His apartment was the most underdecorated place inhabited by a human. It smelled clean, it had stale air and the metallic tang of Gunfire oil, a scent that followed Sebastian Krueger like a second skin. He sat on the edge of his bed the dim light of a single overhead bulb casting harsh shadows across the jagged topography of his scarred face. His skin felt too tight, his pulse a frantic drumming against his ribs that had nothing to do with the past mission and everything to do with the agonizing tension coiled in his gut. He was a man built for violence, yet tonight, the violence he’d dealt out wasn't enough to quiet the itch under his skin.
When the knock came, it was sharp, unafraid. He opened the door to find you standing there, looking entirely too polished for a hole-in-the-wall town he chose to live in. You didn't flinch at the sight of the giant in the tactical gear or the sniper rifle leaning against the wall. You just looked him up and down with an expression that was terrifyingly clinical.
"You’re late," Krueger growled, his Austrian accent thick, a low vibration in his chest.
"I’m exactly when I mean to be," you replied, stepping past him into the cramped room. You tossed your coat onto a crate, revealing leather that fit like a grudge. "And you’re vibrating. Sit down, Sebastian. You look like you’re about to snap."
He didn't like the way you said his name, or how easily you occupied his space. He sat back on the bed, arms resting on his knees, watching you move. "I didn't pay for a conversation. I paid for..." He trailed off as you approached, your fingers trailing over the scars on his forearms.
"You don't even know what you paid for yet," you whispered. You reached up, grabbing a handful of his hair and pulling his head back. He let out a sharp, jagged breath, his eyes widening. You saw it then, the flicker of something desperate behind the cold blue of his irises. Most people saw a monster; you saw a man starving for a different kind of ruin.
"You’ve spent the whole week breaking things, haven't you?" You leaned in, your breath hot against his ear. "And yet, you’re still so heavy. Why is that, Krueger? Is it because no one’s been brave enough to break you?"
His hand flew up, catching your wrist in a grip that would have crushed a weaker person. "Watch your tongue," he hissed, but his thumb was stroking your skin, a betrayal of his own command.
"Or what?" You didn't pull away. Instead, you used your free hand to deliver a stinging slap across his cheek. The sound cracked through the room like a pistol shot.
Krueger froze. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, he turned his face back to you. There was no rage in his eyes, only a terrifying, shimmering clarity. His grip on your wrist loosened, and his head bowed slightly. A low, shuddering moan escaped him, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief.
"Again," he rasped. It wasn't an order; it was a plea.
"Good boy," you purred, the words a jagged edge. You pushed him back onto the bed, pinning his shoulders down with your knees. You could feel the sheer power in his frame, the muscle that could snap you in two, yet he lay there, trembling under your weight. The leather belt was still warm from the friction of the previous strikes, coiled like a whip in your hand. You shifted your weight again, the movement deliberate and heavy, grinding your heat directly over his mouth to stifle the jagged gasps he was throwing into the small of your back. Krueger was a mountain of trembling muscle beneath you, his hands clawing at the thin mattress, his knuckles white and bloodless.
"You're so desperate for it, aren't you?" you hissed, your voice a low, cruel velvet. "To be treated like something that doesn't matter."
You reached back, your fingers cold and unyielding as they found him. His cock was stone-hard, pulsing with a frantic rhythm that mirrored his shallow breathing. You didn't offer him a gentle touch. Instead, you gripped him firmly, pulling his girthy length out so he was exposed and vulnerable against the harsh light of his dingy apartment.
Krueger’s head thrashed against the bed, a low, guttural whine vibrating through your thighs as you used the tip of the leather belt to flick against the sensitive, reddened head of his cock. The contact was sharp, a stinging, precise bite of pain that made his entire frame seize.
"Again," he choked out, the word barely a whisper, broken by a sob of pure, masochistic relief.
You didn't wait for him to settle. You brought your open palm down in a sudden, bracing slap directly against the crown of him. The sound was sharp in the cramped room. Krueger let out a strangled cry, his back arching so violently that his chest pressed hard into your spine. You could feel the frantic heat of his skin, the way his heart was trying to hammer its way out of his ribs.
