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Fill - part 11/17 anonymous October 27 2010, 20:17:34 UTC
John teased him and finger-fucked him for what felt like long minutes, and when Sherlock was sobbing with pleasure and reduced to groaning ’Please’ (when he could get his voice under control at all), John slid up his body to settle his weight on Sherlock, pressing kisses into the nape of his neck. Arching his back, Sherlock felt John’s erection sliding hard between his buttocks, and a second later one of John’s hands gripped his erection and Sherlock felt John pushing into him, slowly but insistently stretching him open.

When Sherlock could feel the rough crush of hair against the skin of his buttocks, John nuzzled his ear. ‘Mine,’ he breathed, and Sherlock could only nod. He felt utterly dominated by John, pinned efficiently between the mattress and John’s weight on his back, John’s forearms resting either side of Sherlock’s shoulders where he was bracing himself up and John’s knees tucked inside his own, holding his legs apart. And yet he felt oddly cherished too - John’s cock was filling him completely, the feeling teetering on that fine line between over-stimulation and pleasure, but John himself was dropping little kisses along Sherlock’s neck and up the side of his face, and murmuring ‘mine’.

Twisting his head round, Sherlock groaned, ‘Okay. You could… move now… if you want…’ and John obeyed. Gently at first, gradually increasing in speed and force until Sherlock was propping himself up on his hands and knees, head hanging as John rocked into him, angling his hips carefully so that every thrust stimulated Sherlock’s prostate.

It felt good, naturally, but Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure he could come again, seeing as how he had already had one mind-altering orgasm that evening. Most of his attention was focussed on John - the way that John’s fingers were leaving bruises where John was gripping his hips, and the way that John had started audibly panting, clearly ready to come again. Just as Sherlock was wondering vaguely why John was holding back when he was so clearly near orgasm, John sat back on his heels, pulling Sherlock back with him so that Sherlock was sitting in his lap, his back snugly against John’s chest. John’s cock felt larger inside him at this angle, and Sherlock was so distracted by the feeling that he almost missed John groaning breathlessly against his ear: ‘Want you to come again.’

‘Oh God,’ Sherlock moaned, squeezing his eyes closed as John’s arm snaked around his waist and John started to thrust steadily up into him, ‘I don’t think I can…’

‘Yes you can,’ John coaxed firmly, his other hand snaking down to curl around Sherlock’s erection. ‘Come on…I want to see you come…’

Sherlock let his head fall back onto John’s shoulder, unable to hold it up any longer. It oughtn’t to be possible - he had already come once tonight - but he could feel it starting, feel his nipples tightening and the pleasure cresting inside him…

As he came for the second time he actually wailed aloud, toes curling and back arching, dimly aware of a stinging sensation where John was sucking another love bite into the nape of his neck, thrusting hard into him and possibly coming again, Sherlock was honestly too out of his mind to tell.

Feeling as though all his bones had turned to liquid, Sherlock sprawled ungracefully on the mattress, John following him down and managing at the last minute to avoid crushing him. Closing his eyes and sucking in deep lungfuls of air, Sherlock dared to hope that that was John’s limit - he didn’t think he would survive much more of John’s ‘strong urge to procreate’. By God, the man hadn’t been exaggerating.

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Fill - part 12/17 anonymous October 27 2010, 20:19:41 UTC
When he opened his eyes, it was to see John watching him intently before moving in purposefully, but it was for a kiss that was infinitely gentler than anything that had gone on previously. John’s mouth moved softly against his own and Sherlock slid closer, nudging a thigh between John’s and sliding an arm around his waist. His thigh brushed against John’s cock and Sherlock’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline as he found that good God, John was already half-hard again.

But this time John wasn’t pushing Sherlock’s hand down towards his groin, or muttering filthy commands against Sherlock’s mouth. Instead he was lying pliant against Sherlock, smoothing his hand down Sherlock’s back, and when Sherlock brushed his fingers along the length of John’s cock, John made a soft, helpless noise in the back of his throat.

