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pricegouge · 13 days

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Fatted Rabbit Part Ten on AO3

Part One

bearshifter!price x reader | explicit

John's not sure if he has ever in his life felt so impotent. The fact that it's some human man potentially states away that has him so twisted only serves to further his downward spiral, causing him to forget to even feed himself for whole days, which only darkens his mood. He starts lashing out at the new employees, would feel like a right arse about it if he were capable of anything other than frustration and the general itchiness of another bull encroaching on his area.

Explicit sexual content ahead. If you didn't sign up for the following, go ahead and skip from "---" to the next "---"

cw: oral sex (f receiving), penetrative sex, and squirting. Also, allusions to past SA (bunny get's a little freaked out about being touched at one point but they figure it out quick)

Would that it were. If he could just sniff Phil out and gore him, sift through viscera and fat to find the rich, dark tissue of his vital bits, he'd have done this by now. But John has no scent. Doesn't even have a last name. Can't even ask for one without good reason, which he's in short supply of this week. He's tetchy and twitchy, barely listening to the trainee's questions before snapping incorrect answers at them. He only realizes his mistakes much later, when the senior staff returns to demand things like, 'since when?' and, 'fucking, why?' He steps out back every hour for a smoke, nearly bites his own fingers off to avoid texting his bunny. He can't blame her for wanting some space, but good luck explaining that to his bear.

He spends his days penned behind the bar, letting Soap keep the customers occupied so John can take his aggression out on every type of citrus known to man until the larders are overflowing with ugly, hacked up orange slices which Soap steadfastly refuses to comment on. He keeps his silence well, in fact, never once asking what's on John's mind although John can see those good bartender instincts vibrating under the surface, desperate to sit Price down with something strong in one hand and a chisel in the other, really get to the core of him. John knows he should cut the man some slack, subject himself to Soap's particular brand of mother henning just to build some camaraderie. Instead, he audits receipts without fully remembering how numbers work.

He attends a bloody small business committee meeting, gets told he has to add some curb appeal. He makes a note of it instead of biting the chairperson's head off, and deletes it immediately with a vindictive curl of his lip. The commerce building has the kind of stale, uncycled air quality that only a government establishment can. He stews in body odor and reheated leftovers for hours, only realizing why it had bothered him so much when he steps outside and takes the full force of his mate's scent like a brick in the face. Christ, she's been near recently. She smells good, clean and well fed. The heavy scent of her estrus is gone, replaced instead with the strong, masculine scent of -

Oh, holiest of holies; luteinising hormone, impending storm that you are.

He keeps himself confined to the walk-in the rest of the day, detailing already-clean shelving as an excuse to huff bleach solution - the only scent strong enough to keep his rabbit's at bay now that he knows her heat is imminent. Every time he steps outside he can smell her, has to white knuckle his bear back into submission. His mate, going into heat. Keeping herself away from him, walking around town smelling like that, all while another boar looms to the south.

If he'd been irritable before, he's downright inconsolable now.

John liked to pride himself on the knowledge that he probably knew what most things felt like. Afterall, it's not every human who can slough his skin off at the end of the day and become a whole new species. But this is new. It's worse than a rut, truly. At least in a rut he could fuck a pillow or something when in dire straits, but this - subject to another's instincts, unable to appease the bottomless well of want he can smell in the air like the lingering spores of dry rot. It's dangerous to indulge; worse yet to ignore. He'd meant it when he'd said she could run him ragged for a year if she wanted, and dammit he still did, but he hadn't considered this collusion of events. It left him untethered. Completely unhinged.

He's been visiting her nearly every night just to keep himself sane, but it doesn't do much good now, his bear gone so fucking basal he can barely remember their interactions the next day. He gets vague sense memories the next morning: smell, mostly; glass cleaner coating his tongue. Not much more. So it strikes him as odd when his bear allows a moment of clarity a few nights later. He doesn't know what to do with her words right then, but he wakes up hard and desperate, remembers her sad eyes when she admits she's not used to getting what she wants, cums all across his own chest when he realizes she means him, respecting her boundaries, how she wants him to reach out. Who is he to refuse?

***

He nearly mauls her when she climbs down out of her Jeep the following Monday, her scent fucking lethal. She's got on that same thin sweater she'd worn on their first date, nipples just barely evident in the brisk morning air. Her tits are fuller; lips, too. They yield under his own deliciously when he kisses her in greeting. A little too desperately, if the way she laughs sweetly against his mouth is any indication. Still, she doesn't pull away and John presses his luck, glancing around to make sure they're relatively alone. It's a small garden center, but crowded with like-minded patrons eager to get their spring planting done. His rabbit's got a knack for picking quiet corners of lots, though, so when he spots no prying eyes, he walks her back the half step needed to press her soft bum against the door, cradles her face with one hand as the other rests on the roof of her car.

"You look nice," he tells her in between kisses. "Missed you." He slips some tongue into his next kiss, pulls back like he's afraid he might have scalded her when he suddenly remembers the whole reason he'd had to miss her was 'cause she'd wanted space. "That okay?"

