Acts of Service

by rahleeyah

Follow up to The Art of Letting Go. Elliot is determined to prove to Olivia that he loves her, and that he's home to stay. TW for ropes and a plug.

Kathy had tried to explain to him once about the love languages. Something she read in a book, not long after Eli was born, when she and Elliot were more like a pair of exhausted roommates than a married couple. She'd told him how people express love in different ways, and how if they could just learn to see the love in one another they'd feel more loved. Or some horsehit like that. Her love language, she said, was touch. But hell, Elliot had thought at the time, wasn't that true for most people? Hugs and kisses, a comforting hand at the small of someone's back, resting on their shoulder, cupping the nape of their neck, wasn't all that love, and didn't everybody know it? Once she told him about it he started overthinking the hell out of every move he made; was he touching her enough, would she forgive him if he held her hand, was there anything he could do that would make her happy? He started thinking, too, about all the times she'd reached for him, and he'd slipped away from her, and wondered to himself if maybe he'd known all along that she was trying to love him, and held himself apart from her anyway.

His love language, she'd said, was acts of service. He showed his love by doing things for people, taking care of them. Words weren't his strong suit, and he'd never been good at picking out gifts - hell, he'd asked Olivia to buy presents for Kathy, more than once, because he knew he was useless at it himself and Liv had a good eye and Kathy had loved everything Olivia ever gave to her and never knew where any of it came from - and maybe quality time would have been the winner but he'd been a cop for most of his adult life, and he'd never had time for anything. But that was just it, wasn't it, Kathy had said; he'd chosen a life devoted to service, and every time he took out the trash or let her sit while he cleaned up the kitchen she'd known he was trying to tell her that he loved her. And she'd tried to do the same thing for him, tried to help him, tried to take some of the weight off his shoulders.

The way Elliot saw it, a man couldn't have just one love language. Love had to be all those things, or else it wasn't love at all. Love was a lot of things; love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. All his life, he'd heard those words, read them over and over, and wondered about himself. He wasn't the most patient; he tried to be kind. He was jealous and proud, and easily angered, and Jesus, he could hold a grudge.

The words made him think of Liv, these days. She was like him, in a lot of ways. Proud and angry, that was Liv. But she did not boast, and she was patient, was probably, he thought, the most patient woman alive. If she kept a record of his wrongs she did not throw them in his teeth, and when he needed her she was there, always. She did not delight in evil, but rejoiced with the truth. Liv showed her love, every day, in every way; in the words she said, the touches she bestowed, the gifts she gave, her endless serving of others, the time she devoted to the ones she loved. To him, and to Noah, to the victims, to everyone and everything except herself.

He got to love her, now. A few months before she'd delivered herself into his hands and he had held her, and from that moment forward they had only grown more entangled with one another. He loved her, knew he loved her, learned his love of her the way he'd learned the catechism when he was a child, but he just kept fucking it up. Not the loving her part, but the showing her part. The making her feel it part. He went under and they couldn't talk for days on end and when they did mostly it was about work, about how he needed to be careful, about how she worried for him. They couldn't be seen together in public, the disgraced detective and the decorated captain; it'd be hell for her reputation and it would sow mistrust among the brotherhood, and put her and her son in the line of fire. Stolen moments, that was all he got of her these days, and those moments were full of worry, and doubt, and sorrow. She'd wanted him to come home, and he'd just gone back under, retreated to a life where he got to keep his name but he couldn't be true to himself. Put himself back in harm's way, when all she wanted was for him to be safe. Risked everything, everything he was, everything he had, everything they could have been, and left her all alone, to wait it out.

So he'd been thinking, lately, about the best way to show Olivia that he loved her, the best way to prove to her that she could put her faith in that love, the best way to cover her in that love, shelter her with it, to comfort her and not to wound her. Words or gifts wouldn't mean much to her; Liv didn't have much faith in pretty words, and material things held no interest for her. But time, and touch, and service, he kept coming back to those three. Who spent their time on her? Who touched her? Who served her, when she devoted so much of herself to everyone else? She needed care, he thought; she'd spent too long, way too damn long, on her own, with no one to look after her, no one to hold her, and that was his fault, and he knew it. He'd made the hurt, and that meant it fell to him to heal it.

He went to the store, bought a few things. Rehearsed the steps of his plan, over and over, to make sure he knew exactly what he meant to do, and how to do it. Called Fin, and swallowed his pride, and asked for a favor. Told Donnelly he'd be MIA the next weekend, something about his mother, promised he'd be back come Monday. With careful steps he laid the groundwork, and on Friday night he drove across town, flashed his badge at her doorman, and rode the elevator up to her floor.

When he knocked on her door he experienced a moment's hesitation; Fin had told him that Noah was at a sleepover tonight, and Fin had promised to run interference, to make sure the captain's phone wouldn't ring unless the whole fucking city was on fire. For one blessed night Olivia was free and clear, with no responsibilities, and Elliot had done that on purpose, certain that she would take this night for herself, would be relaxing at home, but what if she wasn't? What if she'd found someone else to take her out for drinks when he couldn't, someone to take her to a fancy restaurant when he wasn't allowed to stand beside her where people could see? Hell, what if she was already asleep; what if she would begrudge him intruding on her one night of peace?

The door swung slowly open, and his fears abated; she was home, alone, and lovely. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her face, and she'd washed away her makeup, traded her blazer and her boots for an oversized sweater and leggings. Her feet were bare on the carpet, and her eyes went wide with surprise when she saw him.

"Elliot," she sighed his name, leaning against the side of her door. He wanted her to be happy when she saw him but she just sounded sad, somehow, and he shifted his grip on the box he carried at his hip.

"Can I come in?" he asked her hoarsely.

For a second it looked like she was thinking about it, like she was actually considering telling him no, but however much he loved her, she loved him the same, and that love made her step back, making room for him to join her.

