it slip out of his mouth, but he's far from done with it. He slowly sticks out his tongue, lets the muzzle of the gun rest on it, like he's feeling its weight. Then he licks it, slow and deliberate, tongue tracing around the opening, tasting the metal, the oily grime of it. He doesn't wince or grimace, just diligently applies himself to this bizarre task, tongue sliding pink and wet over the dirty metal, lips pushing up against the side of the barrel in a smeared sort of clumsy kiss. Mr. Robot watches with a detached curiosity, honestly at a loss.
It's only when Tyrell takes the gun back into his mouth that Mr. Robot feels it—the corresponding flash of heat between his legs as if Tyrell's lips are around his dick instead of the cold hard metal of the gun. Oh, he thinks stupidly, feeling incredibly slow. That's what this is. He shifts against the desk uneasily as Tyrell takes the gun deeper. It must be uncomfortable, hard and unyielding in his mouth, stretching his lips awkwardly, maybe scraping past his teeth. Mr. Robot grows hard fast and curses Elliot's body for reacting in such a way—if he got off more often maybe he wouldn't be so fucking easy, turned on by something as sick as this.
He hates that he doesn't know how to react, doesn't know what to do with such a display, with Tyrell's dedication to debasing himself like this simply because it's what he believes Mr. Robot wants. A part of him wants to yank the gun out of Tyrell's reddened mouth, berate him, shame him—"That's what you thought I wanted, you sick freak? What the fuck is wrong with you?" He'd throw the gun aside, turn his attention back to the computers. "If you wanna deepthroat firearms in your own free time, be my guest, but Jesus, don't involve me."
He wishes he could do it—the words are on the tip of his tongue—but for some reason he's struck dumb by the sight of the pistol in Tyrell's pretty mouth. It feels like all his blood is rushing to his dick, leaving his brain dangerously empty. Tyrell seems desperate for some sort of reaction, pushing for it, trying to get the gun deeper into his mouth so that his lips are nudging the trigger guard, dangerously close to Mr. Robot's fingers. An image flashes unbidden into his mind of his fingers replacing the gun; two, maybe three of them stretching Tyrell's mouth wide, making him drool, feeling the slick heat of his tongue, the roof of his mouth—
Jesus. He's sweating and his cock is so hard it's uncomfortable now, straining in his jeans. He doesn't dare picture Tyrell's lips wrapped around it, though he can barely hold the image back. It's too dangerous; his body already wants it, eagerly responding to everything Tyrell does with his mouth as if he can feel it, as if it's his own hot flesh in between those lips instead of dirty metal. He can't let his mind go there as well, especially not when it would be so fucking easy, when Tyrell clearly wants it too, would do anything for it.
"Fuck," he hisses, unable to keep it in, and the word seems to please Tyrell. His cheeks pink up and it seems like his lips quirk a little around the barrel of the gun, as if he wants to smile but can't with his mouth so full. He's sweating too, the colorful lights of the arcade glinting off the shine on his forehead, his perfect hair beginning to dampen.
His desperation for approval is so pathetic, it's frankly disgusting, but Mr. Robot would be lying if he said there wasn't anything about it that he liked. The guy pretty much worships him and it's not exactly a turn-off to be thought of as a God.
Tyrell eases off the gun, breathing heavily. It glistens under the lights, and so do his lips, metal and skin both gleaming with spit. His mouth is rubbed so red it looks sore, but he doesn't seem to care. He inspects the gun again, slowing his breathing, looking like he's readying himself—and then he looks up into Mr. Robot's eyes as he takes it back into his mouth, in one motion, as smoothly as he can manage and as deep as he can get, plump bottom lip pressed firmly against the trigger guard.
"Fuck," Mr. Robot repeats, and before he can stop himself, "that's good," because it fucking is somehow, he can feel it between his legs, his dick aching. It's gross and it's dangerous and it's fucking insane, but it's good, too, Tyrell with this deadly weapon jammed past his pretty red lips, his blue eyes all glassy and gazing up at Mr. Robot like he's the only thing that matters in the world.
God, he wants to have those eyes looking up at him from between his legs, that mouth stuffed full of his cock.
Maybe it's just the arousal clouding his brain but suddenly it doesn't seem like it would be such a bad move. Maybe it's actually a reasonable course of action after all. He's got to keep Tyrell in his thrall, gotta give him something to make sure he sticks around. The guy is so unpredictable, who knows what he'll do if he gets blueballed?
