𓃦JOLLY𓃥

English is not my native language and I haven’t written in over two months. Pls bear with me

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~9k (don't ask)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES I'M ALIVE. And stealth dropping this patchwork piece. I was screaming at our tv screen after ep. 6 (haven't seen the new ones yet). This epsiode season needed fixing ASAP. (Is it far fetched and confusing? Perhaps. but at this point, fanfic Ben's less ooc than the canon one, right?)

“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit.” 

Soldier Boy says her name. Always her name. 

But the face that’s meant to be before his inner eyes? The voice that’s still somewhere buried inside his messed up head? It’s not Clara. Not Liberty. Not Stormfront, or whatever the fuck they’d called her.

It’s yours.

And if even one shred of your shared memory was still untouched, he’d know it’s always been you. In all of them. 

None of this will make a lick of sense though, so let’s scrub back to how it all started.

Ever since Soldier Boy was defrosted, again, things were fucked up.

And it’s not just how, soon as he’s out of the fridge, he’s been sent to the fucking woodchipper thanks to a supe killing virus, which is apparently a thing now. Or how his asexual weirdo son’s only way of getting his dick wet is by bathing in tit-jizz. Or how everyone at Vought wants to crawl up said weirdo’s shithole, preaching he’s God.

It’s worse than that.

It’s inside his head.

He says "it" when muttering in front of the vanity mirror like he’s a soft pussy on fucking meth, but what he really means, is a voice. 

And here’s the thing; That voice isn’t actually talking. There’s no words, nothing he could argue with and shut down. 

But it’s there. 

Since he’s back. 

He knows it is - he can feel it hovering behind him, breathing next to his ear. It’s a rotting corpse in the trenches right behind his conscious mind. Right out of reach. Or else he would’ve throttled it by now. He’s tried that in his dreams; His fingers curl around the faceless figure, squeezing it until it gives in with that satisfying sound of a crushed egg. 

But the moment his eyes snap open? You are there again. 

And that was really starting to piss him off. Which said a lot, considering Soldier Boy’s lived through the whiff-and-snort sixties without his brain ever dribbling out of his fuckin’ ears. He’d snorted it all; cocaine, LSD, gasoline - you name it, it crossed his nose. Never did jack shit to him.

But this? 

He swears, he’s going to lose his fucking mind.

Which has led him to only one conclusion; this must be a farewell gift of the Reds. 

“Can Elmo tell you a secret?”

Now that voice is not coming from inside his head. Ben had the TV running some random bullshit show in the background, hoping it would drown out whatever he’s dealing with at the moment. So far, it has done nothing more than shift his annoyance – which he’ll take as a win. 

From his angle, he can see just enough of the TV screen to judge their stupid faces.

“Sure, little dude,” Andy Samberg beams with the enthusiasm of somebody whose ballsack’s being held hostage by a mousetrap. Ben sneers at the thought. “Secrets are healthy!” 

“Like how your balls’re in the pincers?” Ben barbs from the bathroom.

Andy leans down for the fuzzy orange puppet to whisper next to his ear. 

“Sometimes Elmo hears voices that tell Elmo things.”

“Well, is it the voice of Homelander?”

“No…”

Andy’s lips twitch into a tight smile. “Ooff, buddy. Looks like the Starlighters got into your head.” 

A laugh track erupts – the same moment doors slam open off screen, two Vought security guards storm on set.

“What the f–” The Elmo puppet gets violently yanked out of the frame as the puppeteer screams somewhere under the stage. “Wait, wait! I didn’t post that meme– Andy! Please– tell ‘em!”

Andy sucks in a breath and turns back to the camera with a shaky smile.

“Remember, kids! See something, say something! Even if it’s your best friend.”

“And you still don’t fuckin’ listen.”

How parents let their kids watch these whacko shows nowadays is beyond him. Back in his day, they at least had perky pin-up girls for their propaganda. He turns on the tab, splashes some water into his face. He thinks back of those perfect million-dollar legs of Betty Grable, and how they’d bounced on his shoulders when he’d railed her on the producer’s desk. Good fuckin’ times.

“Oi, you cunt. I said, you never fuckin’ listen to me.”

Ben’s grin dies.

The TV keeps spewing some happy kid’s show melody. Only that this time, the voice didn’t come from the television.

Ben’s face snaps up towards the mirror – then he freezes.

There’s a man standing behind him. 

He quickly turns to look over his shoulder just to be met with the golden towel rack on the wall. 

“You never loved ‘er,” you drawl in a thick British accent from behind him. Ben’s head turns back.

The guy’s still there, inside his mirror; Black hair, black trenchcoat, a Hawaiian shirt.

“Butcher?” his eyes go wide, his upper lip twitches. “You fucking bastard betrayed me–”

“Betray ya?” you cut him short, “And what about me? You completely forgot about me, didn’t ya?” 

“Get out of my fucking head,” Ben growls and swings his arm to smash the mirror. Butcher’s face shatters. 

It effectively makes him vanish, just for another figure to pop up on the opposite side.

“Ooh, but mon Petit Soldat, no can do. You need to pull your dick out of your ass and–” More glass crumbles beneath Soldier Boy’s knuckles. 

“–and stop fucking around with Clara.” This time Hughie pipes up from the upper corner of the still intact mirror.

“I’m not–” Ben clenches his teeth, the jaw muscle ticking under his beard when he sees that pussy’s face looking down at him, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.”

“Are you… sure?”

Hughie’s eyebrows do that thing like he knows something Ben doesn’t, and all it does is make him remember why he’s always wanted to punch that kid in the face. 

“Get. The fuck. Out,” Ben grits out. His fist smashes the spot where his knuckles would have connected with his nose. It explodes into more pieces. 

Silence. 

Ben huffs through his nose. Roughly combs the damp hair back and out of his face.

His eyes dart up into the last unscathed corner when he senses more movement.

There’s… a bird? In fact, it’s America’s mascot— his mascot; wearing the green helmet and all. There’s even the American Flag rising in slow motion behind the cracks. 

“I’m inside your head, Ben,” the eagle says in his own comic-voice, then its beak cracks wide open, blinding him with a row of very unnaturally shiny human teeth, “I must know.” 

Christ on a stake. He’s losing it.

Ben stormed out of the bathroom without even taking the rest of the mirror down. He scrambles for the phone, the cable one next to his bed – his hands are too shaky for the flimsy little pocket buzzer – he pauses. Looks down at his free hand hovering in the air. It’s unsteady.

The moment the call connects, Soldier Boy’s grip tightens around the handset.

“Get me a bowl full of cocaine. Pronto.”

If cocaine could still make him as high as any normal person, he’d be up in the fucking stratosphere right now, painting the sky white with his spunk. 

He had just gone through powder worth 200 grand like it’s nothing. Soldier Boy drops back into the couch with a satisfied groan. He lazily wipes the dust off his nose and beard, while his other hand fondles the bulge between his legs. It’s getting uncomfortably tight down there – just like he’d hoped. With his dick rock hard and his head buzzing to the sound of Colombia, he’d call his plan a success so far. 

Time to bust a nut.

While he lets Firecracker ride him, he allows his eyes to slide close, enjoying the blissful state of absolutely-fucking-nada filling his head. He doesn’t even bother to play his part. He just lets her bounce on his dick like a pathetic bunny in heat. 

After all, this works like a fucking charm. 

Until it doesn’t.

Once Firecracker rolls off him with a cry of ecstasy, Soldier Boy reaches for his joint and hums, feeling absolutely confident in his victory. 

“Oi, you done with lyin’ there like a dead nun?”

Soldier Boy’s irritation flares up.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean, huh?” He asks, annoyed. Clearly his focus is on the blunt he’d prepared on the bedside table, because if he’d spare the girl that just got him off a single glance, he’d see her confused look.

“What?” Firecracker questions. 

Soldier Boy turns to watch her slip under the covers next to him. The voice goes on.

“Now, why don’t you boot the girl and you and me can go back to our proper lil’ chinwag?”

Soldier Boy’s teeth grind down, the blunt snaps in half.

You are still there.

The elevator dings. He says a few words to Sister Sage, but doesn’t really listen.

The following days go by in a blur. He’s learned to endure and ignore you like a yapping dog from the neighbours. A very, very, annoying little Commie bitch-dog with a knack for doing his head in. 

Which he can’t kick. Or stomp. Or crush. Or throttle. Or–

Truth is, each minute feels like he’s getting closer to turning into one of those twitchy fucking flower people. Except that he doesn’t assfuck to the voice of Jimi Hendrix, and he hasn’t met God yet, either. And no, a meetup with his overgrown baby gravy does not qualify as a Godly intervention in his book, even if there seems to be no ceiling to how much of a wackjob he is.

At least he, unlike that asswipe, doesn't let any of that get to him. 

Sure, you’re still there. And yes, he hasn’t found a way yet to smother you for good. But he’s been through worse.

So, Soldier Boy strides out of the elevator, his chin held high, face as neutral as ever. 

If it wasn’t for his calm exterior, he’s convinced that Cleopatra Jones back there would be balls deep up in his business right now. Not that he’d give two fucks about Sister Sage and the way her eyes try to laser a hole into the back of his skull. To make that work, you’d need to be able to read his mind — tough luck, sister.

Although, the thought of letting her skinny-dip in his fucked up brain juice for just a minute, does put a leer on his face. 

That is, until it’s overwritten by a mildly annoyed frown.

Soldier Boy rubs the side of his palm against his temple. What’s that throbbing sensation inside his skull? A sudden jolt makes him stumble for a second and catch himself with his arm braced against the wall. 

The hell was that?

“Where’s that fucking powder...” he grumbles to himself, while emptying each of his pockets in vain. He digs his knuckles into his pounding forehead until the feeling fizzles out.

He’s pissed off at his own body. 

Soldier Boy doesn’t get ‘a headache’. He doesn’t even get a head-scratch. The strongest supe doesn’t get sick—

His dick’s pulsing. His hips stutter, hands grasping at flesh and bones. 

He knows this room. Or at least he thinks he does. The sheets smell familiar, the music’s too. But the details blur when he tries to grab them. Was this in New York? In Berlin? Why the fuck can’t he remember?

A pair of tits jiggle above him. He wants to grope them, bury his beard between them – no, wait.

He doesn’t have a beard yet. 

He wants to feel the smooth skin of his jaws under the touch of fingernails.

“Fuck– yes! That’s it!” He can’t make out the voice. But it sounds familiar, too. 

He feels the warm body arch beneath him, then go slack. He wraps an arm around it, rests his chin right above the tits. He lets his eyes trail over the curves and bumps, lets himself breathe it all in. He loves that familiar scent that’s clouding his mind. It made– it still makes him feel stupidly fuzzy inside. He can’t help it, even as he scoffs to his younger self at how much of a wuzzy he’s become in the arms of— 

Huh, the name’s escaped him.

A hand that has threaded into the back of his hair, draws his attention up. The fingers begin to comb his short strands. The tender touch makes his eyes flutter. 

“Mein Übermensch…” the voice coos. 

Uh-huh, he hears himself think, whatever the fuck makes you nut, but don’t stop what you’re doin’.

“You only love me, don’t you?” She asks. And damn, she’s demanding.

He recognizes her now. Clara. But he still can’t put together when this happened.

Meanwhile, his memory-self’s immediate response is Yes, only you.

Now that makes Ben halt the scene right there. 

Sure, alright. He’d fucked the nazi bitch two times. Two! They were both high as fuck and she had a nice pair of tits along with a superiority complex that somehow scratched his ego just the right way.

He scrubs the memory back, but it starts to slip him the more he tries to focus on it. At least the images do. The emotions on the other hand slap him in the face like the wet dick of Gary Busey — hard, fucking ugly and definitely out of place. 

Because the moment Clara’s face comes into view, his chest aches so fucking much. He can’t place the feeling. It’s as if he’s about to lose something real important to him.

Soldier Boy groans when he pushes off the hallway’s wall again. 

The images which had flashed across his inner eyes are gone the next moment. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. It lasted no more than a few seconds, but felt like so much more.

Where the hell did that just come from? Is this some kinda after-effect of my time in the freezer? Did the Commies fuck with my memories?

And how the fuck could I forget about Clara?

Ever since Soldier Boy’s regained a new piece of his past, he’s become obsessed with it. 

“It”, not being the voice in his head any longer –that one finally pissed off–, but Clara. 

There’s so much that irritates him about this whole new development. 

Him and Clara? Not just the fucking and the drinking and riding it out on the roof of the Ritz-Carlton, but more?

All he wants to do is shrug it off as some weird shit that’s happened between them while his head was stuffed with nose candy. He wants to ignore the thought that maybe, the Reds didn’t plant something new into his brain, but maybe, they’d ripped something open which he’d buried himself. Ben wants nothing but to ignore the way he gets yanked around by the inside of his chest whenever he recalls that new memory. At this point he’d even prefer you chewing off his ear over this sweet sticky crap he’s got to deal with now.

He hates that feeling. He’s not a pussy for Christ’s sake. In fact, he wouldn’t even know what to do with it when shoved down his throat. All of that fuzzy-buzzy crap, like staring at a picture with those longing eyes of a lovesick puppy – that’s for the weak and the ladies. 

As if to prove his point, Soldier Boy kicks a thick branch out of the dirt with a lot more force than needed. It cannonballs into the horizon.

With the victorious grunt of a caveman, he continues his path through the woods, taking point with his weirdo son glued to his ass.

Soldier Boy would have turned over every desk and tore apart every computer at Vought in search for more information about Clara. Anything that helps him get rid of this disgusting new feeling that’s been lodged within his ribs. But he couldn’t risk Homelander returning successfully from Fort Harmony. His annoying knuckle child becoming immortal is the least thing he’d need right now. 

The fact that they’re marching towards the place where everything began, is not really helping either. Even if Soldier Boy wouldn’t ever admit how just the large letters spelling out “Fort Harmony Medical Department” coming into view, winds him tighter than he already is.

A twig snaps under his boot. He exchanges some sarcastic quips with Homelander while they walk up to the building resting behind the trees, but in reality, his mind wanders elsewhere again. 

What really gets to him is the idea that there’s more of his past. So much more, that his body reacts to it against his own will. The feeling of her touch, her scent, her love – it’s strangely real, even for something he still denies. Clara. That name holds so much more weight now. So much more history he’s been robbed of, whether he likes it or not. And even if every fibre of his body fights his emotions tied to that memory, he cannot help but wonder; What else is he missing?

The idea has latched onto him like a tick. Taking hold of every thought.

He just has to know. 

As if reading his mind, Homelander suddenly points out that, “The other day, when Clara Vought’s name came up, I had the impression you knew her.” 

But unlike his son, Ben has no intention of sharing that new obsession with him.

Therefore, Soldier Boy once again answers with his standard phrase, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.” 

Still, Homelander yaps on. “You did? I guess we’re related in more ways than one.” Soldier Boy’s muscles coil up more with every word wasted between them. The thought of his own fucking son being anywhere close to Clara has no room in his mind. 

It does open a new question though. If she’s still alive then–

“Where is she?” 

Homelander glances back at him.

“Dead,” he answers flatly, “Suicide.” 

Soldier Boy stops dead in his tracks. She’s immortal like him. She has to be out there.

“Horseshit,” he growls, his eyes narrowing when Homelander just keeps walking. “She’d never off herself.”

“Yeah, well, she did,” he says simply. Soldier Boy’s shoulders tense up. That goddamn hook in his chest dragging his emotions into the open again. And with it, that tick spews new ideas into his system – he doesn’t even know where they’re coming from. New thoughts to latch onto. New hope. 

She must still be out there, right? Maybe Clara’s waiting for him, holding all the answers. The way he was waiting to be saved while the Reds fucking burned and prodded him. 

“Did you see a body?” he shouts after him, but is left with no answer.

Soldier Boy wants to go after him, wants to grip his shoulder and beat the truth out of that pathetic cape-sack. 

Instead, he staggers. 

He braces himself against a nearby tree, the pounding behind his eyes growing stronger. He slaps himself against the forehead. Then shakes his head, hoping it might rattle some cogs loose–

Music plays from a phonograph. Blue and red striped bedsheets are twisted around his legs. He’s leaned against the headrest.

“You know, I could get you some,” his young-self says while watching the smoke curl up towards the ceiling. A body shifts next to him. He can’t remember which girl it is that he’d hooked up with this time.

“Am I not perfect enough?” She answers in a distinctive accent. 

