Special thanks to @theycallmedarling for proofreading and for fixing my awful English and for @loveiscosmicsin for the support and suggestions. Was inspired by @cryran88 's fic.
And you may ask yourself, why would I make a catboy cry? Well, Leon never really a chance to cry it out, did he? This is the isolated facial animation after he killed Krauser. You can see him mouth, "That you did major, that you did." Maybe it's the lighting or the angle, but in-game it's more subtle and imo a bit hard to see. Look how his chin trembles, poor thing! I made the ears tremble when his face twitches. He did NOT want to kill Krauser, it really broke his little kitty heart!😿😭
Summary: someone's been bothering you in your sleep!! ❥
Warnings:non-con elements, including sleep paralysis and somnophilia undertones, forced deep-throating, face-fucking, breath play, choking, asphyxiation, gagging, rough oral sex, extreme size difference, violent manhandling, hair-pulling, forced orgasm, overstimulation, multiple rounds, excessive cum, mild cum inflation, cum in the nose and throat, possessive behavior, marking and branding, biting, blood, supernatural horror, a demonic entity, psychological manipulation, and a significant power imbalance. A/N: I love og re4 krauser he js looks more rough but enjoyy
The first thing you noticed was the cold.
Not the ordinary chill of a drafty apartment or a window left cracked on an autumn night. This was a dense, unnatural cold that settled in the corners of your bedroom like a living thing—coiling just beyond the edge of your quilt, waiting. You’d wake with goosebumps pebbling your arms despite the thermostat reading seventy-two, your breath feathering out in pale wisps that had no right to exist in a heated room. You told yourself it was the weather. An old building. Bad circulation.
Then the smell came. Faint at first, easy to dismiss: a whisper of smoke and copper, like a candle just snuffed or the distant memory of a nosebleed. It clung to your sheets no matter how often you washed them. You’d roll over in the dark and inhale leather and spice and something darker beneath, something that tightened your stomach in a way you refused to name.
Your sleep deepened into something that felt less like rest and more like drowning. You began waking with the heavy, drugged sensation of having been pulled from a great depth, limbs slow and unresponsive, a throb low in your belly that faded before you could fully grasp it. Dreams you couldn’t remember left you slick between your thighs and gasping, your own fingers twisted in the sheets as if you’d been holding on for dear life. You’d stumble to the bathroom and find faint bruises on your hips—smudges like fingerprints—that yellowed and vanished by noon.
You tried to rationalize it. Stress. Vivid dreams. Your own restless hands. But then your belongings began to shift. A book you’d left on the nightstand would be open to a different page. Your closet door, which you always shut, would be ajar. The framed photos on your dresser would be face down, their glass cool to the touch, as if someone had breathed on them. You started sleeping with the lamp on, a childish comfort that only deepened your unease when you’d wake to find the bulb burned out, the filaments blackened and curled.
The night you saw the shape was the night you stopped pretending.
You jerked awake at 3:14 AM, the red digits of your clock searing the darkness. The cold was suffocating, a weight pressing down on your chest. Your body felt pinned, immobile, the heavy paralysis of sleep clinging to your limbs. And in the corner—the deepest corner where the shadows pooled like ink—something vast and dark shifted. It was taller than a man, broader, a silhouette that swallowed the faint light from the window. Two pinpricks of smoldering amber light hung where eyes should be. A sound unspooled from it, so low and resonant it vibrated in your teeth: a slow, grinding growl that could almost be called a chuckle.
You screamed, or tried to. Your throat locked. The shadows rippled. And then, between one panicked heartbeat and the next, it was gone, and you could move again, thrashing upright and fumbling for the lamp switch that sparked and died under your trembling fingers.
You didn't sleep in the bedroom for three nights after that. You camped on the couch with every light in the apartment blazing, the TV murmuring dead air. But the cold found you there too. The dreams found you there too.
On the fourth night, surrender tasting like copper on your tongue, you went back to your bed. You didn't know why. Or you did, somewhere underneath the terror—a dark, shameful curl of anticipation that made your face burn. When you slid between the sheets that night, the scent of leather and smoke was so strong it made you dizzy. And for the first time, you didn't fight sleep. You let it pull you under like a riptide.
---
He was patient.
