Godly. Thats All I Can Say 💙

wait for protective price and nanny reader how about her doing the food shop with the kids and one guy always hits on her so as the kids are recounting the day to him they tell him about that!!!!!!

yk what hell yeah

part two <- part three -> part four…?

nanny!reader (18+ smut, fem!reader, infidelity, jealous price, daddy kink 🫣, unedited cause it’s just fern on her bullshit)

—•—

“hello you two, how was your day?”

john lowered himself down onto the couch as his two children scrawled away at their colouring books on the floor adjacent. he watched them with a soft smile on his face, also listening to your gentle humming filtering in from the kitchen. no doubt preparing to cook something amazing.

his wife was yet to make an appearance home, and so the kids had given up asking for her. they were happy enough with their dad coming home earlier and earlier, as well as their awesome nanny.

“good thanks,” his daughter replied, pink glitter pen clutched in one of her hands. “we went food shopping today.”

“oh yeah? and did you two behave yourselves?” john looked between his two children, who looked over at him momentarily.

they both nodded, with his son answering verbally as well, “of course we did. and, dad, we saw one of her friends there.”

john’s eyebrows twitched, threatening to raise in slight surprise. “really? was she nice?”

his daughter, catching him father off guard, let out a snort and a laugh as she slipped the cap of her pen back on before placing it aside. she picked up an orange one next. “it wasn’t a girl, dad. it was a boy.”

“a man,” his son corrected, swirling a green pen around in the air. “and we’ve seen him before. well, i’ve seen him before, anyway.”

“…have you, now?” john leaned back against the couch, one of his arms spread out along the backrest.

his son nodded once more, returning his attention to the page he was colouring, which was some sort of ocean-themed still with coral and seaweed and a bunch of cartoon sea creatures.

“yeah,” he replied. “duh, cause he works there.”

something twisted low in john’s gut. he cleared his throat, a sinking feeling became ever more present as he set up a picture in his mind— a picture of some other guy putting his hands on you, complimenting you, having your time of day. sitting on the couch, he realised he didn’t want anyone else to do that to you, his nanny for goodness sake, but him.

“he works there?” john kept his tone light. he was speaking with his children after all, both of which were extremely intuitive and intelligent, so he prayed they didn’t pick up on the slight strain of worry in his words.

“in the deli section, behind the counter,” his daughter said. “he usually gives us a piece of ham or something to eat when she stops by there.”

of course he fucking does.

“what does he say to her?” came out instead. thank god. the last time he swore in front of his children was when he hit his head the corner of a cabinet, said fuck rather loudly, resulting in his then five-year-old daughter repeating that word for the next few days.

silence.

“honey, darling,” he addressed his daughter softly. “what does the man say to her?”

his daughter put down the orange pen, the cap snapping back into place. she peered up at her father with a slight pout to her face.

“does it matter?”

oh this little—

john took a deep breath. nerves continued to eat at his stomach, which made him feel slightly ashamed. not at the fact that his seven year old daughter’s sass reminded him of the woman he had married, but because he realised there was another man out there possibly flirting with the woman he wanted.

“i’m just curious, darling, that’s all,” he replied smoothly. he then tried to his speaking to his five-year-old son a shot, which he didn’t expect to go very far. “what kind of things does he say, mate?”

his son gnawed carefully on the tip of his pen, the tip clacking against his molars. “just stuff.”

ah, right. stuff.

“stuff about, um, going out and stuff.”

that’s… better than nothing.

john could still hear you pottering around in the kitchen, mixed with the sounds of your humming, quiet music playing most likely from your phone, and the muted clanging of pots and pans together.

his daughter, thankfully, chimed in. “he’s always telling her jokes that aren’t even that funny, and asking her questions about her life and stuff. he once asked if we were her kids, and she said no, and he looked, like, happy.”

relieved, john’d guess. nosy son of a bitch.

his son decided to add his two cents too. “he asked for her number today. that’s nice.”

john felt his heart drop out of his fucking arse. her number? are you fucking kidding me? does this cunt have a death wish or something? asking a girl for her number while he’s on the job, how fucking ridiculous.

bless his son with the added that’s nice. john longed to tell him that no, it wasn’t nice. it’s rude to ask a woman for her number if she doesn’t appear interested the first few times you try and hit on her. it’s weird. let alone when you’re working at a fucking deli counter.

john took a deep breath. he was winding himself up. tighter and tighter, something dark and heavy pulling at the strings of his heart.

he removed his arm from the back of the sofa and got to his feet, knees cracking.

“thanks, you two. now i’ll leave you to it. dinner shouldn’t be too far, i’m guessing,” he said, leaving his kids in the living room as he entered the kitchen, giving them one last glance before resting his eyes on you.

you swayed in front of the stove, humming to yourself, something catchy playing from the tinny speakers of your phone. he watched you closely, the way your plush hips moved side to side, the curve of your arse looking fucking great in your trousers, the bow of the apron resting just atop it.

you turned with a wooden spoon in your hand. when you caught sight of your boss on the other side of the kitchen, you jumped, heart clattering against your sternum.

“mr. price, oh my goodness, you scared me. i didn’t even hear you come home,” you said, always polite when he came home. “i’m sorry.”

in case of company. the company you weren’t exactly wanting to keep.

the wife, obviously. the wife.

“don’t apologise, sweetheart,” he told you, crossing his big arms over his even bigger chest and you willed your eyes not to follow the movement. “and she’s not home yet. i came home early.”

of course you did, you wanted to counter with a roll of your eyes. but you didn’t. you just let him have a soft smile before you were turning back towards the pot on the stove.

he slowly began walking across the kitchen, watching you the entire time. you could hear him walking, hear the hard soles of his shoes against the kitchen tile. he hadn’t taken them off like he usually does, and you’d tell him off for it later.

the weight of his eyes on you was almost unbearable. already, your heart was beating a million miles an hour as you clutched the spoon and stirred at the soup in the large pot.

“how was your supermarket trip?” he asked you, and you thought that was slightly weird. a little too specific, perhaps.

then, because you’re a smart girl, it hit you. you sighed through your nose, shaking your head as you watched the thick, rich soup simmer before your eyes.

“the guy at the deli counter just flirts with me, that’s it. i don’t reciprocate it in front of the children, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

john was right behind you now. you could feel his presence, warm and solid, at your back. you could smell him too, and that alone had the backs of your knees weakening.

“i don’t care about flirting in front of my kids,” he said firstly. “what i care about is some cunt flirting with my fucking wife.”

your stomach dropped. “john… not now.”

“why not now?” he questioned, and now his hands were on you. resting on your hips, squeezing you there, holding you tight. “hm?”

his head craned down beside yours, chin tucking against your shoulder.

you swallowed. “i… look, he asked for my number, and i said no, okay? nothing happened, and he respected it.”

