Situations with Chris Evans (and characters)!
[ CHRISEVANSXFEM!READER SMUT/FLUFF ]
* mild language and explicit depictions of sexuality (other trigger warnings stated at the beginning of the chapter). 18+ or else...
requests are [open but no guaran...
A/N: requested by bicky_boo_bear not even two chapters in and we already got submissive stevie Summary: Steve is being a brat for the sake of being a brat. He earns a little spanking for his behavior. 2.5k words Warnings: smutttttt, sub!steve, spanking, slight choking, brat!steve, *wiggles eyebrows* little bitch boy 👉👈, begging, edging
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"Just leave me here."
"No, Steve, I want you to come." Your fingers curl around his wrist, heels dug into the carpet in desperate attempt to drag him from the cushions. You'd moved into his little shoebox apartment months before, finding the way he scribbled anything down from the stroke of your eyelashes to the city's skyline endlessly endearing.
Stubborn as ever, a gruff objection bubbles from his throat when he stands from the couch. It was beyond clear to you that Steve likes—needs to be submissive. Not only is he ordering agents around all day, but he can't get enough of the way you look riding him like a goddamn horse. And you just might thrive off his rough fingertips affording you soft touches and how his blown pupils peek through the thick of his lashes.
"Let's get this over with, then," he huffs, the corner of his mouth tugged up when you squeal and skip away, hand wrapped around and between his fingers. But you don't get very far, yanked back against the rippling planes of muscle swimming over every inch of his God-sculpted body.
"Do I at least get a kiss?" You glare at him, incredulous with a cocked brow before sighing and pressing a short, sugarcoated peck to his pouting lips. "A real kiss?"
Steve's palm finds the small of your back, fisting the baby blue cotton and puckering his lips when you cradle the back of his gold-crested skull, tugging the strands and letting your tongue into his mouth to sidle up against the pearly-white of his canines.
"Alright, pretty boy, enough. We gotta get going." And you manage to squeeze him into shotgun of your Hybrid with a deep grunt. Within five minutes, he's squirming, letting out heavy huffs as he rests the crown of his head against the fog-heavy window.
"What's wrong, soldier?" you coo, reaching over and scratch the back of his head, ruffling the bristly hair at the nape of his neck before he ducks away. "Hey—"
"The seat," he scoffs and pushes his legs straight until they ache from the lack of space, "it's too far up."
"Well, that's 'cause you got it all shoved up against the dash." You press his knee to the side, fingers curling around the thin metal bar beneath the faded polyester, and yanking it up to send his seat flinging backward. His arms stay tucked tight across his heaving chest as he blows a dangling lock of hair from his forehead.
"What now?" He lets out a rumbling sigh, flicking the tip of his finger at the little plastic flap blasting cool air over his skin.
"I'm freezing, and this—fuckin' thing isn't helping." You cock a brow at him, finger pad clicking the AC from a blinking green to off.