"Yes. Yes, definitely." Breathy, tits heaving ever so slightly. He gives her a smile like she personally hung the moon, then kisses her a little less innocently, humming happily into her mouth when her timid little hands find his belly. He doesn't pull away until her breaths come heavy through her nose, pushing her soft chest up into his. He doesn't go far when he does, either. Rests his forehead against hers, content to breathe the same air as her for a moment.

"Good to see you, too," she eventually jokes and John chuckles at himself, kisses her on the bridge of her nose, right between the eyes, before stepping away from her completely.

"Sorry bunny, couldn't help myself." He eyes her over suggestively, noting how her nipples have hardened further in the absence of his body heat. Emboldened, he reaches out and pinches one ever so gently, chuffing happily at the squawk she emits.

"Shit, are they really that bad?" She frets, crossing her arms over her ample chest. Squished, her tits fold prettily over her soft arms. He barely has enough higher brain function to note that she didn't necessarily tell him to stop - though his brain seems to have its priorities straight, running that bit of information up the flagpole so high it probably displaces 'keep breathing' for a moment.

"Don't think so… let me see again?"

He must nail the delivery because she unfolds her arms for his assessment without any hint of suspicion.

"Not bad at all," John rumbles, earning a surprised laugh.

"You're ridiculous. Lemmie grab a flannel or something, hold on." She turns to head toward the boot but John pins her with his hip, already removing his own thick button up. She humors him; doesn't even need to say anything as she takes it from him with an eyebrow raised.

"Ridiculous, remember?"

"How could I forget?" She smirks, letting him help her into it. It hangs past her arse, unfortunately, but can't be buttoned past her diaphragm because she's so lovely and full. She looks briefly embarrassed by that so John tucks a finger under the neckline to pull it away ever so slightly and grins like an idiot at the view he gets a peek of. She swats his hand away but she's smiling again so John counts it as a win. Ignoring his antics, she asks if he's sure he won't be cold without his flannel and he can't help but snort as he guides her toward the greenhouse, arms linked. "I'll be fine, bunny."

"Mm. Must be nice having your own pelt." She rubs her soft palm over his hairy arm and he damn near purs.

He'll have to save a skin for her next time he transforms. He can't gift it to her yet, unfortunately - bear pelts are quite costly and he knows her well enough by now to know she'd never accept if she thought he'd bought it. But later, when they're mated properly and she knows all his secrets… he pictures her laid out on his bed, buried under piles of his very flesh, pleasing herself as she scents him.

"Yes, well." John clears his throat. "Cuddle up and share the warmth, yeah?"

She complies easily, tucking herself under his arm happily; oblivious to his inner turmoil. "Didn't know you were such a green thumb," she says conversationally and John snorts, pressing a kiss to the crown of her hair.

"M'not. HOA of small businesses said I needed to add curb appeal. Boot shop across the road suggested plants."

"Ah, I see. Well, that'll be cute. You looking for like… hanging baskets? Planters? I don't think you'd have enough space but you'd probably trap more tourists if you did an herb-veggie garden thing to use in-house."

John blinks, pulls her impossibly closer, can't help the borderline cruel smile curling his lips. "You a gardener?"

"Well, not really anymore. Gardening in Dallas is a bit like trying to water spinach when it's already in the pan. And I don't really have the yard space now," she chuckles. "But I used to, back home."

"Clever rabbit can grow her own clover, eh? I could set up something on the roof for an herb garden… maybe do veggies out by the brewery…"

"Well that sounds like a lot of work if all you need is curb appeal."

"Sure, but it's smart. And if I put the beds closer to the outer wall on the roof, they would be visible from the street."

"Added privacy," the rabbit tacks on, stepping away from him to eye some overlarge ferns. John grins after her. Food and privacy. She's already improving his den. "Anyway, what are you thinking for the curb itself? You have a pretty masculine style going on in there; keep it green? You open to color?"

"I'm thinking I brought the right person for the job." He waves his hand at her. "Whatever you think, bunny, go crazy."

Her eyes drift off to some topiaries before snapping back to him. "Is this like a company expense? What's the spending limit?"

John barks with laughter. "Said go crazy, didn't I?"

She hoofs it to the topiaries and John heads off in search of a flatbed.

***

It's a good thing he'd had the foresight to bring the cargo van. He winds up with matching topiaries to put on either side of the door, enough hanging ferns to dot the spaces between the windows, dressing for the window stools, and plenty of box planters to top the concrete wall the sections off the patio seating from the street. ("Are those yours or the city's? You should have someone paint them if you can.")

John just nods along when prompted, tells her he prefers warm tones to cool, and smells as many flowers as he can in an attempt to keep her scent at bay.

It doesn't work. She's not in a true heat, he can tell now - must be on the pill -, but her hormones are still out of control and while he logistically knows he's the only one who can smell her wet cunt, the urge to get her cock drunk and satiated, so full up of his seed no challengers will ever mistake her for an unmated sow again is damn near out of control. At least he avoids taking her in the employee's tool shed like a randy teen.

Inside, by the register, she chats with the clerk about planting options regarding the herbs she wants to get started when she doesn't even have a bed made for them, yet. John distracts himself by perusing the small collection of indoor plants disinterestedly, heavy mit dragging along springy leaves while he keeps an eye on his girl. Until a coarse, hairy, jumble of roots has him yanking his hand away on instinct, glowering down at the gnarled plant in question.

