We were drugged.
At least, that'll be my excuse if General Hammond ever finds out about this. The sedative that the oh-so-charming-but-overtly-paranoid denizens of P8G-117 had used on us turned out to have certain side-effects. One of them being that it made you extremely susceptible to spending the night with your C.O.
If that IS the case, if the outcome of last night depended on chemicals and not just our own stupidity, then part of the blame falls on Janet, for not realizing there could be a problem and keeping us under watch until the 'danger' had passed. But I'm even more likely to fault Daniel and Teal'c, for the very simple reason that THEY were the ones to go home early. "I have a headache." "I must meditate." Cry me a river, boys. At least you WENT home. That was the problem. They went home and left me alone with chocolate, the most delectable substance on Earth, and Jack O'Neill, a close second. Not that I would ever tell him that.
No, no, I did WORSE than TELL him...
We'd each had a beer, which wasn't enough to get either of us loopy in the least, but probably accentuated the latent effects of the sedative. Oh yeah, that'll sound great on my report. I'm not exactly sure how the subject of chocolate came up - it was late - but I'm inclined to think it was something on television. A commercial, a rerun of a sitcom so old half the cast was dead and buried... something. Something that made me claim that I was a certified connoisseur of all things chocolate. Something that led O'Neill - who was in a decidedly silly mood - to leap up from where we sat in front of the couch, dash into the kitchen, and return with Oreos, Fudgesicles, Pinwheels, chocolate oranges, M&Ms, Three Musketeers bars... enough chocolate to send Willy Wonka into a diabetic coma.
So maybe it was the sedative AND the sugar.
How long we sat there, munching away and watching television - MAD TV, Jerry Springer, Loose 30 Pounds in 30 Days the Stew Styles Way... the real wholesome, educational stuff - I'm not exactly sure. I do know that it must have been pretty late when O'Neill leapt back up again, a little more sluggish this time, and announced he'd just remembered something 'special'. When he said 'special', he said it with that caffeine-induced eye-gleam that clearly meant 'something CHOCOLATE special'.
"Please, sir," I'd begged half-heartedly. Not that I wasn't interested, but I felt as though if I ate one more thing, I'd end up having to place that call to Stew Styles, $1.99 for the first minute, $.99 for each additional minute.
O'Neill got a different gleam in his eye, a decidedly challenging one. "Well, Carter, you're the one who claims to be able to tell Nestle from Hershey's. Now that I've lulled you into a false sense of security, I'm going to call you on it."
He knew me well enough to know I couldn't be egged into something like this, so he ALSO knew that when I agreed it was because of nothing more than my own curiosity. Into the darkened kitchen he went again, rustling around for a few moments before calling back to me, "Close your eyes!"
"What?" I called back, stretching back to grab the TV remote. On the screen, buxom, scantily-clothed seductresses urged viewers to call "1-800-FREE-LUV... and show us your wild side." I made a face and turned the offensive machine off. NOT something I needed O'Neill watching around me; even after all this time, there were still instances when I felt conspicuously like 'the girl'.
"Close your eyes," he demanded in his Colonel Voice, and I sighed, and complied. "No peeking, either," he added, coming out of the kitchen, his voice and footsteps approaching me. "And no cheating. I can tell if you're peeking."
"Whatever you say, sir," I deadpanned, the slightest bit squeamish about my closed eyes as he sat back down next to me. Obviously, even after all this time, he could still conspicuously be 'the guy'. Strange. If I'd been blinded during battle, I wouldn't have given trusting O'Neill to protect me a second thought. But sitting alone in his dimmed, silent living room, only an unidentified bag of chocolate between us, I felt somewhat differently.
There was a soft rustle; I listened carefully. Plastic bag, not paper. Thick stuff, not crinkly. Not large enough to admit his entire hand, no wrapper.
I hesitated for only a second before acquiescing. Well, maybe two seconds, but it was late and I was full of alcohol and sugar. I let my mouth fall open, felt something cool and aromatic touch my lips, and closed them, careful not to let them touch his fingers.
My unease was blown away by the taste; I forgot about the man sitting still and silent only inches away and focused on the flavor. Rich, smooth... milk chocolate, certainly. Shaped like a Hershey's Kiss, but not as big... but also not as small as a regular chocolate chip. It began to melt immediately, not chewy or gritty at all, and I worked the syrupy taste around in my mouth for its duration before remarking, "Wow."
"Yeah," agreed O'Neill, his voice oddly strained.
Keeping my eyes closed, I smiled. "Let me have another one."
Another scuffle, a second of wait, and then again, the incredible smell and sweet coolness near my mouth, which hung slightly open. Emboldened, I used my lips and - to some extent - my tongue to coax the morsel from his fingers.
Maybe this would be a good time for a little reminder: sedative, after-effects, late hour, stupidity.
