yaevinn

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Requests: Closed rn :(

Fandoms I'm currently writing for:

· Supernatural, The Boys and The Witcher.

My no's:

· I do not write for female characters.

· I do not write for female reader.

· I won't write The Deep, A-Train, Dean (might reconsider...)

My yes's:

· Male / gender neutral reader

· I'll gladly write everything regarding those listed below:

For months, sleep had become something to fear. You’d been experiencing nightmares, each worse than the last. You didn’t know where they were coming from, but almost every night the visions would come, and you’d wake up breathless—your hair damp with sweat and plastered to your forehead.

In the darkness, you couldn’t make out the figure standing in the corner of your room, watching you intently, but it was there, noting every hitch of your breath and every gasp you let out after pushing yourself up.

Over time, other symptoms appeared. Headaches that seemed to shoot through your entire body, hallucinations, and even nosebleeds. Doctors couldn’t diagnose you because, medically speaking, there was nothing wrong with you. Yet, day by day, you felt yourself growing weaker.

People were interested, of course. Questions about your health came up frequently, not just your physical health but the mental one as well. You seemed distant, but the vehemence with which they tried to force you to attend even a single therapy session was driving you crazy.

You were fine, after all. It was just that—exhaustion. Or at least that’s what you called it.

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You jolted awake when your window suddenly swung open, letting in the wind and sending the curtains fluttering. For the first time in a while, your sleep wasn’t disturbed by a nightmare, but by something else. Wearily, you rose from bed, not bothering to question what had happened, considering your eyes could barely even make out the time on the clock sitting on the nightstand beside you.

The night was dark, and it was almost impossible to see anything outside. The cold, however, quickly caught up with you, and goosebumps spread across your bare arms. You closed the window slowly, making sure the wind wouldn’t blow it open again, then turned toward your bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Your gaze shifted to the bedside table, instinctively searching for your phone, yet when you found it and reached out, it disappeared, dissolving right before your fingers could wrap around it.

— “Did I wake you?” — A low, velvety voice rang out in the silence of the room.

The sound immediately captured your attention, making you turn instinctively toward it. The search for your phone faded into oblivion… or maybe not, and its disappearance only intensified the feeling of delirium. You could hardly tell dreams and reality apart.

— “It’s another nightmare, isn’t it?” — you whispered, the resignation in your voice speaking volumes about your exhaustion.

— “Does it overwhelm you?” — One question answered with another. — “The lack of sleep, the nosebleeds, the... visions?”

It was strange; the voice sounded too real. In your other dreams, sounds often blurred and faded away, but now it was so close, almost tangible. With a growing sense of unease, you looked around the room, searching for whoever had spoken.

— “You know about them. How?” — A question of your own, one that came out far more cautiously than you’d intended.

— “I know everything about you. In fact, I probably know you better than you know yourself.” — The response came, and despite its almost gentle undertone, you didn’t feel particularly relieved. — “You see, we share a very special bond…”

— “Show yourself.” — You cut him off with a sense of urgency before he could finish. This wasn’t like any of your previous visions.

— “As you wish.” — It sounded almost conciliatory, almost meek, but it didn’t inspire much trust. — “I’m not here to hurt you.”

The shadows shifted before your eyes, as though converging into a single point, transforming the darkness into a figure that emerged from it only a moment later. A man. Older. Utterly human, with an almost incongruously gentle expression that clashed with the intelligent, ancient look in his eyes.

— “Even though I could.” — He continued, not giving you time to dwell on his appearance. — “I could make you suffer terribly, far more than your human body can bear. I… wouldn’t want to be forced to do that.”

Something coiled tight in your stomach. Nervousness, perhaps. You couldn’t make sense of any of it.

— “What do you mean by that?” — You managed to ask, frozen in place on the crumpled bedsheets.

— “You were made for me. The only one who can contain me…” — He slowly stalked toward you, not threatening, not yet, just present, deliberately closing the distance between you. — “But, well, you will have to consent and accept me.”

It was dizzying; you could barely understand him. Not the words themselves, but their meaning. Blaming it on your sleep-deprived imagination was no longer an option, not when he sat down right beside you on the bed, so close you could smell his scent and feel something powerful humming beneath his very being.

— “Just… who are you?” — You asked, as if his answer could somehow dissolve the growing confusion.

— “Lucifer.” — He answered lightly and reached out, cupping your face with a gentleness that didn’t befit the name. — “And you are my true vessel.”

Fear slowly began replacing the previous uneasiness. There was no point in disbelieving him, but you weren’t sure whether the truth was any better, or if you’d rather hear a lie.

Silence filled the room, and Lucifer watched you intently. His hand fell back onto the bed, making no attempt to touch you again, yet he remained close enough for you to feel that there was indeed some kind of pull between you.

— “The devil…” — You whispered, more to yourself than to him. — “I’m your vessel? I don’t understand…”

— “You don’t have to.” — His tone was almost reassuring. — “All you need to do is say yes to me—to us.”

Your gaze lowered to the sheets as you tried to process everything. It was too much, and yet, you knew one thing for certain; if he came at night, taking advantage of your sleep deprivation, his intentions couldn’t be good.

— “What if I say no?” — A challenge. You were searching for manipulation, deception—anything.

— “I can’t enter without your permission, but you see, here’s the thing about consent…” — He paused, leaning back on his hands with his gaze fixed on yours. — “The word yes is still consent, no matter under what circumstances it’s spoken.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach—you felt it like a physical weight pressing down on your very soul. He wasn’t hiding behind lies or shallow promises like you’d expected him to, and that unapologetic honesty was the most disconcerting part.

— “So you’ll force me to agree?” — You pressed, your voice breaking slightly and revealing your feelings.

Lucifer shrugged, sprawled across your bed as though he owned the place. He looked completely relaxed, a striking contrast to your stiffness and alertness. The silence stretched mercilessly, and deliberately, too.

— “You’ll remain free to refuse me,” — He hummed, tilting his head slightly as he held your gaze. — “You’ll just learn to dread what follows.”

Your hands involuntarily tightened around the sheets at those words, and the memory of your recent migraines and sleepless nights came flooding back, reminding you of what he was capable of. You had no doubt that this was Lucifer’s doing, and if this was only the beginning, you weren’t sure you wanted to know what would happen next.

Lucifer watched the conflicting emotions play across your face. He expected defiance and was fully prepared to crush it—just like every other hope you’d ever have.

— “Go to hell.” — You spat out with every ounce of courage you had left. It wasn’t only about resisting for the sake of it; it was about what giving in meant.

But Lucifer didn’t back down. He didn’t even seem surprised. In fact, a slow, amused smile spread across his face.

— “So be it.” — His voice was the last thing you heard before the world shifted around you.

