Sherlock/Supernatural Fic: Under Control
Title: Under Control
Fandoms: Sherlock and Supernatural
Pairing: John Winchester/John Watson
Rating: NC-17
Warning: timeline tinkering (enough so as to be AU for Supernatural), D/s, brief descriptions of war wounds and violence.
Note: Written for fandom_stocking for toestastegood. Thanks to redandglenda for the beta!
Summary:In Afghanistan, John Watson needs to feel something that only a gruff American Marine can give him.
[Format note: if you don't see breaks between paragraphs, try viewing this page in Firefox, or click "view in my style" on the livejournal navigation bar at the top of the page.]
John Watson was nothing if not hideously ethical. He would never sleep with someone in his unit, someone whose guts he might have to stitch back together on a sandy roadside. Luckily for him, Her Majesty’s Armed Forces weren’t the only ones out here.
In a scrap like this, with so many militaries involved, wires got crossed. Tempers got frayed. John’s unit got on with the other country’s troopers just fine, which is why his commanding officer had become a de-facto liaison in their little part of Kandahar. This turned into adjoining encampments, more often than not, a friendly under-the-table sharing of supplies, and other… intermingling of resources. Which worked out perfectly, from John’s perspective.
He trudged into camp with the rest of his squad, already dreaming of getting the sand out of his boots and falling flat on his face for a while. They’d been on the jump all afternoon after getting a report of an Aussie unit that’d been ambushed out past their usual perimeter. John had been prepared for casualties, had steeled himself for an afternoon of wrapping up the stumps of limbs severed by IED explosions, or picking shrapnel out of bleeding wounds. Instead, they’d tromped around under the bloody hot sun until a call came in from base saying they’d got it wrong. The Aussies were in another part of the province entirely: mixed-up GPS coordinates on the transmission, so sorry, head back to base.
As his squad marched up the road, John felt an itch under his skin that had nothing to do with the sand that had worked its way into his uniform: the persistent feeling of uselessness. He’d have much rather been out on a regular patrol today, doing what he could in the villages, than wasting the afternoon off on a wild hare, looking over his shoulder every moment for an attack that would never come. The waiting was what bothered him most about the war. In the hospital, there had always been something to do: check on a patient, file some paperwork, spring into action if an emergency cropped up. After a day like today, John needed to find a way to relieve the simmering tension.
Luckily, some of his mates were of the same mind.
“Drinks later, alright?” Perry called as John broke off from the group to return his kit to the med tent.
“The American canteen?” John asked.
“Where else?” Perry grinned and headed off. Right now their camp abutted that of a company of American Marines, and no one knew how to throw a celebration quite like them. One Marine in particular shared John’s idea of R&R. Perfect.
As John ducked into the med tent, he couldn’t suppress a flutter of anticipation.
--
The canteen was crowded with Brits and Americans alike. At John’s elbow, Perry yelled at the bartender for two beers. John was busy scanning the crowd. He enjoyed chumming around with Perry, but tonight he was after something different, if he could get it. Perry elbowed him to hand him his Budweiser, then turned back to continue his conversation with another mate at the bar.
“Doctor Watson. Lowering yourself to drink American beer?”
John didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. John couldn’t help but straighten his spine at the sound of the man’s voice. “Yes. Bit of a waste.” He turned around to look anyway.
Sergeant Winchester held a half-empty can of beer. For all that he must be a decade John’s senior, he had no doubt of the man’s fitness for the battlefield. He moved like a killer. A subtle smile on Winchester’s rugged face promised wicked things: the kind of things John had enjoyed from him before, and hoped to again. Soon. “We work with what we have.” Winchester looked him up and down quickly, almost like he was appraising a target. “See you in a bit.”
John appreciated that it wasn’t a question. “Of course.”
Just like that. Nothing suspicious said in mixed company, but both secure in the knowledge that they’d get what they needed tonight. John took a token sip of his drink and set the almost-full can on the bar. He clapped Perry on the shoulder. “An early night for me.”
Perry raised his can in acknowledgment and turned back to the rest of the squad. Perry didn’t ask questions, which is why John could keep him as a friend, but also why he needed something else, something Winchester could offer him.
