He says you're easy, but you're not. Nothing about you has ever been or ever will be easy that isn't the music and magic of the inner workings of the universe. You can see a thousand patterns in particles and not see what's in front of your face.

You tell him to remember. It's not that you don't want to do it yourself; it's just that you have to think he's doing this for a reason, not just because he thinks you're easy, which you aren't.

You don't think you've ever seen anything more alluring than wild hair and wilder eyes, red lips and pale, sweat-sheened skin.

He's funny this way, funny in a sweet/stoned manner; it makes you smile the gentle smile you always saved for Jeanne.

When he puts his hand on your head, there's nothing else to say, nothing else to do. You can't believe his touch is on you; can't believe the way he took your hand and drew you from the fire with a guileless smile and stumbling feet. His fingers on the nape of your neck feel like a wish you once made.

He asks you if you want him, if you'll take him, and the need rises up like a wave. Is it you he wants? Is it just anyone - a port in a storm? You don't know why it matters, but it does. The words fight their way out, asking as your fingers tangle in his laces and circle the fragile bones of his ankle.

After all this time, it's good to know that you can still be surprised. It's you he wants, at least in the moment. That's okay, even though you'll want him long after, just the way you've wanted him before.

There's no time to waste. His clothes are in the way and they have to come off. Off to reveal his arms and chest and belly and legs and cock. His long, thin feet and the fragile inside of his arm. The strong curve of his neck and the soft-looking skin over hipbones that look too sharp, like they'll cut through.

He's watching you strip, and for once, it's not awkward. He has to see something in your face, because his eyes go soft and he tilts his head on that ridiculously long neck and his fingers stroke the blanket in the way that you hope they'll touch your skin.

He asks a question that neither of you understand..."Will you?" and you answer back. "I will." It sounds like a vow. It sounds like one because it is one, at least for you. Will you take this man? A parody of a ceremony you've never believed in. Despite that, you will.

You kiss him, and you don't even have to think about it. No thoughts of pressure and angle and speed. You just let it happen and know that he's doing the same. You let a sound out into his mouth, and he takes it like a gift.

His hands in your hair are gentle, like he can feel every strand with fingertips gone soft, calluses melted away, rough skin burnished smooth.

Your own hands feel rough, as if they're marring his smoothness, as if he can see the lines they make when they slide over his skin. His hip fits into your palm like pages into a book. You entertain the fleeting thought that you can feel the quiet snap and vibration between them.

You have to ask. Have to know. He says he's aware, but the fire and the smoke and the spicy, dark beer could be playing with you both. This has to be real. You can't do it if it isn't.

He tells you it's real, and you choose to believe it's not a lie. Holding onto a fleeting truth, you kiss and bite his skin. You may be leaving marks - scratches and blood-dark bruises and the pink burn of rough faces together - and you hope he'll wear them in the morning.

You ask him the questions, but they aren't necessary - you believe.

He protests when you move back, but you touch his chest. You give him grounding pressure to pull himself back to. You need him to come out of his head; need him to look and watch; need to have his attention solely on you, for once.

The way he's staring and breathing shallowly is unnerving. If he could bend his head far enough, he'd be watching your fingers stroke down his chest. It's the most touch you've ever seen him take without cringing. You're a little awed that he's taking it from you.

He surprises you when he says he likes to be touched, that he avoids it because it's too good, not because he hates it.

You take his words in and think about all the casual touches you've ever given him. You've clapped his shoulder or sat with your leg touching his or felt him leaning over you to look at a screen. It takes you back a little.

You aren't good at reading people, but how could you have been so blind? Annoyed looks that were really surprise or arousal; moving away as a defense, not in distaste. The hitch in his breath and stiffness of body that spoke, only in a language you weren't translating correctly.

He presses against your palms, lets his cock trail the back of your hand – hot, smooth flesh. He cries out when you move away. When you hush him, he trembles. You have to close your eyes for a second.

You question him - you can't not. This is something you have to know. The depth and breadth of this have to be explored now. Now before he retreats into his shell, before he hides it away and holds himself aloof. You wonder what it would take, what the least amount of touch could have him shaking, gasping, coming in his pants.

You put your hands on him in touches that could almost be innocent, and he reacts instinctively, pushing against your palm and making slow, deep noises that make you even harder, if that's possible.

He opens his mouth and he's begging, asking for your hands on him. There are so many things you've always wanted to do to him; a world of fantasies to choose from. You look at his hands. They're long and slim, like they'd be able to cup a small animal or a gun with equal competence. When you push them against the bed, they stay there, and it makes you catch your breath. He opens his legs, then; begging in a different way.

You kneel between his sprawled knees, and he pushes up, his ass on your thighs, his whole body spread out for you. When you touch him, he begs.

Thank god these people believe in lubrication - or whatever else would require thick oil in a bedroom. The oil smells like ginger and spice, and he pushes down on your slick finger the second you get it inside him.

You tell him the truth, that if you'd known he was this way you wouldn't have been able to stay away. You would have cornered him and touched his face and kissed his neck right there in the gate room for everyone to see. Made him come apart in your arms, not caring who knew. The oil slides down and you open him up.

He tells you to put your cock in him and you almost lose it right there. You have to close your eyes and twist your fingers hard inside him.

He moves with you as if you're built that way. You push his legs and he holds your cock against his body and you're in, sliding into tightness and warmth and John.

All the way inside, you freeze when his body jerks around you, coming from just this – just your cock sliding in. You have to ride it out, have to push his legs up and fuck him hard. He feels oily and smooth against you, soft where you feel like iron.

It can't be over, not that fast. This may be your only shot, and you won't lose it like some inexperienced kid. A hand on his cock has him crying out and hardening again. He jerks his hips forward, and you can feel him quaking when he gets you where he wants you. And he does. He wants you. He wants you.

He moves under you, and you can tell if he's pushing you away or pulling you closer. It doesn't matter - there's no way you could stop now. Pushing, squeezing, fingers digging into his thigh and you're coming. You're both coming, and the look on his face when you can finally see him is amazed and open and soft.

He's hazy when you leave him, nearly gone when you come back to clean you both up, gone before you even get the chance to pull him close. You wonder what the morning will bring.

You wake before him and smile. He's wrapped around your legs like a cat, his hair just in reach. Petting him seems natural, so you do it until he wakes. When he does, you give him an out, despite the fact that you don't want him to take it.

He doesn't.

He lets you touch him in the shower, lets you dry him with the weird, square towels. He touches you back, soap and terry cloth and clothing.

Ronon and Teyla look relaxed. He touches her hand as he passes her sweet butter for her bread. She smiles in return.

You keep your hands to yourself all the way to the gate; you wonder what you'll be on the other side. Two steps from home, you make your move. John's shirt is rough against your fingers, but you feel the firm muscle underneath. Your fingers have barely moved away when a tremble wracks his body.

You have your answer.