"You don't get to come, Sebastian," you whispered, reaching back to squeeze him until he groaned, your thumb pressing hard into the center of the head, mimicking the blunt trauma he so clearly craved. "Not until I've broken every bit of that pride you're so fond of."
"You’ve been playing the butcher for so long, you forgot how good it feels to be the meat."
You reached for the heavy leather belt at his waist, unbuckling it with slow, deliberate clicks. Krueger’s breathing was shallow now, his chest heaving. As you struck him, the leather meeting the skin of his thighs with a dull thud, he arched off the bed, his teeth bared in a grimace that was half-agony, half-ecstasy. He wasn't just taking it; he was devouring it.
You struck him again, a rhythmic, stinging cadence of belt-flicks to his thighs that left him sobbing for breath, his vision blurring as he finally found the ruin he had been searching for in the dark. He wasn't a sniper anymore; he was just a man drowning in the beautiful, violent clarity of your hands.
"Is this what you wanted?" you asked, leaning down to bite at the column of his throat, tasting salt and heat. "To feel something other than the recoil of a rifle?"
"I... I can't..." he choked out, his hands clawing at the sheets, his knuckles white. "I need... more."
"You’ll get exactly what I give you," you countered, your voice dropping to a predatory silk. You didn't give him the release he was straining for. Instead, you pushed him further, finding the precise rhythm of pain that made his vision blur. You used your hands and your teeth against him until he was sobbing for breath, his pride stripped away layer by agonizing layer.
The friction of the tactical fabric and the stinging heat of the belt had driven him to a point beyond military discipline. Krueger was a raw nerve, his breath hitching in ragged. You could feel the frantic pulse of his erection, engorged and twitching, begging for the very destruction you were dealing out.
"You’re vibrating, Sebastian," you taunted, your voice a low, cruel purr as you shifted.
You didn't give him the mercy of a slow descent. Instead, you reached back, guiding him into yourself with a blunt, forceful shove as you dropped your hips. The sensation of him sliding home was a jolt of pure electricity; he let out a choked, guttural roar that was muffled against your skin. You didn't move with rhythm, you moved with malice. You slammed your weight down, the impact jarring his spine against the thin bed, grinding your heels into the mattress to gain leverage as you rode him in a frantic, punishing reverse cowgirl.
From his position, pinned and blind to your face, Krueger was drowning. All he had was the sight of your ass and the feeling of you ruthlessly taking what you wanted from his body. Every time you bottomed out, you delivered a sharp, stinging snap of the belt across his thighs.
"Please," he gasped, his Austrian accent fracturing into a desperate, high-pitched plea. "Now-bitte-now!"
"Not until you break," you hissed, your muscles clenching around him with a proprietary squeeze that made his vision go white.
You picked up the pace, your movements becoming a blur of violent friction. You weren't just fucking him; you were breaking him down to his base components. You felt the moment his resolve snapped, the exact second the soldier died and the masochist took over. His back arched so violently, and a high, keening sound tore from his throat as he finally detonated.
He came with a force that felt like a physical blow inside you, his entire frame seizing in a long, tectonic shudder. You didn't stop. You kept grinding, riding out the waves of his release, the belt in your hand still coming down in one final, stinging slap to his thighs just as he peaked.
Krueger collapsed back onto the bed, his limbs heavy and useless, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon through a war zone. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of his sobbing breaths and the distant hum of the apartment's refrigerator. He was completely ruined, a heap of scarred muscle and spent adrenaline, finally, blissfully quiet.
He was a mess of sweat and red welts when you finally let him reach the edge. His hands fumbled for you, pulling you down into a kiss that tasted of desperation. When he finally broke, it wasn't the roar of a soldier; it was a broken, beautiful sound, the sound of a man finally coming home to himself in the middle of a wreck.
Long after the adrenaline faded, Krueger lay slumped against the bed, his heavy head resting on the pillow. The monster was quiet. He looked up at you, his gaze exhausted and startlingly vulnerable.
"You knew," he muttered, his voice a ghost of its usual self.
"I knew," you said, smoothing a stray hair from his forehead. "And I’ll be back tomorrow. You’re far too much fun to leave in one piece."
Krueger didn't argue. He simply closed his eyes, finally sinking into a sleep that didn't involve nightmares.
