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As Tyrell snaps on the blue plastic gloves, all that runs through Elliot’s mind is:
Oh fuck. He’s going to kill me.
There’s a glint in his eye, something crazy – crazier – than anything Elliot’s seen in them before. Tyrell has always seemed a little… off, but never quite like this. And now he’s saying how he strangled a woman, and Elliot feels like he can’t breathe. He can’t look away from Tyrell’s face, his eyes, how they’re red and focused directly on him.
“So, Elliot. What do you have to say?”
Fuck. He hadn’t been paying attention. What did he say? Tyrell must read the look on his face, or is just impatient with his silence, because he steps closer (god, even closer) and almost breathes out, “I said: ‘Elliot, I own you now.’” And Elliot isn’t sure why, but that feels true, he’s pretty sure is true, and Tyrell knows everything – everything – and seems plenty crazy enough to use it to its full advantage. One of Tyrell’s gloved hands comes up to Elliot’s face, brushing along his cheek. Elliot flinches before he can think better of it, not that Tyrell seems to mind. He’s staring at Elliot’s eyes, into his eyes, even when Elliot breaks eye contact. And then Tyrell’s hand grips his jaw, tight, and forces his face forward. Up. Right into Tyrell’s face. Elliot can’t look away now, frozen, immobile, like an insect pinned to a board. Tyrell is strong, stronger than Elliot was expecting, though he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. Tyrell looks like someone who wants perfection in every element in his life.
“I hear you have some pretty nasty habits, Elliot,” Tyrell says, slipping the gloved hand down his neck, fingers lightly playing with the collar of Elliot’s shirt. Almost underneath.
“W-what,” Elliot stutters, a question that he can’t make sound like one.
“Nasty habits, Elliot. We all have them. It just seems yours… is more addictive than most.” And then Tyrell is reaching into his back pocket, and he pulls out an orange bottle, and Elliot knows morphine when he sees it. He’s been clean over a month now (god, has it been a month?), but he would be lying if he didn’t say the sight of it sent shivers down his spine. “You miss it don’t you? I remember seeing you in the bathroom at Steel Mountain. Withdrawal, right?” And Elliot isn’t sure how Tyrell knows all this––did Mr. Robot tell him?––but he feels flayed open, like one of those frogs from biology class. Pinned with the needles of Tyrell’s eyes, his gloved fingers on his neck, just brushing underneath the collar of his shirt. Tyrell pockets the bottle again, and his fingers dip beneath his collar, brushing against Elliot’s spine.
“Wh-what do you want?” Elliot says, finally able to make it sound like a question, but his voice is still shaking, his fight or flight response crawling up his spine, through his nerves and muscles, making it impossible to feel any semblance of control.
Tyrell is moving even closer now, his other hand coming to just below Elliot’s shirt, just grazing the strip of skin above his jeans. “Isn’t it obvious, Elliot?” Tyrell says, almost with a snarl. Then his mouth is coming to crash into Elliot’s, his mouth aggressive and unrelenting, and Elliot finds himself opening his mouth, letting him in. Giving him access. Tyrell’s tongue immediately enters his mouth, and Elliot grasps at Tyrell’s shirt. Tyrell pushes him back, back until he’s seated on the couch. Tyrell quickly shucks off his tie, draping it over the couch’s arm. He sits next to Elliot on the couch and says, “Come on, Elliot.” Despite the fact he’s sitting down, Tyrell looks even larger on his couch, next to him. And, for some reason, Elliot listens, carefully crawling into Tyrell’s lap, legs spread. He isn’t exactly comfortable, but judging from the look on Tyrell’s face, that’s not really what he wants right now. Elliot isn’t sure he can breathe. He’s not even sure if this is real, but it feels like he’s vibrating, his heart pulsing in his ears and behind his eyes, and all he can do is listen.
Tyrell smiles when Elliot listens, and lets his eyes wander over him. Tyrell can tell the past few weeks have not been kind to Elliot––his eyes are red, with bags underneath, deep, dark purple. He looks thinner than normal, and his lips are chapped, almost flaking. “So beautiful, Elliot,” he murmurs, before grabbing the back of Elliot’s hair and pulling him into a kiss. Gentler, this time. Allowing Elliot to get used to it, to open up to him. To lower his defenses. When Tyrell’s hand grips his hair, Elliot makes a small noise, hardly anything, just at the back of his throat before it’s cut off, but Tyrell hears. Hears it and drinks it up, scratching his gloved fingers down the back of his neck. He wants to claw, to tear, to strangle Elliot until he’s gasping. Not to kill, no, just to see the fear that flits through his eyes almost constantly, peaked in almost crescendo, waves of terror racketing his body. To see the sick confusion in his eyes when he realizes he’s still turned on. Tyrell can tell, can read in every movement of Elliot’s body, that he just wants to hurt. Poor little puppy dog eyes, begging, pleading, to be torn open. And who is Tyrell to reject such a sweet request?
