Deal With The Devil

For the LiveJournal community "Dooooooom" and its yearly ficathon.


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She's been wondering about it ever since the day she'd been surrounded by them; the air in the small storage room close and cloying with the smell of her sweat, his - rather, their - cologne, and... something else she's done her best not to classify.

Nice girls don't think about things like that.

Yet, sometimes when she's sure that nobody else is around – it’s not as if they could tell what she's thinking just by looking at her, but she's not taking any chances after what she’s seen during her time in the Stargate Program - her mind constructs elaborate fantasies in which a certain System Lord and maybe one or two of his clones just happen to come across her. Sometimes she's the one that seeks them out, sometimes they're looking for her... she's always been careful to think of something else before her imagination goes too far.

Sam isn't even sure how many of them there are left since SG-1 found countless Baal clones lying dead in that tent, victims of the symbiote poison. They haven't heard anything about him since the final defeat of Adria and the Priors, but she has no doubt that he's still out there somewhere, biding his time.

She hears the first whispers of rumor when they're on P5X-7834 fulfilling obligatory first contact protocol and asking about their other trading partners. It happens again on another planet they've visited often, and yet again when they return to the SGC.

When she's sitting at a table in her favorite cafe contemplating asking Landry for a few days off, her cup of coffee is set down in front of her by a slim-fingered hand that most definitely does not belong to the waitress. "It's considered good manners to tip," Baal breathes in her ear.

"Always look both ways before crossing the street," she snaps back, trying to conceal the trembling of her hands.

"Spending more time with General O'Neill, I see," he says disapprovingly as he settles uninvited into the chair opposite hers, casually dressed in faded jeans and a white henley shirt that’s unbuttoned to show a generous expanse of bronzed chest. "I hear you've been asking about me."

Sam gives him a censorious glare and makes a point to sniff the coffee he’s brought her – Baal’s expertise lies in dialing programs and concealed explosives, but it can’t hurt to make sure he hasn’t expanded his talents to poison as well. “I see you still haven’t gotten over your arrogance- I haven’t asked for you at all.”

The last of the System Lords leans forward to prop his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his interlocked fingers, smiling at her. “Of course you haven’t.”

He looks so amused at her reluctance to taste the coffee that Sam feels like reaching over the table to slap his face – instead, she picks it up and takes a drink. “What do you want?”

Baal leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, a movement calculated to draw her eyes to his sleekly muscled chest and biceps. Sam can’t help but wonder if all the clones look exactly like this beneath the neatly tailored outfits they all seem to prefer, and his smile widens as if she’s said it aloud. “Some are more active than others.”

More vain than others, you mean.

“To answer your question, this is much more about what you want,” Baal finishes, his tone silky and insinuating.

Surprise makes her nearly spill the rest of the coffee. “I don’t know what you’re talking about… and why am I sitting here actually talking to you?” She reaches for her cell phone and suddenly he’s out of his seat and behind hers, fingers curled around her wrist. His thumb presses against the tendons with warning pressure and Sam obediently loosens her grip on her phone, her pulse leaping against Baal’s fingertips. “You don’t want to do this in public,” she says quietly.

His lips brush her ear, and she can hear the layered echo of the Goa’uld symbiote in his soft laughter. “My dear Colonel, all they see is a man embracing his lover.”

Lover. Sam swallows with difficulty, the word resonating through her until it seems as if her very pulse throbs in time to mimic the sound of it. “You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you?”

Baal’s knowing and slightly amused hum makes her cheeks feel hot with embarrassment. “Very much, Samantha… I can call you Samantha?”

“No.” Why does he have to be so close to her?

“Samantha it is, then,” he murmurs, lifting his other hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. His thumb begins rubbing slow circles on the inside of her wrist. “Ever since our time together in that storage room, I’ve wanted to touch your hair.”

“Which… which one were you?” Which one are you?

Baal clicks his tongue in dismay. “Now that is a singularly unintelligent question. Surely you can do better than that.”

Sam turns her face towards his, trying to figure out a way to get the upper hand. “If I’m right, do I win a prize?”

