Caviar
jack krauser x reader
synopsis: âThis,â He holds up the syringe, shaking it slightly for effect. Itâs filled with small red beads that look like fish eggs. âis for your own good.â
warnings: gender-neutral reader, leon x reader in the background (?), mild violence directed at reader, slight sexual tension, jealousy & one-sidedness etc.
authors notes: *starts humping my couch* 5.3k words got slightly loosey-goosey with some lore but idc, lightly proofread
You donât know how things went south so quickly.
Hobbling through a mining system, illuminated by oil lamps that served as proof that you werenât alone. Someone else, many someoneâs, had been through here. Probably were still here. Youâd been alone the entire traverse through. Alone, with an injured leg and a handful of bullets left, and a radio that wasnât getting any signal. Antsy that your luck would soon begin to run out.
What a waste of training.Â
Mosquitos or some sort hum an awful tune and you donât know why you can still hear them underground. Their noise has faded into your background like tinnitus. Your fingers have remained curled around the handle of your pistol for so long that they hurt when you uncurl them to feel along the cave wall. Waiting for any reason to pull it out where itâs been shoved into your belt and shoot. You put your weight on your good foot, using the wall to support weight. Nothing felt broken, at least you had that going for you.
Even if you found Ashley right now, you doubt youâd be able to protect her.
One minute, you and Leon were escorting her though the Spanish forestry. The next, a mob of villagers with ratted clothes and torches and bulging parasites swinging from their heads were descending upon you. When the bedlam cleared, Ashley was gone. Two people cover more ground apart than they do together, and so you and Leon split up in search of the president's daughter.Â
You twisted your ankle somewhere along the way. You think you did, anyway. Hurt like hell to walk on. All that fighting, making every last bullet count, chipping the barrel of your gun by slamming it against the head of one of your attackers. Youâd gotten careless somewhere, not watching your step, foot caught into a gryke in the rocks. It left you with a sprain and blood coming from your nose onto your upper lip from falling face forward.
Nothing to be done but keep moving forward.Â
A sudden breeze of air brushes over your face and through your hair. Wind coming from further into the cave, the scent of dirt and outside being carried with it. Outside. The entrance or the exit of this shaft was up ahead. Leon might be up ahead. A cold hand comes to wipe crusted blood off of a cut in your brow, and you pick up your pace.
The breeze gets stronger, and to your relief, it isnât a larger cave in the system. It really is outside. Itâs much darker now than it was when you and Leon separated. How many hours has it been? The sun is setting in the distance, the sky is a deep orange beneath a darker blue. You fish your radio out from your pockets, fiddling with it to get anything useful. No dice. From here, wherever here is, you canât see the silhouette of the castle anymore. Must be the other way.
Dark trees sprawl and wind upwards like wire cages in a stadium, the leaves have already begun to fall. Wood cabins and huts lay deserted and in one of them you find a handful of bullets. Enough for a fully loaded gun and then some. Leon must have been around here, then. Maybe he knew you were in the area. Improbable, but it couldâve been a lucky guess. Either way, youâre grateful.
Though⌠it is an awful lot of ammo to leave behind on the off chance that your partner would be lurking around. Maybe he found extra? More than he could carry. Thereâs a piece of paper, too, under the cardboard boxes the ammo are supplied in. Torn out of a notebook, thereâs a few words pressed firmly onto the lined page. See you soon.
It isnât Leonâs normal style of handwriting, but you canât afford to think too much about it. So Leon left you some ammo and a note to show heâs still alive. Thatâs good. Benign. Youâll see him soon. On the off chance it isnât him, at least you have enough bullets to defend yourself now. You keep going, and the orange has faded from the sky now. Clouds roll in the distance and youâre worried theyâll block out the moonlight. Your flashlight still works, but you arenât sure how much you want to be swinging around a military-grade night light in the pitch blackness of the woods. Might as well toss out some confetti while youâre at it.
Aside from the crunch of leaves beneath your boots, there isnât a sound in the valley. You canât hear the insects anymore, and there arenât any crows or night animals or even people in the distance. Youâd been thankful earlier for the absence of the locals, but youâve passed through multiple signs and small cabins, outposts and the like. The silence is beginning to hurt your ears, and each wooden hut you check is empty aside from spiders and dust.Â
Where is everybody?
