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Elliott yawns, blearily considering himself in his bathroom mirror.
He’s only just about rolled out of bed — leaving behind a still-sleeping Gibraltar — and dragged himself over in the direction of the bathroom, eager to scrub the dry taste of morning from his mouth. There’s a game scheduled today, and not that far off, so he really needs to get his shit together and soon — because he’s severely sleep-deprived thanks to last night, on top of still being slightly sore. Really, when he’d met Makoa, he’d never have thought —
Well. He’s definitely never gonna admit it ever, ever, to anyone, but despite them being the same age and all, Makoa might just have a tad bit more stamina than he does.
Maybe.
Admittedly, the other man is bigger and also still asleep, whilst Elliott is here, grumpily mussing his own sex-tousled hair, frowning at just how much curlier it’s gotten overnight. Whatever. A quick shower, some — okay — a fair bit of hair product and styling and drying out and he’ll be back to his normal self. And — ugh — he drags his hands over his face — he looks tired, and certainly not up to the standards of the folks he usually tries to impress.
But, well.
Makoa isn’t quite usual.
Makoa is his boyfriend.
And isn’t that still a mindfuck to wrap his head around.
So much so that as he reaches for his toothbrush, automatically, his eyes hover over Makoa’s. Makoa Gibraltar left his toothbrush at his apartment, with the usual casual ease he’s come to expect from that man, but —
He’s leaving his toothbrush here.
As his own toothbrush whirs to life, and he raises it to his mouth, Elliott is embarrassed to glimpse in the mirror the red tinge that has begun to colour his cheeks. Which is really fucking stupid — it’s just a toothbrush for crying out loud — but there’s a twisting in his gut that he can’t quite ignore at the realisation all the same.
It’s a toothbrush.
A toothbrush, and nothing else. He reaches for the toothpaste, and begins to work away the stains from last night: some red wine, a little whiskey, and, well — yeah. It doesn’t exactly leave a stain, but the taste of cum still lingers there.
What can he say. Makoa has a dick that’s difficult to stay away from.
The door swings open, just as he’s spitting out the froth of his toothpaste. He automatically lunges for a towel, dabbing his mouth and beard so as to ensure he isn’t falling short of his — well, he hasn’t had quite enough time to himself yet — optimal standards. He shakes his — gah, completely ungroomed curls — out of his face, and does his utmost to adopt the most nonchalant grin he can manage back at the other man.
“Hey there, sunshine,” Elliott teases, balancing himself on the sink as he sets his toothbrush aside. “I’d love to say there’s coffee brewing already, but I thought you’d sleep a little bit longer after, well…” He meets Makoa’s eye in the mirror then, and winks. “Yanno. Helluva night ‘n all.”
Makoa says nothing, just meets his gaze in the reflection, before his eyes begin drifting downwards, not making any attempts whatsoever to hide the fact that he is clearly just drinking the sight of Elliott in. His previous faint blush has faded but fuck, it flares right back up tenfold just at the way Gibraltar looks at him. Like it’s always a treat to behold him, no matter how much time they spend together.
He can see Makoa approach him from behind, thanks to the mirror, before feeling two muscular arms encircle his waist. Elliott can’t help but hum, and lean back against him. In the past, he’d never really been the type to relish this kind of intimacy. But Elliott feels Makoa’s hands — oh, Makoa’s fucking hands — graze over his exposed hipbones, and he makes some kind of murmured noise of appreciation in his ear.
And, well.
Elliott can’t help himself, especially as naked and compromised as he currently is.
He flings one arm behind himself, slinging it around Makoa’s neck and tugging him closer. Gibraltar watches him hungrily in the mirror, his lips grazing over the thick muscle of Elliott’s neck.
Seeing how intently Makoa continues to stare at him, hands travelling up Elliott’s body, his breath warm against his ear — well. Elliott’s known for putting on a show, isn’t he?
With a wicked grin, Elliott grinds his bare ass back against Gibraltar’s crotch, and he’s all too delighted to discover that the other man is already stirring against his back. Makoa grasps him by a hip firmly, and starts to guide his movements, matching each roll of Elliott’s hips to his own.