“okay,” john said calmly. “okay, sweet girl, i believe you. i believe you, baby, but…”

but…?

he continued. “if he ever talks to you again, talks to what’s mine again, i’ll fucking kill him.”

“jesus— fuck, john, don’t say that—”

he pulled you tight against him, your arse to his pelvis, and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your head as he wrapped his arms around your torso.

“i’m serious,” he said between kisses. “if he ever tries anything like that again, i’ll gut him. and, if he does try again, make sure to tell him you’re fucking married, got it?”

you don’t answer. the soup seems really interesting right about now.

“answer me.”

right, okay.

“yes, sir,” you reply, and he groans against you. you try not to let the sound make you drop the spoon into the soup, but it was difficult.

“good,” he grumbled, then retreated. you missed the warmth already. he leaves a light smack on your arse in his wake, though. “we’ll continue this discussion later tonight.”

discussion. sure.

—•—

later that night, you were back at your flat. it seemed as though you hadn’t been here in days, although you only left to work earlier that morning.

you weren’t a live-in nanny. not yet, anyway. but you were anticipating it. not that john would spur the conversation, but his wife, probably. his wife who was sick of having to get up during the night for her kids, or annoyed that you turned up around half-six to prepare their school lunches and breakfasts for that day.

so you were waiting for the invite to live in the guest room. until then, however, you’d stay in your not-so-cosy little flat with a radiator that made odd sounds and a neighbour that liked to practice her saxophone in the early hours of saturday morning.

john had promised you a discussion. and, for the most part, despite the gnawing in your stomach, it was a normal discussion.

he expressed to you how he felt about other men speaking to you, as the man at the deli counter had. not necessarily in front of the children, but just in general. you were his employee, you had affirmed. he shook his head and told you you were his, employee or not.

and then the discussion progressed into exactly what you thought he had been implying originally. through context clues, of course.

“you’re mine,” he muttered as he slowly pushed his cock into the tight, wet clutch of your cunt. he had two hands on your arse cheeks, spreading them apart, squeezing firmly. “d’you understand that, sweetheart?”

“yes, fuck— yeah,” you moaned into your bedsheets, arching your back as he sunk his cock deep into your pussy. deep until his hips came to rest against you, flared and dusky head pressed far inside. “i understand, i understand.”

he grumbled, deep in his chest, as he slowly pulled his cock out until just the tip rested inside you. then, he gripped your hips and pulled you back towards him at the same time he thrusted forward, spearing you on his cock in once heavy thrust.

your body went lithe, rippling and wriggling as he repeated the action again and again. you cried out, begging for him, pleading with him, his thrusts heavy and making a goddamn point. his balls slapped against your swollen clit, the soaked seam of your pussy, wet squelches falling throughout your quiet room.

john controlled the movements. he brought you back against him again and again, fucking the thick of his cock into your tight cunt, over and over, watching the way the fat of your arse cheeks shifted; the way your legs quivered; the way you buried your sweat-slick face into the sheets and sobbed as pleasure wracked through you.

the bed creaked, headboard tapping lightly against the wall. you couldn’t even bring yourself to think about your neighbours— or wonder if your neighbour will still play her stupid saxophone tomorrow morning.

your mind was swimming, drowning in thoughts of john price. he speared you on his cock, pussy taut around him, fluttering with each punch up against that perfect, gummy spot inside you. the spot making you see stars and bright little phosphenes behind your sinking eyelids.

“john,” you moaned into the sheets, bare tits rubbing against the fabric of your bed linen, nipples sore from john’s foreplay of pinching them. just a reminder, he’d said, before taking them into his mouth— a reminder of what!?

“oh, i know, darling girl, i know— feels good? am i making you feel good?”

“yesss,” you turned your head to moan, a hiccup threatening to bubble up through your trachea. something tingled in your lower spine, pleasure pooling through your pelvis, molten. “john, feels so good. m’sooo—“

you lost your train of thought through another moan as the head of john’s cock slammed repeatedly into the right place. your cunt clenched around him, arousal dribbling out and down his balls, down the fat of your inner thighs too, warm and slick.

no man had ever made you feel like this. no man had got you dribbling down your thighs, pussy wet and puffy and kiss-bitten, stretched happy and wide.

and that was the point.

“pussy’s a fuckin’ dream, baby. missed her so much these last few days, y’know. missed how tight and wet she always is f’me—” john uttered, then tapered off to listen to you mewl sweetly beneath him. he continued with a light chuckle. “yeah, my kind of pussy— just made for me, isn’t she? she been kicking’ up a fuss without my cock in her, hm?”

you nodded deliriously, mouth parted, eyes basically closed. you didn’t have the reservations to feel embarrassed by the way he was talking to you. all you felt was warmth, pleasure, and, as you always felt with john no matter where you were or what you were doing, safe.

“yeah, that’s it, good girl. taking my cock like you were fuckin’ made for it,” he grunted, pulling you back particularly hard. “and you were made for it, weren’t you? s’cause you’re mine. my fuckin’ girl— my— my wife.”

his accent got thicker when he fucked you, and he always let slip his fantasy— his desire to have you as his wife. put a ring on your finger. put a baby in your womb. claim you with his last name, and his kids, and his everything. he felt as though you were his already, and he sure as fuck liked to play a bit of pretend.

“john,” you moaned loudly. “john, please— feels so good, feels so good.”

he panted above you, grunting as his head dropped, sweat dripping from his forehead, broad chest rising and falling quickly.

“yeah, baby? you feel good? is— fuck— is daddy making you feel good? hm?” he coaxed with a rasp in his voice. “yeah?”

“yeah, please,” you mewled, release pooling in the depths of your belly. your clit was hammering with your heartbeat, static buzzing up your legs as they began to tremble. “pleaseee.”

john groaned, feeling your cunt tighten around him, gummy walls constricting tight around the girth of his cock. “you wanna come?”

your eyes were rolling, body shaking. “yes, daddy, please.”

john moaned this time. “yeah, come on then, pretty girl. come for me. come all over your daddy’s big cock.”

he maintained his pacing and this thrusts as you came with a shout of his name, pussy squeezing tight and spilling arousal out the sides of his cock. your body shook, writhing on the bed beneath him, legs threatening to give way as pleasure wracked through you. white hot pleasure that had tears slipping down your cheeks as he fucked you through it.

“that’s my girl, that’s my girl,” john repeated lowly, letting you flop tiredly against the mattress. he held your hips up as he fucked himself into your cunt, arousal gushing with each movement. “fucking hell, such a wet pussy. so fucking wet for me.

you squeaked out something of a moan. he grunted above you, thrusts disintegrating into ruts, moving desperately against you as he worked himself towards completion. white hot and shining like a pearl ahead of him.

it always was like that with you.

he wanted it to always be with you. only you. he wanted to enclose you in the strong, corded muscle of his arms and hold you to his broad chest and soft stomach. he didn’t want to let you go. he wanted to shove the thickened mass of his cock into the clutch of your cunt and empty himself, fill you with his seed, flood up your womb with an entity that chained you to him. forever.

it wouldn’t happen now, he knew. but one day, he’d have what he wanted. he always did.