Right. Now he remembers. Immortal. She’s immortal like him  — Why the hell did you fuckin’ idiot even consider getting her V1? 

She hums something, and suddenly she’s rolled halfway onto his body to look down at him. 

“Huh?” Ben frowns up at the bright silhouette above him. It takes him a moment to make out her face, like a polaroid picture that’s still gaining colour and shape. 

“Thinking of your future, hm?”  she repeats. Once Ben’s eyes have focused, his frown deepens. 

“Clara?” he utters her name in slight confusion and if he wouldn’t know any better, he’d say the memory-Clara reacts to it. 

Ben stills. Was that just him now or him back then talking? 

Up until now, the room had felt warm and familiar. The music in the background, the sweetish scent of vanilla mixed with the musk of sex. It’s just like the first time; The emotional pull is there, he just cannot quite figure out why the visuals don’t match up in his head.

But now the room temperature just dropped. 

“Benjamin,” she says firmly, a hand snaking down between his legs to regain his attention. And she gets it, both of his versions’. He feels himself tense up in response – huh, that’s not the reaction he’d expected. For some reason, it doesn’t sit well with him that she’s pressed herself against him like that. Is this still part of the memory? He can’t tell anymore where this thing starts and where his present ends.

Clara doesn’t seem to mind either way cause she goes on with that special lilt of hers. “You’re the strongest Supe alive. You don’t get to deal with mortality.”

He doesn’t get how these memories work. One moment he’s a spectator, the next he’s shoved on set without a script or any idea what the fuck he’s even doing here.

“Perhaps,” Ben grunts nonchalantly and shrugs. He’s trying his damndest to ignore how his dick twitches between her slender fingers. Aren’t we supposed to fuck now? 

Clara finally closes her grip around him, after she’s lifted herself fully up to perch on his bare chest. “You’re not a man.” She commends, squeezing him with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. He’s not a fan of the way her lips curl – the fluttering thing in the pit of his stomach disagrees vehemently. “You’re the greatest expression of what humanity can offer.”

Soldier Boy stares back at her, brows pulled together. He may like the sound of that, but frankly speaking, she could dangle the sweetest pussy in front of his face right now and he’d still rather go for that bowl of white powder that’s waiting in his real-present-selves loft right now. This brain-scrambling nonsense was getting him nowhere – fine, on a second thought, maybe he’ll let her finish him off first. It’d be a shame to let a wet memory-dream-whatever-the -fuck this is, go to waste, right? – but then he’s done here. 

Just when he’d let a small groan form in the back of his throat, he almost chokes on it.

Clara’s face flickers. Like radio static. 

All of a sudden, a different voice cuts in – it’s out of sync with Clara’s still moving lips, and it’s distorted, fragile – but he can make some of it out.

“Listen—- don’t—- it’s me, Stargate–”

He blinks. And you’re gone. 

“Right,” he finally says, although he’s not sure anymore what the conversation was even about. Neither does he care.

His mind’s racing now. It’s grappling with his memory as it refuses to let the name click into place; Stargate. 

He repeats it. 

Notices a strange feeling beneath his skin when he does – like he’s high on some new fuckin’ drug – so he keeps doing it. Stargate, Stargate, Stargate.

As if the woman that’s straddling his chest can sense his shift of emotions, she suddenly leans down to catch his lips in a kiss. It breaks into his mind. The memory sinks its claws into him, turns hungry and wild and – off.

Soldier Boy’s already walking down the halls of Fort Harmony when he’s snapped back. Homelander’s talking next to him, apparently they are mid-argument. 

If only he knew what the fuck just happened.

Ben was convinced that regaining more of his memories would feel, I don’t know, good? That it would bring him the answers he was looking for. Maybe even give him a purpose in this modern world, where so far he’s just been made to feel like a really handsome relic.

It has done nothing more than confuse him even more.

First Clara. Then Stargate. Were you the thing the Commies had stuffed into his skull? The vault that keeps him from regaining his memories?

No. That doesn’t make any sense. (As if anything still made sense at this point.) The sound of your voice, of your name, it triggered something in him. He can’t quite grasp it, but it’s there. See? That’s why he hates this whole ‘touchy-feely’ crap. There’s nothing for him to work with. Just another hazy notion which he’d gladly trade for a grenade or a stroll through a minefield.

Unfortunately, Fort Harmony offers him neither.

After sending his annoying son to the time out, Soldier Boy’s roaming the ruins of the Medical Department, in search for the V1, and for answers. Mainly for answers. 

He’s digging through old papers, the dust swirling up into the air making him cough. 

Nothing. No V1, no clues. 

He curses – moves to the desk instead, where he yanks the drawers right out of their sockets. The wood clatters, its innards spilling across the cold floor. He steps over it, eyes scanning the papers.

There must at least be something about Stargate here. Anything - anything at all. Did he just make you up in his head? 

His boot kicks over another pile of Vought files. All he’s greeted with is the black and white picture of his old teammates. They seem to judge him even from the floor. He ignores it and moves to a different desk. 

If you’re a Supe old enough to show up in his early memories, then you must’ve been jabbed in this place.

Yet, there’s nothing. 

He swings his arm into the side of the table, flipping it over and into a row of lockers. 

“Fuck!” he shouts. His voice echoes off the cold walls. He turns on the spot, yells at nothing particular when a hint of desperation seeps through his voice. “C’mon, talk to me, damnit!”

Nothing.

“You’ve been riding my face for two fuckin’ weeks and now you just fuck off?!” 

Silence.

His hopes lie in the dust. The darkness swallows what’s left.

You’re not here anymore. Hell, maybe you never were.

CLINK.

His attention snaps to the open doorway. “Stargate?” he blurts, almost hopeful.

Only to be met with – who the fuck’s that guy? He stares at him, wide eyed. Then he sticks his tongue out before he makes a break for it. 

It takes Ben a moment to process what just happened. But his instincts kick in naturally and he gives chase.

His boots thunder down the hallways, down the stairs, further down into the lower level of the building. That midget is fast, he’s gotta hand it to him. Finally he’s got him cornered, skidding to a halt in front of the basement. 

His eyes widen slightly. His focus is drawn to a mangled body that’s merged with the wall, sprouting vines and ooze.

“My God. Quinn,” Ben mutters in disbelief.

He wanted to find the V1 and destroy it. Wanted to find you – Or at least a trace of your existence. Just enough proof that you were real.

But all he’s got to stumble upon is Quinn. That piece of shit.

You still looking for her? 

“The fuck’d you say?” Ben growls, but Quinn barely manages to twitch a bulging eye. The guy forgotten in the corner, Frenchie, squints, looking back and forth between the two. 

She’s not here. She never was.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Ben grits out between his clenched teeth. He wants to shout more, but a flash of searing pain splitting his skull in half, forces his eyes to squeeze shut.

He just blinked. But now the cool basement is gone. 

“What the fuck…”

Ben slowly turns his head, takes in the white walls and its soft shadows, the fairy lights hanging off the rack, the twisted sheets on the bed. He takes a slow step into the room, testing the floorboards – then halts, his eyes locking with those of a plush monkey. He slightly tilts his head, and for fucks sakes, there’s more of them on every surface, and they’re all staring back at him with their dead eyes.

“Ben..? Is that really you?” The soft voice has his focus shift to the end of the room. 

There she sits. Tied down to the chair in that skintight red suit, just like he’d last seen her. That same old wretched face. 

So, that’s what this is. Another memory. This is getting ridiculous. He knows this memory, nothing new to discover here – so he decides to snap out of it.

But he’s still here.

The fuck?

And of course, the unasked for details of that moment come crashing down on him now. Ben’s jaw tightens. As it seems, his body cannot tell the difference, because he’s not just remembering this, he’s reliving the moment.

“You killed me,” Crimson Countess accuses and gets him to look at her. 

Ben doesn’t move, knowing she’s right. Instead, a weight forms on his chest. The shit he keeps buried starts digging its way back up. Again.

“You said you hated me.” Ben’s hurt is thinly veiled when he speaks. 

“We all did,” she spits each word like venom. That makes Ben pause.

“So, I deserved to be tortured and pumped with poison for forty years like some fucking lab rat. Is that what you’re saying?” he asks, and he doesn’t even realize how pained he looks when voicing the million-dollar question. 

No – he doesn’t care. He has to know. He has to know whether he’s really “the greatest expression of what humanity can offer” or he’s just an asshole that deserves to rot in Hell. Probably both–

“Ben. Don’t listen to her.” 

Ben jolts. Because Crimson Countess’ red lips move, but no voice comes out, like she’s been muted. Hold on – this time, he recognizes the voice.

“Stargate?” he calls out your name. His head whirls around, but no one else is there. Then something moves in his peripheral vision. 

Slowly, one of the monkeys has its head turned to face him. 

“The fu–” Ben doesn’t even get to finish a curse, when another monkey slowly cranes its neck back. Followed by the ugly as sin one hanging off the rack. And another, and another. A wall full of plush monkeys with the aura of a creepy doll collection.

Ben takes a tentative step back. Each one of them adjusts their stitched beady eyes to keep them locked onto him. 

Then, the monkeys all begin to chatter one after the other, like a TV that’s switching channels. Every time ripping open another stitched mouth, sputtering stuffing as they throw chopped up words at him and expect him to catch them all.

“Remember-–” 

“This isn’t–” 

“She’s corrupting your–” 

“—and my face–” 

“Don’t give the–”

CRACK.

They – you – go silent all at once. 

Their fuzzy bodies begin buzzing on the spot just as the walls begin to shake. Ben has to steady himself for a moment, the back of his knees bumping into the bedframe behind him. When he looks up again, the stuffed animals are leaking something crimson from their eyes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Hey– keep talking to me!” he demands but is cut short as each one of them explodes into a puff of red glitter. 

Ben stands there. 

Glitter’s raining down on him. He’s muttering a hoarse, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” while he’s trying to scrub the panic out of his face. But apparently, he doesn’t get a break.

Something’s touching his foot.

“Fuck!” Ben shouts, and in a knee-jerk reaction spins around to stomp down on whatever’s latched onto his ankle. A sickening squelching crack echoes off the walls. But the sound wouldn’t be reason enough for him to suddenly go rigid. 

It’s when he recognizes the maimed body that’s crawled out from beneath the bed, now pinned beneath his boot. At least what’s left of it – it’s more of a lump of meat with stubs for what once were limbs and a few loose strands of black hair that stick to its skull.

Clara rolls her head on its own axis until her eyes meet his. Ben’s breath stops for a moment.

“You wouldn’t ever forget about us,” she says, and smiles. In every broken way, she curls her lips further than naturally possible, “right, Benjamin?”

Ben doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He can’t breathe anymore. 

“But–” 

Ben’s head snaps around as Crimson chimes in in a distorted voice, like she’s just joining a conversation. 

“Why did you burn me? You said you loved mmmeee—” the word stretches on, warbling in a slow, sickening way. 

Meanwhile Ben watches with a stony expression how Crimson Countess’ face begins to rip into long stripes, her skin peeling back to reveal a charcoal body beneath. Then, a white, blinding light floods the room. The silhouette of what was Crimson, then Clara, then Quinn – it’s all burning.

Ben doubles over when the darkness of the basement spits him out again. He’s clutching his knees, chest heaving, struggling for air.

“Fuck. I’m so fucking sorry,” he mutters between his labored breaths.

Once Ben looks up, he is met with the burnt remains of what once was Quinn’s mangled body fused with the wall. He killed him too.

Maybe that’s what’s happening to him. 

He’s the undertaker of his own grave. He’s planned his own burial alive without realizing it.

His entire past – his memories, his relationships, his purpose – it’s all crumbling to dust, piece by piece. Soon he’ll be the last one standing. Locked into this mess of a head of his.

You thought you wouldn’t die alone? Pathetic. 

The words echo off the cold walls. Then the voice fucking laughs. Maybe Quinn’s. Maybe yours. Hell, maybe his own. He can’t tell anymore – it doesn’t change anything.

He will die alone. If he can die at all, that is. 

And worst is, he fucking deserves it.

“Just do it already,” Ben husks out. But Homelander, who's back from his corner, doesn’t move, just hovers in the doorway. Ben’s shoulders hunch when he realizes how his words came out unusually broken and wet. He really is pathetic.

He’s still here.

Alive. Alone. Potato, fucking potato. 

Soldier Boy hasn’t slept since they’ve returned from Fort Harmony. The question, why he’s still here, is tearing him apart. And frankly, he has passed the point of trying to deny it, or at least he would, if anybody asked.

He still can’t get you out of his head. Although you’d stopped talking to him days ago. The only exception being when you’d possessed a collection of monkeys in his fucked up brain. He keeps replaying the words you’d said then, over and over. As if it will jumpstart a new thought, or trigger a new memory if he just tries hard enough. The bitter truth is, he still knows jack shit about you.

He thinks he should know. No, that’s not right. It’s more like… he feels something, like he should remember. Which, once again, is an odd thing to say when you’re as emotionally constipated as Soldier Boy.

Which is why he’d rather not risk opening that pandora’s box further.

So, suck it up and onwards it is. And thanks to Homelander, that path leads him across half of America to visit Los Angeles. He fucking hates Los Angeles. 

But it still beats the alternative.

If he knew, that by the end of his day, he was going to end up bombshell-throwing Seth Rogan and spilling baby oil to catch a speedster, he would’ve probably – actually, no. Soldier Boy would’ve absolutely picked Los Angeles over another fucking fieldtrip to monkey-memory-land.

And what’s more, he would’ve missed out on the old Soldier Boy comic he’s eyeing with a smug smirk right now. The fresh blood splatter tainting his comic self crimson, doesn’t bother him. In fact, it kinda adds to the Kraut-hunter flair. He chuckles to himself at the thought, pocketing it.

Just as he turns, a picture between the collection of Nazi plates catches his attention. He steps closer, brows furrowing. 

It’s Clara. At this point she’s haunting him wherever he goes.

Well. If he’d ever been looking for clues about her existence, he’d be holding the key in his hands now. 

Unfortunately, that’s not the thing that’s bothering him when looking at her. If he can trust anything of the recollection he has gained so far, or more like, the emotional package that came with it, Clara was special to him. He’s accepted that much by now. But all that happens when he turns the photo in his hand is, shouldn’t I – I don’t know – feel something? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?

He sets the frame back down. Crosses his arms in front of his chest as he stares down at it.

The face of Clara flickers – Ben blinked. He missed how your face reflected in the frame’s glass, yelling his name. For just a split second. But his subconscious caught it.

And unbeknownst to Ben, it’s enough to complete the process.

Ben's head screams of pain.

All forty years of his time in the torture chamber combined tear through his skull at once.

Images flash before his inner eyes. He recognizes some of them; The music. "Whatever Will Be, Will Be" playing in the background. The bedsheets. The taste of smoke on his tongue. But others are new. A slender hand covering his. Wait - there's that familiar smell of vanilla again. A strand of hair that curls around his finger as he strokes it behind her ear.

For the first time, Ben sees the face of the woman his mind's trying to overwrite; You're gorgeous. Soft light in your hair. Eyes full of love, only for him. When you open your mouth to giggle, he recognizes it at once; Stargate. You're Stargate.

Ben tries to grip you tight. But the lightning bolt that's thundering inside his head tears right through your face. Breaking it to pieces like a mirror.

"Fuck!" Ben groans, his fingers flexing around the edge of the table - or maybe it's a counter - he can't tell anymore.

Something in him turns over hard. Sickening. He fights the feeling that drags itself back up his throat, forces himself to focus on where your face has been moments ago.

There it is again, that terrible ache, that fear, like he’s lost something important.

And now he understands.

Ben drops to his knees, he desperately tries to hold onto the fragments. He tries to remember your laugh. But Clara's voice answers instead. He tries to picture your warm eyes. But Clara smiles back at him instead. He tries glue them back together, form your face with them – but the more his fingers dig into the shards, the more they crumble. 

Your name slips through his fingers next.

The ache in his chest remains.

When the pain in his skull subsides, Ben's eyes refocus on his empty hands in his lap. His fingers still flex, like he was trying to grab for something. He frowns to himself, slightly disoriented. Then his head angles back, his gaze instinctively pulled to the picture frame he'd placed back on the table.

And suddenly, the grief inside his ribs twists into something more; Guilt.

Only now, his mind finally gives it a reason. Clara.

Soldier Boy’s always been an asshole. Deep down, he knows it.

