Word Count: 3,700
Rating: NC-17/hahaha, yes.
Prompt: sga_kinkmeme: John/Cameron Mitchell, Stargate SG-1, Vegas!verse. Cameron is a rich, married district attorney and John is his dirty little secret.
Notes: Yeah, I'm putting warnings on this one. John's a prostitute and he's addicted to drugs. Now you know, and knowing is half the battle. (The other half is missiles!) I'm writing a bunch of other stuff, longer stuff, none of which is really porn, and the muse was begging to be let out of her cage, so.. this. Mhmm.
John almost doesn’t recognize the man when he pulls up in his sleek car alongside John’s corner. The man recognizes him, clearly, because he rolls down the window and calls to him. “Sheppard, what the fuck?”
John has to wrack his brain, because he’s been in a somewhat chemical-induced haze since leaving the department, but he stumbles across a flicker of the man, wearing a similar suit, tossing a stuffed football from John’s desk in the air, making cracks about Ohio State and a bowl game that John can’t remember the name of, not any more. He leans into the open window, resting his forearms on the frame, and smiles a slow, lazy smile. “Hey, Mitchell.”
“What the fuck?” Mitchell repeats, sounding more confused than anything else.
John lifts a casual shoulder. “Gotta make ends meet somehow.” A guy he’s blown a few times walks by, slapping him lightly on the ass through his too-tight jeans, and John pulls his head out of the car to smirk at the man, who jerks a thumb towards a nearby alley. John nods at him, signaling for a minute, and the guy nods back and disappears into the dark.
“Gotta go,” John drawls into the car. “Duty calls.”
“Sheppard,” and Mitchell’s leaning across the seat, grabbing his wrist. “Don’t.”
“What, you gonna make me a better offer?” John asks, raising one eyebrow suggestively, leaning into the car a little further. “Didn’t figure you for the type.” He makes no attempt to hide the sweep of his eyes down Mitchell’s body. Sturdy, broad, John notes, attractive as all fuck, clean and proper in a way that kind of makes John want to toss him into the nearest bed and wreck him. John smiles a little more wickedly at the look on Mitchell’s face, leans in to whisper in his ear. “Didn’t think so.”
He leans back out the window almost completely before he realizes that Mitchell still has his wrist. He tugs at it impatiently, because he’s got a job to do, a dick to suck in an alley, but Mitchell hangs on, meets his eyes. “How much?”
John can’t believe what he’s hearing, because this is a district attorney, a guy married to a woman, propositioning a former detective on a street corner in a seedy section of Vegas, and it’s just surreal enough for John to lean back in, name his price, and open the car door when Mitchell nods. The leather of the seat is smooth and cool under John’s fingers, and the price he told Mitchell is twice what he usually gets an hour from the jackasses around here, so he doesn’t even blink when his almost-customer screams at him from the mouth of the alley.
John directs him to a motel that isn’t far from where he’s staying. He’s got an understanding, or something, with the motel’s manager, who lets him use one of the rooms around back for a monthly fee that’s ridiculously low, as long as John doesn’t expect maid service or hot water too early in the mornings. He doesn’t, so it works out fine. He’s never here for very long anyway.
He’s on Mitchell as soon as the door shuts, pressing his mouth to the other man’s neck, sucking lightly along his jaw as his hands work Mitchell’s pants. And damn, but it’s been too long since John was in a suit; the material slips like water against his fingers, slick and silky, heavy as it drops to the floor. He’s got his hand wrapped around Mitchell’s dick in no time, rubbing and pulling evenly, not too quickly but not too slow, either, because it’s a good idea to make the first one good, keep them coming back to you in the future.
Mitchell’s gasping, thrusting into his hand as John sucks at his pulse point, hard enough to sting but not hard enough to mark, and John rubs his calloused thumb over the tip of Mitchell’s cock and pumps a little fast, and Mitchell swears as he comes, that pretty mouth that John’s heard spouting the finest legal bullshit in the county now spewing some of the finest filth he’s heard, and he’s been a whore for six months now so that’s saying something.
Mitchell packs it up soon after, while he’s still panting, and John takes a washcloth into the bathroom and gets it wet, cleans himself up, brings it back out to where Mitchell’s leaning against the wall, twisting his wedding ring.
“It bothers you less if you keep doing it,” John advises him, which probably isn’t true, but he has no idea what the fuck else to say. He kind of just wants Mitchell to pay him and leave, because there’s a reason he’s not here too often, and it’s because he sucks at after, and it’s easier to blow a guy against a building and take his money and leave than it is to figure out what to say. He sort of knows this guy, though, well enough at least to know that he’s maybe doing John a favor by picking him up in the first place, well enough to know that he needs privacy for something like this, because if someone were to see him his career, his marriage, his life would go down in a ball of flames.