"What's going on?" she asked, leaning back against the closed door, crossing her arms over her chest, and it occurred to him then that she thought a problem had brought him here. She thought he needed something from her, the way everyone else always did, thought he had come to take from her, to take of her time, her compassion, her wisdom. He had come to give to her instead, and so he swayed towards her, let his lips brush hers once, gently, before he pulled back and took in the soft look of surprise on her face, the way a tentative, hopeful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

That she should be tentative, now, that she should be so bold and brave and reckless with her badge at her hip and her gun in her hand but uncertain when she stood in front of him in her bare feet, made him want to fall to his knees in front of her, and beg her forgiveness. It was his fault, he knew, his fault she still didn't quite trust this, his fault that part of her still expected to have it ripped away from her at any moment. There had been a time when the only certainty either of them could cling to was one another, but he had broken that bond, and she hadn't recovered, yet, not really. He was working on it, though. They were healing together.

"There's something I want to do," he said. "For you. If you…if you'll let me. If you'll trust me."

"Does it have something to do with that?" she asked, gesturing towards the box still cradled on his hip.

It had everything to do with the box, so he lifted back one of the flaps and let her peer inside.

Her cheeks flushed scarlet as she looked, and then her eyes darted up to his face, seeking confirmation, seeking reassurance.

"You been taking care of me," he said, and fondness for her ran hot and warm and thick as honey through his veins when he said it. "I wanna take care of you, if you'll let me."

It was his idea, but it had to be her choice. It would always be her choice; he would never, ever put his hands on her without knowing she wanted them there. Some days he still couldn't believe she'd let him touch her at all, and he needed her to tell him that he could, needed her to remind him that his memories of her hands ghosting over his back, the wet clutch of her pussy and the soft sound of her moans weren't the feverish imaginings of his lonely mind, but were real, and true, were a joy he could feel again.

"You don't have to-"

"I want to."

It had been her idea, the first time. She'd been lonesome and sad and tired, and she'd needed him so much she'd been forced to swallow her pride and ask for him, but this time, this time he was not responding to her, was not doing this thing because she'd asked him to. That night she'd let him bind her, that night she'd laid all of herself bare for him and trusted him to care for her, she had shown him a part of himself he hadn't even known existed, had graced him with the vulnerable, delicate pieces of her heart, and he wanted it, now. Wanted her trust, and her skin, wanted to show her that he could be strong for her, steady for her, that his love would not waver, or leave her cold and alone, not ever again.

"Ok," she said, and relief flooded through him. Relief, and just a little bit of trepidation, because now he was here, and she'd said ok, and there would be no going back. He was going to do this thing, for her, and he wanted, desperately, to do it right.

Olivia helped him, took his free hand in hers and walked him back to her bedroom. The overhead light was on, and he decided to keep it that way, decided that he wanted to see her, all of her, with no shadow, no patch of darkness between them.

"I want you naked," he said, carrying his burden to the bed and setting it down there, reaching inside to pull out the items he'd purchased for this night.

Behind him Olivia laughed, a little startled, a little rueful.

"You don't ask for much, do you?" she said, her voice just a little too tight to be lighthearted.

"Look, I'm trying-"

"It's ok, baby," she said soothingly. She called him baby, now. Now that he had kissed her, now that he had been inside her, now that she had let him hold her, he could be her baby. Could be hers, in a way he'd never dreamed he could be, back when they were young and reckless and he was bound to someone else and dreaming of Olivia instead, and it felt so fucking good that all he wanted was to hear her say it again.

While his own nerves buzzed and crackled like electricity across his skin he could hear the soft rustling of her clothes sliding away, and even though he wasn't watching just knowing that she was baring herself for him made arousal churn slowly through his belly, the pounding of his heartbeat like a drum in his veins. Tonight was about her, and so he was in no rush to sate his own want; he would let it simmer, let it guide him, but her relief was his goal, not his own.

When the box was empty he tossed it aside, and picked up the length of rope closest to hand, a tight, smooth coil, red like wine. The first time she'd let him tie her he'd cut her out of her restraints, ruined every bit of rope he'd used, and promised to replace it. He'd made good on his word, had done his research and found the right kinds of rope in all the right colors, bought enough to account for all he'd damaged, and more besides. He unwound the rope slowly, and as he did he turned, and looked at her at last.

There were some things too holy for men to behold with their own eyes. The ark of the covenant would strike a man dead to see it, wasn't that how the story went? There were inner sanctums of temples where only the most blessed could tread, and even then only if they had been cleansed of their sins, and approached in reverent, holy terror, understanding that what waited for them was both beautiful and fearsome. And they went anyway, willing to die for the chance to stand on sacred ground, and behold the almighty. That was how he felt, looking at Olivia, her body naked and sacrosanct. To be trusted with this, with her, to see her bare and vulnerable in a way no one else was allowed, was to be charged with a duty of care. He was allowed this gift, but only so long as he protected her, worshiped her, treasured her, and if he treated her carelessly he would be damned for his folly.

"You are the most beautiful goddamn thing I've ever seen," he told her.

She looked away, something rueful in her face like she didn't believe him. Maybe she didn't; maybe when she looked at herself, took in the lines and curves of her body, she only saw a woman, a tired woman, a woman whose life had not been kind, but when he looked at her he saw Olivia. Saw all of her, and loved her for it.

In silence he approached her, the wine red rope swinging heavy and loose from his hands.

"Trust me?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, and looked at him when she did, held his gaze as if challenging him to prove her wrong.

It was right, he'd always thought, right that her eyes were dark. There was darkness in her, anger and pain and lonesomeness, a ferocity that made her lash out, made her defensive, of herself, of others. The day he'd met her she'd been lean and young and dark, dark eyes where Kathy's were light, dark hair where Kathy's was blonde, and she had prowled beside him, sleek and dangerous as a jungle cat. Time had settled her, some, but it had not stolen her power; all eyes looked to her, for guidance, for protection, and if she was not the first strike now it was only because she had learned to use her strength in other ways. Even naked, even bare, shorter than him, standing still beneath his hands and the rope he meant to use to bind her, she was stong, and she held sway over him. She had given him her trust; it was up to him to prove that he deserved it. To show her that he deserved it. To give her the comfort he knew she craved, to care for her in this way she would not allow anyone else to do.