He doesn't want to blueball Elliot, either. Elliot needs this, Mr. Robot can feel it. He really doesn't jerk off enough; there's so much tension in his body begging to be let out, especially now that he's hard. It would almost be cruel to pass up a chance like this, an eager mouth right here ready and willing...it's not as if Elliot's life is brimming with such opportunities.
He pulls the gun out of Tyrell's mouth, and Tyrell coughs, startled, reaching up to rub at his jaw. It must ache. Mr. Robot wants to make sure it's still aching tomorrow. Tyrell wipes at his wet lips and looks up at Mr. Robot apprehensively, as if afraid it's all over. Oh, don't worry, baby, Mr. Robot thinks to himself, we're just getting started.
"Get up," he demands, decision made. He stands up straight and tosses the gun onto the table behind him. The code continues to scroll past on the computer screen, and as he catches sight of it the excitement inside of him only builds. God, they're fucking changing the world right now. Surely there's no better time for a celebratory blowjob?
Tyrell scrambles to his feet, shrugging out of his suit jacket, so focused on Mr. Robot he doesn't even seem to notice it dropping to a heap on the dirty arcade floor.
Mr. Robot reaches for the chair, yanking it towards the desk and letting the back of the seat knock against the edge as he sits down. "On your knees," he snaps impatiently, because Tyrell's still standing there gawping at him like he's afraid to make a move without permission, like he can't believe this is what Mr. Robot really wants unless it's said out loud.
But with those words he drops eagerly to the floor, waiting twitchily while Mr. Robot gets his belt and fly undone and yanks down his boxers, letting out a groan as the chilly air of the arcade hits his overheated skin. It's frustrating having to do this with Elliot's oversensitive body—he wants to remain calm and collected but Elliot's so fucking pent up, it makes it a hell of a lot more difficult. If he doesn't stay focused, Elliot will probably shoot his load the second Tyrell touches him, and then everyone'll be disappointed.
Mr. Robot grits his teeth and takes a couple deep breaths, trying not to make it obvious that's what he's doing. Thankfully Tyrell is distracted by the sight of his cock, staring at it with a hungry look in his eyes that's frankly a little disconcerting. He's practically salivating and it's maybe equal parts creepy and hot.
"It's beautiful, Elliot," he says reverently. "I want to worship it."
Mr. Robot snorts. "God, you are fucking unhinged, aren't you?"
Tyrell colors, glancing away. "You make me crazy," he says accusingly, shifting on his knees.
"I think you're doing a bang-up job of that all on your own," Mr. Robot replies, then grabs a handful of Tyrell's hair to pull him forward, impatient. "Now enough talking. Show me what else you can do."
Tyrell stumbles, losing his balance, but he catches himself quickly, a hand gripping Mr. Robot's knee as he leans in towards his cock, breathing in—smelling him, Mr. Robot realizes, and he shouldn't be surprised by any of Tyrell's weird behavior at this point but something about that gets to him anyway. Finally, Tyrell delicately wraps his fingers around it, feeling it out, and Mr. Robot tenses up with the touch, unprepared for how fucking good such a simple thing feels. In his mind it's nothing, a hand on his dick, so what? But Elliot's body reacts like it's something miraculous, and betrays him, makes him shudder. God, it shouldn't feel so overwhelming, the kid's fucking touch-starved. He needs to jerk off more at the very least, Mr. Robot's going to make sure he does, he'll do it himself if Elliot won't—
Thankfully Tyrell doesn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, or else he's too focused on the feel of Elliot's cock in his hand, marveling at it, to notice Mr. Robot's desperate attempts to keep from unravelling. He wants to snap at him to get it in his fucking mouth already, but deep down he appreciates having a minute to try and prepare himself. There was a flicker, earlier, when Tyrell attempted to profess his love, a split-second where he didn't feel totally present, where he could sense Elliot's awareness of their surroundings. He regained control quickly enough, but he can't risk something like that happening again now, not with Tyrell crouched between his legs fucking nuzzling his cock, rubbing his lips and nose against the shaft, his eyes drifting blissfully closed.