It's an ugly thing, at first glance. Dark leaves hiding twisted aerial roots which resemble tarantula legs - thick and furry, they amble directionless, giving them the uncanny appearance of being in possession of too many joints. John drags a finger over a root again, curiously, and is disappointed to find the fur hard and itchy. He huffs at it, not strictly human, affronted by the highly inedible looking greenery in front of him. He fishes out the placard, morbidly curious what the hell this thing could be - and nearly cracks his face in half with the size of his grin.

"Bunny, look," he calls as he approaches. "It's perfect."

"Oh my god! My grandmother used to have one of those. I forgot all about it. What is this th -?" she rolls her eyes up to him when she reads the tag, unimpressed frown firmly in place.

"Oh, a rabbit's foot fern!" the clerk she'd been talking to coos. "And our last one, I think. Great find!"

"Don't encourage him," the rabbit grouses just as John thanks her, putting his find on the counter. "Are you really buying that?"

"The lady said it was a good find," he smirked.

"It's dry as a bone! I'm not sure it'll make it."

"Oh these things are quite hardy, for ferns. Just water well and keep it humid, those roots'll soften up in no time."

"Those things get softer?"

It's bunny who answers, fussing with a crunchy root all the while. "Yeah, they look like tarantula legs when they're thirsty, but they do indeed look soft as a rabbit when healthy."

"They're quite cool," the clerk adds as she begins scanning. "Can live forever if treated well, too. I've got one that my mother bought in the eighties."

John hums, pressing a kiss into the rabbit's temple. "Be sure to do that, then."

***

She's not done making him wait; completely oblivious to his struggles. "You're not doing my gardening for me, bunny," he tries, but she's stubborn and despite his impatience, seeing her toil away at his den soothes something in him. Doesn't mean it's not torture watching her work, bent over and kneeling on the ground, dirty up to her elbows in soil. He helps her as much as he knows how; keeps her plied with water and berries instead when she sends him and his black thumbs away. She lets him feed her a few times, the pad of his thumb lingering on her lips.

"Are you really not mad at me?" She asks eventually, attempting to rub dirt off her cheek but only serving to smudge it more with her dirty fingers.

John frowns down at her for a moment. "What on earth for?"

She shrugs. "Leaving for a few days, I guess?"

"Oh, honey. No. Told you you could take all the time in the world." And then, when that strange instinct which takes over for him when she's being flighty rears its head, "That's not why you're doing all this, is it?"

A beat.

Too long. She's just starting to shrug when John's extending a hand down to her. "Up you get, bunny. I'm not -." Phil "That's not -." Phil "Let's go inside. Get you cleaned up."

"But we're -."

"It's enough, sweetheart. We can finish tomorrow if you want. For now, let's get you cleaned up." ---

They don't make it that far. A kiss to her temple, a sigh of contentment, muddy fingers mark the nape of John's neck. She says they'll get his sheets dirty and John laughs 'that's the point.'

They leave a trail of her clothes to his bedroom. He peels the layers off reverently, bites the apples of her dimpled flesh so lightly she just chuckles at him, calls him a weirdo when he licks his own drool off her tits. He can't help it, tongue heavy with lust and hunger.

He gets her on her belly first, big soft ass tilted up at him by the still-clothed arm he's got wrapped under her, free hand spreading her cheek wide enough he can press his face into the seam of her. He snuffles in there, groaning at her scent, tongue seeking out the very back of her cunt and working the fluttery skin. "Fuck," he hears her hiss, reaching her hand back to sink her fingers into his short hair. He tries looking up at her, discovers he's already too far buried in the globes of her ass to do so, and groans again.

Laying out fully now, his weight pinning her legs, John keeps kneading her flesh to grant himself better access. He drops until he can take her lips into his mouth, sucking on them and coating his tongue in the slick that clings to the soft flesh. She tastes better than she smells, somehow. He tilts his head and opens his mouth wide enough he can gently dig his teeth into her puffy vulva and she moans prettily so he stays there, tongue lapping at her folds and groaning. She's so wet - a bottomless spring. John thinks he could drink from her forever.

"Fuck, honey. All this for me?" He teases, retreating only enough to pull her folds open with his thumb so he can lick a fat stripe right over her glistening hole. "You spoil me."

"John, fuck -. I want -."

"Want what, honey?" He doesn't think she can hear him, the way he's making out with her cunt when he speaks, but she gets the sentiment anyway.

"More, please, John, I need -." She cuts herself off with a moan when he spits on her and gives up words altogether, electing instead to reach under herself and take his hand from her hip, forcing it down between her legs.

Never one to deny her anything, he chuckles against her skin as he complies, breath hot where it traps in her cute little curls. Shifting his weight, he spreads one of her legs just enough to give himself room to work which he does immediately, curling two fingers up to her hole to gather slick and framing her clit with them. "That it, baby?" he asks, biting the crease where her ass meets her thigh gently. "Don't like when I tease you? Just need it right here, huh?" He drags his thumb down her slit again, holding her folds and flesh out of the way so he can see exactly what he's doing to her, notes precisely what makes her twitch. When his fingers pull her hood back fully and his thumb brushes her raw clit and she seizes up like she's been shocked, he places a soothing kiss against her ass.