With steady hands he brought the rope forward from her neck, slipped it under her arms, around her back, then brought his hands back to the front, his fingers brushing gently against the soft swells of her breasts as he began to tie his first knot. The first time he'd tied her she'd been dressed, sort of, and it was a wildly different sort of experience touching her this way when she was naked. When he could see all of her, the softness of her belly and the curve of her hip and the thickness of her thighs unimpeded, and it must have felt different for her, too. A soft, unsteady breath rushed past her lips, and she swayed gently towards him, drawn into the shelter of his body by the gentle tugging of the rope. Last time she had stood still and quiet, at first, and she was quiet now, too, though her hands rose up to rest at his hips, anchoring her to him while he tried to keep his gaze focused on the loops of his knot, rather than allowing himself to be distracted by her soft pink nipples, by the dip of her waist, by the thatch of dark curls between her legs. Tonight he meant to touch her everywhere, but they were only getting started, and he was determined to take his time.

"You were right," he said.

The first knot, in a shape not unlike a rose, settled into the soft valley between her tits, and he pulled the ends of the rope away, wrapped them around her back again before bringing them forward. Olivia hummed, mostly he thought just to let him know she was listening, and her eyes fluttered closed, and her fingertips curled into the fabric of his shirt.

"I been running."

That was probably the understatement of the century.

"The Albanians…it didn't have to be me. I coulda run ops with Bell but I raised my hand. I wanted it. I wanted to leave my life behind. Be someone else for a while."

The second knot was coming together high on her belly, just under her breasts, as pretty as the first had been. He kept his gaze focused on the rope, but he didn't have to be looking at her to feel Olivia's eyes open, to feel them land on his face, to feel her looking. He'd always felt her eyes on him. Even when she was on the other side of the world, he'd felt her looking at him. Looking for him.

"I wasn't somebody I wanted to be."

He wrapped the rope around her again, tied it off in a knot at her back, and then reached for the next coil, the same color as the first. As he moved Olivia's hands shifted with him, reaching for him, holding him, never quite letting him go.

"I'd let a lot of people down," he said. "I don't like disappointing people. I don't like disappointing you."

She didn't protest, didn't try to tell him that he hadn't let her down, didn't even attempt to assuage his guilt. Instead she stood, still and quiet, and brushed her thumbs over his hips lightly. Last time she'd done most of the talking at his insistence, had unburdened herself to him, but this time there were things he wanted to say to her, things he couldn't go another minute not telling her.

"I was selfish," he said.

He took the fresh rope and threaded it through the rope already framing her chest, tied it off in a neat knot just above her heart and then began using it to cage her soft tits, running beneath them, between them, drawing them up and apart, the color of the rope stark and beautiful against her olive skin. They should put a painting of her tits in the fucking Louvre, he thought, she was that fucking pretty, but if he were being honest he'd have to admit he didn't want to share this piece of beauty with anyone else.

"Running away didn't set me free," he told her as he worked. "It just made things worse. It just hurt you worse. You told me you wanted me to come home, and it wasn't until then I realized…I thought you were taking care of me because you had to. Because you felt like it was your job."

"Elliot-"

"But that night…I thought maybe you wanted me home for your own sake. I thought maybe you just wanted me."

And it had shaken him to his core, the thought that she might want him. Not just want him safe, not just want him to stop causing trouble, not just to want to abandon her constant worry for him, but that she might want him. Just as he was, imperfect and troublesome. The thought that however much he had disappointed her it was not enough to make her abandon him, it had filled him with guilt and hope both, and even now, all these months later, he was still grappling with it.

The next part would require a little more rope; he tied off the ends of the one he was working with, and stepped back to survey his handiwork for a moment. The heavy lines of wine-red rope cradling her perfect tits, dotted here and there with neat knot to hold them steady, wrapping over her arms, around her back. Swaddling her, protecting her, the way he wanted to do.

"You'd left me once," she said sadly, standing still, unmoored as he left her for a moment, took up two coils of golden rope and unwound them before carefully tying them together. "I couldn't lose you again."

"You have me," he promised, and then he knelt at her feet.

Above him she gasped, softly, her right hand coming to rest at the top of his head, and as she touched him he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and without it he had been left boneless and weary, but relieved. He pitched forward slowly, let his forehead press into the soft meat of her thigh, and for a moment they stayed like that, frozen in a picture of benediction. Part of him wanted to stay right there all night with his breath warming her skin and her hand gently touching his head, but he had plans for her, and he could not wait too long, or else he'd risk losing the chance to finish what he'd started. Instead he kissed her skin once, softly, and then rocked back on his heels, took the double length of rope he'd made and looped it carefully around her waist.

"Hold this," he said, pressing one end of the rope into her hand. She took it, left him free to focus his attention on the other side.

Like a seamstress threading a needle he took that rope, and slipped it gently between her thighs, settled it into the crease of her leg, hooked it beneath the swell of her ass, brought it around her hip from the back, crossed to the other side, and began to knot it in place. Not too tightly, for he did not mean to wound her, but just tight enough for her to feel the pressure of it. In his research he'd seen women with ropes running right over their sex, a knot expertly placed to grind against their clit, but though the idea fascinated him he had decided to save it for another time. For now, for tonight, he didn't need anything getting in his way.

"I lost myself, with Wheatley," he said, tying off the ends of the knot at her hip. He reached for the end of the rope she held, their fingers brushing softly together as he took it from her, and repeated the process, the rope running like a river between her legs, over her ass, his skin skirting along hers and leaving them both just a little breathless.

"You can't stand an injustice," she said. With those simple words she absolved him of his sins; she had not told him that what he did was right, but she had told him she understood it, and that was the part that mattered, anyway.

"Never could," he agreed. "Neither could you."

