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It's been a long time since he looked at a girl -- a woman -- this way. A long long time. But things are different now, things will never be the same again, and he can have whatever he's brave enough to take.
He wouldn't have said a word to Teyla, not before.
Wouldn't have glanced at her mouth, stared at her hands, grinned back at her frown. Wouldn't have said, "Hey, how about you an' me take a walk, huh?" Wouldn't have grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled.
He was stronger now, with the enzyme fizzing in his blood and stiffening every sinew. She was stronger too, of course, but she didn't pull away. He'd been pretty sure she wouldn't. And he wanted a woman's hand -- Teyla's hand -- on him.
Her palm was smooth and damp against his knuckles. He couldn't wait to be alone with her, to let her, make her, beg her --
Now they were in the room where he slept, and there was nobody else here. Nobody except her.
"What is it that you want from me, Aiden?"
He swallowed. This was always the hardest bit, and the enzyme couldn't fix everything. But she was looking at him and he could feel her words echoing in his head, feel her demanding his obedience.
"I just, I just want you to touch me," he said. "I want ..." And he couldn't say it after all, but she had to know, right? She had to know what he wanted, the way her fingers were curving round his, the way her palm was wide against the heel of his hand. She had to be ready to give it, to take it all. "Please," he said.
"You want my hand," said Teyla, and her smile showed her teeth. "My right hand." And her hand, her hand was on his shoulder, burning him, bowing him, pressing him down to his knees. He obeyed.
Teyla sank gracefully down in front of him, close enough to touch if he'd dared, regal enough that he did not. She touched him, and he'd thought he couldn't get harder but he'd been wrong. Steel-hard, bone-hard, hard as stone. Her strong fingers made short work of the fasteners on his filthy BDUs; pushed inside and wrapped around him easy and uncaring as sunrise. He couldn't breathe for the feel of it, couldn't speak with her eyes on him and her gaze remote, like a general surveying armies, like a predator looking up from its prey.
"You want my hand," she said again. "You want my hand around you, do you not? My right hand. My ... my feeding hand."
He inhaled, couldn't help it, choked a little for sheer relief that she understood; but he pushed up into her small hot hand, wanting to feel it opening for him, hollowing, wanting --
"You want to fuck my hand," said Teyla coolly. He'd never thought she would say something so crude, or say it with such acid relish. He could hear her breathing, slow and steady. He could see her fierce smile widening, her mouth (her other mouth) a little open, her teeth against her lip. Her hand moved slickly over his dick, her fingers pressing hard and sweet under the head. He wanted to feel her palm split open for him like ... like ... (He couldn't think it. She would hear him.) He wanted to push in, to feel the thrilling sharp slide of teeth across his skin, to feel her suck the life out of him while she stared and smiled and breathed.
Her eyebrows were up, like a question, and he remembered that he owed her his reply.
"Yes," he said, and his voice was wrong, a boy's voice, high and ragged. She was drawing the breath out of him, siphoning out his courage, draining everything down through his dick and out into her palm and he wanted, he wanted. "Yes. I want that. I want your hand, I want to give -- I want you to take, take it from, suck it all from me, my quee--"
Teyla's other hand, her fist, caught him hard beside his right eye, and he toppled, and he tipped over the edge and into and over and over and hot over her hand. The hardest, the most, the most wrenching he'd come since ... since ...
"This is what the enzyme has made of you, Aiden," said his queen, somewhere above him. "You are changed, and not for the better."
He did not dare look up at her. He did not want to see her contempt. His veins were awash with the burn of it.
-end-
