SGA/SG1: Just A Little (sort of John/Cam)
Title: Just A Little
Fandom: SGA/SG1
Pairing: John/Cam, sort of
Rating: R
Word count: ~2000
Summary: John looks at Cam and fantasises; for the prostitution/sex work square on my kink bingo card
Just A Little
Cameron Mitchell, John's ninety per cent sure, is attracted to guys. Possibly instead of women, definitely more so than women. He also, whenever John sees him around the SGC, has that whole Air Force golden boy never-put-a-foot-wrong yes-sir-of-course-sir thing going for him, and everyone buying into it.
Well, almost everyone. John's got more friends left in the Air Force than he lets people believe sometimes, and he knows a little about Cameron Mitchell's screw-ups. The ones that don't leave you feeling more sorry for him than anything else, like the refugee convoy that he hit by mistake.
Mitchell's careful; so careful that the times he slips are really obvious. John learned a long time ago that the best way to hide is be just a little suggestive, to look just a little too long or lean in just a little too far, so that when it's for real, most people write it off as just how Sheppard is. It's how he stayed safe through the black mark and the disciplinary hearing and Antarctica, how he avoided being thrown out for conduct unbecoming, even while he was engaging in it with an artist in Antarctica.
But Mitchell doesn't do that, maybe trusting too much in his status as favoured Air Force child, crashed to Earth and still fighting battles. It means that, when John notices Mitchell looking at him, he knows exactly what makes Mitchell duck his head, eyes darting away.
Mitchell will never make a move, John knows. John won't either, even though there's a part of him that wants to mess up Mitchell, outside and inside, wants to make him admit that he's just like John, that Mitchell's where he is through obeying the rules and John's where he is through luck but they've both got silver eagles on their collars now.
Doesn't stop him lying awake in the apartment he rented when Atlantis went back to Pegasus without him and thinking about Mitchell. He's sure Mitchell's screwed around with guys before. The way he looks at John is wanting, not wondering.
He imagines Mitchell, young and bright-eyed, hushed and frantic with his Academy room-mate. He imagines Mitchell after a disaster, near to tears, holding on and begging through his orgasm.
It's a little pathetic, and John's not sure if he means himself or Mitchell with that thought. Maybe both of them.
He wonders if Mitchell ever picked up a guy in a bar. He closes his eyes, remembers the little place outside of San Francisco he went to when he was just a kid. The young boys who fucked for money used to sit at the far left of the bar, conveniently on the route to the men's room. John never paid any of them, but they weren't much younger than he was, happy enough to talk if he bought them drinks, at least until they had to go back to work.
John imagines Mitchell, nursing a beer in a corner booth, eyes half-lidded as he watches the bar patrons. He imagines himself, young and not quite as good at hiding, how he might have sat at the bar in a different guise. Skin-tight jeans, boots, white T-shirt, drinking beer out of a bottle. In his head, Mitchell is older, closer to his age now, while John is the kid he was then, but disgraced and thrown out of the Air Force.
"Don't waste your time," the bar-tender, Jake, says, catching where John's looking. "He's the look-don't-touch-type."
John takes a swallow of beer and watches how Mitchell watches his throat work. "Maybe." Mitchell's been watching him all evening, not even looking at the other guys at the bar. He knows Mitchell gets what John does - Mitchell saw him follow a guy to the men's room, come back after far too long for him to have been doing anything else.
John turns, enough to look right at Mitchell. Mitchell doesn't meet his eyes, but he doesn't look away, either, not even when John drops a hand into his lap, fingers brushing his cock through his jeans. The closeted ones pay well. Mitchell doesn't look like he'll want to hurt John, during or after, though John can't quite figure what he'll want. John on his knees, or John bent over to take it. John riding his cock, like the guy who drove John out to a quiet parking lot earlier tonight, pulled John down onto his cock and fucked him so hard John could have come from it. Did come, when he got the guy's permission, the guy stroking him while he palmed the head of his own cock.
John shifts, turned on. The sex he's paid for isn't always good, but right now he wants it, almost enough to offer it for free. Not to someone like Mitchell, though, someone obviously military, not as stupid and careless as John.