His eyes flash at the meaning behind her words as well as the studied insolence of her tone – he’s no doubt thinking of his many interactions with General O’Neill – and the fingers encircling her wrist tighten again. “You are in no position to bargain for anything, Tau’ri,” he hisses.

She can’t help but smile as he unwittingly gives her the perfect ‘out’ – Baal being seductive isn’t something Sam’s ready to deal with, but Baal being… Baal… is just what she’s used to. “Wasn’t it you who said that this is all about what I want?” His lips thin at the reminder, and the look of annoyance that slides across his face makes it easier to regain even a sliver of objectivity. “Sit down.”

Baal’s scowl deepens and he leans in until his face is mere inches from hers, his gaze moving from her lips and back up to her eyes. Sam can almost hear the wheels turning in his head as the familiar smirk reappears on his face and he releases her to move back over to the opposite side of the table as if sitting back down was his idea in the first place. When he cocks his head to the side in a silent invitation for Sam to share her thoughts, lounging back in his chair, she hides her apprehension behind a smile.

As she begins to explain her… idea, she’s gratified to see the fleeting look of genuine surprise on Baal’s face before the customary mask of disdain settles back over his features. “And what, my dear deluded Tau’ri, would possibly keep me from killing you?”

“Give me some credit,” Sam returns scornfully. “You really think I’m stupid enough to just walk into this unprepared?”

Baal’s eyelids flicker slightly. “And if I don’t feel like sharing?”

Picking up her coffee, Sam takes a sip and pulls a face at finding that it’s gone cold. He watches her silently as she places it back on the table and pushes it away. “That’s up to you, now isn’t it?” He makes no move to stop her as she slides her chair back and stands. “Don’t forget to leave a tip for the busboy.” The muted strains of Elvis Costello's This Year's Girl follow her out.

Her composure begins to slip as she reaches her car, and Sam grips the steering wheel with fingers gone pale with cold. What the fuck did I just do?


_ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sam takes a deep breath and walks into the restaurant, unconsciously smoothing her dress over her hips. There’s still time to back out of this, you can just turn around and walk away, she tells herself.

“Table for one?” the hostess asks, startling her as she looks over her shoulder at the door. It would be just like him not to have reserved a table, just to make her uncomfortable, but she asks anyway and watches the other woman’s pupils dilate. Baal has been here, after all. “If you’ll just follow me.”

She’s shown to a table that’s somewhat hidden from view, and smiles to conceal her growing anxiety. “Thanks.”

The other woman’s still hovering. “Um. Will…anyone…be joining you for dinner?”

I’d like to see how eager you’d be if you knew what he really is, Sam thinks to herself. “It’s possible, but somehow I don’t think so,” she says instead, only slightly appalled at the satisfaction she feels when the hostess’ face falls. When she’s left alone with the menu and her uneasiness, Sam toys with the intricately folded napkin and wonders yet again if she’s doing the right thing. ‘Right’ thing? This is Baal we’re talking about here, Sam. You’re supposed to be smarter than this.

She nearly has herself convinced that this is nothing to worry about, that they’re both consenting adults, that it’ll be fine – people have been doing this sort of thing for centuries, so why should she think it’s such a big deal? Then the waiter assures her that she’s free to order whatever she likes; it’s already been taken care of. I can’t do this, I can’t… “I’ll have the salad.” Sam doubts she could stomach anything else. When the server nods in acknowledgement and starts to turn away, a sudden idea hits her and Sam reaches to touch his sleeve. “And I’ll pay for everyone dining here tonight,” she says with malicious glee.

He blinks in surprise. “Ah… yes, ma’am.”

It’s petty and juvenile, but she can’t help laughing and imagining Baal’s, “How very mature of you, Colonel Carter.” It’s no real surprise that he hasn’t joined her, since Sam can’t imagine him allowing anyone to watch him eat - she doesn’t count the clone whose greed had trapped him in that force field for three days. Hunger had won out over pride, then.