Quiet fell, again, as he finished his work, and when it was done he pressed his lips to the jut of her hip bone just below it, and looked up at her in adoration. The rope did not restrict her movements, just embraced her like a lover, just highlighted all the parts of her he longed to trace with his own lips. The weight of the rope, the pressure of it, that comforted her, he knew, and it felt good, giving this to her. Telling her that she was safe, and making her feel it.

"Will you lay down for me?"

She did not answer him with words, but went to the bed anyway, and without him having to tell her what he wanted she stretched out on her belly, allowed him a moment just to look at her, without her knowing eyes to distract him. To look at the lines of the rope across her back, to look at the curve of her perfect ass cradled in the hold of those ropes, to see the slope of her spine, the spread of her shoulders, her dark hair cascading over her neck. It had been too long since he'd last touched her, and so he indulged himself for a moment, let his palms land at the backs of her knees, let them press against her, kept that pressure steady as he dragged his hands over the backs of her thighs, over her ass, down to the small of her back. Beneath him she sighed, and relaxed, her body going pliant and soft as the tension left her, as she handed herself over to his care.

"Arms up, baby," he said, and she obliged him, raised her hands over her head and wound her fingers together.

There was still plenty more rope; the next coil was a deep, royal blue, and he knelt beside her on the bed as he unwound it, as he considered his next move. He needed her hands bound together, but the wrist was a delicate thing, and he needed to make sure there was a little give to the design he chose. Too loose and it might slip and chafe and dig into her in ways he didn't want, but too tight and he might risk damage to tendons and ligaments and bones. Careful, he would have to be so careful. That was right; he had to be careful with her body, now, but he had to be careful with her heart as well, for too many people had been too careless with both, and he could not bear to see her hurt again.

"This job with Donnelly," he said, reaching for her upraised hands. "I didn't pick it."

"I know," she said, and her voice had gone low and deep and soft in a way that made him ache for her.

"I have to make up for what I've done."

"Atoning for your sins? Jesus, Elliot, I know you're Catholic-"

"It's not that," he grumbled, winding the rope between her hands, shifting her a little so that those hands were palm to palm, her fingers spreading upwards like the steeples of a church. "I'm a good cop, Olivia. The brass thought I was a liability. I gotta show 'em that I'm not."

The weight of her hands in his grip, the quiet rustling of the rope as he wound it over and around and through the space between her wrists, his confessions spilling forth, made this moment seem heavy, and important. The first time he had done this had marked the first real, honest conversation they'd had, the first time they hadn't tiptoed around one another or spoken in half-truths and innuendos, and he couldn't help but wonder what it was about them that made it so hard to talk out there in the world, when here in the quiet of her bedroom they could be so sincere. Out there they were defensive and standoffish and unyielding, but in here they had both left their armor at the door, and he prayed they would be better for it.

"You aren't," she said softly, comfortingly.

He hadn't meant to do that, put her in the position of offering him reassurances when he had come here to take care of her, and so he set aside the question of whether or not he was a liability, whether or not he was damaged, and bulled ahead.

"I think we both know that's not true," he said. "But when this is done, I won't be a fucking…disgrace, or whatever. The brass will know they can trust me. All the running I been doing, all the lies, all the…all of it is gonna stop, Liv."

He'd made that promise to her before, and broken it. The only way she'd believe him now, he knew, was if he fucking did it, but he meant to. For her, he would keep his promises.

"And then you'll come home?" she asked him softly.

He wanted to roll her onto her back, wanted to cover her body with his and look down into her eyes and kiss her until they were both breathless, but that wasn't the fucking plan, so instead he ran his hand tenderly over her hair and smiled at her when she looked up at him.

"That's all I want," he said. "To come home. I've done my duty, Liv. I've done what I had to do. I made some choices I regret, but they just…all of it just…pointed me back to what matters."

"I'm glad."

"My family is the only thing that matters. And you, you and Noah, you're part of that family, too."

"Elliot-" she began to protest, her eyes a little wild, but he would not hear her tell him that he didn't love her.

"Don't fight me on this. I love you, Liv. And Noah is part of you, and that means I love him, too."

Somewhere along the way he'd gotten sidetracked. He had her carefully bound, her hands raised above his head, and what he meant to do next was something he definitely couldn't do with thoughts of their kids in his head. He needed to change course, but there was something strange flickering in her eyes, something like surprise, and too late he realized what he'd done. Apart from the night his family had attempted and valiantly failed to intervene and stop him spiraling, he had not once told her outright that he loved her. He had not said the words to her, had known they'd only send her running and had tried, so fucking hard, to keep her with him. Tried not to pressure her, tried not to make her feel trapped, and now he'd gone and done it when her hands were bound.

"You love me," she said.

"I love you," he answered, once more running his hand over her soft hair. There was no point denying it now, no point in trying to walk it back, when she was lying naked in front of him bound in ropes he'd tied himself, when there was nothing and no one standing between them. For the space of a heartbeat they were still and quiet, her eyes searching his face, his own looking hungrily back.

"Will you let me show you?" he asked.

She nodded, once, her eyes a little watery like she was trying not to cry, and so he reached for the box he'd left sitting on the floor by the bed, dug around inside it and retrieved the last two items he'd brought for tonight. It wasn't something they'd talked about, exactly; that is she'd mentioned it once, in passing, and he'd been thinking about it ever since but hadn't quite worked up the nerve to do anything about it until now, until tonight. Tonight when he meant to give her everything she'd ever wanted, tonight when he wanted to prove to her that whoever he had been once he was now exactly the sort of man she needed.

She thought he was a prude, and he knew it. She'd teased him about it once, a lifetime ago, and she'd tried to back out when she'd first introduced the idea of him tying her up, afraid she'd offended his Catholic sensibilities, and though he'd been inside her a dozen times by now they had still been too caught up in being with one another to be particularly adventurous. But she craved more, he knew, craved something different, on occasion, and he was determined to show her that he was anything but boring.

With his hands full then he settled back down on his knees beside her, and showed off the last of his purchases.

"Trust me?" he asked.

