Genre: Smut
TW: 18+ mdni, knife play, choking, power play/dominance, nsfw
Characters: Jack Krauser, fem!reader
Franchise: Resident Evil 4
Notes: no beta, if anyone feels called, hmu.
Also, this man... Oh, boy, this man...
He leaned against the brickwork, a silhouette defined by the sharp and disciplined curves of a military cut. Initially, he did not make direct eye contant, but he was most certainly aware of your presence as you stepped onto the patio, represented by the way in which his broad shoulders remained squared, giving him the outward appearance of a man who had honed the art of reading humanity. The dim light cast by the bar's patio lighting caught the jagged line of raised skin that cleaved through his rounded, masculine features. A remnant of the past he carried, but to you, in that very moment, he wore it like a badge of survival and resilience. The sizeable scar added to his rugged, asymmetrical intensity.
The blonde didn't greet you with a smile when he turned, yet his eyes, those cold orbs of piercing blue, seemed to scan you with a slow, deliberate regard that hinted he attempted to read your pulse from a distance.
You stepped closer, unsure of your motivations in that moment, perhaps due to the sheer gravitational pull, but in doing so noticed the unlit cigarette hanging between his chapped lips and instinctively reached into your bag. You didn’t ask if he needed the lighter you had procured; you simply held it between your fingers. The man reached for it without hesitation, his calloused fingers brushing against yours, and the touch, albeit brief, felt electric. He didn’t take the lighter immediately, simply prolonging the contact as he stepped into your personal space, allowing the scent of tobacco and salt to reach your senses.
He was massive in stature, his mountainous frame blocking out the faint patio lights. “Bold.” He said as his eyes narrowed. He closed his hand around yours, pinning your fingers against the silver casing, and guided it upward and toward his cigarette. The flame sparked life, casting a warm glow over his battle-worn features. A ghost of a smile etched itself into his lips, a hint toward the predatory expression that promised something more than merely a pleasant conversation.
The air between both of you seemed to shift, and the noise resounding from the bar, clinking glasses, raucous laughter, the droning bass of the music, all of it faded into a distant hum, making way for the sound of your quickening heartbeat and the rustling of the blonde man’s clothing. In this moment, this small bubble present, names were irrelevant. There was just the magnetic pull of his presence as he leaned down, and his warm breath caressed the shell of your ear. “My quarters are ten minutes from here.”
Said quarters matched your vision: sparse, utilitarian, pristine, and orderly. No framed photographs of loved ones present to line the small dresser, an absence of personal trinkets, only a neatly folded set of fatigues and a combat knife resting on a leather sheath atop the bedside table. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the disciplined distance he had maintained moments earlier had vanished as he turned, and his large hand shot out to grip the nape of your neck. It was an attempt at establishing dominance, tilting your head back to expose the delicate column of your throat.
“You’ve been staring at it,” he muttered, his voice merely a vibration against your skin. You blinked at the vagueness of his statement, but when he pressed your back against the doorframe, his cheek brushed against yours, allowing you to sense the rough, raised texture of his scar. You reached up, fingertips gently tracing the jagged lines, and he exhaled sharply before crashing his mouth against yours.
The blonde tasted of nicotine and beer, his soft tongue claiming your mouth with a dominant sweep. When his hands shifted from your neck to the small of your back, his large fingers dug into the peaks of your pelvis, hoisting you up in the process. You caught his meaning and wrapped your legs around his dense midsection as he carried you toward the small cot without breaking the feverish kiss. The springs groaned softly as he dropped you, yet more intensely when his weight joined yours. He pinned you into said springs with his full weight yet took pause momentarily as he merely hovered above you; those blue eyes mapping your face with that same tactical precision he’d showcased at the bar.
“I won’t be gentle,” he warned, and reached over to the bedside table, hand closing around the leather hilt of the combat knife. The metallic shink of the blade retracting from the leather sheath resounded in the quiet room, and that very sound sent a wave of heat through your veins. The flat side of the steel traced the curve of your jaw, the contrast of the cold metal against your flushed skin causing you to shiver.
