Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."

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Prompting: Part XIV
Giggles at the Palace
Please check the Sticky Post to find the newest active part and post your prompts there.

+Anon posting is most definitely allowed, but not required.
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+Please do not re-post prompts unless the last time they were prompted was on an older part. Simply put: ONE posting of each prompt per part.
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+However, there will be one when it reaches 7000. Also at 7000, after the freeze a new part will be posted, and all prompting should happen on the new part.
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There's a link to this at the bottom of the post. I ask that if the part you wanted isn't up yet, just wait and one of the archivists will get to it, but please, once it is up, please make sure you post your fills there according to the guidelines. DO NOT skip out on doing this because it seems like too much effort.
Do not be afraid to ask questions about how it works if you are confused! The mod would be happy to explain.

Your mods for this meme are snowishness and marill_chan. If you have any questions, concerns, comments about anything at all on the meme feel free to send a PM or contact us via the page-a-mod post.

Please consider warning for triggery prompts (and also for fills, because some people read in flat view) and phrasing prompts in a manner that strives to be respectful.

Things which you might want to consider warning for include: Rape/Non-Con, Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Harm, Underage Relationships, among others.

That being said, this is a kink meme. As such, there will be prompts that could offend you in a number of different ways. Not every prompt will have a trigger warning, and not every prompt will rub you the right way. If you have an issue with a specific prompt, feel free to bring it up in a discussion that takes place off the meme. However, flaming will not be tolerated regardless of origin.
You are highly encouraged to scroll right past a prompt that you dislike.

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Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 1/? (WARNING: Bestiality)

When Sherlock arrives home, there is a massive grey wolf lying on the coffee table, watching the telly with the volume turned down. His tail is long enough to touch the floor, and one large paws dangles off the end of the table.

"Don't werewolves go outside during the full moon?" Sherlock asks, even as he notices the size of the claws at the ends John's paws and the sharpness of his fangs. "You always have before."

John can't talk back, but an ear swivels in his direction, so he must be listening. Sherlock shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up, then strips off his gloves and tucks them into the inner pocket of his coat.

You wanted to stay in? No, of course not," he dismisses immediately. "Obviously, you prefer being outside, so there's something keeping you in. Me?" John snorts. "Lestrade? But he doesn't know what you are." The wolf raises a paw and makes a 'sort of' motion with it. "Not Lestrade then, but Scotland Yard," Sherlock observes. "They saw you on one of your previous excursions, and called the dog warden, so you've decided not to risk being seen again."

John yips agreement, but growls when Sherlock reaches for the remote to the telly. Sherlock freezes, some instinctual part of him shouting, predator, but when his fear becomes apparent - and wolves can detect fear, so it must be obvious - the wolf licks his hand with an apologetic whine.

It - he, because he's John - rolls onto his back, baring his throat and belly. Sherlock wonders if it's a sign of submission in werewolves as it is in dogs. John makes a low, whining noise, jaw half-open, ears perked, head upside-down on the table. He seems almost beckoning, and when Sherlock frowns at him in confusion, his tail wags deliberately.

The invitation is obvious, so Sherlock brings his hand, very cautiously, to John's belly and gives it a tentative rub. He's encouraged when he doesn't pull back a bloody stump. John's fur is coarse and several inches thick. He digs his fingers in deeper, enough to reach the softer undercoat and scrape his fingernails lightly against the skin.

John enjoys having his abdomen scratched.

His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth and his tail wags, hard enough to feel as it thumps against his thighs. Sherlock finds himself wondering, idly, if the human John likes to be touched there as well, or if he'd would be allowed to touch John even when he wasn't a wolf acting like a particularly friendly dog.

He wonders if John would enjoy it as much then as he seems to be enjoying it now.

He seems to be enjoying it rather a lot, actually, as his prick, longer and thicker than a human's, emerges proudly from its sheath.