With a single snap of his fingers, the walls began to change, dissolving into shadows that curled and twisted until you could no longer recognize your own room. You watched it happen before your eyes—the wallpaper was replaced by heavy metal bars, and the temperature dropped by several degrees.

Every piece of furniture, every single thing that belonged to you, vanished into thin air, and you didn’t even notice when your bed disappeared beneath you, replaced by hard, icy concrete.

You blinked, and suddenly the only constant you had left was him—Lucifer—sitting cross-legged in front of you.

— “What…” — The word barely managed to leave your mouth before the devil interrupted.

— “Welcome to the Cage.” — Lucifer announced, gesturing around with a self-satisfied smile.

He changed the scene with a single snap of his fingers, and your entire perception of reality collapsed within mere seconds. You could feel the ground beneath you, but the bed you’d been sitting on only moments ago had felt just as real. Now it was only a memory, so how could you be sure it had ever existed? The thought refused to leave your mind.

— “Is… is this real?” — You finally asked, hoping for some clarity.

— “Reality is what I want it to be.” — Came the response. — “But, oh, do check, if you’re curious.” — He slowly pushed himself to his feet and closed the distance between you, crouching beside you.

Your eyes narrowed, and your fingers hesitantly reached out to trace the concrete. You could feel every crack beneath your fingertips, and yet, you still weren’t sure whether you could trust your own mind. The uncertainty written across your face fed Lucifer’s dark satisfaction.

— “I don’t know what to believe…” — A quiet admission, more to yourself than to the devil.

— “It must be difficult, I imagine…” — The condescending tone nearly made you scowl, but then Lucifer continued. — “But it’s only the beginning.”

You didn’t get a chance to ask another question, or even protest. Terrible, excruciating pain shot through your entire body, radiating from your lungs into every organ and limb. A scream escaped your lips immediately, but no sound came out, as though the agony itself had constricted your throat. Lucifer didn’t move from where he stood, even as you dug your fingers desperately into your own head.

— “Interesting place, isn’t it?” — Lucifer spoke, motioning with his chin toward the Cage while ignoring your writhing and squirming. — “It seems like a dream, and yet the pain is anything but.”

His gaze shifted back to you, watching the tears stream down your cheeks and the shallow, ragged breaths shaking your entire body. You curled in on yourself on the ground, searching for relief that was nowhere to be found. Meanwhile, Lucifer reached out and cupped your cheek—the only thing resembling comfort you had.

— “I’ll make it stop,” — He offered lightly, brushing one of your tears away with his thumb. — “Just say yes, and I’ll make it all go away.”

It was tempting, unbelievably so, but the idea of submitting was scarier than any torture Lucifer could promise. You clenched your teeth and shook your head, refusing to give in.

— “No.” — A firm protest, to which Lucifer responded with a faint sigh. His fingers tightened around your jaw before forcing your head back.

— “A pity, really.” — He hummed, studying your tear-streaked face and the scowl twisting your lips.

The pain didn’t subside. Quite the contrary—it steadily grew worse, making your head spin and your vision blur. When your body finally reached the limit of what it could endure, you passed out, going limp in Lucifer’s grasp.

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You didn’t know how many days you’d spent in the prison Lucifer had created. There was no day-night cycle to help you keep track of time. The Cage was constantly changing, more or less, and the only things that remained constant were Lucifer’s presence and the certainty that he was always devising something worse than before.

The devil had been right when he said you would have no other choice. The consequences of refusing were pain, fear, and hopelessness. Every new torture closed another door until, eventually, the only sensible thing left to do was say yes.

You refused for a long time—or so you thought. You endured one punishment after another, trying not to break beneath the weight of Lucifer’s cruelty. The physical pain became almost bearable with time. It was Lucifer’s ability to exploit even your slightest psychological weakness that you feared the most.

— “How much longer will it take you to understand that this is inevitable?” — He asked one day while you lay bleeding out on the ground. — “No matter what you do or how long you resist, the outcome will be the same. Why fight?”

The question came out patient, almost gentle, as Lucifer stood over you. Logically, you knew you couldn’t die, but the panic of desperately pressing your hands against the hole in your stomach to keep your organs from spilling out drowned out every rational thought you could have had.

— “I… don’t want you anywhere near me.” — You managed to spit out shakily.

To your displeasure, Lucifer took that as a challenge—or rather, as an idea.

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You awoke with a sharp gasp, ripped suddenly from another restless sleep. The Cage, however, had taught you that what awaited you while awake was far worse than anything your nightmares could conjure.

As you tried to push yourself up, you immediately noticed how heavy the movement felt. Only when you looked at your wrists did you realize they were bound in handcuffs connected by a chain. It allowed you some movement, albeit very little.

— “What the…” — You whispered, giving the chain a tentative tug as though testing it. Your head snapped to the side when a faint laugh echoed from somewhere behind you.

— “Do you like it?” — Lucifer asked casually as he approached. — “You were starting to get used to the torture, so I thought we’d try something different.”

You had no idea what he meant until he crouched in front of you and grabbed your ankle. His fingers tightened around your calf before he pulled you toward him in one swift motion. The chains clattered across the concrete as you fell onto your back.

Only then did you realize what he intended.

— “Get off me—” — You nearly growled, trying to wrench your leg free. — “Didn’t you say… fuck, didn’t you say you needed consent?”

The laugh that followed made you wince. Lucifer’s shoulders shook with amusement, the smile on his face a stark contrast to the terror written across yours.

— “Oh, that’s adorable…” — He huffed, not loosening his grip on your calf. If anything, he tightened it. — “You’re adorable.”

The devil gave you a moment to understand what was coming. He allowed the realization to settle in, watching you with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Every tiny shift in your expression fascinated him, especially when you began to scream and struggle, trying to escape what you believed was inevitable.

— “Don’t hide from me,” — He cooed just as the first tears rolled down your cheeks. You turned your head aside in a futile attempt to hide your growing terror, but Lucifer read you like an open book. — “I want to see.”

His hand moved higher, fingers brushing your knee before settling around your thigh. You flinched. The gentleness was new, alien, and all the more unnerving because of it.

— “Please…” — You choked out as those same fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt without hesitation.

— “Pleading now, are we?” — Lucifer hummed, leaning forward as though the very concept of personal space meant nothing to him.

His other hand closed easily around your throat, thumb pressing against the spot that made every breath just a little more difficult. Your eyes remained wide, fixed on him like a deer caught in headlights. Lucifer noticed.

— “Say yes, roomie.” — He whispered into your ear, feeling you freeze beneath him as his knee pressed between your thighs. It was as though he already knew what your answer would be and simply wanted to watch you struggle against it.