Mitchell looks away, then back to John. Holds John's gaze for a long moment, then drops it to swallow the last of his beer.
"See," John says quietly to Jake, who shakes his head, moving away down the bar.
Mitchell leans against the bar next to John, elbow brushing John's bare arm. "Buy you a drink?" He sounds a little southern, a little uncertain.
"Gonna cost you."
Mitchell looks away nervously. "How much?"
"Fifty. A hundred to fuck. Condoms are non-negotiable."
John's pushing it, expects Mitchell to argue, so he's surprised when Mitchell just reaches into his pocket and pulls out five twenties. "Not here."
"No hotel rooms, no apartments." John waits, hand held out, but not taking the money. He sees Mitchell wavering. "I know a place."
Mitchell hesitates for a long moment. Still, John's not surprised when Mitchell presses the notes into his hand. He slips them into his pocket as he stands, a hand on Mitchell's elbow. "You've got a car here?"
Mitchell's car distracts John for a moment, a low, dark Mustang. It rumbles around them when Mitchell turns the engine over, thrumming arousal through John's veins. "Nice."
Mitchell laughs, and turns in the direction John indicates.
He doesn't say anything. The quiet feels too big for the car, itching at John. He doesn't want Mitchell to change his mind, and not just because he'd have to give back the hundred dollars.
Mitchell's thigh twitches when John slides a hand up his in-seam. He's already starting to get hard. John cups a hand over his cock, squeezes lightly. "You like that?"
Mitchell takes a sharp breath. "Yeah." The car slows, like he lifted his foot off the gas, then lurches forward. "Where now?"
"Turn here."
Mitchell coasts to a stop in the corner of the parking lot John frequents. His face is surprised in the head lights. "When you said you had a place, I thought you meant a room."
"No hotel rooms, no apartments," John repeats. "And I said I knew a place, not that I had one." He smiles, slow and what his friends tell him is sexy, wanting it. "You should fuck me on the hood of your car."
He's half-expecting the panic that skitters over Mitchell's face - the prospect of being caught, the visibility. "I don't know."
John points out the empty building in the corner, the high metal walls. "It's safe. For both of us." He gives that a moment to sink in, then rubs his hand over Mitchell's cock again. "I thought you wanted to fuck me."
Mitchell rocks up into John's grip. "Get out of the car. Put your pants and underwear down and lean over the trunk of the car."
When John doesn't move immediately, Mitchell takes hold of his wrist, using it to shove him towards the car door. "I told you what to do."
Orders aren't a turn on for John, and neither is being pushed about. He goes anyway; he's not the one who has to get turned on here.
The night air is cool against John's bare skin, the car too low for John to be comfortable leaning on it. He drops his head, hears Mitchell come around the car, feels him stop behind John. When John looks down, he sees their booted feet together. He braces himself, not sure for what.
Mitchell's hands on his hips still startle him. "You going to get it up?"
"You want me to?"
Mitchell rubs up against him, denim against bare skin. He's hard. "I don't care. You feel good."
"So do you." John pushes back into him. "You're going to feel so good inside me, stretching me -"
"Shut up." Mitchell's hands tighten, hard enough to hurt. "Just - shut up." He sounds tired, ragged.
"Whatever you want," John says softly. "Tell me what you want."
"I want to fuck you. I want to -" He steps away, and John hears his zipper, then the rustle of a condom wrapper. John's still pretty stretched out from his earlier fuck; he doesn't think Mitchell's going to prep him any.
He's right. Mitchell's cock nudges hard at his entrance, pushes in, slow and relentless. John breathes through it, shifting his feet as he forces his body to accept the stretch and burn. Mitchell pauses when he's all the way inside, takes a breath, then pulls back, thrusts in hard.
He's big, his thrusts going deep, his balls slapping against John's ass. John feels himself stretching to take Mitchell further inside each time. The pressure of Mitchell's cock against his prostate, the friction against his hole, is getting John hard. He wants the orgasm, but isn't sure he's going to be able to get it. Being on his knees is never a problem, but being held down is - not a problem, exactly. Something he's hyper-aware of in a way that doesn't feel great.