“If you say so,” Mitchell shrugs, uneasy. “Look, Sheppard, why are you doing this?”
John pauses in his effort to get come out of the carpet. “Housekeeping doesn’t come in here. It’s part of the deal I’ve got with the management.”
Mitchell rolls his eyes. “Come back to the department. I can get you a job.”
“No thanks,” John replies easily, scrubbing again. It’s almost out. “They’re not too fond of me, and as far as I’m concerned, they can go fuck themselves silly, because I’m not bending over for them any more.” He flashes a dirty smirk at Mitchell. “This pays better.”
Mitchell crouches down next to John, takes John’s chin in his hand, studies his face. “You’re using.”
“Yeah,” John tells him. “You figured me out. Congratulations.” He gives the floor a final scrub and sits back. It’s good enough. He has yet to miss the bed when that’s what he’s aiming for. Nobody’s going to give the floor a thorough inspection.
Mitchell sits back on his heels. “That’s it? You lose your job, you become a drug-addicted prostitute?”
John cocks his head to the side and nods. “That’s the short version, yeah.”
Mitchell gives a snort and stands, walking to the door. He pauses there, like he’s got something else to say, but he tosses a few bills on the table by the door and walks out without a word. John hears the car start and drive away.
The money is twice what he told Mitchell it would be. John smirks as he pockets it, because it’s enough for his rent for a damn month and a little more besides. Damn bleeding hearts, he thinks. Maybe he’ll try to find more loaded customers.
It’s five days before Mitchell rolls up again, unlocking the door as he approaches John’s corner, and John slides in without even looking at Mitchell. They drive to the same motel, and it’s the same thing, John jerking Mitchell off against the wall inside the door. It’s slower this time, John making sure that Mitchell teeters on the edge for a while, gentles him through it, because the guy left him a few hundred dollars last time, so John figures he can make it good. Mitchell pays him again, same as last time, and leaves.
The next time is only three days later, and John smirks as he gets in the car. If this keeps up, he can just set up some sort of schedule with Mitchell or something, because he’s not going to need to blow random shady guys in alleys if he’s getting a grand a week from someone he knows, maybe sort of trusts.
He blows Mitchell this time, sucking and licking and bobbing his head just so, and all he can see the whole time is Mitchell’s hand cupping his face, feel the cool press of his wedding ring on his cheekbone, and he closes his eyes and pretends it’s some random asshole off the street, because he can suddenly recall a pretty blonde named Amy and a kid and that’s all he needs, to be feeling guilty about a wife and a kid he doesn’t even know, who probably don’t remember him.
“Are you clean?” Mitchell asks him before he leaves this time. John doesn’t know how to answer, because in his line of work that’s two questions, so he just tilts his head to the side and smirks.
“Drugs or bugs?” he drawls, and it clicks in Mitchell’s face, and he flushes. “No and yes,” John tells him, because he’s pretty sure Mitchell dropped five hundred on his table and that deserves an answer. “Always use condoms, tested every week.” It’s one of the only personal standards he can hold himself to any more. “But yeah, I’m still using, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Mitchell says quietly, but he leaves before John can process that and come up with a smartass remark.
Two days this time, and John has actually turned a few guys down in the meantime because he doesn’t need the money or the hair-pulling. Mitchell pins him against the wall in the motel, sucking on his neck and pulling their hips flush against each other’s, grinding down as he breathes over the trail he’s made. John shivers, can’t help it, because he might be a whore but he’s still human, and Mitchell might be married to a woman but this clearly isn’t his first time grinding a guy into a wall.
“I’ll give you two grand if I can stay the night here with you,” Mitchell says into his ear, nipping his way down John’s collarbone into the neck of his shirt.
“Yeah,” John says, because that’s a dizzying amount of money and Mitchell’s not a creep, isn’t going to try to smack him around for shits or sneak out without paying what he’s promised. “Sure.”
Mitchell pulls John’s shirt up and off, and it’s the first time either of them has actually lost a garment, and it’s kind of weird that it’s John. Mitchell licks his way down John’s chest, stopping to suck and bite at random points, and John wonders when Mitchell had the time to get so fucking good at this, when he got to know John so well, when he had the time to figure out exactly what drives John crazy, because it’s all John can do to remember that he’s a professional, that it’s his job to not come in his damn pants, that he shouldn’t be threading his hands into Mitchell’s hair and moaning, except Mitchell keeps taking his mouth of John‘s skin, saying “Yeah” and “That’s it” and John keeps moaning until he’s shaking with it, wound up from the drugs in his system and the need to come and the weird sensation that Mitchell’s doing something nice for him.