--
In a deserted back room off the officer’s mess, Winchester stood leaning against the door while John fidgeted with the buttons on his uniform jacket.
“Do you do this because you’re bored?” Winchester asked.
“You know I don’t.”
“Tell me why, then,” Winchester said.
John threw Winchester a glare, only to have it returned icily. John hadn’t come here to have his head examined, after all. He needed this, damn it. He hadn’t let the itch drive him to anything reckless, not yet, but so help him, if Winchester didn’t get to the point, he’d go back to the canteen and find something else.
“Come on, Watson,” Winchester said, softly this time.
John made a quick circuit of the room, accomplished in ten paces, and then had nowhere to go. The truth, then. He was brave enough for that. “I need it.”
Winchester nodded. “Go on.”
“I need to have that rush, just for a moment,” he said, with eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “I need someone to make some sense of all this.”
“You need someone who can give you danger.”
John closed his eyes. He hadn’t even known, but that was it, on the button. “Yes.”
“Alright, John. Good.” Winchester dropped his casual pose and moved forward like he was stepping onto a battlefield. “Take off your boots, your belt, and your jacket. Kneel in the center of the floor, hands behind your back.”
Something about Winchester’s tone changed the second he began giving orders. John jumped to comply. When he was in position, Winchester circled around him slowly, just observing.
“Now, report what you accomplished today.”
“Nothing,” John whispered.
“I can’t hear you.” Winchester’s voice remained quiet, but the snap of command made John straighten his spine again.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Nothing. No illnesses cured?”
“No, sir.”
“No injuries treated?”
“No, sir.”
“No lives saved?”
“No, sir.”
Winchester stopped directly behind John. His hand dropped onto John’s shoulder. “So what exactly occupied your time today?”
John had to swallow to wet his mouth before he could speak, “We were informed of a unit that had been ambushed. Injuries were reported. We--.”
“No.” Winchester’s hand slid across John’s back to curl around the nape of his neck. “Tell me what you accomplished.”
That was the whole problem with John today, damn and bless Winchester for seeing it. “Nothing. Sir.”
“That’s what I thought. Put your hands on the ground. Then put your head down. Do it.”
John bent forward under Winchester’s guiding hand to press his cheek to the cool floor. He was acutely aware of the picture he presented: ass raised in the air like an invitation. His dick, which had been getting harder with every word Winchester spoke, twitched in anticipation.
“Hold still.” Winchester ran a warm hand down John’s spine and cupped his ass. John had to marshal all his self-control to avoid pushing back into the touch. “You’ve been derelict in your duty, and you need to be punished. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” John said gratefully.
The first impact of Winchester’s hand against his ass shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it rocked John forward, echoing down his nerves until he had to bite his lip against a noise--perhaps a groan--that threatened to push its way out.
“Say thank you,” Winchester instructed.
“Thank you,” said John.
Winchester hit him again. This time, John braced himself for the impact, and concentrated on breathing. Winchester was by no means weak, and his control was precise. When he began in earnest, John could feel him placing each blow deliberately, leaving no piece of John’s ass untouched. The impact rippled through John, rocking him against the floor. His throbbing prick strained against his trousers.
Winchester landed a last blow on his ass and left his hand there, squeezing the hot flesh. He leaned in close to John’s ear. “Good. What do you say?”
“Sorry,” John gasped. He was out of breath, somehow. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Show me.” Winchester pushed to his feet and stood before John. His trousers were already undone, so he shoved down his briefs to reveal his hard cock jutting out from its dark bed of hair.
John couldn’t muster any answer other than his quick shuffle forward to get his mouth around Winchester’s dick. He thought, madly, that if he could do this well enough, everything would be alright this would all make sense, the whole bloody war, if he could just accomplish this one thing.
Winchester dragged a hand over John’s hair-military cut, too short to get a grip on-and cupped the back of his head to get in deeper. John relaxed his throat and took it, took all that he deserved. He braced a hand against Winchester’s sturdy thigh. His other hand he pressed to the front of his trousers, though his rough squeezing of his dick through the fabric did nothing but heighten his need.