And believe it or not, he regrets it. Not all of it, of course. But some.

Like how he'd disappointed the one person who'd always believed in him. Had loved him unconditionally. Why does he realize that just now?

It’s not fucking fair how decades later, he’s been given the idea that he’s not only been capable of being in love, but actually could have spent eternity with someone he loves. Only to get it yanked from his hands moments later, because he’s not fucking worth it and meant to end up alone.

Alone with a weirdo son he didn’t ask for. 

What’s it worth being more than a man, when you die the pathetic, lonely, and slow death of a forgotten and degraded war hero? 

Bombsight was aware of that. Unlike him. 

And yet, Ben can’t admit that he wished he had gotten the V1 earlier. Maybe had gotten himself someone like Clara. Gotten himself a life he always thought he wasn’t cut out for. 

But all of that regret's worth jack shit, because there's nothing left for him to fix. All he can do now, is do right by her. Just this once.

Soldier Boy blocks his fist — let’s it connect with his forearm. He swivels, grazes his knuckles across Bombsight’s face. 

Then goes for his throat. 

His chest. His guts. 

He drives him back towards the wall – this is almost too easy. 

Then Bombsight twists away just in time, turns, so his fist’s flying towards Ben’s face when his vision suddenly whites out, his skull feeling like it’s cracking open and –

Soft static crackles along the music of Doris Bay’s Que Sera, Sera. The needle jumps from the weight that’s being thrown around the room. The floor imitates a warground with broken wood, ripped clothes, torn pillows, and its feathers swirling through the white powder that’s scattered all over the place. Wood groans as it gets slammed against the wall, over and over. Grunting and the wet slap of skin against skin mix into the rhythm. 

And there you are. 

Your arms are spread out like an eagle, fingers twisted into the smooth fabric of the flag. 

Soldier Boy holds you up by your ass – one hand is enough to keep you in the air. And it gives him the opportunity to pin you to the wall behind his bed with his other, curled around your neck. He’s not putting any pressure on your throat though, how could he?

You look like a fucking Goddess.

“Isn’t this flag desecration?” you smirk down at him, at which Ben’s own grin widens. 

“Doll, I am fucking America,” he snorts. 

“Yeah, literally,” you laugh, then gasp as Ben drives his point home with another punishing roll of his hips. You wrap your legs around his waist, circle his shoulder and his chest with an arm each as you dig your fingers into his skin. Ben hisses – he wishes it was from pain, from feeling every inch of his skin breaking under your nails – he never carries away any marks from you, but he likes to imagine it anyway. At least he can mark you up. 

“Fuck– don’t stop–” you cry out right next to his ear where your forehead has dropped to. Like hell’s he going to stop. Not now, not ever.

“Ain’t stoppin’ till you’ve milked me dry,” he warns. His grip on your ass turns bruising, then moves it to the small of your back for better leverage. He pulls you in, meeting his every thrust as he fucks up into that tight little cunt of yours. 

He feels how your soft walls begin to flutter around his cock. He knows you’re close. And if that wasn’t telling enough, the state of the Old Glory on his wall would surely give it away. A satisfied grin spreads across his lips as he watches the way your head has dropped back against the wall, thudding with every snap of his hips. How your eyes rolled back under your eyelids. How you’re back to fisting the stars and stripes, how your moans begin to slip into desperate whines, and how the flag goes taut from how much you squirm and writhe.

Christ. Fucking you is divine.

You announce your orgasm with a shuddering cry, the flag protests under it but ultimately gives in as it rips from its hinges and drapes over your shoulders like a cape. Your cunt squeezes him with a vice grip, and it’s enough to make him follow you over the edge as he shoots his load up your walls. 

He sinks back to his knees, takes you down with him as he settles down on the mattress. 

“Look at my sweet girl,” he chuckles with a tilt of his head, his hand brushing the edge of the flag out of your face. “Takin’ down America like she fuckin’ owns it.” 

That quip earns him a giggle of yours. Christ, he'd kill just for that sound. He pulls you further into his lap by the small of your back, wanting to feel the tiny rumbles of your chest against his. 

His smooth chin rests against your sternum. The stormy green in his eyes never leaves you. “You’re fucking gorgeous. You know that?”

You roll your eyes at him, the way you always do when he compliments you – he remembers that detail now, too. Would you still react that snarky if he was to say that he really means it? That, sure, your body’s gorgeous, but it’s so much more than that. That, if he was any better with words, with feelings, he’d tell you?

You try to wiggle out of his lap, but Ben tuts and rolls you both over so you’re under him.

“Come here you cheeky lil’ minx,” Ben growls roughly, while his strong hands find purchase on the plush of your hips and his own slot back between your thighs with ease. Your fingers thread into the back of his short hair, yank at it as he pushes himself back into your still sticky heat without a warning and bottoms out.

Ben continues to fuck you through four more rounds. Until both of you have collapsed to your backs, you tapping out and Ben calling for a joint-break.

He presses the tip of the blunt to his lips, primes it with a few quick puffs until he takes a longer drag. He holds it for a moment, then blows out the smoke through his lips again. 

“You know, I could get you some,” he says while staring up at the ceiling where the smoke dissipates. He doesn’t need to look to feel your chest heave before a sigh.

“That’s not how it works.”

This time Ben rolls his eyes. “Why wouldn’t it? You’ve got a body somewhere, right? And you’re a fuckin’ supe.”

“This is me.” Your challenging tone drives his eyebrows together, and his head angles to glare down at you.

“Quit fuckin’ playin’ with my head, Stargate. You know what I meant,” he snaps, then pauses. 

His fingertips rub along the blunt for a couple of times before his frown softens and he passes you the joint as a peace offering. You don’t take it right away, but eventually, you do.

Soldier Boy takes it as his cue to go on. His free forefinger glides through a strand of your hair before he tenderly brushes it behind your ear. The tips of his fingers linger there. Like maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can feel what touching your real skin would feel like. “I just–” he lets out a heavy breath through his nose. “I wish I could…”

“Fuck my real body?” You quip and blow a swirl of smoke into his face.

“Yeah. That too,” he snorts, breathes in some of the smoke that’s left your lungs. “We could also–,” he stops himself to search for the right genuine words, while he looks down to your small hand covering his as it curves your hipbone, “We could, you know, grow not old together.” He winces inwardly at how that made him sound like a goddamn pantywaist. So he quickly adds; “Fucking’s definitely more fun without the toilet dippers and a cunt bucket, don’t ya think?” 

The silence that follows is killing him. After a beat, he dares to look up at you, but is met with sad eyes that he wishes he’d rather not seen.

“Ben…” you murmur, lips pressed into a tight line. “We have no idea where my body is.”

“So?” He frowns. “I‘ll find it. I’ll get you out.”

“– or when.”

Right. Then there’s that small but crucial detail. His jaw muscles work to form some kind of smart response, but ultimately he falls silent. Time’s relative for you. That’s a fact that he tends to ignore. Mainly because he can’t wrap his mind around it. How can you talk to him here, in this moment, and at the same time be stuck anywhere in time?

“Look…” You rub your thumb over his knuckles. The softness of your touch makes his defiant gaze snap back to you. “We got to be realistic about this… Chances are, that my body’s already dead.”

Well. That’s not how he’d planned this conversion to go. You always shut him down with that argument. And honestly? It pisses him off how gloomy you are about the whole future thing.

Without a word, you pass him the blunt back. He takes a longer drag than usual. Time passes without either of you adding anything.

Maybe… maybe if you knew how he felt, you’d change your mind.

Ben’s throat works. He clears it from the smoke, but still, nothing makes it past his lips. He looks away, fumbles for those three damn words that he cannot seem to get in line. When he finally meets your eyes again, his determined frown has given way to something uncharacteristic for Soldier Boy. An expression, that’s almost… soft. 

It’s not like he hasn’t thrown around those exact same words countless times before. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

It should be easy, right? But this is the moment he realizes that they’ve never held this much weight for him until now. And that kinda terrifies Ben.

Ben turns away, flicking the roach into the mug on the bedside table. While still looking the other way, he rasps out your name – gosh, your name is so perfect when it rolls off his tongue. So perfect and complete. He wants to taste it, savour it. Never let it go again. Then brand every sperm of his ballsack with your initials and let everyone know that they belong to this perfect fucking woman he can call his own. See? That’s how romantic he can get. 

Come on, you fuckin’ pussy. Just get it over with.

He forces his shoulders to angle back towards you. 

The way you stare up at him with those wide eyes, naked body stretched out beneath him, is actually not helping at all. Ben fully turns to his side, braces himself on his right arm to slowly snake his free hand up your side and watch you shiver from it. Or, maybe it will. He lets his mouth follow his hungry gaze as he kisses a path down the front of your neck, over your collarbone, till the valley between your breasts. 

“I just think,” he muses, “it’d be a shame for these perfect tits to go saggy,” he grins against your skin. 

You gasp, then want to smack his shoulder. But Ben catches your wrist first.

“I’m not fuckin’ done yet,” he grunts. This is it. The moment he has to get those three little pathetic words off his chest before they crush his ribs like nothing physical ever could.

“What I’m tryin’ to say is…” he mutters gruffly, before he goes to press his lips to the inside of your wrist. “I lo–”

I love you.

The words still echo in the back of his mind. So clear. So triumphant. He sees it all now. Your face, your voice, your name. 

How could he ever forget. How could he ever leave you behind?

Then the moment’s gone.

His mind resets.

“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit. That I was the strongest Supe alive, the “ultimate expression” of what we could be.”

Ben pauses – Why the fuck did I say that?  His fingers twitch around the blue liquid for a moment. He frowns down at it, but the thought slips him before he can catch it. When he looks back up at his son, his muscles seem to relax by themselves. 

His mouth continues. “But she was wrong. She hadn’t met you yet.” 

Homelander frowns slightly, in disbelief. “But you hate me,” he mutters. 

Soldier Boy exhales heavily through his nose, as he conjures up the image of what his memory system has saved as yours.

“I love S–” his brow furrows. “–Clara more. And this is what she would want.”

Then –

Black.

A hook in your chest yanks you backwards with such force, that your eyes snap wide open - but your vision stays dark. 

Fuck, you feel dazed. Nauseous like hell. You want to throw up, but you wouldn’t even know what way to turn. Or how to turn. 

There’s noise. So much noise around you.

People are… talking. And… clapping? 

“Good job, sir.” 

“Thank you, thank you. But none of this would have worked without Mrs. Vought–” 

The voices sound distorted, drowned out like they’re inside a dome.

“This is it, meine Damen und Herren... Mark this day… Phase one of The Great Reset is complete.”   What’s that voice - why does it sound so familiar? Phase one?

“Wh- m- I?” Your tongue feels numb.

“Eye movement detected. Asset is regaining consciousness, sir.” A voice says somewhere behind you. 

“Wha- s- on?” Yeah, still numb. Everything feels numb, now that you try to make out where your body starts and where it ends. 

“Heart rate is increasing.” 

“Signs of disorientation.” 

“Put her back to sleep.”

“Wh- n-o, n-no-” You want to protest. To scream. To thrash. But your body is so far away. And now you’re sinking through the void below you, down, down, down…

“Start phase two.” 

The woman with the German accent announces somewhere in the distance, followed by more clapping. 

Until it’s all fading into black.

And the voice of Michael Jackson.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I wish I could say I'm officially back - but the writer's block and my irl still have me in a chokehold. Maybe this'll help me to overcome it... we'll see how it goes. How are you all doing?? I miss y'all so much. And I'm so so sorry if I didn't get to reply to your ask or comment yet. </3

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Truly this was so intriguing and mind-boggling and hot, and traumatic and confusing and then woah 😅

But you did it so well, i genuinely felt like my mind was being fucked with, the way you weaved it all in to these memories, but with that ending i’m so curious as to how and the why 🤯

The scene with the stuffed monkey’s too 😩, the details and imagery were so gooood! i love a mystery, mess with your head thriller, and this gave me all of that 😍 i’m also sensing some subconscious time travelling/bending too 👀

But i agree with the confusion of the episode, there is a lot of holes in it all, which i think is being brought to life in VR, but this was such an interesting spin on it, to weave a reader into it too. Also Fanfic Ben is so different to S5 Ben rn 😅 he mellowed tf out or have we just desensitised ourselves with the fan fic version?🤣

Also i love the subtle dig at the SB and Firecracker love scene! There really was no work on his part🤣🤣

(I originally wanted a Dean-hug gif but this one popped up and it matched yours perfectly lol <3)

Truly this was so intriguing and mind-boggling and hot, and traumatic and confusing and then woah 😅 But you did it so well, i genuinely felt like my mind was being fucked with, the way you weaved it all in to these memories, but with that ending i’m so curious as to how and the why 🤯

(did I thought? did I really really think this whole thing through and plan ahead for a second part where it all makes sense? we shall never know. 🤭) Jokes aside, planning this story got me so confused that I had to go back and write a timeline with all the different layers, cause I myself had lost track of what was real and what wasn't 🤣

The scene with the stuffed monkey’s too 😩, the details and imagery were so gooood! i love a mystery, mess with your head thriller, and this gave me all of that 😍 i’m also sensing some subconscious time travelling/bending too 👀

Writing that scene was funnnn XD And I love those kind of mess with your head thrillers, too! So happy that I managed to achieve that 😍 OooooOOh, are you now? 👀👀👀

But i agree with the confusion of the episode, there is a lot of holes in it all, which i think is being brought to life in VR, but this was such an interesting spin on it, to weave a reader into it too. Also Fanfic Ben is so different to S5 Ben rn 😅 he mellowed tf out or have we just desensitised ourselves with the fan fic version?🤣

LMAO - S3 and S5 Ben aren't even the same guy at this point. To me it seemed like his personality was warped through his second time in the freezer (Hence where my idea got its roots). But also yes, I believe that we have definitely desensitised ourselves with the fan fic version of Soldier Boy. I've always been a defender of a less krass Soldier Boy version (more like, yes, he's an asshole but he's not a monster), but I didn't want him to be declawed like this 😅 That's not even the same character anymore. :')

Also i love the subtle dig at the SB and Firecracker love scene! There really was no work on his part🤣🤣

PFFFT LMFAO - THANK YOU FOR COMMENTING ON THAT. I was this 🤏 close to cutting this scene but then decided to keep it anyway. I just couldn't resist taking a jab at that. 🤣🤣

Honestly, this was so fun to read Jolly, I’m so curious to see where you would take this 😱, ofc no pressure, but know i would be very much interested in more of this story😘

English is not my native language and I haven’t written in over two months. Pls bear with me

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~9k (don't ask)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES I'M ALIVE. And stealth dropping this patchwork piece. I was screaming at our tv screen after ep. 6 (haven't seen the new ones yet). This epsiode season needed fixing ASAP. (Is it far fetched and confusing? Perhaps. but at this point, fanfic Ben's less ooc than the canon one, right?)

“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit.” 

Soldier Boy says her name. Always her name. 

But the face that’s meant to be before his inner eyes? The voice that’s still somewhere buried inside his messed up head? It’s not Clara. Not Liberty. Not Stormfront, or whatever the fuck they’d called her.

It’s yours.

And if even one shred of your shared memory was still untouched, he’d know it’s always been you. In all of them. 

None of this will make a lick of sense though, so let’s scrub back to how it all started.

Ever since Soldier Boy was defrosted, again, things were fucked up.

And it’s not just how, soon as he’s out of the fridge, he’s been sent to the fucking woodchipper thanks to a supe killing virus, which is apparently a thing now. Or how his asexual weirdo son’s only way of getting his dick wet is by bathing in tit-jizz. Or how everyone at Vought wants to crawl up said weirdo’s shithole, preaching he’s God.

It’s worse than that.

It’s inside his head.

He says "it" when muttering in front of the vanity mirror like he’s a soft pussy on fucking meth, but what he really means, is a voice. 

And here’s the thing; That voice isn’t actually talking. There’s no words, nothing he could argue with and shut down. 

But it’s there. 

Since he’s back. 

He knows it is - he can feel it hovering behind him, breathing next to his ear. It’s a rotting corpse in the trenches right behind his conscious mind. Right out of reach. Or else he would’ve throttled it by now. He’s tried that in his dreams; His fingers curl around the faceless figure, squeezing it until it gives in with that satisfying sound of a crushed egg. 

But the moment his eyes snap open? You are there again. 

