#🔪 — the bear

[heretodestroyou]

Hello i am requesting for Carmen from the Bear!! Something sweet and heart warming about Carmen being worried about the reader and just the whole kitchen seeing how in love he is ❤️ thank you

yes to heaven.

pairing(s); carmen “carmy” berzatto x gn!reader

fandom; the bear (fx on hulu)

w/c; 758 words

trigger/content warnings; brief sexual implications, brief mention of past injuries, language, richie (he’s a warning all by himself), tina n richie being mean to carmy lol, tina and reader chisme together, is this another fic with an ldr song title????, brief touches on carmy’s trauma (not in-depth cuz this is a fluff fic), not-proof read, lmk if i missed anything.

stella speaks! i need him biblically. at first, i was like “mmm, jeremy allen white” as a joke. but bro. i don’t think it’s a joke anymore…

Carmen “Carmy” Berzatto who’s always watching you. Who has his eye on you, if you will ;)

Carmy, whose eyes are trailing your figure when you first meet. Not in a sexual way, just taking in every detail. The way you stand, the way you move your hands when you talk. Any time you wear a shirt more than once, the nervous tics you have while he tries your food, if you have any visible tattoos, freckles, or birthmark. His eyes snag on every little thing you do for a split second.

Carmy, whose gaze is locked in your hands while you demonstrate your abilities. He’s taking in every scar, every cut, every tear, every burn that was once fresh in the skin of your hands and committing it to memory. He doesn’t know why, he just is.

Carmy, whose eyes will flicker to your face every so often as you cook, lingering in the scrunch of your brow, the purse of your lip, the muttering under you breath, every curve and divet on your cheeks.

Carmy, whose brain short-circuits the first time he sees you in anything other than your lose white tee, black pants and blue apron. Logically, he knows your body has always been shaped that way, so why is heat crawling up his neck in the biting Chicago air?

Carmy, whose new favorite thing is watching you cook. Especially the recipes you know by heart, when every lovely movement your body makes is muscle memory. Seamless and smooth.

Carmy who appreciates the habit you have of cleaning your station as you cook. Those pale blue eyes locked in you as he exits his office, watching you dumping veggies in a crock pot before scooping up the cutting board, knife, and any food waste and making short work of it.

Carmy who is personally offended by Richie watching you cook. Richie and his Richie-esque comments making him roll his eyes, or warning a scoff. “Makes you wanna know what other moves they can do, eh?” “Shut the fuck up, cousin.”

Carmy, whose habit of paying microscopically close attention to you has whispers from Marcus to Tina to Sydney to you. He appreciates the way you wave them off, using the new kid excuse.

Carmy, who’s been reduced to a stuttering mess when you confront him privately about it. He’s spilling out excuses, until you quietly ask him if he wants to grab coffee with you sometime.

Carmy who, the more and more he arrives to work either with you or with a dumb smile on his face, is getting endless teasing from Richie and Tina. Sydney quietly smiles at him, but mainly sticks to talking about the nature of y’all’s relationship with you.

Carmy, who admittedly fears anytime you let sitting with Tina, exchanging words that have her yelling curses or exclamations in Spanish.

Carmy, who has a retort ready for Richie when he asks you if that means he has a chance now, only to clamp his mouth shut when you wordlessly flip Richie off, bringing another soft look into Carmy’s eyes and a dumb grin on his lips.

Carmy who has to kiss every scar, every mark, every little thing in your body when given the chance. It’s a love language, remembering and worshipping every little thing about you.

Carmy who has his eyes on you so much, regulars at The Beef are silently questioning if there’s anything going on. (there is, but Carmy would sooner be Richie’s personal chef than admit it to customers.)

Carmy whose new greates comfort is you. Any fleeting fragment of you. Maybe you washed his clothes once and now they smell like you. Maybe you hugged him so much your scent lingers in his nose. Maybe he’s got a small piece of jewelry from you or reminiscent of you. Anything that has to do with you can bring him out of the deepest panic.

Carmy who swears up and down and to the ends of the Earth that he’s never gonna lose you. It’s not even an option anymore. He would actually just fall to pieces on the floor.

Carmy who shows the uglier parts of him slowly. You actually have to peel back the first layer and stare it directly in the face without fear before he shows you more. He’s just so scared.

Carmy who’s so so grateful you don’t try to fix him. You just leave him as he is, just giving extra love to those broken bits.

Carmy who used to hate love songs before you arrived.

Carmy who was losing faith in the very idea of love until you arrived.

[kaixserzz]

eons adrift ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ wanderer x gn!reader

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🎐 ꒱ "i'll come and find you in every life celestia will give me." "that's not possible, you and i both know that." "watch me!"

 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ cw: character analysis-ish, mildly proofread, drabble but it's kinda messy, its more like an idea than a fic LOLLL im sorry, hurt/comfort

scaramouche took you for a naive fool, just as he was when oh so stupidly believed those words as kunikuzushi.

you are but a human. a mere breath of his everlasting eternity. a few hundreds of years and he would forget everything about you.

insignificant, you humans were.

frail.

vulnerable.

so so easy to break.

as he walked into the path of darkness; consuming him and turning him into someone he doesn't recognize in the mirror no longer—kabukimono, kunikuzushi, the love of your life, was long gone. memories like the leaves that turn yellow and crumble to ashes as winter approaches.

yet the winter will remain in his empty chest for as long as he walks teyvat. churning into a blizzard of ice cold pain, destroying everything around him as it grows. he continues to walk this wretched path he chose.

but then he met someone, rekindling the spark that was once there beneath his porcelain skin. trying to light up a burn out wick, to bring an end to his winter and bring forth the beautiful spring he was once.

scaramouche never thought he'd love again.

even after all through the pain he went from the doctor's experiments, after roaming the great expanse of the abyss, after becoming the balladeer, the 6th of the fatui harbingers, he still felt.

love.

happiness.

pain.

sorrow.

and regret.

he hates it, but he loves them, just as much as he loved you.

though he allowed someone new worm their way into his heart, he kept them in arm's reach. he cannot bear to be vulnerable to someone else. they were human, they were to die; he is a puppet, he is meant to live on forever.

but then he heard them say things only you would say. giving him lavender melons you bought off the market, accidentally calling him names only you would know.

he remember that promise you made him before you died.