“m’coming, sweet girl. m’coming,” he moaned quietly, desperately humping against your backside, cock barely sliding in and out anymore, just rutting up towards the plug of your cervix, balls deep. “fuckin’ hell—”

john came with a moan of your name, hot spurts coating your insides. you replied with a mewl of your own, the side of your face pressed into the sheets below, sweat slicked across your body. his hands tightened against your hips, holding you tight against him, arse flush to his abdomen, as his cock twitched inside you. he continued to thrust lightly, working his orgasm all the way until it fizzled out like embers.

when he stopped, he didn’t pull out. he kneeled there for a moment, panting, big chest heaving with his cock still plugging his cum in your pussy. after a few long moments, you whined lightly, and he took that as a cue to keel forward and take you in his arms.

“my good girl,” he murmured, holding you between the mattress and him. boiling hot, sweaty. his cock was still plugged inside you, and you felt your lightly aching pussy clench around him. he groaned, “yeah, my good girls.”

—•—

you stood at the door to your flat, lean in against the doorframe with your arms folded over your chest. body dressed in one of his tee’s, a pair of his boxers, and some fuzzy slippers someone had brought you for your birthday years ago.

you watched john go. walk down the few stone steps and towards his car. he stopped before he reached it, though, and turned around to appraise you with— even in the darkness of night— soft eyes that shimmered under the light of the full moon. shimmered with something, maybe yearning. you didn’t know.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” john said, eyes raking down your body one last time.

you hummed, annoyed. “yeah.”

john frowned. “sweetheart, you know i have to go. just because my wife’s asleep, doesn’t mean i can be gone the whole night.”

my wife. that hit you right in the chest. slamming into your whole body actually. pulled back down to earth by that red string of fate, and you scraped up your knees when you reached the ground. cause it stung like hell, the realisation that you were in love with a man that was married.

“i know,” you replied. “i’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, i guess.”

john sighed and, after looking up and down the street, crossed the pavement once more and climbed the couple of steps before he could put his large hands over your hips and back you up against the doorframe.

“it won’t be like this forever. i promise you that,” he whispered. “but, for the meantime, i guess i’m going to have to treat my special girl right so she keeps coming back, hm?”

he locked his mouth against yours, catching you pretty much by surprise. he quickly shoved his tongue through the part in your soft lips, licking between your teeth and smoothing his against yours. you moaned quietly, something in the back of your throat, throwing your arms around his shoulders as he kissed you in a way that you’d never been kissed before.

you ran a few fingers through his hair, tugging gently, to which he groaned and pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your mouths until it snapped as you smiled up at him, coyly.

he chuckled, placing one last brisk kiss to your lips, before stepping back. you let him go, and then once again, leaned against the doorframe with your arms over your chest as he walked towards his car.

“goodnight, sweetheart,” he said, opening his car door. i love you, he wanted to say.

“goodnight, john.”

"you attract what you fear"

AHHHHHH A RICH BENEFACTOR WHO WILL FUND ALL MY WEIRD CREATIVE ENDEAVOURS NOOOOOO STAY AWAYYYY

I got asked on a date by a girl I like 😊

reblog this with one thing that brought you joy this week! I want to know your happy moments

Reblog to be a Gengar and defeat fatigue!

I made these as a way to compile all the geographical vocabulary that I thought was useful and interesting for writers. Some descriptors share categories, and some are simplified, but for the most part everything is in its proper place. Not all the words are as useable as others, and some might take tricky wording to pull off, but I hope these prove useful to all you writers out there!

(save the images to zoom in on the pics)

GUESS WHO JUST GOT OUT OF PRISON!

anatomy of us | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

we cannot change who we are at our core.

type: limited series, part 1 (6.4k) in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

Whenever she woke up marked the last day of the rest of your life. One moment, the world inside of your head was unnervingly quiet. The next, someone else was there, whispering in the dark, taking over.

You aren't proud of her. No, you hate her. There is no one you hate more, you don't think, because she lets the direction of the fucking wind distract her from what really matters. She paints her environment in a soft, glazed picture, and she tries to hold up her canvas and convince you that her reality is real. But then you blink, and you get flashes of how dull the sky really is and the dirt that stains your shoes, and you know that she's just a liar.

A controlling, desperate thief.

When you heard her voice for the first time, you begged your reflection in the mirror to just kill you already.

If you were an alpha, maybe you could've just drawn away into yourself and lived a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. If you were a beta, perhaps the weight of nothing would've given you a little more freedom to do the things you wanted to do.

But no. You're an omega. Nature's servant. A natural follower. Destined for nothing except to open your legs and say, "yes, alpha, all for you," because if you are anything but complacent, you're unwanted and a waste of your very being.

Your eyes stung when you took your first little pill. They rattled in different colors in a little orange bottle, and it felt like sand as it dissolved under your tongue. Even though it makes you sick, you take them anyways. Even though the pills change colors and shape and efficacy because you buy them from someone different every time, you take them because it makes your omega shut the fuck up finally.

You bury her. And you won't let her out.

The truth of it is that you're only fighting yourself. Your omega, she is you, isn't she? She's a part of you, she makes up your very genetic makeup, and to hate her is to hate yourself. But nature is cruel–it gave you years of freedom. Years to know what life was like without her, when she was dormant, asleep, just waiting for you to finally wake up.

Then your very self locked the cage. Your fingers claw at the bars, but it's no use. It's your very own punishment. So in turn, you bury her, too, silencing her cries, quieting what she wants most in the world, because it isn't fair, fuck you, you whiny bitch.

She's a pathetic puppy; and you are more than happy to step on her fucking neck.

Your aim is off today. The sound is muffled through the earphones you wear, but they've never thrown off your balance before. When you lean over the railing and squint at the target papers towards the back, you can see the bullet holes just a few inches off center.

You're never off-center.

"Getting rusty on me, Kit?"

You turn around, setting the gun down, and you smile wide when you see a familiar face. You pull the headphones off, putting them aside before making your way towards her.

Kate Laswell is surprised when you throw your arms around her and hug her tight. She smells good; she smells like chocolate, dark chocolate, something bittersweet. She's got that edge to it that they all do, something a little heady and all-encompassing, but she's the only alpha that you've ever found comfort being near. You see her nose scrunch a little when she embraces you back.

You must stink like synthetics. You care, only because you hate to make her nose sting this way. It's never been meant for her. At times, you thought maybe you could do a little convincing; maybe if you batted your lashes enough, she’d take pity on you, hide you away in some CIA shack with her deep on a Montana farm and play house. You’d cook, and she’d protect, and you’d be perfect little alpha and omega until the end of your days.