Behind him, Mitchell's panting, fucking him hard. He's not going to last long. John opens his mouth to ask if Mitchell will touch him, remembers Mitchell saying he didn't care if John got it up. He doubts Mitchell's going to care about John's orgasm.
John does his best to push back into Mitchell's thrusts. He doesn't get far, Mitchell holding him too tight to allow for much movement.
"Fuck," Mitchell grinds out, his breath hot against the back of John's neck. "Fuck." He pounds John hard, stills deep inside him and shudders as he comes.
John waits out the shivers of after-shock and the way Mitchell drops his forehead against John's back, heavy and sweaty. John's still hard, but tries to ignore it.
Mitchell pulls out less carefully than John would like, making him shudder with pain that feels like pleasure. John hears Mitchell dispose of the condom and turns to lean his back against the car. He finds Mitchell watching him, his jeans still open, his cock tucked back in his boxers. "Touch yourself," he says.
John's hand is closing around his cock before he thinks about it. He spares a passing thought for making it look good, but Mitchell's pretty clearly done, fastening his pants as he watches John work his hand roughly over his cock. The friction feels good, twisting his wrist as he palms the head of his cock feels even better, and Mitchell's eyes on him, the sense that he's giving something away to Mitchell, makes him groan as he thrusts into his own fist, coming over his own fingers.
He feels messy, after, grubby in a way that he usually doesn't when he finishes with a client. Mitchell's put together appearance doesn't help, especially when Mitchell hands him a Kleenex.
"You need a ride back to the bar?
John blinks back to his apartment before he finds out what his fantasy self would have said to that. He's come in reality as well, is lying face down in a patch of drying semen, his clothes sticking sweaty and uncomfortable to his skin.
He picks himself up, heads for the shower. Watching the water swirl away, he can't help feeling a weird sympathy for Mitchell, in his fantasy and in reality.
And, maybe, a little bit of an urge to create a chance for this is reality, not just in his own head.
This entry was originally posted at http://bluflamingo.dreamwidth.org/204151.html, where it has
comments. I'd prefer comments there, but comments here are loved just as much
Fandom: SGA/SG1
Pairing: John/Cam, sort of
Rating: R
Word count: ~2000
Summary: John looks at Cam and fantasises; for the prostitution/sex work square on my kink bingo card
Just A Little
Cameron Mitchell, John's ninety per cent sure, is attracted to guys. Possibly instead of women, definitely more so than women. He also, whenever John sees him around the SGC, has that whole Air Force golden boy never-put-a-foot-wrong yes-sir-of-course-sir thing going for him, and everyone buying into it.
Well, almost everyone. John's got more friends left in the Air Force than he lets people believe sometimes, and he knows a little about Cameron Mitchell's screw-ups. The ones that don't leave you feeling more sorry for him than anything else, like the refugee convoy that he hit by mistake.
Mitchell's careful; so careful that the times he slips are really obvious. John learned a long time ago that the best way to hide is be just a little suggestive, to look just a little too long or lean in just a little too far, so that when it's for real, most people write it off as just how Sheppard is. It's how he stayed safe through the black mark and the disciplinary hearing and Antarctica, how he avoided being thrown out for conduct unbecoming, even while he was engaging in it with an artist in Antarctica.
But Mitchell doesn't do that, maybe trusting too much in his status as favoured Air Force child, crashed to Earth and still fighting battles. It means that, when John notices Mitchell looking at him, he knows exactly what makes Mitchell duck his head, eyes darting away.
Mitchell will never make a move, John knows. John won't either, even though there's a part of him that wants to mess up Mitchell, outside and inside, wants to make him admit that he's just like John, that Mitchell's where he is through obeying the rules and John's where he is through luck but they've both got silver eagles on their collars now.
Doesn't stop him lying awake in the apartment he rented when Atlantis went back to Pegasus without him and thinking about Mitchell. He's sure Mitchell's screwed around with guys before. The way he looks at John is wanting, not wondering.
He imagines Mitchell, young and bright-eyed, hushed and frantic with his Academy room-mate. He imagines Mitchell after a disaster, near to tears, holding on and begging through his orgasm.
