Eighteen to One, Baal/Sam, NC17
11 Dec 2010 09:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
misaffectionFandom: Stargate SG1
Characters: Sam Carter, Baal
Pairing: Sam/Baal
Rating: NC17
Written for:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
undermistletoe
Word Count: 2,638
Notes: My claim was for "holiday cliches". You know, building a snow fort, getting drunk on egg nog and having special confessions and so on and so forth? Um. There is a snowball fight. And... sex. However a reasonable dose of angst crept in when I wasn't looking.
“Of all the worlds in all the galaxy and we get to visit this?”
Baal's disgusted tone echoes over the frozen tundra. Sam ignores it and trudges through the knee-deep snow towards a tower that spears up to the sky, looking very much like the central spire of Atlantis.
“It's cold,” he adds.
“Well, you should have paid attention in the briefing. It was mentioned.”
“Hm.” He catches up with her, the smirk on his face all the warning she gets. “I'm rather be cold than look like an albino beaver.”
An albino beaver? Really? She stops and looks at him. “How long have you been working on that one?”
He shrugs his eyebrows and gazes up at the tower, apparently choosing to ignore the question.
“Is this what we came for?”
“No, we came for the ZPMs that are reportedly inside, plus whatever's in the Ancient database.” She shifts the weight of her backpack as she looks for an entrance. “Come on.”
It still surprises her that she dares to order him around, but not as much as the fact he actually does as he's told. Well, when he feels doing so, or if the situation warrants it.
She suspects the only reason he does so now is because it involves getting out of the rather biting wind. She might look like an albino beaver, but at least she's dressed for the weather. His outfit of leather trousers and gold shirt under a long leather coat is very fetching, but hardly winter weather-proof. She rolls her eyes: his vanity will be the death of him yet.
Inside the tower is even more like Atlantis and Sam feels a brief pang. Earth is home, but there was a grace and beauty to the Ancient city that she still misses. She heads to the covered consoles and tugs a sheet off one, touching the keys gently.
The room hums to life, screens flickering on and the lights flooding the area with a soft gold glow. She smiles at the familiarity, but they're here for a reason and turns her attention to accessing the database.
“Is this what it's like, then?” Baal asks her.
She glances up to see him wandering around, something close to awe on his face. It's enough that she just watches him for a moment, wondering what he'd make of the real thing. A part of her longs to show him. The more sensible part knows that keeping him well away is the only way to go.
“The central tower, yes. It's missing the lower level though, where the 'Gate is.”
“That would have saved us a walk through the snow,” he notes with a quick smile, then looks round again. “It's very... aesthetic.”
Sam frowns at his choice of word, shakes her head. “It's more aesthetic than a Goa'uld mothership. Don't you lot ever get bored of triangles?”
Baal turns and looks at her. “Don't you lot ever get bored of rectangles?”
She laughs, acceding the point. “Maybe we both have something to learn.”
His response is a flicker of a smirk, then his attention is off elsewhere again. Sam keeps half an eye on him as she downloads the information in the database, not completely convinced that he'll stay out of trouble. However, the building is still standing by the time her disc is full.
She heads up the stairway that curves around the inside of the tower, Baal at her heels. At the uppermost level is the generator, ZPMs still in place. She smiles and disengages one.
“You do realise that you're basically stealing that?” he asks.
“From whom? There's no one here, hasn't been anyone for hundreds of years.”
“So that makes it okay to take what isn't yours?”
She levels him a look. “They're going to Atlantis, to help protect the city, I highly doubt the Ancients would have a problem with that.”
“But you don't know.” He leans his elbows on the generator, rests his chin on clasped hands. “If you were filching things off my base, I'd be pissed.”
“That's cos you're you and if I was “filching” anything it was probably stolen from someone else in the first place.”
He grins at her. “Possibly.”
“And you're seriously the last person to be lecturing anyone on the morals of taking things.”
“I just don't want to see a horde of angry Ancients descend on us.” He stands straight and caresses the generator. “I've had my fill of their kind.”
It's the first reference, oblique as it is, that he's made to Anubis. Sam stands very still, waiting for something further. However it's apparently not coming. Not willingly, anyway.
