Summary: Nobody needs to know.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 515
Rating/Contents: PG-13, D/s, piercing, public humiliation
A/N: For the kink_bingo October challenge. I actually started this story for last Kink Bingo, but it never went anywhere. Until now!
They've been fighting again, John and Caldwell, in that cold way that they fight when the fight's professional- clipped off sentences, crossed arms, overly sarcastic use of titles. John knows Elizabeth's fed up with the two of them, but he's not backing down, not this time. He's going to do what's best for the base; it's not his fault that Caldwell doesn't know what that is.
They're an hour into an increasingly tense, very public discussion when Caldwell sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in the universal sign for "I'm too old for this shit."
"Something wrong, Colonel?" John says, and he knows he sounds a little snide, but he doesn't really care.
Caldwell doesn't take the bait. "We'll go ahead with the mission as scheduled," he says tightly, "but they're not leaving without taking no less than three Marines with them, and I want check-ins every half-hour."
It's not what John wants to hear, but it's close enough that he's willing to compromise. "Then we'll leave at 0900 as planned." He hops off the desk he's been perched on. "If you'll excuse me?"
"Of course," Caldwell says, standing and collecting his dossier, clearly as anxious to get the hell out of there as John is.
As they pass on their way out, Caldwell reaches out and taps his chest one time, a move so quick and light that someone would have to be watching carefully to catch it. That's all he has to do, and, instantly, John is flushed with embarrassment, his skin going hot and tight.
Nobody needs to know that Caldwell's hit the exact center of the ring that passes through John's left nipple.
Suddenly, all John can think about is that day, the day Caldwell took him down and made him do it. He didn't do it offworld, where it would have been relatively safe and totally private- oh no, not Caldwell. Caldwell took him to a place in Colorado Springs, a place with enough questionable leather goods on the walls that John knew exactly what he was in for.
The piercer didn't bat an eye when he made John kneel and strip before getting up on the table. She didn't even look at John's face at all, addressing all her questions to Caldwell; it was clear that the only say John got in the entire matter was signing the release form.
There were people in the store, and John could see them looking, peering curiously in as the piercer prepared her tools. He knew they could hear, too, the loud, embarrassing noise he made as the pain lanced through him. But what mattered, more than the pain and the humiliation, was Caldwell's hand, tight around his wrist, keeping him grounded as he marked John as his own.
John wants badly to turn around and look at the smug, proprietary expression on Caldwell's face, but he keeps walking. If he's careful, nobody ever has to find out that there's anything going on between them at all.
If he's very careful, nobody ever has to find out how much he loves it.
This entry was automagically crossposted from http://sabinetzin.dreamwidth.org/268132.html. comments over there.