He can feel Makoa hardening behind him, which is just fine, because his own dick is more or less all the way there. And fuck, he can’t really help it, it’s just the way Gibraltar seems to get turned on just so damn easily by him, and he’s fortunate enough that he’s been able to watch his face pretty up close in the process before, but —
But not quite like this. Not whilst Makoa’s clearly watching the way Elliott’s face contorts and moans softly each time his cock brushes against Elliott’s ass.
Yeah. That’s very good.
And fuck, if Gibraltar enjoys a show, then why not give him a show?
His free hand starts to explore his own body, grinning as he holds Makoa’s heated gaze in the mirror and continuing to let the other man guide his hips’ rotations. He bites down on his lower lip whilst he toys with one of his own nipples, relishing the low growl that produces from the larger man.
(The heat in Makoa’s eyes reminds him of the first time he’d discovered Elliott’s nipple piercing — Gibraltar tugging away Elliott’s shirt and over his head, before sitting back and staring. For a moment, Elliott had wondered if something was wrong — sure his torso had its fair share of scars, but, y’know, so did his face and wouldn’t that be more of an issue? And only then had he realised exactly where Makoa had been staring, and oh.
He hadn’t had much time to ponder the issue, given that Gibraltar had launched upon him then, his tongue lapping and teeth gently nipping to the point Elliott had been unable to think much more after that.)
Elliott grins, leaning back into his partner’s embrace, throwing his head back with a whine of pleasure as his ass grinds back against Makoa’s cock, albeit never breaking their gaze. He can’t help but grin at the expression on the other man’s face: his face flushed, visibly breathing harder and like he’ was fucking drunk on the sight of Elliott’s naked body.
(It’s been almost a year now, and something twists in Elliott’s chest when he thinks about how Makoa still never ceases to look at him this way.)
“You like that, huh?” Elliott teases, running his fingers further down his own body, making a deliberate show of dragging them slowly over his abdomen, before travelling onwards south — “well, you know you don’t have to just watch, you can always join —” but before he can finish his sentence, the wrist of the hand that had just been about to grasp his cock is swiftly snatched away and pinned behind him. Elliott hisses out a protest, trying to squirm out of his restraints — but, as always, any attempts to overpower his considerably stronger boyfriend prove futile.
It’s always fun, trying to seize control from Makoa. It’s even more fun being reminded that he can’t.
So now he’s caught, naked and hard and panting, one hand bound behind him, whilst Makoa’s other continues to guide the movements of his hips.
He tilts his head backwards against Makoa’s shoulder, searching for a kiss, but Makoa squeezes his wrist, pulling Elliott’s attention back to the mirror to glance at him curiously.
“I want you to watch how good you look,” Gibraltar murmurs against his temple, as Elliott’s eyes meet his. “I want you to see what I see.”
It’s difficult, given just how blown Makoa’s pupils are, but Elliott just about manages to rip his eyes away and focus on the reflection of the two of them. And, oh, fuck.
He’s been more paying attention to his boyfriend, earlier, when he’d initially began teasing him, rather than watching the sight of them together. Let alone himself.
His hair is a tousled mess, beard far from groomed — he hadn’t even gotten the chance to shower from the night before, for fuck’s sake — but Makoa still watches him ravenously. The hand that had been gripping his hip suddenly reaches up and snatches his chin, wrenching a soft moan from Elliott. Gibraltar gently turns his gaze towards the mirror, holding him by his chin as he continues to grind his cock up against Elliott’s ass. Technically, Elliott could release his free hand from where it had wound itself behind Makoa’s neck, dig his fingernails into the nape of his neck, stray hairs tugging between his fingers but —
But. He wants — no, needs — to see where Makoa is going with this.
Gibraltar’s grins, and he rewards Elliott for his restraint with a quick kiss to the temple, before snatching his gaze back in the mirror, smile broadening at what he sees — undoubtedly at just how increasingly desperate and needy Elliott is becoming.
“Do you see how hot you are?” Makoa asks him, sliding his other hand up Elliott’s body. Elliott shudders — it’s hard not to, not with the rasping tone of his partner’s voice, the feel of his strong fucking hands grazing his scarred torso, but especially at the way he looks at him as he speaks. His eyelids must have fluttered shut with delight at the sensation, because he feels one of those very hands clenching lightly around his jaw. That alone has him emitting a piteous whine, and fuck, but his cock is so hard between his legs right now. Still, he obediently opens his eyes, and watches their reflection. Or, rather, his reflection, since every time he tries to look at Makoa, the other man re-affixes his gaze back at himself.