“I think he was an exception, rather than the norm,” she says, choosing her words with care as she watches his face. “But you were better placed to know, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
No, she's not getting any more. She sighs silently, frustrated that he can lock her out so successfully. But she's promised not to pry, to let his history die. It's not easy, not when he is still a Goa'uld and will remind her of that sharply at times, and sometimes she wonders why she's making such an effort.
Then there are the times she knows.
Sam quells a shudder of heat and tries to focus on removing the second ZPM. But her mind has been distracted and her body aches with a sudden need. She can no longer concentrate.
“Damn,” she mutters and rolls her shoulders, rakes her fingers through her hair. Glances at him and rolls her eyes: he's not even noticed her sudden flush, too caught up in his own introspection.
With a sigh, Sam tugs the second ZPM one and bags it, then moves on to the third. This brings her closer to him, so she lets her fingers brush against his, nudges at his hip.
“Hm?” he murmurs and looks up. His eyes are smoky with memories and she knows she's not really reached him. She frowns.
“Are you okay?”
The smirk is unusually strained. “Me? Of course.”
“Really?”
He looks away. “Yeah.”
If he's not going to talk, he's not going to talk. Sam takes the third ZPM and wraps it in cloth before adding it to her bag. Swinging it over her shoulder, she touches Baal's arm.
“All done,” she announces. “We can go now.”
“Good.”
As they descend to the lower level, she tries to engage him again, but gets no further. Whatever he's thinking about, it's enough to close him off completely. The gap between them is sudden and uncomfortable. She's never known him be like this, not even after their most vicious arguments. It's unsettling.
She powers down the consoles, putting the tower back to sleep one last time. Regret floods her and she lingers a moment longer than is strictly necessary. Then shakes the melancholy off – it's bad enough that he is moping without her joining in.
His mood continues to bother her as they head back outside. It's snowing now, and the flakes dance merrily on the wind, making it impossible to see more than a few yards.
Baal shoves his hands up opposing sleeves and trudges towards the DHD, oblivious to everything and anything. Sam narrows her eyes and decides to test that theory.
The snowball explodes against his back, bringing him to a sudden and complete stop.
He turns and looks at her. She grins at him. He glowers.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice carrying a symbiotic note of complaint.
She lifts her hands. “Me?”
His expression shifts rapidly between annoyance and deviousness, but both give him more life than he had previously, so she reckons whatever punishment he inflicts will be worth it.
He settles on a frown. “Are you trying to start a fight?”
She lobs a second ball, hitting him square in the chest and answering his question for him. The snow is soft enough to explode into powder on contact and he kind of looks like someone's upended a bag of flour over his head. Sam chuckles at the picture.
A snowball hits her on the hip. Packed hard and throw with inhuman strength, it stings and she gasps.
“Hey, no fair!”
“There are rules?”
He's laughing now, eyes bright in the falling snow. She grins as she rubs her hip. “Yeah, you don't pack them so hard,” she tells him. “I don't want bruises.”
She ducks behind a mound of snow and builds herself a small arsenal of snowballs. The distant crunch of snow tells her that he's preparing for a minor war. She laughs and removes her backpack, not wanting to be hampered by its weight.
The fight lasts for a good half hour and she's panting, hot from exertion by the time she flings her last pre-prepared ball, managing to hit him on the head. He sprawls to the snow and lies still.
Seconds tick by and he doesn't move.
Sam feels her humour give way to concern. Had she hit him that hard? Edging out of her hiding place, she creeps across the snow – a pointless procedure since it crunches as her every motion – and looks down at his prone form.
“Baal?” she ventures.
Nothing. A flicker of panic flips her stomach and she kneels beside him, hand on his chest.
A hand grabs her wrist and she's thrown sideways. Air gasps from her lungs as she lands on her back in the snow. The absolute bastard. She hauls in a breath to yell at him, but then he's on top of her, mouth on hers and the bite of the snow is lost in the sudden heat that scorches through her veins.
Oh. God.
“I can't... believe – oh fuck!” Her words hitch as his lips move against her neck. She arches into the hand that cups her breast. “That you... you played dead on me.”
“Cliché?” he murmurs, breath hot as kisses trail her collarbone.
It might be, but it worked. She nods as her fingers work the buckle on his belt open.