Sherlock pretends he doesn't notice but he does, of course. It's hardly something he'd miss, not when he has both hands buried deep in John's fur, fingers scratching firmly against his skin. He tries to look away, but his eyes keep drifting back to it, drawn by curiosity. He's never seen a canine penis before, except in passing, and his fingers itch to examine it.

Then John shifts and twists with a low whine. His red prick slides wetly along the palm of Sherlock's hand and Sherlock finds his fingers closing around it automatically, catching and wrapping loosely around his prick.

As soon as he realizes what he'd done, albeit unintentionally, Sherlock jerks his hands away.

"I - sorry," he manages to say, face growing hot with embarrassment. His trousers are too tight, and his heart pounds quickly enough for him to notice it. God only knows what John's noticed about him.

John rolls back onto his paws when Sherlock stands up. His head is on a level with Sherlock's waist, putting him level with the erection obviously tenting Sherlock's trousers. He brings his nose towards Sherlock's groin, ears perked up, and Sherlock jerks back.

"John," he says sharply. John looks at him, then presses his muzzle against Sherlock's groin. It's reflex for Sherlock to cuff John across the face, and for a second, Sherlock's genuinely nervous when John - when the massive wolf he just hit in the face - goes dangerously still.

But John backs away, head lowered and ears flat against his head.

For lack of a better solution, Sherlock leaves the flat and doesn't come back until morning.

Re: Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 1/? (WARNING: Bestiality)

It's going to be awkward in the morning.

Please continue.

Re: Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 1/? (WARNING: Bestiality)

Great beginning, can't wait to read more of this!

Re: Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 1/? (WARNING: Bestiality)

This is AWESOME. Sherlock domming John when John is a massive killer wolf is just nnghhhhhh.

Re: Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 1/? (WARNING: Bestiality)

Holy damn, I am so eager for more, I can't even put into words (and I hope so very very much that you don't shy away from the bestiality).

Re: Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 1/? (WARNING: Bestiality)

OP here, very much looking forward to more. I like how Sherlock's natural curiosity gets him into a wonderfully awkward situation. I also like the nearly-one-sided conversation as Sherlock deducts why John's in on the full moon, giving them the setting of relaxed familiarity before slipping into new territory. Looking forward to more!

Re: Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 1/? (WARNING: Bestiality)

Deduces, not deducts

Re: Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 1/? (WARNING: Bestiality)

This is already beyond brilliant.

Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 2/?


John wakes up in his bed, muscles still comfortably sore from his transformation, and wanders down to get some breakfast before heading in to work. Sherlock has already moved the coffee table back to its normal position and made him a slice of toast with bacon.

"Thanks," he says around a mouthful, and uses his bare hands to grab a piece of bacon from the plate.

"You didn't go out last night," Sherlock says, looking at him carefully. Trying to figure out what John remembers? Trying to figure out if last night meant John was interested in him? Trying to figure out the line of separation between wolf and man?

Well, whatever he's doing, it's too early for John to care. He hadn't managed to sleep until after he'd changed back, and three hours of sleep after a day as a human and a night as a wolf is not nearly enough. "No," John agrees, and grabs the second piece of bacon, polishing it off as quickly as he'd finished the first. He leaves the toast half-eaten after giving it another halfhearted nibble.

"Lestrade mentioned a couple weeks ago that something's been spooking stray dogs in the city, and that the dog warden's been looking for the cause, so..." He shrugs. He doesn't want to spend his night being chased by the dog warden, not when he can't fight back. "I figured it'd be best if I stayed home."

"Hmm," Sherlock murmurs, still looking at him narrowly.

John opens the fridge. "Do you mind if I finish off the rest of the bacon? I'll buy more on my way home."

"There's an entire package left."

"I know."


When John gets home from work with the shopping, Sherlock is home too.

"The sun sets in an hour," he says. "You're staying in again, I assume."

