ursid
john decides to take the pretty waitress with the intoxicating scent home. he doesn’t much care if she's willing or not.
bear! john x f! reader. 4k words. ao3. warnings: dubious consent, kidnapping, size difference, sexual content, veeeeery light breeding kink, animal injury & death, dead dove: do not eat — & i cannot post this without mentioning the fic that planted the bear! john seed in my mind two years ago: landscape with honey :)
Thanks, honey.
The words uttered in his low voice swung like a pendulum from one ear to another as you sneak your fingers down your underwear and meet your wet folds with a sharp gasp.
John never did call you by your name, even though it was clearly written on the tag attached to your shirt. He always met you with a weary smile, reticent eyes, and a pet name on the tip of his tongue.
Honey, swee’heart, and rarely, on the days his eyes seemed particularly esurient, their stare cracking open your ribs and settling on your heart, cub.
When you set his usual meal and beer on the table invariably known as his, he thanked you and patted you lightly with his calloused hand, once—never more—on the back of your thigh, his palm spanning the entirety of it, like he always did.
Thanks, honey.
You dipped two fingers at once in your hole, pent up and eager and burning where he touched you through your jeans.
A box to the ear with the side of your fist, and the blind eye of your boss conveniently staring down at the cash register—on the days she bothers to show up—is what you usually give to an impetuous and handsy costumer, but never John; the only elicited reaction from you at his touch was a wobbly breath and the urge to clench your thighs. It’d fill you with shame if it didn’t overtake you with a neediness so suffocating it doesn’t leave any room for anything else.
His gruff and resonant voice eddies around the inside of your skull as you thrust in and out, then grows louder as you circle your clit, cottoning your ears to the loud gaggle of drunks that’d overstayed their welcome leaving the diner; you think you can smell his woodsy and burnt scent clinging to you in your delirium, even though you’ve only ever entered his space with the safety of a table intersecting any proximity to deliver his food then his check.
Thanks, honey.
Calves tensing, you clench tight around your fingers as you cum, and you trap your moans in the bite of your molars.
A moment, then another passes as you regulate your breath and right your clothes, then move to wash your hands. You lock your gaze with the tired eyes reflected in the blurry mirror, drooping with bags and framed with messy hair. You attempt to smooth down your clothes to no avail; waitressing in a down-and-out diner frequented by gruff truckers, skittish hitchhikers, and jaded townspeople was always shambolic work, and it was never advertised otherwise.
Turning away with a sigh, you unlock the door of the employee bathroom and walk to the back of the counter, doling out a perfunctory visual check-up on your now singular customer while on your way. You can hear the click-clacks of a keyboard emitting from the half-closed door of your boss’ office and the cook—a masked, hulking man that scares you most of the time and receives your tickets without a grunt and barely a glance—close down the kitchen; turning off stoves and burners and tucking away dishes with fourty-seven minutes left on the clock; you’d already mopped the floors and wiped down the tables; only John’s was left.
You watch him, with your elbows reflecting his resting on the edge of the table, flannel stretched tight around his bulging biceps, finishing up his bloody burger with large bites—you have no idea how he can stomach that blue rare patty; you can barely think about it without your stomach churning.
For every other day he comes in, you pick something of his to turn around in your mind, to cut open and look at its gooey insides before sewing it back up and turning your head away like nothing happened.
Tonight it was his beard; wild and grizzly and a shade darker than the hair you saw peeking from his hat and peppered with white strands. You think about the way it’d feel on your skin—scratchy and prickly, no doubt. Though even with that, you want to feel its burn on your inner thighs long after he’s done with you; the way it’d give under the tug of your fingers and bring him closer to you.
As he wipes his mouth, you take it as a cue to deliver his check—it’s all a performance though; a director instructs you to go through the motion of setting down the paper, directs the cursory glance John gives it with the exact amount already held in his paw, tucked with a fat tip for you and Simon, then directs the cheers, swee’heart he throws over his shoulder on his way out.