When she finishes, the waiter asks if she’d like dessert – when she shakes her head, he slips a small black box in front of her and wishes her a pleasant evening. Sam opens it to find an elegantly wrought necklace, and is about to pitch it straight into the nearest potted plant when she notices that the central stone isn’t a stone at all – it’s a transmitter.

Sam brushes her thumb across the ‘sapphire’ and it begins gently pulsing in the cradle of her fingers. She’s just wondering how long Baal will wait – he won’t want her to think he’s too eager – when the tingling pull associated with Asgard beaming technology dematerializes her and transports her to the pel’tak of a Goa’uld mothership. “Someone could have seen that,” she informs the viewscreen.

“They didn’t.” Baal’s voice issues from somewhere behind her and Sam turns to see him lounging on the huge marble throne that takes up more space than a minivan. “You surprise me, Colonel. I was beginning to think that you would back out of our little…arrangement.”

“Keep in mind that it is an arrangement,” she reminds him, extending the necklace. “Here.”

He approaches her slowly, taking her appearance in with undisguised interest. “Much better than how I usually see you,” Baal muses, taking the necklace from her and sliding it into one of the pockets of his immaculately tailored suit. Sam’s wondering how to reply to the seemingly backhanded compliment when he solves the problem for her. “Black suits you.”

The doors leading to the outer corridors slide open as Baal extends a hand to her, palm up. “So I take it you weren’t hungry,” she says, just for the reassurance of hearing her own voice. She takes his hand, her fingertips barely touching his palm.

“I thought it best for us all if you dined alone,” Baal says, leading her through the door and down the hall. He glances over at her as they walk, an amused expression on his face. “I hear that I was extraordinarily generous to the other restaurant patrons.”

“Between the forty of you, I’m sure you boys can handle the credit card bill.”

The corners of his lips twitch, and he motions towards a nearby door. “Tau’ri first.” It opens to reveal three more Baals conversing with each other and as she’s escorted inside, two more beam in. The door slides shut behind her and Sam takes in her surroundings, wondering just how fast she could reach her purse if things turned sour. The far end of the room holds a large, low platform that had to be a bed, and Sam tears her gaze away from it to look at the four clones eyeing her speculatively. “Second thoughts?” the Baal at her side asks, challenging.

More than I can count. “No.”

He smiles, and the expression nearly seems genuine. “Then let’s begin, shall we?” A subtle gesture invites the others to gather around her in a loose circle and she suppresses a shudder as a finger is slowly drawn down her spine, catching on the zipper of her dress. “Take her bag, but make sure not to drop it – we wouldn’t want the symbiote poison to be released where it can kill all six of us, now would we?” As her purse is set aside on a nearby table, she tries not to speculate on the contents of the small clear bottle beside it.

The shivers that start when another of them begins sliding his hand up her arm have nothing to do with the removal of her only ostensible weapon. “My vital signs are being monitored,” Sam says unsteadily. “The moment you – any of you – do anything to change them, three canisters of the Tok’ra poison will be beamed to my last known location.”

The Baal in front of her, the one who’d escorted her in, smiles and shakes his head. “Three? How very flattering… However, that won’t be necessary.”

“Won’t it?”

He steps closer and the others close in, too. “No,” Baal says thoughtfully, cupping her face in his hands and leaning in. “It won’t.” His lips brush hers and Sam’s eyes flutter closed in automatic reaction as he deepens the kiss. She’s not sure why she’s so surprised that he’s a good kisser – after all, a man just past his two-thousandth birthday has to have had enough practice at it. Hands glide along her stomach, her arms, her hips… and one singularly impetuous pair is busy unzipping her dress.

A sudden thought has her pushing on the shoulders of the one kissing her, and he gives her bottom lip a final suck before pulling back – Baal is still cradling her face and although Sam can feel enough power in his hands to break her neck with only the slightest flick of his wrist, she’s not worried about it. Her hair is unraveled from its braid, and the skillful application of lips and tongue at the nape of her neck makes her head loll to one side. “What… what am I supposed to call you?” she sighs.

Her dress is eased over her arms and pushed down past her hips until it pools at her ankles; the Baal crouching to help her step out of it closes his teeth around the back of her thigh, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. “What do you mean?” one of them asks, twining a strand of her hair around his index finger lazily.