"Alright, sweetheart, I'll play nice," he coos; and then very much doesn't.

Keeping her clit's pretty little veil fully retracted, John buries his nose in her cunt - right in the core of her, source of all his anxieties - and kisses her bare little pearl bruisingly. He licks and sucks and slurps, lets his lips vibrate against her when he hums approvingly at her own noises. She tries to buck him off a few times but he just winds his free hand around her hips as well to keep her close, settles himself more firmly across her legs to keep her pinned. It's a struggle to breathe like this, but he'd be content to die here if it came to that so he stays put, sucking in ragged breaths when she manages to pull away just enough to fuck herself back onto him.

When her cunt starts fluttering around him he tilts his head to the side to make room for the free hand he pulls back out from under her and dips the very tips of two fingers into her, tickling the edges of the inner lips there. She damn near sobs, thick thighs struggling to lift both their weight enough to bring him into herself. John pulls away with a cruel scrape of teeth against her clit, chuckling when she threatens to shake apart. "Need something, sweetheart?"

"Christ, John, just fuck me, please," she begs, too lucid. That won't do.

"Ask nice," he counters, spitting on her clit and lapping at it, letting his motions carry long enough that it drags his lip and beard across the sensitive little thing as well. She shutters, cunt clenching around his first knuckles. His cock slots between her calves and he uses his own legs to keep hers pressed together so he can fuck down into the channel he's created. She's soft there, too, a much needed contrast to the bite of his trousers.

"John, please. Please fuck me, please. Want to feel you."

He hums in thought, never once entertaining the idea. "Gotta stretch you first, sweetheart. Get you nice and loose. Too tight to take me like this." To prove his point, he bullies his fingers into her in one long stroke. She hisses something that might be a curse, swollen lips falling open as he keeps pressing into her. She's wet enough to take him, but too tense, and he tongues the rim of her when she clenches tight.

"See? Gotta take care of you first, right honey?"

She nods, eyes glazing over a bit, and John hides his smile in her arse before licking his way back down to her throbbing clit.

He plays with her a while longer, returns to the aimless licking and sucking that's less designed to get her off and more designed to get her wet and frustrated. By the time her clenching around his fingers is timed to keep him in more so than out, John's discovered she quite likes a little bit of teeth and he's got her vulva so swollen with love bites and kisses he's distantly worried her cute little knickers will hurt her when he finally lets her put them back on. All the while, she just takes it; moaning prettily and huffing in frustration by turns. Someday she'll realize he can't deny her anything and she'll beg so sweetly when he gets her like this. But for now, she doesn't know what kind of power she has over him so just lays there, incapacitated, sighing and groaning, letting him make a mess of her.

It's the third finger that does it. Where they'd been languid and teasing only moments ago, she's jittery and desperate now, trying to rock herself back onto him with what little leverage she has. He takes pity on her, his own need drawing tighter as well. "You wanna cum, baby?" he asks, voice surprisingly tender considering how deep it's fallen.

"Please, John, please," she babbles, calves flexing under him as she wiggles in anticipation.

"Show me then," he prompts, and drags her hood back from her clit to suck at it happily, bullying a spot deep inside her that makes her breathing go wet and ragged.

"John! Fuck -. Jesus, I -." The moan she lets out when he hardens his tongue and flicks it against her is filthy so John carries on like that. Her fingers have slid from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck and he'd like to see her like that, all bowed and twisted to keep him where she needs him, but he's also quite content with the view he has here so he digs himself impossibly deeper and presses the heel of his palm against her lower belly and -.

She drenches him, moans loud and erratic, simultaneously trying to flinch away from him and keep him pressed against the veritable font she's become. "Shit," John hisses, using his grip to bow her back impossibly more so he can take most of the flow to his chest. He works her through it, can't resist lapping at her with fat stripes of his tongue which leave his mouth full. He's soaked, beard wet and dripping, shirt probably ruined. She's a panting, writhing mess by the time he relents, too fucked out to even keep herself propped up anymore, face buried in his pillow.

It takes him a moment to realize she's muttering something, content as he is to catch his breath in the humid hinges of her joints. When he finally registers her quiet voice he climbs his way up her mountainous body, dropping kisses to freckles and stretch marks. "Wassat, honey?" He asks her temple as he folds his arms under her body, cradling her to his chest as he lays out over her again.

She turns her head just enough to allow her voice to escape the pillow. "Said, 'sorry'."

John grunts, momentarily distracted from his mission to grope every inch of her tits. "Why you sorry, sweetheart?"

"Didn't mean to make a mess. Never done that before."

"Never?" He chuckles, choosing to ignore the fact she felt she needed to apologize so as not to lose his temper. "Nothing to be sorry about, honey. Quite liked it."

She peeks back at him. "You did?"

He hums, bites her cheek lightly. "I did. You can mark me anytime you want."

"Ew," she laughs and he joins her, kissing down her neck.

"You need a minute, bunny?"

