misaffection: (Sam/Baal: Contaminated)
[personal profile] misaffection
Fandom: Stargate SG1
Characters: Baal, Sam Carter
Pairing: Baal/Sam
Setting: Insiders, AU (unrelated to any other fic/series)
Rating: FRT
Written for: [livejournal.com profile] 10_orders ("go to hell")
Word Count: 1,378


The stale air stifles her. It catches in her throat, rough and dry, and squeezes her ribs. That is, at least, what she tells herself. It’s the air, not fear, which makes her palms sweat as the download bar fills oh so slowly.

Her captor paces behind her. The others have gone, but she feels no safer. She’s fairly sure that once he’s gotten what he wants, he’ll kill her despite his assurance to the contrary. Who in their right mind would take the word of a Goa’uld as gospel? She doesn’t fear for herself, though she doesn’t want to die either, but she’s afraid for the others in the compound. The damage he could do makes her shiver.

“Afraid?” he asks in that low, soft voice. Her skin crawls at the seductiveness. “I said that I would not harm you, Samantha.”

She wants to scoff at that, but knows it wouldn’t be wise to aggravate him. Keeping her eyes on the monitor screen when she can feel his breath on the back of her neck takes an effort, but she has to disconnect, has to stay calm. Neither will happen if she looks at him.

God, she hates him so much.

“Can I... ask something of you?” she dares, her voice barely above a whisper. Everything hangs on how well she can negotiate with him. “Please.”

“What is it that you want?”

“I don’t want you to hurt anyone else.” She would take a bullet for any of them. This could be worse, but all she has to offer is the database... and herself. “If that means taking me as... as hostage, then do that.”

She turns her head then, meets those calm brown eyes. A dark eyebrow is raised and his lips are in their usual smirk.

“Are you offering yourself as a sacrifice, Samantha?” he asks, voice rippling with humour. “How very quaint.”

“Baal, please.” She will get on her knees if needed. “I’m talking about people’s lives.”

He tilts his head, eyes intent on her face. Then he reaches out a hand and brushes her hair behind her ear. His touch is surprisingly light and something that could pass for gentleness crosses his face.

“You would, as well,” he murmurs. “Yet they would not even try to negotiate for your life, Samantha. Does that leave something of a bitter taste?”

“What you want is too important. We can’t just let you walk away with that information.”

He sits on the desk. “Why not? It’s just a list of planets.”

Looking up at him, she wonders how he can think it that simple. “We could be giving you the location of the weapon. Yours are the last hands that we want it to fall into.”

“Hardly,” he dismisses. “It could fall into the hands of the Ori, and then where would you be?”

“So you’re all benevolent, now?” She knows the bitterness could end her chance at getting him on side, but she can’t believe his arrogance. “Pull the other one.”

“Believe what you wish, I have no intention of taking anything other than the database. That includes the lives of your... colleagues.”

“For what price?” It is not that simple – she’s sure of that. “What else do you want?”

His gaze is heated as he takes her in. Her skin itches and she wants to run. He can’t possibly want that, can’t he? But he’s stood again and he draws her unwillingly to her feet. Her breathing goes sharp as he pulls her close, one hand on her hip.

“No.” The denial is a whisper of sound, pleading with a propriety that Goa’ulds – especially this one – is not known for. All she can think is that they are alone in a locked room and that he is far too strong to fight off. Panic is a copper taste on her tongue.

Baal cups her chin and lifts her head, forcing her to meet his eyes. They glow in the dim room, shining with power and lust. He lowers his mouth to hers. His breath washes over her face. In a moment of fractured fear she identities mint, and is oddly grateful for something normal. She can’t think, can’t move. Her limbs are heavy and cold. She just wants this over.

Her eyes close as his lips make contact. It’s light, a mere brushing of his mouth on hers, but she jolts as electricity lights her nerves. The naquadah in her blood fizzes at his close proximity.

“And about time, too,” Baal notes in a curiously conversational tone.

He lets her go so abruptly that she rocks back on her heels. She blinks and stares as he turns to the computer as if nothing has happened. He disconnects the drive and then looks back at her.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Samantha, but this is what I really wanted.”

She is not disappointed. Fisting her hands, she banks the tingle of arousal down and glares at him. “Oh, yeah, because I wanted your paws all over me. Take the damn database and go to hell.”

Sam spins away. She’s furious with him, with herself, with this whole scenario. The manipulative bastard – she wants to hit him so hard that he forgets his own name and-

A hand closes on her arm, spins her back. She lets out an incoherent cry of anger, but he simply hauls her against his chest. His lips curve as he trails fingers over her cheek. Her heart skips a beat. Traitorous thing.

“I hate you,” she breathes. “I loathe and despise you.”

“Sticks and stones, Samantha,” Baal returns with a careless shrug. “Actions speak louder than words.”

With that, he kisses her. She wants to hate it, but he’s rather good and the thrill of naquadah adds a dimension that makes her throb with need. He releases her wrist when she pulls free. She winds that arm around his neck as he teases her lips apart.

Hate: she hates him. Only that thought slides away, evaporating on the heat that rises between them. Common sense shuts down, taking her anger and hatred and fear with it, until all that exists is the burning in her blood that leaves her hungry for more.

Baal breaks the kiss. Cold reality slaps her hard. She blinks up at him. He is slightly breathless and a slash of colour pinks his cheeks. Her gaze skitters down and her face flares. The jumpsuit isn’t loose enough to hide the evidence of how much he enjoyed their clinch.

“Well, now,” he says and his voice is roughened. He coughs and then gives a throaty laugh, unconcerned about his reaction. Unlike her. Horror is chilling her bones and dampening the fire he set between her legs. She’s shaking; frightened by the knowledge that if he tries it again, she will be more than willing. Baal grins at her. “That was very interesting.”

She lifts her chin, defiant against him and the effect he is having on her. “Go to hell.”

He laughs again, pockets the drive and gives her a flourished bow. “As my lady commands,” he says and walks to the door. There he pauses and looks back, his eyes dark with desire. “Until the next time, Samantha. And there will most assuredly be a next time.”

She wants to deny it, but a part of her is already eager. Damn him. Tears of frustration prickle as he closes the door behind him, locking her in the room alone. Her anger now isn’t about the database or his manipulation or even about the soldiers he’s shot. It’s because she wants is for him to come back and finish what he started. It’s because he’s sparked a desire in her that she never thought possible and certainly doesn’t want to feel.

Except that she does, and that shames her. She drops back onto the chair and waits for rescue. At least there are no cameras in here to have captured her betrayal of her teammates and oaths. The only people that know the truth are herself... and Baal.

Next time – and she does not doubt his promise that he will see her again – all bets are off. So why doesn’t that terrify her as much as it should?

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