Acting on instinct, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John’s length and began to stroke him, draping a leg heavily across John’s thighs to keep him immobilised just in case John decided that this had to be mutual again (Sherlock didn’t think he could survive any more of John’s intense focus that night). But he needn’t have worried - John wasn’t struggling or reaching for him, John was content to lie submissively on his back, gulping for breath and biting his lip at each particularly expert flutter of Sherlock’s fingers. Pulling away, Sherlock propped himself up on one arm and looked down into John’s face, flushed hectically as his erratic breaths shook his chest. John’s temples were wet with sweat and he had half-twisted his face away from Sherlock who found himself drawn, almost magnetically, to the tempting arch of John’s throat. He lowered his mouth to where he could see John’s pulse, leaping and fluttering just below his skin, and as his lips touched it John whimpered softly.

Look at him, a voice whispered in his head. Look at how much he wants this…how much he wants you. Leaving aside the fact that this is going to leave you sore in a dozen places tomorrow - and justifiably so, since you did coerce him into this - who do you think is really in control here? Who would be utterly destroyed if this secret came out?

Sherlock ran his tongue up John’s neck, loving John’s shaky gasp at his touch, and murmured in his ear, ‘Yours.’

As John groaned gently, his restless hands found Sherlock’s waist and clung to him with surprising force. ‘Sherlock…want you…’

‘You have me,’ Sherlock whispered in John’s ear. He reached up briefly to tangle his fingers with John’s, and brought their joined hands back down to John’s erection. ‘You have me, I’m here. Now come on… once more…’

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand tighter around his cock and started to stroke, fast and hard. As his face crumpled and his hips started to snap up into each stroke, clearly getting close, he arched his head back, baring his neck to Sherlock.

He’s showing you his throat. You know what that means.

When Sherlock bit down gently on John’s pulse point, John cried out harshly and his cock pulsed in their entwined fingers. Sherlock kept stroking him, milking out the last fading shivers of orgasm until John was trembling against him and his penis was softening in Sherlock’s grip.

John never really opened his eyes again afterwards, much to Sherlock’s relief as he himself was about five minutes from total collapse from exhaustion. Instead, John curled into Sherlock, already halfway to sleep, winding an arm around his waist and pressing his face into Sherlock’s collarbone in a way that made Sherlock’s hand settle automatically on the nape of John’s neck, caressing gently. The last thing Sherlock remembered before sleep claimed him was John burrowing against him, trying (against all possibility) to get closer, as though he wanted reassurance that Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere.

---

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Fill - part 13/17 anonymous October 27 2010, 20:21:01 UTC
The next morning, Sherlock was jolted to awareness by a loud clatter. He dragged open sleep-heavy eyes to see John, jumper sleeves pulled down over his hands, trying and failing to manipulate the silver cigarette case that had been lying forgotten on the desktop.

John swore under his breath and, when Sherlock flung out a hand and mumbled groggily, ‘Hang on a minute,’ John snarled at him.

‘Give me the fucking key, Sherlock. Now.’

As Sherlock leaned out of bed and stretched out a long arm for the case, John averted his eyes, looking unhappy. Snapping open the case Sherlock hesitated, eyeing John, and John spoke again. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to make a break for it. But unless you want me to take a piss in big glass flask over there and mess up your experiment, you need to give me the key.’

Silently, Sherlock handed it over, reasoning that John speaking the truth. He was hardly going to make a dash for it, dressed as he was in just his jumper and his boxers. But John looked miserable and wouldn’t meet his eyes as he muttered, ‘Thanks’ and fled the room.

Lying back in bed, Sherlock stretched cautiously. He felt like he’d been in a fight which, he supposed, wasn’t too far from the truth. His wrists were bruised from where John had been pinning him, his arms and shoulders were faintly sore (he remembered twisting against John’s grip, seconds from coming and wanting to free a hand to touch John as John growled warningly in his ear), as were the muscles in his stomach, courtesy of keeping his knees pulled up towards his chest for endless minutes while John licked and sucked at everything between his cock and the small of his back. The muscles in his thighs ached more than they ever had since his first fencing class and, when he sat up, he felt a familiar ache in his arse. Not painful, but definitely a slight tenderness, a reminder that he’d been well and truly fucked last night.