Elliot's heart is beating in double time and Mr. Robot wills it to slow down. It seemed like it was Tyrell's hands on him earlier that woke him up, and Mr. Robot's frankly terrified that he won't be able to ignore his body being touched like this. He knows Elliot would never do this himself, knows it's not right to use his body like this without his knowledge, but—well—surely he's done a lot worse. And Elliot needs this, Mr. Robot is certain of that. He'll feel better for it, he tells himself. And he never has to know exactly what happened, just as long as Mr. Robot manages to stay in control.
Finally, Tyrell takes him into his mouth. He goes slow, like he did with the gun, like Elliot's cock is something he needs to handle with equal care and respect, something that holds the same amount of power. Mr. Robot is thankful for it, for the gentle way Tyrell parts his lips to take the head between them, the soft press of tongue, the slow slide as he takes him deeper. He can't move a muscle for a long, long moment, can't even speak, so acutely focused on not letting Elliot come immediately down Tyrell's throat. He inhales, exhales, counting seconds until he starts to feel a little calmer.
Tyrell doesn't seem to know how to cope with Mr. Robot's total lack of reaction, which Mr. Robot supposes is fair—he'd like to be spouting dirty talk and fucking Tyrell's throat, but he doesn't think Elliot would be able to handle that just yet. Tyrell flicks an uncertain glance upwards, and the sight of his face is too much, his mouth full of cock and his eyes shining—Mr. Robot gazes up at the ceiling, hissing out a breath. Some people look stupid with a dick in their mouth, but somehow Tyrell Wellick actually looks better this way.
This is nothing, Mr. Robot reminds himself. A meaningless blowjob. Just fooling around, high off their success. All he's doing is letting off some steam, and making sure Tyrell has one more reason to stick around. It's nothing more than that.
Gradually, Elliot's body begins to get used to the feeling, no longer shell-shocked by pleasure, and so Mr. Robot relaxes into the blowjob, moaning openly and letting himself enjoy the sight of Tyrell's head bobbing in his lap.
But it's harder to pretend like this is just a meaningless blowjob when Tyrell starts touching himself, palm curved over the bulge in his neatly-pressed pants like he can't help it. Like he's so into what he's doing, so into Elliot, that it's making him desperate. Mr. Robot tries closing his eyes, but almost as soon as he does he hears the sound of a zipper. He darts a look down between his legs to see Tyrell fumbling to get his dick out, moaning with his mouth full when he gets his hand wrapped around it.
"Cut that out," Mr. Robot snaps without thinking, and Tyrell lifts his head.
"Sorry—" he gasps (dude actually apologizes), "I just—it's so good, I—"
"Yeah, well, try and control yourself. This isn't about you."
Mr. Robot thinks he might've gone too far with that, but to his surprise, Tyrell slowly, reluctantly takes his hand away from his cock and leaves it curving up slick and hard between his legs, nudging against the fabric of his shirt. It should be pathetic—it is pathetic—how quick he is to obey, even if it means denying himself pleasure, but something about it sends a shock of arousal through Mr. Robot nonetheless. He likes powerful people, not pathetic sniveling weaklings like Wellick, but—he also likes to feel powerful, and this isn't exactly a bad way to get that feeling.
But Tyrell's self-control is, apparently, as pitiful as he is, because it seems like only seconds pass before he's touching himself again, one shaky hand reaching down between his legs. Mr. Robot watches through slitted eyes as Tyrell squeezes himself at the base—jeez, is he trying to stop himself from coming? Already? Just from this?—his fist so tight his knuckles are popping out, stark white against his blood-dark cock.
The fact that he's this turned on makes Mr. Robot simultaneously smug and disgusted, but it's the disgust that wins out.
"Jesus Christ," he barks, pushing Tyrell off suddenly. Tyrell makes a surprised little noise and looks up at him, bewildered, spittle on his reddened lips.
Mr. Robot studiously ignores his face as he reaches out to grab his stupid expensive tie, unknotting it roughly without saying a word. He hitches up his pants and gets to his feet, circling round Tyrell and yanking both of his arms forcefully behind his back. He wraps the tie around his wrists and knots it securely. Tyrell doesn't struggle, or even speak, but the look in his eyes is questioning when Mr. Robot sits back down.
"Your technique was getting sloppy," Mr. Robot lies. "Can't multitask, huh?"
