Fic: 'To Hell With Us' (Stargate SG-1, Sam/Ba'al, R, 1/1) Title: To Hell With Us Fandom: Stargate SG-1 Characters: Sam/Ba'al Word Count: 581 Rating: R Spoilers: 6x04, 'Abyss' Challenge: Porn Battle VI: Stargate SG-1, Ba'al/Sam, secret Disclaimer: No one mentioned belongs to me. Summary:Hate, Sam reminds herself, not that she really needs reminding. Hate is the operative word. Hate is the operative emotion.
To Hell With Us
Hate, Sam reminds herself, not that she really needs reminding. Hate, hate, hate.
Hate is the operative word. Hate is the operative emotion. All-consuming, black, swelling beyond her body and soul, more than she can take, more than she can hold.
She hates the bastard, more than she's ever hated anything. The irritating little goatee, the sweeping, cloak-like coats, the ever-present smirk, even when he's lying and torturing. Especially when he's lying and torturing.
The colonel (the general, damn it) (Jack, damn it!) doesn't talk about it. Won't. Sam has witnessed him become closed-off about any number of things, but not like this. It was a hell like she has never known. Mere mentions, and he gets tense and pissed off and changes the subject. Sam doesn't blame him.
There was a stark, bare-boned mission report, which they'd finally talked General Hammond into letting them read, not that it had shed much insight. Jack had spent a few days recovering from prolonged sarcophagus use, and a few weeks flinching any time small objects went airborne. The experience was one of the few memories from his ascension that Daniel was allowed to keep, God only knew why. The details he'd shared had been as scant as the colonel's report, torn between loyalty to Sam and Teal'c and loyalty to Jack. Jack won out, of course. Torn apart with worry though she was, it was a far less severe form of suffering.
Ba'al's thin fingers graze her rocking hips, and she bites back a hiss. She sees those fingers twirling a prop, wielding a weapon of torture. She can almost, in a moment of madness far beyond what she's experiencing now, imagine him as a cackling villain with a top hat and a handlebar mustache, twisting the ends of it as he giggles over the destruction he's wrought.
Hate, she thinks on the down stroke, but the word gets lost in the sharp, gunshot breaths echoing in her skull. It's funny how the sheer level of emotion amplifies the sensations. It's pretty excellent sex, either in spite of or because of the anger and guilt. It's the sort of thing she'd want to remember. It's the sort of thing she absolutely needs to forget.
This is betrayal in its purest, rawest form. Which is why Ba'al's here, she knows. It's only vaguely about lust, about attraction, about releasing the tension that's been building since they started this project. This is another nail in Jack's coffin as far as this bastard is concerned, and Sam is a helpless pawn.
Ba'al murmurs his pleasure beneath her, his voice like velvet even if it's not wrapped around any distinguishable words. Even without the phlange, he sounds rich and smooth like a radio announcer, unconsciously seductive. Sam clings to that attraction, just as her thighs cling to his torso, her fingers to his ribs and shoulders, because attraction is the only thing that makes sense. A raucous lab rendezvous is shameful, but justifiable. She works hard. She's stressed.
Not at the moment, though, as her body relaxes into nothingness, as the orgasm overcomes her and cancels out all thought. She doesn't bother to see if Ba'al's joined her; she climbs off with as much dignity and dismissiveness as she can mutter. She shimmies back into her pants, keeping her back to him, so he can't see her face as he drawls, "Thank you for the show, Colonel Carter. Entertaining as ever."