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With a Wolflike Sharpness

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The morning after the full moon, John looks like he’s been mauled. His knees are bruised; his lip is split and swollen; he has deep scratches along his back; and the scar from the bullet wound on his left shoulder is puffed up, red, and mottled with dried blood.

“Was all of this really necessary?” he asks Sherlock, who stands behind him in the loo, watching him clean the wounds on his shoulder with pleased, half-lidded eyes. As the damp flannel in John’s hand flakes away the blood crusted around fresh teeth marks and claw marks, Sherlock practically purrs with delight.

“Your skin smelled of Lestrade. I found the scent… offensive.”

John thinks back to the previous day. “He touched my shoulder for half a second, through three layers of clothes, and that was hours before.”

“Offensive,” Sherlock says, and smiles when one of the bite marks begins to bleed again.

*

John goes through clothes at what should be a truly disturbing rate.

“You should know better than to bother wearing clothing,” Sherlock says, sprawled on the sofa while John examines his shredded shirt and the bits of his trousers scattered about the floor.

You should learn some sodding patience,” John answers peevishly.

But every full moon, he buys a new shirt, new trousers, new pants, and new socks, and doesn’t bother washing them before he wears them. So the outfit surely smells strange, like the shop and the customers who laid their hands on it before John, that night when Sherlock tears every bit of it from his body, growling viciously as the fabric rips like flesh under his claws.

*

“You squirm too much,” Sherlock says. He’s skimming one of John’s medical journals while John sits beside him on the sofa, responding to comments on his blog.

“Er.” John looks up, taken aback. “I wasn’t aware I was squirming.”

“Not now.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “During the full moon. You squirm. I don’t like it. It makes me think you mean to fight me.”

Fighting Sherlock is the last thing on John’s mind. He squirms because he loves it: being fucked by a werewolf in whatever room he happens to be in when Sherlock finds him, in the middle of the floor because Sherlock always wants him right then, surrounded by a mess of torn clothing, and being scratched and bitten and crushed beneath Sherlock’s weight. It’s probably good that werewolves can’t transform at will; John would want it constantly.

“Perhaps I should invest in a breeding stand,” says Sherlock. He calmly turns a page in the journal. “If you refuse to stay still while you’re being bred.”

John’s skin feels unnaturally warm, and his mouth goes dry, toes curling in his socks at the thought. “Oh,” he says breathlessly, and sees Sherlock’s lip curl in a smirk.

*

Pop culture might be full of tripe about people recognising the “man beneath the beast” and all that, but the wolf snuffling at John’s bottom now doesn’t resemble Sherlock that much at all. Sherlock as a human doesn’t have yellowish eyes, a thick coat of shaggy black fur, or curved claws at least an inch long, which catch on the carpet fibres every time he moves his gigantic paws.

Sherlock as a wolf is also bloody massive: muscular and hulking in a way that makes the beginnings of fear spike in John’s gut and adrenaline pound its rhythm through his body, even though he trusts Sherlock wholeheartedly, knows that Sherlock would stop immediately if John asks.

John just doesn’t ever particularly want to.

“Remember,” he tells Sherlock, “what I said a few weeks ago about patience?”

Sherlock ignores him, far more intent on nosing at the base of the plug in John’s arse and growling and snarling every time John tries to wave him away.

“You knob, if you’d just let me—”

Finally, John manages to shove his snout aside, and although Sherlock’s growl turns dark and dangerous, he allows it long enough for John to grasp the plug and pull. It pops out with a loud squelch, and John hisses in discomfort. It’s thick, the biggest they own, because although he might prefer minimal preparation when Sherlock is like this, he doesn’t fancy an anal fissure.

Sherlock is on him before he can even set the plug aside. It falls to the floor, smearing lubricant on the carpet, as John is mounted. Sherlock plants his paws on John’s shoulder blades, claws digging into skin, and forces John’s chest to the floor, holding him down with his arse in the air so his slick, loosened hole can be filled with Sherlock’s cock.

John gasps, hands scrambling uselessly at the carpet. Sherlock’s prick is thick and long, no more so than when he’s human, but without the thorough, painstaking preparation Sherlock always insists on when he has fingers instead of claws, it feels enormous. It stings gloriously, and John’s given no time to adjust before he’s being fucked forcefully enough that his face is shoved into the floor and his cheeks, shoulders, and knees scrape against the carpet with every thrust.

“Fuck.” John sounds nothing like himself, half whining and half yowling, as blood begins to drip from the fresh claw marks on his shoulders. It hurts, of course, but the pain floats somewhere on the edges of his awareness, somewhere beyond the sublimely brutal sensation of Sherlock pounding into him.

