Author: Christi (email@example.com)
Spoilers: Season Eight through Endgame.
Author’s Note: Hrm. Much, much darker than my typical fare. God, I dislike season eight. It produces nothing but angst in my shippy brain. Anyway. This is a dark and angsty and probably out of character Jack, just as a warning. If you don’t want to read about him doing something that he would probably never normally do, skip it. Plus, it uses a cliché as a plot device. Of course. Is mostly unbetaed, so if a mistake is there, it’s all my own.
“When an individual fear or apathy passes by the unfortunate, life is of no account.”
It’s not that he doesn’t know that what he’s doing is wrong. If there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty after the last eight years, it’s that under no circumstances was it excusable for him to be fucking Carter in the corner bed of the Infirmary with nothing more than a curtain separating them from the prying eyes of the SGC. The fact that he’s reasonably sure that she’s under the influence of some wacky alien hormonal mumbo-jumbo while he’s completely rational makes it that much worse.
He just doesn’t care anymore.
He doesn’t care that if Carter was in her right mind, she would have shrugged off the arrow that she had managed to get wedged in her right shoulder as nothing when he came to check on her. She would have smiled at him and called him sir until she was blue in the face. She definitely wouldn’t have called him Jack and pulled him on top of her while sliding her tongue into his mouth and doing her best to short-circuit any rational thought he had.
He doesn’t care that he required little to no convincing to go with it. Because when it all came down to it, some part of him felt like he had earned the right to look straight at the honorable action and tell it to fuck off.
He was tired of being honorable, especially when it came to Samantha Carter. He had spent the better part of the last few years of his life trying to do the honorable thing and it had cost him the few dreams he might have harbored deep down where he thought no one could hurt them. Trying to be honorable was what had stuck him behind a desk, trying to be honorable was what had pushed his friends so far away that they didn’t even see him anymore. So…fuck honorable.
When all was said and done, Jack O’Neill knew that he had never been an honorable man to begin with, despite what anyone else thought.
For once in his life, he was just doing what he wanted to do, damn the consequences. So, when Carter had thrown herself at him, he let her. Hell, more than that, he had taken charge of the whole situation. He had kissed her back, he had ripped off the flimsy hospital gown, and he had consciously decided to screw Samantha Carter until she screamed.
And damn if it doesn’t feel great.
Her pale skin is flushed and warm beneath him, scattered with the salt of sweat and the awareness of arousal. The taste of it permeates his senses as he works his way down her body, neck to shoulder to breast and stomach, scraping her skin mercilessly with his teeth and then soothing it with his tongue. One of his hands is under her, sliding across the back that he had lusted after since it had first been presented to him under a silver blanket. The other already has two fingers buried inside her, sliding in and out at a ridiculously slow pace as Jack takes his time bringing his mouth down to join his fingers.
It is colossally stupid to be taking his time with this now, while they are supported by nothing more than a metal frame cot, while the shadows cast by the other beds and machinery in the Infirmary flicker on the white curtain that surrounds them. But this is likely the only chance he’ll ever get at doing this, at tasting her and feeling her and watching her as she falls apart, so he’s not rushing it just because the venue is less than ideal.
His lips finally close around her clit and her hips rise off the bed as a low moan is torn from her throat, mixed in with his name and several obscenities he didn’t even know his proper little scientist even realized existed. He can’t stop the smirk that settles across his face, and strangely, it gives him an insight into the Goa’uld, because if he could cause that sound to fall from her lips every day, he might think himself a god too. He just keeps tonguing the bundle of nerves and relishes the sounds she makes, letting it all go to his head.
Her hands are tangled in his hair, scratching at his scalp and it sends sparks down his spine, making him more desperate than he wants to be—she should be the one reduced to desperation in this scenario. And she is…he just didn’t expect to follow her down the spiral of need that is quickly enveloping them both.
But she’s grasping at him, making keening noises in the back of her throat that are somehow the only thing he can hear outside of the pound of blood in his ears, and she tastes and smells and feels exactly like he imagined she would, and it’s all too much. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that when she is herself again, she’ll hate him for this. But that almost makes it better, because in order to hate him, she has to see him, and he’d rather be the object of her hatred than her indifference. And before he has to deal with either scenario, he gets this.
He’s skimming his mouth up her body again because he suddenly needs to be inside her now, the pulsing of his cock overriding his warped desire to take his time. When he finally enters her, it’s not gentle and it’s not sweet, but it is so good that his vision begins to white out. Her nails are raking down his back and normally he hates that, but not with her. And he’s kissing her now, which is ridiculous because kissing is not what this is about, but it’s what he wants as he pounds into her again and again, her hips eagerly rising up to meet him.
She’s pulled his bottom lip between her teeth to nibble on it, but then releases it as she spasms around him, eyes wide and blind as she comes, back arching and his name on her lips. It’s everything he thought it would be, and it doesn’t matter that she’s definitely not in her right mind and he might not be, it’s still mind-blowing to watch her. The sight, sound, and feel of it pushes him over the edge, teeth clenching and hands tightening on her skin as the world falls apart.
When he’s coherent again, he’s not sure how much time has passed and he’s not sure what to do now that his moment of clarity and detachment has passed. He’s not entirely sure that it matters what he does, because when he looks at her, he can see her coming back to herself, brought back from whatever alien need had possessed her to find them like this. He can see damnation lurking in the blue depths of her eyes, and he welcomes it because at least she’s looking at him again.
Jack wants to say something then, but he doesn’t know what name to use while saying it. Sam is the name of the woman he might have loved once. Carter is the name of the woman who used to be his friend and compatriot. And when people call her “colonel”, it still feels like they’re talking to him. With “colonel”, the subliminal suggestion is that he just fucked himself, which is a little too close to the truth for comfort.
So he ignores the urge and stands, fixing his clothing and pushing past the curtain. It doesn’t matter anyway. She’s done with him now.