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for just one taste of this

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I have surrendered all of my yesterdays
for just one taste of this

                     -jann arden





It starts like this:

Their fingers brush awkwardly as a coffee cup exchanges hands, or maybe Jack reaches out thoughtlessly to grab Sam’s arm as she turns to leave at the end of the night.

Or they’re out having a beer and laughing like nervous idiots over something neither of them can remember anymore and suddenly they’re both leaning in closer (too close, much too close).

Or it’s Dr. Frasier’s birthday and someone’s brought cupcakes; Jack takes a bite while Carter watches with a wide grin and there’s still pink icing on his upper lip when the cake’s all gone. She’s overcome with this gushing, impulsive, warm feeling that impels her to reach across and swipe her thumb across his lips to remove the excess, pops the finger into her own mouth with a playful smile that falls just a soon as Jack realizes (she realizes, too) that his restraint’s about to snap.

It’s one or all of these things that starts it, and Sam knows the laws of physics like she knows two plus two equals four: there’s a force and a momentum behind all this intention that’s setting into motion something that isn’t going to stop, even though they thought it was settled, even though there are multiple points along the way where they could have stopped, where they should have stopped—

They could have called that first brief, chaste kiss an accident, they could have broken apart with hurried apologies and mumblings about how no, they can’t, of course they can’t, they’ve (kind of) talked about this, there are rules about these things, there are consequences and matters of work and code and honor. But they didn’t, and then those moments started occurring more frequently, and each time it got just a little bit easier to delude themselves into thinking that it was all okay, that nothing was actually happening.

After that, though, things got tricky and dangerous because they pushed a little more and went a little (a lot) further off that deep end, and soon it was the two of them alone in the empty barracks and this wasn’t wrong, was it, just sitting side by side in the darkness?

His hand reaches clumsily for hers; her fingers curl in against his palm.

They’re both breathing too quickly.

“This is crazy, sir.” She says finally.

“Tell me about it.” His voice sounds hoarse.

“We can’t do this.”

“Yeah. I mean, no. No, we can’t.”

“We said it wouldn’t ever leave that room, sir.”


“And yet here we are.”

Jack closes his eyes. She’s right; they’re both right. Of course they are – it isn’t even a question. There’s no grey area here, no exceptions. It’s absolutely unacceptable. He’s going to stand up and leave now. He’s going to, he’s made up his mind, he won’t go through with this because it’s reprehensible, he’s Colonel Jack O’Neill and she’s Major Samantha Carter and it’s against everything he thinks he believes in and it’s just plain wr

But then she suddenly leans across his lap and presses her warm lips to his, just once, like she’s testing him (testing herself).

He tries so hard to stop that previous train of thought from continuing because he needs to cup her face now like he needs oxygen to live. If he doesn’t, he might go crazy. If he doesn’t, she might pull away.

But she’s not pulling away. She’s slowly, tentatively beginning to use her tongue and it’s hard to remember why this is wrong anymore except that he still hesitates before he presses her down into the mattress, and she isn’t exactly sure whether or not she should wrap her arms around him even though she desperately, desperately wants to.

It’s a game of building blocks after that, all sensory, all follow-my-lead (who’s leading, though, neither of them could say, and that’s probably the point). They’re testing each other’s limits again and dancing around the punctuation. If Jack doesn’t remove his hand from Sam’s hip then it must be okay for her to moan, out loud, into the darkened room. If Sam slips her hand up Jack’s t-shirt, he’s going to go ahead and use his knee to spread her legs a little wider against the creaking bunk.

It’s a staring contest, each trying to psych the other out. But neither is spooking. All this is doing is egging them both on. It’s childish and they should probably be ashamed of themselves (but neither of them has been this turned on in a painfully long time, and it’s hard, it’s so hard, to stop).

There has to be a point of no return, here, and they’re both thinking it, they both know it. They should stop before they reach it. But it’s not coming, it’s not coming at all, and yet every moment that passes feels like an opportunity for retreat that they willfully aren’t taking.

Tomorrow morning, they might regret this. Tomorrow, when they both show up for duty and she’s got to find a way to call him “sir” again without giving it all away and he’s got to be able to look into her blue eyes with pure indifference, they might realize this was a gigantic, enormous, colossal, huge fucking mistake.

Tomorrow they might hate themselves for betraying their standards, their resolve, their honor,  their responsibilities, for acting like reckless adolescents with no impulse control and no respect for the oaths they’d taken.