“I like you best like this,” Makoa mumbles in his ear, “when you’re not even aware of how good you look, just as you are. Your face…” he trails off, the thumb of the hand still holding Elliott’s jaw drifting upwards, oh-so-gently caressing the scar that criss-crossed his cheek, the end of the one that split down across his brow, “Just totally exposed. You think you’re not perfect just as you are,”
He pauses then, but only to nip Elliott’s earlobe before whispering into it, huskily:
“But you are.”
Elliott feels like he might fucking explode, which is sheer insanity because Makoa hasn’t even touched him at this point. But just being made to watch himself in the mirror, where Gibraltar is touching, feeling his hard cock press against his ass as he continues to rain praise upon Elliott — it’s killing him. And it’s — it’s so fucking much to watch himself as it happens, the way his face contorts — not embarrassingly, as he’s always presumed it must look, but with a needy desperation that — yeah, is kind of sexy. And even his hair — which he’s always fairly self-conscious about — looks pretty fucking good like this, he has to admit. He thinks about it from Makoa’s perspective, the way he looks at Makoa when his hair is sweat-soaked during sex and lightly curling into waves and — yeah. It’s pretty fucking hot.
Gibraltar must notice something change on his expression, because Elliott can feel his lips twist upwards from where they’re pressed against the side of his head. His jaw is finally released — Makoa seemingly trusting him now to keep his gaze trained upon himself — and instead reaches around, fingers grazing over his hip before trailing lower, but not low enough.
And fuck, Elliott breaks.
“Makoa,” he pants, still struggling to needily gyrate back against his partner’s cock. And God, he’s confronted for the first time by what he looks like when he does that — when Makoa gets him to the point that he’s forced to beg, desperate and hungry, his mouth hanging open, throat bobbing with each gasp of air, his whole body covered in a thin sheen of sweat and oh fucking hell —
His free hand, previously buried in Makoa’s hair, unknits itself from his dark tresses, and scrabbles for purchase around Makoa’s neck instead. His fingernails dig into the bigger man’s muscles as he emits an embarrassingly wanton moan, whimpering, “Please.”
Gibraltar huffs a laugh, teases him by gently toying his fingers amidst the dark mat of curls just above his cock.
“Please what?”
Goddamnit. He instinctively bucks his hips upwards, but Makoa’s grip is too strong, all he manages is the barest of twitches. And all the while he can still feel Makoa’s dick pressed up against his back, precum smearing against his back and dripping down the base of his spine.
How the fuck Gibraltar has so much willpower will, quite frankly, never stop amazing Elliott.
“Just touch me,” Elliott whimpers.
“Are you watching yourself?”
And oh, by fuck, he is. The sight of the two of them is making Elliot not entirely sure he’s ever been this turned on by anything in his life, and that is genuinely saying something.
He sees himself reflected back in the mirror, nothing short of what could be described as a complete and utter wreck, cheeks aflare, hair sticking to his face whilst he openly pants, his cock so fucking hard it’s genuinely weeping at the moment, and the sight of Gibraltar’s hand so fucking close to it —
“Yes,” Elliott whines, “fucking yes, please, Makoa, please, just fucking touch me already.”
Impressively, he doesn’t look away from the reflection of himself — just himself, he knows Makoa would deny him further if his gaze drifted upwards to drink in the sight of his partner’s face — the entire time, and his good behaviour finally — finally — goes rewarded. Makoa gently nips his neck, before releasing Elliott’s hip and taking his cock in hand.
Elliott lets out a moan of relief at the contact, hips attempting yet again to stutter forward, chase some kind of pace. But Makoa’s grip on his hip is unshakeable, holds him steady as he sweeps his thumb over the slit of Elliott’s cock, smearing the precum he finds there. Elliott can’t help himself, he looks in the mirror down at the sight of Makoa’s hand wrapped around him — and thankfully, Gibraltar has decided this much is allowed. Maybe Elliott’s allowed watch, as long as he doesn’t look away from himself.
He can live with that.