But all that was merely physical. Internally he felt…well, no bones about it, he felt glorious. He knew that it could be mostly attributed to the endorphin rush from a night of mind-blowing, if slightly over-enthusiastic, sex but it was also the feeling of having at last seen John with nothing held back, no barriers between them. Admittedly, he hadn’t exactly given the man a lot of choice but still. It was a heady, exuberant feeling.

After twenty minutes John still hadn’t returned, and Sherlock sighed. He rolled out of bed, gingerly, and pulled on his blue dressing gown. Knowing John, he had been expecting something like this the following morning; it had been part of the reason he had been so reluctant to let John out of his bedroom in case he decided to flee Baker Street entirely. Because whatever discomfort Sherlock might be feeling this morning, he knew that John’s would be ten times worse.

When Sherlock tapped gently on the bathroom door, a hoarse voice called, ‘It’s open,’ and when he pushed at it, it revealed John sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, his head in his hands. As Sherlock came to stand in front of him, reaching out a hand to touch John’s shoulder, John flinched away from him and muttered, ‘Look at you. My God, just look at yourself.’

In a rare display of obedience, Sherlock turned around to face the bathroom mirror and pulled open his dressing gown. He looked (there was no good way to phrase it) like he had been mauled. His mouth was still flushed and slightly swollen from kissing, and John had left three large and distinct love bites on his neck and countless other smaller ones scattered over his torso (Sherlock remembered John biting down hard on the back of his neck during his third orgasm last night, and was sure that if he found a small hand mirror he’d see a matching fourth mark over the topmost vertebra of his spine).

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Fill - part 14/17 anonymous October 27 2010, 20:22:05 UTC
There were a series of small bruises on his hips that perfectly matched the spread of John’s fingers, and when he shook the sleeves of his dressing gown back and examined himself, he found that the vague soreness in his wrists and forearms was manifesting itself as a dark bloom of bruises around his wrists and smaller ones up his forearms.

Deliberately casual, Sherlock shrugged. ‘I’ve got a polo neck I can wear.’

But John didn’t laugh. John leaned away from Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder as though it was a red-hot brand, and asked softly, ‘How can you be so casual about it? Look what I did to you. I’m so sorry. My God, I’m a monster-’

‘Oh hush,’ Sherlock said impatiently. ‘For God’s sake, don’t start apologising, or we’ll be here all day.’

‘But I am sorry. I shouldn’t have stayed.’

‘I made you stay. And anyway, you did nothing to me last night that I didn’t want.’

At that John did laugh. It was a sad, broken noise, but it was better than nothing.

‘It’s true,’ Sherlock insisted.

‘No it’s not. I appreciate the effort to make me feel better, but I remember last night. Everything about last night.’ John looked nauseous. ‘I remember…holding you down by your wrists, feeling you struggle and not letting you go. And then I just turned you over and grabbed your hips and-’ John stared down at his own hands, an expression of revulsion on his face.

Sherlock tried again to approach him, but John twisted away again and asked harshly, ‘How can you want to touch me this morning?’

‘Because I wanted it last night, all of it.’

‘Sherlock, even if you hadn’t, you couldn’t have stopped me. Don’t you understand that?’

‘Yes I could.’

‘No,’ John said tightly, ‘you really couldn’t have. You’re strong, I’ll give you that, but no human is stronger than a werewolf.’

The self-loathing in John’s voice was enough to make Sherlock say, ‘Bimorph.’

‘Call it whatever you like,’ John answered dully. ‘I’m a monster. And last night I rap-’

’Don’t,’ Sherlock cut him off sharply. ‘Enough. Don’t say that, don’t even think it, because it’s not true, do you hear me? I wanted it, I wanted you, all of you, and I could have made you stop at any time. I just chose not to.’

‘And I keep telling you, it’s not possible for a human to overpower a werewolf.’

Now John sounded annoyed. Well, good. Anything was better than that thin-voiced man who cowered in his own bathroom and refused to let Sherlock touch him.

‘I think you’ll find it’s possible when one has a silver-bladed dagger in the bedside table.’