The rustle of clothing being removed makes her mouth go dry. “There are six of…you.”

“And you’re considered intelligent on your world. Amazing.”

She starts to bridle at the comment, but the clone to her immediate left shrugs out of his dress shirt with a slow, sinuous movement designed to draw her attention. It’s impossible to keep her eyes on all of them at once, but Sam tries anyway – she notes that each of them are wearing human clothing, evidence that either they’ve all been on Earth recently or the Baal who’d approached her in the café had been doing some shopping. She votes for the former; she can’t really see the rest of them staying put when there’s an entire planet full of potential slaves to roam.

One of the clones directly behind her opens the catch of her bra with a practiced flick of his fingers and if Sam hadn’t caught the look of lustful approval in their eyes when her dress came off, she sees it now. Glancing around at them, she numbers each in her mind – the Baal who escorted her in dressed in a business suit is One; Two, Three and Four are the clones who’d been in the room when she’d entered, Five and Six came later. For all their identical expressions of undiluted want, each of them have the slightest of identifying markers in their demeanor.

Five slides his hands up her ribcage to cup her breasts while Two presses himself against her side, his prominent arousal rubbing against her hip. One folds his arms across his chest and cants his head to one side to watch, still fully dressed. Hands are all over her body; touching, stroking, squeezing… Sam reaches out blindly to repay the favor as fingers slide under the waistband of her panties, finding her slick and willing. A murmured comment in Goa’uld makes the rest of them laugh, and she gasps as the hand is withdrawn from between her legs and offered to one of the other clones.

Sam writhes in their grip at the sight of Three sucking Four’s fingers clean and doesn’t hesitate when a hand is laid atop her head, silently urging her down. She kneels, taking a deep breath to calm the wild fluttering of her stomach, and the clone closest to her steps forward. Sam glances up uncertainly when he remains motionless, and Baal – the second one – raises an eyebrow. “You know what to do… Samantha.”

I do, at that. Sam unzips Baal’s trousers, caressing the straining bulge of his erection through the fabric before peeling them down his hips. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the others drawing closer to watch, and more than one clone’s hand drifts down to rub at himself lazily. She curls her fingers around Two’s shaft, leaning in to swipe her tongue over the leaking slit at the tip of his cock. It’s nice to know she’s not the only one who’s feeling eager and Sam pumps her hand up and down slowly, admiring the near-perfect thickness and length of him. It’s also nice to see that Baal’s vain enough to groom every part of his body. On the next up-stroke, Sam tugs on his neatly trimmed pubic hair and closes her lips around the glans of his swollen penis.

Baal rewards her with a mutter of pleasure, his tightening grip on her hair compelling her to take him further into her mouth. He thrusts past her lips once, twice before she’s pulled away to perform the same service for one of the others. One of the Baals – she thinks it’s Five – kneels directly behind her and pulls her lower body back against his, rubbing his cock against the curve of her bottom and plunging one hand down the front of her panties. Sam moans as his fingers slide into her, and again when he pulls them back out to tear the flimsy piece of fabric from her body entirely.

Another clone tugs her head towards his crotch while she’s held in place by the Baal straddling her legs from behind, and they continue the trade-off until she’s nearly dizzy with it and couldn’t have said who was who even if she’d tried to remember. “Enough,” one of them says, leaning down to grasp her upper arm and pulling her to her feet.

Two of them push her toward a table, and she goes willingly. She’s lifted up onto it and placed on her back, and the last clone to remain dressed finally eases his zipper down as he moves closer to her. “Spread your legs, Tau’ri.” Sam’s wrists are grabbed at the same moment her ankles are, and she sucks in a sudden frightened breath… the Baal standing directly over her laughs and slides a hand beneath her head, cupping the back of her skull. The index finger of his other hand ghosts over her lips. “Open your mouth.”