You couldn't utter a word, fear effectively robbing you of that opportunity. And yet, you shook your head. Your time in the Cage had only convinced you that you'd rather die than allow Lucifer to inhabit you.

And that answer was exactly what the devil expected. A slow, thoughtful smile crossed his face.

— "So predictable." — His fingers traveled lower, and he deliberately pulled away so you could see his amusement clearly. — "It's almost saddening, truly."

You didn't have to wait long for Lucifer's hand to disappear beneath the fabric of your pants. But before he could touch you, your hands tugged hard at the chains, as if all they wanted was to wrap around Lucifer's neck and squeeze. He didn't even flinch; the only reaction you got was a brief flash of irritation that crossed his face before vanishing.

Tears began rolling down your cheeks freely as his fingers slid into you. He wasn't exactly opening you up, it was more of a tease than anything real. He thrust into you with ease and precision, and as soon as your cries began to mix with the involuntary sounds of your arousal, he pulled his fingers out, not letting you finish.

— "Why?" — You whined weakly in between the deliberate movements of his hand. — "Wasn't the pain enough?"

A hopeless attempt to evoke anything in him, even a shred of sympathy. Lucifer, however, thrived on desperation and weakness, all those words brought was a small, mocking smile to his face.

— "It was your choice, little one." — He murmured while sliding his fingers out of you once more. — "You can't blame me for the consequences of your own decisions."

As he removed your pants, your crying stopped for a moment, as if you'd frozen completely. You tried to consider those words; maybe Lucifer was right, after all. You had a choice; he always left room for refusal, even though he made consent seem like the better option every time.

The snap of his fingers pulled you from your thoughts, and your eyes focused again, looking through the fog and tears at the devil. You didn't even notice when your underwear disappeared, leaving you completely exposed—the realization came later, bringing an unwelcome flush to your cheeks.

— "Don't dissociate on me now, sweetheart." — He cooed with the previous gentleness that felt more like condescension.

His hand wrapped around your neck again and he easily turned you around so your back was resting against his chest. You could feel his hardening length press against your thigh just for a brief second before Lucifer's fingers tangle in your hair and he forced you down, pushing your cheek into the hard concrete.

A pained whimper escaped you, utterly involuntarily and shameful at the submissive poison he put you in—back arched and hips up. The moment was dragging mercilessly, as if he was deliberately taking his time to make sure you felt his eyes on your entire body.

— "So beautiful..." — He whispered appreciatively, letting his hand wander down your spine before clasping it on your waist. — "You truly are a perfect vessel."

Then came a squeeze to your hip—hard enough to bruise. Lucifer wasted no time, and in one swift motion, unzipped his pants and pulled out his already half-hard cock. From this perspective, you could see almost nothing but the expression on your tormentor's face from the corner of your eye. He was relaxed, while your whole body trembled with fear and an unpleasant kind of anticipation.

You only snapped out of it when you felt pressure against your entrance. Before you could brace yourself, you felt a searing pain as, without warning, Lucifer pushed his cock all the way inside. He buried himself to the hilt with a low groan of satisfaction which wasn't interrupted even by the sound that left your own lips—a sob that echoed in the Cage.

— "Tight and so good for me..." — He praised while slowly pulling back just to thrust in once more, this time slower, more deliberately.

Your fingers curled into fists as you desperately pushed against the intrusion, unwillingly clenching around it. That only seemed to please Lucifer further. He twisted his hand tighter in your hair, tugging and yanking while pulling you right back onto his cock after every single thrust.

Cries and whines filled the silence, mixing with the devil's own satisfied groans and the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin. He wasn't gentle, and whenever you began squirming too much, he pressed your face further into the ground, making sure you couldn't move.

— "Just like that," — Another praise that made you feel nauseous. — "Taking me like you were made for it."

At some point, your tears ran out and all you could do was sob silently as Lucifer's hips snapped forward—each thrust pushing his cock deeper into your hole. Your legs trembled under the pressure and bruises started blooming where he was gripping your waist. Lucifer's fingers kept digging into the sensitive skin of your back and thighs as well, leaving a trail of red marks in their wake, but it was still nothing compared to how filthy you felt whenever yet another praise left his mouth.

One orgasm turned into another, and then another, until you felt like you couldn't handle it anymore, only for Lucifer to prove you otherwise just a moment later. Each time he finished inside you, he only gave a brief moment for his cum to leak out before he plunged his cock back in, giving you no time to recover. You were convinced you'd come several times yourself, but only from the stimulation, never from true pleasure.

You didn't know how long it lasted, but when Lucifer finally grew bored and let you fall dispassionately to the concrete, your legs were practically useless, limp and weak at the knees. You barely moved at all, only curling into yourself slightly, closing your red tear-stained eyes.

The devil's gaze then moved over your entire form as he zipped his pants back up and slowly lowered himself to sit cross-legged right next to you.

— "We are one," — He murmured while brushing a damp strand of your hair back from your forehead. — "In every way imaginable."

A pause, then he continued.

—"See? All of this...— He motioned loosely around. — "...was your choice. Why not make a better one?"

There was a certain gentleness to the way he carefully adjusted the rolled-up fabric of your shirt. In fact, there was always a touch of grounding softness in every gesture he made, one that seemed at odds with what he was doing. Sometimes it was touch, sometimes words. And this, combined with fatigue, exhaustion, and unimaginable trauma, was a dangerous combination.

— "Yes..." — You whispered finally, a small, broken sound that was barely audible. Not to Lucifer, though—he heard you perfectly.

Some hellhounds devoured souls and dragged people to Hell, but that was never your role. As a demi-human, you understood a little more than the others, which allowed you to take on a different job: guarding.

At first, your assignments were simple. You guarded torture chambers or the cells of more troublesome souls who couldn’t be left unattended.

It was simple—if anyone tried to escape, you barked or snarled. If someone had already escaped, you bit them.

That much your brain, which was more animal than human, could understand.

The problem arose when your abilities were finally recognized and you were assigned to a far more difficult task: guarding the cage that held Lucifer himself.

Since you rarely spoke and your responses were usually limited to a word or two, no one believed Lucifer would be able to influence you in any meaningful way.

That assumption turned out to be a huge mistake.

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The first few days passed quickly, though not without problems. As soon as you were let inside and stood before the cage, Lucifer smiled to himself.

“Well, hello there,” he murmured.

You weren’t used to this—to being spoken to. Slowly, you lowered yourself to the ground and sat cross-legged in front of the cage, staring at him intently.

“Hi,” came your response after a beat.

Lucifer’s smile only widened.

“I’ve got a little puppy guard. Who would’ve thought?” he hummed with amusement, shaking his head before stepping closer to the bars and crouching in front of you.

“Do you do tricks, little one?” he joked lightly, reaching out to touch you.