John nods. "It's safer anyway," he says. "I don't mind much, but it's boring." Taking a risk, he steals a glance at Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes, and adds, "It helped that you were there."

John can smell the sudden rise of Sherlock's nervousness, though none of it shows in his body language. He thinks. It's hard to tell, because today's the second night, the strongest night of the full moon, and he keeps forgetting that people are humans and follow different rules.

The moon's too close. If John had been living alone, he'd have spent the evening lying naked in his bed, listening to music or watching the telly. But Sherlock's a stronger draw than that, forcing him clothed and upright until the very last minute, when the bones begin to crack and twist beneath his skin.

"Really?" Sherlock asks, brightening slightly. "Did it?"

John quirks a grin at him. The wolf under his skin hums with contentment. "Of course. Did you have any plans for tonight?"


John lies on the sofa while Sherlock checks his email, eyes closed. Sherlock would assume he were asleep, if not for the anticipation clearly visible in his shoulders. He stands abruptly several minutes before the moon rises, and doesn't seem to remember Sherlock until he's at the foot of the stairs. His shirt is pulled half-off, revealing a smooth, tanned strip of skin that arrests Sherlock's gaze.

He looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, and Sherlock drags his gaze up to meet his eyes. "I need to change now," he says, stating the obvious.

"Right, of course," Sherlock says, and holds John eyes until he turns around again, pulling the shirt off in a practiced, smooth motion that reveals his bare back and the grace of his movements. He watches until John disappears from his line of sight.

Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 2/? (WARNING: NC-17, Bestiality)

John reappears roughly ten minutes later, and by then, Sherlock has moved to take his vacant position on the sofa. It'd been warm when he'd lain down, and still smells faintly of John. He's a large wolf - larger than wolves are meant to get, but at an estimate, Sherlock would put him at roughly the same mass as his human form.

Good to know, that lycanthropy respects the law of conservation of energy.

"John," he murmurs, and sits up when the wolf pads, with the silence and grace of a deadly predator, to greet him at the sofa. He offers John a hand to sniff and John does so obligingly, but with a patient, amused air about him, as if to say, I'm doing this for your benefit. His nose is cold and tickles Sherlock's palm.

Aside from several minutes the night before, Sherlock's never been this close to John's lupine form, and he's struck by the sheer beauty of it. His fur is grey, darker along his back than the sides, with patches of lighter fur around his ears. His eyes are are a deep shade of gold, but Sherlock can spot streaks of his normal blue-grey shade as well, when he angles his head correctly under the light.

"Beautiful," he says. John wags his tail.

He isn't quite sure what John wants from him, exactly, except for him to keep the wolf company during the full moon. But for a werewolf, he's rather tame, content to lie on the floor on top of Sherlock's feet for several minutes until Sherlock's the one who's bored.

Sherlock slides onto the ground. It puts John's head at about the same level as his own, and the wolf sniffs at his cheek, then licks it. He's peaceful enough, tame enough, that Sherlock buries one of his hands in the fur behind John's ears and scratches.

"What do you normally do on a full moon?" he asks, as John's head drops to his shoulder and nuzzles his throat. He should feel afraid - if it were anyone else, if it weren't John - he would be. But John's a warm,furry weight on his shoulder and pressed bodily against his arm, sniffing and rubbing at Sherlock's neck gently enough that the touch tickles and makes him laugh. "Chase rabbits? Patrol your territory? Do werewolves even have territory?"

John shakes his head. He licks Sherlock's throat, wet tongue stroking from the base of his throat to the bottom of his cheek. It feels good, sending a shock of arousal straight to his groin, reminding him of the night before, of John's cock, long and hard against his fingers.

Part of him has been thinking about it all day, wondering if John knew what he'd done, and if so, if he wanted to do it again. Wondering if he wanted to do it again, wanted to wrap his fingers around John's prick, or open his trousers and feel John's tongue on his prick.