Tyrell pulls at Elliot’s hair, tugging his head back, his mouth falling open in reaction. And then Tyrell is pushing his tongue into Elliot’s mouth, fucking it like he wants to fuck him. Elliot’s already all worked up, fuck, hard in his black jeans. Tyrell breaks away from the kiss, to see Elliot’s eyes glazed with lust, confusion, fear.
“Open up, Elliot.” Elliot obeys without question, letting his mouth fall open. Tyrell feels a shiver run down his spine, and pushes his index finger into Elliot’s mouth. Pushes down his tongue, brushes against his palate. There’s the noise again, almost sounding wounded, and Tyrell adds another finger. Elliot accepts it into his mouth graciously, closing his eyes with a little sigh.
Tyrell removes his fingers from Elliot’s mouth, despite its warmth, to latch his mouth on Elliot’s neck. It’s pale, so pale, and Tyrell can tell it will bruise easily. He won’t leave a hickey on his neck – he’s far too elegant for that – but he bites at his collarbone, hard, sucking at the bits of blood.
Elliot gasps when Tyrell’s teeth bite into his skin, and he clutches tighter at Tyrell’s shirt. Tyrell keeps working at the spot, and Elliot knows it’s going to be bruised tomorrow. Sore, dark. Something to press with his fingers in the mirror to remind him that this is real.
Tyrell must sense Elliot’s wandering mind, because he’s tugging at Elliot’s shirt, until Elliot puts his arms up. Tyrell pulls the shirt off of him, admiring the skin opened up to him. Elliot has bruises on his torso, a scratch on his ribcage. Tyrell doesn’t ask, but does press his fingers into the darkest one, drawing a hiss from Elliot. He doesn’t tell Tyrell to stop, though, which Tyrell takes as the green light. He pushes harder on the bruise, reveling in the short, punched-out breath Elliot takes.
“Please,” Elliot breathes, and he’s not even sure what he’s asking for. Tyrell smirks, trailing his hand down Elliot’s chest, down the sparse trail of hair to his jeans. He opens the button, pulls down the zipper. Elliot seems relieved to have his dick released from the confines of his tight jeans, and subconsciously grinds down into Tyrell’s lap. Tyrell’s hands move down to grasp at Elliot’s ass, pulls him down into his crotch again. Elliot punches out another little hurt noise, and puts his hands on Tyrell’s shoulders. Uses it as leverage to rub himself down more, until he finds himself falling into a rhythm. God, he’s humping Tyrell like some teenager, and he’s never felt so goddamn needy for touch as he is right now. Tyrell must realize this, and he grips Elliot’s hips to stop him, before dipping his hand into Elliot’s boxers to grip at his cock.
Elliot has to rest his forehead against Tyrell’s shoulder then, his body almost incapable of supporting itself. It’s ok, though, because Tyrell has him, has him so tight and strong that Elliot knows this has to be real. Despite the rubber glove, Tyrell’s hand feels amazing against his cock, just gripping occasionally, otherwise teasing him with light touches, brushes. Then Tyrell is pushing back against the couch so he’s lying down against the dark cushions. Tyrell tugs at his jeans, and Elliot raises his hips to help him. Soon he’s left in nothing but his boxers, and that seems utterly indecent, his cock straining against the black fabric. Elliot’s stomach keeps twitching, a contraction of excitement, fear that he can’t seem to control. Tyrell takes a moment to look Elliot over, and Elliot can’t help feeling a bit like prey. Tyrell’s eyes are sharp, hungry, exacting. None of the fear, the indecision that’s constantly running through Elliot’s mind. Tyrell is wholly focused, direct and unafraid to take. Elliot reaches up, tries to work at some of the buttons on Tyrell’s shirt, but then Tyrell is taking his arms and pinning them down above his head. Tyrell’s hair has fallen a bit into his face, and his mouth is open, his line of sharp, white teeth glinting in the low light. His pupils are blown wide, roaming over Elliot’s body and Elliot is aching to be touched. He can’t do anything, though, because Tyrell has his arms pinned, and all he’s doing is looking. Elliot wants to say something, but he feels like his throat has dried up, or he’s forgotten how to speak, or his vocal chords have been taken out. Like in a dream, when you try to scream but can’t.