You immediately flinched and bared your teeth, a low growl rumbling in your throat at the gesture. Your tail twitched as well, making it clear you weren’t particularly fond of being touched.

Lucifer withdrew his hand, but his smile never disappeared.

“Not a fan of petting, hm?” he murmured, leaning back.

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Over the next few days, Lucifer tried to tame you in a way. He talked to you, getting you used to the sound of his voice. He encouraged you to come closer, and even though you bit him a few times, he never got angry or hit you. He simply backed away.

The first time you finally allowed him to pet you, he smiled and ruffled your hair, murmuring, “Such a good puppy,” over and over again.

Your tail gave a single pleased twitch when he rubbed that perfect spot behind your ear, and another when he quietly whispered, “Good boy.”

He earned your trust because he never pressured you. He was patient. Attentive.

Before long, Lucifer became the only person you truly listened to. The demons of Hell rarely treated you with kindness, while Lucifer remained consistently gentle. That gentleness was unfamiliar—almost addictive—and, unfortunately, you found yourself craving his attention more and more with each passing day.

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The next time you were on shift, guarding his cage while curled up on the floor, Lucifer wandered over to the bars and crouched down to your level.

You looked so vulnerable. So pretty. Far too comfortable around the literal Devil.

Lucifer’s gaze drifted over the curve of your back before settling on your tail, tucked beneath your chin. Something in his expression shifted ever so slightly.

Curiosity, laced with desire.

He wasn’t stupid, though. He couldn’t simply grab you and force you into anything. That would shatter the trust he’d worked so hard to build. Instead, he chose a different approach.

You couldn’t see him snap his fingers, but your head lifted at the sudden, unfamiliar warmth that began spreading through your abdomen. Your ears flattened, and your tail gave one confused thump against the floor.

Lucifer watched intently as you curled in on yourself, your face flushed, one hand pressed over your stomach.

“You’re looking distressed,” he observed, even though he knew exactly why. “What’s wrong, puppy?”

“Feels… warm,” you mumbled, your fingers twitching restlessly where they clutched the fabric of your shirt.

“Where?” Lucifer asked gently, his eyes dropping to the twitching tip of your tail, now tucked firmly between your legs.

“My… belly,” you answered quietly.

You could feel the unfamiliar warmth traveling lower, settling somewhere between your thighs. Involuntarily, your hips rolled forward, searching for a kind of relief you couldn’t understand.

“It’s…” You tried to explain the sensation to Lucifer, but failed. Your hips jerked forward again, a little more sharply this time.

“It’s okay, pup,” he murmured, patting his thigh lightly. “I can help you.”

You looked up at him, still rooted to your spot on the floor.

“But…” The protest dissolved into a soft whimper.

The sound surprised even you. Your ears flattened further, pinning themselves so tightly against your head that they nearly disappeared beneath your hair.

“Shh…” Lucifer cooed, patting his thigh once more. “I know what you need. You just have to trust me.”

The softness of his voice made you want to believe him, especially in such a vulnerable moment.

Slowly, you pushed yourself upright and crawled toward the bars. Lucifer’s hand immediately found your hair, long fingers slipping through it as he brushed a few sweat-damp strands away from your face.

“Look at me, puppy,” he whispered, gently cupping your cheek. “I need you to come in here so I can take care of you.”

Your vision had begun to blur around the edges. Everything felt hazy, making it difficult to fully process what he was saying. The strange sensation only continued to grow, leaving you restless and desperate for relief.

You forced yourself forward, squeezing carefully between the bars. By the time you made it through, you were standing directly in front of Lucifer.

He smiled and slipped an arm around your waist. That simple touch made you squirm.

“Look at you…” He murmured, drawing you onto his lap. “My poor little hound…”

Your head fell forward helplessly until it rested against his chest.

"I need..." you whined, and your hips rolled forward again, this time right over Lucifer's thigh.

He didn't push you away—quite the opposite—his fingers clasped around your waist, slowly guiding the restless movement.

"It's alright, I know what you need..." Lucifer's lips pressed briefly to the top of your head before his hand traveled lower to your hip.

You continued rutting against his leg, desperate to create any kind of friction, even though you were already soaking through your panties and leaking onto the fabric of Lucifer's jeans. He didn't seem to mind at all.

"Such a good, needy boy," he praised while rubbing slow circles over your waist with his thumb when you started squirming and whimpering in his lap.

Your tail twitched with every push of your hips forward and your quiet whimpers filled the air.

"Please..." you whined weakly, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. You weren't even sure what you were asking for.

"What is it?" He pressed, despite the fact that he literally did this to you. "Does my puppy feel empty?"

You nodded your head frantically in response, still rutting desperately forward and panting quietly.

One corner of Lucifer's lips rose and he shifted his grip from your hip to the curve of your ass. He pulled you flush against his chest before letting his hand wander lower.

You didn't even notice when your pants were off, Lucifer made them disappear too suddenly, leaving you exposed and trembling in his lap.

Then, he freed his cock from his underwear, shifting his grip on you so he could position himself better. Your head finally moved up.

"I... what—" your movements stuttered and you glanced down at his length now pressing against your entrance.

"Shh, it's okay. Just relax," Lucifer whispered against your neck, pushing past the entrance and slowly slipping inside. You were already so wet that prep wasn't needed at all.

You moaned at the intrusion, hands moving to grip his shoulders tightly when he started pushing inch after inch of his cock into your throbbing hole. Your tail twitched, curling around his leg as if to hold onto something.

"So tight," "you're perfect," "my good boy," Lucifer kept praising while thrusting inside.

He fucked you gentle and deep, making sure to slow down whenever you were too close to reaching release. The edging left you even more restless, hips snapping forward to meet every single one of his thrusts.

At some point, you bit down on his shoulder, unable to take the tension anymore. A quiet groan left Lucifer's mouth and his hands snapped to your hips, pulling you down onto his cock in one, sharp movement.

He came inside you letting out a low sound of satisfaction and filling you up. The sensation of his cum flooding your insides made you clench around his length and come with a broken moan.

Your teeth sank deeper into his shoulder from the overwhelming wave of pleasure that washed over you.

"You did wonderful," Lucifer cooed, not pulling out just yet, "took my cock so good..."

You whined, curling into his chest and still leaking onto his lap. Yet, you felt satisfied like never before.

Lucifer kept you close, giving your forehead a brief kiss before pulling you flush against him.

You hated Homelander, and he was delighted by it because, for once, someone felt something other than fear or admiration toward him. Everything was working exactly as it should. You helped the Boys figure out how to kill him, and Homelander let you try.

Over time, however, the dynamic began to change. Homelander would deliberately provoke you by doing something even worse than usual. In response, you and the Boys made the Seven’s lives miserable, occasionally even murdering less important supes just to remind them they weren’t immortal.