Tyrell gives a little nod of understanding, shifting on his knees to adjust to this new position, less steady without the use of his arms for balance. And then he returns to his task with renewed vigor, redoubling his efforts like he really thinks he wasn't good enough. Mr. Robot swears as Tyrell takes him deep, surrounds his cock with slick tight heat. He digs his fingernails into his own palms and Tyrell eases off only to do it again, determined even as his throat clenches up, trying to force Mr. Robot's cock past his gag reflex. He keeps pushing, making little choked-off sounds, his throat fluttering beautifully against Mr. Robot's cock.
"There you go. Open up," coaxes Mr. Robot, reaching down to rake his fingers back through Tyrell's sweaty hair, pushing it up off his fever-hot forehead. Tyrell shudders at the touch and forces himself down further. "That's a good boy," Mr. Robot murmurs mindlessly, groaning as he feels his cock fit deeper into Tyrell's throat. Tyrell shivers all over at the praise and Mr. Robot settles back in his chair, tension beginning to drain back out of him now that he feels more in control.
Tyrell is still struggling, though, pulling off to cough wetly. "Come on," Mr. Robot encourages, harsher now, impatient. "Take it all the way, I know you can."
Tyrell gulps and nods, ducking down and taking him in again—but he gags suddenly at the last second, an involuntary reaction, his head bobbing back up. "I'm sorry, Elliot," he chokes out. "I want to, I want to."
"Yeah? Then try harder."
Tyrell does, apparently spurred on by the words, desperately striving to fill his throat. Mr. Robot glances back over his shoulder and is satisfied to see that the code is still scrolling doggedly by on the monitor. Then his gaze lands on the gun lying forgotten on the desk, and before he even knows what he's doing, he's reaching for it. It's instinctive. Maybe he's high on the power Tyrell is giving him; maybe he wants to feed this heady, drunk feeling. Maybe he's just frustrated that he's taking a risk letting this blowjob happen at all, and if Tyrell's not gonna make it fucking mind-blowing then what's the point? He can't think it through, his mind too hazy with arousal—all he knows is he wants the pistol back in his hand, wants to feel the weight of it, to touch his finger to the trigger. To aim.
He does have the presence of mind to flick the safety on, quick as a flash, the soft click drowned out by the sound of Tyrell's gagging. Now that he's decided to keep Tyrell around after all, it would be somewhat ironic to do him in purely by accident, or in a fit of pique.
That's about as much as his rational brain can manage; everything else is distant static. With a sick twist in the pit of his stomach, he nudges the muzzle of the gun coolly against the side of Tyrell's head.
"All the way," he mutters, watching as Tyrell freezes up for a second with fear. He can practically see the thoughts racing frantically around his head as he tries to figure out if he's really in danger or if this is just a game, and how he feels about it either way.
And then he swallows, slow and deliberate, uncomfortable with Mr. Robot's dick still wedged halfway down his throat. The resulting clench makes Mr. Robot moan, low and loud. Tyrell is trembling now, he realizes, but he's almost certain there's excitement in it. He glances down to see Tyrell's dick still rock hard and twitching between his legs, and thinks yes, definitely excitement. The realization that they're both getting off on this is somehow reassuring and nauseating at the same time. It's certainly something he doesn't want to analyze, even if he were in a fit state to do so. His heart races and his cock throbs, and Tyrell forces himself further down.
"Yeah, that's it," Mr. Robot urges, holding the gun steady, "almost there. Good boy," he adds, because it seemed to have such an effect last time. Tyrell quivers and his mouth sinks down that last inch, and Mr. Robot makes a triumphant noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and holds him there until he's starting to choke. It feels fantastic.
When he lets him up, Tyrell's face is red and shiny and his eyes are welling up with tears. There is a not insignificant amount of drool on his chin that he can't wipe away, his hands still tied tightly behind his back. Mr. Robot lowers the gun; brushes his knuckles against Tyrell's jaw in a gesture of faux-tenderness. Tyrell doesn't have to know that it's completely insincere.
Tyrell gulps, nods. "Thank you, Elliot," he says breathlessly. His bottom lip is trembling.
"What for?" Mr. Robot chuckles.
Tyrell is weepy. "Everything," he chokes out, and doubles over once again, sucking Mr. Robot's cock back down with such fervor it's as if he's trying to devour him.