He guided the knife downward, the blade gliding over the hills of your collarbones, dipping toward the valley of your breasts. A dark, self-aware expression crossed Krauser’s features, making him discard the knife, only to replace it with the crushing weight of his meaty hand. Fingers wrapping around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your breath hitch and pupils dilate. “Look at me,” A natural extension of his authority. He shifted his weight, forcing your legs apart with the width of his muscular thigh. He was absolutely massive, a body built by and for endurance, and the mere concept of having that weight pressed into yours made you feel so fragile in comparison, a contrast that heightened your cravings. His hand tightened slightly around your throat, the pressure of it grounding you in the moment as he leaned down to whisper against your lips. “Don’t buckle.”
He shifted his grip, his hand releasing your neck, only for it to pin your wrists above your head into the pillow. It was then that he stripped away the remaining layers of fabric, and the sight of him bare only added to your revelation of the man’s raw power; his body was akin to a map retaining old wars fought, marked with faded lines of stark white that wrapped around deep-set muscle that appeared to have been carved from granite. When he pressed back into you, the sheer scale of him became an undeniable reality to your perception. He felt akin to a physical force that managed to swallow you whole, and that realization made you gasp. The sound caught in your throat when you felt the heavy, blunt heat of him pressed against your trembling thigh, a promise that felt almost daunting.
The blonde trailed a wet line of sloppy nibbles down your sternum, the short stubble grazing your skin with a rough friction that made you writhe among the linen. With each attempt to shift or bridge the gap to pull him closer, he would shift his weight and utilize his mass to pin you deeper into the mattress, a reminder of who was in control. “Still bold, hm? Every rookie breaks eventually,”
He released your wrists, favoring that hand to retrieve the discarded combat knife. Yet it was not the flat of the blade this time, rather the dull spine that traced the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, the cold steel leaving a searing trail of electricity in its wake. He observed your expressions, ensuring he had not crossed the line just yet. The knife traveled higher, the blunt hilt parting the heat between your legs with a slow, agonizing trek. You exhaled a broken whimper, a soft plea for something more substantial than steel, and the desperation caused Krauser to respond with a low chuckle. He enjoyed the pitiful sound of your surrender.
With a sharp retreat, the knife was discarded one final time, the heavy thud of the blade hitting the bedside table punctuating the end of the foreplay. He leaned over you, his form shrouding you in nothing but shadow and the essence of.. Him. He didn’t enter you with a tentative slide or a gentle thrust; instead, it had been a singular, powerful thrust that felt as though he aimed to rearrange your internal geography. It felt overwhelming, his length filling you to a point of aching pressure that stretched you beyond thin. For a moment, you failed to breathe; only able to cling to the broad expanse of his defined shoulders, fingernails digging into the hard muscle and leaving crescent indents as you tried to accommodate his size. Krauser didn’t allot the time to adjust, moving with a relentless, driving rhythm, each individual stroke punishing and intense. There was no lovemaking, merely a man conquering, meeting a need. The bed groaned under the weight and force behind his movements.
His hand returned to your throat. The lack of oxygen enhanced the building pleasure, allowing you to truly drown in the man, his scent, his heat, his authority. As you attempted to call his name, the sound merely caught in your throat, reduced to a series of desperate whimpers that only fueled his all-consuming fire. His free hand seized your hips, anchoring you as he dug his fingers into the bony hills, his breathing slowing to harsh, ragged bursts as the soldier seemed to slowly fray at the edges. The slap of skin against skin resounded, a primal metronome. He drove deeper, his muscles rippling beneath your touch like coiled ropes. You sensed the build-up, and as you neared that breaking point, Krauser leaned down, his broad, sweat-slicked chest pressed against yours. “Don’t buckle... yet,” he commanded, the order spoken raw and demanding.
He wanted to witness the exact moment you broke around his cock, witness as full surrender to him reflected in your pupils. The climax hit with a violence that mirrored his erratic thrusts, a shattering explosion of sensations that left you utterly spent as your body trembled. You clung to him with a desperation that accompanied the broken sobs. The blonde surged forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he followed you over that very edge, causing his entire frame to lock rigid, the muscles in his arms tensing as he held you pinned to the mattress.