John looked up at him, his anguished expression wiped away completely by pure shock, and Sherlock took advantage of John’s lowered guard to slide neatly into his lap, sitting across his thighs and continued, ‘Silver’s not a good material for blades; ornamental paper knives are about the limit. It’s too soft to take much of an edge. But then, I wouldn’t have needed much of a one to do you a serious injury, would I?’

Dumbly, John shook his head and Sherlock smiled smugly. ‘That cigarette case wasn’t the only thing I bought yesterday.’ He rested his hands on John’s shoulders and squeezed, trying to massage away the tension in the muscles. ‘So you see I could have made you back off any time I wanted. I just didn’t choose to. Does that help?’

Slowly, hesitatingly, he felt John’s arms come up and wrap themselves gently around his waist. ‘Yes,’ John admitted quietly, ‘yes, that helps. Are you going to keep it there in future?’

Uncharacteristically, Sherlock paused before answering, wanting to give the right answer more than he ever had before in his life before he realised that this was John, and as such there was only one response he could give.

‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘always. I promise.’

John buried his face against Sherlock’s chest, over his heart, and sighed. ‘Thank you.’

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Fill - part 15/17 anonymous October 27 2010, 20:23:53 UTC
They sat like that for a long time. Sherlock’s fingers stroked through John’s dishevelled hair and John’s arms tightened around his waist, holding him firmly in his lap. The sore muscles in Sherlock’s thighs were protesting loudly at the awkward position and his toes were getting cold against the bathroom tiles, but he didn’t suggest moving.

When, finally, Sherlock’s stomach growled, John lifted his head to smile faintly at him. A real smile, that reached all the way up to eyes that were undeniably exhausted but definitely less haunted than just half an hour ago.

‘Hungry?’

‘Starving.’ Sherlock bent his head for a gentle, lingering kiss, feeling the slight sting in his lower lip where John had bitten it last night, and didn’t pull away until John’s eyes had drifted shut with pleasure and he had parted his lips to brush his tongue softly against Sherlock’s own. After a final press of his lips to John’s forehead, Sherlock stood and held out a hand to John. ‘Come on. Breakfast. You know I can never make tea as well as you do.’

---

Afterwards, Sherlock found that the indications of John’s real nature were everywhere, if one only looked for them. For example, John had a habit of cocking his head to the side when listening attentively or concentrating hard on something; not an uncommon habit, true, but now whenever Sherlock saw it he couldn’t stop thinking what a very lupine trait it was.

Another of John’s subconscious habits was, when trying to calm Sherlock from an argument with himself or with Scotland Yard, a tendency to show his throat. Quite literally, in fact: twisting his head around to look at something else off to the side and baring the smooth, sun-tanned line of his neck as he muttered pacifying words and refused to meet Sherlock’s furious glare. The gesture usually worked, too. Not because of the primitive symbolism of the act, but because every time Sherlock saw that expanse of skin he remembered pressing his face into it and biting down as John whimpered and thrust helplessly up into his touch. Needless to say, the resulting heat that always coiled low in Sherlock’s stomach was more than enough to distract him from whatever had annoyed him.

Almost a month later they were at a crime scene - a body had been found in the long grass near what (at first glance) Sherlock took to be a building site. After he had made his own examination, calling out deductions to Lestrade as he went, he had watched John pace around the body and noticed that while John’s movements had all their usual tightly-controlled grace and fluidity, there was an unusual rigidity to his shoulders and lines of tension etched into his face. Moving to John’s side, Sherlock rested a hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly, ‘What is it?’

He wasn’t quite sure what he had expected John to tell him - some detail about the body that he had overlooked, he supposed - but was unprepared for John to mutter, ‘We’re in a churchyard.’

Well, yes, I suppose we are.’ When Sherlock looked over his shoulder, he could see that that half-built walls in the distance (that he had barely glanced at before dismissing as some sort of construction project) were actually tumble-down church walls. He could even see an occasional pointed Gothic arch that had remained intact against the march of time. And when he looked in the long grass he could see, dotted here and there, gravestones that were almost completely obscured under moss and lichens. ‘Looks like it was bombed in the second World War and never re-built. Do you think there’s a religious motivation to the killing?’

