Graffiti - Stargate SG1 Slash Fanfiction

Disclaimers: Stargate SG-1, its characters and universe are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions and the Sci-Fi Channel. No copyright infringement is intended and I'm making no money from this. I have nothing but my own warped imagination and therefore I'm not worth suing. :)

~*~

Graffiti
By Alyse ([e-mail])

His ass hurts. It's a deep ache when he moves, shifting on the bed to make himself more comfortable, and there's a scattering of sharper twinges as he clenches his buttocks together just to feel it. Just to feel that ache and remember.

The air is warm and sultry, even at this early hour, leaving his limbs leaden and heavy. Too warm to think too hard, too warm to move. Too warm to do anything but lie there and drift, to bask in the moment and listen to the soft sound of breathing next to him.

The day is dawning and it's growing light but while the curtains may not be thick enough to block out the encroaching day entirely they're enough to keep the room dim, closed off from the world around it. For a little while at least. He's not romantic or optimistic enough to think this haven of calm will last forever.

The curtains aren't quite pulled closed. He was too impatient last night to tug harder when they caught on the rail, too caught up in the moment to care how haphazardly they were drawn together. A single shaft of light slips through the gap. It paints his bare skin, a brighter strip of heat in the warmth that cradles him.

He stretches again just to feel that ache, to feel the pull in his shoulders, the twinges in his thighs, each overworked muscle making itself known and making him smile. On a whim he raises his fingers to his lips, tracing that smile and wondering how it looks. Is it sphinx like, he asks himself, even as he's embarrassed at the question? Does it have a certain quality about it, a quality he's seen on the faces of women in movies and once or twice in real life? The look he's read about in waiting rooms, the kind of book that has heaving bosoms on the cover, the kind of magazine that has 'How to seduce your man' in garish yellow type; guilty, fascinated peeks into a world that's sometimes more alien than those he visits every day.

That secret little smile that says someone has been inducted into the mysteries of the flesh. The 'deflowered look' he calls it to himself, self-consciously and with an attempted irony that doesn't quite cover the heart pounding exhilaration and uncertainty underneath.

He presses his fingers against his mouth to stifle the laughter that tries to come out at the thought, this irreverent slide into gothic, overblown romance. Deflowered. Possessed, he thinks, trying that word on for size too, and the laughter bubbles up again, making him press his hand to his lips even harder, sliding his eyes to his companion and trying to visualise him in the same kind of garb as depicted on those lurid covers. A pirate, he decides. He'd have to be, with thigh high black boots and a wild, brilliant smile, scattering broken hearts in his wake as he sailed the high seas, at least until the repressed yet feisty bookworm catches his eye.

It's a pity I cut my hair, he thinks, remembering those covers and the windswept locks on the heroine, and this time has to press his face down into the crook of his elbow to keep in the giggles, rolling over to bury his face and his laughter in the pillow.

The move sends another twinge through him and it sobers him a little. Possessed, he thinks again and this time there's awe as well as amusement in the thought. Possessed.

There's a mark on his thigh; a long, thin, red scratch. He reaches down in the dim light and traces it slowly with one finger, sliding back into that state of pleasant drowsiness, his amusement forgotten. He can't remember how he got it, whether it was nails or teeth or metal dog tags that left that stain on his skin.

Marked, he thinks this time, and there's a buzz about the word, a frisson of something that runs through him, something intoxicating about it.

He lets his fingers drift lightly over his skin away from it, barely touching, following the path other fingers mapped the night before. There's an area by his right hip, in the hollow where thigh meets groin, that is tender to the touch and he rubs his fingertips over it gently, feeling the abraded texture of the skin, recognising it for what it is. The mark of stubble burn.

He closes his eyes and remembers a face rubbing there, breathing in his scent and how powerful it made him feel, that just the smell of him could make his lover groan and sigh and grasp hard at his body with suddenly trembling fingers.

It makes him feel powerful again now as his fingers continue their journey, moving over the curve of his hip to trace the small, round bruises that those other fingers left.