For about the sixth time tonight he'd surprised her; he could see it in her face, in the widening of her eyes, could hear it in the sudden intake of her breath, could feel it in the way her hips shifted almost imperceptibly, instinctively.

"You sure you know what you're doing with that?" she asked dubiously.

Lord, you have given me a difficult woman, Elliot thought. Sometimes it felt like she was picking fights for the hell of it, but he knew she just did it because she was scared, and he wasn't gonna let her be afraid of him, wasn't gonna let himself be someone she had to fear.

"I promise you, I do," he said. "So. Trust me?"

Maybe he was asking too much from her. Maybe he should've talked to her first. Maybe he'd fucked this up, and maybe she wasn't in the right headspace to be confronted with this choice; she went soft in the cradle of the ropes, became more willing, more forthright, than she was without them. Part of her craved that, he knew; part of her was hungry to surrender her control, but he didn't want to push too hard -

"Yeah," she said. "I trust you."

"Ok, then."

It was the sort of thing that had to be approached carefully - Jesus, wasn't everything, with her - and so he chose not to dive right in. Instead he set his burdens down, and caught hold of her ass, felt her flesh spilling between his fingers, rejoiced in her low moan of surprise. He massaged her, kneaded her, felt her give and sway beneath him, but it was not enough, and so crawled over her, urged her to part her thighs and settled in between them. His fingers sank deep into the yielding softness of her, lifted her ass and spread her open so that he could look, could see her pretty pink pussy, warm and waiting for him, could see the puckered ring of muscle between the cheeks of her ass. Without even thinking about it he sank his mouth over her, licked a stripe from her clit to her asshole, and grinned, bright and feral, when she moaned and pressed back against his face. They both liked it so much that he did it again, and again, and then he sank his teeth into the curve of her ass the way he'd wanted to do from the very first time he saw her naked. Olivia yelped and shivered, but rocked back against him, and did not chide him when she felt him sucking a mark against her skin, leaving behind a slowly darkening bruise that would linger for days, a memory of this moment and the way he loved her.

Blindly he reached out, and grabbed the shiny silver plug and the bottle of lube he'd purchased just for this occasion. He'd bought them from the same store where he'd purchased the rope, and he'd very nearly changed his mind right there, looking at the array of options in front of him and wincing. Some of them were huge, and some of them had little tails hanging off them, and some of them were cheap and some were gaudy and some were plain, but then he'd found this one, and found his nerve, too. It wasn't too big, wasn't too intimidating, and he liked the weight of it in his palm. The metal was shiny and smooth, and the flared base of it featured a sparkling red rhinestone, etched into the shape of a rose.

It wasn't anything he'd ever tried before, so he'd had to look this up, too. Had to learn how to do this for her, so that when the time came he didn't hurt her. He dropped the plug between his knees, and ran his fingertips over the shape of her, teased out her sighs and her wetness until he could slide two fingers into the welcoming wet of her pussy. He worked her over slowly, listening to the cadence of her breaths, thumbing her clit just to hear her moan, curling his fingers inside her while her back arched and her hips rocked back against him, her bound hands outstretched above her head, fingers curling around the headboard. When he was satisfied he slid his hand out of her, and cracked open the lube, used it and the slick of her arousal to coat his fingers, and then turned his attention to her ass.

Slowly, so slowly, he traced over the shape of her, until he'd left so much lube on her skin he realized ruefully that he'd need a little more before he could move forward. He withdrew and added a little lube to his hand, and beneath him she grumbled in displeasure.

"Don't tease," she gasped.

"I won't," he promised, and kissed her ass once, lightly, before pressing the tip of his forefinger against the tight ring of muscle at her center.

"Breathe for me, baby," he told her, holding steady, just that little bit of pressure against her, his free hand falling to the small of her back, rubbing her skin soothingly.

"I'm trying," she answered on a gasp.

He waited, a heartbeat, two, ten, but then he felt her relax, and pushed in, just a little. The groan that tore out of her was like nothing else he'd heard from her before, throaty and low, and he could see the goosebumps peppering her skin as she shivered. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to move, begging him for more, begging to take, but he waited, instead, waited until she relaxed enough for him to slide just that little bit deeper into her.

"Jesus Christ," she whimpered into the pillow.

"Good?"

"Fuck off."

Elliot laughed, and pulled back a little, and then eased forward again. Back and forth, he moved within her, and with every pass of his hand she accepted him, her breathing deep and uneven but her body relenting, for him. When he was sure she was ready he drew his hand back, and reached for the plug.

"It's time," he said. "You sure-"

"Do it."

"Yes, ma'am," he answered.

With both hands he warmed the smooth metal of the plug, and then he used the lube to slick it up, and then he pressed it against her, and she whimpered but raised her hips up in a silent plea for more, her head thrashing as slowly, slowly, the plug sank into her. A steady stream of curses tumbled from her lips and by the time he finally had the plug fully seated inside her her thighs were trembling. That red rose nestled in between the thickness of her ass looked prettier than it had any right to, and he wondered at himself, at the things she made him want.

"Elliot," she panted his name, and there was a question there, he knew.

"Stay right here for me, baby," he told her, and then leaned over her, pressed a kiss against her shoulder before rolling off the bed. He thought he heard her call him something that sounded like asshole, but she remained right where she was, her hands curled around the headboard and the plug in her ass, the ropes like vines across the smooth skin of her back.

A little break was necessary; if he stayed there between her thighs, looking at her like that, for another second more he wasn't sure he could stop himself from tearing off his pants and sinking inside her, and maybe she would have liked that, maybe she would have wanted that, but that wasn't the fucking plan. So he stepped away, went to the bathroom to wash off his hands, and on his way back to her bed he stopped for a moment by the bathroom door, pulling her bathrobe down off the hook that hung there.

The hook was about six feet up, taller than Liv, about as tall as Elliot. The placement was curious, but she'd told him once, shyly, exactly why she'd chosen that spot and the thought of it had been planted in the soil of his mind, had grown like a creeping vine over and around and through him, until he knew he had to act upon it. The hook was anchored into a stud in the wall, heavy, sturdy, and it would more than serve his purpose tonight.