As if John could sense his thoughts, he sniffs again. He presses the wet tip of his nose to the hollow at the base of his throat, where Sherlock's left the top buttons of his shirt undone. The cold touch makes Sherlock squirm. And he - he wants -

"John," he says, feeling breathless and lightheaded from the force of his desire, from his thoughts, from the idea that yes, yes, he could have this, have John, furred and fanged but still John.

Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 4/? (WARNING: NC17, Bestiality)


Tangled in John's fur as it is, his hand follows as John ducks his head between Sherlock's upraised knees, pressing his snout to Sherlock's groin with clear intent. Sherlock moans, letting his legs part further. It gives John the space to rub his cheek against Sherlock's erection, and even through the fabric of his trousers he can tell it feels different, the softness of fur instead of skin.

John noses against his zip with an eager whine, but can't quite manage to manipulate it without using teeth, so with shaking hands, Sherlock pulls down his zip and pushes down his pants, freeing his prick. He has a split-second to register the chill of the night air, a split-second to wonder if he's making a mistake, before John's tongue is there, warm and wet and powerful.

He's had a mouth on his prick before, felt the gentle suction and warm press of a tongue against his flesh. But this feels entirely different, in so many ways - more heat, more pressure, the intermittent chill of John's wet nose brushing against his groin, and the foreign sensation of fur - coarse but still fluffy - against his bare skin. It is unbearably erotic, the image of John - the wolf - between his legs, rubbing and licking and there.

"John," Sherlock says again, because it is John, the same John who growls halfheartedly at Sherlock when Sherlock takes food from his plate, who has a gun but is more deadly with his bare hands, and who will follow him, always, on his cases. "Yes, John, please," he moans, as John's tongue swipes against the underside of his prick with quick, sure strokes,.

He comes quickly, spilling semen on his belly and the hem of his shirt, fisting his hands in John's fur in a way that must be painful. John licks him clean, wiping away all traces of his release, more gently now that Sherlock's prick is oversensitive in the aftermath of his orgasm.

When he's done, he looks Sherlock in the eyes, warm and affectionate, and rubs their cheeks together. Sherlock strokes his hand down John's back, repeating the motion several times when John makes a low crooning noise. He hesitates. "Do - do you want me to -"

He doesn't have to get the question fully out before John is flopping eagerly onto his side, lying on Sherlock's legs and exposing his prick, fully extended from its sheath. Sherlock wraps his fingers loosely around it, stroking from base to tip. But Sherlock's never actually had an interest in wolves before this, and from the way John shifts, twisting his head to lick where Sherlock's touching him, he has a feeling his inexperience is obvious.

"Sorry," he mutters, frowning, and tries again. When that doesn't work - when the rasp of his thumb over the tip of John's prick makes him whine and twist away, Sherlock gets up and does what seems like the next logical step.

He consults Google.

Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 5/? (WARNING: NC-17, Bestiality)


The next morning is a Saturday so John doesn't bother getting out of bed until well into the afternoon, when he's at least somewhat caught up on his lack of sleep from yesterday and the night before. He'd been lucky this month, to have the weekend overlap with the three nights where the moon is fullest.

Though, yesterday had been rather more tame than John's wolf nights normally are - trapped in the flat again, with nowhere to run and nothing to chase. At least he'd had Sherlock to keep him company. Among other things. He's never had someone around while he was the wolf before. He's never had someone touch him while he was the wolf before. It's nice.

Sherlock returns a couple hours before sunset, smelling like flowers and -

"Why do you smell like explosives?" John frowns and holds up a hand before Sherlock can speak. "Actually, wait. I don't want to know. If it's for a case, don't tell me until tomorrow."

Sherlock shrugs. "It's just an experiment," he says, and looks at John again, the way he'd looked at John yesterday, when John had been too half-asleep to care. "You're staying in again, I assume."