And that was really starting to piss him off. Which said a lot, considering Soldier Boy’s lived through the whiff-and-snort sixties without his brain ever dribbling out of his fuckin’ ears. He’d snorted it all; cocaine, LSD, gasoline - you name it, it crossed his nose. Never did jack shit to him.

But this? 

He swears, he’s going to lose his fucking mind.

Which has led him to only one conclusion; this must be a farewell gift of the Reds. 

“Can Elmo tell you a secret?”

Now that voice is not coming from inside his head. Ben had the TV running some random bullshit show in the background, hoping it would drown out whatever he’s dealing with at the moment. So far, it has done nothing more than shift his annoyance – which he’ll take as a win. 

From his angle, he can see just enough of the TV screen to judge their stupid faces.

“Sure, little dude,” Andy Samberg beams with the enthusiasm of somebody whose ballsack’s being held hostage by a mousetrap. Ben sneers at the thought. “Secrets are healthy!” 

“Like how your balls’re in the pincers?” Ben barbs from the bathroom.

Andy leans down for the fuzzy orange puppet to whisper next to his ear. 

“Sometimes Elmo hears voices that tell Elmo things.”

“Well, is it the voice of Homelander?”

“No…”

Andy’s lips twitch into a tight smile. “Ooff, buddy. Looks like the Starlighters got into your head.” 

A laugh track erupts – the same moment doors slam open off screen, two Vought security guards storm on set.

“What the f–” The Elmo puppet gets violently yanked out of the frame as the puppeteer screams somewhere under the stage. “Wait, wait! I didn’t post that meme– Andy! Please– tell ‘em!”

Andy sucks in a breath and turns back to the camera with a shaky smile.

“Remember, kids! See something, say something! Even if it’s your best friend.”

“And you still don’t fuckin’ listen.”

How parents let their kids watch these whacko shows nowadays is beyond him. Back in his day, they at least had perky pin-up girls for their propaganda. He turns on the tab, splashes some water into his face. He thinks back of those perfect million-dollar legs of Betty Grable, and how they’d bounced on his shoulders when he’d railed her on the producer’s desk. Good fuckin’ times.

“Oi, you cunt. I said, you never fuckin’ listen to me.”

Ben’s grin dies.

The TV keeps spewing some happy kid’s show melody. Only that this time, the voice didn’t come from the television.

Ben’s face snaps up towards the mirror – then he freezes.

There’s a man standing behind him. 

He quickly turns to look over his shoulder just to be met with the golden towel rack on the wall. 

“You never loved ‘er,” you drawl in a thick British accent from behind him. Ben’s head turns back.

The guy’s still there, inside his mirror; Black hair, black trenchcoat, a Hawaiian shirt.

“Butcher?” his eyes go wide, his upper lip twitches. “You fucking bastard betrayed me–”

“Betray ya?” you cut him short, “And what about me? You completely forgot about me, didn’t ya?” 

“Get out of my fucking head,” Ben growls and swings his arm to smash the mirror. Butcher’s face shatters. 

It effectively makes him vanish, just for another figure to pop up on the opposite side.

“Ooh, but mon Petit Soldat, no can do. You need to pull your dick out of your ass and–” More glass crumbles beneath Soldier Boy’s knuckles. 

“–and stop fucking around with Clara.” This time Hughie pipes up from the upper corner of the still intact mirror.

“I’m not–” Ben clenches his teeth, the jaw muscle ticking under his beard when he sees that pussy’s face looking down at him, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.”

“Are you… sure?”

Hughie’s eyebrows do that thing like he knows something Ben doesn’t, and all it does is make him remember why he’s always wanted to punch that kid in the face. 

“Get. The fuck. Out,” Ben grits out. His fist smashes the spot where his knuckles would have connected with his nose. It explodes into more pieces. 

Silence. 

Ben huffs through his nose. Roughly combs the damp hair back and out of his face.

His eyes dart up into the last unscathed corner when he senses more movement.

It’s… a bird? In fact, it’s America’s mascot— his mascot; wearing the green helmet and all. There’s even the American Flag rising in slow motion behind the cracks. 

“I’m inside your head, Ben,” the eagle says in his own comic-voice, then its beak cracks wide open, blinding him with a row of very unnaturally shiny human teeth, “I must know.” 

Christ on a stake. He’s losing it.

Ben stormed out of the bathroom without even taking the rest of the mirror down. He scrambles for the phone, the cable one next to his bed – his hands are too shaky for the flimsy little pocket buzzer – he pauses. Looks down at his free hand hovering in the air. It’s unsteady.

The moment the call connects, Soldier Boy’s grip tightens around the handset.

“Get me a bowl full of cocaine. Pronto.”

If cocaine could still make him as high as any normal person, he’d be up in the fucking stratosphere right now, painting the sky white with his spunk. 

He had just gone through powder worth 200 grand like it’s nothing. Soldier Boy drops back into the couch with a satisfied groan. He lazily wipes the dust off his nose and beard, while his other hand fondles the bulge between his legs. It’s getting uncomfortably tight down there – just like he’d hoped. With his dick rock hard and his head buzzing to the sound of Colombia, he’d call his plan a success so far. 

Time to bust a nut.

While he lets Firecracker ride him, he allows his eyes to slide close, enjoying the blissful state of absolutely-fucking-nada filling his head. He doesn’t even bother to play his part. He just lets her bounce on his dick like a pathetic bunny in heat. 

After all, this works like a fucking charm. 

Until it doesn’t.

Once Firecracker rolls off him with a cry of ecstasy, Soldier Boy reaches for his joint and hums, feeling absolutely confident in his victory. 

“Oi, you done with lyin’ there like a dead nun?”

Soldier Boy’s irritation flares up.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean, huh?” He asks, annoyed. Clearly his focus is on the blunt he’d prepared on the bedside table, because if he’d spare the girl that just got him off a single glance, he’d see her confused look.

“What?” Firecracker questions. 

Soldier Boy turns to watch her slip under the covers next to him. The voice goes on.

“Now, why don’t you boot the girl and you and me can go back to our proper lil’ chinwag?”

Soldier Boy’s teeth grind down, the blunt snaps in half.

You are still there.

The elevator dings. He says a few words to Sister Sage, but doesn’t really listen.

The following days go by in a blur. He’s learned to endure and ignore you like a yapping dog from the neighbours. A very, very, annoying little Commie bitch-dog with a knack for doing his head in. 

Which he can’t kick. Or stomp. Or crush. Or throttle. Or–

Truth is, each minute feels like he’s getting closer to turning into one of those twitchy fucking flower people. Except that he doesn’t assfuck to the voice of Jimi Hendrix, and he hasn’t met God yet, either. And no, a meetup with his overgrown baby gravy does not qualify as a Godly intervention in his book, even if there seems to be no ceiling to how much of a wackjob he is.

At least he, unlike that asswipe, doesn't let any of that get to him. 

Sure, you’re still there. And yes, he hasn’t found a way yet to smother you for good. But he’s been through worse.

So, Soldier Boy strides out of the elevator, his chin held high, face as neutral as ever. 

If it wasn’t for his calm exterior, he’s convinced that Cleopatra Jones back there would be balls deep up in his business right now. Not that he’d give two fucks about Sister Sage and the way her eyes try to laser a hole into the back of his skull. To make that work, you’d need to be able to read his mind — tough luck, sister.

Although, the thought of letting her skinny-dip in his fucked up brain juice for just a minute, does put a leer on his face. 

That is, until it’s overwritten by a mildly annoyed frown.

Soldier Boy rubs the side of his palm against his temple. What’s that throbbing sensation inside his skull? A sudden jolt makes him stumble for a second and catch himself with his arm braced against the wall. 

The hell was that?

“Where’s that fucking powder...” he grumbles to himself, while emptying each of his pockets in vain. He digs his knuckles into his pounding forehead until the feeling fizzles out.

He’s pissed off at his own body. 

Soldier Boy doesn’t get ‘a headache’. He doesn’t even get a head-scratch. The strongest supe doesn’t get sick—

His dick’s pulsing. His hips stutter, hands grasping at flesh and bones. 

He knows this room. Or at least he thinks he does. The sheets smell familiar, the music’s too. But the details blur when he tries to grab them. Was this in New York? In Berlin? Why the fuck can’t he remember?

A pair of tits jiggle above him. He wants to grope them, bury his beard between them – no, wait.

He doesn’t have a beard yet. 

He wants to feel the smooth skin of his jaws under the touch of fingernails.

“Fuck– yes! That’s it!” He can’t make out the voice. But it sounds familiar, too. 

He feels the warm body arch beneath him, then go slack. He wraps an arm around it, rests his chin right above the tits. He lets his eyes trail over the curves and bumps, lets himself breathe it all in. He loves that familiar scent that’s clouding his mind. It made– it still makes him feel stupidly fuzzy inside. He can’t help it, even as he scoffs to his younger self at how much of a wuzzy he’s become in the arms of— 

Huh, the name’s escaped him.

A hand that has threaded into the back of his hair, draws his attention up. The fingers begin to comb his short strands. The tender touch makes his eyes flutter. 

“Mein Übermensch…” the voice coos. 

Uh-huh, he hears himself think, whatever the fuck makes you nut, but don’t stop what you’re doin’.

“You only love me, don’t you?” She asks. And damn, she’s demanding.

He recognizes her now. Clara. But he still can’t put together when this happened.

Meanwhile, his memory-self’s immediate response is Yes, only you.

Now that makes Ben halt the scene right there. 

Sure, alright. He’d fucked the nazi bitch two times. Two! They were both high as fuck and she had a nice pair of tits along with a superiority complex that somehow scratched his ego just the right way.

He scrubs the memory back, but it starts to slip him the more he tries to focus on it. At least the images do. The emotions on the other hand slap him in the face like the wet dick of Gary Busey — hard, fucking ugly and definitely out of place. 

Because the moment Clara’s face comes into view, his chest aches so fucking much. He can’t place the feeling. It’s as if he’s about to lose something real important to him.

Soldier Boy groans when he pushes off the hallway’s wall again. 

The images which had flashed across his inner eyes are gone the next moment. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. It lasted no more than a few seconds, but felt like so much more.

Where the hell did that just come from? Is this some kinda after-effect of my time in the freezer? Did the Commies fuck with my memories?

And how the fuck could I forget about Clara?

Ever since Soldier Boy’s regained a new piece of his past, he’s become obsessed with it. 

“It”, not being the voice in his head any longer –that one finally pissed off–, but Clara. 

There’s so much that irritates him about this whole new development. 

Him and Clara? Not just the fucking and the drinking and riding it out on the roof of the Ritz-Carlton, but more?

All he wants to do is shrug it off as some weird shit that’s happened between them while his head was stuffed with nose candy. He wants to ignore the thought that maybe, the Reds didn’t plant something new into his brain, but maybe, they’d ripped something open which he’d buried himself. Ben wants nothing but to ignore the way he gets yanked around by the inside of his chest whenever he recalls that new memory. At this point he’d even prefer you chewing off his ear over this sweet sticky crap he’s got to deal with now.

He hates that feeling. He’s not a pussy for Christ’s sake. In fact, he wouldn’t even know what to do with it when shoved down his throat. All of that fuzzy-buzzy crap, like staring at a picture with those longing eyes of a lovesick puppy – that’s for the weak and the ladies. 

As if to prove his point, Soldier Boy kicks a thick branch out of the dirt with a lot more force than needed. It cannonballs into the horizon.

With the victorious grunt of a caveman, he continues his path through the woods, taking point with his weirdo son glued to his ass.

Soldier Boy would have turned over every desk and tore apart every computer at Vought in search for more information about Clara. Anything that helps him get rid of this disgusting new feeling that’s been lodged within his ribs. But he couldn’t risk Homelander returning successfully from Fort Harmony. His annoying knuckle child becoming immortal is the least thing he’d need right now. 

The fact that they’re marching towards the place where everything began, is not really helping either. Even if Soldier Boy wouldn’t ever admit how just the large letters spelling out “Fort Harmony Medical Department” coming into view, winds him tighter than he already is.

A twig snaps under his boot. He exchanges some sarcastic quips with Homelander while they walk up to the building resting behind the trees, but in reality, his mind wanders elsewhere again. 

What really gets to him is the idea that there’s more of his past. So much more, that his body reacts to it against his own will. The feeling of her touch, her scent, her love – it’s strangely real, even for something he still denies. Clara. That name holds so much more weight now. So much more history he’s been robbed of, whether he likes it or not. And even if every fibre of his body fights his emotions tied to that memory, he cannot help but wonder; What else is he missing?

The idea has latched onto him like a tick. Taking hold of every thought.

He just has to know. 

As if reading his mind, Homelander suddenly points out that, “The other day, when Clara Vought’s name came up, I had the impression you knew her.” 

But unlike his son, Ben has no intention of sharing that new obsession with him.

Therefore, Soldier Boy once again answers with his standard phrase, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.” 

Still, Homelander yaps on. “You did? I guess we’re related in more ways than one.” Soldier Boy’s muscles coil up more with every word wasted between them. The thought of his own fucking son being anywhere close to Clara has no room in his mind. 

It does open a new question though. If she’s still alive then–

“Where is she?” 

Homelander glances back at him.

“Dead,” he answers flatly, “Suicide.” 

Soldier Boy stops dead in his tracks. She’s immortal like him. She has to be out there.

“Horseshit,” he growls, his eyes narrowing when Homelander just keeps walking. “She’d never off herself.”

“Yeah, well, she did,” he says simply. Soldier Boy’s shoulders tense up. That goddamn hook in his chest dragging his emotions into the open again. And with it, that tick spews new ideas into his system – he doesn’t even know where they’re coming from. New thoughts to latch onto. New hope. 

She must still be out there, right? Maybe Clara’s waiting for him, holding all the answers. The way he was waiting to be saved while the Reds fucking burned and prodded him. 

“Did you see a body?” he shouts after him, but is left with no answer.

Soldier Boy wants to go after him, wants to grip his shoulder and beat the truth out of that pathetic cape-sack. 

Instead, he staggers. 

He braces himself against a nearby tree, the pounding behind his eyes growing stronger. He slaps himself against the forehead. Then shakes his head, hoping it might rattle some cogs loose–

Music plays from a phonograph. Blue and red striped bedsheets are twisted around his legs. He’s leaned against the headrest.

“You know, I could get you some,” his young-self says while watching the smoke curl up towards the ceiling. A body shifts next to him. He can’t remember which girl it is that he’d hooked up with this time.

“Am I not perfect enough?” She answers in a distinctive accent. 

Right. Now he remembers. Immortal. She’s immortal like him  — Why the hell did you fuckin’ idiot even consider getting her V1? 

She hums something, and suddenly she’s rolled halfway onto his body to look down at him. 

“Huh?” Ben frowns up at the bright silhouette above him. It takes him a moment to make out her face, like a polaroid picture that’s still gaining colour and shape. 

“Thinking of your future, hm?”  she repeats. Once Ben’s eyes have focused, his frown deepens. 

“Clara?” he utters her name in slight confusion and if he wouldn’t know any better, he’d say the memory-Clara reacts to it. 

Ben stills. Was that just him now or him back then talking? 

Up until now, the room had felt warm and familiar. The music in the background, the sweetish scent of vanilla mixed with the musk of sex. It’s just like the first time; The emotional pull is there, he just cannot quite figure out why the visuals don’t match up in his head.

But now the room temperature just dropped. 

“Benjamin,” she says firmly, a hand snaking down between his legs to regain his attention. And she gets it, both of his versions’. He feels himself tense up in response – huh, that’s not the reaction he’d expected. For some reason, it doesn’t sit well with him that she’s pressed herself against him like that. Is this still part of the memory? He can’t tell anymore where this thing starts and where his present ends.

Clara doesn’t seem to mind either way cause she goes on with that special lilt of hers. “You’re the strongest Supe alive. You don’t get to deal with mortality.”

He doesn’t get how these memories work. One moment he’s a spectator, the next he’s shoved on set without a script or any idea what the fuck he’s even doing here.

“Perhaps,” Ben grunts nonchalantly and shrugs. He’s trying his damndest to ignore how his dick twitches between her slender fingers. Aren’t we supposed to fuck now? 

Clara finally closes her grip around him, after she’s lifted herself fully up to perch on his bare chest. “You’re not a man.” She commends, squeezing him with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. He’s not a fan of the way her lips curl – the fluttering thing in the pit of his stomach disagrees vehemently. “You’re the greatest expression of what humanity can offer.”