What he couldn’t live with was the fact Makoa wasn’t fucking moving his hand, just holds his cock in place whilst he lightly rubs precum around the head of his shaft. But his hand itself remains still, refusing to actually jack him off.
“God, fuck, Makoa,” Elliott groans, digging his nails deeper into the back of the flesh of the other man’s neck. He yet again attempts to grind his own hips backwards, see if he can cause the other man to crumble. But no. Of fucking course Makoa Gibraltar refuses to be moved.
And of course, he seems to find his partner’s impatience amusing. He gives a light squeeze of Elliott’s cock and Elliott fucking gasps.
“You like this?” Makoa asks, borderline innocently — as if anyone can be fucking innocent in a situation such as this — and Elliott hisses, nearly closing his eyes in frustration before snapping back to his senses. The nature of this particular game is more than apparent now, and godfucking damnit, Gibraltar might be good at it but —
Elliott refuses to lose. Whether inside the ring, or outside it.
Or whether getting his boyfriend to stick his fucking dick inside his own ring.
He’s more than aware that using his free hand to try urge Gibraltar to hurry things along will only amount to further fucking suffering — Makoa had taught him just how much he values patience quite some time ago, and Elliott isn’t keen to have pleasure withheld much longer than it already has been. Thus, he wrenches his gaze away from the reflection of where they were joined below — God, had he ever really taken in like this just how huge Makoa’s hand was around his cock before? — to meet his boyfriend’s eyes in the mirror. The larger man’s gaze is positively burning, enough so that Elliott can’t help but let out a slight whimper of eagerness at just exactly what his look is promising.
But it’s Makoa’s game and he’ll play along.
Oh, fuck it.
Who is he kidding?
He’s fucking loving it.
As is more than apparent when he stares back at his own expression reflected in the mirror, panting heavily and looking pathetically needy. It’s bizarre, really — for all the bravado, for the air of appearance he puts on in the ring or press conferences, public appearances — he’d never really looked at himself like this — or rather, looked at himself like he was looking through the perspective of another person. It isn’t like the times he’d beat himself up over a poor performance in the ring, wondering what people must be thinking of him. This is Makoa, this is his boyfriend who he knows — all the reverence in his gaze when he looks at Elliott, it’s completely and utterly sincere. No tabloid bullshit heaping praise on their local hero, not just somebody who wants Mirage — Makoa wants Elliott.
Oh, right. He’s supposed to answer.
“Yes,” gasps Elliott, “you know I like it,” figuring simple is best when it comes to hurrying Gibraltar to put his fucking dick inside him as fast as possible. He watches his own reflection, watches Makoa watching him, and squeezes the back of his neck.
“More,” he whimpers, “please, Makoa. You — I — we — look so amazing together.”
That does the trick. Not that Elliott hadn’t meant it — he’s having a hard time tearing his eyes away from his own reflection at the moment, especially once Makoa finally starts moving his fucking hand, and begins to stroke him, slow and indulgent.
And oh fucking Christ, it’s good. So fucking good. Elliott positively fucking keens at the touch, and instinct keeps trying to urge his eyelids to flutter shut — but then he remembers what Makoa wants from this, and he watches his own face, needy, breathless, full of lust —
But can’t help but drink in the sight of Makoa’s hand, slowly stroking his cock, still slicking it with the precum still being coaxed from the head. But it’s — and he should be grateful for this much, after being denied so long — it’s torturously slow, no matter how good it feels. He releases his arm from around Makoa’s neck, grasps around the sink’s surface for — for — yes, thank fuck, he knew he’d left some here — the hazy thought of God fucking bless shower sex barely drifting across his consciousness, as his hand snatches around a bottle of lube near the sink. He hasn’t looked away from the mirror the entire time, which might be why he earns a moment of respite, why Makoa doesn’t punish him with further denial for attempts to seize control.
“I wanna,” Elliott begs, and he would be ashamed of what a fucking writhing mess of need he is right now, but it’s Makoa — “I wanna feel you inside me, Makoa. Please.”
And God, like a fucking blessing, he can feel Gibraltar break, with a low groan against the side of Elliott’s head. Elliott would count it up as a win, but he’s too fucking horny to really care about such things anymore. He simply turns over the tube of lube to Makoa, and braces himself against the sink, spreading his legs so as to widen his stance just enough.