"Last night," John agrees. He lies on the sofa but it doesn't feel right, so he rolls onto the ground, sprawling comfortably. He inhales deeply. Better. From here, he can smell the mixed scents of himself and Sherlock, the echoes of excitement and sex. Sherlock stares at him. "What?"

"You haven't changed yet," Sherlock comments. "You don't usually act this... animalistic."

"I can act human if I need to," John explains. He rolls onto his back, offering Sherlock his belly. Come touch me. "But I'm more comfortable like this."

"Hmm," Sherlock says, and then proceeds to ignore him in favor of doing something on John's computer.

By the time the moon's pull is close enough to distract him - if he closes his eyes, he can feel her, like dozens of little fingers pulling at his skin - Sherlock still hasn't dropped by John's spot on the floor to pay attention to him.

The wolf whines sadly, and John agrees.

"Sherlock?" he asks to the ceiling, bolstered by his wolf. "Is it - is it only the wolf, that you like?"

The chair scrapes as Sherlock swivels to face him. "What?"

Too late to back down now. John forces himself to climb onto the sofa, peering at Sherlock over the back of it. "I mean - it's just," I like you and you haven't touched me, "Are you only attracted to wolves, then? Or, um, canines, I suppose? Because I remember you saying you weren't interested, but then last night, you seemed..."

John shrugs, face burning. "I was just wondering. It's okay if you are, I mean - if that's what you're looking for, if that's what turns you on -"

"It's not."


Sherlock speaks with starts and stops, choosing his words carefully. "It's not. I don't have a paraphilia for animals, John. It - last night was the first time I'd ever - "

"Ever? At all?"

Sherlock scowls at him. "Ever with an animal," he clarifies. "Of course I've been with other men before. And the occasional woman."

"Right, of course." John pauses. "Er, so..." This was a lot easier when he'd been a wolf. He hadn't been expected to talk, for one thing. Or follow social norms. He licks his lips, frowning. "So were you just experimenting, then?"

Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 6/? (WARNING: NC-17, Bestiality)

"You started it," Sherlock points out.

He had. "But after, when I turned back, you didn't - we didn't talk about it, so I assumed you weren't - weren't interested. I thought you liked it."

Sherlock had gasped his name, dug his fingers into John's fur. Had touched him, had stroked him, had run intimate fingers through his pelt and lain down next to him. And then the moon had set and his body had rearranged itself, and when he'd wandered back down, Sherlock had acted like it'd never happened.

Sherlock stares at him. "How exactly was I supposed to bring it up? 'Oh, John, remember when you were a wolf last night and sucked me off, I was wondering if you wanted to try doing it again when you didn't have teeth the size of my fingers'?"

My teeth aren't that big, John thinks mulishly, before realizing what Sherlock's said. He flushes. "And I would, if you wanted? Suck you off now, I mean," he says, and resolutely stares at the ground, face burning, as Sherlock gets up and walks to the sofa.

"But do you want to?" Sherlock asks, threading his fingers through John's hair, and when John looks up, tips his head back and kisses him.


They end up necking on the sofa and if Sherlock had thought John the wolf was sexy, it's nothing compared to John the man, half-naked and hard against him.

"Sherlock," John breathes into his ear, and follows his name with the scrape of blunt teeth against the side of his face, dragging down his cheek like he's trying not to bite. Not trying too hard not to bite, though, because Sherlock's neck is sore and his shoulders are sore and he knows he'll be sporting a truly impressive pattern of bruises in the morning. "Sherlock, I want to fuck you. I want to be inside you."

He bites down on Sherlock's shoulder again - hard enough to hurt, but not enough to break the skin - an it sends a shiver of anticipation down Sherlock's spine, radiating outwards through his whole body. Sherlock fumbles clumsily at the zips of his trousers, and John's as well, pushing away layers upon layers of cloth until he's rewarded with the fierce pleasure of skin against skin and the sharp intake of John's breath as his hips stutter against Sherlock's.