"How you doing, baby?" he asked as he came to stand beside her bed, looked down on her, pretty as a picture stretched out in front of him.

"Feels good," she said, and he could see the truth of that in the way her thighs rubbed together, the way her body rocked, gently, like a ship at sea.

"You want more?"

"Yes."

Olivia wasn't exactly petite, but she was smaller than him, softer than him, and he could deadlift more than her weight with ease. It was no trouble at all to take hold of her then, to turn her over onto her back. He slid his hands between her body and the mattress, lifted her gently until she was sitting upright, something like pleasure flashing across her face as her weight settled against the plug inside her.

"Stand up for me," he said, and she did, and the moment she was steady on her feet he caught her face in his hands, and kissed her.

Kissed her, like he'd always dreamed of kissing her, like he'd kissed her before more times than he could count, like he wanted to kiss her every day for the rest of his life. His fingers sank through the heavy strands of her soft hair, cradling her, holding her to him while her soft lips parted and his tongue surged into her mouth. The edge of her teeth caught against his bottom lip, tugging just a little, and he pulled back from her with a grin, breathless, and hungry for her. Before she could say a word he caught her ass in his hands, and lifted her easily from the floor, listened to her laugh, and then gasp as she wound her legs around his hips.

"Where we going?" she asked, her dark eyes on a level with his now, her bound hands resting just behind his head. Just looking at her like this was a pleasure so sweet it made him want to ache; she was so lovely, soft and warm in his arms. Olivia, the saint at the center of his world, the woman he'd wanted for so long that he still couldn't believe, sometimes, that she would let him touch her. Jesus, she was beautiful, and looking at him like she believed in him.

"Trust me?"

The refrain was necessary; he was here, tonight, to prove the strength of that trust, not just to her, but to him as well.

"Always," she told him.

With her declaration singing in his ears he carried her across the room, to the stretch of wall beside the bathroom door where the hook was stationed, and she must have realized where he was headed because he heard her sigh, saw her close her eyes, catch her bottom lip between her teeth in expectation.

"Arms up, Olivia."

She obeyed him without hesitation, raised her hands over her head, and let him slowly, slowly lower her until the rope caught against the hook, and held. It was not so very high, and she could keep her feet planted on the floor - for the moment - without putting strain on the rope, but he didn't mean to keep her standing, not for long. The way she looked right now, her arms caught above her head, her tits lifted high by the position of her body and the design of the ropes, her hips, her soft belly, her thighs caught in the swirling patterns he had made for her; it wasn't something he'd known how to want, before, but he wanted it so much now that he ached for it.

In reverent silence he sank to his knees, and then carefully lifted her foot, guided her leg up and over his shoulder, and when she was steady he used both hands on her ass to lift her up, to hold her while she lifted her other leg and hooked it around him. When he let go of her ass the ropes at her hands took some of her weight, just enough to let her feel it but not enough to hurt, while most of the burden of carrying her fell on his shoulders. It was a weight he took with ease, without complaint; he would carry her anywhere. Above him she spilled forward from the hook, her head hanging low to look down at him, her breasts softly swaying, her dark eyes focused on his face. Caught in the cages of her thighs he returned that look steadily, smoothed his hands over her thighs and gave her a moment to breathe, gave them both a chance to acknowledge the shift in circumstances between them, the power he had been granted and the devotion he felt because of it.

"I love you," he told her, penitent and full of adoration.

"Show me," she answered breathlessly.

And so he did.

With his hands curled around her thighs he leaned into her, breathed in deep the musky smell of her arousal and felt a tremor run through her body at the sensation, and then he pressed the flat of his tongue against the salty-sweet slickness of her folds, kept the pressure steady as he stroked his tongue over every inch of her. Slowly, he moved slowly, wanting to savor the taste of her, wanting her to feel it, every brush of his tongue through her folds, every flick against her clit, every soft sound of appreciation that rumbled up out of his chest.

The hook, she'd told him, this position, being wholly at her lover's mercy, only made her feel good if she trusted the man between her thighs. If she trusted him to hold her up, trusted him to treat her body well, trusted that she could let go and be sheltered in the safety of his embrace. And she'd told him, too, that it had been a long, long time since she'd last allowed anyone to do this for her. Since she'd last had someone in her life she trusted with her safety, with her heart. That she had let him bring her here, that she had relaxed against his mouth and given up her control, that she had been willing to let his shoulders and the hook and the ropes hold her while she free-falled into bliss, that meant everything to him. It was all he'd wanted, when he'd come here tonight, was all he'd been thinking about for weeks; he wanted to do this, for her. He wanted to be this man, for her. He wanted to be strong, for her, steady, for her, wanted to take her trust and reward her for it. He wanted to brand his promises against her skin, and he wanted her to believe them.

His tongue delved inside her, slipped into the wet silk heat of her, and she whimpered, her body pressing up off the wall, her heels digging into his back as she tried to draw him closer, closer. The taste of her, the sensation of her, on his tongue was heaven itself, but he could only go so deep like this, and he wanted to give her more, wanted to give her everything. His tongue retreated, circling round her clit, and his right hand abandoned her thigh, sliding against her pussy, one of his fingers delving inside her, and above him she sighed, relieved.

A few thrusts of that finger and he sent a second to join it, curled them inside her and suckled at her clit, and a string of mewling, hungry sounds left her, her soft thighs tensing around his head. The shifting of her body and the sounds of her pleasure led him, as his fingers delved within her, building up a steady rhythm. In and out, in and out, curling and thrusting, her wetness coating his skin, the taste of her exploding on his tongue, her body enveloping him as he sought to give her everything, everything she deserved, every ounce of love he possessed. It was love that brought him to his knees, and love that made him chase her release, even as he tried to ignore his own aching cock, almost painfully restrained inside his pants.