It worked for a long time, until Homelander decided to pay you a visit at your rented apartment.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

He landed on your balcony, and the sound caught your attention. You pulled the curtains aside, your eyes immediately finding him. He stood there a little too casually, arms crossed behind his back, his suit covered in fresh blood.

“What did you do this time to make yourself feel less insecure?” you asked as you pushed the balcony door open with one hand.

“Ask one of your boys,” Homelander replied, his blue eyes fixed firmly on you, a hint of dark satisfaction behind them.

Your expression barely changed, save for the subtle tension settling in your jaw.

“Which one.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a demand. John tilted his head, taking half a step forward.

“The Frenchman,” he answered, glancing down at his bloodstained suit. The blood hadn’t dried yet. He’d come straight here, as if he couldn’t wait to brag about it.

“You killed him?” you pressed, refusing to let your growing agitation show.

“No, no.” Homelander shook his head, flashing a self-satisfied grin. “He’s alive. I just… borrowed him. Seemed important.”

“Where is he?”

The question came immediately.

“Oh, I’d tell you,” John murmured, looking you up and down, “but where’s the fun in that?”

You gritted your teeth. It was a small gesture, but you could already tell Homelander noticed. More importantly, he enjoyed it.

“What do you want, then?” You leaned against the doorframe, trying to appear casual. “Besides having someone call you something other than a disappointment.”

“You’re hilarious,” John said lightly, completely unfazed by the bite in your voice.

He took another step forward, closing the distance between you. You caught the metallic scent of blood clinging to him, mixed with expensive cologne. Nothing particularly memorable—just something obnoxiously luxurious.

“How about I trade that information?” he hummed, slowly reaching out to rest a hand on your hip.

You caught his wrist with ease.

“You gettin’ off on making people uncomfortable?” you shot back, tightening your grip even though Homelander did not attempt to pull away.

“If you were truly uncomfortable, Butcher would’ve been breaking down the door by now.”

He took another step, forcing you to back into your apartment, and followed immediately after.

You finally reached for the gun tucked into your back pocket, but John’s hand shot out first, wrapping around your wrist and yanking you toward him.

“Come on,” he murmured, shaking his head as he leaned down. “It’s just a small exchange. Is your hatred really more important than one of your friends’ lives?”

Your eyes narrowed immediately because, yes, your hatred was more important. Still, the Boys needed Frenchie. That much was undeniable.

Homelander knew it too. More importantly, he knew exactly how to use it.

“Son of a bitch…” You muttered, wrenching your wrist free from his grip.

You didn’t step away, though. That was when John knew he’d won.

His hand slid to your waist, pulling you roughly against his chest.

"Knew you'd say that," Homelander whispered and brought his lips to your neck.

He started nibbling and planting firm kisses all over your skin, making your head fall back and your hand tighten around his wrist.

You tried to step back but John immediately moved and slammed you roughly against the wall. A groan left your lips when his knee pushed between your legs, followed by his teeth sinking into your neck.

"Look at yourself," he murmured while his hand traveled under the fabric of your shirt, "what would Butcher think about this, huh?"

"Shut up," You gritted your teeth, even though you were already growing wet in your underwear.

John only smirked, pushing his knee further up, nearly forcing you to rub against his thigh. A quiet sound left your lips at that, only feeding into his growing satisfaction.

That irritated you further.

You released his wrist and grabbed his shoulder, unsure if you wanted to push him off or pull him in. John however, took matters into his own hands. He immediately wrapped you up in his arms and lifted you off the ground—your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips.

"Still hate me?" He asked with his fingers digging into your thighs and his mouth all over the sensitive skin of your neck.

"Yeah..." you breathed out, letting your head fall back again and rest against the wall.

"Good."

That was all he gave you before pulling back just enough to kiss you. It wasn't affectionate, just rough on both sides. John's tongue was exploring your mouth and your teeth were nibbling and biting on his bottom lip nearly hard enough to make him bleed.

He easily shifted his grip to hold you with one hand before he carried you to the dining table in the center of the room.

There was no gentleness in the way he slammed you down—just raw need. He forced your legs apart, getting right in between them, while moving his hand to clasp around your wrists and pin them above your head.

"Does this boost your ego?" You growled while Homelander's hand began exploring the warm skin under the waistband of your pants.

"What do you think?" He hummed in response, easily finding your wet entrance with his gloved fingers.

"I think you already came twice," you retorted.

Homelander didn't react, though. His attention was fully occupied by the way you squirmed when he pushed two fingers inside you without any prep.

He watched you groaned and your legs tremble when he began opening you up, his fingers curling inside you without mercy. It was rough but not necessarily unpleasant, which didn't help your growing frustration.

"Just pull your dick out already and let's be over with it," you groaned while your knees were desperately trying to press together but to no avail.

Homelander apparently took your words differently—his smirk grew sharper and more noticeable.

"So impatient..." he pulled his fingers out of you and pushed your jeans down, getting them off in one, deliberate movement.

Then his own pants came off and the tip of his cock pressed against your entrance. Your eyes narrowed immediately, hands curling into fists like you were preparing yourself. John pushed in without a warning, his hard length slipping inside your wet hole easily, tearing a low moan out of your parted lips.

It was humiliating. You were being fucked by your enemy, on top of your own table. And yet, the part of you that was previously screaming at you to fight back just went silent when John's hips started thrusting forward.

Obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the room. Homelander's fingers were clenching around your waist hard enough to bruise, but that sensation only made you whine and squirm under him more.

"You're taking me so well..." he praised, although it felt more like an insult.

His grip shifted and he pushed your legs further apart to be able to fully sheath his length inside. He immediately began thrusting in deeper, with long, deliberate strokes that made your eyes roll back.

Somewhere in the meantime, your fingers began digging into his hand—the same one that was keeping your wrists tightly pinned to the table. Homelander didn't seem to mind the scratches, as he simply fucked into you harder, drawing another moan out of your mouth.

"You're perfect," he growled while leaning down to leave another filthy mark on your neck. "We should do that more often..."

"I'll do that to your fucking corpse..." That insult didn't carry enough weight, simply because a loud sound of pleasure followed right after.

Homelander groaned at that and his movements grew erratic, his hips stuttering with every next push forward. You could feel your own orgasm approaching as well, and the mixed sensation of your sounds combined with the feeling of you clenching around him pushed him over the edge.

He buried himself to the hilt, finishing inside you without asking for permission—not like you'd give him one anyway. Your eyes shut and you followed pretty much right after, coming on his cock with trembling legs and uneven breaths.

Homelander pulled out slowly, his eyes traveling down to where his cum was leaking out of you with nothing but pure admiration.

