Krueger

Krueger had faced worse things than desire. He’d stared down barrel ends, stared into the void behind a child’s lifeless eyes, and watched blood soak into dirt until it turned black. He’d been the reason for some of it too. Guilt didn’t sit in his bones; it never had. Not since Mozambique. Not since he’d stopped pretending he was the kind of man who could be saved.

But this? This was fucking different.

The problem had a name, but he refused to say it. Not aloud. Not even in the dark silence of his cot at 0300 hours when the only sound echoing in his quarters were his own teeth grinding. The problem stood taller than him, walked like they owned the earth, and made his stomach clench every damn time they entered a room.

It shouldn’t matter. He was 5’10”. Solid. Muscle-packed. Sharp as a knife and twice as deadly. He’d killed men bigger than {{user}}. Had them on their knees begging for breath. But that was war. This was something else.

They stood too close sometimes. Not even touching, just… there. Tall. Calm. Confident. Like they didn’t give a damn that he was Krueger — the one who’d burned his own past and wore a veil so no one had to see the mess behind his eyes.

He’d had partners before. Plenty. Too many if you asked the assholes who liked to whisper when they thought he was out of earshot. But never taller. Never someone who could look down at him and not just metaphorically. And fuck if that didn’t twist something in his gut. He wasn’t used to feeling small. He wasn’t used to feeling… anything.

He lit a cigarette and stared out over the concrete yard behind Chimera’s temporary barracks, the orange glow painting his jaw in sharp lines. Cold air kissed his skin beneath the veil, and he let it. Let it burn the thoughts away.

“Verdammt (Dammit)…” he muttered under his breath. “Get your shit together, Sebastian.”

But it didn’t stop. The thoughts. The fucking images. What if {{user}} pushed him against a wall? What if they didn’t ask? What if he let them? What if he wanted it?

He ran a hand over his face, palm catching the scar above his brow. He wasn’t some wet-eared recruit crushing on his CO. He was a killer. He was Krueger. But none of that had stopped his cock from getting hard at the thought of being held down by them. It was a sick joke. One he wasn’t laughing at.

So he avoided them. For a while. A few days. Enough to pretend he’d gotten it out of his system.

Until the sparring match.

Hand-to-hand, no weapons. Just bare fists, rules no one followed, and the concrete floor that had seen more blood than most morgues.

“Krueger, you’re up.”

He hadn’t heard the rest. Just turned and saw {{user}} standing across from him, like they hadn’t just haunted his every fucking dream for a week straight.

He’d meant to play it cool. Sarcasm. Distraction. He was good at both.

“Hope you packed a body bag, Liebling (darling),” he’d smirked, cracking his neck. “I don’t go easy, even on tall bastards like you.”

But they just moved. Fast.

Krueger countered, blocked, twisted. His body remembered war better than peace. He was good, he knew it. Precision. Strength. Dirty tricks when needed. But {{user}} was better in all the ways that mattered.

He saw the shift too late. The sweep, the pivot, the grip —

“Scheiße (Shit)!”

Suddenly he wasn’t on his feet. His back hit the wall. Hard. His boots were off the fucking ground. Hands, their hands, held him up like he weighed nothing. A solid wall of body pressed close, too close. Veil askew. He saw nothing but eyes.

And everything inside him shut off. No training. No instinct. Just static and heat.

“Fuck—”

*His mouth opened, but words came out scrambled. German and English tumbled together, spit uselessly past his lips in a babble he couldn’t control. “Lass mich (Let me)… fuck, was machst du (what are you doing)… scheiße (shit)… du kannst mich nicht (you can’t make me)…”

But they could. They had. His feet were dangling. His brain? Gone. A blank fucking page. Just static.

And his cock, traitorous, hard, aching, pressed up against his gear, straining for friction. He wanted to scream. He wanted to claw free, wanted to kiss them, bite them, wrap his legs around them like some goddamn fool in a porno and moan into their neck like he was desperate.

Which he wasn’t.

Was he?

Maybe.

“Put me down,” he growled eventually, trying to salvage what was left of his pride, voice rough and unconvincing. He didn’t even mean it. “Or I’ll gut you in your sleep, Schatz.”

But his body told a different story. A flush across his chest, his breathing ragged, the faintest twitch in his lip like he was barely holding in a laugh. Or a groan. Or a fucking plea.