"i'll come and find you in every life celestia will give me."

scaramouche did not understand what he felt when he realized that his new lover, was in fact, just a reincarnation of you. and just like that, your name burns back itself into his mind—a name he thought he had erased into obscurity, along with his past.

he was a fool, scaramouche thought. he laughed at himself, a laugh void of humor, nor joy.

it was your name, your first incarnation, just in a different language.

it appears that scaramouche didn't like this feeling. of bitter butterflies in his stomach, the familiarity when you try to get close to him, the same smile you had, the light full of love in your eyes—it was all too much for him.

so he left you in the snow of his ever growing blizzard. buried under the thick layers of freezing ice.

and again, to your next reincarnation. a fatui, a vendor, an adventurer, a knight, a scholar—male, female, neither, or all of them; tall, short, plump, slim, dark or light skinned,

he cannot bear to lose you just as he first did.

slipping by his fingers, to the one thing he is not affected by.

death.

he doesn't accept the fact that your love has led you back to him, again and again.

why do you even keep coming back? don't you know he's part of the fatui? don't you know what he has done? don't you know what he has become?

and yet you'd knock on his door, calling his name with your voice full of warmth, arms wide for him to take and allow himself to be called yours again—all he had to do was open the door.

he has kept a lock on it ever since he met you again.

worn down and rotten; chains all rusted, handle jammed and barely working. he approaches the door once again. this time, as wanderer. a better version of himself,

one that's finally willing to open the door to you.

but you weren't there anymore, waiting for him on the other side.

how could you? you were never there in the first place.

not with this version of himself.

not as the wanderer.

and maybe that was for the best. even though he cries himself to sleep at night for all the things he has done to you. weeping, as he curls onto the sheets, praying to the stars above in hopes you'd hear his heartbroken apologies, yearning for your love, your touch, your smiles—

this was his punishment for hurting you, for being a fool. he was underserving of your love, after all.

"hey, wanderer, was it?"

a new voice, someone unfamiliar. he refrained from sighing, for buer's sake, and instead took a deep, refreshing breath. he turns, and the stranger smiles brightly at him.

immediately, as if the winds of spring has hit him all so suddenly in the face. the fragrance of blooming flowers that was once buried under the snow, the sun shining brightly in the skies, and birds chirping symphonies.

like the mornings brimming with new found hope, the smell of dew sticking onto his clothes as he trace his fingers all over the a tree's trunk. like the the juices of a fruit he sank his teeth into, dribbling down the corners of his lips and down his arms.

warmth tingled on his skin, and his heart leaps.

"nice to meet you!" you say your name, a name he has heard hundreds of versions before, all so different and yet they all felt and tasted like honey dripping down his tongue. "i hope we get along."

"yeah," he says, almost breathless, as the tears begins to well in his eyes. his fingers tremble, and his smile grew wobbly. tipping his hat down to avoid your gaze, his voice cracks. "i hope so too."

his door was wide open, waiting for you come in.

you grin, and take a step inside.

 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

author's note: "i thought this was a dottore only blog? SHUT UP!!!!! SHUT UP!!! 🥹🥹🥹🥹 IM MAD AT MYSELF TOO BUT THIS IS FOR @fatuismooches also new format because im too lazy to open my files :/ not back yet, i just wanna write this for the pookie 💗💗 ty for listening to me ramble like a madman ur single handedly gettin me thru it ong LMAOOO /lh

[pricegouge]

Fatted Rabbit, Part Thirteen on AO3

Content

Bearshifter!Price x reader | explicit

"No bones, either. Like a man stripped naked, then got absolutely atomized not ten feet away. Poor bastard, huh? Weirdest part was the way the tracks died. They shouldn't've, you know? Too muddy. So I poked around some more. Found the guy's wallet. Wanna take another guess whose it was?" There's a pit in your stomach but you're not sure why. You know who he's gonna say; know John didn't get eaten by a bear. But you don't know what he's getting at, what he thinks he saw. Distantly, you remember how he talks to himself when he thinks you can't hear. "Was it John's?" Finger gun, pointer finger flush against your temple. "Bingo."

A/N Well I did it. Someone gets eaten this chapter so sayonara if that's not for you. I don't think it's gratuitous, but also I'm a gore hound and my standards aren't normal so proceed with caution if you must. As a heads up, this is the beginning of the end, folks. I think there'll only be two, maybe three chapters after this :(

Simon's resolve finally breaks when John takes a winding corner in the foothills of the bighorns too quick and they nearly roll over the guardrail. His grip on the holy shit handle, white knuckled and muscle bunching as it had been for hours, yanks down hard enough to break it and even he can't play that off casually, although he's sorely tempted to try when he realizes Price is too focused on the road to have noticed. Simon sighs and throws the handle out the window before telling Price to pull over. He's ignored, so he snaps his fingers obnoxiously in John's face and nearly gets them bit off in the process.

"Fuck off, Riley," John growls, shoving the other man's hand away, but Simon persists, shoving right back.

"Pull over now , Price."

"Nearly there," John mutters, accelerator never wavering.

"Roight, but the plan is to get there, yeah?"

John risks taking his eyes off the road for exactly two seconds in order to glare at his passenger. Simon, of course, glares right back, hopefully managing to make it look apathetic despite the fact he'd recently torn a piece of Price's car off. 

"Pull over, cap. I'll drive."

"And what'll I do?"

"Not kill us for a start," Simon grumbles and John snarls but complies anyway. It's a quick exchange, and soon Price is simmering in the passenger seat while Simon tears through the countryside at a slightly less lethal pace. It's bad for him, probably; leaves his mind free to wander and envision worse and worse scenarios. Simon hopes it fuels the fire, leaves the general din of anxiety in his gut roiling. He's been beside himself since he'd heard Graves come through that door, sitting up stiff as a board as he yelled through his earpiece for the bird to wake up. It's not good, but it's useful. Himself, he remains as quiet as ever, content to let John simmer, and by the time they make it to the motel where the bird's phone last pinged from, he's damn near frothing at the bit.

Simon pulls up alongside the Wrangler and John is jumping out before the Suburban is even fully parked. The driver's side door hangs slightly open, battery evidently dead after keeping the dome light on half the night. Simon studies the ground around it while John inspects the car thoroughly. He finds a set of keys not far off, crouches to get them and pops back up in the passenger window, watches as his longtime friend sniffs the driver's seat like a bloodhound. He briefly wonders how well a joke would go over right then, thinks better of it when John snarls something at him that sounds maybe a little like 'What?'

Simon just shakes his head minutely, weighing options he knows Price is too wound up to consider. If the Jeep is left here, someone will eventually come to tow it. And then someone will need to be billed, and cops will get involved. But John's found blood on the door, and Simon very much doubts they'll want cops sniffing around by the end of this.

"Jump it," Simon instructs, dangling the keys at John. I'm gonna go see what the clerk knows."

"I'll come with -."

"You won't. You're too distracted, and I'm scarier. Jump it." He lobs the keys over the roof of the Jeep and Price grumbles but complies, returns to stewing.

The reception area is dim, mildewy, the carpet so thin and threadbare the concrete dust of the subflooring puffs around each of Simon's quiet, careful bootfalls. There's no one at the desk so Simon takes it upon himself to slide behind it and knock the mouse of the computer just to see if it's locked. It is, of course, because nothing can go right anymore, so he thumps the help bell hard enough to break it and sits to await the clerk, for all appearances just as patient as ever.

