#bear!price

[gomzdrawfr]

Bear!Price

[vnards]

Bear!Price: the after...

Price is barley able to get the door closed behind him before he spits in his hand and shoves it down in his pants. The pulsing of his cock was so distracting from his way back, thinking about you. Those soft hands.

Price begins to pump his cock at a steady pace. Just like he would fuck you. The shivers of pleasure run through him, your smell in his nose like ambrosia. “God, my good girl. Knowing who she belongs to.” A low sound grumbled through him, as he throws his head back in ecstasy. He felt like everything about you drew him mad.

The sight of you on your knees for him. That soft pink tongue poking out to tease the head of his cock. He knows your hands would be so soft as you stroke him.

As soft as they were on the river.

He pumps his cock a bit faster, the thought of those beautiful eyes looking up at him like you do. How blessed he would be to see those eyes feel with tears of pleasure.

Pleasure he caused.

He feels like a pervert thinking these things about you. He just couldn't help himself.

He wondered how sweet you would taste with his tongue in that pretty pussy. A meal waiting to be devoured. I bet you taste as good as you smell, baby girl. Price was salivating at the thought, his hand reaching back and claws punching out into the wall, mindlessly wishing to grab those soft curves of yours.

You'd make the prettiest sounds for him, he knows it. Knows how nicely you'll ask for him to fill you. Mark you. Mine. A bust of possessiveness tears through him at the thought of the coward that just left you there. Abandoned you.

I'll protect you so much better than he can, my pretty girl. Only mine.

John shifted his hands, adjusting the grip on  his shaft to cup his balls, a slightly tighter feel. Just like that pussy. Another groan. My good girl would moan so pretty for me. John was lost to his primal desires, fur beginning to sprout from his arms. His grunts turned more into growls, more beast than man.

A man too desperate to stroke his cock before he even gets his shoes off. He should be ashamed how easy his control snaps when he's around you. When he's even thinking about you. When was the last time Price got so hung up over someone like this? Doesn’t matter. What matters is Price’s vow to feel you cum around him. For him. Giving your orgasm to him like the greedy man he is.

Fuck!

Price’s balls draw up without much warning, unable to deny himself of your pleasure, even in his fantasies. He ruts into his hands before a roar rips from him as he spurts out his load. There’s a nagging in the back of his head that his cum is going to waste-but the thought of putting it inside you, marking you, causes him to leak over even more.

John tumbles into the edges of his bliss, pulsing waves of pleasure lulling him into a comfort state, slouched against his front door. He swims in that space for an unknown amount of time until he’s finally can catch his breath. He leans back against the door for support, not caring about the load of laundry he's got to get done now, thinking of you. My pretty, pretty girl.

A pleased rumble grounds him.

I can't wait to see you again.

next part ->

[pricegouge]

Fatted Rabbit, Part Six

Bearshifter!Price AU

Rated M for later chapters

Part one

Simon stands behind the bar like some sort of massive, brooding Aeacus. As if they were always bound to meet here, and John was always bound to spill his secrets, and wasn't John such a stupid little twat for not having ever realized that before?

It speaks volumes that not even Simon's shit eating grin puts a damper on John's mood.

"You're relieved, Riley."

"I'll say. Didn't even need to have a talk with 'er about curfews."

"Well, I know how you worry. It went well, by the way."

"Didn't ask. How'd you manage not to muck it up?"

"I got this excellent relationship coach that gave me some great ideas."

"You keep adding to my workload and I'm unionizing."

"Yeah?" John laughs, "You and who?"

"That new barkeep seems easily impressionable."

"Mm. That what got your stamp of approval?"

Oh, it's always a good day when John can pry a real reaction from his head brewer. Simon doesn't squint, but there's a tightening around his eyes that suggest he would do, if he suffered such banal things as 'automatic response disinhibition.'

"Am I gonna need to sit you down with the harassment video again, Riley?"

"Don't technically work at the bar, cap. One Four One pays my bills." He's aiming for a sarcastic 'so what if I am,' lands slightly off center.

"Good point. You been putting a lot of thought into it?"

The pause is a half a beat too long. "Too busy thinkin' about having to cover my boss's shifts while 'e flits about with some young bird like 'e's in uni again."

"Aye. Gonna need you to do it again on Sunday, too."

"Sunday?" Simon barks. "You're training on Sunday."

"No, you're training on Sunday. By the time I get here he'll probably be good to go."

Now he does squint. "And if I got plans?"

"You'd've mentioned them first. Thanks, Si. I owe you one."

"You owe me the business at this point."

"Already in my will and testament."

"Mm. Keep trying your luck and I'll take what's owed sooner'n later."

***

Simon stays on to cook, a blessing considering it ends up being a decent Friday turnout. The early spring seems to be pulling in more than just the locals. John resolutely does not put on the hockey match he knows his rabbit's interested in because he doesn't want to listen to Simon's opinion on that, but he does watch the ticker tape at the bottom of the basketball commentary to monitor the score when he can. He's not sure why; he can't exactly participate in any informed conversation on the subject, but it seems like it'll be a good anecdote to know when they're skating.

Fuck, skating. He'd been a few times in his life and it had all been perfectly fine, but he usually sleeps right through the season so it's not something he's practiced in a while. He doesn't want to make an ass of himself, even if the rabbit had the same concerns. It's embarrassing enough being as twiggy as he is currently, he couldn't stand to be uncoordinated or in any way less physical in her eyes. He remembers how raptly she'd watched that match, the ways her eyes had tracked the men on screen. He hadn't found it in any way threatening at the time, but he doesn't want to be compared negatively to them. The fact that they're professional doesn't matter, of course, at least not to the beast in his chest.

John shoots her a sympathetic text when the team she'd been following loses (again. He's going to have to figure out how playoffs work here, the basketball announcers are even talking about multiple games) but he doesn't get a response until quite late, when he's on the roof enjoying a cigar after closing.

Christ, another game?

John damn near preens

He'd rather buy her those panels but he doesn't think she'd let him. More than that he'd rather drive her car into Whitefish Lake, but he supposes she'd be a little cross about that, too.

John nearly bites through his cigar. It's an honest struggle to force his bear back under his skin, the animal not fully understanding that such a challenge could be issued through miles of suburban landscape and a thirty foot drop off a roof. Much as he wants her here (on her knees between his thighs, mouth hot and wet through the fabric of his trousers as he shoves a boot under her cunt, preferably), it's probably a good thing she isn't because he doesn't want her on all fours their first time, his jaws clamped on the nape of her neck as he leans his full weight on her, trapping her big soft body between the mass of himself and the cold hard ground, uncaring if the whole city heard her whining, or screaming, or begging, or moaning. He wants to see her face as he fucks her, learn what she likes or doesn't. He wants to eat her out as if she's the only food he'll need for winter - until she's crying about how she has nothing left to give and then he wants to lick her tears up, too.

But right now the only thing he wants from her is her round arse presented in apology, the feel of her flesh between his teeth.

It's a struggle to be witty when your body is trying to prime you for both a fight and a fuck at the same time and your circulatory system feels like the Magic Roundabout, so John doesn't bother.

And that's -. Fuckin' -.

Just like that, she's got him back to heel. More pup than predator, eager to beg for treats from her hands. A brat he can handle; even his bear seems greedy at the prospect. If her challenges aren't in earnest - if she's simply trying to get a rise out of him because she wants him to fuck her hard, he's more than happy to allow it. Happy to let his bear take over and give her what she wants.

Fuck, he's hard. A green cub, can't even distinguish rational thought and animalistic impulses. No, she's not asking for an actual bear in human skin to take her to task, Christ. He needs circulation back to his brain STAT. And to think this all started with a Viagra joke.