"Guess you're good for something after all, hmm?" Mr. Robot murmurs, petting his hair lazily and feeling more than a little smug. "Worth keeping around. My own personal cockslut."
Tyrell makes a sort of strangled, whimpering sound.
"Yeah, you like that?" He's not sure if Tyrell actually does, or if he's just so thrilled to take what he's being given that he'll take the abuse along with it too. It's a tough call. "You sure as hell like this," Mr. Robot adds, pressing the gun back into Tyrell's temple and noting the resulting full-body shiver. "Hm? The danger, the threat...the feeling that your life is in my hands."
Tyrell lets out a muffled moan around the cock in his mouth, happily choking himself on it, shuddering and drooling each time he gets it deep in his throat, his nose nuzzled up in pubic hair. He splutters and drags his mouth back down over and over, blithely ignoring his body's protests, and Mr. Robot almost doesn't mind the occasional graze of teeth because the enthusiasm is like nothing he's ever seen before—it really is as if Tyrell would be perfectly satisfied to die like this.
"Should've known when you made me hold it to your forehead earlier," he goes on. "Did that make you hard? Huh? Your dick getting all fat while you were on your knees in front of me? Trying not to come in your pants as you begged me to put a bullet in your brain?"
Tyrell shudders so badly he almost loses his balance, becoming clumsier the more turned on he gets, his arms twisting helplessly in their restraints.
"Wonder where else you'd let me put this, hm?" Mr. Robot muses, pushing the gun a little harder against Tyrell's skull. Not hard enough to bruise. Probably. "You seemed to like it in your mouth well enough—" the words are coming out without a filter, he can't seem to stop himself, "—would you let me shove it up your ass?"
Tyrell gasps as he pulls off, his eyes sparkling, his mouth wet and smearing against the crown of Mr. Robot's cock. He looks utterly overwhelmed. "Elliot—" he chokes out, but can't seem to find any more words.
"Hmm?" Mr. Robot teases. "I think you would, if that's all you thought you could get from me. You'd let me put anything I wanted up there, if you thought it would please me. Think you'd get off on it, too, if I'm honest. The debasement of it. The humiliation. The knowledge that at any second, if I wanted to, I could pull the trigger."
"Oh," Tyrell sputters uselessly, squirming at his feet. "Elliot, please—"
Mr. Robot doesn't even know what he's begging him for anymore. To keep talking? To stop talking? To stop talking and act on his words? It's impossible to tell and perhaps Tyrell himself doesn't even know, judging by how dazed he looks and the way he can't even form a full sentence. Not to mention the fact that he's so wrapped up in what Mr. Robot's saying that he seems to have forgotten the task at hand.
"Hey, dollface," Mr. Robot snaps. Tyrell's gazing up at him now, enraptured, and it's easy to tuck the muzzle of the gun neatly under his chin, use it to force his head back further, dig the metal into the sensitive, pale skin of his throat. "Did I tell you to stop?"
He takes a moment to peer down between Tyrell's legs and can't say he's surprised to see that the sick freak's still hard. Not that he's one to talk.
Tyrell tries to shake his head, movements short and stilted with the weapon pressed up under his jaw. "Nej," he gets out, then corrects himself, stumbling over his words, "n-no. No, Elliot. God. I'm sorry."
"No," Mr. Robot agrees. "Now make me come or I'll blow your brains out."
Tyrell nods frantically, as much as he can with the gun digging into the underside of his chin, making small whimpering sounds until Mr. Robot pulls the gun away and lets him get back to work.
It won't take long. Mr. Robot's so riled up from all of it, the fucking power play—the implication that this lunatic would do absolutely anything he wanted. It's a trip, and he's not proud of it, but in this moment he's too turned on to give a damn. He can barely think, and again he can't help blaming Elliot. If he wasn't so hard up for it he'd probably be able to act more rationally, but as it is, his focus has narrowed completely to Tyrell's perfect mouth and throat and his beautiful, disgusting submission. To have the chance to act on whatever awful, violent fantasy might ever have fleetingly crossed his mind—well, it's irresistible, and unfortunately he's only human, and a fucked-up human at that.
"Gonna come," Mr. Robot warns as he feels the tell-tale signs, orgasm sparking its way through Elliot's nerves.