Simon can hear the clerk muttering to himself about customers as he rounds the door of the office in the back, voice thin and high. He half expects Anthony Perkins, gets frumpy old James Stewart with a hell of a black eye instead. The man stops dead when he spots Simon, takes a half a step back before thinking better of it and trying to square his shoulders up. "You're not s'pposed to be back here," he gripes, thick American accent adding to the vague washed up aura of him.

Simon ignores him. "Where'd you tha' shiner?"

The man falters a bit, squeezes an old-looking ice pack in his fist absently. They both track the movement, and when Simon looks up again, the man - Les, by his nametag - has a grim, resigned look about him. "What d'you want?"

"Wanna know who you lost a fight against, first. Then I wanna see some security footage."

"I can't disclose that to anyone but -."

"No, but you will."

"And why would I do that, now?"

"We'll get there," Simon grumbles, leaning forward in the seat until it creaks ominously under his weight. "Who gave you the beat down, Les?"

The man sighs, gives up pretending he's not in pain and plasters the ice pack back to his face. "Didn't give a name."

"I'd imagine not, but you can do better than that."

"I don't know, man, Jesus. Blond fella. Sharp nose."

Simon leaves a beat of silence where another person would hum contemplatively. "And what did you give 'im?"

Under all the swelling, Les pales. "Nothin'."

It's hard giving a man an unimpressed glare, when you make it a point to look unimpressed every moment of your life. Still, Simon must manage it because the clerk visibly wilts, shuffles. "You a cop?"

Simon nearly laughs. "Do I look like a cop?"

"He wanted a key," Les sighs, "to a tenant's room. I swear I didn't give it to him, just her room number. Figured he'd make a hell of a commotion trying to get in and she'd have time to scram, or call for for help or somethin'. But then he hopped the desk and nabbed it. Shoulda seen that comin'," Les huffs, no humor. "I'm sorry if she's your girl, I just didn't know how to stop him."

"And you didn't think to call the authorities when you 'eard 'im peeling out and saw the Wrangler was left ajar?"

"Didn't notice -." He cuts himself off when Simon raises his eyebrows sharply. "We don't… like cops comin' 'round here, 'specially at night. Figured I'd wait 'til she missed check out and call then."

"Gave 'im a hell of a head start," Simon observes, patience growing thin.

Les shrugs dejectedly. "I panicked, man. Had shit goin' on here last night. It was either she goes missin' or a whole mess of people wind up in jail."

Simon lets him flounder a moment, stands to his full height and watches the effect it has on the clerk. "'ere's what we're gonna do. You're gonna show me that security footage like I asked -" Les attempts to interrupt but Simon carries on right over him, "- because if you don't, I will beat you within an inch of your life, call the authorities and tell them all about what you did - or didn't do -, and I'm gonna get to see the footage anyway when I tell them about my friend. And when they ask about your state, I'm going to blame it on that sharp-nosed fucker, yeah?"

Another nervous squeeze of the ice pack. Les looks around for help, finds none. "And if I let you see it, this all goes away?"

"We'll even take the Wrangler."

Les nods. "Hang on. Gotta find the password, should be in the boss's office." He turns and ducks through the door, closely followed by Simon who does not want to lose him out a back window or something.

"You're not the owner?"

"Night manager," Les grumbles, shuffling through a spiral bound notebook so old and thumbed through, the binding resembles an abused slinky. He briefly compares himself to this sorry old man, wondering if that'll be him some day, second in command of a rapidly sinking ship and makes a note to check on Price's finances. Nothing wrong with being thorough.

"Should be it," Les mutters to himself,  moving past Simon into the lobby again.

Simon watches Price through the bay window while the old man works, grumbling to himself all the while about technology he can barely understand. It takes him a bit, but Simon doesn't mind - just keeps watching as his mate grows more and more irritable. It's a gamble, probably, but Price has always had a short, effective fuse. All he needs to do is find a direction to aim the man and soon they'll all be home in time for dinner.

If Price is still hungry, that is.

He texts Gaz to make sure the man can help him if he gets a plate number, frowns at the emojis he receives in response. A thumbs up and a saluting serious face. Probably an affirmative.

"Here it is," Les finally announces, and turns the screen toward Simon. Must not want the big man coming back behind the desk again, smart lad. He does it anyway, just to be an arse.

"Is that a bloody Escalade?" Simon prides himself on keeping most emotions out of his tone, but he can't help the sneer of disgust the gaudy SUV incites.

Wes nods sympathetically. "A champagne one too, looks like."

"Christ," Simon mutters, watching as Graves drags a concerningly limp bird into the back seat. "Get me a decent shot of the tags." Wes does, eager to please now that he knows his intrusive guest will be clearing out soon. Simon copies the number over to Gaz and asks for a print out of the shot for good measure. He claps his hand on Wes's shoulder when the man produces, squeezes threateningly to gain his attention.

"Wes, you wanna hear my favorite Norman Bates joke?"

"Uh, s-sure," the man agrees, hackles raised.

"It goes like this: if I ever find out you stood idly by while another girl gets abducted, I'll come back here and taxidermy you, yeah?"

"Y-yes, sir." He has the decency to sound shamed, at least.

"Roight. That wasn't very funny, was it?" Simon hums as if in thought, pats Wes on the back too hard again as he straightens out and walks back around the desk. "Tell you what, I ever come back, I'll take another stab at it." Wes doesn't laugh, the tasteless git. Simon nods at him in paying and shuts the door unsettlingly quietly behind himself.

He's halfway across the parking lot when Gaz calls him. 

"You sure that's the right car?" The younger man greets him when Simon answers.

"Quite sure. Saw Graves pull the girl in and everything."

"Strange. It's registered to a Hershel Von Shepherd… the third."

"Two wasn't enough?"

"Apparently not. This guy's like, the real deal, bruv."

Approaching Price now, Simon puts Garrick on speaker. "What d'you mean?"

"Some high ranking general, looks like."

Simon and Price exchange a look. "She said she thought Graves knew someone high up there," Price supplies, and Gaz takes a minute to think it over.

"That shell company we found Graves works for… how likely is it looking that's some paramilitary thing?"

Simon chews that for only a second. "Very."

"Should we -?"

"'M'not worried about it." 

There's very little room for argument in Price's voice, but Gaz tries anyway. "I am. What's the plan when you pull up on a compound, eh? You lot got some Rambo shit going on I don't know about?"

"Are we headed for a compound?" Simon interjects before Price can get too heated. Best to steer clear of discussing the plan, considering the best he thinks they've got is 'sic a werebear or whatever on him and hope for the best,' and he's quite certain Price doesn't want Gaz knowing about that.

Kyle huffs. "No," he allows after a moment. "Shepherd's got a cabin down near Denver, looks like. If Graves is looking to return his buddy's car, my bets on that."

