Sunsetmoonlightdays - Krissy

Take It All Off

Summary: Chris does not want you wearing another team’s jersey in his house. In fact, he doesn’t want you wearing anything in his house.

Pairing Chris Evans x Reader

Word count: 2K

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, Chris (he’s a warning. No plot lives here on Sinday

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A/N: Little drabble for a nonnie. Hope you like it

Do not copy, rewrite, translate or post my work anywhere. No permission given to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work.

Music booms through the lower level of the house, the waning scent of pizza and mozzarella sticks from the earlier hour-long break wafting through the living room. Boxes stacked neatly in the hall, you’re standing in front of a small tower, searching for one in particular. Turning the stack around with your foot, the black writing on the side comes into view.

You scan down until you find the one with your t-shirts and sweats; you wiggle the box out and head upstairs. “Chris, I’m going to get changed, I’ll be right back.”

“Darlin’ we don’t wear clothes in this house,” he yells from the couch, sorting through your books.

You scoff, jogging up the stairs, dodging more boxes on the landing. That man is incorrigible, he’s already tried to tell you he has a “must wake Chris up with sex” rule and a “must sit on Chris’s lap during the game” rule. He already talked you into taking your pants off when the movers left.

Incorrigible.

In fact, if he could keep his hands to himself for more than five minutes, half your stuff would have already been unpacked. And your shirt would not be covered in marinara sauce.

Who finds eating mozzarella sticks sexy?

Christopher Evans, that’s who.

He kept trying to kiss you while you ate, causing you to spill the sauce down your shirt. Which led to him licking it off your exposed chest while you playfully fought him off. You smile softly thinking about how he offered to let you lick some off of his chest.

Three hours into your first day officially living with him and you love him even more.

You push the bedroom door open with the corner of the box, setting it on the end of the bed. Ruffling through it, you find one of your favorite old worn t-shirts, setting it on the top of the pile, you pull your stained shirt over your head.

“Damn,” Chris groans from the doorway, “take it all off, baby”. He openly ogles you, biting his lip. He can feel himself getting hard seeing your soft half-naked body in his room.

You roll your eyes, tossing the shirt in the wicker hamper by the door, you grab your t-shirt shaking out the wrinkles before pulling it over your head, “down Chris,” you joke.

Chris pouts, pushing his plump bottom lip out, his bright blue eyes despondently watching your chest disappear under the fabric, “aw c’mon, baby we got an hour before the game, we can finish getting your–,” he cuts himself off when he spots the offensive logo on your perfect body.

You look over at him, brows furrowed at the sight of his narrowed eyes. Chris places his hands on his hips, his black shorts clinging to his ass, his muscles popping out of the dark shirt with the patriots’ logo painted on. He walks to you slowly, his nostrils flaring, a faint flush on his cheeks.

He pokes you in the middle of your chest with his long index finger, “what the fuck is this?”, he asks, his voice deepening.

You glance down, confused by his sudden mood change until you see the logo under his finger.

Oh.

Your eyes flicker up to his face, you can feel the resentment and indignation rolling off him in waves.

And you like it.

Since you started dating, you learned what buttons to push to get Chris to do what you want, but there’s nothing like discovering a brand new one.

You flutter your lashes innocently, keeping your eyes on him, and shrug, “they’re my favorite team,” you bite your lip, pushing his finger away to touch the logo reverently, “I thought you knew that”

Chris glares at you, holding your chin between his warm rough fingers, “since when?”

“Since that time they kicked your team’s ass,” you smirk. You don’t know if or when they played against the Patriots, but when the flush on his cheeks deepens, you know you made a good guess.

“Take it off,” he spits out, leaning so close you could count his long eyelashes, his plump lips almost touching yours.

You grab the waistband of his shorts and retort, “Make me Christopher,” mocking his tone.

God, his eyes burn with passionate fury. That look blazing through you, making you wet and throb so much it almost hurts when you see the veins in his neck pop up.

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Sunsetmoonlightdays - Krissy

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