Soldier Boy stares back at her, brows pulled together. He may like the sound of that, but frankly speaking, she could dangle the sweetest pussy in front of his face right now and he’d still rather go for that bowl of white powder that’s waiting in his real-present-selves loft right now. This brain-scrambling nonsense was getting him nowhere – fine, on a second thought, maybe he’ll let her finish him off first. It’d be a shame to let a wet memory-dream-whatever-the -fuck this is, go to waste, right? – but then he’s done here. 

Just when he’d let a small groan form in the back of his throat, he almost chokes on it.

Clara’s face flickers. Like radio static. 

All of a sudden, a different voice cuts in – it’s out of sync with Clara’s still moving lips, and it’s distorted, fragile – but he can make some of it out.

“Listen—- don’t—- it’s me, Stargate–”

He blinks. And you’re gone. 

“Right,” he finally says, although he’s not sure anymore what the conversation was even about. Neither does he care.

His mind’s racing now. It’s grappling with his memory as it refuses to let the name click into place; Stargate. 

He repeats it. 

Notices a strange feeling beneath his skin when he does – like he’s high on some new fuckin’ drug – so he keeps doing it. Stargate, Stargate, Stargate.

As if the woman that’s straddling his chest can sense his shift of emotions, she suddenly leans down to catch his lips in a kiss. It breaks into his mind. The memory sinks its claws into him, turns hungry and wild and – off.

Soldier Boy’s already walking down the halls of Fort Harmony when he’s snapped back. Homelander’s talking next to him, apparently they are mid-argument. 

If only he knew what the fuck just happened.

Ben was convinced that regaining more of his memories would feel, I don’t know, good? That it would bring him the answers he was looking for. Maybe even give him a purpose in this modern world, where so far he’s just been made to feel like a really handsome relic.

It has done nothing more than confuse him even more.

First Clara. Then Stargate. Were you the thing the Commies had stuffed into his skull? The vault that keeps him from regaining his memories?

No. That doesn’t make any sense. (As if anything still made sense at this point.) The sound of your voice, of your name, it triggered something in him. He can’t quite grasp it, but it’s there. See? That’s why he hates this whole ‘touchy-feely’ crap. There’s nothing for him to work with. Just another hazy notion which he’d gladly trade for a grenade or a stroll through a minefield.

Unfortunately, Fort Harmony offers him neither.

After sending his annoying son to the time out, Soldier Boy’s roaming the ruins of the Medical Department, in search for the V1, and for answers. Mainly for answers. 

He’s digging through old papers, the dust swirling up into the air making him cough. 

Nothing. No V1, no clues. 

He curses – moves to the desk instead, where he yanks the drawers right out of their sockets. The wood clatters, its innards spilling across the cold floor. He steps over it, eyes scanning the papers.

There must at least be something about Stargate here. Anything - anything at all. Did he just make you up in his head? 

His boot kicks over another pile of Vought files. All he’s greeted with is the black and white picture of his old teammates. They seem to judge him even from the floor. He ignores it and moves to a different desk. 

If you’re a Supe old enough to show up in his early memories, then you must’ve been jabbed in this place.

Yet, there’s nothing. 

He swings his arm into the side of the table, flipping it over and into a row of lockers. 

“Fuck!” he shouts. His voice echoes off the cold walls. He turns on the spot, yells at nothing particular when a hint of desperation seeps through his voice. “C’mon, talk to me, damnit!”

Nothing.

“You’ve been riding my face for two fuckin’ weeks and now you just fuck off?!” 

Silence.

His hopes lie in the dust. The darkness swallows what’s left.

You’re not here anymore. Hell, maybe you never were.

CLINK.

His attention snaps to the open doorway. “Stargate?” he blurts, almost hopeful.

Only to be met with – who the fuck’s that guy? He stares at him, wide eyed. Then he sticks his tongue out before he makes a break for it. 

It takes Ben a moment to process what just happened. But his instincts kick in naturally and he gives chase.

His boots thunder down the hallways, down the stairs, further down into the lower level of the building. That midget is fast, he’s gotta hand it to him. Finally he’s got him cornered, skidding to a halt in front of the basement. 

His eyes widen slightly. His focus is drawn to a mangled body that’s merged with the wall, sprouting vines and ooze.

“My God. Quinn,” Ben mutters in disbelief.

He wanted to find the V1 and destroy it. Wanted to find you – Or at least a trace of your existence. Just enough proof that you were real.

But all he’s got to stumble upon is Quinn. That piece of shit.

You still looking for her? 

“The fuck’d you say?” Ben growls, but Quinn barely manages to twitch a bulging eye. The guy forgotten in the corner, Frenchie, squints, looking back and forth between the two. 

She’s not here. She never was.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Ben grits out between his clenched teeth. He wants to shout more, but a flash of searing pain splitting his skull in half, forces his eyes to squeeze shut.

He just blinked. But now the cool basement is gone. 

“What the fuck…”

Ben slowly turns his head, takes in the white walls and its soft shadows, the fairy lights hanging off the rack, the twisted sheets on the bed. He takes a slow step into the room, testing the floorboards – then halts, his eyes locking with those of a plush monkey. He slightly tilts his head, and for fucks sakes, there’s more of them on every surface, and they’re all staring back at him with their dead eyes.

“Ben..? Is that really you?” The soft voice has his focus shift to the end of the room. 

There she sits. Tied down to the chair in that skintight red suit, just like he’d last seen her. That same old wretched face. 

So, that’s what this is. Another memory. This is getting ridiculous. He knows this memory, nothing new to discover here – so he decides to snap out of it.

But he’s still here.

The fuck?

And of course, the unasked for details of that moment come crashing down on him now. Ben’s jaw tightens. As it seems, his body cannot tell the difference, because he’s not just remembering this, he’s reliving the moment.

“You killed me,” Crimson Countess accuses and gets him to look at her. 

Ben doesn’t move, knowing she’s right. Instead, a weight forms on his chest. The shit he keeps buried starts digging its way back up. Again.

“You said you hated me.” Ben’s hurt is thinly veiled when he speaks. 

“We all did,” she spits each word like venom. That makes Ben pause.

“So, I deserved to be tortured and pumped with poison for forty years like some fucking lab rat. Is that what you’re saying?” he asks, and he doesn’t even realize how pained he looks when voicing the million-dollar question. 

No – he doesn’t care. He has to know. He has to know whether he’s really “the greatest expression of what humanity can offer” or he’s just an asshole that deserves to rot in Hell. Probably both–

“Ben. Don’t listen to her.” 

Ben jolts. Because Crimson Countess’ red lips move, but no voice comes out, like she’s been muted. Hold on – this time, he recognizes the voice.

“Stargate?” he calls out your name. His head whirls around, but no one else is there. Then something moves in his peripheral vision. 

Slowly, one of the monkeys has its head turned to face him. 

“The fu–” Ben doesn’t even get to finish a curse, when another monkey slowly cranes its neck back. Followed by the ugly as sin one hanging off the rack. And another, and another. A wall full of plush monkeys with the aura of a creepy doll collection.

Ben takes a tentative step back. Each one of them adjusts their stitched beady eyes to keep them locked onto him. 

Then, the monkeys all begin to chatter one after the other, like a TV that’s switching channels. Every time ripping open another stitched mouth, sputtering stuffing as they throw chopped up words at him and expect him to catch them all.

“Remember-–” 

“This isn’t–” 

“She’s corrupting your–” 

“—and my face–” 

“Don’t give the–”

CRACK.

They – you – go silent all at once. 

Their fuzzy bodies begin buzzing on the spot just as the walls begin to shake. Ben has to steady himself for a moment, the back of his knees bumping into the bedframe behind him. When he looks up again, the stuffed animals are leaking something crimson from their eyes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Hey– keep talking to me!” he demands but is cut short as each one of them explodes into a puff of red glitter. 

Ben stands there. 

Glitter’s raining down on him. He’s muttering a hoarse, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” while he’s trying to scrub the panic out of his face. But apparently, he doesn’t get a break.

Something’s touching his foot.

“Fuck!” Ben shouts, and in a knee-jerk reaction spins around to stomp down on whatever’s latched onto his ankle. A sickening squelching crack echoes off the walls. But the sound wouldn’t be reason enough for him to suddenly go rigid. 

It’s when he recognizes the maimed body that’s crawled out from beneath the bed, now pinned beneath his boot. At least what’s left of it – it’s more of a lump of meat with stubs for what once were limbs and a few loose strands of black hair that stick to its skull.

Clara rolls her head on its own axis until her eyes meet his. Ben’s breath stops for a moment.

“You wouldn’t ever forget about us,” she says, and smiles. In every broken way, she curls her lips further than naturally possible, “right, Benjamin?”

Ben doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He can’t breathe anymore. 

“But–” 

Ben’s head snaps around as Crimson chimes in in a distorted voice, like she’s just joining a conversation. 

“Why did you burn me? You said you loved mmmeee—” the word stretches on, warbling in a slow, sickening way. 

Meanwhile Ben watches with a stony expression how Crimson Countess’ face begins to rip into long stripes, her skin peeling back to reveal a charcoal body beneath. Then, a white, blinding light floods the room. The silhouette of what was Crimson, then Clara, then Quinn – it’s all burning.

Ben doubles over when the darkness of the basement spits him out again. He’s clutching his knees, chest heaving, struggling for air.

“Fuck. I’m so fucking sorry,” he mutters between his labored breaths.

Once Ben looks up, he is met with the burnt remains of what once was Quinn’s mangled body fused with the wall. He killed him too.

Maybe that’s what’s happening to him. 

He’s the undertaker of his own grave. He’s planned his own burial alive without realizing it.

His entire past – his memories, his relationships, his purpose – it’s all crumbling to dust, piece by piece. Soon he’ll be the last one standing. Locked into this mess of a head of his.

You thought you wouldn’t die alone? Pathetic. 

The words echo off the cold walls. Then the voice fucking laughs. Maybe Quinn’s. Maybe yours. Hell, maybe his own. He can’t tell anymore – it doesn’t change anything.

He will die alone. If he can die at all, that is. 

And worst is, he fucking deserves it.

“Just do it already,” Ben husks out. But Homelander, who's back from his corner, doesn’t move, just hovers in the doorway. Ben’s shoulders hunch when he realizes how his words came out unusually broken and wet. He really is pathetic.

He’s still here.

Alive. Alone. Potato, fucking potato. 

Soldier Boy hasn’t slept since they’ve returned from Fort Harmony. The question, why he’s still here, is tearing him apart. And frankly, he has passed the point of trying to deny it, or at least he would, if anybody asked.

He still can’t get you out of his head. Although you’d stopped talking to him days ago. The only exception being when you’d possessed a collection of monkeys in his fucked up brain. He keeps replaying the words you’d said then, over and over. As if it will jumpstart a new thought, or trigger a new memory if he just tries hard enough. The bitter truth is, he still knows jack shit about you.

He thinks he should know. No, that’s not right. It’s more like… he feels something, like he should remember. Which, once again, is an odd thing to say when you’re as emotionally constipated as Soldier Boy.

Which is why he’d rather not risk opening that pandora’s box further.

So, suck it up and onwards it is. And thanks to Homelander, that path leads him across half of America to visit Los Angeles. He fucking hates Los Angeles. 

But it still beats the alternative.

If he knew, that by the end of his day, he was going to end up bombshell-throwing Seth Rogan and spilling baby oil to catch a speedster, he would’ve probably – actually, no. Soldier Boy would’ve absolutely picked Los Angeles over another fucking fieldtrip to monkey-memory-land.

And what’s more, he would’ve missed out on the old Soldier Boy comic he’s eyeing with a smug smirk right now. The fresh blood splatter tainting his comic self crimson, doesn’t bother him. In fact, it kinda adds to the Kraut-hunter flair. He chuckles to himself at the thought, pocketing it.

Just as he turns, a picture between the collection of Nazi plates catches his attention. He steps closer, brows furrowing. 

It’s Clara. At this point she’s haunting him wherever he goes.

Well. If he’d ever been looking for clues about her existence, he’d be holding the key in his hands now. 

Unfortunately, that’s not the thing that’s bothering him when looking at her. If he can trust anything of the recollection he has gained so far, or more like, the emotional package that came with it, Clara was special to him. He’s accepted that much by now. But all that happens when he turns the photo in his hand is, shouldn’t I – I don’t know – feel something? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?

He sets the frame back down. Crosses his arms in front of his chest as he stares down at it.

The face of Clara flickers – Ben blinked. He missed how your face reflected in the frame’s glass, yelling his name. For just a split second. But his subconscious caught it.

And unbeknownst to Ben, it’s enough to complete the process.

Ben's head screams of pain.

All forty years of his time in the torture chamber combined tear through his skull at once.

Images flash before his inner eyes. He recognizes some of them; The music. "Whatever will be, will be" playing in the background. The bedsheets. The taste of smoke on his tongue. But others are new. A slender hand covering his. Wait - there's that familiar smell of vanilla again. A strand of hair that curls around his finger as he strokes it behind her ear.

For the first time, Ben sees the face of the woman his mind's trying to overwrite; You're gorgeous. Soft light in your hair. Eyes full of love, only for him. When you open your mouth to giggle, he recognizes it at once; Stargate. You're Stargate.

Ben tries to grip you tight. But the lighting bolt that's thundering inside his head tears right through your face. Breaking it to pieces like a mirror.

"Fuck!" Ben groans, his fingers flexing around the edge of the table - or maybe it's a counter - he can't tell anymore.

Something in him turns over hard. Sickening. He fights the feeling that drags itself back up his throat, forces himself to focus on where your face has been moments ago.

There it is again, that terrible ache, that fear, like he’s lost something important.

And now he understands.

Ben drops to his knees, he desperately tries to hold onto the fragments. He tries to remember your laugh. But Clara's voice answers instead. He tries to picture your warm eyes. But Clara smiles back at him instead. He tries glue them back together, form your face with them – but the more his fingers dig into the shards, the more they crumble. 

Your name slips through his fingers next.

The ache in his chest remains.

When the pain in his skull subsides, Ben's eyes refocus on his empty hands in his lap. His fingers still flex, like he was trying to grab for something. He frowns to himself, slightly disoriented. Then his head angles back, his gaze instinctively pulled to the picture frame he'd placed back on the table.

And suddenly, the grief inside his ribs twists into something more; Guilt.

Only now, his mind finally gives it a reason. Clara.

Soldier Boy’s always been an asshole. Deep down, he knows it.

And believe it or not, he regrets it. Not all of it, of course. But some.

Like how he'd disappointed the one person who'd always believed in him. Had loved him unconditionally. Why does he realize that just now?

It’s not fucking fair how decades later, he’s been given the idea that he’s not only been capable of being in love, but actually could have spent eternity with someone he loves. Only to get it yanked from his hands moments later, because he’s not fucking worth it and meant to end up alone.

Alone with a weirdo son he didn’t ask for. 

What’s it worth being more than a man, when you die the pathetic, lonely, and slow death of a forgotten and degraded war hero? 

Bombsight was aware of that. Unlike him. 

And yet, Ben can’t admit that he wished he had gotten the V1 earlier. Maybe had gotten himself someone like Clara. Gotten himself a life he always thought he wasn’t cut out for. 

But all of that regret's worth jack shit, because there's nothing left for him to fix. All he can do now, is do right by her. Just this once.

Soldier Boy blocks his fist — let’s it connect with his forearm. He swivels, grazes his knuckles across Bombsight’s face. 

Then goes for his throat. 

His chest. His guts. 

He drives him back towards the wall – this is almost too easy. 

Then Bombsight twists away just in time, turns, so his fist’s flying towards Ben’s face when his vision suddenly whites out, his skull feeling like it’s cracking open and –

Soft static crackles along the music of Doris Bay’s Que Sera, Sera. The needle jumps from the weight that’s being thrown around the room. The floor imitates a warground with broken wood, ripped clothes, torn pillows, and its feathers swirling through the white powder that’s scattered all over the place. Wood groans as it gets slammed against the wall, over and over. Grunting and the wet slap of skin against skin mix into the rhythm. 

And there you are. 

Your arms are spread out like an eagle, fingers twisted into the smooth fabric of the flag. 

Soldier Boy holds you up by your ass – one hand is enough to keep you in the air. And it gives him the opportunity to pin you to the wall behind his bed with his other, curled around your neck. He’s not putting any pressure on your throat though, how could he?