"Send the address," Price barks, already climbing up into the Wrangler. He forgot to slide the seat back first, looks bloody ridiculous, all spitting mad and folded like a paperclip.

"Cap," Garrick hedges, but Price isn't listening so Simon assures Gaz he'll talk to the boss before signing off. "Don't get yourselves killed," Gaz mutters, but hangs up all the same. 

"We need to talk," Simon announces, Captain Morgan-ing his boot into the door jamb so Price can't close it after figuring out the seat.

"Christ, Simon, I am sitting on blood splatter, now really isn't the time," Price seethes, but Simon doesn't so much as flinch.

"Think it's the perfect time, cap. Gotta have a plan." Price rolls his eyes because he's a petulant child, starts the Jeep and shoves at Simon's leg. He's mildly surprised when the old man succeeds in dislodging him but he covers it fine, steps into the way of the door. "Graves knows about you," he announces and finally, Price stills.

"Knows what?" The man growls, and Simon just keeps staring up at him blankly.

Price takes a moment to eye him over, assessing. "And what is it you think you know, Riley?" 

"Know your current plan amounts to 'go all berserker and eat 'im up in one big gulp,' but I'm telling you, if this whole paramilitary shit is true, 'e's gonna 'ave lot worse than some backwoods hunting rifle waiting for you."

There's a tic in Price's jaw as he tries to decide how much of his hand he's willing to show. Simon remains unflinching, letting the other man see exactly how unaffected he is by the truth. He's known for years anyway, plenty of time to grow used to it.

"'e thinks we're both…" Simon waves his hand demonstratively, "furries -."

"- Shifters," Price corrects, long suffering.

"Whatever. Us and Johnny. 'e's an idiot, 'course, but 'e's expecting three bears to show up, if anyone -."

"But he's not expecting anyone. That's what the mace was for." Simon raises an eyebrow in question, and John huffs in frustration. "Can't smell her. I could've tracked her by scent alone if that fucker hadn't sprayed me. I can only assume that's why he wasted time with me before going after her. Thinks he's safe."

"Still leaves me and Johnny."

"Then bluff, Simon. Pretend you got a hell of a trick up your sleeve if you have to."

Simon nods, backs up half a step but holds the door open as another thought occurs. "How'd he know to do that? Get you where it hurts?"

"Because he knows even one singular factoid about bears, I assume?"

"You don't think it's odd how quickly he accepted your fur -."

"-Shifter abilities?" Price eyes Simon over, mustache like to crawl off his face, he's so irritated by this point. "Think it's odd how quick you accepted it."

People usually shrug here, but Simon schools himself into stillness. "Unflappable, me."

"'Course. We're not done talking about this, but I haven't eaten properly since everything started tasting like mucous, and I got big dinner plans." Price plants his boot on Simon's hip and pushes him away, slams the door behind him.

"And what am I supposed to do?" Simon calls through the window glass. There's a speck of blood by the side view mirror which he tries not to think too much about.

"Well, you brought your backwoods hunting rifle, right?"

***

The cabin is nice. Suspiciously nice. Like, 'Has the man you've been committed to for the last several years been secretly married to some successful plastic surgeon this whole time?' kind of nice. But the few pictures that adorn the mantle feature an older, sterner man and his younger, conservative looking wife. No kids from what you can tell, corroborated by the lack of warmth within the walls. It's decorated well enough alright, but in that sterile kind of design you think Joanna Gaines should be brought to the Hague for. You fashion yourself a crutch from a dining chair. It's bulky and awkward, and Phil yells at you whenever you use it while he's inside, but it allows you to take stock of your surroundings, puzzle out places you can hide if need be, or items that could make a decent makeshift weapon. Unfortunately, 'rustic minimalism' leaves you with few options. Less still for a good splint. After close inspection, you'd been relieved to find the break was above your ankle, and probably only restricted to your tibia. You'd found a clothes drying rack the first night at the cabin, broke it apart while Phil slept and used the rods to brace your leg, fashioning it all in place with corded saran wrap. It wasn't great; the plastic itched where it met your skin and it slipped down your leg if you moved too much, but it was better than nothing so you made do despite Phil's mocking laughter when saw it.

Phil's ear oozes blood and pus, marks up all the starched dish towels. He doesn't eat anymore. Well, he might, but you've yet to see it. You'd drifted in and out of wakefulness on the trip down to the cabin and it was easy to assume you'd missed it, or maybe that he'd been running so full tilt that he hadn't stopped at all. It had left you starving, but it wasn't like you were about to ask him to make a special stop for you. It doesn't get better when he stops running. He goes outside a lot, says he's sick of looking at you. Through the window you can see him talking animatedly on a phone he keeps hidden on his person at all times. When he pockets it, the hem of his shirt rides up enough you can see the pistol he keeps in his waistband. You sneak uncooked pasta from the pantry while he's distracted, stay out of his way when he's not. 

He hasn't been terrible, all things considered. He likes to grab his gun through his shirt threateningly, but hasn't pulled it on you yet. You keep your head down, watch him in your periphery. He cleans his ear obsessively, mutters about old werewolf movies when he thinks you're not listening. You worry about this new Phil, this man who seems to be courting madness, and sprinkle powdered bleach on the clean rags when he's not looking, listen to him groan in pain every time he goes to clean his ear. 

The second night in the cabin finds you laid out on the bed next to him, over the blankets. The threat of him makes you physically ill, but he doesn't touch you, just stares at you malevolently in the wan light that filters in through the rough woven curtains. His ear is a pool of tar in the darkness, oily and slick. It stinks, compiling with the lingering nausea of your head wound and the general sickness his presence brings you to have you turning your nose into the pillow. It smells like straight Borax because the lady of the house probably thinks modern cleaning agents will turn her ovaries queer or something, but you breathe deep anyway, which prompts a cruel laugh from Phil.

"Don't like it, darlin'? Me neither. Got your man to thank for that, you know." It's his fighting voice - the one that warns you there is no response that could appease him. You're so tired. 

"Said he bit it off," you chomp illustratively, huff as if it's funny. You hang your finger over his wound suggestively, but your muscles are lax to show him you're no threat. " Holey field indeed."

He snarls, slaps your hand away anyway. "Think it's funny, do you?"

"A little," you admit, brace yourself for a strike that doesn't come. When you can meet his eyes again, Phil looks almost impressed. "What are we doing here, Phil?"

"Hiding out for a bit. Don't know how much you told your man."

"Why?"

"Rather not get mauled in the -."

"No, why are we here? You hate me, Phil. Why not just move on?"

Phil sighs, heavily, plants his open palm on your cheek a little too aggressively and shakes you by your jaw. "So soft, darlin'. So pretty. Simple." He flicks your temple and you flinch, head throbbing, drawing another cruel laugh. When he speaks again, his voice is low and flat. Dark. "I don't share my toys."

