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When she wakes up, it’s there: The burning need, the feeling of her skin crawling and her limbs shaking with wanting what she’s been denied for so long.

There is no conscious decision in her actions, she leaves her room, knocks at his door only briefly and enters without waiting for an answer.

In the dim light of his quarters, a tousled head rises from the pillow, eyes small and narrow from sleep, but trained on her nevertheless; the warrior in him awake and strong before his body understands the reason. “Is there something --“

She is next to him before he can finish the sentence, touches her lips to his, teeth scraping. Urgency drives her forward, her hands pushing at his chest, impatient with the barrier of clothing, needing to feel skin on skin.

“Whoa, what --“ Amusement and confusion in his voice, his hands on her arms - hot; fingers calloused, strong. Skin on skin.

“Don’t talk.” Taking his scent, pressing her body closer, demanding his attention. Needing and conveying her need.

His eyes smoke over and she’d enjoy that, enjoy the way his hand slides into her hair and draws her in gently, if there was time. But there is none, the longing is there, raw, burning, needing to be quenched. She doesn’t want tenderness. Her lips crash against his and she’s drinking him like water and wine - potent, heady. It’s not enough, still not enough, the craving isn’t lessening, only grows stronger when she feels his increasing heartbeat under her fingers.

He is matching her now, hands no longer gentle; tightening at her hips, pulling her closer, closer. The sound of their heavy breathing is the only sound in the room.

His fingers glide under her shirt and what she has shortly been distracted from by his lips and his tongue springs to the front of her mind with ferocity again: There is still a barrier between them, she can’t feel him, can’t touch his skin the way she needs to. He’s teasing her now, clever hands, clever mouth. Silky hair tickling her throat as his lips descend.

But no, no. The craving grows stronger by the second. She pushes against him, forces his head up. He recoils slightly, giving her enough time to grab his shirt with both hands and rip it apart as if it were paper.

For a second, she stares at his naked chest, muscles moving enticingly from the heavy breathing. Then need drives her forward and she thrusts her right hand over his heart, forcefully enough to make him sink back to the bed, never losing contact with his skin. She straddles him, hips moving. Her fingers flex, her nails feel the tender skin breaking. Her whole body which has been moving before is now perfectly still, awaiting the inevitable, the rush, the heat, the easing of her gnawing pain - but there’s nothing. Nothing but his blood touching her fingers.

He has stopped breathing, is staring at her, wide-eyed disbelief. Then his hands are around hers and he’s breaking her contact with his skin, his eyes never leaving hers.

She can’t help it now, can’t fight the despair.

She throws her head back and wails like a wounded animal.

Teyla Emmagan has never been so hungry in her life.




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