She shakes her head, pushes at his forehead until he gives her enough room to roll over. He plasters himself to her front but she's quick to push him away again. "Can we get you out of these wet clothes?"

Sitting back on his shins, John pulls his shirt over his head and is delighted when her fingers immediately find the fur of his belly, taking a moment to pet him before helping with his belt. There's the usual tangle of limbs, made better by the soft body that yields to his weight when he has to dig his hips into her for leverage. After stripping him, she guides him with a hand at his hip onto his back and he goes easily, happy as can be to have her straddling his thighs.

"So bloody pretty, bunny." He gets a handful of her tits while she takes his measure, eyes slightly apprehensive but movements eager.

"See why you wanted to stretch me out," she says, and then reaches back to plant one hand on his thigh, giving her enough leverage to rub her soaked cunt up his length.

"Fuck,"> he hisses, palming her mons so he can get a better look. "That's it baby, get me good and wet."

Instead, she stops, eyes him over with those big prey eyes. He's back peddling frantically, palms sliding over her thighs soothingly, trying to find the words to bring her back when she grabs his hands, holds them with twitchy fingers for a moment. "Can I -," she starts, then slides up his forearms and leans forward to fold them over his head. "This okay?"

He's distantly aware there's something important being said here, but he's too distracted by her tits hanging in his face to say much beyond gruff agreement.

She smiles anyway. "Stay there," she instructs, then returns to her ministrations.

She's so wet he can hear it, the soft noises mingling with her huffy breaths. He grabs the bottom of the headboard, the temptation to reach out and guide her already testing him. It's torture, really - the way she presses his cock into her slick folds with the flat of her hand, watching her eyes flutter when the head of him catches on her entrance. He twitches and she sinks a centimeter, sighs at the stretch.

"Bunny," he hedges, but she shakes her head, pace tectonic as she rocks herself on the scrap of flesh she's found.

"Stay there," she says again, voice gone reedy. He groans but nods, readjusting his grip.

He must make for a pathetic sight because she takes pity, sinks another centimeter or so. She squeezes him so sweetly it's hard to contain his noises, and he's sure he sounds like a bellows when she starts rubbing her clit again, her walls fluttering around him.

"Do you mind it?" She asks and he huffs, not quite human.

"Mind it?"

She leans forward to plant her hands on his arms. He doesn't whimper when it pulls her near completely off his cock, he doesn't. "This?" She clarifies, squeezing the meat of his ulnas.

"Oh." He blinks, thoughts slow and sticky. He wants to touch her, but she put him like this because… because…

His tongue feels like it's stuck to the bottom of his mouth. "No, sweetheart. Whatever you need."

She smiles sadly down at him, adjusts her grip on his arms, then sinks fully down his length at an agonizingly slow pace.

"Fuck, baby." He makes no move to help her despite an overwhelming urge to grab two handfuls of ass and just fuck up into her.

Their height difference means she has to crowd over him to keep her hands planted. He leans up for a kiss and she obliges, rubs her clit against the hair at the base of his cock. He's so lost in the feeling of her it takes him a minute to realize she's holding back, hovering just above him when she should be smothering him.

"You're not gonna hurt me, bunny," he mutters into her mouth. She draws back a fraction of an inch to get a good look at him and he nods to where she's made room, just for him. "Sit on it. Properly."

"But -."

"Sit." He's careful to hide any lingering anger from his voice, lets her hear nothing but his desire. It works. She shivers and sinks fully onto him, lips parting as he notches perfectly against the very end of her. Made for each other. "Good rabbit. See how much better that is?"

"Deep," she says, about all she can manage.

He chuckles, maybe a little mean. "Right where you need me. Right where I'm s'posed to be. Ride me, rabbit. Show me how you like it."

She does: a slow grind that keeps him buried, barely raising herself off him. She leans forward more so than up. It keeps her sensitive little clit pressed close to his curls and has the added benefit of swinging her tits into his face. He latches on when the noises he makes venture too far from human, smothering his grunts in her soft flesh. He wants to bite her, mark her. Flip her onto the bed and scruff her while he fucks her from behind. He wants to tear the throat out of the man who came before him who's left her like this. Instead, he growls low words of encouragement into her flesh, tilts his hips ever so slightly up when the cant of her own interferes with her rhythm. It doesn't take her long after that.

"John," she pants, "please."

"Please what, baby?" He scrapes his teeth over the beard burn in her cleavage, feels her grip on his forearms flex.

"I need… I need…" she raises herself half off him, gives him room to move. It's the furthest she's been from him since bottoming out and he nearly growls in displeasure.

Instead, he says, "Need me to fuck you? Need me to make it better?"

"Yes, please, John."

"Let me hear it."

She looks lost between pouting and shuddering. Answers him anyway, "John, please, need you to fix it. Fuck me, John, please."

"That's it, bunny. Keep talking," he says, and then he gives her what she wants - fucking up into her with long, precise thrusts that leave her gasping. She doesn't exactly keep talking, but the noises that spill from her lips are even better, combining with the sounds of her slick cunt, the quiet slap of his balls.

"Gonna -," she tries. Doesn't make it much further.