You try to drop it, turn back to his ear. "You still got glass in there." He doesn't, it's the bleach drying his flesh out so bad it's turning the cartilage brittle, but he can't see it properly to call you a liar so you'll take your bargaining chips where you can get them. "I'll debride it for you if you get me a splint."

He scoffs. "Glass… ain't worried about the glass, despite your best efforts."

"Human mouths are gross," you agree. "We could both go -."

"Ain't worried about the human part, neither." He sits up with an irritated sound and you keep your lips zipped, the strange stalemate you'd found yourselves in bleeding away and taking your gall with it. "That man of your's… sure know how to pick 'em, don't ya?"

You might tell him he'd left John with little choice, but you know better. Phil continues, "That bear you were friendly with. Never struck you as odd?"

It's hard to speak past the knot that builds in your throat when you realize just how closely Phil must have followed you. You don't remember seeing an Escalade around, which means he followed on foot in some places, skulked through underbrush. It's a miracle (a curse) he himself never got a bit 'friendly' with the animal. You shake your head.

"Not very bright, you. Thought about calling that thing in a few times. It's a damn freak, you know? Huge, too. Woulda made a damn fine trophy. I traced its tracks one time out of curiosity. Wanted to see where something like that kept itself hidden. You know what I found?" At your continued silence, Phil prompts you to guess. "I could give you all fuckin' night and you'd never get it, but I wanna hear you try anyway."

Well, ain't that just like him? You sigh. "I don't know, Phil. Bear shit?"

"Cute. But bears shit in the woods. Got a whole thing about it. Your buddy bear, though, he came from out by the town - manifested in a birch grove far as I could tell. Found a pile of clothes there, blood splatter a few yards off. Thought that was strange."

You do too, unable to keep the confused scowl from your face. What the fuck is he on about?

"No bones, either. Like a man stripped naked, then got absolutely atomized not ten feet away. Poor bastard, huh? Weirdest part was the way the tracks died. They shouldn't've, you know? Too muddy. So I poked around some more. Found the guy's wallet. Wanna take another guess whose it was?"

There's a pit in your stomach but you're not sure why. You know who he's gonna say; know John didn't get eaten by a bear. But you don't know what he's getting at, what he thinks he saw. Distantly, you remember how he talks to himself when he thinks you can't hear. "Was it John's?"

Finger gun, pointer finger flush against your temple. "Bingo. I thought, 'what luck!' Bastard went and took care of himself. Stood there debating whether or not I should call it in, but must've waited too long. Damn bear came back. Remembered they sometimes bury fresh kills so I sat around and watched cause nothing would've pleased me more'n to see your man all tore up. Even started filming for posterity's sake. Didn't quite get that, though," he chuckles darkly. "You wanna see something? Wasn't gonna show you cause I know how you are about gorey movies -," if he was withholding information, it wasn't to spare you. He was probably just trying to keep the upper hand. "- but I can tell already you won't believe me if I don't, so maybe this is best."

Phil digs into his pocket, procures his phone. You sit in apprehensive silence as he flips through it. "Hold my hand if you get scared, darlin'," he drawls, turning the screen towards you and pressing play. 

There's no denying it's your bear, at least. Tall and broad as a shed, strange shaggy quality of his collar that makes him look bearded. He lumbers into frame with his head lowered, snuffles around the pile of clothes Phil had mentioned. His ears pin back at whatever he finds and peers around for a bit, nose held high. But whatever he finds can't be too concerning because he settles back after a moment, shakes his great hairy body. And keeps shaking. 

It sloughs off him in one great pelt, leaving spare few patches to dot the sinewy, thin-skinned freak which stands on its hind legs and stumbles away from its own flesh. You watch in horror as it groans in pain, oddly jointed arms reaching blindly to keep tree limbs from scraping its tender flesh. It looks like raw chicken until it doesn't, flesh bubbling as if being cooked, growing darker and tougher as it reshapes itself. It pants in exhaustion when it finally stops, familiar weathered hand stroking down a broad, inviting chest as if to take inventory of itself.

John pats his hips in satisfaction, points at his discarded clothes as if he'd lost track of them for a second. He dresses himself efficiently and does one more pat down to be sure he hasn't forgotten anything and then walks off, calm as can be. 

You can feel Phil's eyes on you, but it's hard to school your expression into anything other than abject terror. He's smiling when he pulls the phone away from you, your reaction all he needed to know you hadn't been bluffing, that you honestly had no idea what John was capable of.

"Just when you think you know a guy, huh?"

***

Phil brings you outside with him after coffee. You try to demure, hoping to snag some more dry pasta, but he says the sun will do your head some good. You doubt it, even just the threat of it peaking through the tops of the pines enough to lance pain down your optic nerve, but it's not like you can very well fight him on it, so you let him guide you onto the porch and watch while he goes about setting up wood to chop. You wonder if it's a threat tactic and stifle a laugh when his diminished arms struggle with the maul after only a few logs. You tune out after that, unwilling to be caught so much as grinning at his expense, and think about your conversation the night before.

It makes sense, is the biggest problem you're having with the whole thing. 

You' laid awake all night thinking through every interaction you'd ever had with either John or the bear - with him , you suppose, in both cases. It's shocking to say the least, but in a strange way, you're almost relieved. All the fears he'd been keeping tabs on you, all the convenient excuses you'd had to craft to explain them away; all your worries, tied away with one extremely unlikely ribbon. You'd still need to have a talk with him about using his other form to keep tabs on people if you ever got a chance to speak to him again, but somehow it's less malicious this way. It's not his fault you'd decided to use a wild animal as a therapist, after all.

Mostly you're mad he didn't tell you, though you can't really fault him for playing that close to the chest. More than that, you're mad at Phil for taking it upon himself to spread the information around. You watch him as he works, eyeing his ear suspiciously. He'd told you before turning in that he was worried he'd wind up like John. You were worried too. John made for a sweet bear, if a little intimidating. Something tells you Phil would not have the same temperament. 

"Had a dream you were a fox," you call to him after the silence grows too long.

Phil frowns up at you. "A fox?"

"Yeah. Right before you… revealed yourself, back at the motel. Was dreaming about the bear trying to wake me up. And then it was a fox. Looked kinda like you. And then it was you."

He chuckles, hefts the maul a little closer to himself. "A fox, huh? That how it works, you think? What's that make you, big boy? Damn mountain lion?"

You frown in confusion, follow his line of sight off to your right. "Simon!" you gasp, leaping to your feet. You forgot about your leg in your excitement, however, and stumble down the porch steps with a yelp.

"Careful, darlin'. Gonna get yourself hurt," Phil laughs, siddling closer to you. He yanks you to your feet and places you between himself and Simon. It takes you a moment to understand why, eyes taking in the rifle he's got aimed at Phil belatedly.

Simon is silent as he stalks out from behind the cabin, heavy boots never so much as snapping a twig. You wonder how Phil even noticed him, and then wonder if he let himself be noticed. "Olright, pet?" he calls softly, and you nod, eyes scanning the treeline.