There's another sore spot on his flat stomach, to the left of his navel and he frowns slightly, his fingers moving over it, pressing down as he tries to remember how he came by this mark. A sudden image of him being pushed up against the wall, a sense memory of a body pressed so close to him that his lover's button fly dug painfully into his flesh and he smiles, remembering the taste of those kisses, the wonderful desperation they both felt, the heat in those eyes as they looked at him.

There's more stubble burn on his chest and he strokes it idly, feeling the beginnings of that same heat curling low in his belly.

His nipples are sore too, mouthed last night into hard aching peaks as he lay drenched in a sea of pleasure. It's a pleasant soreness but they'll chafe, he knows, when he finally dresses today. The thought doesn't displease him. Instead it gives him a quiet kind of satisfaction, the idea that no matter what comes today he'll have that remembrance, that the twinges of his body will bear witness to this one, perfect night. That when he puts on his clothes, whether his BDUs or one of those plaid shirt and slacks ensembles which are more of a camouflage than his uniform, he'll still have those marks on his skin, hidden from all those around him. But he'll know, and remember.

He lets loose a snort at the thought, embarrassed at himself for sliding into that kind of vapid romanticism. He's become more practical over the years, although there are those who might disagree with that assessment. He steals another glance at the man asleep beside him, and smiles again. Vapid or not, there's still that sneaking pleasure at the thought. He's been changed by last night, whether he chooses to refer to it by the arcane and coy term of 'deflowered' or not. Changed less by the physical act than by the fact that he's no longer alone.

It's a new way of looking at the world, one that involves the term 'we' rather than 'I'. It's been so long since he hasn't been alone that the fact of this new... coupledom, he thinks, searching for the right word, the one that encapsulates this feeling. Yes, he thinks, smiling again, this coupledom is stranger than the fact that his lover is a man. Stranger, even, than the unfamiliar sensations of stubble against his skin, or fingers and more breaching his body.

It will take some time to get used to.

He rolls onto his side, facing his slumbering lover, feeling the soreness in his shoulders again as he stretches. Another smile as another memory makes itself known, one of holding someone as tightly as he was held, matching him strength for strength. Exhilarating, that's what he thinks now, how freeing it was not to have to hold back, not to rein anything in. To let go in perfect safety, to meet in perfect understanding, hunger and heat and more.

Marked, he thinks again, still awed at the thought as his fingers move up to his neck, stroking gently against the skin there. His lover left a hickey, he's sure of it. Has to have done the way that he feasted on his neck last night, sending shivers of lust and pleasure through him. Another mark to add to the tally and he makes a mental note to check how clear it is against his pale skin and to wear a polo neck today if he has to.

But that's for later, not for now. For now he's content to watch his lover sleep, to let his eyes feast on that face, absorb every laughter line, every wrinkle, to memorise it. But it's already there, he realises, engrained in his memory so clearly that if he closes his eyes he can still picture his lover's face, every expression that passes across it.

Marked inside and out, he thinks and shivers, heat pooling in his belly again.

He opens his eyes again and watches his lover sleep on. Could he cheat, he wonders? Reach out and wake him, compare the look that dawns in those eyes on seeing him with all of the looks he has locked away in his memory?

Another image hits him, bright and sharp and clear. A memory of seeing those eyes look down at him, of seeing the passion, the feral need and more pinning him in place. The memory of being bent almost double, of ignoring the burning in the muscles of his thighs because every iota of his being was focused on the hard length sliding so slowly into his ass, stretching him to the point of pain and bringing near unbearable pleasure. He clenches again, feels an echo of that possession, and it's the only word that suits now, suits his mood and his memory. He lets out a shivery sigh, closing his eyes again and letting the surge of arousal at the image, the memory, course through him.