’Sherlock!’ growled John under his breath. ‘It’s a churchyard! Hallowed ground!’

‘Oh. Oh.’ Sherlock’s grip on John’s shoulder suddenly tightened in comprehension. ‘I didn’t think that was a problem for you; we’ve walked through church grounds before. And this has been abandoned for decades, by the look of it…’

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Fill - part 16/17 anonymous October 27 2010, 20:25:16 UTC
‘Doesn’t matter if it’s abandoned,’ John gritted out. ‘I’m not actually forbidden to come here but it just feels…wrong. I need to leave. Now.’

Instantly Sherlock said, ‘Of course’ and whirled around. ‘Lestrade, you’ve got the information, and also my number. I’d start by talking to the dead man’s family - he was a large, muscular man and yet he was killed without a struggle, indicating it was someone he trusted. John and I are leaving.’

‘Right.’ Lestrade looked confused. Sherlock wasn’t usually in the habit of passing up chances to interrogate grieving relatives, manners be damned. But then usually he didn’t have an edgy werewolf pacing at his side; if John were in his wolf form then Sherlock would be that all his hackles would be standing up. Full moon was in a couple of days and Sherlock could almost see John’s other nature simmering under the surface, making him irritable and on edge. John had promised Sherlock (after a long argument) that this month he would stay at Baker Street during the night of full moon, and Sherlock didn’t want to push his luck.

Right now, the problem wasn’t that John would lose his temper and snap at someone, it was more that he wouldn’t. Venting his annoyance at someone would actually have helped John, but he was always so careful about keeping a rein on his temper around full moon, and the way it made him tense up made Sherlock’s own shoulders ache in sympathy.

As they walked away from the crime scene, Anderson took one look at the pair of them - at John’s thunderous expression and Sherlock’s unusual silence - and arched an eyebrow in sarcastic enquiry. ‘You two had a little domestic?’

All of Scotland Yard now knew that they were together; the love bites on Sherlock’s neck had still been clearly visible three days after the full moon when they had received a call from Lestrade, and they had had to put up with a certain amount of good-natured teasing from the squad. Usually, John didn’t mind it, but this time he turned on Anderson, crowding into his space with an angry huff of breath and snarled, ‘And what is it to you if we have?’

‘I…’ Anderson’s eyes were wide with shock and he actually took a step backwards, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. Sherlock didn’t blame him - John was supposed to be the calm one who broke up arguments between Sherlock and Anderson, not the other way around, but now John’s shoulders were tight and he was glaring at Anderson as though he would like nothing better than to go straight for the jugular. ‘John, mate, sorry, I was only-’

‘Yeah, well, don’t. It’s none of your fucking business anyway.’

Before Anderson could pull himself together enough to formulate a reply, Sherlock grabbed John’s arm. ‘Not now, John, we’re going for lunch. You’re hungry, and you know how irritable you get when it’s your time of the month.’

It worked. John stopped squaring up to Anderson, turned a mortified scarlet and said ’Sherlock!’ in a strangled voice, Anderson fairly goggled at the pair of them in a display of ‘you two are even weirder than I thought’, and Lestrade looked baffled, because vaguely sexist innuendo wasn’t usually part of Sherlock’s repertoire.

But, as he drew John away, Sherlock felt too giddy to care. He had John pacing warm and solid beside him, it was a waxing gibbous and he was confident that tomorrow night or the night after he was going to get shagged absolutely senseless. John would feel bad about it in the morning, of course, John always did when he saw the marks that his rough style of passion left on Sherlock’s pale skin, but Sherlock had his own ways of dealing with that.

---

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Fill - part 17/17 anonymous October 27 2010, 20:29:26 UTC
As John perused the menu in a Chinese restaurant (John liked it when they shared food, Sherlock imagined that the sociable, ‘pack’ nature of the act reassured him on some subconscious level), John murmured, ‘I do wish you wouldn’t say things like that. It’s not subtle.’

‘Oh, relax. No-one will ever guess, and who would believe us anyway?’