But John stills as you walk up to him, his proverbial hackles raised, his nostrils flare, and his frisson stare bores into you; bores into your crotch like he can smell the evidence of your indiscretion. He mechanically lays money on the table while brazenly staring at the nucleus of your thighs, much to the chagrin of your flushed cheeks.
John peels himself away from the booth painfully slow, as if fighting an opposing force attempting to make him sit and stay.
He chuffs a strangely inhuman sound birthed from the bowels of his chest that winds shivers down your vertebrates as he looks at you down the length his nose, the fluorescent lights shining a flash of gold in his blue irises; he stands too close for far too long, his breaths mingle with yours, and the toes of his large boots brushes the tips of your sneakers.
John cracks his neck to the side and forces his fisted hands to unfurl with a deep exhale. “G’night, cub,” he says, a troth laced with his words, and your heart stutters on a beat before reviving faster than before. Your eyes are gluttons to his broad back as he pushes open the diner door and makes his way to his beat-up truck.
You stand there with your cheeks blistering to the touch, wondering if it was in your head or if his sense of smell was truly that strong. It can’t be…
A loud scoff from the counter yanks you by the collar of your shirt and back to reality. Simon stares at you with amusement wrinkling the corners of his eyes, and you just know a mean smile is twisting his lips.
You duck your head down and your cheeks grow impossibly warmer as you gather John tableware and wipe down the surface til it’s gleaming, then unseeingly handing everything over to Simon as you avoid his eyes then sit down on a stool, finally taking the weight off your throbbing feet, and count the tips accumulated over the day to split with the cook before closing up; dimming the overly cheery neon sign beckoning costumers in with the promise of fluffy pancakes, the best milkshakes in a hundred kilometers radius, and juicy steaks, then turning over chairs, and tucking away everything else.
—
The aches and pains resulting from your twelve-hour shift acutely make themselves known as you shut the car door and rest your head back against the seat—your body was unused to such long hours, but you picked up the extra hours as a favor for a fellow waitress you were friendly with. The tensioned knot in the base of your skull, tucked in the curve where your head meets your nape, pulses a pain that has your fists clenching and doubting your ability to drive home.
But you can’t spend the night in the derelict parking lot, and you won’t be asking for a ride home from the same Simon that triggers a prey-like wariness within you that urges you steer clear of him and avoid being alone in enclosed spaces with him—you’re not even sure he owns a car, during the rare times you’ve seen him leave the diner he’s never ducked into a car or a truck or anything, only walking under the flickering street lights then disappearing into the shadow of the woods bordering the town, and Kate—your boss—had already left a trail of tiremarks as she sped out the parking lot, eager to get home to her wife.
Starting the car, you pull out of the lot and onto the chilly roads, soothing yourself with the thought of a shower to purify you from the scent of greasy food clogging your pores and your appetite, and the warm embrace of your bed and the new book you just started reading; you can almost feel yourself sinking into your plush mattress, the book slipping from your fingers as a sleepy haze engulfs your mind—
The seatbelt chafes and tightens around your neck as your chest ricochets against the steering wheel, knocking the breath out of your lungs.
Colorful symbols and various dings and beeps clog your senses, inhibiting the cognitive functions of your brain from processing what the hell just happened.
Your fingers fumble around the buckle, shaking at the sight of blood spatter on the windshield, but you get it eventually; you gather the dregs of your senses to pull the handbrake up before opening the door.
Slowly walking to the front of your car, only the faint memory of a crackly voice from the morning radio warning residents of this town of a bear sighting, to steer clear of the forest and not wander off at the forefront of your mind. You whimper when you meet the bloody and broken deer lying under the smoking bumper; you couldn’t bear the grotesque sight of its gnarled flesh and the porcelain of its bones obtruding through its brown fur. The scent of the warm blood pooling around its body burns your sinuses. Its croaking, pained chirps squeeze your heart in an unrelenting fist, forcing you to press your palms on your ears hard so it can stop. Please make it stop—
A heated light settles over your skin, but you didn’t look away, even when your vision was misted with tears, and you could barely see the poor sight; you still looked.