Phil brings the business end of the maul to your throat. It's not terribly sharp, but it wouldn't take too much effort to throw you across the steps and split your head open and the threat is clear. You swallow your panic and hang on to his forearm for support. 

"Where're your buddies?" Phil's voice is high with nervous tension. You think your's would be the same if asked to speak.

"'Round," Simon drawls, kicks a rock over when Phil's anxious circling nearly turns you both around.

It works. Phil twists back toward the sound and Simon carries on, nonchalant, making more noise. Your breath comes rapidly, in through your nose, out through your mouth. You think you can smell something musky on the breeze, and your grip slides down your captor's arms, toward his hands.

"Hold still," Phil warns, and Simon draws to a halt. A soft shuffling noise continues despite his stillness and Phil spins to meet it. Your bad leg takes most of your weight and you stumble to the ground. 

A deafening crack echoes in the small clearing and Phil slumps over you, his shoulder a mangled mess. You're still trying to process what happened when an ear splitting roar shakes the very ground and you look up to find the bear thundering at you from the treeline. Phil sees him too, and the two of you scramble for the maul. He kicks you in the shin cause he's a bastard, so you use his leverage to help you push the sledge against his shoulder. He grunts in pain and you wrench it from his grasp, start to roll out of his reach when a lethal click stops you dead.

It's not you he's aiming at, though. 

Two quick, successive shots. You turn in time to see the bear falter, the hump of its back shaking with impact. It doesn't stop for long. A few more steps and the bear's on him. It - John - sinks his teeth into the meat between Phil's scapulas, tries to stop on a dime, can't, goes tumbling over with Phil still clamped in his jaws. Phil gets slammed into the ground with a sickening crunch that turns his screams into silent wheezes. John settles his weight on top of Phil's prone body and holds his head down with a massive paw so he can pull against it, tearing muscle as easily as the thin cotton of his shirt when he shakes his head like a dog.

Phil's screaming again. John doesn't seem inclined to stop it until the breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding whistles out of your chest raggedly. The bear asses you for a moment, chewing contentedly on the scrap of flesh between his teeth like a cow with cud. Your eyes dart from John to the dying man below him rapidly, unsure what you're asking for.

John grumbles, but wraps his maw around the column of Phil's throat and bites down hard enough that Phil's screams turn to gurgles, give way to a sickening crunch. When he pulls away, a fat tongue licks the geyser of blood and finally, your stomach roils.

"Let's get you inside, pet." You wipe your mouth, turn to find Simon crouched next to you. "No need to see this." 

"He's hurt." Simon looks at you like you might be simple so you clarify, "John."

You both glance at the man - bear? - in question, tearing at a scrap of viscera that sounds upsettingly like jerky. He glares at Simon ominously, as if daring him to touch you in any way that could cause offense. There's blood matting the fur of his back and shoulder but he pays it no mind. 

"Think 'e'll be olright." 

You hold a hand out, expecting to have him help you up, but the big man tucks his arms under you instead, lifts you with little more than a huff. 

"Seriously, what are they putting in the water over there?" You mutter. He'd laugh, but he's being careful of your leg. Some jostling is inevitable, though, and he hums deep in his chest in sympathy when you grimace.

He carries you back to the cabin and you watch over his shoulder as the bear turns Phil over onto his back, pawing at clothes to expose his belly.

"Scrawny bastard can't be very tasty," you quip, and here Simon does laugh. 

"You ever listen to someone eat a Slim Jim?"

"Oh god," you grumble, stomach audibly gurgling. This time Simon's laugh is a cruel thing.

He sets you up on the couch with a pillow propping up your leg. He goes back outside and you hear him yelling something about a phone. The bear lowers at him, but the wet squelching of Phil's vulnerable underbelly stops for a moment and soon after comes a dull thunk. When Simon returns, he's got Phil's phone in one hand and a thumb in the other. 

You lip curls, "Is that necessary?"

Simon doesn't even spare you a glance. "Just gotta figure out who he's told what."

"About you and John?"

"Oh, I'm not a furry." It's stupid and unexpected enough to startle a laugh out of you. Simon carries on as if there's nothing wrong with what he's said. "But yes, that. And gotta figure out if anyone's gonna come looking for 'im."

"There's a video in there," you offer, "Of John… changing. Don't know if it's backed up to anything."

"Good bird, I'll check." His eyes meet yours for a moment. "'e showed you then, I'm assuming?"

You nod. "Suppose it was for the best in the end. Would've shit myself if I saw that thing running at me without knowing what was going on." Simon nods exactly once. You take it for agreeance. "How long have you known?"

"Years. But don't tell Price that."

"He didn't tell you?"

"No. Didn't even know I knew until yesterday."

"Well then how'd you find out?"

Simon turns his big apathetic eyes on you. "'e doesn't 'ave a house in Phoenix. Telling you now, in case you're still holding out for the snowbird lifestyle."

This time when you laugh, you think you spot a slight crinkling of Simon's eyes as well.

***

An hour passes mostly in silence. You ask Simon to check on John occasionally, but he only ever says things are unchanged out there so you take that to mean John hasn't died of blood loss. You try to come to terms with everything you just witnessed, but it's still too fresh, your adrenaline too high. Instead, your thoughts circle back to John repeatedly, your fingers itching to inspect his wounds. That's probably not a normal reaction, but nothing about this situation is normal so you give yourself a break.

When John does stumble in, he's naked. Simon squawks, which would be funny to you if John wasn't also covered in blood. You try to climb to your feet to meet him, but he's on you quicker than you can even process, kneeling beside the couch and running sticky hands all over your face.

"Are you okay?" you both ask at the same time, and you nod feverishly, subject yourself to the desperate kiss he plants on you in response.

The taste of him is heavy, seems to coat your tongue. You can't help the full body shudder it elicits and John retracts, brushes wet, whiskery kisses up to your temple instead. He stays there for a moment, just breathing you in. You use it as an opportunity to peer over his shoulder, inspect his back. He's leaning away again before you can make sense of what you see back there.

John holds your face between his massive palms. He looks you over, eyes desperate and wild. You give him a reassuring smile, hold onto his forearms while he tries to wipe some of the blood off you. Smears it, if the way he frowns at his dirty hand is any indication.

"That your blood?"

"I wish," he growls, and uses the hem of your shirt to try wiping it off. 

"You wish?"

"You already smell enough like him." You finch when he presses against your head too hard and his scowl deepens.

"Here." A towel lands over John's head, another on the floor next to him. You grimace at Simon apologetically and try to get John covered while he completely ignores your attempts, focused entirely on cleaning the blood off you, hands much gentler this time. 

"John, I'm fine."

"Not fine, bunny," he seethes. You blink at him, but give him a pass when you realize he's mad at your state. "What happened?"

"How about we get cleaned up first, eh?"