It's a little pathetic, and John's not sure if he means himself or Mitchell with that thought. Maybe both of them.
He wonders if Mitchell ever picked up a guy in a bar. He closes his eyes, remembers the little place outside of San Francisco he went to when he was just a kid. The young boys who fucked for money used to sit at the far left of the bar, conveniently on the route to the men's room. John never paid any of them, but they weren't much younger than he was, happy enough to talk if he bought them drinks, at least until they had to go back to work.
John imagines Mitchell, nursing a beer in a corner booth, eyes half-lidded as he watches the bar patrons. He imagines himself, young and not quite as good at hiding, how he might have sat at the bar in a different guise. Skin-tight jeans, boots, white T-shirt, drinking beer out of a bottle. In his head, Mitchell is older, closer to his age now, while John is the kid he was then, but disgraced and thrown out of the Air Force.
"Don't waste your time," the bar-tender, Jake, says, catching where John's looking. "He's the look-don't-touch-type."
John takes a swallow of beer and watches how Mitchell watches his throat work. "Maybe." Mitchell's been watching him all evening, not even looking at the other guys at the bar. He knows Mitchell gets what John does - Mitchell saw him follow a guy to the men's room, come back after far too long for him to have been doing anything else.
John turns, enough to look right at Mitchell. Mitchell doesn't meet his eyes, but he doesn't look away, either, not even when John drops a hand into his lap, fingers brushing his cock through his jeans. The closeted ones pay well. Mitchell doesn't look like he'll want to hurt John, during or after, though John can't quite figure what he'll want. John on his knees, or John bent over to take it. John riding his cock, like the guy who drove John out to a quiet parking lot earlier tonight, pulled John down onto his cock and fucked him so hard John could have come from it. Did come, when he got the guy's permission, the guy stroking him while he palmed the head of his own cock.
John shifts, turned on. The sex he's paid for isn't always good, but right now he wants it, almost enough to offer it for free. Not to someone like Mitchell, though, someone obviously military, not as stupid and careless as John.
Mitchell looks away, then back to John. Holds John's gaze for a long moment, then drops it to swallow the last of his beer.
"See," John says quietly to Jake, who shakes his head, moving away down the bar.
Mitchell leans against the bar next to John, elbow brushing John's bare arm. "Buy you a drink?" He sounds a little southern, a little uncertain.
"Gonna cost you."
Mitchell looks away nervously. "How much?"
"Fifty. A hundred to fuck. Condoms are non-negotiable."
John's pushing it, expects Mitchell to argue, so he's surprised when Mitchell just reaches into his pocket and pulls out five twenties. "Not here."
"No hotel rooms, no apartments." John waits, hand held out, but not taking the money. He sees Mitchell wavering. "I know a place."
Mitchell hesitates for a long moment. Still, John's not surprised when Mitchell presses the notes into his hand. He slips them into his pocket as he stands, a hand on Mitchell's elbow. "You've got a car here?"
Mitchell's car distracts John for a moment, a low, dark Mustang. It rumbles around them when Mitchell turns the engine over, thrumming arousal through John's veins. "Nice."
Mitchell laughs, and turns in the direction John indicates.
He doesn't say anything. The quiet feels too big for the car, itching at John. He doesn't want Mitchell to change his mind, and not just because he'd have to give back the hundred dollars.
Mitchell's thigh twitches when John slides a hand up his in-seam. He's already starting to get hard. John cups a hand over his cock, squeezes lightly. "You like that?"
Mitchell takes a sharp breath. "Yeah." The car slows, like he lifted his foot off the gas, then lurches forward. "Where now?"
"Turn here."
Mitchell coasts to a stop in the corner of the parking lot John frequents. His face is surprised in the head lights. "When you said you had a place, I thought you meant a room."
"No hotel rooms, no apartments," John repeats. "And I said I knew a place, not that I had one." He smiles, slow and what his friends tell him is sexy, wanting it. "You should fuck me on the hood of your car."
He's half-expecting the panic that skitters over Mitchell's face - the prospect of being caught, the visibility. "I don't know."
