Mr Robot Erotic Fanfiction - "Pearl in a Pale Blue Shirt"
Tyrell Wellick wants to prove his fidelity but it isn’t Elliot he’s speaking to. It’s Mr Robot. Tyrell just doesn’t know it.
Set some time during Season 3, this is a Tyrell Wellick/Elliot Alderson/Mr Robot one-shot.
“I lov…”
“I know you do.” Mr Robot stopped him with a direct stare over the top of his imaginary glasses.
“Then why not let me say it?”
“Some things don’t need to be spoken. Between men.”
Wild blue eyes searched his, less like a child’s than those of a cornered thing. That is, until Mr Robot’s words - misinterpreted by a mind fixated upon intense interactions - settled like a pinball. He stepped closer.
“What are you doing?” said Mr Robot as hands laid themselves on his chest.
“Let me show you,” breathed Tyrell as he sank to his knees.
“No…” But some instinct stopped him from pushing him away. Now, both he and Elliot were modern men, free from the impulse to spurn anything “queer” but neither were they bisexual. At least - he knew he wasn’t. Elliot, on the other hand, might have desires he’d never known about.
The Swede was talking to himself; words that, on the surface, were sentiments of reassurance. In truth, he was revving himself up, hands shaking as he rubbed up and down the other man’s belly and fumbled with his belt. “Let me do this for you, Elliot. I want this. I truly want this. I’ve been told I’m good with my mouth.”
Seeing the tall man on his knees did something to him. That upturned face, so pale and fragile. Tyrell Wellick, psycho businessman and America’s most wanted, was completely in his power. And that was good. Mr Robot - and Elliot - needed him whether they liked it or not. Now, what would be the best way to bind this man to him forever? “No,” he said, putting his hands in Tyrell’s armpits and lifting him to his feet. “I want to do something for you.” He guided the compliant man into a nearby gaming chair.
Tyrell looked bewildered. “Wh -?” he mumbled. “I -”
Now Mr Robot knelt and parted his knees.
“Oh, Elliot,” he breathed, reaching out a hand and running the back down a smooth, not bristly cheek. “You’d do that?”
“I’d do that.” Mr Robot let his palm settle on the bulge already making a tent of Tyrell’s pants. “But the question is, what would you do for me?”
“Anything.” And as the hand began to rub in circles, his head dropped back. “Anything!”
That was all he needed to hear.
Okay - so how did this go? It wasn’t like he’d ever done it before. Just do what you’d like to have done to yourself. He undid the businessman’s belt, unzipped him and drew him out all in a quick, perfunctory fashion, jerking back as the eager erection sprang free. A bit of hand first, then. He winced at the unfamiliar/familiar feeling but the response he gained was immediate, Tyrell’s hips jumping like someone had dropped ice down his pants. Strange, to have another man under his control like this. It was kindling to the heat of his power-complex and his hand began to move with purpose.
Of all the men he could have found himself doing this to, Tyrell was not the worst choice. Hell, he was a good-looking guy. He was masculine enough not to make Mr Robot feel he was trapped in Studio 54 yet he was a pretty man. It was not difficult to find feminine touches about him in the contours of his face, the fact that he smelled so fresh, his pearl-finish fairness. It was difficult believe he wasn’t blond with that translucent skin of his.
Tyrell groaned, his chin dropping to his chest now, his lips apart. He began to undo his sky blue shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of his pants, spreading it open for Mr Robot to consider the smooth expanse of his chest. He wanted to be seen. He wanted to be naked. He wanted to be more than naked: caught off-guard in disarray. He flicked a shy eye Mr Robot’s way, inviting him to take it to the next level.
Okay, this was it. He licked his lips with nerves then flicked his eyebrow as he remembered that was a good idea in this situation. After a thorough moistening, he pulled Tyrell’s hard-on towards him and enclosed the head in his mouth.
It didn’t really taste of anything, Mr Robot was surprised to find. There was just the strange feeling of it filling his mouth, smoothness and firmness, and the foreskin hitting his lips over and over as he rubbed the shaft at the same time. Then, as if to defy him, he was surprised by a spurt of Tyrell’s pre-cum, supremely salty. He jerked back, swallowing to prevent any savouring from making him gag.
The tall Swede’s hips pumped madly at the sudden loss of pleasure. He was looking down at his cock with a plaintive expression then he soothed himself by rubbing the pre-cum into the head with the tips of his fingers until the bulb shone. It was clearly an act he’d performed on his own so often it had become instinctive. Then he grabbed the base of the shaft and offered it to Mr Robot’s lips once more.
Poor Tyrell, so much man yet so weak, so slick yet so dishevelled. The gaping trousers revealed not only a hard prick but a smattering of soft hair at the tops of his thighs and a clenching, vulnerable belly. The pectoral muscles were well-fleshed, looking soft and hard simultaneously, and they glistened with all-too-human sweat. Wait - who was thinking this? It was not the way Mr Robot thought at all but, perhaps, lonely Elliot with too much time on his hands - Ah, it was not the time to ponder. He closed his eyes and allowed the shaft to plunge into his throat.
