the more things change
He used to tease her that her distrust of Teyla was merely displaced jealousy. She used to smack him upside the head with a manila folder. That was before (before he almost died, before she almost died, before the entire colony almost died). Now, when he accuses her of being jealous, she tightens her muscles and he groans.
They don't technically live together, but he only uses his quarters as storage, these days, as extra office space (not that they need it). She worries ("too much," he whispers, into her throat, against her breast) about the appearance of impropriety. About rumors of favoritism. She worries that, one day, he won't come back through the gate.
So they maintain separate quarters. His mainly as a repository for dusty boxes.
She carries the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders, and he tells jokes and kisses her soft spots until, some nights, she can even sleep. He acts the slut, flirting with anyone with a pulse, but snuggles into her warmth and mumbles about his teddy bear in the morning.
They're not the only couple in Atlantis, even discounting the Athosians, but they are the highest ranking. He's not even the first person here she's fucked. First, there was McKay, then Teyla, then what's-his-name in Research and Development. And while he claims he saved himself for her ("I did, I really did, cause, unlike some people I know, I knew from the very first second I laid eyes on you that we were meant to be"), she caught him once in a supply closet with Beckett.
She used to worry that, when they finally returned to Earth, she'd be known as the woman who ran the Atlantis Orgy. They've mostly settled down, though, now, more secure with their place in this strange new galaxy. Less convinced that they're all going to die tomorrow. Next month, she's even proceeding over her first wedding.
Tonight, though, tonight she's tracing his latest scar (left side of his face, from eye to cheekbone) with her tongue and he's giggling like a twelve year old girl. And she holds his arms above his head, pressing him into the mattress with all her weight, and he sighs as she licks the spot behind his ear.
She likes to be on top. He likes to be on bottom. It works.
And when she uses his belt to tie his hands to the headboard, he groans and bucks his hips. Her mouth is on his neck, now, moving down onto his chest, and she bites and sucks and soothes away the pain with her tongue.
He tastes like death and danger, and she smiles as she impales herself on him. (She doesn't say, "I like your dick," but she thinks it, and her grin darkens) He doesn't ask what she's thinking.
He calls her Lizzie, in bed like this and close to orgasm, and she slaps him hard enough to leave a mark. When he calls her Lizzie again, moaning and incoherent, she hits the same spot twice more. And then she kisses him, open-mouthed and violent, and he stops talking for a little while.
"I like your dick," she whispers, and he comes.