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lucky charm

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Jack O’Neill was raised a superstitious sports fan. His father had worn the same ratty Cubs cap to every game they watched–whether it be in the stadium or crowded around their crappy television.

His father had winked at him and told him that his father had worn this very same cap at the 1907 World Series and he was convinced it was the key to bringing good luck to his home team. Jack, young and impressionable, had nodded sagely and promised to honor the legacy of sport superstition.

At fifteen, he scored a hat trick at his high school hockey game and decided he needed to eat a corn dog before every game and wear his lucky Goldtoe socks. For one hundred games, he ate a hundred corn dogs and had worn his socks into bare threads.

As a soldier, he carried this superstition with him, and wore his favorite olive green cap–despite it being against regulations (technically)–on every mission. Never leave a man behind and never leave his cap unworn. While Hammond may roll his eyes at his lapse in uniform regulation adherence, SG-1′s record was practically spotless and he’d never begrudge a man his superstitions if it meant results.

This life of little reliances, perhaps, had led them here.

The morning of the first game that Jack ever took Samantha Carter to–Maple Leafs versus Bruins–he spent the morning with her soft body spread out under him, her thighs on either side of his head and slung over his shoulders, his mouth and fingers and tongue and lips working her over while she wore his favorite Maple Leafs jersey.

Superstition and sports were not to be parted and when the Maple Leafs had soundly beaten the pants off the Bruins that day, he slung an arm around her shoulder and pressed a kiss to the patch of skin beneath he ear, murmuring, “Think you may be our lucky charm, Carter.”

The next game, Jack had awoken her by nuzzling his scratchy, whisker-laden jaw against her neck, his wide, warm hand sliding across her belly and dipping beneath the waistband of her panties. “Sam,” he mumbled against her skin, breath hot. “I really, really want to win this game tonight.” He’d stripped her of her sleeping camisole and wordlessly passed her the Maple Leafs jersey, eyebrow raised.

Sam laughed, nipples hardening in the cold air of his bedroom, shrugging the jersey over her head. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He nodded solemnly and pressed a lingering kiss to her lips, smoothing her ruffled hair before cupping her jaw.

“Don’t.” Kiss. “Question.” Kiss. “My methods.” Kiss.

Sam’s laughter had quickly turned into gasps as Jack kissed her way down her sternum and belly, detouring to kiss the jut of her hips and the swells of her breasts. His hands slid over her thighs and danced across the sensitive skin of her knees before he settled between her legs, nosing at her sex and using the broadside of his tongue to swipe against her heat, hot and wet and heady.

His fingers slid inside of her easily and he wasted no time establishing a quick, steady rhythm: a pump and twist of his fingers countered with a broad swipe of his tongue and the occasional punctuation of a thumb pressed against her clit, causing sparks to appear before her eyes.

She threaded her fingers through his silver hair, groaning and gasping his name, pulling him closer and angling his mouth just there. “Jack–Oh God, don’t stop, don’t–”

Jack looked up at her, his lips wrapped around her clit and sucking gently, his teeth just grazing the sensitive bundle of nerves. The combination of his dark eyes on her and the visual of his mouth on her body was enough to tilt her over the edge and she came for him, clenching around his fingers and twisting her hands into his jersey.

As she came back down from her high, he was already kissing his way back up her sensitive body and settling atop her, grinning happily. “Now we’re gonna win. I’m telling you, Sam,” he said, his hand sliding down her body and cupping her still sensitive sex, causing her to shudder and buck into his touch. “You’re the key.”

She rolled her eyes at him, cupping his cheek and kissing the taste of her off his lips, rolling her hips into his hand and shuddering as her clit found friction against the heel of his hand. “Whatever you say, flyboy.”

Jack grinned and threw a leg over her hip and rocked against her. “Sam,” he groaned, rubbing and pressing himself into the juncture of her thigh and hip. He buried his face in her neck and nipped at the straining tendons beneath her skin, considered briefly latching onto the skin there and sucking a purple and red mark there.

She was warm and willing beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist and her hands threading through his hair, nails scraping across his scalp which caused him to jerk against her, pressing further into the soft give of her hip.

There was nothing he wanted more than to slide his hands beneath the thin material of the NHL jersey of his that she wore, to press his hardness inside of her and feel her clenching around him–hot and wet and his.

But he didn’t fuck her the morning before the first game and he was nothing if not superstitious. He closed his eyes against the soft words of encouragement slipping from her mouth and pulled away, rolling to his side and bringing her with him.

She protested, rolled and undulated her body against his, hoping to entice him. She’d already come once, but her body was more than ready for another round with him. And, judging by the sizable tent in the front of his boxers he was, too.

“Jack?” she murmured, hands drifting in swirling patterns over his chest.

He sighed, blushing slightly. “I really, really want to be inside of you right now, Sam.” Her breathing hitched at his words and he slid a hand over her shoulder, down her side, and over her hip.

“But,” he continued with a wince. “I just want to do everything the same and I didn’t–we didn’t–that is,” he huffed before turning to face her. “I made you come with my mouth and then we showered and had waffles and went to the game and I just don’t want to change our–”

She propped herself up on her elbow, mouth dropping in incredulity. “Are you serious?”

He nodded sheepishly and she flopped back down onto her back, glaring at the ceiling. “Unbelievable,” she griped. Jack reached for her tentatively, pressing a series of short, chaste kisses to her shoulder and neck.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised.

She sighed and kissed his cheek, grinning mischievously as him. “You better.” Another kiss was pressed to his lips and she pulled his bottom lip between hers, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh there and laving her tongue over the nip.

“Shower,” he gasped, hips flexing at the renewed passion between them.

“Then waffles,” she agreed, dragging him out of bed and stumbling to the bathroom. Jack took a moment to appreciate the woman before him: short hair ruffled by his own hands, lithe body wrapped in his own Maple Leafs hockey jersey, and long, lean legs that had spent the morning wrapped alternatively around his head and waist.

The Maple Leafs did, in fact, win that game. And the next game. And the next. And at the start of each one: Jack O’Neill’s tongue and fingers and lips and teeth worked in tandem to bring Samantha Carter to orgasm, crashing over the precipice of pleasure, before they both showered and devoured a plate of waffles.

This particular superstition–the taste and heat of Carter, showers, and waffles–certainly beat out corndogs and threadbare socks.