This time, I tried to analyze the flavor without getting too wrapped up in the emotion of it. Oh yes, definitely milk chocolate, and probably for baking uses; they always wasted the best stuff in cakes and cookies. Why have it diluted by starch and carbohydrates, I wondered, when you could have it straight, pure, unadulterated?
Smooth without being unduly oily, as perfectly shaped as the first, an explosion of sweetness in my mouth, a thick, wafting scent in my nose. "I... don't know," I admitted, strangely not at all upset about 'loosing'. I'd gladly loose more often, if it was always this delicious. "I don't think I've ever had this before," I added, keeping my eyes closed for some bizarre reason. Maybe it was the hushed, alluring atmosphere that had settled over us. Maybe it was the late hour. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
"You want another one?" O'Neill asked, his voice still strained; I was now sure I wasn't imagining it. His breath caressed my skin, lifting the tiny hairs on my face and neck and a delicious shiver ran through me. I hoped I wasn't acting too terribly odd, and nodded.
But it wasn't chocolate that brushed my lips; it wasn't candy that was slipped into my mouth. It was ANOTHER mouth, and a tongue, very warm, very soft, very sweet. My adrenaline surged, my blood pressure skyrocketed, but my lids remained drawn and my movements languid. This was wrong, this was a mistake; I knew that with my mind, but all rational thought seemed to have gone on vacation, leaving me with sensation and emotion alone. Was this another taste-test? I wondered wryly. Because I HAD had this before, however briefly, and I had a pretty good idea of what it was.
His mouth tasted of the Oreos, the Pinwheels, the Three Musketeers, and the mystery chocolate; I imagined he must be experiencing something similar. Sweet saliva. Chocolate and hormones. Utterly wonderful. Utterly intoxicating.
It's virtually my only excuse as to why we didn't stop. That, and the fact that we were drugged.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, I opened my eyes, blinded even by the dim lighting of the living room. O'Neill still had his eyes shut, still had his lips pressed firmly against mine, head tilted for better access, keeping up his ministrations as though he suddenly regretted giving me the chocolate and was determined to lick it all away. He sat directly in front of me, leaning in, weight supported precariously -- an endearing position. As I watched peripherally, attention never drifting far from the forbidden kiss, he raised one hand from the carpet to my lip, pressing on it, shifting his weight slightly. Never once did I even consider pulling away.
One more time now: drugs, exhaustion, stupidity. Daniel, Teal'c, Janet.
Now that we've got that firmly established. . .
I'm not sure what possessed me to take things to the next step, but I'm pretty sure that it wasn't a Gou'ald. Too bad; that would have more for a tidy explanation. All I know is that suddenly I had a kind of sixth sense about the exact position of the bag of mystery chocolate, and I reached for it and into it, withdrawing a third piece, which felt for all the world like a chocolate chip on steroids. Then, after a quick recon as to O'Neill's exact placement and dubious balance, I let myself fall backwards, onto the carpet. He fell with me.
Thankfully for the integrity of my stomach and chest, he caught himself on his elbows before crashing atop me, our mouths breaking contact for the first time in an eternity, and with an audible pop. Wow, that'd been some suction. I saw just enough of his face to catch the registering shock and dismay; did he actually think I was rejecting him, trying to get away? Idiot, I thought fondly, sliding the chocolate into my mouth and then mashing my lips back against his. Not an iota of confusion or millisecond of hesitation. Good boy. The last thing I needed right now was humiliation.
Slowly, and with tremendous pleasure, I worked the morsel into his mouth, teasing, taking it away and giving it back, an ardent thank-you for introducing me to the tasty treat, until it had dissolved into milky flavor alone. I could feel the curve of his lips smiling against mine - oh, good, so he approved - could feel his big hand on my hip, squeezing rhythmically, could feel his position shift as one finger hooked itself under my-
And I think we'll stop there.
Anyone over the age of 10 with a half-decent imagination can figure out what happened next, and why I don't feel the need to spell it out, and why I blame the others. This was NOT my fault.
In the words of our beloved Colonel: "Sweet."
I won't lie and say I really regret what happened, even though it's really going to suck if Hammond hears anything about me not going home last night; he's no dummy. And I won't say I've had better, because that's equally untrue. I won't say that when I woke up this morning, a willing prisoner of his arms, I wasn't completely happy and willing to do whatever it took in order for this to continue. I WAS happy, warm and safe, breathing in the sweet and musky smells of the chocolate… and of him.
What I will say is this:
Chocolate has proven itself to be just as addictive as nicotine or heroine… and Colonel O'Neill even more so.
So either way you look at it, we were drugged.
Two cookies for anyone who sends feedback… So, you see, we both win. :)
The starring chocolate, if anyone was wondering, is called Guttiard, in the 'maxi chip' size. How unromantic does that sound? The key clue was that it was baking chocolate. Now go get some :)
"Hurt me, Colonel."
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