A muffled call of your name, spoken in a familiar voice, startles you, and knowing John was there, climbing down his truck and approaching you, knowing he’d see what you did and what you couldn’t do; couldn’t drive right, couldn’t call for help, couldn’t even kill it properly with your horrid car, leaving it to wallow in unnecessary pain ‘cause what could do? You didn’t know. The knowing rips a guttural sob from your throat; how could I?
Big hands grip your arms to steady you on your swaying feet. “Oh, honey,” he breathes into the cold night air, and you cry louder.
He presses you to his chest and lets you roughly burrow into his chest like you were trying to tear into his skin and lose yourself in his cavity. John’s hand drags down your hair, again and again, pets you, and lets your tears and snot drench his shirt with a gruff ‘s alright, cub, you didn’t mean to, ‘s alright. I’ll take care of it. Pulling you away from his chest, he cradles your face, his palms encompassing you whole, then repeats while staring deep into your eyes, a sharp edge woven with his soft tone, “I’ll take care of it. All of it.”
John slowly pulls away from you, letting you savor his touch as much as possible, and lets you stand on your shaky feet. He walks over to the crying deer and pulls a knife from the sheath on his belt you’ve always seen empty until now. He strokes and shushes it, much like he did you, and the wind carries his whispers to your ears, but you can’t decipher them, only the soothing tone; he relieves it of its suffering with a sharp jab of his arm and a flinch from you.
The deer looks revered and babylike in John’s big arms as he carries it to the bed of his truck. You’d’ve thought he’d simply grab it by its hooves and heave it onto the bed, but no, he gently laid it against the steel of the truck, and fashioned it in a position that would’ve been comfortable if it were alive to feel it before shutting the flap.
He was going to take you home, he said. That your car’s busted, and it’s too late to call for a pick-up. That he’ll take care of it in the morning. Don’t you worry, jus’ get in, he said while holding the passenger door open and fastening the seatbelt for you ‘cause your hands are still shaking and your chest’s still jumping with sporadic hiccups.
John’s hands settle on your thighs, and your eyes guiltily snag on the wet patch on his faded blue undershirt before meeting his gaze at the insistence of his gently squeezing grip. “It was an accident. It wasn’t your fault, okay?”
“Okay,” you whispered, desperately biting at the bone of absolution he tossed your way.
If your senses hadn’t abandoned you you would’ve gasped at the kiss he plants on your hairline, would’ve flinched and reeled back at his audacity, but instead—instead you lean into the comfort he so willingly gives you, a far away thought about the scratch of his whiskers feeling the same way you expected it to floats across your consciousness then dissappears in tandem with the shutting of the door then he rounds the truck to open his, the car dipping to the side as he settles in before starting the engine.
Leaning your forehead against the shock-cool glass of the window, you watch the dark greenery pass by in a blur, and revel in the toasty air blasting from the vents and John’s scent saturating the truck; warm and woodsy like the dirt of the earth and the current of a river, bitter-sweet nicotine, and something else made of purely John.
In sudden remembrance that jolts your body, your home address spills from your lips in a hasty deluge. John’s gaze flicks towards you, and the weight of them almost feels tangible, sitting heavy on your chest. His loose grip tightens on the steering wheel, then he says: “I’m taking you home, cub.”
—
You reach the cabin long after the road had tapered off; it sat deep in the belly of the woods, hand-built by John and shrouded with darkness in a way that made every tree metamorphosize each time you blink, made every snap and chitter a sinister murmur in your ear, has you clinging to John even though he’d locked the car doors the first time you asked him where he was taking you and stopped answering after the fourth—said I’m takin’ you home, cub. To the den.
“C’mon,” he said after unlocking the door, letting you cross the threshold with his feet nipping at your heels, and breath cooling the nervous dew gathered on the nape of your neck.
John hung his hat on the rack and flicked the light on, illuminating the bungalow tightly packed with furniture and brimming with various items; a bookshelf overflowing with titles that bored you on sight and littered with wooden animal carvings—bears, it seemed like. Wedged in the corner, a rocking horse big enough to seat a toddler sat by its base, an original Price design. And freshly chopped wood stacked against the wall, towering over you, and a sharp axe tucked near them—he passed it by, unworried of the prospect of you using it to hurt him, even though he’d effectively abducted you. When he lit the fireplace across the frayed couch, you’d dare call the cabin cozy.
