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: please understand,, i am down ASTRONOMICALLY im in a state that is constant warmth and still have like 6 cream cableknit sweaters JUST for him 🧎♀️ he's so??? soft??? Summary: The divine Drysdale heir gets on his knees for his new goddess. Warnings: smut, sub!ransom, dommy mommy reader, mild mild mild S/M, degrading, worship, slap play, whatever else i missed, nothing superbly extreme
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"You should know your place by now, Drysdale."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't whine, you sound like a baby," you groan. Just a moment ago, you had slammed his bedroom door shut tight, and all six feet of him had whipped around with the meanest scowl on his face. He's big, sure, but you've got leverage on his heart. It kills him the way you snap into place between his ribs with, God, the prettiest laugh he's ever heard. He'd never admit it, though. Least of all to you.
And he knows he's nothing but an insect under your heel, yours to shatter and reconstruct. He gets a rush in your presence. He has never been so intimidated by someone with such a sweet smile. Such a gentle soul but the worst sadist he's ever held close. Worse than himself.
"You sinful, godless little boy. You think you stand a chance, don't you?"
You're like a roman candle with how unpredictably fiery you are. Yesterday, it was being stuck in traffic down the ninety-five. Tomorrow, it'll probably be some coworker's silly mistake. Tonight, you simply came home angry. That's it. You need a release, and there he is. Dark hair ungelled and messy but pushed back and without flaw still, standing like a statue of the gods and at your mercy. You're set off, the wild look in your eye setting him off.
"I'm all yours, princess, tell me what you want," he coos so sweetly you could melt, but you never ever would. It'd boost his ego and splinter his edges. He'd get worse. And what you give him is discipline. Patience for his inner child. Medicine for his deepest wounds.
"On your knees, puppy."
He does. Without one single thought. Every iota devoted to your demands. With a thud, he's at your feet, lamenting his own devotion when your hands preen through his hair.
You're his heaven and hell and all the bits in between. He's a shrine to your love, a glimmering reflection in the pool of your heart. And he's grown oh-so-narcissistic these past few months.
"What to do with my poor boy," you whisper because he pouts, not a single change to his expression, but he sinks in on his own body, deflating at the core. You coddle him. "Oh... I know."
He hates your mystery. Because it's no secret what you're up to. It's no longer mystery with a grin like that. He shifts and settles his big hands onto your thighs, pushing up to hold your waist tentatively.