Then his gaze snapped back up to your fucked out expression and half-lidded eyes that were staring back at him hazily.

"So...about the frenchman," he finally said, pulling his pants back up.

"Where is he," you asked, pushing yourself up weakly on your elbows.

"I left him bleeding in the warehouse," Homelander murmured, not looking away from you. "I would hurry up if I were you."

You immediately frowned and got off the table, grabbing your jeans from the floor.

Luckily, Frenchie was alive.

As one of the people working the front desk at Vought Tower, you didn’t often interact with the supes. Sure, you’d seen them come and go more than once, but none of them ever approached the counter. Everyone already knew exactly who they were.

Your work was going well, and even though you didn’t do much, the pay was good, so you had nothing to complain about. The only people who bothered you were those pesky businessmen who would show up out of nowhere and insist they had an appointment with Madelyn.

Well, that was until Homelander started taking an interest in you.

It started innocently enough when he first approached the counter. He asked about one of the departments, wanting to know which floor it was on.

But then Homelander became bolder. At first, you were even pleased when he stopped whatever he was doing just to come over and compliment you.

It was usually something like, “You look great,” or, “You have a nice smile.”

Until it wasn’t.

He started prying, asking questions that were too personal or even downright crude.

One time, Homelander approached your desk, leaning over it and looking at you with unmasked interest.

“Is that your real name?” he asked, pointing with his chin at the name tag pinned to your shirt. It was, in fact, your real name. The same one listed on your CV.

“You could say that,” you responded, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. The question caught you off guard.

“You don’t present yourself like a female,” he pressed, seemingly unbothered by your discomfort. “Interesting.”

After that, the questions kept coming, often accompanied by comments that you couldn’t even classify as compliments anymore. He frequently remarked that you looked pretty for a boy, or something equally objectifying.

You didn’t report it because why would you? It wasn’t exactly harassment; Homelander was simply behaving strangely.

Until a certain point.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You were sitting at your desk, finishing a report. It was late, and most people had already gone home, except for a couple of departments that were still operating at this hour.

Homelander walked in through the front doors and glanced toward your desk. The moment he spotted you, he changed direction and headed straight for the counter. This time, he didn’t start with another odd comment.

“Are you still able to carry children?” he asked, studying you intently. “Despite all this… being a boy?”

You blinked and looked up at him. The question caught you completely off guard and, frankly, made you more uncomfortable than anything else. Shifting nervously in your seat, you gave a single nod.

“It’s quite personal… but yes, I can.”

That was the best you could give him. You still had to answer. It was Homelander, after all.

“Oh, that’s perfect,” he hummed, looking you up and down.

The look wasn’t appreciative. Not really.

It was simply creepy.

“Is there any particular reason you’re asking?” you inquired, trying to sound polite despite the way the conversation was making your stomach churn.

“Just curious,” he murmured, leaning back slightly. “You’d look great all round and swollen.”

You nearly had a physical reaction right there in front of him, but Homelander only smiled—that sharp, unfeeling flash of teeth—and turned away, heading toward the elevators.

He left you alone, confused and more than a little disgusted.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

A few days later, you were sitting at the same desk, working overtime again. Time dragged on, but when your shift finally ended, you rose from your chair and stretched. Grabbing your things, you headed for the locker room where you’d left your shoes.

As you pushed open the door, your heart immediately sped up at the sight of John leaning against the wall, clearly waiting for you.

“Can I help you… sir?” you asked politely, lingering in the doorway.

Homelander merely shrugged and motioned for you to come inside.

“Close the door,” he said.

His expression was strange, hard to read, and somehow you felt a subconscious sense of danger. A supe stood before you, yet that didn’t make you feel any safer. You glanced down the hallway, but it was empty.

No one who could hear you if you screamed.

That only made it worse. Still, you couldn’t exactly refuse, could you?

You stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind you, keeping your eyes fixed on Homelander the entire time.

Like he was some untamed animal.

Maybe he was.

“I was thinking about you,” John began, not moving an inch. “About what you’d look like carrying my baby.”

“What?”

The single word escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Homelander simply continued.

“Such a pretty boy,” he praised, looking you up and down. “Wouldn’t you like to become a mommy?”

You were completely caught off guard, not only by his words but by the obsession beginning to seep through them. He was looking at you with an intensity that didn’t quite match the almost reverent tone of his voice.

“I—”

The word died in your throat.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Oh no,” John murmured, taking a step forward and closing some of the distance between you. “I’d never joke about something like that.”

Another step.

“I always wanted to be a father, but no one was suitable," his head tilted. “You, on the other hand…”

Slowly, he reached out.

“You’re perfect.”

You flinched away the moment his thumb brushed against your cheek. The touch was unwelcome, and combined with the implications of his words, it made you feel sick.

“Get away from me,” you managed, despite the tremor in your voice betraying your growing fear.

“You have no say in the matter,” Homelander replied. His tone remained gentle at first, but then his grip tightened, fingers curling around your jaw.

“I chose you.”

“You should be thanking me for letting you carry my child,” John continued, his fingers tightening with every word. “For choosing an ordinary boy over someone on my level.”

You let out a strained sound when his grip shifted to your neck, pulling you forward until you were pressed firmly against his chest.

“Wait, I—”

Homelander silenced you with a rough, unfeeling kiss. There was nothing romantic about it.

It wasn’t affection, it was possession. As though he no longer saw you as a person at all, only as something that belonged to him.

He pulled away after a few seconds and spun you around, easily manhandling you, "Why would I wait, when I can knock you up right now?"

No words came out of your mouth because one of Homelander's hands clamped over your mouth while the other was already pushing you against the wall.

Tears involuntarily welled up in your eyes as he pulled your pants down, exposing you completely to his gaze.

"Oh, you were made for this, weren't you?" He cooed while pushing a finger inside you without any prep, thumb already rubbing circles over your clit. "Made to be bred like a little bitch."

You whined and pushed against the intrusion, your body reacting to it despite your obvious discomfort. Then the second one slipped in, scissoring and opening you up while Homelander pressed kisses to the back of your neck.

He didn't let you finish, just said "Save that for when my cum's inside you," and pulled his fingers out of you.

He moved to his own pants, yanking them down with one hand before freeing his cock. You couldn't see it, still pressed against the wall, but you felt it—the way he slicked his length with what was leaking out of your dripping cunt.

You tried to wriggle out of his grip but to no avail. Homelander pushed your legs open with his knee before pressing the already hardened tip of his length against your entrance.

"I'll fill you up so good..." he whispered against your neck, slowly thrusting inch after inch of his cock inside you, "You'll be dripping for days."

You moaned loudly against his hand when his hips finally slammed into you with one, rough thrust. He let out a groan of pure satisfaction, clasping his other hand tightly on your hip.