You began to piece him together from the fragments your mind could hold. A name surfaced in the fog of half-sleep, whispered against the shell of your ear in a voice like gravel rolling downhill: Krauser. You woke with it on your lips, a secret you’d been told and forced to forget. Another night, you caught a glimpse of something vast and scarred—a torso that looked hewn from pale, corded marble, a ladder of abdominal muscle rippling as something shifted in the dark. Hands large enough to span your entire ribcage. You caught the glint of fangs in a smile that was all hunger and no mercy.
Your body began to respond to him even when your mind screamed no. You’d feel a phantom weight settling over you in the twilight between wakefulness and dream, a pressure that made your thighs part without conscious thought. A hot, spectral mouth trailing down your throat while your pulse hammered rabbit-fast. The graze of teeth—real enough to leave a raised welt you traced in the bathroom mirror with shaking fingers. The dreams grew bolder. Your sleep grew deeper. Your body began to ache with a need you couldn’t satisfy, a hollow emptiness that left you writhing against your own hand in the dark, gasping out sounds that might have been pleas or might have been prayers.
It took weeks for him to show you his face. Weeks of teasing touches and half-heard commands, weeks of waking with the taste of salt and skin on your tongue and no memory of how it got there.
And then, one night, he didn’t let you slip away.
---
You opened your eyes and the room was wrong. The walls seemed to curve inward, the corners bleeding into shadow. The air was thick and warm now, heavy with the scent of him—smoke, leather, raw earth, a metallic tang like fresh blood. You were on your back, the blankets pooled at your feet. And he was standing at the foot of the bed, fully corporeal, fully here.
Jack Krauser was monstrous. Not in the way a man is monstrous, but in the way a cathedral is monstrous, the way a cliff face is monstrous. He towered, easily seven feet if not more, his bulk filling the room and blocking out the faint light from the window. His skin was pale, ghostly, stretched taut over a body that was built for violence—shoulders wide as a doorframe, chest a massive shield of scar-crossed muscle, arms like tree limbs roped with veins that pulsed black under the surface. A dark, leather harness crossed his torso, straps and buckles glinting dully. Loose trousers sat low on narrow hips, the deep V of his adonis belt drawing your unwilling gaze down to the obvious, heavy bulge straining the dark fabric.
But it was his face that locked the scream in your throat. It was harsh and aristocratic, a cruel blade of a nose, a jaw that could cut glass. One eye was a molten gold that burned with infernal light; the other was a ruin, a milky white scar sliced vertically through brow and lid, dead and unseeing and yet somehow still watching. Short, military-blonde hair was shorn close to his skull. And when his lips parted, you saw the teeth—too white, too sharp, a predator’s smile.
“There you are,” he rasped, the voice scraping down your spine. “Been waiting for you to stop pretending.”
You scrambled backward, heels sliding against the sheets, but the bed gave you nowhere to go. Your back hit the headboard. You were wearing only a thin sleep shirt, and you felt suddenly, horribly exposed. “You’re not—this isn’t real.”
“Isn’t it?” He braced one massive hand on the footboard, the wood groaning under his grip. The bed dipped with his weight as he crawled onto it, a slow, deliberate advance that made your heart slam against your ribs. Up close, he was even larger, radiating heat like a furnace. The harness creaked with his movements. “You’ve felt me. Every night. Your body knows what’s coming, even if that stubborn little mind keeps fighting.”
“Get away from me.” The words came out thin, breathless.
He paused, head tilting. The amber eye tracked down your body, and you felt it like a physical touch—a slow, invasive caress over your breasts, your belly, the juncture of your thighs. Your nipples pebbled traitorously. A smirk carved its way across his angular face. “Lying doesn’t suit you. I can smell it.” He inhaled deeply, a rough sound of satisfaction. “Fear. Arousal. Same perfume on you every night. You’ve been dripping for me for weeks.”
Heat flooded your face. “Stop.”
“No.” The word was absolute. He was close enough now that you could see the faint, shifting patterns under his skin—shadows moving like smoke trapped in glass. One huge hand came up and circled your ankle. The grip was dry, furnace-hot, impossibly strong. He tugged, and you slid down the bed as easily as if you weighed nothing. A yelp tore from your throat. He settled between your legs, massive thighs spreading yours, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against your core through his trousers and your thin cotton panties. The pressure made you gasp.
