"God, you're easy." John slurs his words. He can't help it - he's stoned as a goose. "You're easy and I'm stoned as a goose."

"Whatever," Rodney says. "You just remember that you started it and you can be whatever bird you want to be."

"Gooooooose," John says. "Take off your boots." He hasn't been this stoned - this horny - in years. Ages. Forever. His own boots are way, way down near the floor. Down where he keeps his feet, and he wants them gone, gone, gone. The boots, not the feet. Rodney pushes him down to sit on the bed and feels like falling from a great height to land on...his really not-very-soft bed. Except softer.

"This is not my bed," he says.

"This is not your planet, Sky Captain," Rodney says, laughing. "You want some help with those?"

"I do," John says, and, y'know - he really, really does. Rodney goes down to one knee in front of him, and, okay, that's hot. He places one hand on Rodney's head and rubs. "You have soft hair."

"Thank you," Rodney says quietly, and John can feel him push up into the touch, like a cat, so he rubs a little more, tracing the shape of Rodney's skull to the ridge of bone behind his ear and then around to the back of his neck. It's nice.

"You're gonna fuck me, right?" John asks. God, he wants that - the wonderful, horrible feeling of a cock pushing into his ass. He wants to feel that sliding clench in his belly when he opens up around someone, around Rodney - when he takes it all and falls back, legs wide, everything exposed.

"Is that..." Rodney's voice stops on a dry click; he swallows and starts again. "Is that what you want? From me?"

John can feel his boots loosening; feel Rodney's fingers deftly untangling the laces. He's all head and feet - a balloon tethered by two concrete blocks. He wants Rodney to make him fly. "Yeah," he says. "I want that. With you."

Apparently, that's all it takes for Rodney, because John finds himself being undressed with a nearly startling level of efficiency, his boots and socks and uniform stripped away, leaving him lying on the bed that isn't his, the skin of his back so sensitive that he can feel every fiber of the blanket under him.

He lies there and watches Rodney. He's standing there, in the middle of the room, illuminated by warm candlelight, and he looks at John like he's an equation, a puzzle, a chocolate cake, abstract art and a ZPM all at the same time - understanding and curiosity and want and confusion and awe. Then Rodney strips himself with the same precision, and John's the one wanting.

Rodney is cream and gold, reddish glints and charcoal shadows, flash of blue and flicker of pink - broad and strong and welcoming. Waiting.

"Do you...will you..." John's not even sure what he's asking, his head is full of color and light and sweet rushes of sound, and then Rodney is beside him, over him, not touching, but so close.

"I will," Rodney says, his breath soft and warm - a hint of spice and beer - against John's face. "I've got you."

"Show me," John says, sure he's not making sense, not caring. "Show me what you've got."

And Rodney kisses him. It's a soft touch, like a soap bubble on a grass blade, hovering for a long, lonely second before it's gone and Rodney's lips are on him, opening his mouth. God, it's like falling - just enough heat and wet and pressure and suction and glide and John's never been kissed this way - like this specific touch is everything. First and last, alpha and omega, apogee and perigee, topbottominsideout.

John gasps, and Rodney's tongue flickers inside to catch the sound and draw it out. John lets him in, eases the tip of his own tongue against the side of Rodney's and swallows the moan that drifts down across his teeth. His hands are back in Rodney's hair. He didn't put them there: they floated up and got tangled, and he doesn't want to climb up and get them down. They can stay.

John cries out when one of Rodney's hands curves around his hipbone. His skin is so sensitive that he can feel every marker - lifeline and heart line and gun calluses and scars; the edges of nails and the deepening grip of fingertips and the way his bone slots into the cup of Rodney's palm. It's perfect, like hand and hip were cleaved from the same stone years ago, just to be reunited now, still an exact fit.

"Tell me," Rodney says, pulling back from the soft cling of their mouths. "What are you feeling? Seeing? Do you even know who I am?"

"Rodney; you're Rodney." John laughs. "Always you. Smartest man in the galaxy. Partner in crime. Pain in the ass."

Rodney licks along John's jaw, ending with a gentle bite. "So, you aren't all that stoned, then. That's good."

John can hardly keep up, because the sensation of Rodney's tongue and lips and teeth on his skin is fading slowly, sparks of pleasure receding like the tide over the sand. "I feel you -- your hand and your mouth and..." an incoherent groan when Rodney flexes his hips, "...and - god - your cock."

"And you want it? Want me?"

John can hear the certainty in Rodney's voice and it's beautiful - no fear, no question, really. "Yes," he says, arching his own hips upward, pressing his belly against the heat of Rodney's hard on, feeling the rough scratch of hair against his skin.

"Okay," Rodney says. "Okay."

John cries out when Rodney lifts his weight away, but he's soothed when one hot hand traces over his throat and chest, stroking lightly. A finger taps against his sternum, and he looks up, locking eyes with Rodney, reading the commands there -- be still, watch me.

John's overloading on sensation. He can't take his eyes off Rodney's, glowing so bright and blue, and the hand on his chest has stopped tapping and started stroking. Four fingertips tracing down the center of his chest and he can feel every hair move individually, leaning aside like trees in the wind to let Rodney's fingers pass. His skin feels like a bed of embers, throwing sparks at every breath.

The hand on his hip is still there, a hot, steady anchor pushing his back to the bed. "I can't believe you're letting me do this," Rodney says. "You hate to be touched."

John nods, then shakes his head. "No, I like it."

"You like it now, stoned off your head. But normally you won't let anyone near you."

"Can't," John moans, his breath hitching as Rodney drapes his hand against the flat pad of muscle below his navel. "It's too good."

