THEY NEED To Add Him To Rivals With This Exact Design 😭🙏

you just know I had to gif this moment...

beast>>>

theres just something about the blue members of the xmen....

participated in jinbe week on twitter! tried to use different brushes and styles for each day 🦈✨

Mick Thomson

you just know I had to gif this moment...

mind your manners // chris redfield

Chris Redfield x Reader

Smut

wc: ~1.7k

mdni

i was stuck on a plane and ovulating, what was i supposed to do. not write chris smut?

summary: Chris is remarkably unorganized for someone who's life revolves around regulation, but that doesn't extend to your sex life.

content: face fucking, ball grabbing, assplay (chris receiving), crying, drooling

Chris is a walking paradox. After a lifetime of eating, breathing, and sleeping protocol, you would expect him to be rigid, organized - to have his shit together. You've seen him at work. Shoulders back, head held high, issuing orders with confidence and maintaining humility and ease with his subordinates.

He's a different beast at home. His personal effects are strewn from the doorway. You could breadcrumb your way to him, but you don't need to. You know he's splayed out on the couch, all his corded muscle unwound in a heap. One long leg kicks up over the arm of the couch, too tall to fit on the damn thing without draping half of himself over it.

He has a system, he insists. There's an order to the chaos, a method to the madness. Basically - he knows you were trying to help by cleaning up his office and organizing things in clearly labeled folders, but it's somehow made him less efficient than when his important, classified documents were organized into separate, seemingly identical piles.

("Identical to you," Chris said, sifting frantically through the folders. "I have a system, hun, you can't just--"

It had been a whole thing. You let him keep his office however he wanted it from then on.)

It's not like his career hadn't left him without any sense of structure. He's a creature of routine, not orderliness. As he insists, he does have a system. You couldn't answer honestly as to what most of his procedures were, but there were a few that you knew very well.

I. Don't talk with your mouth full.

It's just common courtesy, really. He hadn't expected to have to teach you that one, but lately it felt like every time you dropped to your knees in front of him, he was having to give you a lesson.

Bless his heart, he tries to be patient with you, tries to show you slow and steady.

Chris guides his leaking tip across your lips like it's lipgloss, leaves you shiny and pretty. You press a sweet little kiss against him, bat your eyes, play nice. All you want is to swallow his cock, to have him so far down your throat you feel him in your toes but he's taking his time with you.

It's sweet, the way he's doting. But the anticipation is fucking killing you. It feels like it's been hours, your limbs heavy and full, the heat pulsing through you nearly unbearable. His cock hovers so close to your face it's got you going cross-eyed and he still won't let you have him.

Your knees are fucking killing you. By now you must be melted into the goddamn floor. It feels like lightning when his hand finally curls against the base of your skull. A polite suggestion. Too polite for how badly you want to suck him dry.

You wrap a hand around the base of him, squeeze in a steady pulse that makes his hips roll languidly, finally pressing his head past your lips.

That's not quite the response you had in mind. You take a moment to appreciate what youve been given and suckle the head of his cock, drink down his pre-cum like it's your first taste of manna. Your tongue swipes across the underside of his cock, curls to roll against the pulsing vein at the side of him. You savor the taste a moment, the weight of him against your tongue, the way so little of him still fills your mouth. Chris sighs like the weight of the world has been drained from him, like you're suck the stress out of his body through his cock.

He's so relaxed, you almost feel bad for the way you grip his balls so unceremoniously. Almost.

He moans like an animal, ruts against your face hard, his hips stuttering. You gag a moment, squeeze your thumb into your palm and recover like a champ. You could go pro if every dick was as thick and mouth-watering as Chris'. You squeeze your thighs together, drop your jaw obediently. You'll need the room.

"You little brat," he breathes out, exasperated. You pull off him, connected to his dick by a string of spittle.

"Gotcha," you snicker.

Or, you try to say so. You're cut off by his cock pressing back to your lips, his hand fisting in your hair, dragging you back onto him.

"Don't talk with your fucking mouth full," he grits out. His hips jut forward, erratic, chasing his own pleasure since you're so ungrateful for the lesson he had tried to teach. If you don't want to play by the rules, then he'd fuck your face, leave you crying, drool soaking your chin - such a fucking mess. Just the way you wanted it.