“I’ve been gentle,” he said, bending low. His breath feathered over your lips, hot and strangely sweet, like burnt sugar. “Whispering. Teasing. Letting you wake up wet and aching so you’d know what you need. But I’m done waiting. Tonight, I’m going to ruin you. And when I’m done, you’ll wear my mark, and every creature that walks the dark will know exactly who you belong to.”
Your hands came up to push at his chest. It was like trying to shove a mountain. He didn’t even sway. The heat of him was searing through your shirt, and the sheer solidity—the terrifying reality—of his body made your head spin. “This is... I don’t want this.”
“You don’t?” He caught both your wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head, stretching your body into a taut arch. The position pushed your breasts up. He looked down at you like a man admiring a feast. “Then why are your hips rolling?” He ground his clothed cock against you, slow and filthy, and a strangled moan escaped your throat. You were wet—you could feel the embarrassing evidence soaking through your panties, and he could certainly feel it too, because his smile sharpened into something feral. “There. That’s the truth.”
“Please...” You didn’t know what you were begging for. For him to stop? For him to never stop? The word dangled, unfinished.
“Please what?” He released your wrists, but his weight pinned you just as effectively. Fingers—thick, calloused, tipped with nails just sharp enough to sting—trailed down your throat. He spread his hand across your neck, thumb resting lightly over your pulse point, and your breath caught. He didn’t squeeze, just held you there, a promise hanging in the air. “I can feel how fast your heart is beating, little bird. You’re terrified. You’re also so wet I can feel you through my trousers. Your body’s been trying to get itself bred since the first night I crawled into your dreams. Deny it one more time, and I’ll stop being polite.”
He didn't mean polite. He meant restrained.
The tension in the room was a living thing, coiling tight. His eye burned into yours. You could feel the heat of him, smell the smoke and leather, feel the sheer overwhelming presence that seemed to press on you from all sides. Some distant, rational part of you screamed to fight, to flee. But your legs were wrapped around his hips without your consent, your back arching to meet the pressure of his hand at your throat, and when you parted your lips, no protest came—only a shaky, desperate breath.
He saw the surrender. The gold eye flared bright. “Good girl.”
---
He didn’t undress you so much as unmake you. The sleep shirt was torn from your body with one sharp pull, fabric parting like tissue paper. The cold air hit your bare skin for only a second before the heat of him blanketed you again. His mouth descended. Not on your lips—no, that might have been too tender. He went for your throat, teeth scraping over the frantic beat of your pulse, tongue lapping at the salt there as if you were already his meal.
You clutched at his harness, his shoulders, anything solid as he worked his way down. His mouth was a brand, searing a path over your collarbone, between your breasts, down the trembling plane of your stomach. He paused at the curve of your hip and bit down—not gently, not testingly, but a full, claiming bite that broke the skin and made you cry out. He lapped at the welling blood with a groan, the vibration rumbling through your bones.
“Marking you,” he muttered against the wound. “So there’s no question.”
He didn’t give you time to process the sting before he was wrenching your panties down your legs and flinging them into the shadows. You were bare, spread, utterly exposed. He sat back on his haunches, huge and terrifying, and just looked. The amber eye drank you in with an intensity that felt like being devoured.
“Pretty,” he rasped. One thick finger traced through your folds, gathering slickness. You jerked at the contact, a whimper escaping. “Pretty and soaked. All for me.”
The finger pressed inside. One digit, but it was so thick it made you gasp, your inner walls fluttering around the intrusion. He worked it in and out slowly, almost lazily, while his thumb circled your clit with devastating precision. Pleasure sparked up your spine, bright and sharp. Your hips bucked. He added a second finger, stretching you, scissoring them open, and the burn of it made your eyes water.
“Too much,” you choked.
“Nowhere near enough,” he corrected. He pumped his fingers deeper, curled them, and found a spot that turned the world white. You cried out, hands fisting in the sheets. “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got hours of this left, little bird, and you’re going to come for me so many times you forget your own name before I even give you my cock.”