You get your lighter from your pockets, striking the wheel with your thumb. Once, twice, a third time. Just when you think it wonât work, it lights and you hold your arm out in front of you to guide your way. The cold wind blows the heat from the small fire back into your face, something more welcome than youâd have thought. Itâs cold, very cold. It seeps under your clothes and rattles your lungs. Youâre certain that youâre being watched, but you canât say from where.Â
It canât be Ashley or Leon, either one of them wouldâve come running to catch up with you by now. You could be walking into an ambush by the locals, would explain the lack of people. Maybe theyâre all hiding, with axes and rakes and their brains bulging against the suture lines with the parasite. Las Plagas. You found a few scattered papers in the mines, scrabbled journal entries and something that looked important left behind. You pocketed what you could and left what you couldnât.
Everything in this region was backwards. You could feel something like pity if you gave it enough thought. People living like their ancestors with no way out of a land ridden with flapping parasites and worms. Even the birds around here couldnât go anywhere else, fly as they might. Their bellies accustomed to stinking flesh and picking at dead overgrown things, sorry excuses of life. Where could they migrate to? Who would take them? Valdelobos is one vast sepulchre. Itâd be yours if you werenât careful.
Thereâs an equal chance that whatever is watching you is just wolves. That would be a safer explanation for the lack of birds and such, too. In any other scenario, a pack of wild animals would be more troublesome than some ratty villagers. Youâre sure the wolves would be nicer, eat you up before you got sacrificed or mutated into something else. You force yourself to think about something else, anything else. Ashley is the priority, not morbid fantasies about your own death.
The sky darkens with each passing minute, and even though the moon is full and bright, you still use the lighter to see where youâre going and for warmth. More walking, and youâve almost forgotten that one leg is bad. Not bad, no. Just sprained. It almost feels natural to walk favoring one side. The dirt path splits, a wooden sign thatâs been chewed and scratched so much that you canât read what either arrow points to is planted in the ground a few feet ahead. You stop in the dirt, looking both ways as if you had enough light to see where either path leads.
A loud crack comes from somewhere behind you. It sounds much louder with how still the night is. Far enough away and yet too close all the same. You nearly drop your lighter, the flame flicking wildly. The fire startles and moves like itâs trying to get away from you to save itself, but itâs bound tightly to the lighter. Donât burn yourself. You whirl around, holding out the lighter as if it were a weapon to protect yourself with.
If itâs Ashley, youâd be leaving her to die by not going to help. If itâs not Ashley, youâd be walking to your death. Another noise, and much closer to your ear. A sharp whistling sound, and the culprit lands a few feet behind you, stabbed into the dirt.Â
A knife.
Thereâs a blooming pain in your arm, and you realize youâve been nicked a few inches down from your shoulder. Not deep, not that you can feel. The fabric of your shirt is torn, though. You look to the knife, then back in the direction it was thrown from. Heart hammering in your chest; you hope to God theyâre within shooting distance. As youâve fumbled to replace your lighter with your gun, something else has gone in the air. It lands behind you with a grunt and it sounds much heavier than a knife.
The figure plucks his knife from the ground, wiping the blade across his pants to get the dirt off before sheathing it in a practiced motion.Â
âThere you fuckinâ are, been waiting for you all night.âÂ
Itâs Major Krauserâor just Krauser. He left the military as far as you were aware, or something like that. He still has that red beret, sitting at an angle on his head. Neither you nor Leon were given any details on the matter, essentially being told to drop it. You didnât press Leon on it or the mission that preceeded Krauserâs discharge. You both look at each other, maybe five, seven feet between you. Youâre within grabbing distance, something you both know. Your lighter has fallen to the ground, casting eerie shadows across Krauserâs face.