And then, a moment of silence.
“...Makoa?” Elliott asks. Had he done something wrong? This whole relationship stuff was still pretty new to him, and fumbling along as he did, he was never entirely sure to what extent he may or may not be fucking it up. He can see their reflection in the mirror, and Makoa seems to just be regarding him, coating his fingers with lube, considering something.
“Move here,” Makoa tells him and Elliott just about gets the first syllable of his confused answer out, before he’s swiftly — oh. Oh. Lifted up by the hips and deposited just to the left of the sink and oh.
He sees now. Literally sees.
Wall-length mirrors. Elliott had liked them, when he picked out his flat, no matter how much his mother eye-rolled over the fact. He hadn’t even really been picturing this — okay, yeah, well, that was potentially a lie, because — well. Point being. Gibraltar got the point.
Fuck. Both have them are dumbstruck for just a moment, taking in the sight of one another — of themselves — together like this — it’s a whole fucking lot.
Thankfully, Makoa seizes initiative — quite literally — by wrapping his hand back around Elliot’s cock and that is enough to cause him to moan incomprehensibly in delight — but it’s swiftly followed by the sensation of feeling Makoa’s thick fingers gently press against his entrance.
Elliott makes a desperate sound, grinding his hips backwards needily, bracing two hands against the mirror’s surface. His head dips forward for just a moment, gasping, his gaze falling towards the floor — but the fingers that had just about been to push themselves inside are abruptly removed. Before he can complain about the loss, he feels his hair tugged backwards — gently, but with enough firmness to wrench his gaze back towards the mirror. He remembers again, that he’s supposed to be looking at himself and oh fuck, but he’s a wreck. His face is virtually burning red at this moment, his entire body coated in a thin sheen of sweat, and — oh fuck, oh fuck — Makoa’s hand more or less engulfing his cock.
Makoa is clearly watching him watch himself, and — well, Elliott might not be allowed look away, but he can feel just how heavily Makoa is breathing behind him, his hands unknotting themselves from his hair and reaching back for the lube. He’d paused stroking Elliott’s cock whilst he made sure that Elliott had gone back to playing by the ‘rules’ — but resumes his movements once reassured he was gonna keep his concentration upon the mirror’s reflection. And Elliott is doing his fucking best — despite how very, very, very fucking much he wants to see Gibraltar reslick his fingers, rubbing them together whilst his other hand slowly pumps Elliott’s cock — to keep on watching himself.
And, fuck. It’s one thing knowing you were good-looking — he’s got enough of a fan-following that despite all his own varying insecurities, he is aware he’s attractive. But he never knew he could look like this. Even with sweat shining bright on his face, eagerly trying to fuck into Makoa’s hand, all the whilst just slightly bent over, so he can just about see — oh, oh fuck — Makoa’s hand slip behind him and once again begin to tease his hole.
Which he’d really like to have a better look at, but he’s confronted with his own face about a foot away from the reflective surface, and it’s — fuck, but it’s a lot. Watching himself let out a let out a lengthy moan once Makoa finally slips a finger inside him is — fuck. He’s always been pretty vocal in bed, but it’s one thing to hear yourself, and another to see yourself. His mouth hangs partly open, as he tries thrust himself back on Makoa’s finger, and you know — he’s always been pretty embarrassed about his blushes but confronted by them like this —
Yeah. Okay. This is definitely hot to watch.
Enough so that he grinds needily back against Makoa’s finger, watching as his breath fogs up the mirror with each breath.
“Yeah,” he gasps, staring at the way his lips move as he speaks, “c’mon, please. Need you now.”
He can hear — as well as feel a chuckle from behind, and the hand that had been busy jerking off his cock pulls away. Elliott emits a vague sound of complaint, but all that earns him is a soft smack on his ass. And oh fuck, that’s enough to have him pressing his forehead against the mirror — careful not to look away — whilst his fingers scrambled desperately against the reflective surface for some kind of purchase. God, he’d love to see Makoa’s face, see if he’s coming apart just as much as Elliott is, but — knowing Makoa well as he does, he can just about picture him, the way he always takes a deep inhale, steadying himself just enough before pushing another finger inside. And hell, when Elliott feels that second digit push in, he can’t help but keen, falling forward just that little bit further as he pushes his ass back against Makoa.