And then Tyrell is grabbing his tie, wrapping it around his hand before saying, darkly, “Get on the bed, Elliot.” Elliot takes a moment to comply, his heart thumping rabbit-quick against the couch, before he’s stumbling up to his feet, and over to his bed. He still doesn’t know what he’s doing. Why he’s doing it. He can feel Tyrell’s presence behind him; feel his eyes roaming up and down his back. Elliot reaches his bed and is about to turn around when Tyrell’s gloved hands are on his shoulders, pushing him inexorably down into the mattress. Then Tyrell’s hands are grabbing Elliot’s, pulling them above his head, and twining his tie around his wrists and through the slats of the headboard. Face down, Elliot can’t see Tyrell’s face, and he shivers against his bedspread. When Tyrell seems satisfied with how he’s tied Elliot, he crawls onto the bed, crouching over Elliot’s prone form. Tyrell seems huge, like this––the warmth of his chest and his breath on the back of Elliot’s neck. Tyrell begins to suck a mark against the back of Elliot’s neck, biting and kissing alternatively, sending shivers cascading down his back. And Tyrell seems to notice, following those shivers with his mouth, pressing his lips against each knob of spine. Tension lines Elliot’s entire body, fear laced with excitement, confusion, the sick rush of arousal pulsing through his body.
Tyrell’s mouth has reached the base of his spine, right above his boxers, and Elliot’s heart, somehow, impossibly, floods faster, and he can hear the blood rushing through his ears. And then Tyrell’s gloved hand is slipping under and pulling them down, exposing Elliot in the most fundamental way, and Elliot’s hands tighten into fists in their position above his head.
Elliot hears the pop or click of a lid, and then Tyrell’s fingers spreading him, baring him for his eyes. Flushing with heat, Elliot presses his face down into the mattress, trying to ignore the flare of arousal crawling up through him.
Tyrell’s fingers are cold, at first, with lube and with his gloved hand, but all Elliot can focus on his is that one finger moving lazily around his hole, pushing oh-so gently on it. Elliot can’t help but tighten up, tension lining his body. He’d tried this, once, in the shower and a hand on his dick just wasn’t quite enough. But Tyrell’s fingers were surer, stronger, much more devastating than he could ever imagine.
And then one of them is sliding into him, and Elliot can’t help the sound that escapes his mouth, crawling up from the back of his throat. Tyrell’s other hand comes sliding up his thigh, resting where the crease of his ass meets his leg. His gloved thumb reaching in between his legs to put pressure on his perineum, and Elliot can’t do anything but hold on while Tyrell’s hands slowly take him apart.
Tyrell’s finger seems to be searching, roaming around his insides looking for something, and Elliot doesn’t know what until he feels the pad of Tyrell’s finger pressing against it. It’s sensitive, too sensitive, and Elliot’s hips try to pull away, try to reduce the intense sensation running through him. Tyrell presses Elliot’s hips down, not letting him run away from his touch. He keeps circling around it, punishingly, mercilessly, his other thumb rubbing against his perineum.
“Please,” Elliot rasps out, another cry for something he doesn’t know. His breath is coming in short, sharp bursts, pushing against his lungs. He can’t help the “nnh” that is ripped from him when Tyrell adds another finger, the burn and stretch doing nothing to tamp down Elliot’s erection. Tyrell is starting to fuck him with his fingers in earnest now, curling his fingers down into his prostate and then pulling them away before pushing harshly back inside. Elliot can feel his orgasm building, his dick leaking against the bedcover. “Tyrell,” he gasps, unable to keep the whine out of his voice. He can feel Tyrell’s third finger pressing against him, and then it’s inside him, joining the others in that hateful, delicious stretch. For some reason that’s enough, and Elliot cries weakly as he comes, his dick pulsing against his stomach. Tyrell stops the direct attack on his prostate, but his fingers are still fucking into him slowly, even after Elliot is too sensitive, pulling away from the sensation. Tyrell is unapologetic and relentless, not bothering to let Elliot recover from his orgasm, despite how the edges of Elliot’s vision are already starting to cloud over.
