SCAM: Stargate: SG-1, Farscape

Disclaimer: Oh, they SO aren't mine.

Rating: R. Sex.

Setting: Well, now. Moya.

Notes: Strange little piece that popped into my head. It's Sam Carter and John Crichton, figure both later on in each series (ie, post-season 4 Farscape, post-New Order SG-1).

I could not have written this without the encouragement of Loreena McKennitt's 'Bonny Portmore'.

Found Wanting

by Ana Lyssie Cotton

Sam Carter is not given to venting her passions. She's too controlled, too much the perfect automaton. Yes, sir, no, sir, three rounds rapid, sir. Yet she feels things deeply. So deeply, she buries them until they stagnate and she can't do anything about them anymore.

Conflicted emotions touch her as she walks into the cell. The light is low, the man in the bed half-turned towards her. "John."


She moves, careful steps that bring her closer to him, sits, every angle calculated and precise. Flawless. "John, I..." One hand drifts to touch his shoulder, and she's touching real flesh, the bare reality of it staggering her world. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

There's no words for why.

He simply moves, lets her climb in next to him.

Before he can even begin to comprehend her intentions, she slides down, licks the skin of his chest.


"Please." The word is soft, spoken with eight years of regret and misery.


Her eyes meet his, and she can see the dark emotions he carries churning. "I know I'm not--"

They both flinch, and he looks away, barely notices when her hand begins stroking down his side. "You don't want this."

Her hand catches his, and with a frankness that almost frightens her, she disabuses him of that notion. Even just contemplating this over the last two hours has made this something she wants. He blinks at the dampness his fingers encounter and instinctively curls them into her.

"Please." The word is repeated, her eyes are meeting his again, and she wonders if he suddenly sees how broken she is. How many pieces of her aren't quite connecting properly.

Two fingers slide into her, and she takes the acquiescence unspoken, reaches out and wraps a hand around him, feeling him stiffen almost immediately. And she half-smiles, strokes it gently. Millimeter by millimeter, governed by Newton's Laws of motion and gravity and she can feel the parts of her that don't want to deal with this sliding away and locking the doors.

Before he can have second thoughts, she moves, straddles his hips and feels the hardness slide into her.

For a moment, she sits there, feeling it all, and considers the mathematical precision needed for bringing them both to completion without any emotion. For a short time, they move with a mechanical fluidity that would delight porno directors everywhere. And she can feel the stagnation in them, the sense that this is all there is.

Cold. Precise. Clinical. She doesn't want it like this. And so she bends forward, her lips touch his ear, and she bites gently, then whispers, "Fuck me, John."


The flat statement drags his mind away from calm channels and redirects it as images splash across his brain. Blood, violence, primitive fulfillment that act against him like a drug and he finds his body arching up, thrusting into hers with something that might almost have been brutality.

"Yes." The word exits her mouth on a sobbing breath and then her fingers and hands clutch and tear at him, imprinting their whorls and nails on his skin.

And all he can think as Sam Carter slides on and off of him is that this is utterly wrong. And then John Crichton can't think at all, because she's doing something with her tongue that's better than anything half the alien babes have done to him.

When she pulls back and braces herself, he marvels at the way the sweat dews on her skin, the way her muscles rippled as he thrust in and out and in and -- Oh, now the new angle was definitely a good thing.

She thought so, too, her mouth opening on a soundless cry, her own fingers twisting and pulling at her body.

The sight is almost too much, but he's held on for this long, he plans to hold on for longer--but she was suddenly falling forward, her nails digging into his skin again, and he realizes the moan of pleasure was his own, and then everything stops.

When he begins to notice things again, he can feel the air cooling the sweat on his skin and her hair tickling under his chin.

"Sam." His voice is hoarse from not screaming the name he wanted to.


"WE--I.... oh, hell, darlin'. I didn't mean for this to happen."

Lazy blue eyes met his. "I did."

He cupped her face, intent on the oddly disconnected look in her eyes. "Sam."

"John." A giggle escapes her and she sighs. "Chalk it up to the heat of the moment, if you must label it something."

"I'm sorry." He's not sure if the apology is meant for himself or not.

"Don't be." A bittersweet smile touches her lips and then she moves, sliding away from him, standing. "It's not everyday you lose someone you love."

"No." He watches her reach the doorway, and can't take back the brutal words that leave his mouth. "Was it good for you?"

Her head turns and flat blue eyes meet his. "Yes."

Then she's gone into the corridor, and he's left to clean up the mess.