She obeys, struggling to relax as he leans forward to rub the tip of his cock against the corner of her mouth; her tongue automatically flicks out to taste him, and Baal hums his approval. The tight hold on her limbs ease, and her hands are guided between the legs of the clones on either side of her. Unlike the others, this one takes his time and rubs his fingers over her throat lightly as she swallows his length. “I certainly hope that whoever is monitoring your vital signs can distinguish between physical distress and its opposite,” one of them laughs, sliding his hand up the inside of her leg and stirring her with his fingers until she arches off the table, her cries muffled by the flesh in her mouth.

The Baal clone on her left shoves into her fist impatiently when the rhythm of her strokes falter, and Sam struggles to pay attention to her surroundings through the haze of pleasure she feels as her legs are parted even further and a tongue runs over her folds. She knows she should be on guard, aware enough to realize if things turn sour, but can’t bring herself to care that much – this goes far beyond the daydreams she’s tried not to have, and they haven’t even gotten to the actual sex yet.

Sam cries out again as the mouth between her legs finds her clitoris and suckles it in accompaniment to a finger brushing against the sensitive skin around her anus. It’s hard for her to believe that she worked out the terms of the arrangement – what they were and weren’t allowed to do – without a single blush or stammer. Of course, Baal hadn’t batted an eyelash at her stipulations – a god, false or no, has no use for modesty, restraint, or inhibitions. If she told him/them “no”, they would have to stop… but right now, the only word that she can say is a steady stream of yes. Her scream sounds unnaturally loud as Baal pulls out of her mouth at the same moment she’s brought to climax.

The clone still cradling her head in his hands tilts her up so that Sam can see Two (or is it Six?) lean back, sucking the moisture from his bottom lip. As she watches, Four bends down to kiss him, sharing the taste of her in an erotic display that makes a whimper escape from her throat. “Oh, my God.”

Five catches her left nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching. “You’ve definitely, ah, come to the right place for that.”

As her body comes down from the intense high, she rolls her head to one side to see that while the majority of them are simply waiting for her to regain enough motor control to stay in the sexual positions they’re no doubt planning on putting her in, a few of them have taken matters into their own hands, as it were. Sam licks her lips unconsciously as she watches, running her eyes over each of them in turn- it’s almost unfair for one man to be so perfectly, beautifully built, and to have six of them here to pleasure her…

“Since you’ve finally decided to rejoin us, you can start by getting on your knees,” one of them says to her with a smirk. Sam’s seen that expression enough tonight that she won’t be able to think of anything but this the next time the SGC squares off against Baal. vWhich is probably exactly what he’s going for, she thinks ruefully. She gets on all fours, unable to take her eyes from the sight of one of the clones masturbating.

He lounges back against the bulkhead, watching her with heavily lidded eyes as he strokes himself. Her thighs are parted once more and Sam moans as she’s penetrated, stretched wide by the throbbing length that fills her, with agonizing slowness. This time, the only god Sam calls out for is in the same room.

They take turns between her legs much the same as they had in her mouth, then she’s pounded into another climax just after the Baal she’s been watching reaches his own. He moves forward, hissing through his teeth as he shoves into her mouth and comes with a guttural moan – she suppresses the urge to gag as the hot, acrid spray hits the back of her throat and concentrates on swallowing as much of it as she can. She can feel the shivers spiking in her own body and draws back off of Baal, a thread of come sliding down her chin as her jaw goes slack with pleasure.

When she’s still shuddering as an aftereffect from her orgasm, her body is maneuvered into position atop one of the clones and she groans as she’s filled yet again. “I… I can’t,” Sam sighs, her limbs going slack. For a wonder, it doesn’t appear that they want her to be able to sit up at all; she’s allowed to collapse against the chest of the man beneath her. She realizes why, when she feels cold, wet liquid dripping onto her tailbone. “I can’t,” she protests once more, trying to summon the strength to wriggle away from the oiled fingers sliding down her spine and between her buttocks.

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I…oh! ”

“You were saying?” Smug bastard

They all laugh as she responds with something halfway between a whimper and a sob, and Baal pushes his fingers inside her further. Sam stares down into the eyes of the Baal she’s straddling, trying to take her mind off the building pressure by wondering what his host thinks of all this. Who am I kidding? He’s probably thrilled to death. A smile curves his lips suddenly and he shoves up hard, for no other reason than to make her gasp. “Samantha Carter…always thinking,” he purrs, reaching up to card her hair with his fingers.