Then Winchester’s hips bucked forward. He held John in place as he shot down his throat, warm pulses too far back to taste. John stayed where he was, jaw straining around Winchester’s cock, until air became an issue. When he pulled his head back, Winchester released him easily.
Before John was done drawing in his first full breath, Winchester had shoved him onto his back and lay braced over him, caging him with his arms and legs. “Now, John. You’ve done well. You’ve been so good. You deserve a reward.”
“No I don’t.” John’s voice sounded raspy.
“If I say you do, then you do.” Winchester undid the button and the zip on John’s trousers without looking. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir,” John breathed.
Winchester’s hand dipped into his briefs and cupped John’s cock. “Say it again,” he said, voice low and hot.
“Yes, sir.” John’s dick twitched, and the corner of Winchester’s mouth quirked up in a smile.
“Good boy.” Winchester began jerking John, the hot grip of his hand so much more gloriously satisfying than the desperate squirming against the fabric of his trousers. “Look at me,” Winchester snapped.
John’s eyes flew open and fixed on Winchester.
“You don’t know you gorgeous you look. Debauched, used like this. You’ve been such a good boy, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Sir,” John panted. He thought he might agree to anything now, anything to get Winchester to keep going.
“That’s it. Let it go, John. I’ll take care of this. You just give it up. Come on, John. Give it up.”
One tight twist around the crown of John’s cock, and he spent himself in spurts over Winchester’s hand.
They stayed there for a moment, breathing the same air and recovering their wits, until Winchester stood. He grabbed a tissue from a box on the table to wipe off his hands before tossing the box to John.
John gave himself a perfunctory wipe-down before fastening his trousers again. When he was sure his legs would hold him, he stood and replaced the box.
“Thanks for that,” he told Winchester with an acknowledging nod that seemed painfully formal.
Winchester laughed, and gave John a swat on the ass that made him wince. “Anytime, kid.” He strode out, presumably back to the canteen for another drink.
John waited a few moments, for discretion’s sake, straightening his clothes. He stepped out of the officer’s mess and headed for his barracks through the cool dark of the desert night. As he caught a glimpse of the ice-bright stars beyond the compound’s security lights, he felt grateful, for an instant, at least, that some things could be controlled.
Fandoms: Sherlock and Supernatural
Pairing: John Winchester/John Watson
Rating: NC-17
Warning: timeline tinkering (enough so as to be AU for Supernatural), D/s, brief descriptions of war wounds and violence.
Note: Written for fandom_stocking for toestastegood. Thanks to redandglenda for the beta!
Summary:In Afghanistan, John Watson needs to feel something that only a gruff American Marine can give him.
[Format note: if you don't see breaks between paragraphs, try viewing this page in Firefox, or click "view in my style" on the livejournal navigation bar at the top of the page.]
John Watson was nothing if not hideously ethical. He would never sleep with someone in his unit, someone whose guts he might have to stitch back together on a sandy roadside. Luckily for him, Her Majesty’s Armed Forces weren’t the only ones out here.
In a scrap like this, with so many militaries involved, wires got crossed. Tempers got frayed. John’s unit got on with the other country’s troopers just fine, which is why his commanding officer had become a de-facto liaison in their little part of Kandahar. This turned into adjoining encampments, more often than not, a friendly under-the-table sharing of supplies, and other… intermingling of resources. Which worked out perfectly, from John’s perspective.
He trudged into camp with the rest of his squad, already dreaming of getting the sand out of his boots and falling flat on his face for a while. They’d been on the jump all afternoon after getting a report of an Aussie unit that’d been ambushed out past their usual perimeter. John had been prepared for casualties, had steeled himself for an afternoon of wrapping up the stumps of limbs severed by IED explosions, or picking shrapnel out of bleeding wounds. Instead, they’d tromped around under the bloody hot sun until a call came in from base saying they’d got it wrong. The Aussies were in another part of the province entirely: mixed-up GPS coordinates on the transmission, so sorry, head back to base.
As his squad marched up the road, John felt an itch under his skin that had nothing to do with the sand that had worked its way into his uniform: the persistent feeling of uselessness. He’d have much rather been out on a regular patrol today, doing what he could in the villages, than wasting the afternoon off on a wild hare, looking over his shoulder every moment for an attack that would never come. The waiting was what bothered him most about the war. In the hospital, there had always been something to do: check on a patient, file some paperwork, spring into action if an emergency cropped up. After a day like today, John needed to find a way to relieve the simmering tension.
