A/N: Hello! I have been so uninspired and creatively blocked, and it feels so *good* to post something again.
TW: light restraints, mentions of PTSD and triggers.
Reviews are always, always, *always* appreciated.
Thank you for reading!
"Not doing this."
"Not doing what, exactly."
"This," Elliot motions toward the faux-silk restraints. "We're not—"
Not…what? Ready? Because if he weren't so reluctant to restrict her control he'd be plenty ready.
"We."
"Yeah." He angles his brow; recognizes she's baiting him. "We."
"Well," Olivia scoffs. "Clearly you think too highly of yourself." Her tone is both accusing and defensive, "Like you're somehow the expert on what I want," arms crossed. "And how much I can handle."
"Never said that."
"No?" Her glance shifts toward the ties. "Show me."
Elliot's fingertips smooth over her wrists, applying gentle pressure where she had been bound. "Okay?" His arms envelop her waist, pulling her body — now slack and sapped of energy — close, until her bare back is flush against his chest. "Need you to say something," he murmurs.
She traces small, lazy circles around his knuckles. "I'm good." Unconvincing, but maybe it'll suffice. "Tired."
"Not too tight." She speaks with an edge of insecurity.
"Liv," he sighs, thumbs grazing the underside of her forearms. "Just say the word…"
He's given her ample opportunity to change her mind; worried that being restrained — tied up, specifically — may be triggering.
"No." Her eyes signal a need for something well beyond the physical. "I want this."
"At least tell me how it felt."
"How it—really, Elliot?" She flips to face him, sheets covering her chest. "You want to be my shrink?"
"Want you to talk."
It borders on combative, even if stemming from a place of concern.
"Talk?" She leans in, intentionally suggestive. "Or stroke your ego?"
"Right there." Olivia manages, reflexively fighting the restraints. "Don't stop."
"Or, what?" He taunts. "Because it seems like you're in a…" slowly, he draws out his fingers, "Tight," rests them on her inner thigh, lips curled into a smug grin. "Spot to be barking orders."
"You know we can't—" Elliot reconsiders. "I can't do this again if we don't talk about what happened."
"You want more?" He teases her clit with the tip of his tongue. "Ask for it."
"Oh, fuck you," she snaps, hips raised.
"Nicely, Olivia."
"You're lucky I don't have—" her heels dig into his low back. "My gun."
"That a threat, captain?" He shifts; cages her between his arms.
Her eyes lift, "Might be."
"You need to let this go," she groans. "Said I'm fine."
"Faster." Olivia combats the urge to resist the restraints, legs wrapping Elliot's waist, back arched. "Come on," she goads, unable to switch positions but craving variety.
He stalls — eager to please but trying to last — taking her nipple between his teeth until she's writhing, sweating, panting, pleading and fuck... he needs more, too.
"Open your eyes," he nips her bottom lip. "Want to see you."
"Yeah?" She chides. "Then move."
An ultimatum of sorts but seems to do the trick as he slips out briefly; readjusts for leverage.
"Shit," her lashes flutter and she meets his gaze.
He picks up his pace, fixating on her dilated pupils and flushed cheeks. "This what you want?"
"Mhm," she manages between ragged breaths, "Keep talking."
An unusual ask, but he complies: tells her how good she feels, how badly he wants her — that he always has — over and over until his movements turn frantic; muscles tense.
"Liv," he rasps as she tightens around him. "Where do you want me to…"
"Inside me," she decides, teeth dragging across his shoulder.
"I didn't fake it."
"No," he smirks. Cocky. "Didn't think you did."
"El," she's close, but won't get there without extra stimulation. "Need you to. Because I can't. And you—"
"Relax," he reaches between her legs. "I've got you."
Her neck strains and she'll feel it tomorrow but, "Fuck," can't be bothered now. "Fuck," she says again, pressing her fingernails into the heel of her hand. "Fuck," and again, hips grinding against his as her climax builds, and builds, and builds until her breath hitches and finally, she lets go.
"Don't do this, Elliot," she warns. "Don't."
Intentional or not, it sounds like an order.
"Untie me."
She feels unmoored.
"Now, El."
Overwhelmed.
"Give me a second," he rolls to her side, focused on her wrists.
"Now." Her agitation escalates. Heartbeat quickens.
"I'm working on it," he reasons, but she's teetering on the edge of panic and fighting his grip.
Logically, Olivia recognizes that she's making this more difficult, but her movements are purely instinctive. Involuntary, almost.
"Hey," Elliot lays his palm flat on her cheek. "Liv, look at me."
"I need—"
"Eyes on me." He interrupts; waits for her to find him. "Stop fighting." It's gentle, the way he says it: thumb tracing her jawline, eyes soft. "You're okay."
"Okay," she swallows. Nods. Accepts. "Okay."
"Okay," he whispers, holding eye contact while fumbling with the restraints; freeing one wrist, then the other.
She expects an argument. Mentally prepares for it.
"Don't shut me out." He says instead. "Please."
Part of him is too tired to bicker. Another part recognizes that he's no better at this — whatever this is — than she is. That they're figuring it out: growing, changing, learning, evolving, together.
That it takes time to unlearn old habits.
"I'm sorry." A quiet yet sincere apology.
Elliot exhales slowly. Inhales deeply.
"I'm fine."
"Jesus, Olivia," he snaps.
"But," she interrupts; squeezes his arm, "I think, maybe…"
He waits for something — anything — but she's silent. Likely searching for words, but for someone usually so blunt her hesitation is unsettling.
"Tell me?" He prompts.
"It was good." She clarifies; scans the room, "You were," slips further beneath the covers. "Elliot, you did nothing wrong."
"…but?"
"I liked it." Olivia reiterates. "But it was—it became too much when I—" She won't say it. "You know, there's a certain level of…vulnerability—"
Why, she wonders, is it so fucking hard to speak freely about about her own insecurities? To admit to both Elliot and herself that her trauma brought panic into a moment of pleasure.
To tell him that really, she was fine until her orgasm robbed her of what little control she had left.
"I got it." He keeps his tone casual. Light. "Look, if you want to try again, sometime," he laces their fingers together. "I can just—we keep them looser, you know? So I can untie you before…" he trails, stumbling over his words. "When you're close, so that you're not still—when you—"
God, this is awkward.
Painfully so.
"Yeah," she interjects. "That sounds…better."
He nods. "Alright."
"And I do."
He glances at her; cocks his brow.
"Want to try again," she rewards him with a delicate smile. "Sometime."