His face looks different, itâs dark enough that his scars blend in with his skin and you canât quite see where they start and where they end. The flame is reflected in both of his eyes, which are looking into your own with some feeling that makes your skin crawl. You look back at him as if he were a conglomerate of things masquerading as a person. He can see the wheels turning in your head yet makes no offer to supplement your scattered mind. It takes you all of five seconds to assess that for whatever reason heâs hereâin Spain of all places, at the same time as you and Leonâs mission, he hasnât come to you as a friend. âWhatâs that look for? Arenât you happy to see me?â He mocks, palms out.Â
He must be able to tell that youâre not in fighting condition, and in a way you feel self conscious. How pitiful you mustâve looked, tottering like a drunk with one good foot and a lighter held out like an offering. How long had he been trailing you? The smell of smoke and ash from your lighter and blood and sweat from Krauser are blown into your face by the wind. He smells like an animal.
You try to ignore the pain in your arm, levelling your gun at him preemptively. Krauser doesnât move, not taking any inch of you seriously. Standing languidly, waiting to see what youâll do. If you do anything at all. Heâs putting the ball in your court so willingly that it makes you uneasy. What is he doing? Why isnât he doing anything? Donât think about it, just take the opening and feel bad about it later.Â
He points to your gun. âYou going to use that thing? Or are you just going to stand there?â You donât answer him, throat dried up and the gun feeling too heavy in your hands. You get a weird feeling at being chastised by him, it takes you back some years. âWhat, youâre too used to Leon telling you what to do?â He says Leonâs name with disdain. The words you want to say crowd on your tongue and finally you get some of them out.
âWhat the hell are you talking about?â You want to ask if he knows where Leon is, but he probably wouldnât tell you if he did. Must be crazy. As crazy as everything and everyone else here is. Krauser doesnât answer nor does he seem entertained anymore. âAnyone else wouldâve killed you for hesitating so much.â Hesitating. You realize heâs right, though unable to pinpoint why heâs positioning himself in this way. A second realization that youâre still hesitating, and you go back and forth with yourself mentally.Â
Think about it all you want later. Youâre here and he is there. If you donât act now, in a few minutes he will still be there, and youâll be in the ground.
Taking him to mean well on his unspoken threat, you aim at him properlyâwhich seems to be what he wantedâright between the eyes. You donât want to shoot, you donât even know why heâs here. It doesnât seem like heâs come to your rescue or aide, though. If you donât do it now, you wonât get another chance. Finger on the trigger, you try to steady yourself. What other options did you have? Mawkishly try to appeal to him? The man sliced your arm open and is taunting you into attacking him.
You fire, but it doesnât hit him. Heâs bridged the gap between you quicker than you could comprehend, and in a swift motion, heâd grabbed your wrist and made you lose your aim, wrenching it up and your gun out of your grasp. The shot rings out and your bullet is wasted. His hand swings back to hit you across the face, forcefully knocking you to the ground with a yelp. Heâs fast, faster than you remember and faster than youâd expected.
The wind is knocked out of you when you hit the ground, not having been able to use your arms to block the fall. You can see your gun where Krauser threw it aside. Slid across the ground and into the rocks and half decayed underbrush. He kicks you onto your back with his boot, staring down at you. Really getting a good look. âYouâre in worse shape than Iâd thought youâd be.â You canât tell if heâs finds it funny or if heâs disappointed.Â
You push yourself onto your elbows to get up, and Krauser in response presses his boot down on your abdomen. Thereâs a million questions you could ask, most of them starting with the letter âwâ. You open your mouth to speak, and his presses digs deeper and he gets a breathless squeak out of you. He likes that.
Sometimes, during training, years ago, youâd mess up or fail to parry Major Krauser (noâjust Krauser, now) on purpose just so he would reprimand you. It was wrong, and probably made you seem less competent in his eyes, but being handled roughly was a guilty pleasure of sorts. Your one respite in an otherwise soul-sucking period of your life. Youâd like to think he didnât catch on, you hope not. You donât know why youâre thinking about it now.