He eases Tyrell off his cock—it's torture to do it, but he wants to see the resulting look of dismay on his face. It's just as he imagined, made even more pleasing by the total state Tyrell is in. His mouth, nose, and eyes are all smeary-wet and reddened, and he's gasping for breath, his throat raw. There's a dark patch extending down from the collar of his shirt where it's wet through with saliva, sticking to his skin.
"Jesus," Mr. Robot murmurs, both impressed and repulsed, "the mess you've made of yourself."
Tyrell just sobs, a broken little desperate sound, tears slipping down his cheeks. "You," he manages to force out, accusing weakly.
"Hmm?"
"You did it," he mumbles, pouty and insolent.
Mr. Robot laughs softly. He reaches out to flick away a stray tear and Tyrell catches his finger in his mouth instantly, sucking hard on it, glowering, his eyes dark and still brimming with sulky tears.
"Suck on anything, won't you?" Mr. Robot laughs again, shaking his head in disbelief. He puts the gun down behind him so that he can grip his cock, squeezing himself hard at the base, holding off to see how this goes.
Predictably, Tyrell isn't satisfied for long, and within seconds he's trying to get Mr. Robot's dick back in his mouth instead. With Mr. Robot's hand in the way, he ends up merely nudging his lips against it desperately, nuzzling. He looks up at Mr. Robot pleadingly, his hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes blurry with tears.
"Please," he manages to murmur, voice cracking.
"Huh? What's that?" Mr. Robot asks, wanting to make him say it.
"Please, Elliot." Tyrell turns redder, kissing at Mr. Robot's full balls now, getting his mouth anywhere he can. "Please," he begs. "Come in my mouth. I wanna taste it." He's actually slurring; he sounds three sheets to the wind.
"'Course you do." Mr. Robot chuckles, running his fingers back through Tyrell's hair again and gripping a handful, tugging his head back. "Little slut." Tyrell barely seems to register the words. His eyes don't leave Mr. Robot's cock; he looks almost pained to be separated from it. Mr. Robot nudges it against his cheek, smears it there, and Tyrell lets out a heavy breath and another weak please.
Mr. Robot toys with the idea of spilling all over that pretty face of his, but in the end he can't resist the warmth of Tyrell's mouth for much longer, and guides Tyrell back onto his dick. Tyrell is reaching exhaustion, his poor abused throat unable to take much more even as he tries to force it, so Mr. Robot takes pity and takes over, pulling his mouth on and off his cock to control the pace as his orgasm quickly approaches. Tyrell goes limp and just takes it, lets Mr. Robot use his throat, lets him thrust deep and hold him down.
"You want my load in your mouth, don't you?" Mr. Robot hears himself saying. He's speaking without thinking again, running his mouth; he can't stop himself. "Yeah, you're gonna swallow it like a good boy?"
He comes with a deep, guttural groan, spurting down Tyrell's throat, pleasure thrilling through Elliot's body, an incredible, ecstatic release. Tyrell sputters but swallows determinedly around him, gulping out thick, wet sounds. The spasms of his throat feel so good, it's almost as if he's pulling the orgasm out of him, milking it from him. Mr. Robot holds him there a second longer than necessary, just to appreciate the feeling for as long as he can, finally lifting him off before he can actually suffocate.
"Thank you," Tyrell pants out, looking dazed.
Mr. Robot untangles his hand from Tyrell's hair, his fingers aching from holding it so tight. He examines his own handiwork dispassionately—Tyrell's bloodshot, shining eyes, the tear tracks on his cheeks, the come dripping from his swollen bottom lip.
"C'mon princess, you missed a drop," he taunts, a little out of breath. "Can't have that, can we?" He catches it on the pad of his thumb and slips it between Tyrell's parted lips, and has to laugh when Tyrell sucks at it hungrily.
Then Tyrell sits back on his haunches with an exhausted, ragged exhale that drags its way out of his throat, and Mr. Robot sees how fucking hard he still is, his cock leaking another large wet patch on his shirt. It makes him a pretty sight, though he's loath to admit it—Tyrell with his arms tied behind his back and his big cock jutting up like that, straining and dripping. He starts writhing under Mr. Robot's leering gaze, trying to get some friction, his cock jerking weakly.
"You like that?" Mr. Robot drawls. "The taste of my come?"
Tyrell nods furiously. "Yes, oh god, yes. I love it. Elliot. Please touch me."