You look like a fucking Goddess.

“Isn’t this flag desecration?” you smirk down at him, at which Ben’s own grin widens. 

“Doll, I am fucking America,” he snorts. 

“Yeah, literally,” you laugh, then gasp as Ben drives his point home with another punishing roll of his hips. You wrap your legs around his waist, circle his shoulder and his chest with an arm each as you dig your fingers into his skin. Ben hisses – he wishes it was from pain, from feeling every inch of his skin breaking under your nails – he never carries away any marks from you, but he likes to imagine it anyway. At least he can mark you up. 

“Fuck– don’t stop–” you cry out right next to his ear where your forehead has dropped to. Like hell’s he going to stop. Not now, not ever.

“Ain’t stoppin’ till you’ve milked me dry,” he warns. His grip on your ass turns bruising, then moves it to the small of your back for better leverage. He pulls you in, meeting his every thrust as he fucks up into that tight little cunt of yours. 

He feels how your soft walls begin to flutter around his cock. He knows you’re close. And if that wasn’t telling enough, the state of the Old Glory on his wall would surely give it away. A satisfied grin spreads across his lips as he watches the way your head has dropped back against the wall, thudding with every snap of his hips. How your eyes rolled back under your eyelids. How you’re back to fisting the stars and stripes, how your moans begin to slip into desperate whines, and how the flag goes taut from how much you squirm and writhe.

Christ. Fucking you is divine.

You announce your orgasm with a shuddering cry, the flag protests under it but ultimately gives in as it rips from its hinges and drapes over your shoulders like a cape. Your cunt squeezes him with a vice grip, and it’s enough to make him follow you over the edge as he shoots his load up your walls. 

He sinks back to his knees, takes you down with him as he settles down on the mattress. 

“Look at my sweet girl,” he chuckles with a tilt of his head, his hand brushing the edge of the flag out of your face. “Takin’ down America like she fuckin’ owns it.” 

That quip earns him a giggle of yours. Christ, he'd kill just for that sound. He pulls you further into his lap by the small of your back, wanting to feel the tiny rumbles of your chest against his. 

His smooth chin rests against your sternum. The stormy green in his eyes never leaves you. “You’re fucking gorgeous. You know that?”

You roll your eyes at him, the way you always do when he compliments you – he remembers that detail now, too. Would you still react that snarky if he was to say that he really means it? That, sure, your body’s gorgeous, but it’s so much more than that. That, if he was any better with words, with feelings, he’d tell you?

You try to wiggle out of his lap, but Ben tuts and rolls you both over so you’re under him.

“Come here you cheeky lil’ minx,” Ben growls roughly, while his strong hands find purchase on the plush of your hips and his own slot back between your thighs with ease. Your fingers thread into the back of his short hair, yank at it as he pushes himself back into your still sticky heat without a warning and bottoms out.

Ben continues to fuck you through four more rounds. Until both of you have collapsed to your backs, you tapping out and Ben calling for a joint-break.

He presses the tip of the blunt to his lips, primes it with a few quick puffs until he takes a longer drag. He holds it for a moment, then blows out the smoke through his lips again. 

“You know, I could get you some,” he says while staring up at the ceiling where the smoke dissipates. He doesn’t need to look to feel your chest heave before a sigh.

“That’s not how it works.”

This time Ben rolls his eyes. “Why wouldn’t it? You’ve got a body somewhere, right? And you’re a fuckin’ supe.”

“This is me.” Your challenging tone drives his eyebrows together, and his head angles to glare down at you.

“Quit fuckin’ playin’ with my head, Stargate. You know what I meant,” he snaps, then pauses. 

His fingertips rub along the blunt for a couple of times before his frown softens and he passes you the joint as a peace offering. You don’t take it right away, but eventually, you do.

Soldier Boy takes it as his cue to go on. His free forefinger glides through a strand of your hair before he tenderly brushes it behind your ear. The tips of his fingers linger there. Like maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can feel what touching your real skin would feel like. “I just–” he lets out a heavy breath through his nose. “I wish I could…”

“Fuck my real body?” You quip and blow a swirl of smoke into his face.

“Yeah. That too,” he snorts, breathes in some of the smoke that’s left your lungs. “We could also–,” he pauses to search for the right genuine words, while he looks down to your small hand covering his as it curves your hipbone, “We could, you know, grow not old together.” He winces inwardly at how that made him sound like a goddamn pantywaist. So he quickly adds; “Fucking’s definitely more fun without the toilet dippers and a cunt bucket, don’t ya think?” 

The silence that follows is killing him. After a beat, he dares to look up at you, but is met with sad eyes that he wishes he’d rather not seen.

“Ben…” you murmur, lips pressed into a tight line. “We have no idea where my body is.”

“So?” He frowns. “I‘ll find it. I’ll get you out.”

“– or when.”

Right. Then there’s that small but crucial detail. His jaw muscles work to form some kind of smart response, but ultimately he falls silent. Time’s relative for you. That’s a fact that he tends to ignore. Mainly because he can’t wrap his mind around it. How can you talk to him here, in this moment, and at the same time be stuck anywhere in time?

“Look…” You rub your thumb over his knuckles. The softness of your touch makes his defiant gaze snap back to you. “We got to be realistic about this… Chances are, that my body’s already dead.”

Well. That’s not how he’d planned this conversion to go. You always shut him down with that argument. And honestly? It pisses him off how gloomy you are about the whole future thing.

Without a word, you pass him the blunt back. He takes a longer drag than usual. Time passes without either of you adding anything.

Maybe… maybe if you knew how he felt, you’d change your mind.

Ben’s throat works. He clears it from the smoke, but still, nothing makes it past his lips. He looks away, fumbles for those three damn words that he cannot seem to get in line. When he finally meets your eyes again, his determined frown has given way to something uncharacteristic for Soldier Boy. An expression, that’s almost… soft. 

It’s not like he hasn’t thrown around those exact same words countless times before. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

It should be easy, right? But this is the moment he realizes that they’ve never held this much weight for him until now. And that kinda terrifies Ben.

Ben turns away, flicking the roach into the mug on the bedside table. While still looking the other way, he rasps out your name – gosh, your name is so perfect when it rolls off his tongue. So perfect and complete. He wants to taste it, savour it. Never let it go again. Then brand every sperm of his ballsack with your initials and let everyone know that they belong to this perfect fucking woman he can call his own. See? That’s how romantic he can get. 

Come on, you fuckin’ pussy. Just get it over with.

He forces his shoulders to angle back towards you. 

The way you stare up at him with those wide eyes, naked body stretched out beneath him, is actually not helping at all. Ben fully turns to his side, braces himself on his right arm to slowly snake his free hand up your side and watch you shiver from it. Or, maybe it will. He lets his mouth follow his hungry gaze as he kisses a path down the front of your neck, over your collarbone, till the valley between your breasts. 

“I just think,” he muses, “it’d be a shame for these perfect tits to go saggy,” he grins against your skin. 

You gasp, then want to smack his shoulder. But Ben catches your wrist first.

“I’m not fuckin’ done yet,” he grunts. This is it. The moment he has to get those three little pathetic words off his chest before they crush his ribs like nothing physical ever could.

“What I’m tryin’ to say is…” he mutters gruffly, before he goes to press his lips to the inside of your wrist. “I lo–”

I love you.

The words still echo in the back of his mind. So clear. So triumphant. He sees it all now. Your face, your voice, your name. 

How could he ever forget. How could he ever leave you behind?

Then the moment’s gone.

His mind resets.

“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit. That I was the strongest Supe alive, the “ultimate expression” of what we could be.”

Ben pauses – Why the fuck did I say that?  His fingers twitch around the blue liquid for a moment. He frowns down at it, but the thought slips him before he can catch it. When he looks back up at his son, his muscles seem to relax by themselves. 

His mouth continues. “But she was wrong. She hadn’t met you yet.” 

Homelander frowns slightly, in disbelief. “But you hate me,” he mutters. 

Soldier Boy exhales heavily through his nose, as he conjures up the image of what his memory system has saved as yours.

“I love S–” his brow furrows. “–Clara more. And this is what she would want.”

Then –

Black.

A hook in your chest yanks you backwards with such force, that your eyes snap wide open - but your vision stays dark. 

Fuck, you feel dazed. Nauseous like hell. You want to throw up, but you wouldn’t even know what way to turn. Or how to turn. 

There’s noise. So much noise around you.

People are… talking. And… clapping? 

“Good job, sir.” 

“Thank you, thank you. But none of this would have worked without Mrs. Vought–” 

The voices sound distorted, drowned out like they’re inside a dome.

“This is it, meine Damen und Herren... Mark this day… Phase one of The Great Reset is complete.”   What’s that voice - why does it sound so familiar? Phase one?

“Wh- m- I?” Your tongue feels numb.

“Eye movement detected. Asset is regaining consciousness, sir.” A voice says somewhere behind you. 

“Wha- s- on?” Yeah, still numb. Everything feels numb, now that you try to make out where your body starts and where it ends. 

“Heart rate is increasing.” 

“Signs of disorientation.” 

“Put her back to sleep.”

“Wh- n-o, n-no-” You want to protest. To scream. To thrash. But your body is so far away. And now you’re sinking through the void below you, down, down, down…

“Start phase two.” 

The woman with the German accent announces somewhere far away, followed by more clapping. 

Until it’s all fading into black.

And the voice of Michael Jackson.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I wish I could say I'm officially back - but the writer's block and my irl still have me in a chokehold. Maybe this'll help me to overcome it... we'll see how it goes. How are you all doing?? I miss y'all so much. And I'm so so sorry if I didn't get to reply to your ask or comment yet. </3

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English is not my native language and I haven’t written in over two months. Pls bear with me

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~9k (don't ask)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES I'M ALIVE. And stealth dropping this patchwork piece. I was screaming at our tv screen after ep. 6 (haven't seen the new ones yet). This epsiode season needed fixing ASAP. (Is it far fetched and confusing? Perhaps. but at this point, fanfic Ben's less ooc than the canon one, right?)

“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit.” 

Soldier Boy says her name. Always her name. 

But the face that’s meant to be before his inner eyes? The voice that’s still somewhere buried inside his messed up head? It’s not Clara. Not Liberty. Not Stormfront, or whatever the fuck they’d called her.

It’s yours.

And if even one shred of your shared memory was still untouched, he’d know it’s always been you. In all of them. 

None of this will make a lick of sense though, so let’s scrub back to how it all started.

Ever since Soldier Boy was defrosted, again, things were fucked up.

And it’s not just how, soon as he’s out of the fridge, he’s been sent to the fucking woodchipper thanks to a supe killing virus, which is apparently a thing now. Or how his asexual weirdo son’s only way of getting his dick wet is by bathing in tit-jizz. Or how everyone at Vought wants to crawl up said weirdo’s shithole, preaching he’s God.

It’s worse than that.

It’s inside his head.

He says "it" when muttering in front of the vanity mirror like he’s a soft pussy on fucking meth, but what he really means, is a voice. 

And here’s the thing; That voice isn’t actually talking. There’s no words, nothing he could argue with and shut down. 

But it’s there. 

Since he’s back. 

He knows it is - he can feel it hovering behind him, breathing next to his ear. It’s a rotting corpse in the ditch right behind his conscious mind. Right out of reach. Or else he would’ve throttled it by now. He’s tried that in his dreams; His fingers curl around the faceless figure, squeezing it until it gives in with that satisfying sound of a crushed egg. 

But the moment his eyes snap open? You are there again. 

And that was really starting to piss him off. Which said a lot, considering Soldier Boy’s lived through the whiff-and-snort sixties without his brain ever dribbling out of his fuckin’ ears. He’d snorted it all; cocaine, LSD, gasoline - you name it, it crossed his nose. Never did jack shit to him.

But this? 

He swears, he’s going to lose his fucking mind.

Which has led him to only one conclusion; this must be a farewell gift of the Reds. 

“Can Elmo tell you a secret?”

Now that voice is not coming from inside his head. Ben had the TV running some random bullshit show in the background, hoping it would drown out whatever he’s dealing with at the moment. So far, it has done nothing more than shift his annoyance – which he’ll take as a win. 

From his angle, he can see just enough of the TV screen to judge their stupid faces.

“Sure, little dude,” Andy Samberg beams with the enthusiasm of somebody whose ballsack’s being held hostage by a mousetrap. Ben sneers at the thought. “Secrets are healthy!” 

“Like how your balls’re in the pincers?” Ben barbs from the bathroom.

Andy leans down for the fuzzy orange puppet to whisper next to his ear. 

“Sometimes Elmo hears voices that tell Elmo things.”

“Well, is it the voice of Homelander?”

“No…”

Andy’s lips twitch into a tight smile. “Ooff, buddy. Looks like the Starlighters got into your head.” 

A laugh track erupts – the same moment doors slam open off screen, two Vought security guards storm on set.

“What the f–” The Elmo puppet gets violently yanked out of the frame as the puppeteer screams somewhere under the stage. “Wait, wait! I didn’t post that meme– Andy! Please– tell ‘em!”

Andy sucks in a breath and turns back to the camera with a shaky smile.

“Remember, kids! See something, say something! Even if it’s your best friend.”

“And you still don’t fuckin’ listen.”

How parents let their kids watch these whacko shows nowadays is beyond him. Back in his day, they at least had perky pin-up girls for their propaganda. He turns on the tab, splashes some water into his face. He thinks back of those perfect million-dollar legs of Betty Grable, and how they’d bounced on his shoulders when he’d railed her on the producer’s desk. Good fuckin’ times.

“Oi, you cunt. I said, you never fuckin’ listen to me.”

Ben’s grin dies.

The TV keeps spewing some happy kid’s show melody. Only that this time, the voice didn’t come from the television.

Ben’s face snaps up towards the mirror – then he freezes.

There’s a man standing behind him. 

He quickly turns to look over his shoulder just to be met with the golden towel rack on the wall. 

“You never loved ‘er,” you drawl in a thick British accent from behind him. Ben’s head turns back.

The guy’s still there, inside his mirror; Black hair, black trenchcoat, a Hawaiian shirt.

“Butcher?” his eyes go wide, his upper lip twitches. “You fucking bastard betrayed me–”

“Betray ya?” you cut him short, “And what about me? You completely forgot about me, didn’t ya?” 

“Get out of my fucking head,” Ben growls and swings his arm to smash the mirror. Butcher’s face shatters. 

It effectively makes him vanish, just for another figure to pop up on the opposite side.

“Ooh, but mon Petit Soldat, no can do. You need to pull your dick out of your ass and–” More glass crumbles beneath Soldier Boy’s knuckles. 

“–and stop fucking around with Clara.” This time Hughie pipes up from the upper corner of the still intact mirror.

“I’m not–” Ben clenches his teeth, the jaw muscle ticking under his beard when he sees that pussy’s face looking down at him, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.”

“Are you… sure?”

Hughie’s eyebrows do that thing like he knows something Ben doesn’t, and all it does is make him remember why he’s always wanted to punch that kid in the face. 

“Get. The fuck. Out,” Ben grits out. His fist smashes the spot where his knuckles would have connected with his nose. It explodes into more pieces. 

Silence. 

Ben huffs through his nose. Roughly combs the damp hair back and out of his face.

His eyes dart up into the last unscathed corner when he senses more movement.

It’s… a bird? In fact, it’s America’s mascot— his mascot; wearing the green helmet and all. There’s even the American Flag rising in slow motion behind the cracks. 

“I’m inside your head, Ben,” the eagle says in his own comic-voice, then its beak cracks wide open, blinding him with a row of very unnaturally shiny human teeth, “I must know.” 

Christ on a stake. He’s losing it.

Ben stormed out of the bathroom without even taking the rest of the mirror down. He scrambles for the phone, the cable one next to his bed – his hands are too shaky for the flimsy little pocket buzzer – he pauses. Looks down at his free hand hovering in the air. It’s unsteady.

The moment the call connects, Soldier Boy’s grip tightens around the handset.

“Get me a bowl full of cocaine. Pronto.”

If cocaine could still make him as high as any normal person, he’d be up in the fucking stratosphere right now, painting the sky white with his spunk. 

He had just gone through powder worth 200 grand like it’s nothing. Soldier Boy drops back into the couch with a satisfied groan. He lazily wipes the dust off his nose and beard, while his other hand fondles the bulge between his legs. It’s getting uncomfortably tight down there – just like he’d hoped. With his dick rock hard and his head buzzing to the sound of Colombia, he’d call his plan a success so far. 