Krauser isnât holding back, and you shouldnât either. Your knife, your knife, get your fucking knife. Your arms still work, do something. Clumsily grabbing your knife from its holster in your belt, opposite side of your gun. Stab him, stab him somewhere just get him off. Your free hand grasping at his leg, you drive the blade as far as itâll go into the side of his shin.Â
Krauser grunts in pain, though it sounds like it didnât hurt him all that much. âThere you go,â you look back up at him, and you think heâs smiling. âThatâs more like it.â He lifts his foot from your abdomen and you visualize him stomping right over your organs or kicking you as hard as he can in the jaw. You take the chance to move out from under him while he yanks your knife out of his leg as if it were a mere splinter.Â
Scrambling to your feet, sweat collects on your forehead and your palms. Your gun is next. Sweet, loaded and heavy in your hands. He threw it over here, right? You have to find it; even if you run and lose him now, Krauser isnât the only danger around here. You think you see it, moonlight shining across the cool metal.Â
Just as your fingers brush against the handle of the gun, a heavy force shoves you back to the ground. It makes you groan in pain and your tongue gets caught between your teeth. A knife to the leg didnât slow Krauser down, hell, it didnât even make him sweat. Your arms are able to break your fall this time, though you think youâve hurt your already injured ankle even more. At the very least, irritated the sprain. Youâre pushed onto your back again and this time Krauser is crouched over you, his knife held against you like a ward to keep you still.
Heâs looking at you like youâre something in a jar. Something that he can poke at and tap the glass until you give him a reaction. One of his knees is pressed between your legs, right up against you in a way you think might be intentional. No, no, itâs not. Donât think like that, do not think like that. You canât believe yourself. Thereâs a thin layer of blood crusted over his face, it makes his eyes stand out and look even crazier. You doubt itâs his.
âYou canât do anything else, can you?â You donât respond to his half-taunt, but he already has his answer. âAll out of tricks,â He laughs, tapping the flat edge of the knife alongside your face, trailing it down to your neck. The blade presses a little harder against your thin flesh. Your fingers dig into the dirt and grass, clinging to the earth like a safety blanket. If nothing else, you canât be afraid. Donât be afraid, donât give him that satisfaction. âAll that training, and youâre still just a weak link. Wouldnât have done Leon any good if you were with him.â
He can see the wheels in your brain spinning and getting caught on each other to come up with a way out of this, and he puts a little more force on the knife against your throat to draw your attention back to him. Krauser doesnât press hard enough to draw blood, rather checking to see if youâll whimper or squirm and cut yourself on your own. You breath hitches and you look like an animal that knows whatâs coming, but you donât move against him. He pulls his knife back from your throat and sheathes it again. âDonât worry, Iâve got something for you.â Youâre given no room to move out from under him, and heâs replaced his weapon with something else from his pocket. The moonâs light filters through its transparent parts and bounces off the metal ones.
Whatever feeling you were trying to shoo off in your lower abdomen quickly dissipates when you see what's in his hand. A capped syringe, the barrel filled with a translucent liquid. The needle isnât any kinder looking, a strong 16 gauge. You finally find your voice again, eyes wide and throat rasping. âWhat the fuck is that?â Krauserâs scarred mouth turns upwards into a self-satisfied smirk. âThis,â He holds up the syringe, shaking it slightly for effect. Itâs filled with small red beads that look like fish eggs. âis for your own good.âÂ
Your stomach lurches and instinct kicks back in. Whatever is in there is about to go inside of you, and you scramble to get away from him. Gotta get the fuck out of here. Gotta find Leon. Krauser wrestles you to keep you pinned beneath him, and he mustâve set the syringe down because both of his hands, large and calloused, are on you and grabbing your arms to keep them down. You try to get up, and Krauser drags you back down. Youâve ended up on your stomach in an attempt to crawl away and Krauser straddles you to keep you there.Â
One side of your face pressed into the dirt and gravel, you struggle to get a good look at him. Itâs harder to make out the expression on his face now, your lighter mustâve been gone out. His knees on either side of your hips, Krauser grabs your arms to pull them against the small of your back. He holds them there with one hand, having picked the syringe back up and trying to get a good angle for injecting this thing. Itâs supposed to go into a vein, and neither of your arms are a good choice in this position.Â
Like a small animal, you kick and struggle and thrash and call him every name under the sun. Demand to know what heâs doing, and why heâs doing it. He makes no attempt to cossete you, only increasing the force applied to your body until you canât move. If he had the patience, he mightâve let you squirm a little longer until you started pleading with him. Wouldnât that be a sight? You only stop moving when he makes a threat of breaking the one arm heâs got pinned behind you. Had to squeeze the circulation out of it to get you to listen.