There was pleasure in it. There was definitely pleasure in it. The sort of thing Mr Robot had experienced in the past when brushing his teeth or popping chewing gum into his mouth. A kind of trance came over him as he focused on the object hitting parts of that orifice that were rarely touched. The back of his tongue but to the side - there. Prolonged pressure turned into sustained pleasure that was rising, rising, as if his tongue and the inside of his mouth were another set of sexual organs. His eyes closed as he rolled his tongue around the head, his salivary glands squirting juice as if in anticipation of a steak. He was enjoying the feeling of the head rubbing back and forth across the roof of his mouth when he became aware that he was hard himself.
He didn’t want to be that guy, the one who got so excited he lost all of his technique. He wanted control and aloofness, to be a giver but not a receiver, not even of self-given pleasure if it was in front of others. But…
Mr Robot pushed his fist between his legs, giving himself something to bump against. Brutish but necessary.
Tyrell was getting close, holding his breath as his teeth bit into his lower lip then letting it go in painful bursts. “Uhhh. Uhhh. Uhhh.” Mr Robot began to move more rapidly and then suddenly, it was happening. The head seemed to swell and the once passive Tyrell had fingers yanking on his short hair. Looking up, he saw wildness in the Swede’s eyes as he cried out, “Elliot, Elliot!” and filled his mouth with cum.
Swallowing would have been a step too far. Mr Robot pulled back and immediately spat it onto the floor yet still a humiliating string hung from his bottom lip. He rubbed it away almost angrily, his mind suddenly whirling, identity lost. Whose mouth was filled with cum just now? His own? Elliot’s? He was Elliot! Perhaps he was someone else, too. And someone else. And someone else. How far could this go? How much was he capable of? He looked back at Tyrell as if focusing on a person he could definitely identify as outside himself - he hoped - could root him in reality once again. Little Tyrell, helpless in post-orgasmic torpor, chest flushed, limbs awkwardly splayed. Mr Robot or someone very much like him set himself the task of tidying the boy up. Dark blue pants, zipped and belted. Pale blue buttons done up over shining skin. A tie straightened.
Tyrell laid a hand over his in gratitude. There was peace between them now.
“Stand up,” said Mr Robot and the Swede did as he was told. “You’re mine now, sweet thing. You need never doubt me again.”
Tyrell bent down and rested his cheek against Mr Robot’s chest. It was all going to be okay. Really.
Set some time during Season 3, this is a Tyrell Wellick/Elliot Alderson/Mr Robot one-shot.
“I lov…”
“I know you do.” Mr Robot stopped him with a direct stare over the top of his imaginary glasses.
“Then why not let me say it?”
“Some things don’t need to be spoken. Between men.”
Wild blue eyes searched his, less like a child’s than those of a cornered thing. That is, until Mr Robot’s words - misinterpreted by a mind fixated upon intense interactions - settled like a pinball. He stepped closer.
“What are you doing?” said Mr Robot as hands laid themselves on his chest.
“Let me show you,” breathed Tyrell as he sank to his knees.
“No…” But some instinct stopped him from pushing him away. Now, both he and Elliot were modern men, free from the impulse to spurn anything “queer” but neither were they bisexual. At least - he knew he wasn’t. Elliot, on the other hand, might have desires he’d never known about.
The Swede was talking to himself; words that, on the surface, were sentiments of reassurance. In truth, he was revving himself up, hands shaking as he rubbed up and down the other man’s belly and fumbled with his belt. “Let me do this for you, Elliot. I want this. I truly want this. I’ve been told I’m good with my mouth.”
Seeing the tall man on his knees did something to him. That upturned face, so pale and fragile. Tyrell Wellick, psycho businessman and America’s most wanted, was completely in his power. And that was good. Mr Robot - and Elliot - needed him whether they liked it or not. Now, what would be the best way to bind this man to him forever? “No,” he said, putting his hands in Tyrell’s armpits and lifting him to his feet. “I want to do something for you.” He guided the compliant man into a nearby gaming chair.
Tyrell looked bewildered. “Wh -?” he mumbled. “I -”
Now Mr Robot knelt and parted his knees.
“Oh, Elliot,” he breathed, reaching out a hand and running the back down a smooth, not bristly cheek. “You’d do that?”
“I’d do that.” Mr Robot let his palm settle on the bulge already making a tent of Tyrell’s pants. “But the question is, what would you do for me?”
“Anything.” And as the hand began to rub in circles, his head dropped back. “Anything!”
That was all he needed to hear.
