a somewhat ridiculous one-shot, because I adore Stephen’s beautiful, damaged hands, and everything they stand for by sobeautifullyobsessed
“I make no promise this will work—but give me your hands please…”
Reverently, Teyla traced the scars upon the back of his right hand and along the length of each finger, then gently flipped it over, to do the same upon his palm, moving on to his left hand in her own good time. Stephen had not allowed such familiar contact with his damaged hands in ages, and his flesh seemed to spark at her soothing touch. He found himself mesmerized by the softness of her patient exploration, understanding as he watched that her fingers were memorizing the patterns of his scars, and that she was methodically building a magic he had never seen before.
“You must trust me now,” she told him, as she brought his hands palm to palm, laying her own atop and underneath them, “There will be pain, but I promise it will be brief. You must not flinch or pull away, lest the charm I weave be broken.” Her voice was hushed, but like her motions, held him spellbound. “Can you do this for me, Stephen? Surrender control in this moment to me, and do not fight the sensations you will feel.”
“Of course,” he replied, his voice a little hoarse with awe and anticipation—though he remained somewhat skeptical that she could even deliver what she had claimed.