Time to bust a nut.

While he lets Firecracker ride him, he allows his eyes to slide close, enjoying the blissful state of absolutely-fucking-nada filling his head. He doesn’t even bother to play his part. He just lets her bounce on his dick like a pathetic bunny in heat. 

After all, this works like a fucking charm. 

Until it doesn’t.

Once Firecracker rolls off him with a cry of ecstasy, Soldier Boy reaches for his joint and hums, feeling absolutely confident in his victory. 

“Oi, you done with lyin’ there like a dead nun?”

Soldier Boy’s irritation flares up.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean, huh?” He asks, annoyed. Clearly his focus is on the blunt he’d prepared on the bedside table, because if he’d spare the girl that just got him off a single glance, he’d see her confused look.

“What?” Firecracker questions. 

Soldier Boy turns to watch her slip under the covers next to him. The voice goes on.

“Now, why don’t you boot the girl and you and me can go back to our proper lil’ chinwag?”

Soldier Boy’s teeth grind down, the blunt snaps in half.

You are still there.

The elevator dings. He says a few words to Sister Sage, but doesn’t really listen.

The following days go by in a blur. He’s learned to endure and ignore you like a yapping dog from the neighbours. A very, very, annoying little Commie bitch-dog with a knack for doing his head in. 

Which he can’t kick. Or stomp. Or crush. Or throttle. Or–

Truth is, each minute feels like he’s getting closer to turning into one of those twitchy fucking flower people. Except that he doesn’t assfuck to the voice of Jimi Hendrix, and he hasn’t met God yet, either. And no, a meetup with his overgrown baby gravy does not qualify as a Godly intervention in his book, even if there seems to be no ceiling to how much of a wackjob he is.

At least he, unlike that asswipe, doesn't let any of that get to him. 

Sure, you’re still there. And yes, he hasn’t found a way yet to smother you for good. But he’s been through worse.

So, Soldier Boy strides out of the elevator, his chin held high, face as neutral as ever. 

If it wasn’t for his calm exterior, he’s convinced that Cleopatra Jones back there would be balls deep up in his business right now. Not that he’d give two fucks about Sister Sage and the way her eyes try to laser a hole into the back of his skull. To make that work, you’d need to be able to read his mind — tough luck, sister.

Although, the thought of letting her skinny-dip in his fucked up brain juice for just a minute, does put a leer on his face. 

That is, until it’s overwritten by a mildly annoyed frown.

Soldier Boy rubs the side of his palm against his temple. What’s that throbbing sensation inside his skull? A sudden jolt makes him stumble for a second and catch himself with his arm braced against the wall. 

The hell was that?

“Where’s that fucking powder...” he grumbles to himself, while emptying each of his pockets in vain. He digs his knuckles into his pounding forehead until the feeling fizzles out.

He’s pissed off at his own body. 

Soldier Boy doesn’t get ‘a headache’. He doesn’t even get a head-scratch. The strongest supe doesn’t get sick—

His dick’s pulsing. His hips stutter, hands grasping at flesh and bones. 

He knows this room. Or at least he thinks he does. The sheets smell familiar, the music’s too. But the details blur when he tries to grab them. Was this in New York? In Berlin? Why the fuck can’t he remember?

A pair of tits jiggle above him. He wants to grope them, bury his beard between them – no, wait.

He doesn’t have a beard yet. 

He wants to feel the smooth skin of his jaws under the touch of fingernails.

“Fuck– yes! That’s it!” He can’t make out the voice. But it sounds familiar, too. 

He feels the warm body arch beneath him, then go slack. He wraps an arm around it, rests his chin right above the tits. He lets his eyes trail over the curves and bumps, lets himself breathe it all in. He loves that familiar scent that’s clouding his mind. It made– it still makes him feel stupidly fuzzy inside. He can’t help it, even as he scoffs to his younger self at how much of a wuzzy he’s become in the arms of— 

Huh, the name’s escaped him.

A hand that has threaded into the back of his hair, draws his attention up. The fingers begin to comb his short strands. The tender touch makes his eyes flutter. 

“Mein Übermensch…” the voice coos. 

Uh-huh, he hears himself think, whatever the fuck makes you nut, but don’t stop what you’re doin’.

“You only love me, don’t you?” She asks. And damn, she’s demanding.

He recognizes her now. Clara. But he still can’t put together when this happened.

Meanwhile, his memory-self’s immediate response is Yes, only you.

Now that makes Ben halt the scene right there. 

Sure, alright. He’d fucked the nazi bitch two times. Two! They were both high as fuck and she had a nice pair of tits along with a superiority complex that somehow scratched his ego just the right way.

He scrubs the memory back, but it starts to slip him the more he tries to focus on it. At least the images do. The emotions on the other hand slap him in the face like the wet dick of Gary Busey — hard, fucking ugly and definitely out of place. 

Because the moment Clara’s face comes into view, his chest aches so fucking much. He can’t place the feeling. It’s as if he’s about to lose something real important to him.

Soldier Boy groans when he pushes off the hallway’s wall again. 

The images which had flashed across his inner eyes are gone the next moment. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. It lasted no more than a few seconds, but felt like so much more.

Where the hell did that just come from? Is this some kinda after-effect of my time in the freezer? Did the Commies fuck with my memories?

And how the fuck could I forget about Clara?

Ever since Soldier Boy’s regained a new piece of his past, he’s become obsessed with it. 

“It”, not being the voice in his head any longer –that one finally pissed off–, but Clara. 

There’s so much that irritates him about this whole new development. 

Him and Clara? Not just the fucking and the drinking and riding it out on the roof of the Ritz-Carlton, but more?

All he wants to do is shrug it off as some weird shit that’s happened between them while his head was stuffed with nose candy. He wants to ignore the thought that maybe, the Reds didn’t plant something new into his brain, but maybe, they’d ripped something open which he’d buried himself. Ben wants nothing but to ignore the way he gets yanked around by the inside of his chest whenever he recalls that new memory. At this point he’d even prefer you chewing off his ear over this sweet sticky crap he’s got to deal with now.

He hates that feeling. He’s not a pussy for Christ’s sake. In fact, he wouldn’t even know what to do with it when shoved down his throat. All of that fuzzy-buzzy crap, like staring at a picture with those longing eyes of a lovesick puppy – that’s for the weak and the ladies. 

As if to prove his point, Soldier Boy kicks a thick branch out of the dirt with a lot more force than needed. It cannonballs into the horizon.

With the victorious grunt of a caveman, he continues his path through the woods, taking point with his weirdo son glued to his ass.

Soldier Boy would have turned over every desk and tore apart every computer at Vought in search for more information about Clara. Anything that helps him get rid of this disgusting new feeling that’s been lodged within his ribs. But he couldn’t risk Homelander returning successfully from Fort Harmony. His annoying knuckle child becoming immortal is the least thing he’d need right now. 

The fact that they’re marching towards the place where everything began, is not really helping either. Even if Soldier Boy wouldn’t ever admit how just the large letters spelling out “Fort Harmony Medical Department” coming into view, winds him tighter than he already is.

A twig snaps under his boot. He exchanges some sarcastic quips with Homelander while they walk up to the building resting behind the trees, but in reality, his mind wanders elsewhere again. 

What really gets to him is the idea that there’s more of his past. So much more, that his body reacts to it against his own will. The feeling of her touch, her scent, her love – it’s strangely real, even for something he still denies. Clara. That name holds so much more weight now. So much more history he’s been robbed of, whether he likes it or not. And even if every fibre of his body fights his emotions tied to that memory, he cannot help but wonder; What else is he missing?

The idea has latched onto him like a tick. Taking hold of every thought.

He just has to know. 

As if reading his mind, Homelander suddenly points out that, “The other day, when Clara Vought’s name came up, I had the impression you knew her.” 

But unlike his son, Ben has no intention of sharing that new obsession with him.

Therefore, Soldier Boy once again answers with his standard phrase, “I fucked her maybe once or twice. That’s all.” 

Still, Homelander yaps on. “You did? I guess we’re related in more ways than one.” Soldier Boy’s muscles coil up more with every word wasted between them. The thought of his own fucking son being anywhere close to Clara has no room in his mind. 

It does open a new question though. If she’s still alive then–

“Where is she?” 

Homelander glances back at him.

“Dead,” he answers flatly, “Suicide.” 

Soldier Boy stops dead in his tracks. She’s immortal like him. She has to be out there.

“Horseshit,” he growls, his eyes narrowing when Homelander just keeps walking. “She’d never off herself.”

“Yeah, well, she did,” he says simply. Soldier Boy’s shoulders tense up. That goddamn hook in his chest dragging his emotions into the open again. And with it, that tick spews new ideas into his system – he doesn’t even know where they’re coming from. New thoughts to latch onto. New hope. 

She must still be out there, right? Maybe Clara’s waiting for him, holding all the answers. The way he was waiting to be saved while the Reds fucking burned and prodded him. 

“Did you see a body?” he shouts after him, but is left with no answer.

Soldier Boy wants to go after him, wants to grip his shoulder and beat the truth out of that pathetic cape-sack. 

Instead, he staggers. 

He braces himself against a nearby tree, the pounding behind his eyes growing stronger. He slaps himself against the forehead. Then shakes his head, hoping it might rattle some cogs loose–

Music plays from a phonograph. Blue and red striped bedsheets are twisted around his legs. He’s leaned against the headrest.

“You know, I could get you some,” his young-self says while watching the smoke curl up towards the ceiling. A body shifts next to him. He can’t remember which girl it is that he’d hooked up with this time.

“Am I not perfect enough?” She answers in a distinctive accent. 

Right. Now he remembers. Immortal. She’s immortal like him  — Why the hell did you fuckin’ idiot even consider getting her V1? 

She hums something, and suddenly she’s rolled halfway onto his body to look down at him. 

“Huh?” Ben frowns up at the bright silhouette above him. It takes him a moment to make out her face, like a polaroid picture that’s still gaining colour and shape. 

“Thinking of your future, hm?”  she repeats. Once Ben’s eyes have focused, his frown deepens. 

“Clara?” he utters her name in slight confusion and if he wouldn’t know any better, he’d say the memory-Clara reacts to it. 

Ben stills. Was that just him now or him back then talking? 

Up until now, the room had felt warm and familiar. The music in the background, the sweetish scent of vanilla mixed with the musk of sex. It’s just like the first time; The emotional pull is there, he just cannot quite figure out why the visuals don’t match up in his head.

But now the room temperature just dropped. 

“Benjamin,” she says firmly, a hand snaking down between his legs to regain his attention. And she gets it, both of his versions’. He feels himself tense up in response – huh, that’s not the reaction he’d expected. For some reason, it doesn’t sit well with him that she’s pressed herself against him like that. Is this still part of the memory? He can’t tell anymore where this thing starts and where his present ends.

Clara doesn’t seem to mind either way cause she goes on with that special lilt of hers. “You’re the strongest Supe alive. You don’t get to deal with mortality.”

He doesn’t get how these memories work. One moment he’s a spectator, the next he’s shoved on set without a script or any idea what the fuck he’s even doing here.

“Perhaps,” Ben grunts nonchalantly and shrugs. He’s trying his damndest to ignore how his dick twitches between her slender fingers. Aren’t we supposed to fuck now? 

Clara finally closes her grip around him, after she’s lifted herself fully up to perch on his bare chest. “You’re not a man.” She commends, squeezing him with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. He’s not a fan of the way her lips curl – the fluttering thing in the pit of his stomach disagrees vehemently. “You’re the greatest expression of what humanity can offer.”

Soldier Boy stares back at her, brows pulled together. He may like the sound of that, but frankly speaking, she could dangle the sweetest pussy in front of his face right now and he’d still rather go for that bowl of white powder that’s waiting in his real-present-selves loft right now. This brain-scrambling nonsense was getting him nowhere – fine, on a second thought, maybe he’ll let her finish him off first. It’d be a shame to let a wet memory-dream-whatever-the -fuck this is, go to waste, right? – but then he’s done here. 

Just when he’d let a small groan form in the back of his throat, he almost chokes on it.

Clara’s face flickers. Like radio static. 

All of a sudden, a different voice cuts in – it’s out of sync with Clara’s still moving lips, and it’s distorted, fragile – but he can make some of it out.

“Listen—- don’t—- it’s me, Stargate–”

He blinks. And you’re gone. 

“Right,” he finally says, although he’s not sure anymore what the conversation was even about. Neither does he care.

His mind’s racing now. It’s grappling with his memory as it refuses to let the name click into place; Stargate. 

He repeats it. 

Notices a strange feeling beneath his skin when he does – like he’s high on some new fuckin’ drug – so he keeps doing it. Stargate, Stargate, Stargate.

As if the woman that’s straddling his chest can sense his shift of emotions, she suddenly leans down to catch his lips in a kiss. It breaks into his mind. The memory sinks its claws into him, turns hungry and wild and – off.

Soldier Boy’s already walking down the halls of Fort Harmony when he’s snapped back. Homelander’s talking next to him, apparently they are mid-argument. 

If only he knew what the fuck just happened.

Ben was convinced that regaining more of his memories would feel, I don’t know, good? That it would bring him the answers he was looking for. Maybe even give him a purpose in this modern world, where so far he’s just been made to feel like a really handsome relic.

It has done nothing more than confuse him even more.

First Clara. Then Stargate. Were you the thing the Commies had stuffed into his skull? The vault that keeps him from regaining his memories?

No. That doesn’t make any sense. (As if anything still made sense at this point.) The sound of your voice, of your name, it triggered something in him. He can’t quite grasp it, but it’s there. See? That’s why he hates this whole ‘touchy-feely’ crap. There’s nothing for him to work with. Just another hazy notion which he’d gladly trade for a grenade or a stroll through a minefield.

Unfortunately, Fort Harmony offers him neither.

After sending his annoying son to the time out, Soldier Boy’s roaming the ruins of the Medical Department, in search for the V1, and for answers. Mainly for answers. 

He’s digging through old papers, the dust swirling up into the air making him cough. 

Nothing. No V1, no clues. 

He curses – moves to the desk instead, where he yanks the drawers right out of their sockets. The wood clatters, its innards spilling across the cold floor. He steps over it, eyes scanning the papers.

There must at least be something about Stargate here. Anything - anything at all. Did he just make you up in his head? 

His boot kicks over another pile of Vought files. All he’s greeted with is the black and white picture of his old teammates. They seem to judge him even from the floor. He ignores it and moves to a different desk. 

If you’re a Supe old enough to show up in his early memories, then you must’ve been jabbed in this place.

Yet, there’s nothing. 

He swings his arm into the side of the table, flipping it over and into a row of lockers. 

“Fuck!” he shouts. His voice echoes off the cold walls. He turns on the spot, yells at nothing particular when a hint of desperation seeps through his voice. “C’mon, talk to me, damnit!”

Nothing.

“You’ve been riding my face for two fuckin’ weeks and now you just fuck off?!” 

Silence.

His hopes lie in the dust. The darkness swallows what’s left.

You’re not here anymore. Hell, maybe you never were.

CLINK.

His attention snaps to the open doorway. “Stargate?” he blurts, almost hopeful.

Only to be met with – who the fuck’s that guy? He stares at him, wide eyed. Then he sticks his tongue out before he makes a break for it. 

It takes Ben a moment to process what just happened. But his instincts kick in naturally and he gives chase.

His boots thunder down the hallways, down the stairs, further down into the lower level of the building. That midget is fast, he’s gotta hand it to him. Finally he’s got him cornered, skidding to a halt in front of the basement. 

His eyes widen slightly. His focus is drawn to a mangled body that’s merged with the wall, sprouting vines and ooze.

“My God. Quinn,” Ben mutters in disbelief.

He wanted to find the V1 and destroy it. Wanted to find you – Or at least a trace of your existence. Just enough proof that you were real.

But all he’s got to stumble upon is Quinn. That piece of shit.

You still looking for her? 

“The fuck’d you say?” Ben growls, but Quinn barely manages to twitch a bulging eye. The guy forgotten in the corner, Frenchie, squints, looking back and forth between the two. 

She’s not here. She never was.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Ben grits out between his clenched teeth. He wants to shout more, but a flash of searing pain splitting his skull in half, forces his eyes to squeeze shut.

He just blinked. But now the cool basement is gone. 