"We have to get you to a hospital."

"Me?" you scoff. "You got shot!"

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about me. Simon, go get the car, yeah? We gotta -."

"Okay everybody hang on. You are naked and covered in a dead guy's blood. Let's deal with that first."

"Bunny -."

"And then I think we should get our story together before we waltz our hot fresh gunshot wound slash old broken leg combo into a hospital." The words are out before you've even thought them through - what it means for you, that you'll be an accomplice to your own ex's… murder? It's not murder if a wild animal kills and eats you. John isn't a wild animal, but it's not like he was all there mentally at the time either. 

You hope.

Well, maybe it would be okay if he knew what he was doing, but you're gonna delicately avoid saying that outloud.

John's mustache twitches irritably, but Simon looks about as supportive of your idea as you think he's capable of appearing. Nodding, John stands and tucks his towel around his waist. His belly is so full it's nearly distended and you try not to think about it too hard. You're not surprised when he picks you up. Simon tactfully turns away in case there's a wardrobe malfunction, but the towel stays firmly in place as John carries you down the hall. You know where he's headed and you point the way to the master bath.

What does surprise you is the way he strips you too, unwinds your makeshift splint so achingly carefully. His palms are impossibly light when they smoothe over the indents the saran wrap has left in your skin and you both frown at the bruising which has pooled under your skin.

"That's gotten worse," you comment, and John presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, breathing in the sweat there deeply.

The shower is blessedly huge. John gets the water to a comfortable temperature before helping to lower you to the tiled floor. He doesn't even bother to wash any blood off before he's plastering himself to your side and burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. Red runoff slips over both of you, swirls in the drain. Your hands are on his scalp, his neck, his shoulders. They trace the rivulets of water down his back and he grunts when you find the first open sore.

"You know they call the police for gunshot wounds."

John shakes his head. It jiggles your tit a bit when he does it, enmeshed as he is with you. "Clean through."

"What?" Pushing him away, you drag a palm over his chest in search of the other wound but he just holds your hand in place over his pec. 

"Through my shoulder hump, sweetheart. In my other form. I'll be fine in a few days."

Confused and unbelieving, you push at him until he turns to show you: a gnarly hole over his lower ribs which bleeds profusely, and a smaller, far less concerning mark up over his scapula which somehow looks already knotted over. It doesn't make sense here, but you suppose if you twisted and contorted his body enough you could draw a straight line between the two. Still, you drag your thumb gingerly under the cleaner of the two wounds, watch the tender skin jump. 

"How is this nearly closed over?"

John shrugs. "Quick healer."

You suppose it makes sense, after the horror you watched his own body inflict upon itself in Phil's video. All that skin remaking itself. "Of course."

"Told you it's you I'm more worried about." He leans back against the wall, cradles your entire face in his palm. 

"I'm good now," you try to convince him, but suddenly your voice is anything but and John crumples.

"Do I scare you?"

Your lip wobbles, unauthorized. You shake your head before you can really think it through, and then sob in relief when he wraps you in an all-consuming hug and you realize it's the truth. He should scare you. He really should. But for better or worse, the only thing you feel wrapped up in his strong arms like this is safe.

It's hard to stop the tears once they start but John holds you all the while, occasionally pulling away just enough to inspect your face and kiss your eyelids, your nose. You hold him back as best you can, but the angle is awkward so you mostly just end up stroking his hairy chest and you both know you've cried yourself out when your fingers get picky, start combing icky bits out of his pelt.

John lets you groom him, scrub away every last trace of Phil. He cleans you too, careful to filter water through his hands when he sees you flinch as the hard water pressure beats against your bruised scalp. You make him rinse his mouth, pick something that looks like bone from his chops and surprise yourself with how well you handle it, watching apathetically as the suds push it along toward the drain. It's possible Phil didn't quite deserve this fate, but you decide it's not your job to determine that; you're just glad to be free of him.

"Gonna remember the way you crushed his throat until the day I die, I think," you murmur, inspecting his nails and hairy knuckles.

John goes still. "I'm sorry you saw that, bun -." 

"Not a bad thing, John." When you risk meeting his eye, you're met with an intense, desperate gaze. 

"Don't leave me again, bunny." 

You feel like an idiot, throwing yet another item onto the pile of forgiven things that would have sent you running even just a few weeks ago. But it's not a threat when John says it; just a raw, honest plea. This man's tracked you across multiple states, revealed his deepest secret for you. Killed for you. And still, he doesn't demand you return with him or hold all these things he's elected to do of his own accord over your head. Just begs you to stay. 

He still tastes like blood when you kiss him, but it's just more fuel for the pyre of forgiven, ignored warnings.

A/N Want you guys to know that I figured out the choreography of this bear attack by wrestling with my infinitely patient dogs, so if you ever need a good pick me up, just imagine looking out your window one day and seeing your fat neighbor putting their 70lb dog through a death roll and pretending to rip its throat out, snarling all the while as if they've gone fucking rabid.

Next>>

[eternallovers65]

Carmy saying he does not need to provide amusement or enjoyment, nor does he need to receive amusement or enjoyment because no amount of good is worth how terrible he feels for failing the team

like something shifted

[the-bar-sinister]

Deeply frustrated in a way I simply cannot describe to mere mortals.

[fo-plushie]

Marvel S/i Intro

Name: Roman Addams-Wilson

Pronouns: he/him and bite/bites

Age: twenty-seven (?)

Species: half-vampire/daywalker

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Allies: Deadpool (husband), Wolverine (lover), Spiderman (friend), Daredevil (friend), Moon Knight (???), Blade (friend/mentor)

Personality: incredibly similar to his bombastic husband. talkative, energetic, crude, and violent, at least until he grows on you like mold and you can't help but love him, even a little bit. definitely not a vegetarian vamp, his apologies to the cullen family. enjoys fighting crime and also enjoys getting paid for fighting

Strengths: physically supernatural, dogged determination, good people skills, observant

Weaknesses: manipulative, callous, dishonest, and judgemental

Quote: "I have many lists for both friend and foe. If you're not on one then you've gotta prove you're worth my time."

[mysicklove]

thinking bout pervy yuuji humping your stuffed animals when he misses you cause they "smell like you" :/

[happy-tori-friends]

I've sur'd the names... haha...

Take any and all meanings with a grain of salt. I cannot guarentee how accurate behindthename.com is, especially with any names that were user submitted. This also isn't confirming ethnicities or religions headcanons for any of the characters - all surnames were picked due to their meanings rather than trying to designate things like that. They probably don't even flow together the best. Oh well. These are all subject to change, especially if I find out that any of them have bad connotations that I was unaware of.

I scheduled this post - so hopefully later on I type up the mascot information for Magical Warrior AU, and go and decide on + add character tags at the very least, maybe ship names and tags too... (Also maybe add more tags, like a headcanons one. Who knows what I'll decide on tomorrow, aka today when you are reading this.)