“Absolutely.”
“But the old plans are the best,” he notes.
She shivers as he shoves her coat open. It is cold. But then his hands are very warm. She's no idea how he's managed that.
“Apparently so.”
There's a good possibility that she's going to get hypothermia from exposure, but a greater chance that she'll combust if she doesn't get him inside her in the next five seconds.
“God, you...” Her voice hitches as he shifts over her. “Oh yes.”
His cock is hot and she melts around it, spine lifting from the snow as he pushes in deep. He grunts and thrusts hard. Something dark passes over his face.
“Come here,” she whispers and pulls him down, holds him close.
She watches the snow fall as he buries his face and grinds out whatever horror has been haunting him, his thrusts jerky and uncoordinated. Ragged gasps warm her shoulder.
“Sam.”
It's a moan of lust, broken with something pained. She closes her eyes and clings to him, aching with the need to protect him, to chase away his demons.
“Shush,” she murmurs. “It's okay. Just... just fuck me.”
He rams in harder and shudders, coming hot and disappointingly quick. She sighs as he slows.
“Sorry.”
She shakes her head. “Don't be.”
“Did... did I hurt you?”
“No.” She runs a hand over his short hair. “But you didn't quite scratch my itch, either.”
He gives a soft chuckle and then lifts his head. His eyes are dark, but the hollowness has gone. She smiles at him as he strokes her cheek.
“Sorry 'bout that. I got a little... um, distracted.”
“I know. I was trying to distract you right back.”
He smiles, and finally it reaches his eyes. Relief swamps Sam and she stretches, tugs him down for a long, lazy kiss.
One becomes two, becomes three, each growing in hunger. He begins to thrust again, sliding in and out frustratingly slow, teasing her back into that pleasant place where only she and he exists.
Sam gives in, eyes drifting close as his fingers circle her taut nipples. A moan escapes as he pinches, the pain echoing as liquid heat between her legs.
“Please.”
It gasps from her, without any thought as to what she's pleading for. Her hands ache from clutching at his so hard, her back is numb from the cold, but all she's aware of is the clamouring need for release.
“You are so beautiful when you're this close,” Baal notes in her ear. “The most beautiful thing in the entire galaxy.”
Her head spins at the compliment.
“No, I- Oh!” She arches as he hits exactly the right place. “God.”
“Say my name, Samantha.”
“Baal.”
The skin of her neck registers the smile he hides against it, but then he pushes in just so again and she cries out, the world suddenly black on white, a negative image burnt on the inside of her eyelids as the climax shudders through her.
She comes down slowly, to the growing awareness of cold seeping into her back, her ass, her legs. She's soaked, with snow and their combined fluids, aching and shivering.
Baal sits back on his ankles and quickly repairs her clothing, then pulls her from the drift and into a warm embrace.
“Sorry,” he murmurs and a hand combs through her hair.
She hugs him. “For what?”
“For taking it out on you.”
His eyes are serious when she eases back to look at him. She cups a hand to his cheek, smiling as emotion floods her.
“Did you hear me complaining?” she asks gently, then tilts her head. “D'you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” His lips twitch into a smile. “At least, not here and now. I think perhaps that I should get you home before you freeze to death.”
Sam shivers and nestles closer. “You can keep me warm.”
“Not really. I can't keep this up forever, you know.”
Ah, so that's it. “I didn't know you could do that.”
“It's just one of my many talents,” he replies with a smirk.
“Arguably,” she laughs and pushes him away. “But those of us not so as... ah, talented are freezing their butts off.”
Scrambling to her feet, she brushes melting snow off her legs and shakes it out of her hair. Then trudges back to where she'd left her backpack and recovers it.
Baal is waiting by the DHD and, as she heads to him, holds out a hand. She links her fingers with his and looks up into his warm, brown eyes.
“If you do want to talk...” She hitches her shoulder. “I'm good for more than a quick fuck, you know.”
“I know.” He tugs her closer, plants a kiss on her temple. “You're as perfect as a Tau'ri female could be, I guess.”
Sam rolls her eyes and dials out with her free hand. She knows that he's teasing her, that there is at least some truth to his words. It's enough for her, for now, but she still has hope that one day he'll be able to couch his affections without the barbs.