John can feel the head of his cock rubbing across the back of Rodney's hand, the bump against each knuckle zinging all the way through him. His whole body goes cold when Rodney lifts his hands away.

"No, Rodney..." He knows he's nearly whining, but he'll fall away without Rodney's hands. He doesn't fit together correctly without them.

"Hush," Rodney says, and John subsides, trembling. "So, you're saying that if we were, oh, in the gate room, and I touched you like this..."

Rodney claps his palm against the front of John's shoulder - friendly, impersonal. And John leans into the touch, relaxing.

"God," Rodney says, on a low breath. "You're like a cat in heat." He moves his hand up to cup the side of John's neck and John arches. "Christ. The things I could do to you," he says. "Just standing behind you in a transporter and touching the small of your back, or rubbing your knee under the table in the mess." He scrubs the pad of his thumb under John's ear and John rolls his head toward the touch. "How little would it take to make you come?"

"Stop talking and find out," John says. "Please, Rodney. Touch me."

Rodney's mouth is back on his and John is flying. He breathes in Rodney's air and feels heat and weight against his front, the rough blanket against his back. His body feels like taffy, warm and pliable. When Rodney stretches their linked hands up and onto the pillow, John leans into it, his body a bow. When Rodney's hands pull away, John's stay there -- wrists crossed, fingers curved into gentle nests.

Rodney's mouth moves down to his neck, one hand gently pushing John's head back to expose his throat, and there are soft nips and harder bites and kisses and licks, and John's legs spread of their own volition.

"This," Rodney pants, working his knees between John's legs, "is very unexpected." John moans and raises his own legs, draping them over Rodney's thighs, pushing his ass into Rodney's lap. When Rodney's hand cups his balls, he jumps and groans out loud. When that hand tightens just a little, he opens his eyes and sucks in a noisy breath.

"Please, Rodney."

"Okay, okay," Rodney mutters, leaning up to reach for the bedside table-type thing, praying for lotion or lube or something more useful than spit, though he's absolutely positive John will go there if another choice doesn't present itself. "Oil," he says, finding a small, stoppered bottle of golden liquid.

"Yes!" John is totally with the program, even though he feels like he's liquid inside, like Rodney could just slide in on a gentle push and fill him up. A slick finger touches him, two precise swipes and then gentle pressure. He relaxes and Rodney's finger goes in all the way. It's big and blunt and hard and nowhere near enough, but John pushes down on it anyway.

"God," Rodney moans. "It's a good thing I didn't know you were like this. We'd have died the first week in Atlantis."

"Why?" John moans back, ass clenching on Rodney's finger, readily accepting another.

"I don't think all that well when ninety percent of my blood volume is in my dick." Rodney leaves his fingers inside and just pours the oil between them, a third finger catching and sliding into John's ass.

"No thinking," John says, his body opening around Rodney's hand, the oil thick like honey as it slips down his thighs and onto the bed. "Just fucking. In me, Rodney. Put your cock in me."

"Oh, my god, I think that's the best thing you've ever said." Rodney's oily hands push John's legs up and open and back toward his chest, and John reaches down at the same time. He can't even see what he's doing, but he gets Rodney lined up perfectly on the first try.

And Rodney's cock slides into him like it was made to fit, smooth and easy and perfect, and John feels every drop of blood in him beating against its vessel, feels every hair on his body stand up, feels his skin become one micron too small all over, and he arches and swears and comes.

It's like white fire burning up through him, and his bones go soft enough that Rodney can bend him almost completely in half and just fuck into him with all the force in the universe. One of them is making harsh noises, one of them is panting like a marathon runner, and both of them are shaking hard enough to make the frame of the bed creak alarmingly.

John makes a choked-off sobbing noise when Rodney's hand grips his cock. He's so sensitive he can barely stand the touch, but he takes it, kicking out to wrap his legs around Rodney's back, hitching his hips just...one...inch...higher to get Rodney's cock to touch the perfect spot. Something - the drugs, the combination of touches, magic, lunacy - something does the trick, and he's hard again. Or maybe still, his whole body wrenched around like a roller-coaster hitting the peak, only to see the next, bigger hill on the horizon.

"Yeah," Rodney says, panting, sweat dripping down his face, his back bowed, hips working. "I've got you, John. Not letting go."

John has no idea how long it goes on - he's lost every sense of time and place, his whole world narrowed down to between his legs and in his ass and RodneyRodneyRodney. He can feel himself pushing with heels and hands and hips, trying to fold in on himself and make it stop or make it go on, he doesn't know, doesn't care.

And then Rodney grinds into him and squeezes and twists with his hand and John feels the lightning and the thunder and the fire and the smoke and he's gone - shattering into a million pieces and watching each spark float away on the evening breeze until it all goes black.

John wakes in the morning with his head on Rodney's bare hip, his arms wrapped around one broad thigh. Rodney's already awake, lightly stroking John's hair.

"You okay?" Rodney asks, his tone scrupulously neutral.

In reply, John lifts his head and kisses Rodney's hip, then rolls up to a sitting position. "I'm good," he says. "Mellow. You?"

Rodney smiles, then, a soft, almost shy, twist of lips. "Mellow works."

And it does. They get up, and the guesthouse has a bathroom, so they're squeaky clean when they join the others for breakfast. Teyla and Ronon look mellow, too, and John gives them both a wide smile. The natives serve them breakfast and thank them for the trade agreement and walk them back to the gate with crates of fruit and bottles of wine and a basket of lengths of cloth that are kind of like silk and cotton.

As they walk through the wormhole, Rodney casually touches the back of John's elbow.

John shudders happily.