He comes the second Mitchell’s hand wraps around his dick, arching sharply off the wall in surprise and relief. He hasn’t come like this in months.
Mitchell eases him onto the bed, cleans him up gently, lays beside him as John drifts for a bit. He gets his brain together enough to reach for Mitchell’s pants, but Mitchell stops him with a smirk.
“I figure two grand for the night should get me a good fuck,” he drawls, John’s drawl, and it sounds decidedly dirtier coming from Mitchell’s lips. John just smiles lazily and rolls onto his stomach. He’s not even sure where his pants are, doesn’t remember them coming off, and okay, maybe Mitchell has a point, maybe he should lay off the drugs.
John reaches into the bedstand, because he keeps a box of condoms and a tub of lube in there. He hasn’t been fucked in a while; he doesn’t really like to roll over for guys he doesn’t know, and he’s mostly able to get by with jerking guys off or blowing them. Mitchell, though, he sort of trusts, so even though it’s been a while he just tosses the condom and lube behind him and settle in, spreading his legs so Mitchell can settle between them.
He hears Mitchell swear, utterly filthy, profane combinations of words, and John turns his head back to see Mitchell staring at his ass. John cranes his neck to try to see what’s got Mitchell so worked up, but the he sees that Mitchell’s eyes are dark and his breathing is a little quicker than usual and he’s always been good at putting two and two together, so he spreads his thighs a little wider.
He moans when Mitchell brushes a finger against his ass, and he really has turned into a whore because he’s looking forward to this, looking forward to being paid for this even, and he’s pretty sure nothing makes you more of a prostitute than getting paid for the use of your body and loving it. Mitchell eases a finger in, thick and blunt, and fuck it really has been a while because it stretches and burns in a way that it wouldn’t if this were a more regular thing.
Mitchell groans as his finger goes deeper, as he circles it around and around. “Jesus, Sheppard, you’ve done this before, right?”
“Not recently,” John gasps, because this definitely isn’t Mitchell’s first time doing this, either, else he’s really, really good at finding things. Mitchell adds another finger and stretches, and John’s a little delirious from it, from drugs and sex and Mitchell behind him, pushing a third finger in, pulling him apart piece by piece, fuck fuck fuck.
“Are you sure?” Mitchell’s saying from somewhere far away, and John doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to say, what the question is actually asking, so he just moans and shoves back onto Mitchell’s fingers and hopes that answers well enough. Apparently it does, because Mitchell’s swearing again and he’s tearing the condom packet open and he’s there, warm and hugs and fuck, John’s seen his cock, sucked it, but he doesn’t realized how fucking big it is until it’s pushing inside him, making its way in inch by inch. John’s panting, gasping for air because his lungs are collapsing and he’s drowning because fuck, fuck.
And then Mitchell’s leaning over him, supporting all his own weight as John writhes and wriggles and adjusts, and he waits until John stops arching away and starts thrusting back and then he moves, and this is why John loves his job occasionally, because he loves getting fucked, loves the feeling of someone’s dick so far inside him that he can almost taste it, loves someone leaning over him and panting and shoving their hips up to his ass again and again and again. It’s dangerous for him to let go and he knows it, but somewhere deep in the small portion of his mind that he keeps locked away he trusts Mitchell so he goes, loses himself in his own headspace, gasps and whimpers and moans for Mitchell like a good little whore, but also because he’s totally fucking enjoying this, and there’s no harm in letting Mitchell know that.
Mitchell’s got a dirty mouth, and that’s maybe something John’s not expecting but it works, fits the scenario somehow, Mitchell swearing to make a sailor blush while he thrusts deep into John’s ass, pounding hard and fast until he groans and pushes in and comes. John whimpers when he pulls out and Mitchell slides his hand down John’s ass, pushes a finger back inside. It’s somehow exactly what John needs, and he really only means to close his eyes for a minute but when he wakes up it’s the middle of the night and he’s curled into Mitchell’s body. He’s hard against Mitchell’s thigh, and as soon as he moves he realizes it’s because Mitchell’s finger is still inside him, rubbing slow circles on his prostate, and fuck, Mitchell’s awake, and he’s sucking a trail up John’s jaw.