Every few thrusts, Sherlock’s cock drags across his prostate, the pressure brief but intense, but that’s pure accident, John knows. Sherlock doesn’t care a whit about his pleasure at the moment; he only cares that John isn’t stopping him, is keeping his head down and his bottom up and letting himself be used.

John whimpers shamefully at the thought. Yes, he’s being very useful right now. His own prick, hard and throbbing, hangs uselessly between his legs, bouncing as Sherlock fucks him. The room is filled with the sounds of his own helpless cries, the loud slapping of his arse against Sherlock’s hips, and Sherlock’s low, contented rumbling.

John feels so full, so warm. He wants to come so badly, but he needs his hands to keep himself from skidding across the carpet as he is buggered. He tries to rock into Sherlock’s thrusts, to angle himself so that Sherlock is pounding his sweet spot with every thrust. He’s never come from penetration alone, but maybe, just maybe this time—

Then Sherlock’s paws are gone, and the massive weight is lifted from his back, although Sherlock’s cock stays firmly rooted in him. Not climbing off, then, but giving John the opportunity to sit up and take himself in hand.

Thank god, John thinks. He raises himself to his hands and knees, and reaches for his neglected prick.

The weight abruptly returns as Sherlock drapes himself along his back, but this time it’s accompanied by a pressure on John’s nape and the prick of teeth against the sensitive skin there.

Sherlock growls in clear warning, and John feels the vibrations of it all along his spine and trembles, his hand falling back to the floor. The growling stops immediately, and Sherlock returns to fucking him, his frightfully sharp teeth digging into John’s nape—just barely breaking skin.

Oh. John realises. ‘You squirm too much,’ Sherlock had said. And then—‘If you refuse to stay still while you’re being bred.’ That’s what he is now, isn’t it? A bitch being held in place and bred.

“Christ,” John moans weakly. “Oh god. Sherlock.

Sherlock’s cock swells inside him, the knot beginning to form, and John feels full enough to burst. His jaw drops, letting loose a string of pitiful “ah, ah, ahs” from his throat as Sherlock fucks him even more ruthlessly, making deep rumbling sounds around his mouthful of John’s skin. Maybe he could come like this, John thinks, if it kept on just like this for a few minutes longer—

Sherlock goes still, and a rush of warmth floods John’s arse.

“No,” he cries, hips jerking, trying to fuck himself some more even as the knot swells thicker inside him. “No, no, please, Sherlock, just a little—”

Sherlock’s response is a sharp growl, and then his teeth clamp down more savagely on John’s nape. John feels a fat drop of blood trickle down his neck, and fear surges in his gut; his chest tightens, and his heartbeat seems to stutter. Sherlock wouldn’t hurt him, he reminds himself—but he could. Oh, he could. Sherlock could snap his neck effortlessly, peel all the skin from his back in a single motion.

John holds himself utterly, perfectly still, though he throbs and aches with need. He can feel his pulse in the veins of his cock, can hear it pounding in his ears. Time slows and the world goes soft and hazy for a long, long while, until finally Sherlock’s prick softens enough that he can withdraw.

John returns to awareness in time to feel come begin to leak from his hole, and Sherlock’s snout press between his arse cheeks so he can lick up the mess with quick, rough swipes of his tongue.

John’s weak and quivering limbs give, and he collapses to his stomach. Sherlock follows, still lapping insistently at John’s sloppy, sensitive hole.

“Oh,” John moans, trying to spread himself wide. “Please.” He has rules, usually, about how close Sherlock’s werewolf teeth can get to his prick and bollocks, but he doesn’t much care now. “Just a lick, just one, please.”

Sherlock snorts—in amusement, he’s not so un-Sherlock-like as a wolf that John doesn’t know precisely what that sound means—and then backs away. John hears his massive paws padding across the carpet and turns his head to see Sherlock buggering off towards the sofa, then leaping on top of it and curling up in a way that’s more catlike than wolf.

Bastard, John thinks without heat. You utter, utter bastard.

He could wank himself now; only a stroke or two would do, as wound up as he is. Sherlock probably wouldn’t bother to stop him.

But of course John won’t. John will stay right where he is, so turned-on that shame is a distant memory, his cock hard and drooling on the carpet, until Sherlock wants his arse again.

It won’t be long now, he knows. It never is, during the full moon.

*

“Anything on the website?” John asks. He’s curled on his side on the sofa: a failed attempt to keep the come from leaking out his arse and all over the cushion. It dribbles out anyway, joining the long-dried streaks on his thighs.

Everything hurts. His muscles ache; the teeth and claw marks sting; he has carpet burn on his hands and knees; and the next time he goes to the toilet will be a nightmare.

He probably stinks something awful as well, but Sherlock, seated beside him, doesn’t seem to notice.

“Nothing interesting,” Sherlock answers with a scowl.

“Mm.” John stretches contentedly and tucks his feet beneath Sherlock’s thighs.