Luckily, some of his mates were of the same mind.
“Drinks later, alright?” Perry called as John broke off from the group to return his kit to the med tent.
“The American canteen?” John asked.
“Where else?” Perry grinned and headed off. Right now their camp abutted that of a company of American Marines, and no one knew how to throw a celebration quite like them. One Marine in particular shared John’s idea of R&R. Perfect.
As John ducked into the med tent, he couldn’t suppress a flutter of anticipation.
--
The canteen was crowded with Brits and Americans alike. At John’s elbow, Perry yelled at the bartender for two beers. John was busy scanning the crowd. He enjoyed chumming around with Perry, but tonight he was after something different, if he could get it. Perry elbowed him to hand him his Budweiser, then turned back to continue his conversation with another mate at the bar.
“Doctor Watson. Lowering yourself to drink American beer?”
John didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. John couldn’t help but straighten his spine at the sound of the man’s voice. “Yes. Bit of a waste.” He turned around to look anyway.
Sergeant Winchester held a half-empty can of beer. For all that he must be a decade John’s senior, he had no doubt of the man’s fitness for the battlefield. He moved like a killer. A subtle smile on Winchester’s rugged face promised wicked things: the kind of things John had enjoyed from him before, and hoped to again. Soon. “We work with what we have.” Winchester looked him up and down quickly, almost like he was appraising a target. “See you in a bit.”
John appreciated that it wasn’t a question. “Of course.”
Just like that. Nothing suspicious said in mixed company, but both secure in the knowledge that they’d get what they needed tonight. John took a token sip of his drink and set the almost-full can on the bar. He clapped Perry on the shoulder. “An early night for me.”
Perry raised his can in acknowledgment and turned back to the rest of the squad. Perry didn’t ask questions, which is why John could keep him as a friend, but also why he needed something else, something Winchester could offer him.
--
In a deserted back room off the officer’s mess, Winchester stood leaning against the door while John fidgeted with the buttons on his uniform jacket.
“Do you do this because you’re bored?” Winchester asked.
“You know I don’t.”
“Tell me why, then,” Winchester said.
John threw Winchester a glare, only to have it returned icily. John hadn’t come here to have his head examined, after all. He needed this, damn it. He hadn’t let the itch drive him to anything reckless, not yet, but so help him, if Winchester didn’t get to the point, he’d go back to the canteen and find something else.
“Come on, Watson,” Winchester said, softly this time.
John made a quick circuit of the room, accomplished in ten paces, and then had nowhere to go. The truth, then. He was brave enough for that. “I need it.”
Winchester nodded. “Go on.”
“I need to have that rush, just for a moment,” he said, with eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “I need someone to make some sense of all this.”
“You need someone who can give you danger.”
John closed his eyes. He hadn’t even known, but that was it, on the button. “Yes.”
“Alright, John. Good.” Winchester dropped his casual pose and moved forward like he was stepping onto a battlefield. “Take off your boots, your belt, and your jacket. Kneel in the center of the floor, hands behind your back.”
Something about Winchester’s tone changed the second he began giving orders. John jumped to comply. When he was in position, Winchester circled around him slowly, just observing.
“Now, report what you accomplished today.”
“Nothing,” John whispered.
“I can’t hear you.” Winchester’s voice remained quiet, but the snap of command made John straighten his spine again.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Nothing. No illnesses cured?”
“No, sir.”
“No injuries treated?”
“No, sir.”
“No lives saved?”
“No, sir.”
Winchester stopped directly behind John. His hand dropped onto John’s shoulder. “So what exactly occupied your time today?”
John had to swallow to wet his mouth before he could speak, “We were informed of a unit that had been ambushed. Injuries were reported. We--.”
“No.” Winchester’s hand slid across John’s back to curl around the nape of his neck. “Tell me what you accomplished.”
That was the whole problem with John today, damn and bless Winchester for seeing it. “Nothing. Sir.”
“That’s what I thought. Put your hands on the ground. Then put your head down. Do it.”