But Kate doesn’t like baggage. Not even the sweet kind, and especially not the kind that makes it even more difficult to make the hard decisions.

Kate isn’t a soldier. She makes choices based on the greater good, the lesser evil. She doesn’t get to be selfish. She doesn’t have that luxury.

When you pull away, she looks down at you strangely. She looks tired. Her dark hair is in a mess of a braid tucked under a cap, and she looks like she hasn't slept in days. Her attempt of a smile emphasizes the lines around her eyes. You open your mouth to tell her something, but she shakes her head.

"I'm not here as a friend," she says softly, and you frown a little.

"Aren't...haven't we always been friends?" You ask, and Kate lets out a shaky sigh, nodding her head behind her.

"We need to talk. C'mon."

You retrieve the gun and holster it, fastening it into your thigh holster before you follow her. She has a car waiting outside, a big, black SUV with the door already open for her. When you get inside, she knocks on the divider, and the car immediately starts moving. You brace yourself against the side of the car as it speeds off, reaching for a seatbelt.

"Jesus, Kate, what's going on? I-I have training later, I can't–"

"You're not...going back to base," she says evenly. You frown a little, leaning back in your seat, and you put your hands in your lap as you try and get a read on her. Even exhausted, Kate is hard to decipher. She has a stone-cold expression, calm and unbothered, and you curse her CIA training for making her impossible to understand, to even get a glimpse of what she might say next. Her face makes you anxious, and the scent in the car that changes puts you on edge.

"Okay," you scoff a little. "Then where am I going?"

Kate sniffs a little, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't break eye contact with you when she says, "Wheels up in 30. I have an assignment for you." She reaches under the seat, pulling out a manila folder, setting it down beside you. When you pick it up and flip it open, you narrow your eyes.

"I'm..." You shrug your shoulders, "I'm not really CIA. You don't give me orders."

"As of one hour ago, you're mine. And this...this is your duty."

Your eyes blur as you skim the text on the pages. You flip through the papers flimsily, getting more and more irritated until you throw it at her, your chest rising and falling fast as you pant, barely able to see her through your tears.

Program. UK. Field assignment. Mate. All the keywords to make your stomach curl and your autonomy shrink in front of your very eyes.

"Kate, don't do this," you beg her softly. You soften your voice, and you let your omega drip syrup into it. You want to see her eyes dilate–you want to make her protectiveness kick in just enough that she might just appease you. It’s desperate, and you know it’s wrong, but you do it anyways, you have to. "Please don't do this. Please. You fucking promised me, you promised–"

"You need to understand that I don't have a lot of fucking choices," she says sharply. She pities you, that much you can tell. She looks pained, but it doesn’t matter how pained she might feel because it isn’t happening to her. It’s happening to you, and she put you on that base so that it wouldn’t happen to you, and she tricked you into getting into this car, and now it’s her–

"Kate, I'll do anything, please," you gasp. You reach over and grab her hands, tugging her towards you. "You know. You know what...w-what I've been through, what this all is, you know...please. Please..."

You promised me. You gave me your word.

"I can't–"

But the CIA can’t be trusted for shit.

"I'll be yours," you try, squeezing her palms. Appease. Beg. Bare your neck. Give her what she really craves. "Just claim me yourself, a-and...and we don't have to do this, w-we can...I-I can go back to–"

Her face contorts, offended, disgusted. You try and swallow down the sting of her rejection, but you cannot help yourself. You would do anything to not be subjected to this fate, to the fate she promised she'd save you from. The only alpha you have ever trusted, and she's pulling away from you, bit by bit.

"I could never do that to you," she interrupts, shaking her head. "I couldn't."

"But you'll do this instead?"

"It's the lesser evil," she says finally, pushing your hands back. It aches. Despite you never leaning towards her, it is still an alpha turning their nose up at you, and the thing inside of you cries at the feeling; she begs you to do more, but you swallow her down, fingers itching for another pill just so you can really squash her singing. "And in my world, that is the best I can hope for."

"It's punishment!" You cry, and she reaches over, cupping your cheeks, pulling you close. You scrunch your face at her touch. Her hands are cold, and they do not welcome you. "A-And for what? For being something that I can't change?!"

"It's mercy," she whispers. Her thumbs stroke your cheeks in soft circles. "I can't protect you anymore, do you understand? They don't want you there, and I can’t take you with me. Even taking meds, even spraying yourself to shit, they don't want you, and I can't protect you if they send you away, do you understand me?" You start to cry, closing your eyes, and you hear the familiar voice in your head preening. She's desperate, slipping through the cracks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try and force her backwards. You’re panicking, and maybe she’s trying to help, but you hate her. "I have to get you out of there, and this is the only way."

"Please..."

"I can't protect you," she says gently. "But he can. And he'll be good to you. I promise, this...this I can promise."

You rip yourself away from her, curling into yourself as you scoot away from her as far as possible. You press yourself against the door, tucking your knees into your chest. Whatever passes by outside is a blur, and your brain doesn’t register any of it. The only thing in your head is betrayal, traitor, those sick, stupid bastard alphas, all of them–

"Fuck your promises," you whimper, and when she reaches out for you again, you flinch, burying your face into your hands.

Kate is a liar. She never keeps her promises; that’s her job, it is what she does. The CIA is nothing if they aren’t incredible liars–it’s what they’re known for, and Kate takes to it like a fish to water. As far as you are concerned, she lured you in with bait, and now she's shut the door on a trap. It is lined with padding, soft, delicate, but it still holds you back, it still keeps you still and stagnant and forever chained to an existence that you detest more than anything. She used you; it was in her best interest to keep an omega under her thumb, to do with you as she pleased when she needed one, and you suppose once you are taken, she will find another to do the same with. She will give another desperate one like you false hope, and when she needs another omega to keep someone else complacent and willing, she will offer them up with her signature on paper–just like that.

She tries to touch your hand before you board the plane. She tries to meet your eyes, get your attention, anything. You cower when she reaches out, and when she steps backwards, you walk on.

You never look behind yourself. Not even when you sit, and not even as the ramp closes shut.

Fighting is futile when you are who you are. It's unexpected. It's frowned upon. You are made up of something that is intended to be docile, to be big-eyed and soft. If you were a dog, they would want you to roll over and bare your belly and forget how to do anything but obey, but that is not the kind of thing that you ever wanted to be, even when you were small, even before you knew what you really were.

You hate what you are. You medicate yourself to the point of being incoherent, you bare your teeth and aggravate the submissive nature you inherit to deter any kind of match. You make yourself undesirable, not just in your physical nature but in the very essence of yourself.