At that point, you were already sobbing and whimpering with every single push of his cock forward. John's fingers were digging into your skin and he was rutting into you with a single-minded, determined focus.

"So tight," he groaned between erratic snaps of his hips, "Such a perfect boy..."

Your hands curled into fists against the wall—you could feel yourself clenching around his cock—traitorously close to finishing because of how his tip was slamming against that one spot inside you.

Homelander's hips stuttered as well, the thrusts growing sharper and more careless. He buried himself to the hilt with a loud grunt, spilling inside you with thick, hot ropes of cum. You came shortly after with a cry of your own.

John didn't pull out, though. He kept pushing forward, "Let's make sure it takes," he murmured, slowly fucking his cum deeper into you.

"Can't wait for that pretty belly to grow..." another filthy whisper that came right after a kiss pressed to your shoulder.

Your legs were trembling—unsteady and slowly giving up under you—but you didn't dare to look over your shoulder.

The Normandy landings didn’t look promising for the soldiers of the Third Reich—quite the contrary. Even under the excellent leadership of Gerd von Rundstedt and Erwin Rommel, the Nazis were taking a heavy beating from the Allies.

Especially considering the fact that the Allied forces had supes on their side. People transformed into something more—something superhuman—possessing all kinds of powers that only caused problems for the German troops.

The Wehrmacht soldiers trembled at the mere thought of encountering one of these freaks, and everyone avoided them like the plague. It was hardly surprising, since rumors about what a certain Soldier Boy did to every captured Nazi and communist had already spread from the military barracks all the way to the commanders’ offices.

The command naturally tried to cover it all up, but it wasn’t easy. The soldiers were talking, and fear and panic reached even those who had only recently been drafted into the army—including you.

You never wanted to be a part of it, but German propaganda did its job, calling for a united fight against the enemy. “The United States is an aggressor that must be destroyed,” they said on the radio and in the newspapers.

However, no one bothered to mention that this aggressor possessed a living weapon capable of wiping out an entire unit without breaking a sweat.

So you joined, eager to fight for your nation and its people.

No one prepared you to fight something that had about as much humanity as your country’s chancellor.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

The day was drawing to a close in the small French village where one of the German units was stationed. By evening, the air had grown colder, and the rain lingering over that part of the country only added to the gloomy mood hanging over the camp.

All operations had concluded—with yet another defeat for the Reich. The command didn’t have much to say besides “retreat,” which already spoke volumes about the army’s current situation.

“We shouldn’t have set up camp. It would’ve been better to get out of here as soon as possible,” one of the soldiers said. “The Americans are probably already searching the area.”

“Nah, they’re probably stationed somewhere by now and will wait until morning. They need sleep too, right?” someone else chimed in.

“The normal ones do, yeah, but not the lab freaks,” the soldier to your left grumbled.

He was in his thirties, wearing a worn-out uniform with a few scars peeking out from beneath the sleeves of his coat. You looked up from the French newspaper you were pretending to read and glanced his way.

“You mean the supes?” you asked, shifting on the log the two of you were sitting on.

“Yeah. Those are the real monsters.” The man spoke with a solemn expression, only piquing your curiosity further.

“The command didn’t mention them when they drafted us…” you hummed, secretly hoping the older soldier would tell you more.

“‘Course they didn’t.” He scoffed, giving you a sidelong glance. “Pipsqueaks like you would rather shoot themselves in the head than go to the front knowing what lurks there.”

“You’re talking about Soldier Boy?” you asked immediately, not bothered by the insult. Everyone was frustrated and exhausted, after all. “Is he really that bad?”

“Imagine one of those animals from the Red Army, then add the fact that he’s indestructible and ridiculously strong.” He grunted, reaching for the bottle of beer lying near the campfire.

He didn’t seem particularly interested in talking, at least not to some lowly private like you, so you simply nodded and looked back down at the newspaper.

You didn’t even understand French, but the photographs and sarcastic illustrations were enough to make one thing clear: The Reich was falling apart.

And much of it was thanks to the supe soldiers.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Just moments later, you felt a hand clasp your shoulder and jumped slightly.

“I never thought you could read,” someone said with amusement before stepping over the log and taking a seat right next to you.

It was your friend, one of the young men who had been recruited at the same time as you. You smiled faintly at him before shaking your head.

“I can’t. I’m just looking at the pictures,” you teased lightly.

“Well, I can.” He snatched it out of your hands, opening it to the front page with a curious hum.

“You know French?” you asked, shifting a little closer to hear him better over the voices of the other soldiers sharing beer around the campfire.

Your friend nodded proudly, though his expression grew somber as he began reading. “Well, it seems the Allies are already celebrating victory.”

“We’re doomed, aren’t we?” Your voice grew quieter as your eyes followed his gaze back to the page.

“Yeah, it says here that the Normandy landings were a huge success thanks to the supes.” He pointed at one of the articles. “The French are already thinking about how they’re going to punish the Reich.”

“So we’ll come back as losers, with no prospects? They’ll definitely force us to demilitarize. We’ll be left jobless…” you said, immediately starting to spiral.

Your friend let out a quiet laugh and glanced at you.

“It doesn’t sound like such a big problem to me. I wanted to move out anyway, study abroad… you know.” He folded the newspaper and leaned back. “We could both leave. It’s not like either of us is particularly patriotic.”

Your smile grew a little warmer. The prospect of leaving it all behind—the war and the death surrounding you—was more than just a little appealing.

“I’ll think about it,” you murmured, looking back at the campfire. “But it does sound lovely.”

Only after an hour of sitting together did you finally get up, say goodbye, and return to your tent.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Somewhere in the middle of the night, you jolted awake from the mat you had been sleeping on, roused by terrifying screams coming from outside the tent. You recognized several voices belonging to your comrades, now crying out in pain, begging and letting out horrifying screams.

It all felt like a bad dream, but you quickly grabbed your rifle anyway and crawled toward the exit, peeking out from behind the fabric flap.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Many tents were ablaze, and the Nazi flag burned atop its pole. Gunshots were practically drowned out, as most of the soldiers were already writhing in agony in pools of their own blood.

Above them, however, stood not an entire Allied or Soviet unit, but a single man in a dark greenish outfit, now almost completely drenched in the red liquid that had, until recently, flowed through the veins of German soldiers.

“Fuckin’ Nazis,” his disgusted grumble was followed by the sickening sound of a skull cracking.

The poor man Soldier Boy had just stepped on was the same friend you had been talking to only a few hours earlier.

You didn’t know how long you crouched there. You couldn’t move, frozen by the horror unfolding before your eyes. Your grip on the rifle loosened, your hands too shaky to keep hold of the weapon.