“S’ok?” Makoa breathes, with just enough concern that there’s a twist in Elliott’s chest. It’s a familiar one: it doesn’t matter how many times they do this — and bless Gibraltar, the two of them practically set a new personal record the night before, he really does not need to be so gentle — but Makoa never fails to make sure Elliott’s okay. Despite Elliott’s many, many demanding urges that he is just fine and get on with it already.
That has earned him a certain degree of punishment before in the past, and he’s not eager to repeat the experience of having his orgasm drawn out much further. And so, he swallows thickly, watching with mild awe how his throat bobs as he does so, trying to squirm that bit further backwards against Makoa’s fingers.
“Yeah,” Elliott just about manages, struggling between whether to fuck himself forwards so as to meet the other man’s recently-replaced grip on his dick, or backwards, so as to meet his fingers thrusting into his hole. Gazing back at his own appearance, utterly blown out and on the edge as he was, made it all the worse. And — goddamn — release seems simultaneously so close and yet so far.
Elliott can feel his thighs shaking as Makoa continues to pump his fingers in and out of his ass, all the while jerking his dick at a torturously slow pace. He’s having enough trouble keeping it together as it is, but once Makoa curls his fingers inside him, Elliott is fucked. He cries out, struggling to maintain himself upright against the mirror. He’s such a wreck that Makoa has to release his cock, wrap his arm firmly around his chest and pull Elliott back up against him.
And oh, God.
He takes in the sight of them both, and for once, Makoa simply just fucking lets him.
He’s seen Makoa looking pretty fucking into him many-a-time before but he’s fairly sure he’s never seen him this blown out. He’s looking at Elliott like he’s the only person in the world that matters at all, eyes blazing with a mix of lust and complete and utter awe. It’s enough to make Elliott’s entire body shudder, and he can feel Makoa pull him just that bit closer when he feels it. Elliott palms the mirror, in the absence of being able to touch the other man’s face, shooting him a look of complete and utter desperation, shifting that bit more, spreading his legs wider as he arches his back meaningfully.
“Makoa,” he pants, “please, I can’t — I can’t wait any longer, please, I fucking need you.”
Gibraltar seems to snap out of his trance of just watching Elliott watching them, and gives him a quick squeeze, before releasing the arm wrapped around his chest, reaching round to grab the lube again, hurriedly coating his hand. Elliott can’t see it exactly, but he can make out the sounds of Makoa lubing up his own cock, and he instinctively rolls his hips backwards — yelping in delight as Makoa’s fingers brush yet again against his prostate.
There’s a profound feeling of loss when Makoa withdraws his fingers from his ass, and Elliott can’t help but mewl at the absence, fingers curling against the tractionless surface of the mirror. He bites back another plea, reminding himself what is coming next is better.
He can feel Makoa line up his dick against his entrance, and fuck, he wishes he had something concrete to hold onto. Usually during such moments, he could either bite down on Makoa’s neck or shoulder, or you know, when positions demand it, at the very least a pillow or even his own goddamn sleeve. As it is, all he has is his own reflection, staring back at himself, oh-so-clearly about to come apart.
Makoa eases the tip of himself inside, and all of the breath rushes out of Elliott. It’s — it’s — it’s so fucking much, after all the teasing, all the denial, and most of fucking all, having to watch his own reaction throughout the whole thing. And right now, he looks like a fucking this close to coming apart completely. He can feel Makoa taking a few steadying breaths for himself from behind, his free hand sliding up Elliot’s sweat-soaked spine, and Elliott’s fingernails scrabble at the mirror. He’s forced to flatten his palms against it instead, and piteously plead for Makoa to continue.
With Elliott’s consent, Makoa gently pushes the rest of himself inside, and fuck — they may have gone at it lord knows how many times the night before, but the stretch still burns — and it’s so, so, so good. Elliott doesn’t even try to hide the low groan that escapes him once Gibraltar bottoms out. He feels so full, and so — so — he flings an arm back around Makoa’s neck, partly just for something to hold onto, and partly just to be held upright because he is this close to crumbling.
