Fic: All To Myself, Alone (Sam/Jack, NC-17)
Title: All To Myself, Alone
Author: Pepper
Rating: NC-17 *bids farewell to the coy ellipses*
Prompt: : Moebius!Jack on his boat after Sam and Daniel paid him that visit. That crazy hair when she ripped off the life jacket got to him *giggle*
Wordcount: 1431
Season: Eight
Related SG-1 Episode(s): Moebius
Featured Character: Jack
Pairing: Sam/Jack
A/N: Written for the sg1_by_hand ficathon. Many, many thanks to beanpot and abyssinia4077 for betaing this and for making sure I wasn't going to completely embarrass myself.
---
I'd like to get you on a slow boat to China
All to myself, alone
Get you and keep you in my arms evermore
Leave all of your lovers weeping on a faraway shore
---
Well, that had been a pretty profitable hour, Jack O'Neill concluded, as he watched them walk away. Wasn't often a guy made a hundred and fifty bucks just sitting on his ass in the marina. Of course, as the old cliché went, there was no such thing as a free lunch: he'd had to listen to a couple of geeks talk at him for an hour, too.
Not a couple couple, though, as they'd made clear. He wasn't sure what had made him ask that - or what had possessed him to let them on his boat. Well, except that the woman was kinda hot. If that guy - Daniel? - hadn't been there, maybe he would have taken Doctor Samantha whatever-her-name-was out for a trip. That'd be pretty sweet, actually. Even if she had talked the whole time. Yeah. Take her out on the boat, show her the ocean. She looked like she needed a strong breath of fresh air blown through her.
Deciding he didn't want to hang around, just in case someone else came looking for him, he climbed creakily up to the top deck, and fired up the 'Homer'. That was the beauty that people didn't seem to see, when they couldn't look past the peeling paint and the mismatched life jackets: the freedom to just hoist anchor and leave, any time people like Samuels showed up and tried to make his life complicated again. Okay, so he'd probably never make it rich taking tourists out on fishing trips, but neither was he at anyone's beck and call.
A few miles out, with the sun warm on his face and the ocean calm and flat, he cut the engine and dropped the drift anchor, kicking his feet up onto the railing and closing his eyes. The boat rocked gently, and tension he hadn't known he was carrying slowly dropped from him. Yessir, this was the life - just him, his boat, and the open ocean.
A warm drowsiness was creeping over him, and he ran one hand casually down his stomach, resting it just below his waist. Yeah, he would've taken Samantha out on the boat, let the wind blow her hair about, blow the words away, and maybe when she fell silent, caught by the beauty and the stillness of the open ocean, he'd put a hand on hers. And she'd turn to look at him, eyes wide, and she wouldn't be shocked or dismayed. She'd understand - and she'd smile, with some of that nervous energy still there, but underneath... she'd be willing.
He slid his hand down further, pressed, stroked gently through his pants, squeezed slightly, and admitted to himself that maybe, just maybe, he was a little starved for companionship. It'd been - well, a depressingly long time since he'd last spent time alone with another human being - one who was there for him and not for the fishing, that was. He'd let those two talk at him today, and it had actually been... nice.
He opened his eyes and winced, the sun too bright for his dilated pupils. He glanced around. Well, why the hell not? It wasn't like there was anyone for miles. He loosened his pants and slipped a hand inside. The first touch to his already heated and hard flesh made him draw in a sharp breath, his stomach tensing. God, he did need company, of the intimate kind - either that, or this woman had already had a pretty damn potent effect on him.
He felt a twinge of guilt for picturing her to get himself off, but dismissed it. It wasn't like he was ever gonna see her again, anyhow. He closed his eyes, and relaxed, putting aside the nagging thought that he might be getting engine oil somewhere he really, really didn't want to use industrial cleanser, and imagining that she was right there with him. She'd fall silent, gazing out at the ocean as the boat rocked them both, and he'd reach out and touch her hand - and she'd turn and smile, nervous but pleased. With the liquid naturalness of fantasy, he'd take her hand and lead her down to the cabin, where for some reason he'd have miraculously installed a bed more comfortable than the cushioned bench that currently served as both seat and bed. There, he'd lie back, and she would lie beside him - they would of course be naked by this point - and hook one leg over his, her groin hot against his hip and her hand running tentatively across his chest.
He brought his free hand up and under his scruffy T-shirt, touching his chest and imagining her warm, clever hands on his body. Slowly, as gently and tentatively as he imagined she'd be, he ran it down until he hit his waistband, and then gripped himself more tightly with his other hand, and gave one firm, slow stroke from base to tip and back again, breathing out a long, slow breath. Oh, yes.
He began to stroke with firm familiarity of his body's responses, already close to the edge and not seeking to prolong this, seeing as he only had himself to please. But in his imagination, she looked reproachfully at him - an expression he'd seen in real life, and therefore particularly vivid. So he ran his free hand back up his chest, imagining soft, smooth skin beneath his fingertips (he really should have cleaned off that engine oil; hopefully she wouldn't get a rash), and gently squeezed an imaginary breast, circling a nipple with his thumb. She moaned, breathily, and the imagined sound sent a jolt right through to his cock. Goddamn, she was sexy.
"Colonel O'Neill," she sighed.
"Retired," he murmured aloud, and was surprised at the huskiness of his own voice.
And in his mind, she lost the last of her inhibitions, pushing him back and straddling him, hot and wet and taking control. He circled his hand, and slowly sank his grip down, in imitation of his phantom lover.
God. She was good.
His hand now moved without conscious instruction, and his thoughts fragmented. Random images went through his mind - how she'd looked at him with a puzzled, analytical gaze, brilliant blue eyes made birdlike by her glasses, how she'd pouted her lips in annoyance, what it might be like to sink his hand into that sunshine hair and pull her close, kiss those lips, sticky and slick with the neutral lipstick she'd worn, strip her of those tweeds and press her naked hips down hard and tight against him. He remembered the way she'd whispered, "national security," as if she was being in any way discreet, and as if Moe and Harry in the next moorings cared at all what he did, so long as he didn't get himself tangled in their nets. He remembered the look of annoyance that had flashed over her face when he'd handed them the life jackets - but that was too real, so instead he pictured her on his top deck again, up against the helm, hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, as she moved with him. He pictured himself tangled with her under the sheets in his imaginary bed in the cabin below, in the warmth and shelter of her arms. He remembered the way she'd torn the life jacket over her head, and glared at him from under a wild halo of hair... And Jack came, with an unexpectedly loud moan. "Oh, g...!"
Breathing hard, he put an arm up to shade his eyes, and drifted in a pleasant haze, on the edge of sleep, until a particularly large swell brought him back to the here-and-now, and he dropped his arm and blinked up at the daylight, almost surprised to find himself still on the top deck of his boat. That had been... kinda vivid. He drew his hand out of his pants and glanced down with a grimace, then tugged off his grubby T-shirt and wiped himself with it. Yeah. He badly needed to get a life.
And suddenly he knew what he was going to do, as if the knowledge had just been waiting to ambush him, the moment he was otherwise distracted. He was gonna go and find out what the Air Force wanted with him. With a sigh, he gave in and admitted it was inevitable. He'd never shirked his duty in his life, and wasn't about to start now, no matter how very definitely and utterly retired he was.
Well, it might not be so bad. There was always the chance he'd see that pretty Doct...
Ah, crap.
---
END.