His voice is a weak rasp, barely there. Easy to ignore. But he is truly desperate, hips bucking, thrusting up into the air almost uncontrollably. He lets out a broken, frustrated cry. "Please. Please touch me." He strains against the tie holding his wrists together, his biceps bulging beneath his shirt sleeves. The underarms are soaked with sweat. Mr. Robot's not sure he's ever seen anyone look so thoroughly disheveled, and it's satisfying in its own way, considering how buttoned-up and compulsively tidy Tyrell usually seems to be.
Mr. Robot regards him with some measure of indifference. Now that he's come, he feels delightfully relaxed, lazy and boneless like every last bit of tension has drained out of him, even tension he hadn't known was there. Tension he supposes Elliot just carries around in his body all the time, making him all stiff and uptight. But the orgasm has also had the effect of clearing the haze from his brain, which means he is rapidly returning to his senses and realizing he might have made a horrible mistake. Of course Tyrell's not the type of person to take what he's given and be satisfied with it—he's clearly the type to always want more. Mr. Robot would've realized that earlier, if he'd been thinking clearly. If that fucker hadn't started sucking off a gun and got him all hot and bothered.
He watches Tyrell wriggling and squirming and wonders if maybe he'll work himself up into such a frenzy he'll come all by himself somehow, but it's obvious he needs to be touched. Mr. Robot considers untying him so he can touch himself, but he can't bear the thought of him pathetically jerking off on the floor at his feet.
So, he leans down, elbows resting on his open knees. Tyrell immediately gasps at the increased proximity, hips bucking forward eagerly, cock jumping in anticipation. He's openly crying now, tears of pure desperation.
"Touch me, please touch me," he sobs.
Mr. Robot considers it for a moment. Then, instead, he reaches behind him for the gun on the desk. Tyrell gasps again, a sound equal parts frightened and thrilled. Mr. Robot turns it over in his hand, inspecting it calmly. Tyrell's eyes go bright and his gaze skitters back and forth between the weapon and Mr. Robot's face. It's as if he's trying to pull himself out of the depths of need and hunger that he's drowning in, grappling with clearer thoughts only to lose his grip over and over, finally surrendering and sinking back into the warm woozy waves of dumb pleasure.
His eyes glaze over once again and he continues his begging, undeterred.
"Please, Elliot, please..."
Mr. Robot reaches out with the gun, brushes it ever-so-lightly against Tyrell's erection. It jumps, satisfyingly, twitches up against his shirt to wet the fabric even further with a spurt of precome. Tyrell swears in Swedish and then again in English, and then begs and begs and begs until Mr. Robot finally slams a hand over his mouth to shut him up. Tyrell groans weakly against his palm, pleading with his eyes instead.
Mr. Robot carefully touches the muzzle of the gun to the gleaming head of Tyrell's cock. He steadily drags it down his length to press in at the base, nestle between his balls. He toys with the trigger just to hear Tyrell's whimpering increase in volume and pitch. He honestly doesn't know if Tyrell knows the safety is on. He hadn't been obvious about it, but even if he had he's not sure Tyrell would have noticed; it didn't seem like he was able to focus on anything besides the cock in his mouth.
He teases him some more, caressing the sensitive flesh with the weapon almost tenderly, grinning with sick fascination as Tyrell cants his hips up, so desperate for friction that he tries to rub himself off against it with clumsy, futile little thrusts, his face screwed up with frustration. He removes his hand from Tyrell's mouth only to replace it with the gun, brushing it up against his lips just to see the way he automatically opens up for it; expectant, obedient. But then, abruptly, he points it right between his eyes instead, and Tyrell winces and screws his eyes shut for a few long seconds before Mr. Robot moves on, runs the pistol down along his torso, his heaving chest under his rumpled, sodden shirt. Tyrell is shaking all over, madly, uncontrollably.
He ignores his cock this time, drags the gun lower instead and twists his wrist to point it upwards as he tucks it into Tyrell's pants, forcing fabric out of the way with it until he feels it nudging up against his ass. Tyrell gasps wetly and Mr. Robot decides enough is enough. He reaches out with his other hand, and he's barely wrapped his fist around Tyrell's cock before it pulses and jerks, spilling come over his fingers and up to further stain his shirt. Tyrell whines helplessly, and Mr. Robot could almost swear he's grinding down against the barrel of the gun all the while, as if he really does want it inside him.
