#unspecified ranks w air force since chris / you are meant to have the same 1 dont look too closely

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hiii <3 so ik we’ve never spoken before but can you elaborate on that mini multiverse circle jerk post (pls my mind is going brrrrrr every time I try to conceive of such scenarios bc ummmm hot) anyway, luv ur stuff ::)))))

oHhh i am here i am standing at attention and reporting 4 duty all at once o7. i saw your tags earlier too and they made me so happy so also thank yoU n hello hehe

its just,,, the circle jerk thing works so well in any regimented type setting and/or for characters who went through that. i went a little crazy over this .

circle jerk + chris redfield

18+. chris x gn!reader. 1.5k^. circle jerk (vhs tape assisted), exhibitionism, voyeurism, chris is so . fucking cooked over u in this

chris redfield who’s still in his air force years, long enough by now that the CO-speared brow-beatings’ve gotten more overt, half-tempered by his hefty commendations, ones that keep him toeing the line in their ‘good graces’ — a misstep or two away from the threat of a court martial.

word spreads around, because of course it does. speculation that’s sparse on context means he’s been hearing ‘redfield’ more often these days from peers on top of superiors, even by some who’d gotten around to calling him by his given name first, before.

not you, though. no, never you. you still call him ‘chris’, same as ever, same as when he first met you, and you do it even now when he can barely acknowledge you back with a call of your name — all ‘cause his heart’s got this habit of kicking up into his throat when he hasn’t geared up to see you around. his shoulders have a habit of sitting a little stiffer, at attention from the presence but never the same type of discomfort from starched hierarchy and bad decisions. doesn't know what to do with them. doesn’t know what to do with his hands, either.

he hadn’t meant to find you. not here, and not in this.

in some backroom back at base, once dusk had already set but no call for lights out had been given, that he walks into, light-stepped and unassuming. a scattering of thread-bare armchairs and beanbags rested near the worn couch you’re laying back on, arm thrown over the back.

you’re facing away from him, technically, from the door the same way most seats are — because they’re all faced, semi-circle scattered, towards the shitty pull-out TV at the furthest-back wall, VHS grain and color-bleed providing the dim light that filters through the room in light washes. most are occupied. some type of gathering, maybe spontaneous maybe not, faces he knows and ones he doesn’t among the dozen or fewer men in the room.

it'd be almost intimate if it weren't simultaneously impersonal, the way they're watching the screen or each other — some crowded close together on the same seating intended only for one, and some apart, pressed only along the seams of their thighs or the leather of the same standard-issue boots.

most unlaced and unbuckled, though, states of undress below dangling belts or with a shirt pulled up to rest a few inches above the waist, cocks flush in the low-light held in slow hands or lying heavy against their abdomens — pre gleaming each time the old tape, garden variety home porn contraband, cuts to a different shot of the couple christening their furniture and each other.

feels heat creep all over him, a desiccated throat as his jaw works slow over the processing. the door's kept ajar by the part of him that'd leaned into the room shoulder-first, one boot in and one out — but chris' big enough that it matters, on the treshold between here and there. he's never seen himself as the brightest, nor dimmest, and he can't consider much of anything when your head turns over your shoulder and your eyes meet. can't really read you, not that he ever could, but he thinks he spots a slight surprise at… him being there? maybe his existence?

and then other eyes in the room flit over to him, slow, and take notice too. he meets them, fleeting and a little uneasy, before they return to yours. can't decide whether to double-down or— you grin, a little lop-sided, before he makes up his mind to shift his weight onto his back leg and step down. down, and away from this.

"chris?" his name again, from you. soft-spoken enough that it doesn't draw much attention despite the tease in your eye, and your head tilts towards him, "planning to stand out there all night, or…?"

he might be half gone up there, revisits the memory of a near forced suspension for supposed insubordination and wonders whether he should've taken the out when it was given. a sound mind is half the job, but he steps into that room with a slow-drawn inhale and the door leaned shut by instinct. all because of you and his name and your easy smile.

the only spot rests on the couch next to you, and he's slowly made aware of the way it’s your domain alone to keep. the only person in the room, himself excluded, without their trousers pushed half-down or hands kept otherwise fulfilled is you. he settles in, considerate enough not to drop his weight down, to your right — all too aware of the right arm you keep draped across the back, and the way you seem a little too warm even at the modest distance between you, the soft moans on recording in the background.