At least Leon was able to put up a fight. To your credit, you werenât caught in a good position. Something that shouldnât have happened, wouldnât have happened if Leon was more careful with you.
Well, good thing that youâre with him now, instead.
He uncaps the syringe with his teeth, spitting the plastic top off to the side. âYouâll thank me for this,â He canât get a good enough opening on your arm to inject like he wanted to, so he settles for the side of your neck. Before you can get out more than two words, Krauser guesstimates where your jugular vein is and gets the needle in. You let out a strangled shriek, and if he were a better man he might have felt bad for doing this to you.
Youâre only still for a few seconds before resuming your squirming. First, fruitlessly trying to get away while he pushes the needle plunger down (heâd been told to do it slow, something neither of you are enjoying), to which Krauser has to tell you to Cut it out before you skew the needle the wrong way. He watches the last of the eggs squeeze through the hub, then the shaft, and under the skin through the bevel, into your body.Â
You lay limp beneath him for a few seconds before more movement. Spasmodic writhing, jerky twitching motions that are uncoordinated and accompanied with more pained noises. When the needle is done with, Krauser tosses it to the side so he can use both hands to keep you still. One hand holds both of your wrists behind your back, the thumb of his free hand presses on the injection site. He feels your pulse against his thumb, and when he retracts it thereâs blood in the ridges of his fingerpad.
After what feels like minutes, your movements slow to a stop. You wallow under him quietly, no trying to claw your way out or twitching your hips against his. Only shallow breathing and limp muscles. In. Out. In. Out. When he thinks youâre ready to listen, Krauser speaks again, tone marginally less abrasive. âI offered this sort of power to Kennedy, but he thought he knew better.â He scoffs, you canât tell if heâs speaking with amusement or disdain. âAnd look where that got him. But you,â He pauses his sentence, looking back down at you.Â
Grey in the face, clammy and unfocused. Youâre not in any state to listen to what he has to say after all. He thought you had finally calmed down, but you look too sick to speak right now. A thought comes to him that he needs to get off of you and take some steps back in case you start to hurl. Would hate to get vomit on himself.Â
He knew there would be a brief adjustment period, Saddler cautioned him of much. It makes him a little more appreciative that he was able to withstand the parasite so well. You manage to get something out, however garbled and weak. Krauser almost mistook it as another pained noise, but it sounded close enough to a word. Maybe two? Though not getting up, he does slightly ease the pressure heâs putting onto your body.
âWhuh hatheth Lee?â
He leans down towards you curiously. So you werenât completely out of it. Thatâs a good sign, he thinks. Thereâs drool coming from the side of your mouth, and he lets go of the arm heâs got behind your back to wipe it away with his thumb. You keep your arm in place, and your unfocused eyes donât catch Krauser getting a taste of your saliva.
ââŚYouâre gonna need to speak up.â
You donât respond with anything intelligible at first, swallowing back something (a failed second attempt or bile, one of the two), before spitting it out finally. âLeon!â You say his name like you were pushing your head out of the water, gasping for air after nearly drowning. Like it meant something to you.
Of fucking course.
His lips twitch into a disgusted sneer. Leon, Leon, Leon, itâs always fucking Leon with you. You must not have known, then. He wonders if he should tell you, take you to where whateverâs left of him is. Suppose it wouldnât hurt to let you go and stumble upon it yourselfâitâs not like Krauser would be far behind. He puts that thought aside for now. Thereâs no reason to hurry or rush things, not anymore. All the pieces had begun to fall in their place.Â
Whatever victory he felt is diminished by your call for help. âYour little boy-toy isnât coming to save you,â Youâre writhing like a bug under his weight. âItâs just you and me.â He leans down to say it in your ear, and relishes in the way you squirm underneath him. You smell like sweat and fear and all the things he likes. You try to get away from him again, and Krauser holds you in place, your legs kicking uselessly behind you. Stubborn idiot.