She swallows hard as the clone behind her withdraws his fingers in favor of something that is definitely not connected to his hand. “Surely you didn’t think I would just- oh, God…!” Sam’s nails dig into flesh – she has no idea whose – as they both start moving. She can feel them rubbing against each other deep within her body and wants to ask them to stop, but can’t draw enough air into her lungs to speak. The whining, begging sounds they pull from her throat embarrass her, and she squeezes her eyes shut so she doesn’t have to see how amused they all are.

“Still holding fast to your pride, Colonel?” a voice breathes in her ear. “That just will not do.”

The two men pull from her body with an abruptness that makes her eyes fly open in shock, and she’s lifted from the table to be unceremoniously thrown onto the bed. Sam rolls onto her side, weak and aching from overstimulation. “So… so tired,” she manages, hoping that they’ve had enough by now.

“How unfortunate for you that none of us are,” she’s told cheerfully. The bed dips under the weight of at least three Baal clones, and she’s nudged onto her back. The familiar droning whir of a hand device makes her groan in complaint even as the soreness and fatigue are stripped away from her body. If pride goeth before a fall, she’s just been shoved down the rabbit hole. She’s ridden to exhaustion time and time again, only to be brought back to readiness with a few passes of that damned hand device.

When they’ve finally had their fill of her she’s been maneuvered into countless positions and done things she could be arrested for, loving every second of it. They gather around her at last, spending themselves on her body while she writhes on the black silk, savoring the feel of ejaculate sliding over her breasts, down her belly, gathering in the hollow of her hip. A small voice in the back of her head informs her that she should be ashamed of herself, and what would her father say? Right now, I really don’t give a damn.


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Sam opens her eyes to find herself still in Baal’s bed, with all six of him draped in various positions around her. One of their heads is resting on her hip and at least three of them are curled together, like puppies sleeping in a pile. The other two are close enough to touch, and she does so with hesitant fingers – something about being able to stroke their bare skin when they have no idea she’s doing it appeals to Sam, implies vulnerability somehow.

One of them stirs, and she snatches her hand back as if burned. Baal’s eyes open and he looks at her sleepily. “Why are you still here?” he asks in his ‘human’ voice.

She starts to reply angrily, then stops – the question had been delivered without any trace of rancor, and had instead sounded…worried? Sam looks into those beautiful brown eyes, and comes to a realization. “How are you even able to speak to me?” she asks, voice soft with wonderment.

Baal’s host smiles with a sweetness that the symbiote could never match. “You may have had something to do with that.”

“But…”

“If he wakes, he will kill you no matter what you arranged. You must go now.” He pushes himself up to his elbows to help her ease his clone from her lap.

Sam climbs to her feet and dresses quickly, blushing for no good reason. “What about you?”

He deliberately misinterprets her question. “I will always smile at the thought of you,” he promises.

Nothing can stop her circling around the side of the bed and leaning down to kiss him goodbye. Sam wants to ask him to come with her - the SGC could surely contain him long enough for the Goa’uld symbiote to be extracted – but instead she simply trails her fingers down his cheek and takes one last look into those eyes that have seen more than anyone should. “Thank you.”

He lays back down to pillow his head on his arm, closing his eyes. “Goodbye, Sam.”

She contacts Teal’c for transport back, and is beamed back her lab in the SGC where her friend inclines his head towards her. “It is good to see that you are well, Samantha Carter.” The big Jaffa looks at her solemnly; Tears sting her eyes at the realization that he’d known where she was all along, and would never judge her for her choice. She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Thanks, Teal’c.”

As soon as she gets home Sam undresses, fully intent upon burning the clothes she’d been wearing and taking a shower to rinse Baal from her skin once and for all. When she finds the transmitter necklace as she dumps out the contents of her purse, Sam looks at it for several long minutes before opening the cabinet under the sink and dropping it in the trash.

She prays she has the strength to leave it there in the morning.


fin
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