And trust her enough to share even the darkest things.
Characters: Sam Carter, Baal
Pairing: Sam/Baal
Rating: NC17
Written for:
undermistletoeWord Count: 2,638
Notes: My claim was for "holiday cliches". You know, building a snow fort, getting drunk on egg nog and having special confessions and so on and so forth? Um. There is a snowball fight. And... sex. However a reasonable dose of angst crept in when I wasn't looking.
“Of all the worlds in all the galaxy and we get to visit this?”
Baal's disgusted tone echoes over the frozen tundra. Sam ignores it and trudges through the knee-deep snow towards a tower that spears up to the sky, looking very much like the central spire of Atlantis.
“It's cold,” he adds.
“Well, you should have paid attention in the briefing. It was mentioned.”
“Hm.” He catches up with her, the smirk on his face all the warning she gets. “I'm rather be cold than look like an albino beaver.”
An albino beaver? Really? She stops and looks at him. “How long have you been working on that one?”
He shrugs his eyebrows and gazes up at the tower, apparently choosing to ignore the question.
“Is this what we came for?”
“No, we came for the ZPMs that are reportedly inside, plus whatever's in the Ancient database.” She shifts the weight of her backpack as she looks for an entrance. “Come on.”
It still surprises her that she dares to order him around, but not as much as the fact he actually does as he's told. Well, when he feels doing so, or if the situation warrants it.
She suspects the only reason he does so now is because it involves getting out of the rather biting wind. She might look like an albino beaver, but at least she's dressed for the weather. His outfit of leather trousers and gold shirt under a long leather coat is very fetching, but hardly winter weather-proof. She rolls her eyes: his vanity will be the death of him yet.
Inside the tower is even more like Atlantis and Sam feels a brief pang. Earth is home, but there was a grace and beauty to the Ancient city that she still misses. She heads to the covered consoles and tugs a sheet off one, touching the keys gently.
The room hums to life, screens flickering on and the lights flooding the area with a soft gold glow. She smiles at the familiarity, but they're here for a reason and turns her attention to accessing the database.
“Is this what it's like, then?” Baal asks her.
She glances up to see him wandering around, something close to awe on his face. It's enough that she just watches him for a moment, wondering what he'd make of the real thing. A part of her longs to show him. The more sensible part knows that keeping him well away is the only way to go.
“The central tower, yes. It's missing the lower level though, where the 'Gate is.”
“That would have saved us a walk through the snow,” he notes with a quick smile, then looks round again. “It's very... aesthetic.”
Sam frowns at his choice of word, shakes her head. “It's more aesthetic than a Goa'uld mothership. Don't you lot ever get bored of triangles?”
Baal turns and looks at her. “Don't you lot ever get bored of rectangles?”
She laughs, acceding the point. “Maybe we both have something to learn.”
His response is a flicker of a smirk, then his attention is off elsewhere again. Sam keeps half an eye on him as she downloads the information in the database, not completely convinced that he'll stay out of trouble. However, the building is still standing by the time her disc is full.
She heads up the stairway that curves around the inside of the tower, Baal at her heels. At the uppermost level is the generator, ZPMs still in place. She smiles and disengages one.
“You do realise that you're basically stealing that?” he asks.
“From whom? There's no one here, hasn't been anyone for hundreds of years.”
“So that makes it okay to take what isn't yours?”
She levels him a look. “They're going to Atlantis, to help protect the city, I highly doubt the Ancients would have a problem with that.”
“But you don't know.” He leans his elbows on the generator, rests his chin on clasped hands. “If you were filching things off my base, I'd be pissed.”
“That's cos you're you and if I was “filching” anything it was probably stolen from someone else in the first place.”
He grins at her. “Possibly.”
“And you're seriously the last person to be lecturing anyone on the morals of taking things.”
“I just don't want to see a horde of angry Ancients descend on us.” He stands straight and caresses the generator. “I've had my fill of their kind.”
It's the first reference, oblique as it is, that he's made to Anubis. Sam stands very still, waiting for something further. However it's apparently not coming. Not willingly, anyway.