***

Saturday is a lesson in patience. He feels unmoored, confused. A bit like standing in a cold stream waiting for the salmon run to leap into his mouth, weeks before they're due to arrive. There is so much to do. His rut looms in the distance like a sundog: a beautiful, bad omen. He should be preparing. Securing his mate, improving his den, padding his own body, ensuring she's equipped to carry both herself and his cubs through the winter.

Instead he's lying to QuickBooks about where his head brewer worked this week and hosing off beer mats, listening to some old coot veer dangerously close to homophobic remarks about the lesbian couple who own the boot shop across the way. It sets John's teeth on edge, makes him snappy. He spills the man's third beer across his lap as he hands it off and gets even more irritated when it only garners benevolent absolution. He wants a fight. Wants a fuck even more. Is turning in circles knowing he won't get either any time soon. Simon doesn't stop by, doesn't offer himself as a verbal, pricker-covered punching bag. The rabbit never texts. John would give his left eye to eat a porcupine right now, feel the satisfaction of the kill and the anger of his prey, both.

He closes shop early, finds his way to the edge of town. He hardly even bothers to hide his clothes in a sparse, budding green thicket before he's on all fours, lumbering off into the woods. Her scent has been growing stronger for him. In his human form, he can usually smell her from across town but like this, snout high in the air as he sifts through the noxious scent of the other humans in town, he can track her clear up to Lake McDonald. It's soothing, usually: the sweetness of the simple foods she eats, the saltiness of her skin. Her cunt. But it's sour tonight, distressed and distressing. He sets off in a blind panic.

He's nearing the Flathead when it hits him properly and he slows, relief and understanding washing over him. Poor rabbit, she's nearing her monthlies. He can smell it now, the stink of her discomfort and the impending blood. No wonder he was so off kilter all day. It speaks to the quality of their bond that he can already sense these things. Means when his rut comes around, she'll likely be impacted too, which sets his mouth watering. Although -.

If their bond was really that strong, she wouldn't be menstruating. Waste of bloody resources. A stupid fucking design flaw he could cure her of.

With a proper bond or a cub, whichever came first.

She's not parked in a proper camp tonight, just tucked away on a four wheel path safe from the main road. He considers not disturbing her for all of thirty seconds before he starts chuffing and sniffing like a hog around her wheel wells. He hears her shuffling about and then her little curtain moves and she beams at him.

"That you, big guy?"

John lowers at her and she pulls her screen down properly to get a better look. He doesn't raise himself half onto her roof this time, just remains on all fours and lifts his head enough to peer back at her.

"You know, we have to stop meeting like this. People will talk." For once, John doesn't think he'd mind. As if to test that theory, she shuffles around a bit and John sees her pull her phone out of the center console to power it up. She was supposed to get battery back ups today. Part of the reason he was so irritable; he'd wanted to speak with her. But if even he was feeling so completely out of it, he can't imagine she cared very much about a trip to the store herself. He waits patiently for her phone to power up. She keeps an eye on him, but he just continues to puff foggy breaths onto her window, unbothered. Eventually she tells him to say cheese and he makes a soft noise at her that makes her grin.

"I never knew bears could moo," she teases and John sneezes at her in annoyance which only makes her giggle. Christ, an honest giggle. She's so fucking cute he could squeeze her til she popped.

"I think that's my favorite noise you make. Though the huffs are pretty cute too." So John does it again, just to show off. "Yeah, that one! Gonna have to do some studying, figure out what those all mean. Just suppose I'm lucky you haven't roared at me yet."

Don't worry bunny, he'd never.

She putz around on her phone and John wonders how many people she's sending the picture to. He's being careless, he knows, but it's worth it to see her - to ensure she's thinking of him, even if she doesn't know it. She holds her stomach absently as she types and after a few moments her face scrunches and she winces, curling in on herself a bit more. When it passes, she eyes him with mock suspicion. "That why you're here, big guy? The bears can smell the menstruation!" That last bit is said in an affected voice, probably a reference to something he's too British to understand. "Thought that was a myth?"

It is, clever rabbit. For all but you.

She hasn't actually started yet, he doesn't think. Poor lamb will likely start right as they're due to meet at the rink. He wonders if she'll cancel. He's already making contingency plans, wondering if she'll let him take care of her or if she'll make excuses and leave him to figure out how to both pretend he doesn't know what's really going on and also make it clear she's allowed to ask him for help with it.

"Well, periods are a curse enough as it is. It's not fair that god sends his cuddliest looking creatures out to kill us, too. You look like an industrial size heating pad and the world's biggest spoon all rolled up in the fuzziest weighted blanket imaginable. You're a frickin' cure all come to kill me. Tease!"

Oh, he's the luckiest man to ever walk the earth. She's so perfect, already warmed up to his bear, no coaxing required. Soon, honey. You can cuddle up to his beast anytime you want. He can't help the constant chuffing noises her spiel has earned; or the way he presses against her car as if he can transfer some of his heat through the metal. He'd been struggling to keep his impulses in check all day, but in this form it's even harder. He's split between the elation of her accepting this form and the frustration that she won't let him help her. He wants to turn back right here, let her see, ferret her out of her den and let her use his body to cure her ails in whatever way she sees fit.

"You're so cute though, I guess I can forgive you," she continues, and it's a struggle to keep his grunting noises in check enough that he can still hear her. "You know, I told my friend about you. He said the bears around here can be pretty well socialized because it's such a high traffic area. You got other girls you're seeing on the side?"

Never, bunny, he snorts, never again.

"I promise I won't be offended. We can keep it casual." She puts on an overly breezy air, being silly. "I mean like, cause they're not like feeding or petting you either, right? Like, you're not… getting that from any girl at all, right?" A beat. John tries to play along by looking as contrite as a bear possibly can. "You whore!" she gasps, "Who is she?"

His response is to stand and lean against her car, ducking his head to nod at her.

"Mmm, nice recover. You know if you really wanted to make it up to me, you'd stop scraping my paint." Admonished, Price lowers himself back to the ground. The rabbit eyes him suspiciously. "I swear, sometimes it feels like you can understand me. Are you a circus escapee? Do you know any tricks?" She pauses, as if waiting. "Can you speak?"

Fuck it, John gives her a halfhearted, rumbling roar.

She laughs, delighted. "How about lay down? You know that one?"

And that sounds like a great idea so he does, makes himself comfortable with his belly on the muddy trail.

"What about roll over?" She asks, voice soft with apprehension; unfortunately, twice is a coincidence but three times is a pattern. John ignores her command in favor of chewing at the pads of his forepaw and after a moment, the rabbit breathes out a heavy, chuckling sigh.

"Might be going a bit batty, spending all my time alone," she mutters. Louder, she tells him, "I think you've got the right idea about getting comfy, though. I'm turning in. You staying there? You'd make some guard dog."

John just rolls his eyes to her and huffs.

"Right. Well, goodnight. Please be gone when I wake up so I can pee without fear." He snorts at her and she chuckles in response, shifting her weight around the car enough to make it rock a bit. She doesn't put her privacy screen back up, he notes with some frustration. He'll have to stay until the early hours just to be sure she's safe, but he doesn't mind. He's been tempted to spend every night exactly like this since he first spotted her rubbing herself raw in the early spring dawn. He's just happy to know she doesn't seem too freaked out by his presence.

***

Sunrise finds him fishing his damp clothes out of the bush he'd hastily tucked them into the night previous. They make for an unpleasant trip back, but he's warmed by a missed text from his bunny: a picture of himself captioned 'Think I made a new friend'.

She'd been asleep when he'd left her but even still, John cannot help replying right then and there.

***

John is leaning against his passenger door when he spots her big Wrangler pulling in and he makes his way to her with enough time to offer a hand as she slides out of the car. He maybe stands a bit too close, appreciating the way her thick, soft thighs rub briefly against his own as he helps guide her gracefully to the ground.