you don't fuss over him, instead leaning your head back to keep watching the tape, and he settles, somewhat. somewhat. lets curious eyes wander. glances, at first, like the kind where you expect blow-back on getting caught out — red-handed in the cookie jar. state of undress is nothing new, not really, not here. there’s more to worry about than modesty in the service, he doesn’t really make it a habit to stop and take in the sights when some guy drops his drawers in the changing rooms. this isn’t the same as quick showers and rushing your way out of the barracks, though. it’s not the same when he thinks about you, instead of some faceless stand-in.

it’s not the same, not at all, not with the way he’s watching them, both unknown, sliding his cock in and out of her, hands large and heavy on the hips up on the screen; the way he can hear hitched breaths around him, a low exhale and a few sharp inhales, the soft slide of fists over cocks — slick and slow, or lingering to tease the head; the way he keeps thinking about you and the reality that you’re here, thigh pressing along the seam of his from the weight distribution of the couch, the dip in the middle because he hadn’t had the foresight to sit further away from you at some corner near the armrest. his cock throbs, aching, against the stiff stretch of his trousers, leg kept stiff where it touches yours.

chris doesn’t realise you’re watching until he takes the risk, the glance, caught-red handed at the way your head is tilted, lazy, eyes drawn to the thick bulge of his crotch and outline marked by his cock.

his pulse is in his throat, heavy and thumping, when your eyes slide to his face and you notice his on you already. holds his breath when you lean in, as though privacy means anything here and he finds he’s grateful for the gesture, “this okay?”

he’s not the brightest, probably, maybe, but there’s some part of him that knows — maybe the same part that wants. won’t rise — risk — to question, and it’s not from practicing service, but from the fact that it’s you. he swallows thick.

the sound of his belt is deafening as he unfastens it, unhurried on the pretense of routine, unbuckling and unzipping his trousers with large hands. stifles any tremble. he frees his hard cock with the drag of a hand that pushes the layers down only as far as he needs, grips the thick base, supporting, length heavy as it lolls left and lazy.

there’s no breeze; the heat of the room drawn up enough by these parallel activities to bypass that first shiver, but it happens anyways at the way it seems to lean towards you and the way your eyes have their own single-minded focus, paying no mind to anything but chris and his cock. he lifts his hand, a cursory stroke to the top of the shaft before his thumb slides over the leaking head, and doesn’t miss the way your tongue swipes across your lip for a moment as you watch, unable to take his eyes off of you just the same.

his pulse is in his throat and his heart might spill out of it. it happens long before he's aware of it, when he feels the light press of your cheek to his left shoulder, muscle twitching when you ask, “this okay?”

breath hitches, and he can’t help the shutter of his eyes when you ask, again, balm over the tremor in his chest, “chris?”

exhales something shaky. tests the curl of his fist over his cock and strokes it, once, pre already loosening up the glide. stiffens a soft moan at the back of his throat, the pressure licking hot through him, abdomen tight. “yeah.” rolls his hand again and feels the press of your thigh along his, “fuck— yeah.’”

man his size, and he’s still considerate enough to try not to jostle you too much on his shoulder as he kicks up a slow rhythm, the press of your cheek to his delt enough to get him gone while he strokes himself with his right hand. his hand's just enough for the girth, and you wonder if yours would be, too. honest-to-god flinches a little when he feels your breath, an exhale that’s a little too cool to not be purposeful, across the tip of his wet cock.

he’ll blow his load too quick if you keep leaning on him like that. wonders if you know, if you like it, because you press a hand over his left thigh to keep his hips from chasing after the seal of his own fist, cock truly and well fucked on it, and it gets him that much closer despite his slowing down. for you. keeps his eyes on you, despite the fact that they don't often meet, and you have to know. because you have to know. you have to.

would you touch him, if he asked? can he ask? you dig into the meat of his thigh.

up, further than you’d been — close — the fat and muscle giving way before they tense, terse, and he moans, leaning his body towards yours on instinct, touch like a brand, and spilling hot and warm and heavy across his fist. keeps it pumping, throbbing cock drooling cum over a slowing fist and slick fingers, dripping down to the back of your palm as you rest it on his thigh, where it belongs.