You want to start over, as something else, or you want to never have been at all. You hate this place, you want them to cast you out, you want to be left to your own devices because dying alone and unwanted is better than submission; it;s better than the imprisonment that your kind subjects themselves to, willing or not.

It sickens you. You watch your own kind fall to their knees, close their mouths, and allow their very being to disappear just to make another satiated. Happy. Their entire lives, reduced to being someone else's waiting hand, someone else's property. It's sad, it's pathetic, it rocks you to the very center of yourself, and you demand more of it, you reject this life and the voice in your head that fights with you every single day of it.

She hates you, too, your omega. She claws at your insides and begs for something to drink, but you dry her out. You don't allow her to even breach the surface of the wasteland you've suffocated her with. She is naïve; she doesn't know what is good for her, she doesn't know that you are saving her from a life of constant torture. She screams for you to let her out, but you take another pill and force her back into the dark.

Or at least you did. You haven't taken a pill in days. They won't let you, even when you asked, even when you began to beg. You promised to be good if they just appeased you. You promised to be quiet if they just slipped it under your tongue, even if they injected it into your very veins, anything, just please, please, I don't want to–

Everything is surreal. You feel like you're seeing everything in color. What used to be dull and uninteresting now sparkles in your very eyes, it glows under the sun. Everything is sharper and less blurry. Sounds are clearer. You can hear the wind more loudly in your ears and feel it under the soles of your shoes. But what dizzies you the most is your sense of smell.

Everything before had been so bland. You have been under the effects of suppressors for so long that you don't think food has ever smelled so bad and so good (eggs make you gag now, and the crisps they give you make your mouth water).

They keep you confined in a small room. You are not allowed in the presence of any alphas; you can smell them passing by the door, but whenever the stink of one of them lingers, there's loud voices, lots of heavy boots. A beta comes to collect you to do a daily workout and to shower, and then you are back in your room, your meals delivered on a tight schedule (and the food, after a few days of your tray being barely picked at, gets so much better–it's better quality than you've seen on any military base, and when you asked, all they said was "lieutenant's orders").

Today is different. Today, along with your breakfast, a large black hoodie is folded underneath the tray that they leave on the end of your bed. You set the food aside, picking up the hoodie, and when you unravel it, you spread it out, gawking at the size of it. Whoever this hoodie belongs to is more bear, more beast, than human. An enormous thing, but when you pick it up, you immediately pick up on its strong scent.

You press the front of it to your nose. Your eyes flutter shut, and you sink into the bed a little as you take a deep breath of it. Warm, but gritty, like charcoal. Cigarettes. Military-issue soap. Clean. Eucalyptus. Fire. Something with depth, something with teeth. You don't realize what's happening to you until it's too late.

Alpha. It smells undoubtedly like alpha, and you're certain by the size of it that it belongs to one. You nuzzle your face into it a little, instinctively, and you don't even register your omega knocking, peering through the door that's been cracked open for her.

She squeals with delight. She's getting dizzy, drunk, and you feel a soft noise in your chest bubble as she pets the back of your mind, keening at the introduction of it. She’s giggling. You can feel her tugging at your insides, whispering in your ear–See? I told you. I told you that you’d like it.

They smell strong. They smell capable. They smell pure.

When you put the hoodie down, your legs are pressed together, shaking from how hard your thighs are squeezed. When you relax, you refrain from the need to touch yourself, but you failed before you even started. You can feel how wet you are; your panties must be soaked, and you feel yourself pulsing with some sort of distinct urge to give in, give in, give in.

It's unnerving, the lack of control you have. Your omega has always been a few feet underwater, but she's breaching the surface now, her lips gasping for air.

You try to push her back.

Stay down.

When the clock strikes for dinner, you aren't surprised by the knock. But you are surprised that when the door opens, there isn't a beta in uniform holding your tray. Instead, you cover your nose a little, blinking harshly as a large man comes into the room. He's got a strange beard and a floppy hat, and when he smiles, he reminds you of a teddy bear. You can tell just by his physique what he is, but his eyes are kinder than you're used to.

You will yourself not to trust them. You trusted kind eyes before, and now you’re locked in a prison of your own making.

"'ello," he introduces himself, holding out his hand. "'m Captain John Price. 's nice to meet you."

You glare at him, not saying a word. When he figures you won't shake his hand, he just nods. He lets his hand drop, hooking his thumbs into his tact vest, and he rests at ease.

"I've come to collect you," he says lowly. "It's time."

You pick up your tray of food from behind you and hurl it towards him. He ducks just in time, moving one shoulder backwards as the metal hits the wall behind him and clatters to the floor in a splattered mess. John shakes his head a little, scratching the back of his neck, and he clicks his tongue. You’re unnerved and a little pissed off when a hint of a grin flickers over his face.

"Fuckin' hell," he breathes. "Yeah...you'll do."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Let's go," John snaps. "Won't ask again."

When he reaches for you, you swipe the fork from the bed, stepping close and sticking the little prongs up against his chin. You aren’t satisfied until you can feel his scratchy beard against it, piercing the skin just enough.

"If you touch me, I'll shove this right up your chin through your goddamn nose," you threaten, and John’s nostrils flare, his hands going up flat beside his head.

"Easy," he murmurs, and you feel like he’s talking to a skittish mare. "Just need to guide you, that's all."

"Well, I don't want to go anywhere."

"If you don't do this, I have to send you back," John explains. "And Kate made it very clear that is supposed to be my last resort. And you don't want to go back."

"Anything is better than this," you hiss, and he narrows his eyes.

"Not this. What they do to unruly omegas..." He leans forward, snarling a little. "Ones like you. Ones that bite. And scratch. They don't deal with them. They'll sedate you and use you as training practice. And while Kate might have a heart big enough to keep you outta that place, I don't have it. So get your arse moving. Now."

You put your hand down, dropping the fork, letting it clatter to the floor. He grips you by the collar of your shirt, urging you forward, and all the hairs stand up on the back of your neck as he gets dangerously close to scruffing you. It's enough of a threat that you immediately relax, your own body betraying your emotions as it tries to make itself smaller. To appease. To submit.

"This can't wait any longer," John mutters. "Has to happen today."

Your lip trembles.

"What has to happen today?" You ask.

"You're meeting your mate," he says. You know that was the answer, but you had to ask it anyways. You think of the hoodie you received all those hours ago. The smell of him, complete intoxication. "Simon."

Simon.

"Sounds like an asshole," you snap, irritated, and John chuckles a little.

"Mmm. He is. You'll adore 'im."

You flinch at the flickering fluorescent lights as he leads you down a narrow hallway. When you pass other soldiers, John puts you in front of him, glaring and baring his teeth a little. You're confused by this sudden display of aggression on your behalf, but when you spot the looks in others’ eyes, you're grateful for it nonetheless.