Heâd thought once that whatever he felt for Leon would fade. Trickle into apathy, a sour memory. It wasnât his fault alone, of course. And yet, months rolled into a year and it never felt any better. Leon got to go back home, back to you. All for what? So you could cling to him like a fucking dog? Some runt with half the experience he had, while he was offered to rot in government housing, on a government pension, with an arm that doesnât fucking work.
And look where that got him.
Time hadnât cauterized his wounds, itâd made them fester and weep, and even now he doesnât feel like theyâll heal anytime soon. The plagas didnât ever heal his arm, not really. Just turned it into something useful. Something strong. Maybe he can use you to numb the sting, if nothing else. Werenât you just the perfect victory prize?
Youâve gone still again beneath him, occasionally twitching in a way you canât control. Your fingers claw at the packed earth, dirt getting further caught under your nails. While he was in his own head, youâd coughed something up. Phlegm tinged with blood. Whimpering and whining like a sick child beneath him. Less force is needed to hold your arms back, and you donât try to wrench them away or fight against his grasp, so he keeps both arms held with one hand instead of two. His free hand smooths out your hair, petting it in a way that feels awkward. Heâs not sure if itâs helping or not.
That hand trails from your head to your shoulder, then down to your side. Krauserâs fingers feel your side, feeling the flesh of your torso and where it curves to your hip. Is this a view Leon got to see often? Donât think like that. He can make guesses and get himself worked up over the idea, but he canât pinpoint the true extent of you and Leonâs relationship. Maybe heâll draw the truth out of you one day.Â
He canât say which is a more appealing thought: That Leon never got the chance to get his hands on you and taint youâor that he could force you to admit that Leon could never please you like Krauser could. He could fuck you here, right now in the dirt. Itâs too bad he ran into Leon before you, he couldâve kept Leon alive. Make him watch Krauser fuck you properly. Like a real man. Maybe it isnât too late, he can dig up Leon and get Saddler to do something.
âŚThereâs a few risks with that fantasy that makes him decide it isnât worth it. Besides, heâs already asked for one favor too many.
His attention is drawn once again by your now marked lack of movement and quiet. You havenât lurched or babbled any half-sentences in a while. He looks down, and your head is turned to the side. Your respirations have become irregular, and though itâs hard to tell in the dim light, he thinks some of the veins around your face have darkened. A finger feels at your injection site, and itâs warm. The rest of you is pretty cold.
âHey!â He tries to jolt you awake. Damn it, that old geezer didnât give him a faulty strand, did he? Your breathing becomes even again and Krauser is able to draw another noise out of you. He canât tell if youâre trying to talk again or if youâre just in pain. His own go with the parasite hadnât been nearly this bad, albeit he got a stronger and perhaps more stable strain.Â
âŚWell, all the more reason to get you out of the woods and somewhere warmer. Somewhere with adequate lighting so he can better monitor you. (If anything did happen, itâs not like he could call up Luis to take a look at you). He just got you, doesnât want to break you before heâs gotten a chance to do anything with you. Youâre lethargic, and a thought that youâre playing it up to get out of conversation with him is quickly stamped out. Youâll come around soon enough, see that this was the right decision.Â
Krauser cautiously lifts himself off of your prone form, watching to see if youâll bolt or make any sudden movements. You donât. He crouches down to hoist you up and over his shoulder like a sack of grain, one hand on your back to keep you in place. You start moving again, not staccato twitching but actually trying to move off of his shoulder. Sluggish and slow squirming, Krauser tightens his hold and his other hand comes to steady your legs.
âHold still. Faster I can get you to where weâre going, the faster I can put you down.â He isnât sure if any of that meant anything to you, because you donât respond to him. You donât writhe anymore either, whether it be from his words or that his grip has tightened. Hopefully he can get you to the island before you regain full consciousness and control of your body.Â
You wouldnât be like those ganados, stupified and lumbering over themselves. Not if Krauser could help it. Saddler hadnâtâcouldnât have cheated him. Not after all the work heâs put in. No, youâll be better, stronger.Â
He just needs to get you back to the island.