Inexorably, unfalteringly he moved, driven by her and by his own rising need to feel her come. His lips, his tongue, found a pattern against her clit that made her cry out, and he added a third finger inside her dripping pussy, stretched her open and searched out every corner of her until finally, mercifully, she was falling apart, the ropes creaking just a little as she tugged against the hook that held her in place, her voice raggedly calling out his name.

But one release was not enough, and so he did not move, did not relent; against the crippling crush of her cunt he thrust his hand, and laved her clit with his tongue, and slid his left hand from her thigh around her hip until his fingertips found the carved red rose in the cleft of her ass, and he pressed against it, felt it give, moving, could almost feel the weight of the plug inside her pressing against his fingers still steadily, hungrily thrusting, and the sound of her cursing, begging, filled the air.

"Fuck, Elliot, f-f-fuck, fuck, please, please," she chanted her litany above him, and he grinned around a mouthful of her, and did not stop, did not relent until she tumbled from the cliff a second time, almost sobbing with her release.

The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, and he meant to take his time with her tonight, to build her up again and again and again, and so he pulled back, then, kept his hand on her ass and his fingers in her pussy but withdrew his face from her, his lips, his chin, his nose wet with the evidence of her desire, and looked upon her with his heart pounding in his chest.

She was a vision of decadence, a picture of almost overwhelming erotic beauty, and he found himself for the first time rethinking the wisdom of this plan. Down on his knees he was too far away to suck her tender nipples between his lips, too far away to leave the mark of his mouth against her neck, too far away to kiss her and breathe his love of her from his lungs into hers. It was isolating, almost, to find himself beyond the reach of her hands, but that had been the point, in a way; the point had been to give himself enough space to focus on her, and not lose himself in chasing his own pleasure. But she was so goddamn beautiful, and he wanted her so much it hurt.

The spasming of her pussy around his fingers pushed his hand away, and he let it fall, let his palm land over the bulge of his aching cock inside his trousers, and he rubbed at himself almost reflexively as he looked up at her, eager for some way to ease his own rising need and keep himself focused enough to make her fall again. She'd come twice in quick succession but he wanted more; he wanted to see just how far they could go together, wanted to see if he could make her scream until she lost her voice, but thoughts of those wants faded, looking at her. At her flushed face, her lush mouth open and panting, her delicate eyelashes fluttering as she struggled to bring herself back under control, her hands, bound and unable to move and yet still reaching, her fingers curling and grasping at nothing.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "I'm sorry I wasn't the man you needed me to be. But I will be that man now, if you'll let me."

"All I…" she gasped, tilted her head so that she could look straight into his eyes. "All I ever wanted was you. I know…I know exactly what kind of man you are. Just be you, Elliot, and be mine."

"All yours, baby," he told her, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh to seal his vow. He was hers, wholly and completely. Always had been, really, and always would be.

"I want you," she said, and so he pressed his face once more into her sex, thinking he could wrench another orgasm from her before she caught her breath, but the sound she made was dissatisfied, and her heel scraped across his back almost in warning.

"Elliot," she whined.

"Lemme make you feel good," he breathed against her. "This is about you."

"If this is about me, then I want your cock inside me."

That made him pause. One look at her face told him she was deadly serious, though, and, well. He had decided to make tonight all about her pleasure. If that was what she wanted…

"Anything for you, baby," he said.

One at a time he slid her legs off his shoulders, let them take her weight and relieve some of the tension on the hook over her head, watched her leaning against the wall, her back flush against it but her hips thrust out, arching towards him. The heavy muscles of her thighs were trembling and her breasts were heaving with every ragged breath she took, and her eyes were full of fire, eager and demanding. With those eyes fixed on him he reached for his belt, and did not miss the way she licked her lips when he began to unfasten it.

He needed to be inside her more than he needed air.

As quickly as he could he shucked his pants, kicked off his shoes and stepped right up to her, palming her breasts and lowering his head until his mouth hovered just over hers. Beneath him she lifted her chin, opened herself up for his kisses, but he waited, just for a second, let her feel his cock pressing against her belly, let her feel his hands, his fingers plucking at her nipples until she whined, let the air flood back and forth between their open mouths, washing them both clean.

"Trust me?"

"With my life," she answered.

"With your heart?"

That was the question, really. That she trusted him with her life was a given; that had always been the way of things between them, from the moment they first met. Their entire relationship was predicated on the knowledge that they would protect one another, take a bullet for one another, that they would not either of them let the other fall into harm. That was the vow they had taken, that was the oath that had sealed their bond as partners. The heart, her heart, was a heavier burden, and just as precious, more closely guarded. There were people, he knew, people on her squad, men who had walked beside her out in the world and never rolled her beneath them in bed, who she trusted with her life. Her heart she kept for herself, but he was asking for it now, begging for the opportunity to take that heart, and keep it safe.

"Yes," she told him, and he closed the space between them, and kissed her.

With his tongue delving deep inside her mouth, her lips open for him, her tongue sliding against his, he once more caught her thighs in his hands, and lifted her easily, settled her thighs around his hips and pressed her back against the wall. Her arms went taut as once more the ropes took the weight of her, and he felt more than heard the way she moaned at the sensation. He didn't want to put too much strain on her hands and so he caught hold of her ass, pressed her to him and let his cock settle heavily against her folds. Lazy and unhurried he thrust against her, let her wetness slick over him, let her feel him, every inch, while still he kissed her ravenously.

Elliot might not have been a hurry but Olivia was, and she tore her mouth from his with a groan.

"Fuck me," she demanded, bossy even when she was bound and had ostensibly passed control of their encounter over to him.

"Oh, I'm gonna," he answered.

It took a few thrusts of his hips before the head of his cock finally plunged through her folds and into the welcoming wet of her, and when it did they both groaned, relieved. Gently, carefully, he rocked against her, sliding deeper and deeper each time, and watched her while he did, watched her hands, grasping, reaching, straining, watched her eyes, closed up tight, watched her lips, parted and raggedly panting as he filled her. With the plug in her ass and his cock in her pussy she was stretched thin, and he could feel her trembling in his grip, his hands still clutched tight around her ass. The fingers of his right hand reached out, searching, found the base of the plug and pressed against it, and a wordless cry left her lips.