She's got on leggings and tall socks with converse and a thin henley under a worn denim jacket. She's so cute he wants to throw her in the back of her Jeep right then and give the suspension a run for its money. Compounding his dilemma is the strong scent of her monthlies evident through the thin material of her trousers. It's weak enough he doubts anyone else will notice, but the scent of the iron rich blood has his teeth itching.

Plus it's upsetting to be slapped in the face with such strong evidence that their bond isn't fully formed.

Despite his turmoil, John smiles at her warmly and kisses her on the cheek in greeting, making her blush.

"Good to see that bear didn't make off with you. Not sure I could win that particular fight."

She laughs as they make their way inside, "I don't know, he seems more of a lover than a fighter. You could probably win him over with some berries or something."

"So then I'd have to share both you and my food? I gotta run this bloke out of town." John can feel the rabbit eyeing him suspiciously, weighing the quality of his words. He, of course, doesn't flinch; simply holds the door open and guides her through with a palm on her lower back.

He's hoping she'll tell him he doesn't need to worry about sharing her, but it seems that's a bit much to expect from a casual second date. She motions to the door he's held for her instead. "See? And here you were worried about not being a gentleman."

John's laugh is a mean, hot puff of breath. "There's still time," he warns, standing too close.

He helps her into her cute little skates, lets her use his body to keep herself upright as they stand in the carpeted hallway waiting on the zamboni to finish up. He's maybe a little swept up in the domesticity of it, surrounded as they are by other couples and families with small kids. 'Stanley Cup hopefuls,' the rabbit calls them, and John nearly goes weak in the knees imagining her bringing his cubs back here one day, decked out in her team's colors. He stands too close but she doesn't seem to mind; and when he kisses her on the crown of her head and keeps his lips there, she just leans a little more into him and he sighs in contentment. And when the doors finally open, he is treated to the absolute delight of watching his rabbit trying to figure out how to keep her feet under herself, laughing all the while.

The crowd is a mix of old hats just trying to stay limber; pesky children who rocket by, trying hard as they can to get under feet and trip people up; and landlubbin' newbies like them. It's good, sweet. Gives John an excuse to keep his hands on his rabbit, and seems to take her mind off her cramps, if the way her sweat turns from acrid with stress to good clean salt is anything to go by. It would be perfect, John decides, if not for a pair of twenty-something boys that linger, skating big ambling circles around John and his girl. They're casual, keep their eyes mostly to themselves, but John is already on edge and something about their presence makes him want to stand his ground.

Of course, he can't quite do that when the whole point of free skate appears to be 'skate in a circle'.

"Might've had it wrong, bunny," John grins as he gets his hand around her thick waist for the dozenth time, catching her just as her right foot goes slipping out in a direction she didn't authorize. "Think you're more of a Bambi than a thumper."

"With these thighs?" she jokes, slapping her quad for effect.

John doesn't bother to hide the hunger that elicits in him. He's about to give her a tiny little smack of his own when -,

"Nice catch, man. Way to take one for the team."

"Yeah, they'll have to bring the zamboni back out if she goes down."

John is distantly aware of his rabbit going stiff and quiet, her gaze drifting somewhere down by her feet. He keeps hold of her arm but it's more an instinctual comfort than a conscious decision, as all his higher brain function is dedicated to not growing fangs between which to trap these boys.

"They'll have to bring it back out if I use your teeth like an auger, too." John's voice is low. Possibly too low to be strictly human. It gets the point across anyway. The twiggy twats who have been circling like sharks all morning take one look at him and decide they have severely misread the depth of his feelings for the soft girl they've targeted. Finding no easy prey here, they mumble an apology (to John, the gits, not his rabbit) and dart off to pester a gaggle of teenage girls. John draws himself even closer to his girl, waits until he's certain he can control his voice better. "Fucking bellends. Sorry about them. You okay, honey?"

"Yeah, it's fine. Thanks for that. Sorry I clammed up, I can usually fight my own battles."

John scoffs, unamused. "No need, sweetheart. Unless you'd rather, of course. Actually, sorry if I overstepped. Knee jerk reaction."

"Oh, no, trust me, you're fine. Not mad at all." Her breath is soft, nearly amused, and John can't help but feel a little proud at having turned her mood around so quickly.

"Do you want to go do something else?"

"And let them know they bothered me? Absolutely not."

John grins, hums appreciatively. "That's my girl." His grin only widens when she blushes at the term.

They talk about their hometowns when they're not busy stumbling. John tells her about Hereford and his mom, and she tells him how similar this area is to where she grew up. She deflects a bit when asked about her family and John doesn't pry. He wishes she would tell him everything, of course, but can't help being a tiny bit selfishly pleased at the knowledge there's no tight knit family waiting for her back home. He tries asking about Dallas instead but the answers she provides are stiff and rehearsed, and her body language locks up so much it negates the small progress she's made in her skating abilities. John quickly moves on to film preferences and she's quick to loosen back up (she likes period dramas and high fantasy and isn't immune to a night in with a kid's movie).

Eventually her discomfort seems to catch up with her and John thinks he has the unique experience of realizing she will need to make a sanitary run to the bathroom before she does. He debates how best to handle it for exactly thirty seconds before his mouth is moving.

"Do you want to go get lunch?"

The rabbit stops, turning to face him fully. Well, John stops. She grabs his coat sleeve and tries to convert her momentum into a quick u-turn. It's mostly successful in that John has to swing an arm around her back to keep her upright. It's extremely successful in that the momentum carries her right on through and into his chest, where he keeps her pinned tight just because she seems quite content there. "You don't have to work?"

John shrugs, knowing Simon may well quit. "What's the point in being the boss if I can't bang in late every now and again?"

"I guess, but you don't want to -?"

Whatever she's about to suggest is interrupted by the very loud sound of John's stomach growling.

"Oh so that was more a cry for help than a suggestion?" the rabbit laughs, cute little nose scrunching up.

"I may be bloody famished, yeah."

"Oh, poor pumpkin. What are you feeling, then?" she asks as she heads off toward the exit, confident as she skates out of his arm's reach.

"Burgers. Maybe steak. Or lamb." Really, he wants an entire barrel of fish and perhaps some apples, but he wants to feed his poor little mate a mouthful of iron supplements more.

"It's lunch time," she laughs at him.

"Burgers, then?"

"Yeah, alright." He helps lower her onto the hall carpet and squats to help her with her laces. "You don't have to do that," she tells him but he just shakes his head at her.

"Want to." She's quiet after that, perhaps a little contemplative. She excuses herself while he returns the skates and when she comes back she smells like the fake, perfumed chemical they coat feminine products in which always sticks to his nose.

Honestly, cunt is supposed to smell like cunt. Even when it smells like a bloody cunt. Humans are fucking ridiculous.

"Hope you know I'm driving you there," John informs as he holds the door for her yet again.

"That doesn't even make any sense," his rabbit laughs. "You're gonna drive me all the way back here before going into work?"

"Might do. Or: new bartender starting today. Might let you be his guinea pig all evening."

"Oh yeah? You trying to loosen my morals?" Her tone is light and airy but something has shuttered behind her eyes.

"No," John's voice is confident but quietly reassuring. "I'm trying to get you all lushed and cute tonight and then maybe try my hand tomorrow when you're charmed and impressed by the breakfast I make. How well you handle a hangover depending," he tacks on with a teasing little wink.

She blinks once, twice.

"That okay?"

"No. Well, yes, but uh -. It's not a good... time."

John just cocks his head at her, knowing full well what she means but needing to hear her say it so he has an excuse to spoil her.

The rabbi sighs, "It's just -. Christ this is embarrassing. If that's your end goal you should maybe know I'm on my period. Just so you don't get your hopes up tmuch."

"Oh, poor lamb." John's smile is wolfish, the cat that got the cream. "And here I've had you on your feet all morning. Do you want to get lunch? Or would you rather just curl up? I can make you something if you'd rather not stay out."

