Summary: Woolsey likes having nice things.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 331
Rating/Warnings: Hard R, kink, porn where nobody actually manages to touch anyone else, tipsy writer syndrome
A/N: This is my present to me. Because I deserve a present. And stuff. Yeah.
Mister Woolsey sits in the living area of his quarters, just enjoying being at home.
Richard has never considered himself a particularly materialistic man. He's always associated that term with a certain love of money, which he just lacks; if he wanted to be rich, he certainly wouldn't be a civil servant.
What he does love, though, is owning nice things. Not just acquiring them, but keeping them and taking care of them, ensuring that they survive. It comforts him, brings a kind of calm beauty into his life to be surrounded by his books and his Bose speakers and his tailored suits. He can survive on nothing, if that's what it takes, but this is what keeps him human, even here.
What he's acquired since coming to Atlantis, however, is rapidly becoming his favorite possession- and it hadn't even cost him a dime.
He studies how the muscles in John's calves flex, shifting the thin rope that traces around them, binding his legs on opposite sides of the tall, straight-backed chair. It doesn't look particularly comfortable, the way he's perched on the edge of the seat, but it's enough to support his weight. That's very important, because his wrists are bound behind him, pulled up towards the ceiling by a rope and pulley; if they had to support all his weight, it might pull his arms out of joint, and Richard has absolutely no desire to break any of his things.
Right now, anyway.
As it stands, though, it's just enough to compel him to bend downwards, his spine arching beautifully. He just makes such a gorgeous picture- his face flushed and glistening with sweat, his cock achingly hard against his stomach, the smooth, long lines of his muscles in full display- all of it backlit by the sunset outside the window.
"Very good," Richard praises him, and John moans, loud enough to be heard over Symphonie fantastique.
Richard sips his wine and turns up the music, smiling to himself.