"Gonna make you feel so good," he told her.

Thoughts of moving slow flew out the window, at that point; he held her ass in a bruising grip, angled her hips just right, and pounded into her while the siren song of her pleasure rose up like the chorus of angels around them. Wet, she was so fucking wet, and clutching at him like she never wanted to let him go, and each time he thrust inside her the breath left her lungs like there was not room enough in her body to hold both air and him. He clenched his teeth so hard he feared they might crack, trying to hold off his own release, trying to find some restraint when the temptation to spill himself inside her, to leave her full of him, to know he had left a part of himself inside her the way he felt her living inside his chest, was so overwhelming he could hardly breathe. He did not want to pull his hands away from her, did not want to put too much of her weight on her hands, but he wanted to feel her come and he wasn't sure that the endless plunging of his cock inside her would be enough. It would be enough for him, but for her…maybe she'd need more.

If she did she found it; with her shoulders pressed flush to the wall for leverage she rocked towards him, her ankles hooked together just above his ass, and ground into the feverish thrusting of his hips, chasing her own pleasure unabashedly.

"Mine," she gasped, and he wanted to tell her yes but he could not spare the breath to speak. He just carried on, feverishly, furiously thrusting, giving to her of himself, again and again, not taking of her sweetness but giving her his cock to fill her and chase out the memory of every wound they had ever inflicted on one another.

"Gonna," she yelped, and then she did, came around him with a rush of wetness and a suffocating pressure, and he fell with her, groaning out her name as his cock twitched and spilled his release within the tight wet heat of her.

Gasping and boneless he let his weight press her against the wall, his lips ghosting over her neck while he tried to catch his breath, her breasts trapped against the solid plane of his chest. Fucking had never felt so much like a baptism to him as it did in that moment; he felt washed clean, and renewed in his devotion to the goddess who rested in his embrace. But he wanted her hands on him, wanted her kisses, wanted to hold her, and he could not do that while she remained bound.

As soon as his legs were steadily he lifted her off the hook, heard her sigh, relieved, as her arms looped around his neck. Her head fell forward as if it were too heavy for her to carry, nestled against his shoulder and stayed there as he stumbled to the bed, and laid her down upon it. He laid her on her belly, and as he looked down on her he did not miss the way her thighs clenched together as if trying to keep his cum from spilling out of her, the plug still caught in her ass and sparkling up at him.

"I'm gonna take it out, ok," he told her, leaning over her and running his hands gently over her ass. "Just breathe for me, Liv."

She did not answer him, but he saw the tension leave her shoulders as she forced herself to relax into the mattress. When he caught hold of the base of the plug he held it, just for a moment, waiting; she drew in a deep breath, and as she released it he tugged, just a little, and the plug slid out of her, and the way her body grasped at it even as it withdrew made him almost choke with wanting to see it again. He took the plug to the bathroom, laid it down on the counter and pulled a clean washcloth from her cabinets, wet it just a little and carried it back to her.

The restraints would have to go first, he thought. The last time he'd tied her up he'd been so desperate to free her that he had cut through the rope rather than waste his time untying it, but she had been more tightly restrained, then, and he had been worried about hurting her. He could take his time tonight, and so he did. He knelt over her, pressed kisses to the line of her shoulders while he unraveled the knots at her wrists. When that was done he untied each knot at her back, taking the time to touch her, to kiss her, as much as he wanted, wherever he wanted. And then he rolled her onto her back and repeated the process until she was humming sleepily, and all the ropes were lying in a pile on the floor.

Though the ropes were smooth and designed not to cause too much friction they had left heavy red indentations across the softness of her, left her breasts, her belly, crisscrossed with a roadmap of marks. His palms settled over those marks, kneading, soothing, working to return the blood flow and ease the sting against her skin. From her shoulders down to her hips he worked slowly, methodically, and as he did one of her hands lifted from the bed, came to rest on his shoulder, her fingers massaging his skin just as he was doing for her, her touch a comfort, a reassurance, in the quiet that had fallen between them.

"Open up for me," he said, nudging at her tightly closed thighs. "Lemme clean you up."

"You're a prince," she murmured as her thighs fell open, as he swallowed hard at the sight of his release coating her pussy, the tops of her thighs, smeared from the pressure of her trying to hold it in.

He couldn't help it; before he reached for the rag he dragged his fingers through all that wet, gathered up some of his cum and slowly thrust it back inside her, painting her walls with it. Above him she gasped, and her hips raised up, let him push that much deeper inside her, but he didn't think she had another orgasm in her, and he wasn't gonna push it. He just wanted to feel her, to feel them, together, and he kinda thought she wanted the same.

With the damp rag he gently rubbed her clean, and at last he collapsed beside her, pulled her onto his chest and closed his eyes, sinking deep into the mattress. Jesus, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been this tired, and that was saying something, considering all the shit he'd been through in the last few months. Maybe it was just that he felt comfortable here, safe here; maybe it was just that his body knew the time had finally come to rest, and rejoiced in it.

"Elliot," Olivia murmured, her ear pressed against his chest, just above his beating heart.

"What, baby," he answered, smoothing his hand over the satin soft skin of her back.

"I love you, too."

He hadn't expected her to say it. This woman had always been difficult, and she had always held love at arm's length, was more likely to run from a man than to settle down with him, more comfortable on her own than needing someone else. He knew she cared for him, and he knew she wanted him, and he knew that he belonged to her, goddamn it, and he thought, before now, that that knowledge would have been enough, but now she'd told him that she loved him, and hearing the words from her lips shook him to his core.

Maybe there was something to that words of affirmation shit.

"Good," he told her. "Because I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me, Olivia."

"Good," she answered, and he could hear the smile in her voice when she said it. "Because I'm not letting you go. If you leave me again, I'll kill you myself."

"Never gonna happen," he told her, and meant it with everything he had.