You know your scent is strong; piercing the walls around you, displaying your displeasure, discomfort, fear so plainly. It's an awful thing to not be able to hide how you feel, to not feel like you have any control over how you present to others, but you have no practice masking any of it. You have been drowning your omega for so long that you didn't realize the strength of her building up behind the synthetic walls you had built. She's livid, angry, permeating the spaces in your mind that you thought were solid and now are broken and hollow inside.

You stop in front of an unmarked door. John looks over you, eyeing the jacket you wear.

"Take tha' off," he says lowly. You frown, stepping back, but he nods again. "Take it off. You'll get it back, just give it to me."

You shrug your jacket off gently, handing it to him. John holds out his hand for yours, and when you cautiously give it to him, he rubs the fabric against your wrists to soak it in your scent before disappearing behind the door. You wait outside, pressing your ear to the metal, but you hear nothing but low mumbles. You do hear a heavy gait, big feet moving around that don't belong to Captain Price, and you close your eyes as you try and see if you can hear his voice.

You don't.

The door is opened just slightly, John cocking his head to the side.

"He wants to see you."

You raise a brow.

"Your mutt?" You ask smartly, and John scoffs a little, kicking the door open wide finally. Behind it, you can see a small little office situated. Dozens of file cabinets, a stained wooden desk, a peeling leather chair. There are papers everywhere, a disorganized mess and walls filled with medals, plaques, letters, pictures of faceless men. And standing beside the desk, towering over it with his head nearly hitting the ceiling is a bear.

A fucking bear.

He's so tall. Over six feet of hulking man, big shoulders taking up too much space. You can tell just by looking at him that he has to duck his head and move his body sideways to get through the doorway you're standing in. He has big hands and thick thighs, and your lips part when you realize his thigh holster has been released as much as possible just to still fit snugly around him. He's wearing dark jeans and a thick black hoodie, and he looks even bigger with a strapped tact vest that holds numerous little gadgets, weapons (fuck, he looks like he can kill you with the pencil laying haphazard beside him).

You can't see his face. He covers it with a mask, a snug covering tucked under his hoodie with the plastic front plate of a skull sewn to its front. He's holding your jacket in one hand, the other clenched in a tight fist as you step through the door.

"Is this your dog, Captain?" You ask finally. Simon doesn't speak. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing you, taking in the way you look from the tips of your combat boots all the way up over your head. His gaze lingers on your middle, the wideness of your hips and the curve of your body.

John crosses his arms over his chest.

"Suppose so," John shrugs, rolling his eyes a little. You blink, finally making eye contact with Simon. His eyes are dark and beady. He's intense, just as his scent had been. Your omega warms your throat and screams in your ear.

Grab him. Latch onto him. Don’t let him go. Do you see him? Look at him–

"Does it bark?" You wonder, glaring. Simon unclenches his fist, rolling his fingers out a little. They twitch beside his leg. His face twitches a little, too, you can see the mask move just slightly.

"When he wants to."

"Does it bite?"

John snorts. "Mmm. Afraid so." He opens the door behind him. "Don't kill each other. If I don't see her for supper, Simon, I'll hold you to it."

When you are alone, Simon still remains silent. He hasn't moved from his spot by the desk, still in a strange staring contest with you as you stand there trying to read him. Like Kate, he's impossible; this time, you don't even have the luxury of looking over his face, although you suspect even without the mask, he must have mastered some kind of expression of nothingness. He seems like the kind of brute to give nothing away. Not even his displeasure.

"Hope you're good on a leash," you say finally, crossing your arms over your chest. "I like to go on walks."

His face moves under the mask again. Finally, he moves. He unravels your jacket in his hand, holding it open for you to put on again. You eye him strangely before coming closer to fit your arms into it.

When you turn your back to him, you realize how much of his shadow you're tucked under. When he drops the fabric back on your shoulders, you still as he leans over one side of you, bending. Without thinking, your head tilts to the side, giving him more space into the side of your neck. You do it without even thinking. Your omega bleeds through you, and you feel her warmth everywhere now, making you move, but you let her this time.

Your scent gland pulses there under your ear. He can see it, hear it practically, rushing like the blood in his ears. You close your eyes when you feel him come closer, the cotton of his mask just barely grazing your neck as he takes a deep breath.

The growl he lets out shakes you to your core. Your pupils get blown wide at the sound, and your head flops back slow, exposing more of your neck. He uses the opportunity to bend just that much more, until the front of his mask is pressed against the gland, and he can breathe you in, right at the source.

He's snarling under the mask. You can hear his teeth knock together, his tongue wetting his lips. You shiver, leaning into him, your hand raising up to caress the back of his neck as he nuzzles his nose there, taking another deep breath. You step back enough that he presses up against you from behind. You can feel his pelvis right against your ass, and you arch your back just enough to fit him right where he belongs. A gloved hand catches you at your waist, and you put your free hand on the desk in front of you until his cock is right there between your ass.

Your omega is panting. She's clawing, right there at the edge, fighting against quicksand as she's desperate to meet him. The feeling of him, the scent of him so close, it's an aphrodisiac, potent, suffocating. Something warm is wrapping around you, sliding along your skin, tickling your toes. It's between your thighs, in your mouth, wetting your tongue. You're not sure what this feeling is, but it's thrilling.

He's purring. Big, rumbling sounds coming from deep in his chest. More animal than man as his tongue comes out under the mask, and you can feel him lick a nice stripe over the raised, warm skin under your ear. Your omega is being pulled to the forefront. She’s like a magnet to him. The closer he gets, the stronger she bites into you. Your mouth drops open when his hand falls between your thighs, gripping onto you and pulling you up against him in one, slow grind. You can feel the length of him, fucking enormous, and you’re leaking into your cargos as his fingers squeeze the fat of your thigh.

"Fuck–okay!" You pull away abruptly, turning to face him. You put your hands on his chest and push him back a little. He doesn’t move at your touch, but your voice startles him enough that he moves his hands up and away from you. He straightens up, blinking away the haze in his eyes, and you swallow hard. "T-Too much..."

He huffs, moving forward to bury his face into your neck again, but you step back, putting a hand on his chest firmer this time. You have stepped out of the cloud that surrounds him, but you can still taste it, and it’s pulling you back, and you’re losing control.

"Simon," you say his name gently, and he stops, his face scrunching a little under the mask before he stands back up again. "If I have to be your mate...we need to set some boundaries." He blinks, saying nothing. "Like...a-asking for permission."

You can tell by the way his mask twitches that he doesn't usually ask for permission. He wants, and he receives.

Typical.

“What?” You ask, scoffing. “You don’t talk?”