“S’okay?” Makoa asks once more, and if Elliott wasn’t so fucking horny, he might even laugh. How can the other man see it as anything other than okay?
But, it was Makoa. Always double-checking. Always making sure Elliott was having a good time, despite how much he clearly was.
Elliott is fairly sure his thighs are still trembling, his cock almost painfully hard and leaking between his legs. It’s taking all the willpower he has to not take himself in hand, even for just — one, two, maybe three at best — strokes but —
Elliott grits his teeth, struggling to not close his eyes or to reach down for his own dick.
“Just fuck me, Makoa,” Elliott hisses, his nails curling uselessly against the mirror before thrusting his hips backwards, hoping against hope he won’t be punished for this attempt at seizing control.
He’s rewarded with a throaty moan, as Makoa seizes both his hips, digs his fingers into Elliott’s hipbones, mouth opening against the side of his neck. Elliott uses the arm he’s flung around Makoa to squeeze him tighter, rolling his hips backwards, doing all he fucking can to urge the bigger man on.
And — thank Christ — Makoa finally does. Elliott can hear the deep inhale he takes just before he draws himself out, then slowly — too fucking slowly pushes back inside.
Makoa may have stamina, but he also has an incredible amount of self-restraint, which is a source of continuous frustration to Elliott. He tries his utmost to keep on grinding back against his partner, but Gibraltar refuses to let him chase the pace. It’s getting quite frankly pathetic how desperate Elliott is, as is evident by the embarrassing gibbering pleas that keep bursting forth from his lips but then —
Makoa doesn’t speed up the pace that he’s fucking him, but instead allows one of the hands that that had been holding him in place to slide up Elliott’s sweat-soaked torso — pausing just a moment to flick at his nipple piercing which obviously wrenches a high-pitched yelp from Elliott — before coming to rest over his throat.
Elliott’s eyes widen, and for a moment he genuinely forgets to breathe. He feels Gibraltar’s thick fingers gently wrap themselves around his neck — feels them even more as he swallows, throat bobbing against their touch — and just oh so lightly press.
It’s something Elliott had tried to hint at before — the odd quip or suggestion here or there, that he’d love to claim were subtle, but he’s sure were far from — but Makoa had never quite seized upon. Which was fine and all — part of the reason he likes Makoa so much is just how caring he is — but, y’know.... With hands like these, Elliott could absolutely not be blamed for his imagination running wild at what they could potentially do.
There’s just the slightest amount of pressure, as Makoa very, very lightly tightens his fingers around Elliott’s throat. Elliott gasps — and fuck, it’s such a thrill to find he can’t quite suck in as much air as he currently needs right now and — continues to squirm in the other man’s grasp, ridiculously desperate to fuck himself on the other man’s cock.
Gibraltar chuckles, that same, familiar laugh — but Elliott knows him well enough by now to tell he’s struggling to keep it together nearly as much as he is.
“Patience, Ell,” Makoa murmurs, nipping his earlobe, whilst his hand caresses his neck — before suddenly his other hand reaches up and grasps his hair, and pulls it just enough to expose the long line of Elliot’s neck and fuck, fuck — staring back at himself, panting and heaving for breath is — is —
His arm tightens around Makoa’s neck, as he writhes back against him. Shame has truly been long forgotten at this point, and honestly, all he wants is for Makoa to fuck him to the point where he’s not capable of telling what is up or down anymore.
Which is more or less what he’s breathlessly gibbering to his partner, and whilst he yeah, learned a hard lesson on just how much restraint Makoa Gibraltar had — at the very least Elliott Witt likes to think he’s damn good at shattering that particular shield.
He’s fortunately proven correct, as Gibraltar lets out a moan and at last — begins to dig his hand into his hair and fuck him in earnest.
And fuck.
It’s almost too much. He knows that if he grabs his own dick, he’ll be punished for the fact, so all he can do it is roll his head piteously back against his boyfriend’s shoulder.