When he opens them again it's because he hears his lover stirring slightly, but he's not awake yet. There's a small stab of disappointment but it soon passes. There'll be time enough later; for now it's enough to lie in the warmth and remember. Besides, he suspects his ass is too sore for a repetition right now, although he craves it. A case of his eyes being bigger than his ass, he thinks and stifles another chuckle. But there's nothing to stop him from using his eyes to drink in his lover's form, to imagine what it would be like to turn the tables, to be the one doing the possessing. To imagine painting his lover's skin with signs of his ownership, of stamping his presence into flesh and bone, leaving marks like the ones that adorn his own skin.

The idea sends another shiver of arousal through him and he eyes his lover again, more covetously now. He realises he's already left one mark, spotting the red patch on his lover's shoulder. He reaches out and traces it with gentle fingers, remembering again. Remembering biting down fiercely as fingers stroked and slid into him, setting alight nerve endings he didn't know he had.

He knows now and another wave of glad giddiness hits him, making him smile.

He doesn't move his fingers away. It's not cheating, he rationalises. It's morning and with all of that military training his lover would normally be awake by now. He lets them drift mindlessly, lost in pure sensation, the feel of his lover's warm skin, the aches and pains he relishes, the warmth of the sun. It's peaceful, and he deserves some peace. They both do.

The sound of a throat being cleared finally drags him out of his reverie and he looks up to meet his lover's eyes, awake now and as warm as he remembers. He doesn't move his hand; he likes the feel of that skin, likes touching like this and his lover doesn't object, merely raises a sardonic eyebrow but the warmth never leaves his eyes.

"Hey." The word is hoarse, full of sleep and so is his lover's face, bleary and mussed in the early morning light. To him it's simply beautiful.

He knows this smile, the one forming on his face. It's not sphinx like or mysterious; it's big and goofy and silly.

"Hey."

His lover's answering smile is neither goofy nor silly and yet he knows it too. Recognises the wry twist of it, half sincerity and half smirk. Recognises the way that his lover's lip curls up at the corner, and the way the lines in his face settle. They're old, familiar, engrained in his memory. Most of all he recognises the look in his lover's eyes, although that's a newer memory, one comprised of so many things - the warmth of affection, and a baser need, the sardonic glint that never leaves it, and underneath it all something fierce and wild and glad, almost feral. Possessive.

His lover, and he likes the word, loves it and what it means, raises a hand and slides it slowly down his flank until it's resting on his hip, the fingers curled just as possessively around the curve of his ass. "And how are you this morning?" That same, rusty tone, and the deep harmonics send more shivers through him.

He feels his grin widen, starts to laugh. "My ass is sore."

There's a flicker of concern in the brown eyes that meet his and he laughs harder, giddy and breathless, reaching forward to stifle with his mouth the inevitable questions that are leaping to his lover's lips. It's the only way he can cut them off, stop the sometimes overbearing protectiveness in its tracks and head off the recriminations he knows are in store. He doesn't want the discussion, doesn't want the 'why didn't you tell me?'s, and the 'damn it, Daniel's. He doesn't want to have to explain things he only knows on an instinctual level, feels deep in his bones.

He only wants this; the taste of his lover's mouth, the feel of his fingers against his aching, needy skin and the knowledge of more to come.

He can't stop chuckling throughout their kiss, knowing that his lover doesn't understand his amusement, is only humouring him but also knowing when it ceases to matter, feeling the lips under his soften and then part to devour him whole.

Possessed, he thinks again, sliding into that kiss, giving himself over to the arms that wrap tightly around him, holding him together when he feels like he's going to fly apart. Strong, knowing hands move over every inch of his skin, awakening nerve endings, pleasure centres and aching muscles alike.

He welcomes it, welcomes every single twinge and ache, every mark and every scratch and bruise. They sing a single refrain, and it's one he likes.

Jack was here.

The End

~*~

Notes: This is a response to the first challenge posted to multimprov on livejournal (http://www.livejournal.com/community/multimprov/). The challenge details were to include the following four words - cheat, rail, tender, fly.

Many thanks to Jennie for the beta.