"No, that's - um. Lunch sounds good, thank you, but uh -. You're not… mad?"

A beat. John's smirk slides slowly off his face. "Mad?"

"I mean, if that was your plan and I'm… you're not upset?"

"No, honey…" John's not entirely sure how to handle this turn. Logistically he knows the first step should be reassurance, but there's a desperate, cloying, insightful little creature in his chest that wants to push all these niceties aside and demand why she would think he was mad. "A man can dream, but I had no expectations. There's nothing to be mad about." She gives him a wan smile and he can't help but continue, "In fact, I oughta give you my mum's number. I ever seem mad about that, you go ahead and tell her to sort me out."

It works, the quiet giggle she lets out has a touch too much relief for his taste, but he'd take that over whatever the hell misplaced anxiety she'd just been exhibiting.

"Can chastise you myself, you know. No mum's needed."

"Oh thank God. Would way rather you do it. She can be proper scary."

"And I can't?"

"Rabbits aren't scary. You ever yell at me, it won't be fear makes me change my ways."

"Not scary? They don't make kids sit on the Easter bunny's lap back home? I still gotta steer clear of malls this time of year."

John grins again, can't help the mental image she's conjured of him having to scare off a man in a pink bunny suit for her. "So I'll have to wait at least a month to spoil you with a shopping trip, noted."

She splutters. "You don't have to do that ever!"

He shrugs, "Told you, want to. Now get in, I'm hungry enough I'd eat you if you held still long enough." When she blanches, scandalized, he can't help but grin.

"Okay, yeah, let's go. But -."

John resolutely doesn't let his smile drop lest she thinks he's mad again, but he can't help the punched out feeling her continued protests elicit.

"- if I'm spending the night, I do definitely need to drive the Jeep to a more anonymous parking lot. That thing gets towed, I'm screwed."

Yes, it sure would be a shame if someone hobbled her speedy little den before she realized you belonged with him. Still, "I'll tell you what. You keep letting me treat you to lunches and dinners and whatever other little excursions we can come up with and I'll let you park at the bar whenever you'd like, hm?"

"What, so I can deal with the noisy neighbors?"

"Have it on good authority the second floor's pretty well sound proofed. You can hang your hat up there if it ever bugs you," he winks. "But fine, go get your bloody buggy. I'll send you the address, yeah?"

Part seven >>

[bluegiragi]

some domestic monster!141 antics :3 (more notes under the cut)

early access + nsfw on patreon

-Gaz and Price sleep shirtless to lessen discomfort around their wings

-When the 141 sleep in a pile, Price tends to try cover them all with his remaining wing. It's a subconscious dragon thing done out of protective instinct for a hoard.

-Soap is scared of heights. His inner wolf is very uncomfortable not being on the ground.

-Currently, Price is the only person Simon is okay with being fully shirtless/naked around.

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price guest stars on

The Muppet Show (1977)

[oopsdevil]

king of dilfs

pls like on tiktok so i can get out of the shadowb*n ♡ - talkingflo

[chamomiletealeaf]

Bear!hybrid Price x reader drabble

Warnings: afab!reader, sex, mating press, kind of breeding kink? little bit of lactation kink?

Inclusivity note: Referring to reader’s pussy as “pink” meaning the inside of it, not the labia; Price is huge since he’s part bear, so anyone would look tiny next to him.

Bear!hybrid Price who fucks you good and hard in a mating press, making sure you stay in place while he pounds your tight little cunt, tears spilling out of your eyes from how good he’s filling you. His fangs bared against your neck as he growls saying how well he’s gonna fuck you, how much he loves how you take his massive thick cock in such a tiny, cute little pussy all swollen and pink for him.

His bear DNA making him so much bigger than an average human male and loves how he can so easily toss you around.

And when you finally give him some chunky little cubs, you breast feed them, their little fangs scratching you on accident making you yelp a bit. And when you finish feeding them and they go off to play Price says:

“Aww one of the little ones nicked ya? Here lemme kiss it and make it better.” He says before he licks and sucks at your nipple, secretly wanting a taste of his own.

[ghostlywhiskey]

price who can’t get enough of you when he’s home. he loves sunday mornings with you solely for the fact you both lazily lay in bed for a bit before he goes for a morning run, leaving you in bed to keep resting.

when he comes back he’s sweaty, his shirt already off and slung around his neck as he walks through the bedroom door. your still laying in bed in one of his t-shirts, smiling over at him as you sit up. without even showering first he walks over to you, leaning over as his fists rest on the bed to steady himself as he kisses you and your hands grabbing the tshirt around his neck to keep him close.

you’d never admit it out loud but you loved the scent of him after he’s gone for a run - the thick scent of cologne now mixed with sweat. the way his body hair clung to him, your hands running up his abdomen to his chest before you place your hands on his neck as he kisses your own neck, nipping at the skin. his hands running up under your shirt, grabbing your breasts.

the both of you adjust on the bed, removing the little clothing covering your bodies before he teases your entrance with his cock, gliding it up and down your wet folds. the sound of your wet cunt squishing slightly as he slides in. his soft groan mixed with your whimpers as he thrusts. grabbing his biceps, his hands go to your hips, gently rocking his body into yours. “that's it, love...will my bunny be a good girl for her bear and show him just how much she loves him?” he coos into your ear as he bites and tugs on your earlobe.

the nickname so innocent when he called you it in public, but he made it sound so dirty when you two were behind closed doors. “my big bear feels so good,” you cried, nails digging into his skin. he put his hand on your neck, and then turned your head to the side a bit. “you’re doing an amazing job, love,” the whisper in your ear making you shiver. “oh..my bunny’s tight, so tight” he groans.

you really did love when he was home.

[plushieanimals]

💟 Espeon build a bear has been restocked! 💟

[gomzdrawfr]

Imagine having bear!Price all to yourself

you don't have to, here let me show you instead

[vnards]

>dinner's ready!

Price was grumpy. There was a tightness in his shoulders he couldn’t release and it had been driving him mad. He was at work, taking his 7th lap of the forest today, trying to run off his extra energy. But no matter how hard he tries, there’s been a smell in his nose. As he makes his way back to the ranger’s station, a grumble emits from him unknowingly.

Ever since his last visit to the store, there’s been this itch under his nails and a tension in his neck that just wouldn’t go away. Nothing he does gets his mind off you. Off your smell. “Dammit.” Price grumbles under his breath and leans back in his chair, wiping his eyes, as if he can make everything go away.

There’s footsteps outside the ranger station that catches his ear and a quick glance at the clock makes him sigh in relief. Marcus walks in, throwing a polite smile John’s way as he heads towards the back, getting ready for his own shift.

John couldn’t be more grateful to be able to get out of here. He quickly starts shutting down his things and begins packing. “Long day?” Marcus asks as he comes from the back of the station.

He grunted in response, “It was fine.” He quickly dismisses.

He hears a pause come from Marcus for a moment. Damned humans and their stupid social rules.

The former military captain tries again, remembering he only got the job because of Marcus’ good nature. He clears his throat again, “I think I may be coming down with something.” He says instead.

“Yea,” Marcus starts, “It usually takes a while to get used to the mountain air.” John falsely agrees, simply wanting to get out from under scrutiny and judgement. “Maybe you should take the weekend off.” He suggests.

That gives Price pause for a moment. He doesn’t want to misuse any good graces with Marcus, but with the coming winter, he would not look a gifted horse in the mouth. “I can still come in on Sunday,” He offered.

Marcus thought it over for a moment, “Yea, that sounds pretty good.”

Price smiled politely, a renewed vigor gave him enough momentum to grab his stuff and head out.