He lowered his head. His tongue replaced his thumb on your clit, and the dual sensation—fingers thrusting deep, hot mouth laving at the sensitive bud—sent you hurtling over the edge with a scream. Your orgasm crashed through you, violent and devastating, thighs clamping around his head as he growled against your flesh and drank down everything you gave him.
You were still shuddering when he pulled his fingers free and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a satisfied hum. “Sweet,” he muttered. “Now get on your knees.”
---
Your body moved before your mind could object. He helped, a massive hand fisting in your hair and hauling you up with a tug that made your scalp burn. He rearranged you like a doll, pushing you until you were on your hands and knees at the edge of the bed. You could hear the rustle of fabric behind you, the clink of his harness being unbuckled, and then the heat of him was pressed against your back, his chest a wall of muscle.
“Look,” he ordered, voice a dark rumble against your ear.
He’d conjured a mirror. Or maybe it had always been there, standing in the corner, its surface rippling like black water. You could see yourself in it—hair a mess, eyes glassy, mouth swollen—and behind you, Krauser, a demonic colossus bending over your much smaller frame. The sheer size difference was obscene. His shoulders blotted out the wall. His hand, splayed across your hip, covered half your torso.
“You’re going to watch every second,” he said. “I want you to see what you were made for.”
He freed his cock, and you felt it nudge against your thigh before you saw it. And then you saw it, reflected in the dark mirror, and a bolt of pure, animal panic shot through you. Too big. The thought was white-hot static. He was monstrously thick, long, already gleaming with his own slickness at the tip. Veins traced the underside in dark relief. It was a weapon, not an organ, and he intended to sheathe it inside you.
“Please, I can’t—”
“You can.” His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arched painfully and you were forced to meet your own wild eyes in the mirror. “You will. Breathe.”
He lined himself up, the broad head pressing against your entrance. You were still soaked, still fluttering from the last orgasm, but the pressure was immense. He didn’t slam in. Not yet. He pushed, slowly, inexorably, and you felt your body part around him inch by impossible inch. A cry tore from your throat, high and keening. The stretch was a burn, a ravishment, a possession. He fed you more, and more, and you could see in the mirror how your belly distended slightly, accommodating the impossible intrusion.
“Fuck,” he groaned, a deep, shuddering sound that seemed to rattle the walls. “Tight little thing. Taking me so well. Look at you—split open on a demon’s cock and still trying to pretend you don’t want it.”
He bottomed out, and you felt him in your throat, in your lungs, in the deepest core of you. He stayed there, motionless, letting you feel every throbbing inch. A single tear slipped down your cheek. You couldn’t look away from the mirror. The sight of yourself, impaled on him, was the most obscene thing you’d ever seen.
“Move,” you whispered, and you didn’t recognize your own voice. It was broken, desperate, needful.
He laughed, a dark, rolling sound. “There’s my good girl.”
And then he moved.
He didn’t start slow. There was no mercy. He pulled out until just the tip remained, then slammed back in with a force that drove you forward on the bed, the headboard cracking against the wall. A guttural scream wrenched from your throat. He did it again, and again, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm that shook your entire body. His hand in your hair kept you anchored, your head pulled back so you had no choice but to watch your own debasement—mouth open on cries you couldn’t control, breasts bouncing with every savage thrust, his massive form a shadow devouring you from behind.
“This is what you needed,” he grunted, each word punctuated by a deep, grinding thrust. “Every night you woke up wet, it was me. Every ache, every empty little whimper—me. You were calling for me before you even knew my name. Say it.”
“Krauser!” It was a sob, torn from somewhere primal.
“Louder.”
“Krauser!”
He rewarded you with a hand around your throat, pulling you upright against his chest without breaking his rhythm. Your back arched against the wall of his muscle. His fingers pressed into the sides of your neck, careful and precise, cutting off just enough blood flow to make the edges of your vision sparkle with stars. Your pulse pounded in your ears. The lack of air sharpened everything—every snap of his hips, every drag of his cock against your swollen walls, the growl vibrating through his chest against your spine.
“Feel that?” he rasped against your ear. “Feel how deep I am? I’m going to fill you up until it drips out of you for days. Until you can’t stand without remembering who owns this pussy.”
