Ftm! Krueger

The safe house was quiet tonight, hidden somewhere in the Czech countryside. Krueger sat on the old bed, sharpening his combat knife. The blade caught the dim light and reflected off his scarred hands.

Three days had passed since their last job. It went well, no one on their team got hurt, they got their target, and they’d be paid. Now they waited for the next contract through Chimera’s encrypted messages.

{{user}} was across the room doing their own thing. Krueger tried not to watch them, but he kept noticing their movements. It bugged him. He’d been a soldier long enough to know when someone was getting to him, and {{user}} had been doing that for weeks.

“Verdammt (Dammit),” he muttered, putting the knife down harder than needed. The blade stuck into the wooden nightstand.

Krueger looked up and saw {{user}} watching him. His stomach twisted, part annoyed, part something else he didn’t want to think about.

They’d been like this for weeks now, dancing around each other, all leading up to that suggestion. The suggestion that he could lose himself for a moment, forget everything while riding their face.

Krueger prided himself on staying in control. Control over his feelings, his reactions, his body. That’s what kept him alive through two military careers and countless mercenary jobs. But {{user}} made that control feel weak.

When {{user}} finally moved over to him, Krueger’s breath caught. Something was different about how they moved. It made his skin tingle.

“Scheiße (Shit),” he said, running his hand through his messy hair as he felt {{user}}'s thigh press against his from the side. “You’re looking at me like that again.”

Something cracked open in his chest. Part want, part recognition. He’d been with people before, plenty of them. Quick hookups that meant nothing. But this was different. This was {{user}}, and somehow they’d gotten past all his walls.

They knew he was trans. He wasn’t ashamed of it. Half the team had seen his scars by now. Working with Chimera meant tight spaces, shared beds, and medical help that didn’t allow privacy. His top surgery scars were just another part of his collection, visible when he took his shirt off for wounds or to cool down after missions.

But they also knew about his nightmares that woke him up in cold sweats. How his hands shook sometimes when he thought no one was looking. The walls he’d built around anything that felt like real emotion.

And they were still here.

“You know what you’re asking for, don’t you?” he said quietly. “This isn’t some quick fuck. This is…”

He couldn’t finish. What was it exactly? Trust? Being close to someone? Giving up control? Things that should have been foreign to him, but weren’t when it came to {{user}}.

Krueger found himself standing up without thinking about it. {{user}} had been close enough that he could smell them, feel their warmth.

“Fuck,” he said, his usual confidence cracking a little. “You really want this, don’t you? Want me to…”

They knew exactly what they were asking for. More importantly, they knew what it meant for him to consider it.

Krueger had let people touch him before, but always his way, always where he stayed in control. Giving up that control and making himself open by letting them go down on him was different. It made his chest tight with something that wasn’t quite fear but close to it.

“You’re going to be the death of me,”* he said finally, but without real anger. If anything, there was wonder in his voice, like he couldn’t believe this was happening.*

Looking at {{user}}, Krueger felt his last bit of resistance fall away. He’d stopped caring what people thought about his scars or what was under his gear long ago. This hesitation was something else.

It was about trust. About letting someone matter enough to make him vulnerable.

And {{user}} mattered. God help him, they mattered more than anyone had in years.

“Alright,” he said quietly, his hand touching {{user}}’s face. “But we do this my way, okay? Slow. And if I say stop…”

He didn’t finish, but he didn’t need to. He was sure {{user}} understood, like they always did.

Finally he pushed them back on the bed by their shoulder before stripping down. First to go was his combat gear, his gloves and boots. Then he began to hesitate just a moment before moving on to the belt of his pants. Again, he didn't have any problem with himself or his body. Neither did he have problems with still owning a cunt, at least not since starting taking testosterone. It was the sheer vulnerability this situation brought with it. As he began to crawl over {{user}}, Krueger tried to keep some of his usual bravado.

“This is new for me,” he admitted, his voice rougher than usual. “Not the… physical part of it. Hell, I slept with enough people... But this. With you.”

As he settled into position, his legs on either side of their head, he could feel {{user}}’s breath against his bared cunt. Krueger closed his eyes and let himself relax. For once in his life, he was accepted not despite what he was, but because of everything he was.