But tonight:

“God, just—oh god, just—rip it,” his hands fumble between them, against the buttons and buckles and zippers that separate them—at her impatient insistence they yank on the rough fabric till it nearly tears down the middle. She gives a breathy laugh and eagerly pulls his mouth to hers again.

Her tongue slides against his at the same time his hand slips beneath the newly freed waistline of her thick cargo pants – there’s some heavy duty stuff to get past to make this work, literally and otherwise, but there’s also so much want, years of want, and so they’re easily problem-solving as they go along.

His fingers are warm and solid and they know what sort of pressure she wants, the angle she needs; she’s straining in his arms and biting down on his shoulder and she’s just wild and passionate enough like this to take his breath away.

Her hips are rocking against his hand and she’s pulled him in closer and closer and then:

“I want you,” she says breathlessly.  The words are more familiar than they should be.

“Nah, really? Couldn’t tell.” Sarcastic joke-cracking has always been Jack O’Neill’s coping mechanism of choice.

“I want you,” she says again, un-phased. It’s not until she adds a soft, whimpering “please” and digs her fingers into his belt that he understands she’s actually telling him something worth understanding.

Their eyes meet and he can barely see her amidst all the blackness but the look that passes between them says what they aren’t willing to voice out loud. It’s permission lit up and blazing bright green and it’s that heavy, delicious weight of uncertain certainty settling firmly between them.




The rest of the night passes in a breathy blur of skin and sweat and sounds and tastes and sensations, the sort of shuddering pleasure that can take someone apart, ekes it all out of them slowly like a raindrop sliding down a glass window (and just when they thought they didn’t have the energy or concentration for more it starts all over again and they’re shocked, despite the trembling hands and aching muscles, to find that they most certainly do).

Sam trusts him implicitly; Jack learns quickly that he’s allowed to touch her anywhere, everywhere (more than allowed, welcome). When he flips her from her back for what feels like the millionth time and trails slow kisses down her spine, fingers brushing against the edges of her breasts, she doesn’t groan in frustration or tell him enough with the foreplay already – she simply arches silently beneath him, her hands clenching and unclenching mindlessly against the sheets.

Jack wonders if Carter is like this with everyone she lets into her bed, and then thinks (bizarrely, unsettlingly, but fittingly) that she might be deferring to his rank, but no, he soon realizes she’s deferring to him, to Jack, and it’s in the way she says it – his name – over and over again into his ear that makes him feel like he’s had way too much whiskey. She’s made him so drunk; he hasn’t felt this way since he was twenty-three, recklessly squeezing out what little he could from life between deployments.

There’s a moment right before he pushes himself into her that first time that he seriously considers stopping (kind of seriously considers it, almost seriously…not seriously at all). He holds her there against him before he starts to move, letting them both adjust and savor, and she’s so very present there with him, with and arms and legs and a mouth and hips that begin to rock and shiver, that he almost forgets that time is still ticking on by.




This all happens again four days later. And then again a week after that, and again not long after that; they sleep together enough now that if they could, they’d acknowledge that they were, in fact, sleeping together. Sometimes they have the luxury of time and when this is the case they let the minutes and the hours drip away slow like honey (off base: the bed, or the bath, and exploration, adoration) and sometimes it’s a few stolen minutes in the silence of the barracks or empty locker room (quick, guilty hands, bruising kisses, racing to see who can get the other off faster—both of them have always had a competitive streak).

They can’t and won’t acknowledge this in any formal way or shape or form, they won’t ever have a “talk” about it, but still there’s one time when they’re about to be separated by an off-planet recon mission and it might be awhile (an hour, or a day, a week; far too long) till they see each other again that Sam pulls away from his chest in the moonlight and removes that ever-present silver chain from around her neck.

She pauses in heavy contemplation and then finally slides it over his instead, letting it settle against his skin. She rests her hand there, right above his heart. There’s something achingly sweet and pure and vulnerable that’s released between them by this small gesture.

“Be careful, okay?”

He wraps his fingers around her wrist.

“You too, Major.”

It sounds almost like an order, and her face breaks into a soft grin. “Yessir.”

Later, while she’s still sleeping, he tugs on his pants and boots and t-shirt, presses his lips to her forehead and, after a moment of short-lived hesitation, tucks his own dog tags gently into her curled hand before he leaves.