You wanted to open the door and run, wanted to do what you couldn’t in the car and bolt into the woods and weave around the trees with a swiftness you didn’t possess til you reached your real home, not this crude replica. Still, the thought lodged your heart in your throat because you know could never outrun John—this John that you happily let lead you to a yawning abyss with his fingers barely tightened around your scruff, the John that seemed different from the grizzled man that’d greet you with any name but your own and would touch you freely; but he wasn’t different at all, only clearer, now bolder.
Like the veil obscuring your vision had finally been lifted, leaving you with a man who’d trapped you under his paw and stared at you with eyes so sharp and piercing they hooked around your ribs, etching words you cannot yet pronounce into the curvilinear surface.
John loomed over you; his cheek twitched under the wry hairs of his beard. “You’re hungry,” he stated.
“I’m—no, I’m fine,” you said while ignoring the coiling of your gut, gnawing on itself.
He ignored you, barrelling on with mumblings you could barely hear.
Then, a burly, furry hand wrapped around your arm and urged you down the hallway, obviating your stilled feet with a tug.
John took you to a bedroom—his bedroom judging by the vertiginous scent of him overwhelming the air and burning its way down your sinuses; infusing itself to your visceral pleura—and told you to get cleaned up, said that he’d have supper ready by the time you were done, nodded to the hamper and told you he’d lay clean clothes out for you before leaving and closing the door behind him with a soft click.
You obeyed, trepidation defeated by the eagerness to peel the grease-stained fabrics off your body and stand under the current of hot water, to slowly wash off the sweat of panic and salt of tears with the body wash you’d previously caught whiffs of on John’s skin; you debated washing your hair but eventually gave in and scrubbed the blood you swore latched onto your scalp like a tick; the foam was a stark white.
You slipped out of the shower when you couldn’t justify loitering under the water and wondering what’s going to happen next any longer. Your sodden feet stand on their toes, then something in you curdles when you realize you didn’t have a towel to dry off with. Anxiously looking around the bathroom, you looked for a towel, but you only found your reflection in the mirror, dripping wet and hunched like a mouse in an attempt to protect yourself from imaginary voyeurs.
With bated breath, you softly creak open the door and peek through the slight crack, only stepping into the room when you were sure John wasn’t there. You quickly snatched the towel folded on the tightly tucked covers of the bed and wrapped it around you to stave off the cool air raising bumps on your flesh. Your eyes then fall to the clothes John laid out for you: a soft black shirt that slips from your shoulder when you pull it over your head, and loose, well-worn boxers.
Your fingers hesitate, stopping shy of touching the material; couldn’t he just given me new ones? you thought. But you can’t just wear nothing, and you weren’t going to go digging in the hamper for the underwear you wrapped your shirt around and shoved to the very bottom, so you wear them.
After twisting the doorknob open, you slink down the hallway, mindlessly following the aroma of cooked food, almost hovering over floorboards; you linger by the kitchen doorway, watching John dip a wooden spoon in a pot.
“Cub,” he calls, ever cognizant of your presence, “come taste this.” John scoops a bit of smoking stew in the spoon and cups the air beneath it, wary of spillage, then turns to grant you an unencumbered view of his unbuttoned flannel devoid of his undershirt; his hairy chest and the slight belly hanging over his belt buckle.
You charily amble towards him, a graveyard of refusals in your throat, and imbue yourself in his vicinity.
“Here.” He held the spoon to your lips; the spiced steam caresses your features, whirls and eddies as it disappears into the air. You part your lips and let the hot liquid spill on your tongue, permeate your taste buds, and you involuntarily moan ‘cause you haven’t anything this good in so long, stuck with frozen meals and the occasional greasy meal Simon would clatter in front of you with a grunt when he took pity on your curled body after a closing shift.
John watched you, tracked the swallow outlining your throat, eyelids heavy, then asked: “Good?”
“Yeah,” you hummed. “Real good.”