“I think he was an exception, rather than the norm,” she says, choosing her words with care as she watches his face. “But you were better placed to know, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
No, she's not getting any more. She sighs silently, frustrated that he can lock her out so successfully. But she's promised not to pry, to let his history die. It's not easy, not when he is still a Goa'uld and will remind her of that sharply at times, and sometimes she wonders why she's making such an effort.
Then there are the times she knows.
Sam quells a shudder of heat and tries to focus on removing the second ZPM. But her mind has been distracted and her body aches with a sudden need. She can no longer concentrate.
“Damn,” she mutters and rolls her shoulders, rakes her fingers through her hair. Glances at him and rolls her eyes: he's not even noticed her sudden flush, too caught up in his own introspection.
With a sigh, Sam tugs the second ZPM one and bags it, then moves on to the third. This brings her closer to him, so she lets her fingers brush against his, nudges at his hip.
“Hm?” he murmurs and looks up. His eyes are smoky with memories and she knows she's not really reached him. She frowns.
“Are you okay?”
The smirk is unusually strained. “Me? Of course.”
“Really?”
He looks away. “Yeah.”
If he's not going to talk, he's not going to talk. Sam takes the third ZPM and wraps it in cloth before adding it to her bag. Swinging it over her shoulder, she touches Baal's arm.
“All done,” she announces. “We can go now.”
“Good.”
As they descend to the lower level, she tries to engage him again, but gets no further. Whatever he's thinking about, it's enough to close him off completely. The gap between them is sudden and uncomfortable. She's never known him be like this, not even after their most vicious arguments. It's unsettling.
She powers down the consoles, putting the tower back to sleep one last time. Regret floods her and she lingers a moment longer than is strictly necessary. Then shakes the melancholy off – it's bad enough that he is moping without her joining in.
His mood continues to bother her as they head back outside. It's snowing now, and the flakes dance merrily on the wind, making it impossible to see more than a few yards.
Baal shoves his hands up opposing sleeves and trudges towards the DHD, oblivious to everything and anything. Sam narrows her eyes and decides to test that theory.
The snowball explodes against his back, bringing him to a sudden and complete stop.
He turns and looks at her. She grins at him. He glowers.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice carrying a symbiotic note of complaint.
She lifts her hands. “Me?”
His expression shifts rapidly between annoyance and deviousness, but both give him more life than he had previously, so she reckons whatever punishment he inflicts will be worth it.
He settles on a frown. “Are you trying to start a fight?”
She lobs a second ball, hitting him square in the chest and answering his question for him. The snow is soft enough to explode into powder on contact and he kind of looks like someone's upended a bag of flour over his head. Sam chuckles at the picture.
A snowball hits her on the hip. Packed hard and throw with inhuman strength, it stings and she gasps.
“Hey, no fair!”
“There are rules?”
He's laughing now, eyes bright in the falling snow. She grins as she rubs her hip. “Yeah, you don't pack them so hard,” she tells him. “I don't want bruises.”
She ducks behind a mound of snow and builds herself a small arsenal of snowballs. The distant crunch of snow tells her that he's preparing for a minor war. She laughs and removes her backpack, not wanting to be hampered by its weight.
The fight lasts for a good half hour and she's panting, hot from exertion by the time she flings her last pre-prepared ball, managing to hit him on the head. He sprawls to the snow and lies still.
Seconds tick by and he doesn't move.
Sam feels her humour give way to concern. Had she hit him that hard? Edging out of her hiding place, she creeps across the snow – a pointless procedure since it crunches as her every motion – and looks down at his prone form.
“Baal?” she ventures.
Nothing. A flicker of panic flips her stomach and she kneels beside him, hand on his chest.
A hand grabs her wrist and she's thrown sideways. Air gasps from her lungs as she lands on her back in the snow. The absolute bastard. She hauls in a breath to yell at him, but then he's on top of her, mouth on hers and the bite of the snow is lost in the sudden heat that scorches through her veins.
Oh. God.
“I can't... believe – oh fuck!” Her words hitch as his lips move against her neck. She arches into the hand that cups her breast. “That you... you played dead on me.”
“Cliché?” he murmurs, breath hot as kisses trail her collarbone.
It might be, but it worked. She nods as her fingers work the buckle on his belt open.
“Absolutely.”
“But the old plans are the best,” he notes.