Just a few minutes later, it was all over. The fire still smoldered across the grass, the fabric roofs of the tents, and the bodies of your comrades.

Many of them lay dead with their heads or other body parts torn off, while others were still weakly choking on their own blood. The rest were dying quietly, like slaughtered animals, closing their eyes in unbearable agony yet refusing to let a supe have the satisfaction of hearing their cries.

The silence itself was sickening. Just yesterday, the camp had been filled with chatting, complaining, and the occasional laugh. Now it had all died away, reduced to the quiet sounds of sobs coming from those who still could.

You desperately tried to remain silent, even though the sight of the corpses made you nauseous. Somehow, your tent was the only one that hadn’t caught fire, but it wasn’t much of a blessing.

“Goddamned animals,” came another grunt from outside.

You stared with wide, terrified eyes as Soldier Boy wiped some of the blood from his hands with your country’s flag before tossing it onto the pile of bodies like a used rag.

Unfortunately, your traitorous brain forced you to look at your friend’s corpse again. His skull was completely flattened, crushed beneath the supe’s boot like an ant. Even his own parents wouldn’t have been able to recognize what was left of their son.

The rifle slipped from your grip as you tried to stop yourself from throwing up. It didn’t help much, and you vomited onto the ground with a quiet whine. The full reality of the situation still hadn’t sunk in.

The sound, however, caught Ben’s attention.

You realized it far too late to crawl out of the tent and run for your life. His footsteps—loud and unmistakable against the ground—felt like an approaching death sentence, and perhaps that’s exactly what they were.

“You Germans are like damn pests,” he muttered to himself before tearing open the entrance of the tent with one sharp tug.

It exposed you completely, crouching there, shaking with terror. You couldn’t force a single word out of your mouth, your throat too dry and your heart hammering against your ribs.

“You’re prettier than the other rats,” he said, though it didn’t help you at all. “Bet they were passin’ you ’round, eh?”

Your stomach clenched painfully. Your lips parted, but no words came out beyond a quiet: “Please… I…”

“Shut up, dog," Ben scoffed and yanked you out of the tent by the collar of your uniform before throwing you to the ground.

Your fingers dug uselessly into the dirt as your knees landed in a puddle of mud mixed with blood. You couldn’t even begin to wonder whose blood it was before Soldier Boy stepped forward and drove a brutal kick into your side.

You cried out, feeling at least two of your ribs crack. The impact sent you flying, your back slamming against the ground with another sickening thud.

Ben simply followed after you, which was probably much worse. He slowly lowered himself into a crouch at your side, watching as your hands clutched helplessly at your chest as though that could ease the pain.

“Just look at ya,” he taunted, reaching out to grip your jaw tightly and force you to meet his gaze.

You whimpered, tears finally filling your eyes. You didn’t even try to wriggle free from his grip; it would only make the pain worse.

“All your pride gone, huh?” he mocked again, turning your head so you were forced to face the pile of your comrades’ bodies. “Did you like any of ’em?”

“You monster…” you replied weakly, but there was no heat in your voice. Terror and grief overwhelmed whatever rage you might have otherwise felt.

“Funny, comin’ from a Nazi," Ben’s grip shifted, his fingers wrapping tightly around your neck. He forced you onto your knees before standing himself, looking down at you from his position of power.

Every movement sent pain shooting through your body, and the knowledge that nothing could save you only deepened the hopelessness settling over you. He wanted to humiliate you. You knew it.

“Look at me, boy,” he ordered flatly.

Summoning what little courage you had left, you clenched your hands into fists and mumbled quietly, “I’d rather die.”

It was definitely the wrong answer.

Soldier Boy released your neck only long enough to slap you across the face, the impact sending your head snapping violently to the side.

It was nothing like anything you had ever experienced. His inhuman strength turned even a simple slap into something devastating, enough to break your nose and send blood slowly trickling over your lips.

"Dumb mutt," he grunted, reaching out to fist his hand in your hair. "So eager, aren't we?"

Your brows furrowed and your lips pressed into a tight line. You still refused to look at the monster who slaughtered your friends, but Soldier Boy's first instinct was always to break the little humanity and dignity people on the front had left.

He released his grip on your hair and pushed two fingers into your mouth, forcing your jaw to open. You tried to bite him, naturally, but to no avail. Ben didn't even budge; if anything, your bold move only made him more frustrated.

He didn't bother with slapping you this time—he straight-up punched you in the face, nearly causing you to fall back from the dizziness that hit you right after.

"Resistin' gets you nowhere." He growled, pulling you back in before unzipping his pants with one, sharp tug at the zipper.

You knew it'd happen, you really did. That was probably the most humiliating thing he could come up with, after all. And because he was a supe, you didn't really have any other option but to obey—or he'd make you.

Soldier Boy pulled his fingers out of your mouth and wrapped his hand around his cock. It hardened pretty quickly, already leaking precum from the tip before he even managed to slip it past your lips.

"Bet you'll take it like a pro," he mocked and twisted his other hand in your hair, yanking your head back sharp enough to sting.

Then came another tug— a much rougher one—that made you gasp. Ben used the fact that your mouth fell open and with one, sharp thrust forward buried his entire length inside.

Your lips stretched around the intrusion obscenely, your mind screaming at you, telling you to bite his cock off but you didn't. It probably wouldn't work either way.

It didn't take long for Soldier Boy to start pushing forward, fucking into your mouth, one push of his hips forward after another. You could barely breathe whenever the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, making you gag and choke around it.

"Fuck, just like that," he groaned, tilting his head back. He didn't need to look at your face to know you were disgusted and in unbearable pain.

"That's what you Nazis are good for," he continued in between thrusts. "Dyin' and suckin'."

Then his eyes finally trailed back down to the sight of you on your knees, uniform all stained and bloodied. What didn't satisfy him, however, wasn't the fact that you were completely still, it was that you weren't looking.

He tugged on your hair once more, guiding your head to tilt to the side. "Eyes on your comrades, boy," he cooed mockingly.

You were barely responsive when you forced yourself to glance at the pile of lifeless bodies. In a way, you were jealous of them. At least they died like heroes.

Ben's hips started stuttering, his groans and grunts filled the damp, night air. Every next thrust forward was rougher, more careless, giving you a small hope that soon enough, it'll be over.

When he buried himself to the hilt in your mouth and started unloading down your throat, your hands clenched uselessly around your own uniform. The only sound that left you was a quiet, pained whimper when your cracked ribs and his cock in your mouth didn't allow you to take a full breath.

"Took it like a good boy," it came out more degrading than praising. Ben pulled out and took in the sight in front of him.

You, kneeling in mud and blood, with dried tears on your cheeks and an empty look in your eyes. One of the corners of his lips turned upward.