…

Price lumbered around the forest aimlessly. The sky was a light grey, but despite that, the trees gave an enchanting look and feel. He was in his bear form, finally able to stretch his legs and enjoy the mountains in which he resided in. He hasn’t had the chance ever since he’s moved to the area and the serenity he feels makes him feel truly at home.

No orders to give. No gunfire raining over him. No crushing weight on his shoulders. He can meander as slow as he wants. Scratch his back for as long as he wants. Even pick the berries without a care in the world.

There were a few hikers out in the late afternoon. Probably coming from work. Families with their dogs mostly. Everyone gave him a wide berth, some taking pictures, but most too scared to move until he’s ambled his way further. He’s not out to scare anybody so he leaves them alone.

Until that smell.

The bear sniffed the air again. Certain of the familiar scent. A pleased rumble began in his chest, heading a direction further into the woods and closer to the river.

Price didn’t even realize that he had changed directions. Simply moving as his bear asked without question. It wasn’t until he got closer that he came to and realized something was off.

Your smell got stronger. The hints of a floral and rich scent beckoning him. And Price followed.

John was able to take in your scent fully with his nose this time and it was even better than the last. Honey. You smelled like fresh honey mixed with a salty air and a floral scent. Bodywash, maybe. He was so distracted, he missed another scent in the air.

He traveled for about half a mile, paying no mind to the other hikers that had spotted him. The rushing of the river began a craving for fish. Price thought he saw salmon on one of his routes. As the clearing came up, there you were.

Sitting at the edge of the river, squatting to look under the water was you. You were out hiking it seemed, your backpack too light for anything else. John watched you in silence. It seemed the tranquility of the forest extended even to you. Almost adding to its beauty.

You threw you head back and gave a hearty laugh. What a wonderful sound it was. The trance Price basked in was interrupted by a stranger.

A man, walking closer to you from behind. He was about the same height as John, but not nearly as muscled or big. Not nearly as strong as Price. He was on the younger side, but still a threat nonetheless. The bear readied his stance, ready to intervene at a moments notice, when you turned your head and spoke to the man. You knew each other. And by the way the man put his hand on your back and sat next to you, it seemed you knew each other better than just friends.

Price had to focus on staying hidden in the trees. Watching. Observing. Calculating his next move.

He could shift back and approach the “couple,” giving some bullshit excuse for interrupting them. Maybe you’ll pick me over him. The thought pleased him, but no. That wouldn’t be enough. You were too smart to believe anything he’d come up with.

His mind ran a mile a minute, trying to figure out what to do. He could leave. Neither of you had spotted him, his fur helping him blend into the foliage, keeping him concealed. And as the two of you sat on the edge of the river, looking over the horizon, none the wiser, the stranger said something that caught your attention. Price got down lower, his years of stealth being an innate skill drilled in his bones.

Your voices were too soft for him to hear. But as the man touched the soft skin on your cheek and leaned in carefully, the bear roared, an anger carrying Price forward into the clearing and disturbing you both.

“Oh shit!” The man was on his feet in an instant, spotting the bear immediately. The look of confusion on your face was adorable. But the pure fear that replaced it tightened something in his chest. The big, bad bear had made himself known and there was no going back. So Price led into it with full force.

He raised onto his hind legs to his full height, his eyes never leaving the man that dare touch what’s his. The frustrations from the last few days came forth. The itch for violence that was always under his skin reaching a tipping point that he released in a bellow.

The call of the wild.

It didn’t take the man long to get to his feet and start running the other direction. He hadn’t even looked back to see if you would follow. A coward. He sneered.

Staying still under the scrutiny of a beast like him, you were too stunned to move. The pure fear in your eye was enough to tell Price everything he needed to know. You were smart not to run in front of a wild creature.

As the coward continued to run, further than necessary, Price might add, and once the threat was deemed safe enough, the bear dropped back on all fours. He let out a chuff of annoyance as his attention turned back to you as a sniffle caught his attention.

Price wasn’t close, but he could still see the tears growing along your tear line, threatening to fall. John almost felt bad about scaring you the way he did, but he knew there was no point fighting instinct.

So instead, he laid down on all fours, his arms and leg splayed out under him and put his chin on the ground. He hoped you knew what he was trying to do, look as non-threatening as possible. That was his mission.

You stood up on shaky legs, unsure of what to do with this strange bear’s behavior. You’ve of course have had tips you’ve picked up over the years on what to do when you encounter wild animals in these mountains, but the blood coursing through your veins wipes away any memory of them.

But…there’s something different about this bear. You can’t put your finger on it, but you trust your intuition and you get a burst of courage.

Price has to focus on staying still, but he can’t deny the burst of excitement in his stomach as you take careful steps closer. His eyes never leave you, watching your confidence grow with every step as you come closer to him.

Mission successful.  

Something speaks to you. You’re unable to tell what has come over you. Walking up to a wild bear after being abandoned by Tim. There’s a flame of anger that begins to start, leaving you like that, but you tamp it down in favor to focus on the wild bear in front of you.

The bear chuffs again, it doesn’t sound threatening, but you stop anyway. What you are you thinking!? There’s still a possibility of being mauled by a bear out in the middle of the mountains because you walked up to it? The thought doesn’t get any less crazy.

You’re about to turn back around when you examine the bear again. He hasn’t moved. Staying still as you approached him. It’s like he knows. You can see it in his eyes, something human about them. You finish crossing the distance to the bear, close enough to touch.

Price makes sure to not make any sudden movements, but he does lift his head up closer to you, seeing if he can get lucky twice. At his insistence, you finally reach your hand out to him, close enough to gently pet his head.

Price was in heaven.

Your hands are soft against his skin. Softer than his fur even. Gentle. John knew you’d have a gentle hand. A pleased rumble starting in his chest. Something he hasn’t done in years and it feels good. It feels great.

“You’re not so scary, huh?” You giggle lightly, your nerves settled after the adrenaline wore off.

Never for you.

You get a burst of courage and reach a little further, reaching behind the bear’s ears. Price melted.

He wanted more. He needed more.

He tilted his head to the side to allow you more access behind his ears. He can’t think of the last time someone showed him so pleasantly. The bear leaned over completely, laying on his side and showing you his belly as you make sure to show the other ear as much attention as the first. So thorough. Such a good girl. The pleased rumbles grow louder.

A flick of the bear’s ear causes him pause and suddenly sits up. You are able to move out of the way and step back, remembering you don’t have any protection on you incase this bear changes it’s mind. But he had other concerns.

The sound of a truck rumbling through the trees on the ranger’s path he took many times that day. How could John forget the protocol for spotting large animals? He’s never been so reckless before.

A new tension replaced your fear, concern as the truck came in sight. “Go,” you told the bear, “they might hurt you. Shoo, shoo.”

No one has never shooed away John Price before. He knew the protocol for a sighting and Marcus wouldn’t shoot him unless it was a last resort, but who was he to deny an order from his pretty little bird? He raised up, shaking his fur a bit of any debris and sticks he accumulated. He checked on you one more time. Your hands were still shaking, maybe from adrenaline, maybe from fear, but you looked more stable. Better. “Go,” you insisted again.

He chuffed again, but followed your orders. As Price worked to blend back into the words, he knew one thing for certain.

He will never let you go.

-been thinking if it would be easier to set up all my works in one place if it'd be helpful?

(edit: I did it -> list)

[pricegouge]

Fatted Rabbit, Part Seven

Bearshifter!Price AU

Rated M

Part one

The place John chooses is understated and casual, for which you're relieved. You don't mind being wined and dined but you'd dressed comfortably, with only skating in mind, so you're glad he hasn't brought you to some fancy touristy place downtown. He holds doors open for you and walks around like a peacock when his hand settles low on your back. He asks for a booth and at this point, you're not even surprised when he tucks in next to you instead of opposite, his big thigh resting warm and sturdy against your own; his elbow placed firmly on the table in front of you so you have to lean against his tricep to read the one menu he's apparently decided you'll share.