Makoa lightly — lightly presses his hand against his throat once again and it’s not really — Elliott has enjoyed some much rougher encounters, and usually that’s what he’d want, but after so long hoping Makoa would entertain the idea and staring at the size and power of his goddamn fucking hands — it’s just as good, if not better than rougher chokeplay. It’s especially good being able to watch those thick fingers wrap themselves around his throat, and between that and — god, Makoa’s dick fucking into him — he’s —
“I’m,” Elliott gasps, cock leaking and so goddamn horny and needy at this point he’s wondering if he can possibly going to come from this alone, “I’m not gonna — ah — not gonna l-last much longer, Makoa please —”
He’s rewarded with a final tug of his hair, before Makoa untangles his hand from Elliott’s sweat-soaked tresses to reach around and instead wrap back around his cock, and all it takes is about two or three pumps before Elliott lets out a yell, hips stuttering forwards as he spills over Makoa’s hand — and, well, fuck, the mirror as well.
Makoa, he has learned, generally tips over from watching his partner’s reaction, and this particular scenario means Elliott can feel his breath hot against the side of his face — and oh fuck, can watch — as he comes apart, hips snapping forward just a few more times before Elliott can feel him unloading, hot and heavy, inside of him. Thought is difficult right now as he tries fight through the post-orgasm haze, but he’s distantly aware that if he hadn’t just come ten seconds ago, he’s pretty sure he’d come from the sensation of that alone. It’s a miracle he hasn’t come again.
Makoa’s head falls to his shoulder, mouthing gently against his skin, and Elliott isn’t faring much better. He releases the arm slung round the other man’s shoulder, just so he can brace himself against the mirror. He’s grateful Makoa doesn’t slump forwards — he’s more or less certain he’d fall over given how much it feels like every muscle in his body has apparently turned gelatinous.
The two of them simply rest against one another for a minute or so, heavily panting, trying to regain their breath. Makoa eventually pulls out, and Elliott lets himself fall just a little bit backwards — embarrassingly eager to be caught up in the other man’s muscular arms.
“Mmf,” is about all Elliott can manage, nuzzling at his boyfriend’s neck. He can feel the other man chuckle, and Elliot wraps his arm back around Makoa’s neck.
“Told ya,” Makoa teases, nipping his ear lobe and smearing Elliott’s own cum — and fuck, that was hot — over his abdomen. “You look great like this.”
Elliott can’t help but laugh himself, leaning back into his embrace.
“I always look good,” he teases, “can’t believe you ever thought otherwise.”
Makoa huffs a laugh, and deftly spins Elliot around by the hips — and god help him, but the fucking ease he’s always able to do that with, will never cease to amaze Elliott — and kisses him, open and messy. Elliott can’t simply melts into it, lazily looping his arms around Makoa’s neck and even humming in contentment as Makoa answers him just as eagerly, seizing him around the waist and hungrily opens his mouth to Elliott’s tongue.
And good lord Elliott is fucking spent but if Makoa isn’t —
The two of them are abruptly interrupted by the bathroom door flying open.
God. Fucking. Damnit.
It had been a nice idea and all — decoys as an emergency backup wake-up alarm, once he’d slept through the usual one — he was a heavy sleeper, it wasn’t a big deal!
“Heyyyy!” cackles a mirror image of himself — literally reflected in the mirror, cheerfully at them both. “I see we’re having a good time here and, hey, I approve! But the games start in three hours, we wanna get a move on?” The decoy grins at Makoa. “You too, big boy. It’s wonderful seeing so much more of y-”
Elliott snaps his fingers, causing the decoy to flutter out of reality.
He’d love to have some kind of witty remark, especially in this moment but —
But.
The two of them are both blushing, which is incredibly stupid since the decoys aren’t actually people, but it still feels like being caught out.
“Well,” Elliott says, with a small laugh, “I mean. He has a point, I guess.”
Gibraltar chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully.
“That’s true. We should hustle. You’re paired with Bangalore and she’ll probably kill you for real this time if you’re late again.”
Elliott grimaces — that was also true.
Makoa pulls him close again, pecks him quickly on the lips before pulling back with a grin.
“Hope you don’t think I’m gonna take it easy on you in there just ‘cause I know you’re sore.”
Elliott smirks back.
“Winner gets a blow job.”
“You’re on.”
**
God only knows why they even make those stupid wagers, Elliott briefly thinks to himself later, whilst Makoa’s mouth is wrapped around his cock, and the taste of the other man’s cum is still fresh in his mouth.
They both know they’re equally fucking bad at keeping their hands off each other.