"Yeah you are. Play with your clit for me. You gonna drench me again?" She shakes her head and he laughs - too mean, but she doesn't seem to notice. "Yes you will. Let me touch that pretty pussy, sweetheart. Just wanna feel." Whether she remembers why he wasn't allowed to touch or not, she doesn't need any more convincing than that. She nods, leans fully back to plant her hands on his thighs and resumes the pace he'd set. Like this, he feels himself notch impossibly deeper and with just a few more thrusts, he gets his palm flat on her, thumb at her clit and then she's soaking him again, damn near sobbing, squeezing him so hard he's briefly worried she'll take it with her when she's done with it. He's helpless but to follow, a long groan of her name he's sure she can't understand for how animalistic his voice has gone.

No sooner does she slide off him than he's pulling her to his chest, rolling them onto their sides so he can kiss her stupid. He's still got the one arm tucked over his head, but she pulls it down to thread their fingers together and that's it for him. Put a fork in him, all that. ---

If he takes measure of her finger while they're interlaced, well, it's no worse than her deciding where to hang the fern later

***

From his vantage point behind the kitchen saloon doors, Simon watches as Johnny carouses the customers, keeps drinks topped. He's good at it. Friendly in that way Simon never was. Got a face like a puppy, honest and endearing.

Plays at snarling when he needs to.

The Texan's new, which in itself doesn't say much. Glacier's no stranger to strangers. What is odd - what has Simon considering adding the roll of 'bouncer' to his ever-growing job description - is the way this particular stranger is instantly asking after John's bird.

It had started off innocent enough, from what Simon's been able to piece together since he started paying attention. The man came in, ordered a beer, and nursed it all by his lonesome at the end of the bar. Eventually he'd asked Johnny if he'd seen the bird, as apparently the two were supposed to meet up. Johnny, not thinking much of it at the time, had said no but she'd probably be around sooner or later. That had been four hours ago.

Every half hour, Johnny tries to sell the man on a new beer. He always refuses, content to waste space at the bar on what's turning out to be a surprisingly busy Tuesday. Two hours ago, Johnny had suggested the possibility that the bird had stood him up. The man took it in stride, saying he quite liked it where he was and was content to stay even without company. One hour ago, he'd been told to either order something or leave. He'd ordered an appetizer, hadn't touched it since.

The questions had started right about the time Johnny had begun snarling, the man evidently completely unconcerned by the fact he'd been figured out. He asks Johnny how he knows the bird, when's the last time he saw her, if she has a job out this way. Johnny, of course, clever pup, gives him the runaround. The man does the same when Johnny returns fire.

The final straw is when he starts asking about John.

"Say, who's the owner here anyway?" The man asks, cocky grin still firmly in place.

To his credit, Johnny doesn't do much as flinch. "Dunno, never met him."

"Now I find that hard to believe, small place like this. You don't even know the man's name?"

"You need a box for that?" Johnny nods at the untouched plate of food.

The man slides it across the bar, shaking his head. "Toss it. You know, I looked this place up 'fore I came in. I could tell you your boss's name, if you want. He's from 'cross the pond, too. Thought that was odd. See, I think you know your boss's name. I think y'all know each other real well, in fact. And I think you know why I don't want him 'round my girl, don't you?" His voice drops, conspiratorial. "Dangerous men, y'all."

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pricegouge · 16 days

Text

Fatted Rabbit Part Nine on AO3

Part One

Bear!John x reader | explicit

Over the next few days you're an emotional mess. There's a lot to unpack and while John's as far from any of your past partners as possible, the speed at which you've gone from 'never dating again' to 'if he calls me sweetheart one more time I'm gonna tell my mom about him' is alarming to say the least.

By the next morning you're quietly concerned you've gone and fallen in love. It would be enough to set you on edge if John wasn't so fucking sweet. He makes breakfast in his pajama pants again, serves you a 'cuppa' exactly as you'd made it the day before. He asks how you're feeling and if you need anything and kisses your temple, lips lingering on your forehead as if checking for a fever.

"'M'not sick," you remind him and he just grins against your skin, caught.

"I read last night that some people run fevers this time of month."

"Doing some light reading?"

"Mhm. Just wanna take care of you, honey."

"And what have you been doing?"

"Well, there's always room for improvement," he smiles.

You'd expect that after a second date turned celibate two night stand, the two of you would've run out of things to talk about by now. Instead, John fills you in on his plans for the week (wait staff training and a meeting with a small business community chapter he says he'd rather pull his teeth out than attend), and gossips about how he's pretty sure Simon has a crush on Soap which gets you laughing.

"Simon doesn't seem like he's ever had a crush on anyone."

"No, he's more of the 'decide he's in a relationship one day and hope the other person notices' type."

"How's that working out for him?"

"Dunno. He's yet to try it."

"And Soap's the man? Simon seemed pretty annoyed with him…"

"Tha's the hell of it. Fully expected to come back to one betta in the bowl, you know? Either the big guy's getting soft in his old age, or Soap's magnetism is universal."

"Well, it's definitely not that, " you laugh, thinking of the cocky Scot.

"Mm. You gonna come downstairs with me? Let him try his charms on you again?"