It's… nice.

You ask to see the salad section when he settles on some sloppy pile of meats, caramelized veggies, and eggs. He pulls a face at that but obliges and you decide to believe that's not somehow weight related.

"This one looks good," John comments a little too-blandly, pointing at a trough consisting of ninety percent steak and maybe a handful of arugula.

"Are you anemic? Should I be worried?"

John laughs, his arm shaking slightly against your chest. "It's actually your iron levels I'm worried about."

Ah. That's… maybe a little weird, but cute.

"I'm fine, John. Don't have much of an appetite, to be honest."

John looks a little miffed by this but doesn't comment when you ask the waitress for a simple Caesar. He gets his meat monstrosity and asks for it bloody in a voice that could charm the skin of a snake. He knows what he's doing, too, based on the entirely too innocent smile he gives the waitress as he moves onto his drink order, a strawberry shake. You can't help but laugh a little at him.

"I didn't expect you to have such a sweet tooth considering how skinny you are," you confide, a teasing smirk on your face which is immediately wiped straight off when John gives you a hurt, borderline panicked look.

"You think I'm skinny!?"

"Uh… no, like -. I mean, in shape. Fit. Sorry, no, you're definitely not skinny. That was poorly worded." You're floundering, trying desperately to fix whatever it is you'd fucked up. It had never occurred to you that someone wouldn't want to be called skinny, though it makes sense now that someone who clearly put as much work into maintaining his body would never want to be called scrawny. Christ, you'd fucked up. That's twice now. Oh god, he's never going to want to see you again. "I'm so sorry, I only meant -."

But John's peering back at you suspiciously now and it has your hands wringing. "It's okay, honey," he says after a moment, clears his throat. "I uh… lost a lot of weight over the winter. Suppose I'm a little sensitive about it, is all."

You're still a nervous wreck, doubly afraid now that you've upset him. Fucking hell, man's probably got some health issues he's getting over and you had to go and comment on his fucking body. "I'm so, so sorry, I should've thought -."

"Sweetheart, look at me. You're fine. I'm not mad."

Holy shit, he's not. He's -.

Right. This is John.

"Besides, you're right," he continues brightly, beaming at the waitress when she places the shake in front of him. "I am a little twiggy. Let's see if we can't fix that, eh?"

You're still mortified that you even commented on his body. After all the bullshit you've put up with in your life, you know better than to pull this shit. You hadn't meant it negatively, of course, but you know from first hand experience how little that matters. John looks happy enough now, but you won't soon forget how hurt he'd looked after your comment. You're still mulling over the best way to move on when he offers you a sip off his pink treat, dopey smile in place. You can't say no to that and he somehow manages to look even more pleased when you take a sip from his straw.

"So… weight loss… did you have any health scares?"

"Hm?" He jolts, eyes focused entirely on your lips. "Oh, no. Strong as a bear," he winks - weird. "Just lose my appetite under the Arizona sun. Always spend all summer trying to gain the weight back," he laughs, a little sad. "Good excuse to indulge, though."

"Well, indulge away. I do think you look good, by the way. Bet you'll look even better when you're comfortable and confident."

John smiles and kisses your forehead with slightly sticky lips. "Thanks, bunny. I think you look very good too, by the way."

He says it the same way he'd appraised the menu. "Thank you," you mutter, grateful that the waitress chooses that moment to return so he doesn't notice how much you blush from his attentions. It's still odd to you, someone as absurdly handsome as John Price being this sweet on you.

John eats like someone's coming to steal it off his plate. He remembers himself maybe midway through his burger and offers you a bite, but when you shake your head he shrugs and goes back to scarfing it like a stray dog. It's kind of impressive, honestly. More out of curiosity than any genuine hunger, you slowly and obviously grab a French fry from his plate which prompts him to grin goofily around a mouthful and spin the plate so the fries are closer to you. You'd been worried for a moment there that he may have some kind of feeder kink, but the voracity with which he's shoveling food into his own mouth combined with how he picks a singular cherry tomato off your dish has you thinking food might be more of a love language to him. That's okay. Cute. You can handle that.

John doesn't throw in the towel until his plate is completely cleared and when you see him eyeing your half full bowl you laugh and slide it his way. He laughs too, and says he'll make you something at the bar later to make up for it. You're not sure you'll take him up on that, but you won't lie that the ease with which he guarantees your next meal means a lot to you, considering how often a spoonful of peanut butter counts as dinner for you these days.

The waitress asks if you want dessert and John eyes you hopefully.

"You go right ahead, big guy, but I'm out."

With a sigh, he admits he should probably go relieve Simon and the two of you pack up without any sweets.

You follow him to the bar and he guides your Jeep back past a little awning and behind the building. He opens your door for you once you put it in park and gives you a hand down. "You can park right here anytime you need, honey," he says and you can't deny that the privacy afforded by the two surrounding walls is pretty tempting.

John takes you in through the kitchen where you find the most intimidating man you've ever seen in your life. He's muscled like a bull and taller even than John. A shock of pale blond hair; scarred, furrowed brows over dark, blank eyes; a black surgical mask and a matching baby gap t-shirt pulled taut over biceps bigger than your head. Here is a man that could make even Phil flinch just by yawning a little too hard, surely, and when he greets John, his voice is low like an oncoming bulldozer and just as deadly.

"Where the fuck 'ave you been?"

John doesn't even flinch. "Got lunch."

The blond man turns his gaze upon you for exactly forty-three seconds. Technically, his expression is completely neutral, but you can't help feeling like he's brought a pumpkin gutter to your eye socket, taken your measure by literally weighing whatever he finds in there. (Metric, of course, for accuracy's sake.)

"'Hope you 'ad fun. I fuckin' quit."

"Sure, sure," John rolls his eyes. He nods toward the front of the shop, "How's he doing?"

"Can't speak English."

"You can barely speak English, you filthy manc. How'd he do with customers?"

"Gave out 'is number three times, if that's what you're looking for in a keep."

John shrugs, "If it keeps 'em coming back."

"Gaz would've never."

"No, Gaz would've gotten theirs. He good with the till?"

"'Ardly trusted him with it, did I?"

"Christ, Simon, did you train him on anything?"

"Too busy house breaking 'im."

John snorts. "How'd he do, honest?"

"Hmph," Simon grunts.

"Hmph?" John repeats, valley girl inflection.

"Mm."

John gives you a 'holy shit, you seeing this?' look. "That good?"

"Said what I said. This the bird?" Simon nods at you, but John is hardly deterred.

"Yes. Should I extend him a year round offer, then?"

The other man's turn to ignore John: "Hi, pet. Nice to meet you."

"You're Simon, I gather?" You grit down on your resolve and extend him a hand which he gracefully doesn't crush in his calloused palm. "I believe I have you to thank for a great coffee date?"

"That's right, so if you ever want to trade up, I know plenty of things -."

But whatever he knows, you never will because John chooses that moment to get adorably jealous. "Awrigh', 'nough of tha'." His accent is thick when his hand finds your shoulder and guides you through the swing door into the front area. You pop out behind the bar, where a roguishly handsome man with a short cropped mohawk and upsettingly blue eyes is already grinning at you, probably having heard every word from the kitchen.

Sure enough, you have enough time to hear Simon warn John he was going to regret that before the mohawked man is inching closer. "Hi, bonnie," he greets you in a thick Scottish accent and you don't even have a chance to respond before John is right there, crowding you just enough to put the Scot on his back foot.

"Soap," John greets the other man, and mohawk smiles warmly at his boss, devilish eyes glinting with easy charm and just a touch of mischief.

"Price. Who's the lass?"

"Your test subject tonight. Pretend she's just a regular customer who doesn't know what she wants -." John guides you around the end of the bar to the very last stool as he speaks. "What would you start her off with?"