"You can," Sherlock gasps, as John wraps his hand around their pricks, stroking them together. "I want you to. I'd let you." I'd let you as a wolf, he thinks, remembering again John's prick, long and red and different, different enough that he wants to know what it'd feel like, pounding into his arse. He spreads his legs. "Do it."

John's whine is very nearly canine. "Can't," he groans, stroking a hand up and down Sherlock's chest. "Can't, it's too close, I'd hurt you. You can't take me when I change, the knot's too big."

Sherlock shivers at the idea, the image of himself, legs spread, letting John - letting the wolf - penetrate him. Later. For now - he drops his hands to cup John's arse, squeezing. "We could trade," he says. "I could fuck you now, and tomorrow -"

"Yeah," John groans, grinding against him. "Yeah, okay."

Sherlock fetches a condom and lubricant from John's bedroom, and when he gets back, John's waiting naked for him on the sofa, eyes closed, stroking himself languidly. When he opens his eyes, they are shot through with streaks of yellow.

"Should I - now, then?" Sherlock asks, putting a careful hand on John's thigh and leaning forward for a wet, thorough kiss.

John breaks it after just a moment, when Sherlock's barely had enough time to register the taste of him. "I need to change first," he says, and drops to his hands and knees on the floor. "It's - not always pleasant," he grits out, as he muscles and bones in his body start to contort beneath his skin. He rolls onto his back, rubbing his shoulder against the floor. The skin splits open where he rubs, revealing not blood, but thick, grey fur. "You don't - have to - watch."

Sherlock watches anyway.

Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 7/? (WARNING: NC-17, Bestiality)


John had described the transformation as "not painful, just really itchy" before, and Sherlock can see why. Wherever he looks, John's human body is being scraped away - literally, being split open and shed like snakeskin. It dissipates into nothingness before it hits the ground, revealing heavily furred muscle underneath.

John's bones crack loudly as they rearrange themselves or disappear altogether. There is rustling noise as his spine extends, pushing out from his skin fully-formed, but he makes no noise, aside from several quick, soft breaths that become pants as he completes his transformation, until there is no man visible before him, only wolf.

The process takes only a few minutes, but John remains on the floor for several minutes after that, breathing heavily. He opens his eyes when Sherlock touches his muzzle, and licks Sherlock's palm.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asks. John responds by climbing to his feet and sticking his tongue in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock backs up and John follows him, pinning him to the sofa with his weight - and he is only 160 pounds, give or take, but 160 pounds of fangs and fur, crowding against him, feels much different from 160 pounds of man in his arms and nestled between his legs.

John's mouth isn't made for kissing - Sherlock doesn't even try to fit his tongue between John's sharp, sharp teeth. But John's tongue is long and flexible, and when Sherlock sucks on it, John's hips stutter against him in an uneven rhythm and he lets out a low, hungry growl that is more erotic than Sherlock would have expected.

"John," he says urgently, turning his head to get the space to breathe. John licks his throat. Sherlock suppresses a shiver. "John," he says again, thrusting against John's hips, rubbing his prick against John's thick fur. He pulls John's head down lower, burying his face in John's fur. "Let me fuck you now. Please."

The wolf growls, breathing warm air against the side of Sherlock's neck, and he feels just the slightest hint of teeth - just their surfaces, dragged against his cheek - before John leaps off him, landing on the floor with no sound at all.

He really is a silent, deadly predator. Though you wouldn't know it to look at him, Sherlock thinks with a hint of hysteria bubbling in his chest, because John is rolling onto his back and parting his hind legs, tail tucked to the side. His prick is already extended, visible outside his sheath, and Sherlock rubs the heel of his palm against its base, in a way that makes John's hips snap forward.

Sherlock retrieves the small tube of lubricant from where it'd fallen on the floor, stripping off the rest of his clothes as he does so. He pours a generous amount over his fingers, then rubs them over John's hole, catching John's tail with his other hand to prevent it getting in the way. "Let me know if it hurts," Sherlock says, slipping the tip of his index finger inside him.

