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You wake up slowly, your eyes almost glued shut with sleep. A warm hand picks up one of yours and starts gently rubbing the knuckles, encouraging you to stay conscious.
"Love," Elliott finally speaks. "Are you with me?"
You mumble assent.
"Good. I was growing worried. Last night you came stumbling up the front porch covered in scratches, bite wounds, and caustic slime burns, and then you collapsed just inside the door. It's only lucky you woke me up. I had to treat you in your sleep and drag you to bed."
"...sorry," you manage. It's hard to focus your eyes, even on the doting husband by your bedside.
"Of course. You're all right, so there's nothing to worry about. But there is just one thing." He strokes a hand under your jaw, then, just as you're about to ask what's wrong, Elliott slides his fingers under the collar at your throat and tugs. You're so surprised, you go almost completely limp for a second.
"You remember I told you there'd be... consequences, if you didn't start making it to bed on time," he says, stroking one hand through your hair while still not letting go of your collar with the other. "I warned you. I told you I'd make you take an entire day off if you passed out like that on me again. Well, now you're mine. Aren't you?"
"Demetrius is expecting me to help him with--" you protest feebly.
"He's not in charge here, love. I am." He pulls you gently forward. "Well?"
"...Yours," you agree, feeling your muscles drop their tension as you start to give up control. It's not a bad feeling at all. Not with Elliott.
"Good. Don't worry about anything else. I'll sort it out. Now, sit up."
You push yourself up to lean against the headboard and wait, slightly nervous, for whatever Elliott has planned next. Of course, you could give the safeword and get out of this ridiculous mess you've landed yourself in--but... you know you'd be missing out if you did.
"They say you shouldn't drink wine early in the morning," Elliott says thoughtfully, pouring a glass, "but that's for people with a day ahead of them, and your work is already over. So drink up. It's good for you, I'm told."
You hesitate for just a moment before allowing him to press the glass to your lips. The bittersweetness of pomegranate wine takes over your hazy senses. Before you know it, the glass is gone, replaced by Elliott's soft, approving smile. He kisses you. You try to reach up and take him by the shoulders, greedy for more, but your movements are too sluggish.
He laughs. "Patience, love. Your breakfast is getting cold. I hope you won't turn your nose up at my cooking." He takes your hand and folds your fingers around a warm maple bar, guiding your wobbly hand to your mouth. You feel your cheeks burn. This is only getting more embarrassing.
"You don't need to fight me, sweetheart," he murmurs. "I'll take good care of you. You still trust me, don't you?"
You nod, still trying to keep track of what's going on.
"Then let go. I've got you, I promise." His face splits into a mischievous smile. "Or I'll have to find another way to get you to cooperate, won't I?"
You pause, toying with the idea of trying to find out what that is, but Elliott doesn't wait for you to make up your mind. "Come," he instructs, taking your hand with a gentle grace, as if you're royalty. You finally climb out of bed. Elliott catches you when you stumble, tipsy and uncoordinated; you've always been something of a lightweight, which he knows full well by now.
You're so enthralled with the warmth of his hands as he leads you through the house that you barely notice where you're going until Elliott sits you down at the kitchen table, where he's got a first aid kit open. He pulls up your shirt and starts to clean and re-treat your injuries.
"Marlon is working you too hard," he insists, as usual. "If he's so concerned about monsters from the mineshaft wandering into town, he should hire more adventurers. Just because you're efficient doesn't mean you should be working such long hours."
You open your mouth to protest that that's not really what happened, but a few things keep you from your goal. First, your mind has gone fuzzy. You're not sure if it's the collar or the alcohol, but forming a reasonable sounding argument is just not in the cards for you. Besides, you just don't feel like arguing with Elliott right now; you'd rather just give him whatever he wants. Lastly, you're distracted by the sudden chilliness of the salve Elliott's putting over the chemical slime burn on your side. You shiver and squirm as it coats your skin, unpleasantly greasy.
"None of that, now," Elliott tsks, wrapping bandages around the sensitive burn to keep the salve in place. He washes his hands clear of the medicine and returns quickly, as if he doesn't want to leave you alone for long in case you try to escape.
Fat chance of that, honestly. You're feeling sleepy and hazy, and you only get hazier when Elliott tugs on your collar again, leaning in to examine your face in detail. You try to read his expression in turn, but you have no idea what he wants.
"Hmm. You're still not fully under. Don't worry. I'll make sure you relax soon enough." He plants another kiss on the tip of your nose, eyes sparkling.
You really want to give in, to hand yourself over to your gentle poet and let him keep you as long as he wants, even if that means finally coming to your senses to discover yourself in the next season. But you're so used to working constantly that it's hard to let go completely. Do you even know how any more?
"I can see you worrying," Elliott says, amused. "Didn't I just tell you not to do that? Seems you've forgotten that you're mine right now. I'll have to fix that."
He closes the medkit and a strange item behind it catches your eye. Elliott smiles. "Yesterday I put some tangled old fishing line into one of the recycling machines, and guess what popped out." He picks up the rope.
Wordlessly, you hold out your hands, and Elliott chuckles. "Well done," he says, taking one gently and starting to wrap the rope around your wrist and hand, knotting it in a way that can't tighten, then pulling the end under and through his work so he's left with a secure lead. He replicates it on the other. The light pressure of the smooth rope is soothing.
You're finally shutting down, deeply. You work with your hands all day, and now they don't belong to you. Elliott's holding you snugly. You're not getting out of this. You're done.
"Good job. You're going to come with me again and get some more rest. Stand up." He leads you back into the bedroom and orders you on your stomach in bed, then ties your hands to the headboard. "Relax," he commands, and this time you can't help obeying--especially two seconds later, when his hands are on your sore shoulders, working away at your tense muscles. You melt into the mattress and stop thinking entirely as time slips past without bothering to touch you.
"How are we feeling, love?" Elliott asks quietly.
You try to answer, but the best you can do is a content sigh. Elliott doesn't seem bothered. He smooths his hands over your back, avoiding your injuries, and finally lets up on your exhausted muscles. Instead, he takes out a brush and starts detangling your hair, removing snarls and dirt and debris. You have neither the energy nor the lucidity to be embarrassed about the realization that you're kind of grimy from dragging yourself through the mines and fighting monsters. You just let Elliott work, humming a tune as he finally gets to braid your hair without your insistence that it takes too long.
"You're properly gone now, aren't you?" He strokes his fingers over the back of your collar, making you shiver and relax deeper into submission. Once again, that's all the answer he seems to require. "Marvelous. I knew you could do it."
At last he sits down next to you, untying your hands from the headboard and fastening them to your collar instead, allowing you a little more freedom. You use it to curl up close to him as Elliott picks up a book from the nightstand and starts to read aloud to you.
You can barely keep track of the words, but it's not long before the sound of his voice lulls you to sleep.