He doesn’t move. You crane your neck to look up at him a little better, and you smooth your hands lower on his chest. You can’t help but appreciate what you feel. He’s wearing a tactical vest, but you can still feel the deep breaths he’s taking, the strong, fatty muscle under your palms. He is the epitome of sheer strength and undeniable ability. Your omega draws your hands back up his chest, over his pecs that pull taut, and they wind up around his neck as you stand up on your toes and lean into the curve of his jaw. You put your nose to it, barely. Simon moves his hands down, cupping you under your ass and picking up your weight with not even a grunt until you can press your face deep into him.

Fuck, it’s like a drug. It’s addictive. His scent impales you. He smells like war. Like chaos and smoke, and your mouth starts to water as you keep breathing him in. You pull back just enough, blinking up at him. You look a little dizzy and intoxicated, and he squeezes your ass to hold you steady as he puts you back onto your feet.

“Uhm…” You sniffle a little, holding onto him. Your hands curl around his shoulders, and you keep yourself upright like this. “I didn’t wanna be here. I don’t…I don’t want this. I never did.” You blink away tears, but he sees them when you draw your eyes back up to his. “T-They made me. It hurts.”

“Wot hurts?”

His voice scares you when you finally hear it. Your lip shakes, and when you blink again, your tears fall down your face. Simon snarls when he sees them, reaching up with hands too rough and wiping them off your face, but they keep coming.

“I’ve never been o-off my meds–” You gasp, and your breaths start to come in panicked and too fast. “Everything hurts. T-The lights are too bright, everything hurts my nose, the sheets are too itchy, and I-I can’t breathe–”

Simon moves away from you immediately. He closes a fist and pounds the lightswitch, and only the yellow glow of the lamp on his desk illuminates the room. You curl into yourself, hugging your own arms, and Simon comes back to stand in front of you, narrowing his eyes.

“I did not want you either.”

“That’s just grand, this is perfect,” you hiccup, and Simon grunts.

“But I have orders.”

“You act like your Captain is just debriefing you for a fucking mission,” You snap, glaring at him. “I’m a fucking person. I know your kind may not see us that way, but I am. I’m not a mission. I’m not something for you to win or to conquer, you fucking asshole!”

When you raise a hand to hit him, he catches your wrist before it lands. He squeezes just enough to hold you at arm’s length, and you lean forward and spit on him instead. It wets the mouth of his mask, and he nearly loses himself as his eyes flash with something dark. He looks away from you for a moment to collect himself. When he turns back, he uses his other hand to cup the back of your head, silencing you.

“You listen ‘ere, omega–” The way he says your title makes the fight in you shrink. Your omega squeaks, ducking her head, that bubble of submission pilling in your throat as he holds you so close to your naked scent gland. “Dunno wot anyone told you, but I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” He ducks his head, pulling you closer, and you freeze when he presses his masked mouth at the base of your pulsing scent gland. It wafts into his nose, dilating his pupils, and he snarls. “And when you inevitably lose control of yourself–you already fuckin’ are, you reek of it–I’m goin’ to sink my teeth right ‘ere, and then it won’t fuckin’ matter ‘ow you feel.”

Your eyes blur with angry tears. You gasp, your breaths hitching, and Simon seems to feed off of your fear, your misery. If he wasn’t wearing a mask, you imagine he’d be licking your tears for a chance to taste your sadness. The worst part of it all is that your omega adores it. She’s been aching for so long for this kind of authority. For that edge to tickle her right under her chin where she likes it. The whiff of alpha that she’s getting is driving her out of control, and you don’t know how make her quiet down. She’s so loud in your head, banging against the walls–give it to him, give it to him, give it to him.

“You’re a fucking monster,” you whisper, glaring up at him. It’s no use–you will never scare him. Simon is what scares other alphas into submission. In one paw, he could crush your windpipe if he wanted to, with just a squeeze. Simon hums, and you imagine him smiling under that mask, some kind of vicious grin that you would love to smack off of him.

“Tha’s right, swee’eart,” Simon mutters. “I am. ‘n now you belong t’me. Everything that you are–” He smooths his hand down your neck. You seize when his hand slides over the curve of your waist until it cups under your ass and forces you up against him. “‘s mine. Your omega–’s mine. Your mouth–mine. Your arse–mine. That cunt that’s going to take my knot like a good little omega should–mine. So y’r gonna get y’r things, and y’r gonna move them into my quarters, and then we’re gonna go get supper, and y’r gonna shut y’r fuckin’ mouth.”

“I hate you. You’re the biggest son of a bitch I have ever met in my entire life, you are exactly the kind of asshole I knew you would be, you are no different than I thought. You’re a terrible, awful, horrible–”

“I can smell you,” Simon snaps. “Don’t try to be fuckin’ smart with me, I can smell how wet your cunt is, so why don’t you just be a good girl and do as I say?”

You bare your teeth a little, and Simon sticks a gloved thumb into your mouth. Without thinking, you relax. You suck it into your mouth and sigh, and Simon rubs his thumb against your tongue, shutting you up nice and well. He traces your teeth with it, and you start to cry. You cry because you don’t know why you can’t fight. Your grip his forearm, but your nails won’t dig. Your feet are planted to the ground, and you can’t move. Your mouth sucks, and he pushes, and you’re frozen here.

He knows what to do. Doesn’t he taste so good?

He seems to like your teary eyes. The big, fat tears. His eyes crinkle, and you know he’s smiling, and you wish you could rip that expression off his face, but all that stares back at you is death. Simon growls, and every bit of resistance in you fails. Slow, like molasses, your knees buckle, and he catches you. He pets your mouth, and when he leans in and presses his mouth to your ear, all you can do is cry.

“That’s it. Good kitty.”

NEXT

my esteemed faggots i present to you

hurricane yaoi

by @ annya.zombie on tiktok

Godly 🙏

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Bunny Instincts.

pairings. | steve rogers x hybrid!bunny reader

summary. | It’s an animal instinct to be wary when a predator is near; your little baby bunnies, are well aware when daddy is near.

warnings. | soft!dark steve rogers, hybrid!bunny reader, allusions to kidnapping, manipulation, daddy!kink, language.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Letting out a soft giggle, you watch in amusement as the twins prattle about in the grass field, hopping here and there, attempting to race eachother but getting distracted by butterflies and flowers along their path.

You were lying down on a blanket, basking under the warmth of the morning sun, a book in hand and a basket full of treats for you and your little babies. You enjoyed the breeze, the serenity of these mornings, the quiet and the slow; for you, it was perfect.

Cooing, you reach out a hand to your baby who sneezed, it seemed as if she was allergic to pollen, her pink snout twitches involuntarily. She leans into your touch, and you lift her up to your chest.

“It’s okay, bubba.” You utter, softly stroking her soft fur. Her blue eyes were watery, the cirulean blue akin to her father’s; yet, hers merely blinked up at you with parts reliance and innocence, so different to the shrewd and calculative of his. “We can’t play with those kind of flowers, but there are others; i know, honey. It’s itchy?” You tut, brushing her nose when her whole face twitches.