John points out the empty building in the corner, the high metal walls. "It's safe. For both of us." He gives that a moment to sink in, then rubs his hand over Mitchell's cock again. "I thought you wanted to fuck me."
Mitchell rocks up into John's grip. "Get out of the car. Put your pants and underwear down and lean over the trunk of the car."
When John doesn't move immediately, Mitchell takes hold of his wrist, using it to shove him towards the car door. "I told you what to do."
Orders aren't a turn on for John, and neither is being pushed about. He goes anyway; he's not the one who has to get turned on here.
The night air is cool against John's bare skin, the car too low for John to be comfortable leaning on it. He drops his head, hears Mitchell come around the car, feels him stop behind John. When John looks down, he sees their booted feet together. He braces himself, not sure for what.
Mitchell's hands on his hips still startle him. "You going to get it up?"
"You want me to?"
Mitchell rubs up against him, denim against bare skin. He's hard. "I don't care. You feel good."
"So do you." John pushes back into him. "You're going to feel so good inside me, stretching me -"
"Shut up." Mitchell's hands tighten, hard enough to hurt. "Just - shut up." He sounds tired, ragged.
"Whatever you want," John says softly. "Tell me what you want."
"I want to fuck you. I want to -" He steps away, and John hears his zipper, then the rustle of a condom wrapper. John's still pretty stretched out from his earlier fuck; he doesn't think Mitchell's going to prep him any.
He's right. Mitchell's cock nudges hard at his entrance, pushes in, slow and relentless. John breathes through it, shifting his feet as he forces his body to accept the stretch and burn. Mitchell pauses when he's all the way inside, takes a breath, then pulls back, thrusts in hard.
He's big, his thrusts going deep, his balls slapping against John's ass. John feels himself stretching to take Mitchell further inside each time. The pressure of Mitchell's cock against his prostate, the friction against his hole, is getting John hard. He wants the orgasm, but isn't sure he's going to be able to get it. Being on his knees is never a problem, but being held down is - not a problem, exactly. Something he's hyper-aware of in a way that doesn't feel great.
Behind him, Mitchell's panting, fucking him hard. He's not going to last long. John opens his mouth to ask if Mitchell will touch him, remembers Mitchell saying he didn't care if John got it up. He doubts Mitchell's going to care about John's orgasm.
John does his best to push back into Mitchell's thrusts. He doesn't get far, Mitchell holding him too tight to allow for much movement.
"Fuck," Mitchell grinds out, his breath hot against the back of John's neck. "Fuck." He pounds John hard, stills deep inside him and shudders as he comes.
John waits out the shivers of after-shock and the way Mitchell drops his forehead against John's back, heavy and sweaty. John's still hard, but tries to ignore it.
Mitchell pulls out less carefully than John would like, making him shudder with pain that feels like pleasure. John hears Mitchell dispose of the condom and turns to lean his back against the car. He finds Mitchell watching him, his jeans still open, his cock tucked back in his boxers. "Touch yourself," he says.
John's hand is closing around his cock before he thinks about it. He spares a passing thought for making it look good, but Mitchell's pretty clearly done, fastening his pants as he watches John work his hand roughly over his cock. The friction feels good, twisting his wrist as he palms the head of his cock feels even better, and Mitchell's eyes on him, the sense that he's giving something away to Mitchell, makes him groan as he thrusts into his own fist, coming over his own fingers.
He feels messy, after, grubby in a way that he usually doesn't when he finishes with a client. Mitchell's put together appearance doesn't help, especially when Mitchell hands him a Kleenex.
"You need a ride back to the bar?
John blinks back to his apartment before he finds out what his fantasy self would have said to that. He's come in reality as well, is lying face down in a patch of drying semen, his clothes sticking sweaty and uncomfortable to his skin.
He picks himself up, heads for the shower. Watching the water swirl away, he can't help feeling a weird sympathy for Mitchell, in his fantasy and in reality.
And, maybe, a little bit of an urge to create a chance for this is reality, not just in his own head.
This entry was originally posted at http://bluflamingo.dreamwidth.org/204151.html, where it has
comments. I'd prefer comments there, but comments here are loved just as much