Flippy/Fliqpy Blair - Okay, this one does kind of have a secondary meaning - it sounds like bear. It is of Scottish origin and the listed meaning is 'from any one of several places of this name in Scotland, which derive from Gaelic blàr meaning "plain, field, battlefield".'

Lifty and Shifty Steele - Another double meaning. I wanted a name that meant something along the lines of metal or shadows. I couldn't find anything with gold, silver, or copper that I liked for them, and well... Steele sounds like steal. It is of English origin and the listed meaning is 'Occupational name for a steelworker, from Old English��stele meaning "steel".'

Splendid and Splendont Astra - Do aliens have surnames? Regardless, I went with a space / celestial theme. And cheated a little. Astra is on the given name site, but I think it sounds cool and it's my silly little fic so I do what I want. It's listed as a rare name of English origin, with the meaning of 'Means "star", ultimately from Greek ἀστήρ (aster). This name has only been (rarely) used since the 20th century.'

Shiver and Spice Smith - For their civilian surname I went the easy way out and chose Very Common Surname. The most common, according to the website. It is of English origin and the listed meaning is 'Means "metalworker, blacksmith" from Old English smiþ, related to smitan "to smite, to hit". It is the most common surname in most of the English-speaking world. A famous bearer was the Scottish economist Adam Smith (1723-1790).'

Pop and Cub Orsini - I considered just goving them the surname Berenstain because I thought it'd be funny. Then I saw Orsini and remembered I used it as a surname for a bear faunus RWBY OC once. She might've had a brother too, it was a long time ago. It's of Italian origin, and the listed meaning is 'From a nickname meaning "little bear" in Italian, from Latin ursus "bear".'

Cuddles Lachance - I ran out of ideas for meanings at this point. Rabbit's feet are meant to be lucky, right? Not that he gets very lucky considering the universe he lives in. It's of French origin and the listed meaning is 'Means "chance, luck" in French, a nickname for a lucky person.'

Giggles Blythe - Happy surname for her (I also just like the name Blythe, and I need to use it as an OC name one day). It's of English origin and the listed meaning is 'From Old English meaning "happy, joyous, blithe".'

Toothy Tremblay - Toothy, Toothy, Toothy... He was so hard, and for what? I went to the T section and picked from there for alliteration. It's of French origin and the listed meaning is 'From French tremble meaning "aspen". It is especially widespread in Quebec, being the most common surname there.'

Petunia Meadows - This popped into my head immediately when I thought of her. It's of English origin and the listed meaning is 'Referred to one who lived in a meadow, from Old English mædwe.'

Handy Nagel - I learned there is such thing as a nailsmith. Hm. It's of German and Dutch origin and the listed meaning is 'Means "nail" in German and Dutch, an occupational name for a carpenter or nailsmith.'

Beartholomew 'Disco Bear' Ballerini - Beartholomew canon. It's so funny to me. But this is about his last name. It's of Italian origin, and the listed meaning is 'From Italian ballerino meaning "dancer", an occupational name or nickname for someone who liked to dance.'

Flaky Tenley - Technically this probably doesn't mean point in the way I wanted, but oh well. It's of English origin and the listed meaning is 'Possibly from the name of an English town derived from Old English tind "point" and leah "woodland, clearing".'

Nutty Dufour - Another hard one sonce I couldn't find many surnames that meant sugar or sweet. So an occupational name for a baker it was. It is of French origin and the listed meaning is 'Occupational name for a baker, from French four "oven".'

Sniffles Mendel - Surname that belonged to a scientist anyone? It's of German origin and the listed meaning is 'Derived from a diminutive of the given name Meino. A famous bearer was Gregor Mendel (1822-1884), a Czech monk and scientist who did experiments in genetics.'

Lumpy Lennox - Lumpy was another hard one. Alliteration method round 2. It's of Scottish origin and the listed meaning is 'From the name of a district in Scotland, called Leamhnachd in Gaelic, possibly meaning "place of elms".'

Lammy Pecora - Sorry Mr. Pickels. No surname for you. Maybe a little on the nose, but oh well. It's of Italian origin and the meaning is listed as 'Means "sheep" in Italian, an occupational name for a shepherd.'

Russell Seaver - Easy water surname, and another one I used for a RWBY OC, except I use Zale a lot more than the bear girl whose name I've forgotten. It's of English origin, and the listed meaning is 'From the unattested Old English given name Sæfaru, derived from the Old English elements sæ "sea, ocean" and faru "journey".'

Mime Lozano- I might toy with Mime just being a nickname, but for now I'm just too lazy to find a first name. He could have just become a mime to fulfill his destiny after being named that. My family and I once saw a kid named Artistic Talent on a baby names board. This was also a tough one... It's of Spanish origin and the listed meaning is 'Means "healthy, exuberant, lively" in Spanish, originally used as a nickname for an elegant or haughty person.'

Mole Durand - Similar to Mime, 'The Mole' might just be a nickname but I'm too lazy to find a first name. 'What should we name our son?' 'How about The Mole?' 'Honey, you're a genius.' Anyways, last name. It's of French and English origin, and the listed meaning is 'From Old French durant meaning "enduring", ultimately from Latin durans. This was a nickname for a stubborn person.'

Cro-Marmot - He doesn't get one. Sorry Cro-Marmot.

[hedonicghost]

chip update (chupdate...) (inspired by the human design i'm making for her)

[heretodestroyou]

the way he is the one with a dark curls and the one with the watercolor eyes

[seungfl0wer]

NOOOO I HATE Tumblr I literally had your notifications on so I could be the first to read the mafia au

I'M IN LOVEEE!!! It's so cutee I also love how you made minho immediately soften once he sees the chunky cat djjxjdjsdj and how you emphasized that the reader cared more about the cat and people around her then herself

I also noticed that she only made food for minho and she didnt eat anything I wonder if minho Notices or will notice this in the future 👀

Overall I'm really thankful that you wrote this and sooooo excited for the next chapter you have nooo idea

- 🔪

Aaah I’m so happy you like it! I thought adding a cat would be a perfect thing to soften him up more lol. The thought of the reader caring more about others than herself just makes it better to me lol.

Also you gots a good eye lol definitely did it on purpose but just have to see how it pans out! Next chapter should be posted tomorrow hopefully lol. I’m so excited to write more for you and everyone else who’s enjoying it. I can’t wait to share it

[pricegouge]

Fatted Rabbit Part Ten on AO3

Contents

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)

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.

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."

Next>>

[coolrpblog]

IT'S HIS DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[thevoidzystem]

Some doodles of some very pink guys :]

[your-dead-european-ancestor]

Am wishing all the theys and she/theys and he/theys and she/he/theys and all the other theys and thems and everyone else a very lovely time

Yes this is a threat

[vividblaze]

grips you I am so sorry for the person I become whenever I draw these two together but do you understand