She shivers as he shoves her coat open. It is cold. But then his hands are very warm. She's no idea how he's managed that.
“Apparently so.”
There's a good possibility that she's going to get hypothermia from exposure, but a greater chance that she'll combust if she doesn't get him inside her in the next five seconds.
“God, you...” Her voice hitches as he shifts over her. “Oh yes.”
His cock is hot and she melts around it, spine lifting from the snow as he pushes in deep. He grunts and thrusts hard. Something dark passes over his face.
“Come here,” she whispers and pulls him down, holds him close.
She watches the snow fall as he buries his face and grinds out whatever horror has been haunting him, his thrusts jerky and uncoordinated. Ragged gasps warm her shoulder.
“Sam.”
It's a moan of lust, broken with something pained. She closes her eyes and clings to him, aching with the need to protect him, to chase away his demons.
“Shush,” she murmurs. “It's okay. Just... just fuck me.”
He rams in harder and shudders, coming hot and disappointingly quick. She sighs as he slows.
“Sorry.”
She shakes her head. “Don't be.”
“Did... did I hurt you?”
“No.” She runs a hand over his short hair. “But you didn't quite scratch my itch, either.”
He gives a soft chuckle and then lifts his head. His eyes are dark, but the hollowness has gone. She smiles at him as he strokes her cheek.
“Sorry 'bout that. I got a little... um, distracted.”
“I know. I was trying to distract you right back.”
He smiles, and finally it reaches his eyes. Relief swamps Sam and she stretches, tugs him down for a long, lazy kiss.
One becomes two, becomes three, each growing in hunger. He begins to thrust again, sliding in and out frustratingly slow, teasing her back into that pleasant place where only she and he exists.
Sam gives in, eyes drifting close as his fingers circle her taut nipples. A moan escapes as he pinches, the pain echoing as liquid heat between her legs.
“Please.”
It gasps from her, without any thought as to what she's pleading for. Her hands ache from clutching at his so hard, her back is numb from the cold, but all she's aware of is the clamouring need for release.
“You are so beautiful when you're this close,” Baal notes in her ear. “The most beautiful thing in the entire galaxy.”
Her head spins at the compliment.
“No, I- Oh!” She arches as he hits exactly the right place. “God.”
“Say my name, Samantha.”
“Baal.”
The skin of her neck registers the smile he hides against it, but then he pushes in just so again and she cries out, the world suddenly black on white, a negative image burnt on the inside of her eyelids as the climax shudders through her.
She comes down slowly, to the growing awareness of cold seeping into her back, her ass, her legs. She's soaked, with snow and their combined fluids, aching and shivering.
Baal sits back on his ankles and quickly repairs her clothing, then pulls her from the drift and into a warm embrace.
“Sorry,” he murmurs and a hand combs through her hair.
She hugs him. “For what?”
“For taking it out on you.”
His eyes are serious when she eases back to look at him. She cups a hand to his cheek, smiling as emotion floods her.
“Did you hear me complaining?” she asks gently, then tilts her head. “D'you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” His lips twitch into a smile. “At least, not here and now. I think perhaps that I should get you home before you freeze to death.”
Sam shivers and nestles closer. “You can keep me warm.”
“Not really. I can't keep this up forever, you know.”
Ah, so that's it. “I didn't know you could do that.”
“It's just one of my many talents,” he replies with a smirk.
“Arguably,” she laughs and pushes him away. “But those of us not so as... ah, talented are freezing their butts off.”
Scrambling to her feet, she brushes melting snow off her legs and shakes it out of her hair. Then trudges back to where she'd left her backpack and recovers it.
Baal is waiting by the DHD and, as she heads to him, holds out a hand. She links her fingers with his and looks up into his warm, brown eyes.
“If you do want to talk...” She hitches her shoulder. “I'm good for more than a quick fuck, you know.”
“I know.” He tugs her closer, plants a kiss on her temple. “You're as perfect as a Tau'ri female could be, I guess.”
Sam rolls her eyes and dials out with her free hand. She knows that he's teasing her, that there is at least some truth to his words. It's enough for her, for now, but she still has hope that one day he'll be able to couch his affections without the barbs.
And trust her enough to share even the darkest things.