John gives a low whine that might possibly be assent, bowing his head. Sherlock works the first finger in without much difficulty, but the second is tighter, and several times John whimpers, needing him to go more slowly - but whenever he asks if they should stop, John shakes his head and licks Sherlock's cheek.

Finally, finally, Sherlock slides the condom over his prick and presses it to John's stretched hole. He can see the changes in John's expression as he pushes slowly into him, pain and pleasure and wanting, his golden-yellow eyes as readable as his blue ones, until Sherlock's in all the way, inside him and surrounded by him and above him, watching him breathe.

"You're so warm," Sherlock breathes, marveling at the heat engulfing his prick, John's tightness, his paws on Sherlock's shoulders and the feel of the fur of John's belly under his hands, soft and luxurious. He wraps his fingers - still wet with lubricant, around the base of John's prick, stroking firmly as he begins to thrust. He loosens his fingers on the upstroke, accommodating the gradually growing swelling just above the base of John's prick - his knot.

Once I Saw Him in the Moonlight 8/8 (WARNING: NC-17, Bestiality)


I can't. I'd hurt you, John had said earlier. The knot's too big.

Sherlock can see why, because is too big. It's too large to comfortably wrap his fingers around, but he wants it anyway - wants John deep inside him, wants to be pinned, held, by fur and weight and John's knot inside him, tying them together. "I want you to fuck me," he groans out between thrusts, flushed with pleasure and wanting and something more, some tight pressure in his chest at the knowledge that this is John, some part of him he's let no one but Sherlock see. "I want this," and he squeezes John's knot, working it with his fingers. "I want to be able to take you."

When John comes, he comes in small, repeated spurts, semen spilling - not violently but still noticeably - onto the pale fur that covers his belly, throwing his head back and making a low noise that Sherlock had heard before, when John had been human and half-naked in his arms.

Every time he does, his arse tightens around Sherlock's prick. The movement brings him closer and closer to the edge until he finally tips over it, tensing and grunting and burying his face in John's fur, inhaling his scent - the same scent as always, but wilder, with no soap or detergent or tea to mark him as tame. He's not tame, a little voice in his mind tells him, Except for you.

Wolves take longer to orgasm than humans do. John is still hard, knot still prominent, by the time Sherlock has softened and disposed of the condom. He returns and curls naked against John's chest. John is longer as a wolf than he is tall as a human, though Sherlock's not sure why. Sherlock eases him through his pleasure, the fingers of one hand wrapped firmly around John's shaft while the others card gently through his fur, working out the tangles.

He mouths John's throat, bringing his teeth against John's hide through a mouthful of the coarse fur. John whines, tilting his head further back, and Sherlock bites down lightly, thinking, Now you're mine. You belong to me, with me.

He wonders what John would think, if he'd said it out loud. If John would say it wasn't true - if John would say it was. He wonders if it is true, if it's always been true. If it's ever been true.

He doesn't ask.

It's surprisingly easy to fall asleep when there's a warm, furry body pressed against his bare skin.

The next thing Sherlock notices is a hand shaking his shoulder. The room is pale with the morning's light and there is a crick in his neck from his awkward sleeping position, but it's forgotten when John - crouched in front of him in his human shape, drawn and tired and unashamedly naked - presses a soft, affectionate kiss to his mouth.

"Morning," John says, voice hoarse with disuse. He smells like the wolf still. He will until he washes it away in the shower, along with the lingering traces of their activities the night before.

"Morning," Sherlock replies, and reluctantly allows himself to be tugged upright. He leans against John drowsily, and John wraps a comfortable arm around his waist.

"I have a bed, you know," he murmurs, sounding amused. "It's more comfortable than the floor. We could go there."

"Brilliant idea," Sherlock agrees, and they proceed to do just that.

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