"Tha's easy, bonnie lass like her. Sit tight, hen." Soap (Soap?) gets to work behind the bar as John ducks back into the kitchen area for a moment. Whatever Soap's making looks simple enough, maybe four ingredients, but he makes it into an art form, coating the glass with whatever sticky syrup he's using for flavor before pouring his mix in and adding garnish. John returns wielding a laptop just in time to see Soap putting back the ingredients he'd used. Soap misses the small, pleasantly surprised look that crosses John's face, but you don't, and you understand when you take a sip; the light, citrusy flavor not at all what you'd expected when you saw him break out the thick syrup. You can't help your hum of satisfaction and Soap beams. "Good, right? Not too heavy?"

"Nope, just right. Thank you."

"Good, means you'll be able to drink all night," he winks. He turns to John, motioning to the register. "Am I…?"

"No, but you know how much that would cost?" John asks as he settles next to you and powers on his laptop.

"Sixteen ninety nine," Soap answers confidently and you nearly spit the drink back out.

But John is unaffected, sliding you the remote as he pulls up some scheduling app. "Good lad," he tells Soap and the man nods once, before getting lost on the other side of the bar, cleaning glasses.

John waits until the audience has left to sneak a sip from your drink. You raise a brow at him and he nods his approval before returning it to you. You settle on some old Quantum Leap reruns and John conveniently makes it clear exactly then that you need only say if you get bored.

You can't help but grin at him. "Unlikely. My buddy made up a hell of a drinking game for this show. Been a while since I've played it so I'll have to check the rules, but I think I can keep myself entertained for as long as this block goes."

"Drinking game for a show?" John asks, apprehensive.

"'Course, boss," Soap calls from the other end, not bothering to hide his eavesdropping. "When they, then you…" To you he adds, "Drink whenever Scott Bakula looks in a mirror?"

"That's what? One to start? We can do better." And just like that, you text a friend you hadn't been allowed to speak to in years.

You don't, so you send him the new one and within moments you're settling in to intentionally get tipsy, something you haven't done since the first time Phil laid a hand on you. There's a part of you that can't help feeling this is a bad idea, but another, much larger part of you is determined to put these fears in the past. So you share the rules with Soap and John nods approvingly when he pours himself a water to drink along with you. It's silly, and you feel a little weird drinking by yourself, but John's left hand stays rooted to your thigh, and Soap is eager to make sure you drink every time you're queued. He keeps your glass full, each drink slightly different. You comment exactly once that you don't want to mix your liquors and after that, Soap keeps you plied with the same honeyed whiskey he'd started you off with. They're all delicious, and John seems to agree if his tiny nods after each sample is any indication.

Eventually, real customers start bellying up and John sneaks back behind the bar with a kiss to your temple. By now you've switched the entertainment to the game seven you've been dreading, and the quiet old man next to you seems invested so you shoot the shit with him for a bit. Soap does well, from what you can tell. At least well enough that John feels comfortable spending much of the night in the kitchen. He pops out occasionally to offer you scraps, and check the score, says he's 'starting to get invested in these muppets.' John gloms on pretty quickly to the fact that melty cheese is your weak point, and you end up eating nearly a full dinner despite your general queasiness. The small crowd that gathers around the bar is mostly older, but they're all friendly, and the atmosphere is quiet enough that personal conversations eventually grow to include the whole group and you can't help the smile that slowly grows to overtake your face. The alcohol is definitely making you sentimental and it's hard not to reflect on how isolated you'd been for… so many years. These old locals aren't your friends, but they're certainly friendly. You hadn't planned on putting down any roots here, but then John happened, and now Soap and maybe even Simon. The old Wild fan who you celebrate with when the muppets win. The night receptionist at the gym. You're not sure when it happened, but at some point you'd allowed yourself to become enmeshed - just a bit - in the tapestry of this town. It's exactly what you said you wouldn't do, but when John subtly shakes a bottle of Advil at you from behind the kitchen saloon door, you can't bring yourself to regret it. You nod and he brings you out two along with a bottle of water. Soap switches you to ciders after that without being prompted. You're wary at first because of the sweetness, but he assures you the cider is light and crisp - that it comes from New York so you know it's good. You laugh, wondering if he knows, and take your first sip of home in years.

***

The good thing about living out of your car is you're never unprepared for anything. Before ascending to John's apartment, you stop by the Jeep to grab toiletries and pajamas. John grumbles about putting you in his clothes but you'd be mortified if you leaked on them so you make up some (not wholly untruthful) excuse about sensory issues and clothes needing to fit just right which you can see John filing away with the same seriousness he'd been using to prepare his schedule earlier. There's a nondescript door just in front of John's Suburban which he holds open for you. You lead the way up the stairs and laugh when you hear him hum appreciatively at the view it leaves him with. It turns to a squeak when he pinches just below the crease where your ass meets your thigh and then it's John's turn to laugh when the hand you reach back to stop him doesn't shove him away, simply keeps him in place. By now you've reached the landing and as John draws level with you, his heavy palm slides out and over your hip, coming to rest just a hair too low on your waistline to be decent. The landing is narrow, barely enough to fit a man as big as John, let alone your wide frame, but John doesn't seem in a hurry to open the door into his place. The only light source in the stairway is a small night light back behind John's calves and the ambient light coming through his curtained door panel. Backlit and bowed forward, John's presence is overwhelming. His scent - pine, petrichor, something personal - is inescapable and you almost wish he'd get the kiss you know is coming done and over with so you can get to finally (finally) sticking your face in his chest and just breathing.

Of course, then he does kiss you and you don't want it to end.

John's movements as he bridges the gap between you are slow and impending when he steps closer, boots heavy as one wedges its way in between your shoes. You're already impossibly close when he reels you that final inch by the grip he still has on your waist, meeting your lips with a measured duck of his head that leaves your own tilted back, neck exposed to the wide breadth of his hand which he places on the side there, cradling your jaw in such a way it keeps your head tilted exactly the way he wants you.

It's slow, sweet. Hot. John's mustache tickles but not unpleasantly - too neat and well groomed to be prickly. His lips are soft, addictive, and when he deepens the kiss, his tongue scorches across your own. He groans contentedly and somehow you know this ridiculous man is pleased with the taste of you: honeyed whiskey and sweet cider, the bits of greasy cheese he himself made for you.

He breaks off but doesn't go far, burrows his nose right under your ear and takes a deep, steadying breath. "You drive me fucking crazy, bunny. 'S this alrigh'? I can kiss you?"

"Yes," you breathe and he's immediately back on you, both hands framing your jaw now. At some point your own have found the unzipped edges of his Carhart and you try pulling him closer. You only succeed in moving yourself, however, because you'd forgotten John is built like a brick shithouse, even if he thinks he's scrawny.

He obliges you anyway, backs you up enough that you gently bump into the wall, and then your skull is cupped in a protective hand as you're pushed more insistently against it. John is a solid, burning wall at your front. Even through the layers of thermals and jackets you can feel the heat of his skin and you're torn between the desire to be naked under him, sweaty, slick, panting; and to simply see if he'd humor you by holding still long enough to be used like a heating pad.

You pant when John moves to your neck, nipping at the soft skin there until he draws a breath from you that sounds suspiciously like his name. Like this, you can see where his beanie has ridden up just slightly, exposing a bit of hair above his temple and you feel like some repressed Victorian man catching a glimpse of ankle. You're on him in a moment, sniffing his scalp like a fucking dog and you'd maybe feel a little bad about it if not for the way he groans - if not for the way his overwhelming presence makes you feel a little crazy.

"Want you," John tells the bit of décolletage he's uncovered, 'T' enunciated with teeth framing collar bone. Some harefooted intrusive thought has you wishing he'd bite down, wanting to hear it crunch under his jaw. You can feel him now, hard against your hip. He doesn't do anything with it - doesn't grind it into your flesh or bully your hands down to feel the weight of it - but it's enough to know it's there, has your grip moving under his jacket, spanning his ribs.

