Summary: Seeing and being seen.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 547
Rating/Warnings: R, bondage, maledom
A/N: For rounds_of_kink. I mean, with all this talking we've been doing lately about maledom, I figured maybe I should suck it up and try to write some. Sadly, I'm afraid the only sucking in this story is coming from the author. But IDK, this story has been a bitch and I'm glad to have done with it.
He takes one, two, three slow steps.
His feet hardly make any noise on the floor of her quarters. It's the only time she ever sees him barefoot- practically the only time she ever sees anyone's bare feet, honestly, the city being what it is. Otherwise, even the sight of combat boots might get to be too much, might make her flinch at the wrong time or look in the wrong direction; this is already dangerous enough.
Neither one of them has ever been much for the trappings of- whatever this is, this game, this life. He doesn't need to claim her in the middle of the work day, doesn't need hickeys or collars or shoving her to her knees into little-used storage closets. He doesn't need anything except the occasional flick of his eyes down her body, right there in the open where everyone can see and misinterpret it.
It's simple enough to be used, to tumble herself down into a collection of parts, all mindlessly grinding towards pleasure. Easier still, getting hurt, letting him play her like an instrument, the bright flare of pain singing down her spine. And sometimes, sometimes those things are all she needs, more than enough to pull her out of the prison of her own head for a little while.
Lately, though. Lately, it isn't.
But this? To be stretched out for him, her wrists suspended above her, her knees barely connecting with the floor through the pillow he's deigned to let her kneel on, when there's no possibility of getting away?
This is the one thing she can't give up to him.
People stare at her all the time. Sometimes she feels trapped, crushed underneath the weight of so many eyes; some days she knows they are constantly vetting her, finding her lacking, handing down judgments that she never even receives notice of until it's too late.
"Liz. Eyes on me."
She can't, she just can't look him in the face, not like this, not when it's the only thing she can hide.
He takes her chin in his strong, warm hand, pulling it up so that she can't help but look. "Open your eyes, Liz." She does, though she really doesn't know how she manages. His face is as it always is when they're like this- intense and concerned and so very interested. "Beautiful," he tells her. She tries to turn away again at that, but he doesn't let her get away with it, yanking her face back up to meet his eyes. "So beautiful. You're so perfect, Liz, and you don't have any idea, do you?"
And that's when she loses it and starts sobbing, giving up and letting the sheer release of it rip through her. And it can't be true, it just can't be, but it's all she wants to hear.
He kneels behind her, stroking his hands over her trembling muscles, his breath warm and calm on the back of her neck. "You're perfect, Liz," he tells her again. "Absolutely perfect. Anybody who believes otherwise is a complete jackass."
She can't help laughing at that, any more than she can help when it turns into a fresh rush of tears.
The thing is, though. The thing is that, right in this moment, she feels like she might actually be able to believe him.