“Fuck me,” he says into John’s ear, and John’s fully awake now. It’s been a really, really long time since John’s fucked anyone, but he’s sure as hell not averse to the idea, so he fishes another condom from the drawer and rolls it on, grabbing the lube and sitting between Mitchell’s thighs to prep him. Mitchell’s just as tight as John had been a few hours ago, and he swears and moves as John works his fingers inside and around, slowly stretching him until Mitchell growls at him, so John slicks himself up and pushes in. Like riding a bicycle, he thinks giddily, only it’s not a bike, it’s Mitchell, and it the best damn ride John can remember having. Mitchell is still really tight around him, and he’s panting and sweating under John, so John leans forward and presses slow openmouthed kisses on every bit of skin he can reach, but Mitchell’s pulling his face up and shoving his tongue in John’s mouth and John doesn’t even care that he’s breaking the cardinal rule of being a whore, no actual kissing, because Mitchell kisses like the world will end if he doesn’t, hot and desperate and it spurs John on, moving faster, stroking Mitchell’s cock in time to his thrusts, and Mitchell comes first but only just, both of them shaking and panting and John’s going to need to wheedle new sheets out of the housekeeping staff after this but it’s totally, totally worth it.
“I really didn’t figure you for the type,” John says later, when they’re both under the sheets and curled into each other. It’s not his normal way but then nothing about this is, not the kissing, not spending the whole night with the same person, not actually maybe liking the guy who’s paying you to suck his dick or ride him a few times a week.
“That’s kind of the point,” Mitchell drawls. “I haven’t slept with my wife in years, Sheppard. The kid’s not even mine.” He snorts. “She knows I sleep with guys, I know she sleeps with a different person every three days. It works out for both of us.” Mitchell shrugs. “We only got married to further our careers. She’s a lawyer,” he adds.
John doesn’t know how to respond to that particular comment. He’s not sure he’s meant to say anything at all. He chooses not to.
“Huh,” Mitchell says a minute later. “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that before.” He sounds speculative, not worried, and John wonders why, until he realizes that maybe Mitchell trusts him a little too.
It should be weirder than it is.
“I didn’t mean to start using,” John says suddenly; if overshare is the name of the game, he can play, too. “Some guy paid me in blow, and I figured what the hell, and I got hooked.” He shakes his head. “Wrecked me pretty bad. I’m actually doing better.”
Mitchell is quiet. “You should get into a program or something.”
John snorts. “All the free clinics around here are full, Mitchell. It’s not killing me yet.”
Mitchell strokes his thumb absently along the curve of John’s spine. “If you want to get clean, I’ll help you,” he says.
“Why?” John asks. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Mitchell, but this isn’t a relationship. I’m not your boyfriend, I’m your whore.”
Mitchell grins. It’s remarkably difficult to actually offend the man. “Maybe I’m just a good guy.” He shifts. “Maybe I remember how good you were at your job and how well you fill out a suit.”
John smirks at him. “You could’ve just said you had a thing for suits,” he drawls. “I’ve still got most of the ones I wore at the precinct.”
Mitchell snorts. “I have a thing for you not being addicted to crack,” he says mildly. “Look, Sheppard, I’m serious. Get clean. Let me help you.”
John shifts against him, curls a little more into him, thinks about not being addicted, about getting his life a little back on track, about maybe not standing on the street at night and hoping that Mitchell showed up so he could maybe not have to go back to blowing random strangers in dirty alleys. “What would I do?”
He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but there it is, and he can’t take it back now. Mitchell’s still running his finger up and down John’s back. “I can get you a job,” he says again, as he’s offered in the past. “Not as a cop. Maybe doing file clerk stuff to start.”
“That doesn’t pay as well as my current job,” John feels compelled to point out. Mitchell presses his thumb into John’s back and grins.
“I know a place you could stay,” he says. “Rent free, as long as you stay clean and don’t bring people back and fuck them in my bed.”
John grins back at him. “As long as I only fuck you in your bed?” he fills in. He’s not offended. He can live with that.
Mitchell snorts. “I’ll trade you. You don’t have to fuck me if you cook dinner.”
“I’d rather fuck you,” John says immediately. “Trust me, I’m much better at that than I am at cooking.”
Mitchell laughs outright, and the sound shakes through John’s whole body. “You’ll let me help you, then?”
John nods, wondering why he’s doing this for a second, then remembering before, remembering feeling like he could hold his head up and be proud of himself as a human being, even if he was a fucked-up one. He hasn’t felt like that in a long time. Maybe he can again.
“Yeah,” he says, settling into Mitchell’s chest. “Please. And thank you.”
Mitchell presses his face into John’s hair. It’s not a kiss, but it seems like it is, intimate in a way that John can’t quite put his finger on. “You’re welcome.”