So when Tyrell’s fingers finally leave him, Elliot slumps against the bed, taking in heaving breaths. He doesn’t even think why Tyrell would leave him be until he hears the sound of a zipper going, and the click of the lube again. Elliot heart goes wild, and he tries to get his legs to work, to pull away from Tyrell, but he can’t get the right leverage with his arms tied above him, and Tyrell’s heavy weight pressing him down.
“I’m not done with you, mon cher,” Tyrell says, and pulls Elliot up onto his knees, his face still pressed against the mattress.
“Tyrell, please,” but whatever he’s going to say gets cut off by Tyrell pressing his dick against him, and his mouth goes dry. One of Tyrell’s hands goes up and fists in Elliot’s hair, pulling back until Elliot’s neck is stretched. Tears are starting to fall down Elliot’s face, and he tries to push his face back down into the bed to hide, but Tyrell’s tight grip in his hair makes it impossible.
And then Tyrell slowly starts pushing into him, and the stretch is unimaginable, so much more than three fingers, and Elliot can’t help the pained noise that is punched out of him. Tyrell’s hips jerk forward at the sound, before returning to their slow and steady pace. Finally, Tyrell’s hips are flush against Elliot, and Elliot can barely pull his brain together enough to form thoughts. It hurts, it’s too much, he’s still so, so sensitive, and it feels like Tyrell is trampling on him, taking him apart from the inside. Tyrell then starts moving, little, shallow thrusts at first, but builds his pace quickly, his fingers tightening in Elliot’s hair. Soon he’s pushing into Elliot in a punishing pace, barely leaving room for Elliot to breathe. The rapid pace of his hips is the only thing that betrays his interest, how much this is affecting him. Elliot closes his eyes, and tries to ignore how his dick is trying to harden again, despite just coming moments earlier. Elliot doesn’t think he can handle it, handle how thoroughly Tyrell is trying to wreck him, because that’s what he’s doing right now––wrecking him, taking him apart piece by piece until Tyrell can grab at his core, own the most fundamental part of him.
Elliot can tell Tyrell is getting close when his thrusts become erratic and his breath becomes harsh, quick gasps and sighs. When Tyrell comes he pulls Elliot against him tight, his fingernails biting into Elliot’s hips through the gloves. He stays there for a moment, almost frozen inside of Elliot, admiring the curve of his back and how messy his hair is. As he starts to soften he slips out of Elliot, and Elliot shivers at the feeling. He feels something dribbling from his hole down onto his balls, and with a sick rush of shame Elliot realizes Tyrell fucked him without a condom. The tears are still running down his face, his breath still coming in sharp, gasping bursts. Tyrell slowly reaches up and unties Elliot’s hands, still on top of him, not allowing him to move. He drags Elliot’s face to the side and kisses his cheek, before licking at the tears there. “Shhh,” he says, almost like he’s comforting a skittish animal, and Elliot closes his eyes tightly. Tyrell’s fingers are back at his hole again, and despite now being freed of his restraints, Elliot can do nothing to stop him as one of his fingers pushes in, exploring Elliot, pulling more come out of him.
“Tyrell,” Elliot croaks, and it’s all he can manage, the best plea he has. Tyrell ignores him in favor of pushing his finger in again, and Elliot flushes at the squelching noise it makes. Tyrell seems captivated, and Elliot can’t handle the feeling rushing through him.
Finally, after what felt like ages, Tyrell’s fingers abandon his hole and Tyrell collapses on his side, and pulls Elliot against him, his face pressed against Elliot’s neck. Elliot’s body is wracked with shivers, and he can’t help the tears that continue to fall from his eyes. He’s trying to pull himself together but then Tyrell’s hand comes around him to grab at his dick, soft and sensitive, and Elliot keens helplessly.
“We have to work on your refractory period, mon cher,” Tyrell says into his ear, fingers still playing around his dick. Elliot can’t pull together enough thoughts to say anything, just exhales shakily and takes what Tyrell gives him. Tyrell seems satisfied with this, and eventually his hand stops moving. Tyrell wraps his arms around Elliot and holds him tightly. Soon his breath evens out enough that Elliot assumes he’s fallen asleep, but Elliot knows better than to try to escape his grip. He lays there in the low light, trying to wrap his head around what just happened. He’s still trying to figure it out when he falls asleep.