Okay - so how did this go? It wasn’t like he’d ever done it before. Just do what you’d like to have done to yourself. He undid the businessman’s belt, unzipped him and drew him out all in a quick, perfunctory fashion, jerking back as the eager erection sprang free. A bit of hand first, then. He winced at the unfamiliar/familiar feeling but the response he gained was immediate, Tyrell’s hips jumping like someone had dropped ice down his pants. Strange, to have another man under his control like this. It was kindling to the heat of his power-complex and his hand began to move with purpose.
Of all the men he could have found himself doing this to, Tyrell was not the worst choice. Hell, he was a good-looking guy. He was masculine enough not to make Mr Robot feel he was trapped in Studio 54 yet he was a pretty man. It was not difficult to find feminine touches about him in the contours of his face, the fact that he smelled so fresh, his pearl-finish fairness. It was difficult believe he wasn’t blond with that translucent skin of his.
Tyrell groaned, his chin dropping to his chest now, his lips apart. He began to undo his sky blue shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of his pants, spreading it open for Mr Robot to consider the smooth expanse of his chest. He wanted to be seen. He wanted to be naked. He wanted to be more than naked: caught off-guard in disarray. He flicked a shy eye Mr Robot’s way, inviting him to take it to the next level.
Okay, this was it. He licked his lips with nerves then flicked his eyebrow as he remembered that was a good idea in this situation. After a thorough moistening, he pulled Tyrell’s hard-on towards him and enclosed the head in his mouth.
It didn’t really taste of anything, Mr Robot was surprised to find. There was just the strange feeling of it filling his mouth, smoothness and firmness, and the foreskin hitting his lips over and over as he rubbed the shaft at the same time. Then, as if to defy him, he was surprised by a spurt of Tyrell’s pre-cum, supremely salty. He jerked back, swallowing to prevent any savouring from making him gag.
The tall Swede’s hips pumped madly at the sudden loss of pleasure. He was looking down at his cock with a plaintive expression then he soothed himself by rubbing the pre-cum into the head with the tips of his fingers until the bulb shone. It was clearly an act he’d performed on his own so often it had become instinctive. Then he grabbed the base of the shaft and offered it to Mr Robot’s lips once more.
Poor Tyrell, so much man yet so weak, so slick yet so dishevelled. The gaping trousers revealed not only a hard prick but a smattering of soft hair at the tops of his thighs and a clenching, vulnerable belly. The pectoral muscles were well-fleshed, looking soft and hard simultaneously, and they glistened with all-too-human sweat. Wait - who was thinking this? It was not the way Mr Robot thought at all but, perhaps, lonely Elliot with too much time on his hands - Ah, it was not the time to ponder. He closed his eyes and allowed the shaft to plunge into his throat.
There was pleasure in it. There was definitely pleasure in it. The sort of thing Mr Robot had experienced in the past when brushing his teeth or popping chewing gum into his mouth. A kind of trance came over him as he focused on the object hitting parts of that orifice that were rarely touched. The back of his tongue but to the side - there. Prolonged pressure turned into sustained pleasure that was rising, rising, as if his tongue and the inside of his mouth were another set of sexual organs. His eyes closed as he rolled his tongue around the head, his salivary glands squirting juice as if in anticipation of a steak. He was enjoying the feeling of the head rubbing back and forth across the roof of his mouth when he became aware that he was hard himself.
He didn’t want to be that guy, the one who got so excited he lost all of his technique. He wanted control and aloofness, to be a giver but not a receiver, not even of self-given pleasure if it was in front of others. But…
Mr Robot pushed his fist between his legs, giving himself something to bump against. Brutish but necessary.
Tyrell was getting close, holding his breath as his teeth bit into his lower lip then letting it go in painful bursts. “Uhhh. Uhhh. Uhhh.” Mr Robot began to move more rapidly and then suddenly, it was happening. The head seemed to swell and the once passive Tyrell had fingers yanking on his short hair. Looking up, he saw wildness in the Swede’s eyes as he cried out, “Elliot, Elliot!” and filled his mouth with cum.
Swallowing would have been a step too far. Mr Robot pulled back and immediately spat it onto the floor yet still a humiliating string hung from his bottom lip. He rubbed it away almost angrily, his mind suddenly whirling, identity lost. Whose mouth was filled with cum just now? His own? Elliot’s? He was Elliot! Perhaps he was someone else, too. And someone else. And someone else. How far could this go? How much was he capable of? He looked back at Tyrell as if focusing on a person he could definitely identify as outside himself - he hoped - could root him in reality once again. Little Tyrell, helpless in post-orgasmic torpor, chest flushed, limbs awkwardly splayed. Mr Robot or someone very much like him set himself the task of tidying the boy up. Dark blue pants, zipped and belted. Pale blue buttons done up over shining skin. A tie straightened.
Tyrell laid a hand over his in gratitude. There was peace between them now.
“Stand up,” said Mr Robot and the Swede did as he was told. “You’re mine now, sweet thing. You need never doubt me again.”
Tyrell bent down and rested his cheek against Mr Robot’s chest. It was all going to be okay. Really.