"John," you gasp again - pleading maybe. Perhaps a warning.

"I know, honey. I know." He sounds miserable. "Won't touch, I promise. But this is okay, right? I can -. We can -."

"Yes."

You're not sure how or when John gets the door open. There's a clatter and a lighting change you barely register from behind your closed eyes and your lifted onto a counter and that's about the hottest thing anyone's ever been able to do for you so you spread your thighs wide on instinct and John takes his reward by slotting himself in as if he bought the fucking deed. "Won't touch, sweetheart, I promise," he repeats as he shoves your coat off your shoulders and admires his handiwork. "Just want to feel you. I want -. Want to…"

Instead of running his intentions by you verbally, John drops to his knees and buries his face in the crotch of your leggings. You yip in embarrassment and try to scramble further onto the counter to get away from him but his grip on your thighs may as well be made of iron. "John, that's… I'm -."

You're interrupted by the heavy sound of his breathing as he takes a fucking whiff of your cunt.

"John!"

"Christ, bunny, I could eat your right up," John murmurs, lips still pressed against your pussy. You gape at him but the look he gives you from under his heavy brow isn't chastised at all.

He looks rabid.

You gulp and John chuckles, deep and dark. "Not gonna," he assures you yet again, but the hot streak he licks up the seam of your leggings almost has you wishing he would. "Not gonna," he says again, and you realize he's saying it for his own benefit when he stands and places a quick peck on your mons. You're briefly embarrassed by the hair he can probably feel through your thin layers, but you catch him taking another quick sniff which -.

Well, it's odd but at least it completely eliminates every ounce of self-consciousness you've ever felt about your pussy.

John groans, works his teeth against the texture he's found.

"Not gonna?" you tease him, not really at all surprised by how breathless you sound.

John huffs, hot and humid where it gets trapped in the fabric beneath his mouth. "Not tonight," he agrees.

"C'mere." You try to help his weak morals by hauling him up by the shoulder. It's a laughable attempt at best, but John doesn't laugh as he obliges.

"Shouldn't have gotten you drunk," he pouts against your lips.

"Still would've been on my period," you remind him, embarrassed as if the word shouldn't even be spoken at a time like this.

"Always did like my lamb bloody."

"John!" he laughs and you tap him lightly on the pec, which only seems to please him more.

"You won't let me play with my food, bunny?" He's looming over you now, hand resting on the counter behind you. You try to imagine him with blood - your blood - all over his face and find -,

"It's not gross?"

John's smile is wolfish and you're caught in his jaws. "No, sweetheart. One of my favorite treats."

"Oh." That's -.

Why doesn't that gross you out?

"We'll talk about it in the morning, yeah? For now, let's get you comfy and ready for bed."

He gives you one final, lingering kiss. You're not sure when he managed to pry your bag off you, but he retrieves it from the kitchen floor and guides you to his en suite. When he runs the shower, you ask if he plans on joining and the look he gives you is that of an owl spotting a field mouse.

A stupid, drunken voice in your head is starting to believe this man actually wants to eat you.

"Won't touch."

When he leaves, he doesn't close the door so neither do you.

John's body wash doesn't smell like him. It's some citrusy bergamot number, at which you are entirely pissed. Still, the water is hot and the pressure is good so you luxuriate a bit, trying to angle yourself right so that the stream can massage some of your back ache away. You had a blast today, but you'll definitely be happy just to lay down soon. You hope John's not too proper to share a bed with you as you kinda really want to be snuggled. When you exit the shower to find him sitting on his bed, staring at you unabashedly as you towel off, you're pretty sure you have your answer. You give him a little show, giggling when he grunts at the way you bend to reach your bag. Eventually you do have to shut the door on him so you can take care of some more private concerns. He's in flannel trousers and not much else when you finally emerge from the bathroom, still just sitting on the edge of the bed. You stare at him for a moment, a little timid after your show. John is solid: thick muscles cording under a thin layer of fat. You think maybe his skin looks slightly baggy on him, but it's hard to tell through the thick hair that coats him. He lets you look your fill for a moment before motioning you closer with a quick curl of his fingers. You stand between his legs and his big palm skates up over your thigh, hooking his fingers into the band of the men's boxer briefs you wear to bed from where it's visible above your sweats and snapping it lightly.

"Whose are these?"

"Mine?"

"Mm. Coulda given you a pair of mine, if you wanted."

"I can wear my own underwear, thank you," you laugh. "Wait, are you jealous?"

"Yes," John admits easily, fingers pulling at the band as if threatening to take them off.

"Of what? I bought these myself," you laugh again.

"Ah." John has the decency to look sheepish as he gently lays the band back where he found it, double rolled to keep from indenting your skin.

"You're ridiculous, you know?" His jealousy rings a tiny little alarm in the back of your mind but you choose to ignore it until you're sober and can be more reasonable.

"No argument there. Are you ready for bed now or do you want to watch something?" He looks so sweet again, big puppy dog eyes as he looks up at you. This is the man who takes you on dates and kisses your temple in public. It's hard to reconcile him with the starved animal he'd been when he'd had you laid out on his counter, but you find you definitely don't mind the duality.

"Are you up for a movie?"

He nods, "Whatever you want, honey."

"Well, what I want is a stupid kids movie, but that'll probably ruin the mood so, like… you pick."

John just smiles up at you dopily. "That sounds perfect. Anything to help me keep it PG," he winks. It's not a good joke, but he's so proud of it it's hard not to laugh. You decide on Who Framed Roger Rabbit because it's a good goddamn movie and because you don't want to subject him to anything egregiously childish. John laughs at the title and too late you realize your mistake.

"Oh, bunny, you don't think this one will be too scary for you?"

"Shut up," you laugh, fluffing a pillow a little too aggressively in his direction. He pulls it from you easily and uses it to prop himself up against the headboard a bit. The position turns his belly into a perfect pillow of your own and you dive in, kissing the ticklish hairs under your cheek just to watch his abs twitch.

"Brave rabbit. Keep testing me and Judge Doom won't be the scariest thing you see tonight."

"Why do you call me a rabbit, anyway? That a Britishism?"

"Sure."

With John's fingers in your hair and the low buzz of whiskey still in your veins, you only make it to the patty cake bit before you're dozing off.

John notices. "Am I sleeping in here tonight, bunny?" His voice is low, an earthquake at the edge of your hearing.

"God I hope so," you mumble into his belly, mortified to find a bit of drool sticking to his hair. If he notices, he doesn't say anything and you fall back asleep for a while. When the movie ends, his shifting wakes you again. You wouldn't mind except it seems the Advil from earlier has finally worn off and you're starting to get crampy. You shift, restless, but John slots himself against your back, his skin like a furnace on your achy back.

"Shh, I got you sweetheart. Go back to bed." You do, right after pulling at his arm until his broad, warm palm places a good amount of pressure right over your sensitive belly, too content to feel self conscious.

[callofdudes]

*clears throat*

*leans into mic*

✨ Barry Sloane ✨

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price guest stars on The Muppet Show (1977)

[mehh141]

Big military bois 🫡

Cap and Bear together

@deadbranch

[chamomiletealeaf]

Thinking about bear hybrid Price again. Just so sleepy and big who snuggles up to you covering you with his massive paws :( hair always so messy and he’s always warm and snuggly and soft and a lil’ chubby. He’d lay on your chest, putting his full weight on you making it a bit harder to breathe but he falls asleep so fast you don’t have the heart to move him so you just scratch his cute lil’ fluffy ears:(

He’d eat a lot too, and you’d always make sure he was nice and fed, especially before winter so he can just sleep with you all cozy the whole winter :(