You bite your lip. "No, but thank you. Think I'm gonna go for a hike today. Get some fresh air."

John's eyes widen in fake concern. "You see that bear again you tell him you're spoken for now, yeah?"

You can't help the grin that spreads across your face, feeling like a child. It only grows when you see John smiling contentedly back at you. "I don't know. What if he gets mad? Don't wanna piss a bear off."

"Smart rabbit. Suppose I'll just have to share."

"Man, all the local girls are gonna be so mad when they realize I've managed to snag the two biggest studs in town," you wink.

John's answering smile is the toothy one that always leaves you a little breathless, a disturbing mix of nervous and excited.

Well, disturbing in that you know you shouldn't trust him with this feeling. You remember his jealous comment the other night, the one you'd wanted to reflect on when sober. Today seems like a good time for it, considering how easily he's managed to reduce you to mushy sentiments.

"Think we're the lucky ones, bunny."

You make your excuses soon after and John sends you off with a rumbly, 'Don't get eaten.' It should probably be taken seriously - there is, after all, a massive, oddly behaving bear that may or may not be stalking you - but something about the way he says it reminds you of the way he'd stuck his face in your crotch like a starved man, kept comparing you to food; you're fuzzy with embarrassment when he opens the Jeep door for you.

"Well. Wanna keep the bear happy, but maybe not that happy, you know?"

"Mm, good rabbit." Earthquake pitch again, felt more than heard as he leans in to kiss you goodbye. When he pulls back, he looks a bit more serious. "Don't suppose I can convince you to come back later and spend the night?"

It's sweet, but you suspect it's extended more out of concern for your safety than a genuine desire to spend another night with you. It combines with your growing need for time to think to get you demuring. "No thanks. Need a break from your snoring."

John huffs, unbothered. "Fair. Well, don't be afraid to call if you need anything. I'll be busy with the staff today but it should die off after nine. Text, yeah?"

"Sure thing, pumpkin." You're trying for sarcastic. Miss entirely. Disconcerting.

"Up you get, bunny." And then you're being guided up into the Jeep as if you weigh nothing and shit that's gonna leave you lightheaded every time. "We'll make plans later in the week?"

"Sure. Get with Simon about ideas. Maybe we can get together for a double date?"

John laughs, loud and sudden. "Oh, I'd pay good money to see Simon on a date. Bet you he'd go in for a kiss without taking that mask off." You're not sure if it's appropriate to laugh at that, so you don't. John doesn't seem bothered, carrying on. "But alright. You gonna come watch your match with me tomorrow at least? No obligation to spend the night. Promise."

You want to say yes, definitely, but a bigger part of you knows you should get some space and perspective. You've fallen hard and fast, and not only could that be dangerous, it was also straight up unwise after the kind of relationship you just got out of. And you'd accidentally told him you didn't want to be casual. That was… you didn't regret it, per se. Just wish you'd held your tongue a little longer.

"Got a sales meeting," you blurt. Fuck, that's stupid. Why even lie? John's not gonna care if you want to skip a few nights.

"Sales meeting?"

"Yeah… international company. Some of the meeting times can be odd."

"...Okay."

"Okay. But we'll definitely see each other soon, eh?"

"Whenever you're ready, sweetheart," he says softly. Fuck, too softly. He's onto you. Fuckshit.

"I'm lying," you blurt, unable to stand the kicked puppy look on his face another moment.

John's face cycles through surprise and amusement quickly, lands on slightly patronizing. "Really?"

"Yes. Sorry. I don't know. I guess I just thought you'd be mad if I just said no."

"No reason to be mad, bunny," John hedges and you're unsure if it's worse to read his apprehension as hurt or the recurring concern he adopts whenever you're being too obvious. He's too sweet.

"Right. Well, it's not that I don't want to see you again, anyway. I just think some space would be smart. I'm kinda… getting over a bad breakup, I guess, so I don't want to rush into anything ill-advised, you know? Not that I think this is ill-advised!" you add quickly, clocking something dark growing on the edges of his expression. "Just… want to think some things over, if that makes sense?"

A beat. John's expression is tight, but it reminds you more so of the time those idiots at the rink called you fat than of any time Phil donned the same expression. "Of course, bunny. Can I ask… your breakup… Anything I need to worry about?"

You nearly laugh. "God, no. Well, only if he shows up suddenly, I guess, but not for the reason you're probably assuming."

"What do you mean?"

"Another time," you wave him off. "Just know I'd sooner die than go back to Phil so no worries there."

He definitely doesn't look satisfied, but thankfully doesn't press. "Okay, bunny. Take your time. Let me know when you're available, yeah?"

You sigh, borderline exasperated for no real reason. "Told you to stop being so sweet. I don't know what to do with it."

John smiles, a little sad. "Well, we'll just have to get you used to it, then."

***

You're not ashamed to admit that - while you'd already been pretty crazy about him - a non-zero amount of this sudden infatuation is proximity and remember-when-he-dragged-that-hot-tongue-up-your-pussy-even-though-you'd-already-established-he-wasn't-getting-laid-tonight induced. Two weeks ago the thought of even touching yourself had made you cringe, but here John stuck his fucking face in your crotch and you'd simply melted. He could've done it, you're not afraid to admit. You can blame it on the alcohol, the desperation to feel good after everything - whatever you need to tell yourself, but at the end of the day you know he could have done it and you would have liked it and that's really all there is to say on that, isn't it?

