Chris Evans Imagines

Nomad Steve* | Battlefield Brat

2851 words.

dom nomad Steve time besties do you hear me SCREAMING

Warnings: 18+, brat!reader, spanking, choking, minor violence bc of a mission/training??, hate fucking 🤪, slight degrading kink, slight mirror kink, unprotected sex WRAP YA WILLY BEFORE YA GET SILLY, aftercare <33

-

Crashing to the ground, you fell flat on your stomach with a grunt, Steve's weight pinning you down. Cheek squashed to the muddy carpet, you struggled against him, desperately trying to pull your hands free from his grip behind your back.

Feeling your body go limp below him in defeat, Steve gave an irritated huff and let go. "Again."

Rolling your eyes, you pulled yourself to your feet. Regaining a fighting stance, he lunged at you. Dodging, you whirled around to toss him to the ground. Straddling his hips, pinning his hands above his head and his thighs to the ground. "Lose the fucking attitude, Cap."

Steve scowled up at you, bucking his hips up so you flew forward. Letting go to catch yourself, your chest fell in his face. Of course, being the professional he was, Steve didn't bat an eye. Instead, flipping the two of you over, legs pinned between his, your hands stapled to the floor beside your ears.

Catching your attempt to knee him in the balls, he rolled you to your stomach, hands held behind your back, hips pressed back against his. You struggled against him, writhing against his body until something unbelievably apparent made itself obvious. Was— was he hard?

"Concentrate, Y/N," he snapped. Watching as you strained against his grip until finally giving up again. "You can't risk our lives for some dick on the field. Focus."

"Let me go, asshole. You're the one who's turned on by this shit."

"I need you ready for the recon mission," he grunted, laying a light smack to your hip before pushing himself off of you. Leaning back on his palms, he watched as you got up.

"If it was a real recon mission we wouldn't have to be decked out in fucking combat gear. And you'd stop thinking with the head between your fucking legs." Spitting burning venom at him, you crossed your arms, desperately keeping eye contact with him to avoid the taut bulge in his sweatpants.

"Precautionary tactical gear," Steve muttered, piercing baby blues turned steely, expression stoic as he stared you down.

Pursing your lips, you broke the staring contest first, rage bubbling away in your stomach. Walking by him on your way to the safehouse door, you waited for his guard to fall.

Hearing Steve sigh behind you, you spun on your heel, taking your opportune to pounce. Sliding in behind his back, you grabbed him in a choke hold. Arms wrapped tight around his neck, his unsuspecting reflexes weren't quick enough to throw you off.

Attempting to pry your arms off him, Steve kicked his feet, silently cursing you out. He pushed you back, landing flat on your ass but not relenting, tightening your grip.

"Little brat," Steve wheezed, tapping your forearm.

Letting go instantly, you spat, "Don't let your guard down, Captain." Before standing up and storming out, making sure to slam the door behind you.

-

Bullets raining hellfire over your head, you and Steve were trapped in a warehouse, each on one side of the open doorway. "What happened to the whole laying low thing?" You screamed at him, wincing away from the quickly disintegrating metal by your head.

"We're still laying low, don't engage," he shouted back, SMG shells ringing and piercing his gruff demand. You frowned at him. Steve caught your eye, warning you again. "Don't fucking engage."