The resounding smile curling his lips made your heart flutter. “Sit,” he nodded towards the chair.
He set a steamy bowl of stew teeming with meat and vegetables and a spoon in front of you once you settled in, then sat himself on the chair next to yours.
A miasma of iron clouded you at his propinquity, a base note to the smoking nabe. It settles viscidly on your tongue, swells in your throat when you gulp. This wasn’t the first time tonight you’ve unwillingly breathed this scent in.
You flick your gaze to him, finding his expression rigid, eyes ready to gorge themselves on you. “Eat.”
The meal spoon scrapes a horrid resonance on the ceramic bowl when you lift it wrong, lost in the image of John gutting and cooking the poor deer you hurt.
He sighs as he grabs the spoon from your hand, then dips it in the bowl to ladle the stew, fitting as much shredded meat and veggies as he can, and holds it to your lips, “C’mon, cub, y’need t’eat,” he coaxes, “need you strong for the winter.”
You don’t understand; nothing made sense after you got in that truck of his.
John’s knee rests at the edge of your chair, between yours, and you hug your knees around his as your jaw unhinges at his request, then a burst of flavor lands on your tastebuds, more concentrated than the measly sip you swallowed earlier; the meat perfectly tender, easily falls apart at the threat of your incisors, the pieces of lettuce and carrots and broccoli melt on your tongue, and it all sits warm in your belly.
“There’s a good girl,” croons and the prickle in the base of your skull slowly liquesces to an alluvium of prey docility as he feeds you the whole bowl, his paw branded around your thigh, the tips of fingers nudging the cradle of them; your eyes settle on the rusted blood speckling the cuff of his sleeve then they flit to his face—broad nose, deep blue eyes, pink lips hidden under a thick beard, and a neck that twists your hypothalamus with intrusive urge to sink your teeth into it.
Your muscles fall limp against the wooden chair after John had made sure you ate up every last drop; your eyelids droop before you tug at the metaphorical leash and peel them awake. He clears the table, saves the dirty dishes for tomorrow, and sneaks his hands under your arms to set you on your unsteady feet, then herds you to the bedroom.
“S’time for bed, honey.”
You know you should’ve bit his tongue bloody as he licked into your mouth, should’ve spat reddened spittle in his face and kicked him in the groin when he climbed over you in the bed and rutted on your clothed sex; you pushed at his chest and turned your head away and whined when he found your mouth again, but you weren’t trying very hard; he put his fingers in your cunt and threw you over the precipice of pleasure, got you nice and wet and open for him with no tangible resistance from you at all.
“Big stretch,” John cooed as he feeds his cock into you adagio, groans at every resistant clench from you, and punches his hips forward until his pelvis kisses yours. He bunches up your—his shirt over your chest and groans at the sight as he arcs his body over yours and suckles a nipple into his mouth like it would be a sin not to, and fucks into you.
The unnaturally balmy air caresses your pebbled nipple as he releases it with one parting lick, and sits tumescent in your throat as he slots his face into your neck to whisper inauspicious nothings into your flesh—
“Made f’r this,” John pants as he digs his fingers into the gaps of your rib bones, “f’r me.”
The words poured a mucilaginous consistency in your skull and smothered your brain—your senses.
“For you,” you mewled and wrapped your arms around his broad back, pulling him closer to your chest, and breathy moans tumble out of your mouth at every thrust that burned friction in your skin and hit something in you that had your gut coiling and your head spinning.
He drives his hips into you harder at your declaration and doesn’t pull back, grinds his cock into you, trying to reach deeper, but you maddeningly think if he did, you’d surely die, and the way his pelvis nudged your clit so sweetly already has you whimpering and—
You come again as his canines dent the skin around your jumping pulse and fills you with his warmth, and for a moment, you think the deer sitting in your belly had infused itself in the lining of you flesh, and you feel your feet kicking into a purposeful leap, into the deific headlights leading to a shuddering collision, then an anodyne death.
John cupped your prone head and delved his tongue into your mouth, his kisses chasmic and heady. Then he lays a heavy hand on your lower stomach, pushes down to feel himself in you, “Think it’ll take, cub?”