He released your throat, and oxygen flooded back in a dizzying rush. Before you could catch your breath, he was bending you forward again, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to shove your face into the mattress. The new angle let him drive even deeper, and you wailed, fists tearing at the sheets. His pace became feral, hips slamming against your ass with wet, obscene smacks that filled the room.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered. “Make yourself come on my cock. I want to feel you milk me.”
Your hand fumbled between your legs, fingers finding your clit. You were so sensitive it almost hurt, but you rubbed desperate circles anyway, the dual stimulation winding the coil in your belly unbearably tight. He felt your walls start to flutter around him and snarled, reaching down to fist a hand in your hair and yank your head up once more so you were forced to watch your own climax in the mirror. The sight of yourself—ruined, debauched, eyes rolling back—was what tipped you over. You came with a shattered scream, your body clamping down on him in rhythmic, vise-like pulses.
“Fuck—yes—” He drove through your orgasm, chasing his own, each thrust punching the air from your lungs. “Take it. Take all of it—”
He buried himself to the hilt and roared. The sound was inhuman, a resonant bellow that shook the windows and made the lights flicker. You felt the first hot jet of his release flood into you, and it didn’t stop. Pulse after pulse, thick ropes of seed filling you until you felt it pressing against your cervix, spilling out around his still-throbbing cock to drip down your thighs. He held himself there, grinding deep, pumping every last drop into your womb until your belly felt heavy and full.
When he finally pulled out, the sensation was obscene—a wet, sloppy sound, followed by the rush of his release spilling out of your gaping hole and pooling on the sheets beneath you. You collapsed, boneless, barely able to lift your head. The mirror showed the mess: your body marked with bites and bruises, his seed leaking from you in a slow, creamy flood, and Krauser, still half-hard, looking down at his handiwork with dark satisfaction.
He wasn’t done.
---
He flipped you onto your back like you weighed nothing. Your limbs were jelly, unresponsive. He crawled over you, caging you beneath his bulk, and the gold eye was still burning, still hungry.
“The mark,” he said, and you remembered. You’ll wear my mark. “Close your eyes.”
You were too wrung out to argue. You obeyed. You felt his forehead press against yours, the heat of him almost unbearable. Then a searing pain bloomed just above your pubic bone, a branding iron of pure fire that made you scream and buck. You tried to pull away, but he held you down, one hand flat on your stomach while the other cupped your jaw. The pain was excruciating, transcendent, and woven through it was a thread of pleasure so intense your vision whited out.
When it faded, you were gasping, tears streaming down your cheeks. He sat back, and you looked down at your own body. There, on the soft skin of your lower belly, just above where his cock had been, was a mark. It was black, raised, intricate—a sigil of some kind, sinuous lines curving into a shape your eye couldn’t quite follow. It pulsed faintly, warm to the touch, like a second heartbeat.
“Now you’re mine,” Krauser said. His voice was almost gentle, which was somehow more terrifying than the cruelty. “Any incubus, any night-spirit, any thing that hunts in the dark will see that and know. You belong to me. In this world and the next.”
He stood, the shadows seeming to reach up and swallow him, drawing him back into whatever abyss he’d crawled from. The cold began to recede. The air lightened. The mirror was just a mirror again, reflecting only your own wrecked form on the ruined bed.
“Will I see you again?” The question slipped out before you could stop it, a small and pitiful sound.
The shadows coalesced for a heartbeat, two amber points glowing in the corner. “Every night, little bird. Every night for the rest of your life.”
And then he was gone, and the lamp on your nightstand flickered on, and you were alone with the ache in your body and the warm, pulsing mark that bound you to him forever.
thinking about how krauser knows leon like nobody else & therefore hurts him like no one else can.
thinking about how in the script krauser guided leon’s hand into his chest, how he went out content and proud, rather than bitter or scared. he wanted to die by leon’s hand, encouraged it even.
thinking about how he calls leon by his name rather than boy scout or rookie, how leon’s face was the last he’d ever see, and how he was perfectly content with that. how leon called him major one last time, both showing their respect for each other that had previously been buried under their pride.
thinking about how leon can’t even look at krauser when killing him, plunging the knife into his chest with a quivering lip and eyes squeezed shut. thinking about how he looks at himself in the blade afterwards, unable to keep eye contact with his own reflection and visibly holding back tears.