The twin, who had been curiously hopping after a colorful butterfly suddenly stilled, gazing faraway, to barely registered footsteps, his discerning ears perking up in attention. The ominous presence of something.. strong, had caused him to clamber back to his mother, tail tucked in between his legs.

Your head darts up to the door of the house, and you gazed at your baby who was shivering in freight. Bunnies are easily frightened, and when they’re still small and unable to shift into their human form; their bones brittle, and their autonomy limited until the age of two, they’re extremely delicate and sensitive.

Especially to sound, and their environment; the instinct of an animal, much more, one who have been hunted since eons ago such as bunnies, was heavily engraved into his consciousness.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” you gently coo, bringing him closer to your chest also. Allowing him to hear the thrum of your heartbeat, in hopes it will calm his erratic beating heart. “Mama’s here, i’ll protect you.” You whisper, placing a dainty kiss on each of their forehead. The trembling toned down a little, much to your relief.

“Trying to act tough, bunny?" His baritone voice held a tone of amusement, large frame coming into view, still decked in his navy blue tactical suit. Your breath hitched in your throat once you lay sight on his almost, lazy smile, clearly patronizing you; and your feeble attempt at protection.

He looked rough, yet not in an entirely bad way. Just that Steve left with a thin stubble framing his jaw, and his hair cut cleanly, into his smart and put together fashion; he looked the golden boy, the personification of true and honest american values.

But the month long mission had certainly, changed his appearance— his true disposition, a little more evident by the longer hair and thick beard that framed his face. He looked mean. Yet the mere sight of him had inevitably brought a shiver of want through your body.

“Daddy,” you whisper, stunned, pillowy lips parting in surprise at his arrival. You were expecting him a couple of weeks later, but things must have changed which made him arrive home early.

“No welcome kisses for daddy?” He raises a barely amused brow, expression shifting to stern, and despite yourself; you slowly rose, not before placing your little bunnies in the blanket, and whispering gentle words of comfort into their ears, and crept towards him, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

He deepens it, the kiss quickly turning passionate and starved. He conveyed his yearning through the punishing brush of his lips to yours, hands finding purchase on the small of your waist in order to bring you closer. You whimper, and yelp once he squeezed the globes of your ass, yet he only took the opportunity to plunge his tongue into your mouth, sucking and tasting your mouth.

He only lets you go once you were breathless, eyes glossed over to his satisfaction. Steve rubs your lower lip, eyes roaming your face as he takes in your otherwordly beauty, noticing the lightness and glow of your visage. He has always thought you were breathtakingly gorgeous; and coupled with motherhood, your ever blossoming maternal instinct, that chipped at your defiance and made you his soft, pliable little bunny.

Steve knows knocking you up had been his best choice at keeping you; little bunnies like you, helpless and innocent, were made to bend over and take cock like a fucking pro— not wander around, nor integrate into society as something you, very clearly was not made for.

You were made for breeding, is what you were. A fertile little thing. An insatiable, needy little bunny that deserved to be stuffed full of his cum, until you’re swollen with his children. And again. And again, until you’re pathetic and begging with soft and musical cries that only every fueled his desire to fuck you until you’re passed out.

His cock strains painfully in his jeans, gaze flickering to your swollen breast; your pert nipples evident through the filmsy sundress, they were plump and round with milk, and heck, if he wasn’t already rock hard with just the sight of you. He places a lingering kiss on the swell of your breast, and your cheeks heated.

“Stevie,” you whine, placing a hand to his chest. “It tickles.” He chuckles.

“You’re too sensitive bunny,” Steve snorts, but relents. He has plenty of time to bother you later, now, however he glances behind you, and towards the huddled pair of his children. “What are you doing so far away?” His voice was gruff, and you saw the tremble wrack their little bodies.

They had always been afraid of Steve. Shaking whenever he touches them; whimpering whenever he’s near. It’s like your children knows to what extent, Steve’s nature and how truly sinister the huge man was.

“Daddy,” you utter with a silent reprimand, “Please don’t scare them.” You touch his chest.

His brow furrows, “They’re afraid of their own father?” Disappointment colors his tone, he had always been brash and domineering, indeed. But he’s tried several times to connect and bond with his children, but they were ultimately frightened of him for some unknown reason. He calls their names, “Come here.” He orders firmly.

You bite your lower lip, “Daddy.” You warn, eyes wide and pleading. You wish he was more tender, softer with them. They’re feeble, which your husband can’t seem to understand. “Gentler, please. Don’t call them as if you’re about to grab them by the skin of their neck and haul them.”

“Isn’t that what animals do, sweetheart?” He quips back, blue eyes narrowing. “Besides, i ought to teach them a little thing about what happens to children who disobey.”

“They’re still babies; they can’t understand alot.” You appease him softly, looking back at your children with encouraging eyes. “You have to comfort them, coax them. Be a little more patient, please, daddy.” You place a hand on his chest and blinked up at him with doe eyes. One you know he finds hard to resist.

Steve’s jaw clenches, the tough façade crumbling slowly. “They got that from you, little bunny. Always needing persuasion, promises; coaxing.” You hum and nuzzle your face into his chest, awarding the broad expanse of it with butterfly kisses and inhaling his scent. He smelled of rich cedarwood and pine, insanely addictive and for you, comforting.

“Come here,” He orders, a little softly now and you smile at him encouragingly. “Papa’s not mad, i promise. He just wants to kiss his babies.” Steve’s gruff voice utters, and he beckons the twins over with a wave of a hand. Once they were at arms reach, he bends down and lifts them up, pressing a kiss to their head.

“My bestest babies,” you whisper adoringly as you hug them inbetween the two of you. “So brave, and sweet.” You continue to whisper words of encouragement in their ears, the twins responding to you with wriggling movements, and rubbing up at you, while Steve watches with satisfaction and awe.

He truly made the right decision to making sure you’re well and truly his. Only his. Afterall, Steve Rogers does deserve a family of his own; he’s done so much for his country, fought and thrown himself on the line of his work just to make sure that the world remains at peace and he deserves his own piece of happiness.

Even if he had to steal you away. He will break you apart and build you up all over again if it meant he would have you. Steve will tear anyone, limb to limb if they dare to steal you away from him. So what if you had a life ahead of you? Did he not give you, your own piece the world; a nice beautiful house, a white picket fence, a large and expansive garden and every luxury you could ever think of. He satisfies your every need and whim; he fucks you good, he satiates you, he loves you. Steve loves you a fucking lot. Loves you that he will do anything for you— expcept let you go.

“I love you, daddy.” You murmur, reverently. It took alot to mold you into his perfect little wife, but everything was worth it when you look at him and tell him those perfect words.

“I love you, bunny.” He replies, equally reverent.

You’re his. But more evidently, he is yours.