II. Hands to yourself. Mostly.

Your hand braces against his massive thigh, squeezing and fondling in a way that mirrors the way you play with his balls. God, why don't you have two mouths? You couldn't pull off of his dick to try fitting his balls into your mouth for the millionth time, succeeding only in making yourself look like a desperate slut, slobbering all over him. His grip on your hair is so tight it stings, tears spiking in your eyes.

Fine. No balls in your mouth tonight. Whatever. Your thighs still clench with every thrust of his hips, your nipples still peak to the point of aching.

Chris Redfield's body is a playground. You'll find something else to play with. You release his balls and Chris sets his stance wider, fucking himself deeper into your mouth, down your throat. You whine around him, tears slipping down your cheeks. Your plans to explore are benched temporarily while you remember how to breathe.

Breathe through your nose, slack your jaw, enjoy the ride. Your hands start creeping up his thighs the moment you remember how to be a hole. You grab his ass and squeeze, tug him closer.

You trace the cleft of his ass, one pass up and down. There's no time for teasing if you want to get this done before he blows his load. You drag your finger down, circling the pucker of his asshole, testing the waters.

"I'm gonna tie you up if you don't quit," Chris warns, his breathing ragged. All he'd have to do is reach around, engulf your wrists with one of his hand, maybe pull them up over your head, hold you still and suspended so he could really have at you and --

Jesus, there's gonna be a wet spot on the floor when he lets you up.

You press your finger into him. For a moment his hips stop. His breath catches in his chest, and you're grateful for the moment to catch yours. You look up to see his mouth popped open in a pretty little 'o', his eyes shut tight.

You press deeper, eyes watching his face carefully. You're a good little cockwarmer for keeping a level head while he uses you. Chris will be so proud once he can think past the way you're making his dick so hard that it hurts.

Chris starts to move again, the stutter in his hips obvious. It's like he can't decide whether to fuck himself further into your mouth or press back into your finger.

Your finger strokes against his prostate twice, maybe three times, before he snatches your wrist. His cock twitches in your throat. You nearly gag again and the way you constrict around him makes Chris whine in a way you've never heard before.

"Stop, stop, stop," he breathes out, chest flushed red. "Christ-- holy shit. Dont wanna cum yet, wanna see it."

Too late for you. He drops his hold on your wrists and immediately you paw at your crotch, rocking against your hands through your clothes.

In the few minutes it takes Chris to pull himself from your mouth to collect himself, you cum in your pants. A moan rattles through you. It's hard to tell if you're lucky or unlucky that Chris cum on your face then and there.

He stares down at you, pupils blown. His hands fumble a moment, eyes locked on your face, on the fucked out mess he's made. Finally, he manages to grip his cock after groping blindly at the air.

III. Please and thank you.

Your mouth holds the memory of his cock, stuck wide open. All your heated little noises slip past your lips unfettered.

He kisses you hot and hard, slipping his tongue into your mouth as a consolation. All you can hear is the sloppy sound of him fucking his fist. You throb just picturing him, flushed and slick with your spit, tip deep red, twitching.

"Where you want it?" Chris pants. He kisses you before you can answer.

"Mouth, please" you manage to whine when he pulls away. Chris bites your bottom lip with a groan, tugging it as he pulls away.

He presses his fat tip to your tongue. You lap at the gap between head and shift greedily and that's all it takes. Chris cums before he can admonish you, groan rattling through him, chest flushed, head thrown back. He's stunning like that - you wish you could watch longer, but his cock gives a last twitch, a rope of cum spattering across your eyelid.

You hold still for him, one eye shut and tongue poking out. Chris blinks quickly and comes back into himself. He strokes your cheek with the backs of his fingers, cupping your chin delicately in his palm, admiring the pretty picture you make.

“Thank you.”

His taste sits heavy on your tongue. His thumb traces along you jaw gently. You swallow, your eyes never leaving his. Once you've drunk every drop of him, you stick your tongue out to show him again. That's enough to make him release a shuddering breath, but you swipe the cum from your face and lick the pad of your thumb clean and he may as well have had a heart attack. You smile up at him sweetly.

BARRY SLOANE as Joe 'Bear' Graves in SIX (2017—2018) Episode 1.08 End Game

seether @ tinley park 2002 (x)