Except it's not. Because he hadn't. Because you were drunk and he'd said he wouldn't.

You'd wonder at your luck, rebounding with a decent guy, but you're surprised how much you don't want John to be something casual like that. You hadn't been lying when you'd said as much, though you'd been debating if you'd accidentally stuck your foot in your mouth ever since. It's not that you don't want a relationship with John - far from - it's just that you're not sure how smart it is to rush into anything right now.

You spend a day out by Whitefish, hoping the physical distance will help you gain perspective, but it doesn't. John occupies ninety percent of your thoughts. When you wake up, you miss the heavy warmth of him. Midday, you think about texting to see how Simon and Soap are getting along. It's easy when the sun's out and your general demeanor is less dire. During the day, you focus on how sweet he is; but at night your doubts creep in, and you remember the blatant jealousy and the way the divot between his brows denotes an anger he steadfastly denies.

Phil used to deny his aggression, too.

You don't honestly believe John has yet been angry with you, but that cloudy look makes you gun shy, and you've honed your instincts to a knife point over the last few years so you're loath to ignore them now. There's no denying you're a different person than you were when you'd met Phil. Before, you would have ignored these issues in favor of the stability he'd brought you; but you're currently content to be as unstably homeless as possible so long as you can keep yourself safe (relatively).

This just leaves the question of John, and whether or not you ought to listen to that tiny voice in your head. If it were just the quick temper that worried you, you could write it off as PTSD induced paranoia, but the growing regularity with which he can reference instances he was not present for is raising some hairs. It makes you feel crazy for even considering it, but you've lived under some level of surveillance before. Phil used to throw things you'd said or done in private in your face just to remind you he could. Prove he had control. John doesn't sound threatening when he does it, but it doesn't sound purely coincidental, either.

After five days of mulling it over, you're feeling a lot better. Clarity comes piecemeal and sluggish, but it does come:

In the greasy smear of a pan you'd used to make a grilled cheese, you divine that you don't need to know if you're ready for a real relationship. At the end of the day, the two of you have only been on two dates. You may have agreed on wanting to be more than casual, but it's still not like you exchanged vows or anything. You're allowed to stop overthinking and just enjoy John's company. And you feel like an idiot when you're sitting lakeside, just enjoying the sun, and suddenly realize that while you'd technically only left Phil a few weeks ago, you've been downright fucking pupal for years. When you're in the thick of it, it's so easy to drown yourself in the to-do's and the now-what's and the where-can-I-hide-this that it's enough to think of your actions as nothing but that - actions. Can't see the forest for the trees, as it were. But now you recognize that you've basically been a single woman living under extremely unpleasant circumstances for years now. It's an oversimplification, of course, but the situation you're in now doesn't necessarily require further elaboration. You're finishing off your crochet project when you remember people are allowed to just be angry sometimes and that doesn't make them dangerous. John is no threat. For better or worse, staying with Phil long after you'd gotten wise to his ways had at the very least made you confident you could spot a viper at ten clicks. You'd been quite close and personal with John and he'd never once raised your hackles in any way that wasn't reasonable, or at least couldn't easily be explained away.

Of course, once you've come to these conclusions, you allow yourself to start missing him. He's been so sweet through all of this, but the fact that he's been good about giving you space these last few days has stood out in your mind as one of the top reasons you're sure you've just been a bit obstinate re: allowing yourself to be happy. You've kept your distance for nearly a week and although you could read it plain as day on his face how much it upset him when you'd said you'd wanted time, John's been content to just wish you a good morning and ask how your day went at night. He never pries to see how you're feeling, or what you're thinking, or where you are, or even what you're up to. Basically just wants confirmation you're still alive and then he leaves you alone, just as you'd wanted.

Except, as the days go by, you begin to realize that isn't what you want. Not the obvious concern - that's sweet, actually, especially when your friend the bear is becoming an almost nightly visitor - but the self-inflicted loneliness. You're not sure you wanted John to chase you, exactly (you're not in middle school after all), and you're thankful he took your concerns seriously, but something about it has made you feel… bereft.

"Think it's the hormones," you inform the bear one night. He seems to agree, if the way he sniffs and drools all over the seal of your window is any indication. You're over your period by now, but your impending horny week might be responsible for your unreasonable expectations. "What do you think? I should bite the bullet, eh? Man's not a mind reader, after all."

It lowers, somehow both excited and miserable. If you didn't know him any better, the thick saliva it's currently trying to wash your Jeep with would be disconcerting, but you're fairly confident he's just excited about the honey he smells in your front seat. Probably. If it was rabid it would be dead by now, surely?

"Guess I'm just not used to getting what I want," you grumble, perhaps a little self-pitying. If he finds you pathetic, the bear doesn't let on. He takes a moment to look you directly in the eye and moo, licking the window for good measure.

In the morning, John asks if you'd be interested in joining him on a trip to the local flower shop.

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