fair and strange
by Pares


McKay has strange hands, Teyla decides. They are uncalloused, and although they are broad and strong and certainly capable, they are so fair and so oddly jointed that she is at times distracted by them. When they clutch at his P-90, white-knuckled and tense. When he curls them into the peculiar way he types on his various machines. When he's waving a fork around at the tables in the mess. She wonders sometimes what such soft, capable hands might feel like cupping her breasts, curving around the cup of her hip, smooth fingertips against the point of her chin. Such clever, manicured fingers, with clean, rounded nails. Perhaps the strangest thing about those hands is that they belong to Rodney McKay and that she has begun to imagine them unlacing her top, or stroking her training skirts aside, and touching lightly, lightly, the crease where her thigh meets her body, setting the heel of his hand against her mons and the rough curls there, then moving his hand down, to spread her with thumb and gliding forefinger...

Yes, his hands were strange, but not a stranger's, and one day perhaps... a lover's.

END