"God. You're revolting," is the first thing Mr. Robot says after, pulling the gun away and at the same time wiping his wet hand on Tyrell's ruined shirt.
Tyrell nods vaguely, looking dazed, almost drugged.
"You satisfied now?" Mr. Robot asks, tossing the gun behind him onto the desk and tucking himself back into his jeans. He can't tell how much of his disgust is directed at Tyrell and how much is towards himself, honestly, and he doesn't want to think about it. Self-loathing is Elliot's gig.
Tyrell only nods again. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, his mouth slack. He seems so spacey and strung out that Mr. Robot could almost worry, if only he cared enough.
"I finally managed to shut you up, huh?" Mr. Robot says irritably. "Good to know that's what does it. I'll make a mental note."
It's tempting to just leave him like this—trussed up on his knees on the dirty arcade floor, shirt stained, dick hanging out. He wonders what he'd do, how long he'd just sit there basking in it all before he'd start struggling or asking to be freed. But he looks so fucking pathetic Mr. Robot can't stand the sight of him anymore, and so he heaves a sigh and gets to his feet, surprised to find himself unsteady after his orgasm, embarrassingly weak in the knees. Not that Tyrell seems able to notice such a thing in his current state.
He crouches down to undo the knot, which isn't an easy task now that Tyrell has been pulling against it, forcing it tighter. He's pleased to see that that has resulted in pulled threads in the fabric, not to mention some angry-looking red marks on Tyrell's wrists. Finally, he gets the tie loose, but it takes Tyrell another moment to start moving his arms, and when he does he's stiff, making a small noise of discomfort in the back of his throat.
That's how the men find them; Mr. Robot inspecting the damage, Tyrell gingerly flexing his aching muscles. Neither of them notices anybody approaching, swift and silent—all of a sudden they're simply no longer alone. Three men are standing right beside them, looking down on them where they're both hunched on the floor. One wears a suit and glasses, the other two have their faces hidden behind devil masks.
"Sorry to interrupt, fellas," says the one in the glasses, his tone incongruously cheery.
Mr. Robot stands up slowly, wary, not wanting to make any sudden movements. Tyrell, meanwhile, is on his feet in about half a second, grabbing his suit jacket from the floor and trying to hold it over his open fly and the many stains on his shirt. He wipes frantically at his face and his hair, clearly ashamed to have been caught, so much so that trying to disguise the situation is more important to him than who the fuck these guys are and what they want.
"Uh—" he says, swallowing thickly, his voice still croaky as shit. "We were—we were just—"
"Please, don't make up excuses on my account, we're all adults here," the man interrupts him, blithely, as if there's nothing at all unsavory about the situation he's just walked in on. "Now, I'm gonna assume from your funny accent that you're Tyrell Wellick."
Mr. Robot's not sure how he can tell anything about Tyrell's accent from the state his voice is in now and the way he's stammering, but he doesn't want to think about how long these men might have been lurking in the shadows, what else they might have heard. Tyrell says nothing further, just stares blankly ahead. Sorry, you'll have to bear with us, Mr. Robot wants to say, I just fucked his mouth so good he forgot his own name.
It's obvious that Tyrell stood up too fast after such a long time on his knees; he's swaying slightly, looking like he could keel over at any second. All his senses seem severely dulled, it's like he's unable to even register the danger they're in. Like he's forgotten about their actual purpose for being here tonight, the revolution quietly unfolding on the computers beside them. He's certainly too out of it to consider reaching for the gun that's still on the desk, but luckily for both of them Mr. Robot is still able to function, so he can handle that task himself.
Almost as soon as he's even thought about grabbing it, however, the masked goons are pulling their own guns out of their jackets, stopping him in his tracks.
The man with the glasses cocks his head. "I wouldn't," he says simply. He takes a step forward and picks up the gun himself. Mr. Robot wants to say, hey, you don't know where that's been— but something about these guys has him seriously uneasy. He keeps his mouth shut.
Tyrell scrubs agitatedly at himself again, his face blotchy, eyes bleary.
"Mr. Wellick, there'll be plenty of time to clean yourself up later," says the man with the glasses. "Right now we're gonna need you to answer some questions."