John bent forward under Winchester’s guiding hand to press his cheek to the cool floor. He was acutely aware of the picture he presented: ass raised in the air like an invitation. His dick, which had been getting harder with every word Winchester spoke, twitched in anticipation.
“Hold still.” Winchester ran a warm hand down John’s spine and cupped his ass. John had to marshal all his self-control to avoid pushing back into the touch. “You’ve been derelict in your duty, and you need to be punished. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” John said gratefully.
The first impact of Winchester’s hand against his ass shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it rocked John forward, echoing down his nerves until he had to bite his lip against a noise--perhaps a groan--that threatened to push its way out.
“Say thank you,” Winchester instructed.
“Thank you,” said John.
Winchester hit him again. This time, John braced himself for the impact, and concentrated on breathing. Winchester was by no means weak, and his control was precise. When he began in earnest, John could feel him placing each blow deliberately, leaving no piece of John’s ass untouched. The impact rippled through John, rocking him against the floor. His throbbing prick strained against his trousers.
Winchester landed a last blow on his ass and left his hand there, squeezing the hot flesh. He leaned in close to John’s ear. “Good. What do you say?”
“Sorry,” John gasped. He was out of breath, somehow. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Show me.” Winchester pushed to his feet and stood before John. His trousers were already undone, so he shoved down his briefs to reveal his hard cock jutting out from its dark bed of hair.
John couldn’t muster any answer other than his quick shuffle forward to get his mouth around Winchester’s dick. He thought, madly, that if he could do this well enough, everything would be alright this would all make sense, the whole bloody war, if he could just accomplish this one thing.
Winchester dragged a hand over John’s hair-military cut, too short to get a grip on-and cupped the back of his head to get in deeper. John relaxed his throat and took it, took all that he deserved. He braced a hand against Winchester’s sturdy thigh. His other hand he pressed to the front of his trousers, though his rough squeezing of his dick through the fabric did nothing but heighten his need.
Then Winchester’s hips bucked forward. He held John in place as he shot down his throat, warm pulses too far back to taste. John stayed where he was, jaw straining around Winchester’s cock, until air became an issue. When he pulled his head back, Winchester released him easily.
Before John was done drawing in his first full breath, Winchester had shoved him onto his back and lay braced over him, caging him with his arms and legs. “Now, John. You’ve done well. You’ve been so good. You deserve a reward.”
“No I don’t.” John’s voice sounded raspy.
“If I say you do, then you do.” Winchester undid the button and the zip on John’s trousers without looking. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir,” John breathed.
Winchester’s hand dipped into his briefs and cupped John’s cock. “Say it again,” he said, voice low and hot.
“Yes, sir.” John’s dick twitched, and the corner of Winchester’s mouth quirked up in a smile.
“Good boy.” Winchester began jerking John, the hot grip of his hand so much more gloriously satisfying than the desperate squirming against the fabric of his trousers. “Look at me,” Winchester snapped.
John’s eyes flew open and fixed on Winchester.
“You don’t know you gorgeous you look. Debauched, used like this. You’ve been such a good boy, haven’t you?”
“Yes. Sir,” John panted. He thought he might agree to anything now, anything to get Winchester to keep going.
“That’s it. Let it go, John. I’ll take care of this. You just give it up. Come on, John. Give it up.”
One tight twist around the crown of John’s cock, and he spent himself in spurts over Winchester’s hand.
They stayed there for a moment, breathing the same air and recovering their wits, until Winchester stood. He grabbed a tissue from a box on the table to wipe off his hands before tossing the box to John.
John gave himself a perfunctory wipe-down before fastening his trousers again. When he was sure his legs would hold him, he stood and replaced the box.
“Thanks for that,” he told Winchester with an acknowledging nod that seemed painfully formal.
Winchester laughed, and gave John a swat on the ass that made him wince. “Anytime, kid.” He strode out, presumably back to the canteen for another drink.
John waited a few moments, for discretion’s sake, straightening his clothes. He stepped out of the officer’s mess and headed for his barracks through the cool dark of the desert night. As he caught a glimpse of the ice-bright stars beyond the compound’s security lights, he felt grateful, for an instant, at least, that some things could be controlled.