Sherlock leaned on the table, his menu under his folded arms. He had already decided what he wanted. One of John’s conditions for staying at Baker Street for the coming full moon had been that, case or no case, Sherlock had to eat properly and get enough sleep for the days preceding it so that he would be up to the ordeal of being kept awake all night by an amorous bimorph in need of reaffirming their partnership. It was utterly ridiculous - any time John felt like devoting himself body and soul to pleasuring Sherlock for hours on end then Sherlock would always be available, food and sleep be damned - but it was touching, really, the way John worried about him and Sherlock decided to indulge him.

As he looked around at the artistic framed calligraphy on the walls, Sherlock thought that he might try to learn Mandarin or Cantonese. It would stop him getting bored in between cases, and it would certainly impress John if he could order in the language.

The young waitress came over to take their order, and John showed her his best, politest ‘not-a-werewolf-at-all’ smile as he asked for chicken with cashew nuts, raising his voice to repeat himself when the doors to the kitchen banged open and let out the crash of crockery and a fragrant cloud of savoury-smelling steam.

The girl turned to Sherlock.

‘I’d like the pork with ginger-’ Sherlock began, but stopped when he felt a gentle kick on his ankle. He looked up. John was, to all intents and purposes, admiring one of the watercolour paintings on the wall and refused to meet Sherlock’s querying glance, but he shook his head ever so slightly. Sherlock turned back to the waitress and smiled brightly. ‘Actually, sorry, changed my mind. Beef with green peppers and black bean sauce, please.’

After she had left, Sherlock stretched out his legs to rest companionably against John’s as he looked at him. ‘Not the pork?’

‘Not the pork.’ John looked at him, the ghost of a twinkle in his eye and his calf pressing warmly against Sherlock. ‘You’re so thin already, I didn’t think you could afford to lose any more weight to food poisoning.’

‘Really?’ Sherlock was impressed, despite living with John’s secret for a month now and seeing first-hand how it affected John’s everyday life.

Instead of replying, John merely tapped his nose with a long forefinger. It was an innocuous enough gesture to anyone who might have been watching - not out of place between friends - but carrying a whole other meaning for their partnership, and the secret, bubbling delight of being co-conspirators left Sherlock grinning foolishly during the whole of their shared meal and the walk home.

--End--

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Re: Fill - part 17/17 anonymous October 27 2010, 20:34:18 UTC
GLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

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Re: Fill - part 17/17 darthhellokitty October 27 2010, 21:29:53 UTC
This is INCREDIBLY HOT - I love how this isn't just a werewolf fic, but it's also about relationship, trust, discovery, VERY HOT SEX - all of it!

The sex is epic and awesome. Sherlock with bruises all over the next day - ngh!!!!!

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Re: Fill - part 17/17 azure_horizon October 28 2010, 00:53:06 UTC
so much hot.
Yes, I do love this. John's reactions... Sherlock not over-reacting to John's reactions and actually trying to help him... A very mature Sherlock who is in touch with his emotioms is brilliant. Thank you for the glorious read!

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Re: Fill - part 17/17 one_windiga October 28 2010, 01:03:22 UTC
AMAZING. AMAZING AMAZINGNESS THAT AMAZES ME. Amusing, touching, believable, and so very sexy. The part that just slays me is when Sherlock promises to keep the knife. Oh, John...

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Re: Fill - part 17/17 ferretmalfoy November 2 2010, 03:39:44 UTC
This? Is the best thing in my life!

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Re: Fill - part 17/17 anonymous November 6 2010, 00:11:20 UTC
Bloody hell (in an entirely good way). This is fantastic.

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Re: Fill - part 17/17 anonymous November 17 2010, 18:57:35 UTC
A werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand? Afterward, do they go for a piña colada at Trader Vics?

This was hot. Astoundingly.

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Re: Fill - part 17/17 iwanturhorror December 2 2010, 13:06:36 UTC
This is incredible! MY GOD I loved every second of it. The SMUT - well that was just brilliant but I just love how you laid out the entire story. Very well written!

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Re: Fill - part 17/17 lupus_malus December 14 2010, 20:05:26 UTC
Nice work. Me and my username love this fic!

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