“What the fuck…”

Ben slowly turns his head, takes in the white walls and its soft shadows, the fairy lights hanging off the rack, the twisted sheets on the bed. He takes a slow step into the room, testing the floorboards – then halts, his eyes locking with those of a plush monkey. He slightly tilts his head, and for fucks sakes, there’s more of them on every surface, and they’re all staring back at him with their dead eyes.

“Ben..? Is that really you?” The soft voice has his focus shift to the end of the room. 

There she sits. Tied down to the chair in that skintight red suit, just like he’d last seen her. That same old wretched face. 

So, that’s what this is. Another memory. This is getting ridiculous. He knows this memory, nothing new to discover here – so he decides to snap out of it.

But he’s still here.

The fuck?

And of course, the unasked for details of that moment come crashing down on him now. Ben’s jaw tightens. As it seems, his body cannot tell the difference, because he’s not just remembering this, he’s reliving the moment.

“You killed me,” Crimson Countess accuses and gets him to look at her. 

Ben doesn’t move, knowing she’s right. Instead, a weight forms on his chest. The shit he keeps buried starts digging its way back up. Again.

“You said you hated me.” Ben’s hurt is thinly veiled when he speaks. 

“We all did,” she spits each word like venom. That makes Ben pause.

“So, I deserved to be tortured and pumped with poison for forty years like some fucking lab rat. Is that what you’re saying?” he asks, and he doesn’t even realize how pained he looks when voicing the million-dollar question. 

No – he doesn’t care. He has to know. He has to know whether he’s really “the greatest expression of what humanity can offer” or he’s just an asshole that deserves to rot in Hell. Probably both–

“Ben. Don’t listen to her.” 

Ben jolts. Because Crimson Countess’ red lips move, but no voice comes out, like she’s been muted. Hold on – this time, he recognizes the voice.

“Stargate?” he calls out your name. His head whirls around, but no one else is there. Then something moves in his peripheral vision. 

Slowly, one of the monkeys has its head turned to face him. 

“The fu–” Ben doesn’t even get to finish a curse, when another monkey slowly cranes its neck back. Followed by the ugly as sin one hanging off the rack. And another, and another. A wall full of plush monkeys with the aura of a creepy doll collection.

Ben takes a tentative step back. Each one of them adjusts their stitched beady eyes to keep them locked onto him. 

Then, the monkeys all begin to chatter one after the other, like a TV that’s switching channels. Every time ripping open another stitched mouth, sputtering stuffing as they throw chopped up words at him and expect him to catch them all.

“Remember-–” 

“This isn’t–” 

“She’s corrupting your–” 

“—and my face–” 

“Don’t give the–”

CRACK.

They – you – go silent all at once. 

Their fuzzy bodies begin buzzing on the spot just as the walls begin to shake. Ben has to steady himself for a moment, the back of his knees bumping into the bedframe behind him. When he looks up again, the stuffed animals are leaking something crimson from their eyes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Hey– keep talking to me!” he demands but is cut short as each one of them explodes into a puff of red glitter. 

Ben stands there. 

Glitter’s raining down on him. He’s muttering a hoarse, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” while he’s trying to scrub the panic out of his face. But apparently, he doesn’t get a break.

Something’s touching his foot.

“Fuck!” Ben shouts, and in a knee-jerk reaction spins around to stomp down on whatever’s latched onto his ankle. A sickening squelching crack echoes off the walls. But the sound wouldn’t be reason enough for him to suddenly go rigid. 

It’s when he recognizes the maimed body that’s crawled out from beneath the bed, now pinned beneath his boot. At least what’s left of it – it’s more of a lump of meat with stubs for what once were limbs and a few loose strands of black hair that stick to its skull.

Clara rolls her head on its own axis until her eyes meet his. Ben’s breath stops for a moment.

“You wouldn’t ever forget about us,” she says, and smiles. In every broken way, she curls her lips further than naturally possible, “right, Benjamin?”

Ben doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He can’t breathe anymore. 

“But–” 

Ben’s head snaps around as Crimson chimes in in a distorted voice, like she’s just joining a conversation. 

“Why did you burn me? You said you loved mmmeee—” the word stretches on, warbling in a slow, sickening way. 

Meanwhile Ben watches with a stony expression how Crimson Countess’ face begins to rip into long stripes, her skin peeling back to reveal a charcoal body beneath. Then, a white, blinding light floods the room. The silhouette of what was Crimson, then Clara, then Quinn – it’s all burning.

Ben doubles over when the darkness of the basement spits him out again. He’s clutching his knees, chest heaving, struggling for air.

“Fuck. I’m so fucking sorry,” he mutters between his labored breaths.

Once Ben looks up, he is met with the burnt remains of what once was Quinn’s mangled body fused with the wall. He killed him too.

Maybe that’s what’s happening to him. 

He’s the undertaker of his own grave. He’s planned his own burial alive without realizing it.

His entire past – his memories, his relationships, his purpose – it’s all crumbling to dust, piece by piece. Soon he’ll be the last one standing. Locked into this mess of a head of his.

You thought you wouldn’t die alone? Pathetic. 

The words echo off the cold walls. Then the voice fucking laughs. Maybe Quinn’s. Maybe yours. Hell, maybe his own. He can’t tell anymore – it doesn’t change anything.

He will die alone. If he can die at all, that is. 

And worst is, he fucking deserves it.

“Just do it already,” Ben husks out. But Homelander, who's back from his corner, doesn’t move, just hovers in the doorway. Ben’s shoulders hunch when he realizes how his words came out unusually broken and wet. He really is pathetic.

He’s still here.

Alive. Alone. Potato, fucking potato. 

Soldier Boy hasn’t slept since they’ve returned from Fort Harmony. The question, why he’s still here, is tearing him apart. And frankly, he has passed the point of trying to deny it, or at least he would, if anybody asked.

He still can’t get you out of his head. Although you’d stopped talking to him days ago. The only exception being when you’d possessed a collection of monkeys in his fucked up brain. He keeps replaying the words you’d said then, over and over. As if it will jumpstart a new thought, or trigger a new memory if he just tries hard enough. The bitter truth is, he still knows jack shit about you.

He thinks he should know. No, that’s not right. It’s more like… he feels something, like he should remember. Which, once again, is an odd thing to say when you’re as emotionally constipated as Soldier Boy.

Which is why he’d rather not risk opening that pandora’s box further.

So, suck it up and onwards it is. And thanks to Homelander, that path leads him across half of America to visit Los Angeles. He fucking hates Los Angeles. 

But it still beats the alternative.

If he knew, that by the end of his day, he was going to end up bombshell-throwing Seth Rogan and spilling baby oil to catch a speedster, he would’ve probably – actually, no. Soldier Boy would’ve absolutely picked Los Angeles over another fucking fieldtrip to monkey-memory-land.

And what’s more, he would’ve missed out on the old Soldier Boy comic he’s eyeing with a smug smirk right now. The fresh blood splatter tainting his comic self crimson, doesn’t bother him. In fact, it kinda adds to the Kraut-hunter flair. He chuckles to himself at the thought, pocketing it.

Just as he turns, a picture between the collection of Nazi plates catches his attention. He steps closer, brows furrowing. 

It’s Clara. At this point she’s haunting him wherever he goes.

Well. If he’d ever been looking for clues about her existence, he’d be holding the key in his hands now. 

Unfortunately, that’s not the thing that’s bothering him when looking at her. If he can trust anything of the recollection he has gained so far, or more like, the emotional package that came with it, Clara was special to him. He’s accepted that much by now. But all that happens when he turns the photo in his hand is, shouldn’t I – I don’t know – feel something? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?

He sets the frame back down. Crosses his arms in front of his chest as he stares down at it.

The face of Clara flickers – Ben blinked. He missed how your face reflected in the frame’s glass, yelling his name. For just a split second. But his subconscious caught it.

And unbeknownst to Ben, it’s enough to complete the process.

Ben's head screams of pain.

All forty years of his time in the torture chamber combined tear through his skull at once.

Images flash before his inner eyes. He recognizes some of them; The music. "Whatever will be, will be" playing in the background. The bedsheets. The taste of smoke on his tongue. But others are new. A slender hand covering his. Wait - there's that familiar smell of vanilla again. A strand of hair that curls around his finger as he strokes it behind her ear.

For the first time, Ben sees the face of the woman his mind's trying to overwrite; You're gorgeous. Soft light in your hair. Eyes full of love, only for him. When you open your mouth to giggle, he recognizes it at once; Stargate. You're Stargate.

Ben tries to grip you tight. But the lighting bolt that's thundering inside his head tears right through your face. Breaking it to pieces like a mirror.

"Fuck!" Ben groans, his fingers flexing around the edge of the table - or maybe it's a counter - he can't tell anymore.

Something in him turns over hard. Sickening. He fights the feeling that drags itself back up his throat, forces himself to focus on where your face has been moments ago.

There it is again, that terrible ache, that fear, like he’s lost something important.

And now he understands.

Ben drops to his knees, he desperately tries to hold onto the fragments. He tries to remember your laugh. But Clara's voice answers instead. He tries to picture your warm eyes. But Clara smiles back at him instead. He tries glue them back together, form your face with them – but the more his fingers dig into the shards, the more they crumble. 

Your name slips through his fingers next.

The ache in his chest remains.

When the pain in his skull subsides, Ben's eyes refocus on his empty hands in his lap. His fingers still flex, like he was trying to grab for something. He frowns to himself, slightly disoriented. Then his head angles back, his gaze instinctively pulled to the picture frame he'd placed back on the table.

And suddenly, the grief inside his ribs twists into something more; Guilt.

Only now, his mind finally gives it a reason. Clara.

Soldier Boy’s always been an asshole. Deep down, he knows it.

And believe it or not, he regrets it. Not all of it, of course. But some.

Like how he'd disappointed the one person who'd always believed in him. Had loved him unconditionally. Why does he realize that just now?

It’s not fucking fair how decades later, he’s been given the idea that he’s not only been capable of being in love, but actually could have spent eternity with someone he loves. Only to get it yanked from his hands moments later, because he’s not fucking worth it and meant to end up alone.

Alone with a weirdo son he didn’t ask for. 

What’s it worth being more than a man, when you die the pathetic, lonely, and slow death of a forgotten and degraded war hero? 

Bombsight was aware of that. Unlike him. 

And yet, Ben can’t admit that he wished he had gotten the V1 earlier. Maybe had gotten himself someone like Clara. Gotten himself a life he always thought he wasn’t cut out for. 

But all of that regret's worth jack shit, because there's nothing left for him to fix. All he can do now, is do right by her. Just this once.

Soldier Boy blocks his fist — let’s it connect with his forearm. He swivels, grazes his knuckles across Bombsight’s face. 

Then goes for his throat. 

His chest. His guts. 

He drives him back towards the wall – this is almost too easy. 

Then Bombsight twists away just in time, turns, so his fist’s flying towards Ben’s face when his vision suddenly whites out, his skull feeling like it’s cracking open and –

Soft static crackles along the music of Doris Bay’s Que Sera, Sera. The needle jumps from the weight that’s being thrown around the room. The floor imitates a warground with broken wood, ripped clothes, torn pillows, and its feathers swirling through the white powder that’s scattered all over the place. Wood groans as it gets slammed against the wall, over and over. Grunting and the wet slap of skin against skin mix into the rhythm. 

And there you are. 

Your arms are spread out like an eagle, fingers twisted into the smooth fabric of the flag. 

Soldier Boy holds you up by your ass – one hand is enough to keep you in the air. And it gives him the opportunity to pin you to the wall behind his bed with his other, curled around your neck. He’s not putting any pressure on your throat though, how could he?

You look like a fucking Goddess.

“Isn’t this flag desecration?” you smirk down at him, at which Ben’s own grin widens. 

“Doll, I am fucking America,” he snorts. 

“Yeah, literally,” you laugh, then gasp as Ben drives his point home with another punishing roll of his hips. You wrap your legs around his waist, circle his shoulder and his chest with an arm each as you dig your fingers into his skin. Ben hisses – he wishes it was from pain, from feeling every inch of his skin breaking under your nails – he never carries away any marks from you, but he likes to imagine it anyway. At least he can mark you up. 

“Fuck– don’t stop–” you cry out right next to his ear where your forehead has dropped to. Like hell’s he going to stop. Not now, not ever.

“Ain’t stoppin’ till you’ve milked me dry,” he warns. His grip on your ass turns bruising, then moves it to the small of your back for better leverage. He pulls you in, meeting his every thrust as he fucks up into that tight little cunt of yours. 

He feels how your soft walls begin to flutter around his cock. He knows you’re close. And if that wasn’t telling enough, the state of the Old Glory on his wall would surely give it away. A satisfied grin spreads across his lips as he watches the way your head has dropped back against the wall, thudding with every snap of his hips. How your eyes rolled back under your eyelids. How you’re back to fisting the stars and stripes, how your moans begin to slip into desperate whines, and how the flag goes taut from how much you squirm and writhe.

Christ. Fucking you is divine.

You announce your orgasm with a shuddering cry, the flag protests under it but ultimately gives in as it rips from its hinges and drapes over your shoulders like a cape. Your cunt squeezes him with a vice grip, and it’s enough to make him follow you over the edge as he shoots his load up your walls. 

He sinks back to his knees, takes you down with him as he settles down on the mattress. 

“Look at my sweet girl,” he chuckles with a tilt of his head, his hand brushing the edge of the flag out of your face. “Takin’ down America like she fuckin’ owns it.” 

That quip earns him a giggle of yours. Christ, he'd kill just for that sound. He pulls you further into his lap by the small of your back, wanting to feel the tiny rumbles of your chest against his. 

His smooth chin rests against your sternum. The stormy green in his eyes never leaves you. “You’re fucking gorgeous. You know that?”

You roll your eyes at him, the way you always do when he compliments you – he remembers that detail now, too. Would you still react that snarky if he was to say that he really means it? That, sure, your body’s gorgeous, but it’s so much more than that. That, if he was any better with words, with feelings, he’d tell you?

You try to wiggle out of his lap, but Ben tuts and rolls you both over so you’re under him.

“Come here you cheeky lil’ minx,” Ben growls roughly, while his strong hands find purchase on the plush of your hips and his own slot back between your thighs with ease. Your fingers thread into the back of his short hair, yank at it as he pushes himself back into your still sticky heat without a warning and bottoms out.

Ben continues to fuck you through four more rounds. Until both of you have collapsed to your backs, you tapping out and Ben calling for a joint-break.

He presses the tip of the blunt to his lips, primes it with a few quick puffs until he takes a longer drag. He holds it for a moment, then blows out the smoke through his lips again. 

“You know, I could get you some,” he says while staring up at the ceiling where the smoke dissipates. He doesn’t need to look to feel your chest heave before a sigh.

“That’s not how it works.”

This time Ben rolls his eyes. “Why wouldn’t it? You’ve got a body somewhere, right? And you’re a fuckin’ supe.”

“This is me.” Your challenging tone drives his eyebrows together, and his head angles to glare down at you.

“Quit fuckin’ playin’ with my head, Stargate. You know what I meant,” he snaps, then pauses. 

His fingertips rub along the blunt for a couple of times before his frown softens and he passes you the joint as a peace offering. You don’t take it right away, but eventually, you do.

Soldier Boy takes it as his cue to go on. His free forefinger glides through a strand of your hair before he tenderly brushes it behind your ear. The tips of his fingers linger there. Like maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can feel what touching your real skin would feel like. “I just–” he lets out a heavy breath through his nose. “I wish I could…”

“Fuck my real body?” You quip and blow a swirl of smoke into his face.

“Yeah. That too,” he snorts, breathes in some of the smoke that’s left your lungs. “We could also–,” he pauses to search for the right genuine words, while he looks down to your small hand covering his as it curves your hipbone, “We could, you know, grow not old together.” He winces inwardly at how that made him sound like a goddamn pantywaist. So he quickly adds; “Fucking’s definitely more fun without the toilet dippers and a cunt bucket, don’t ya think?” 

The silence that follows is killing him. After a beat, he dares to look up at you, but is met with sad eyes that he wishes he’d rather not seen.

“Ben…” you murmur, lips pressed into a tight line. “We have no idea where my body is.”

“So?” He frowns. “I‘ll find it. I’ll get you out.”

“– or when.”

Right. Then there’s that small but crucial detail. His jaw muscles work to form some kind of smart response, but ultimately he falls silent. Time’s relative for you. That’s a fact that he tends to ignore. Mainly because he can’t wrap his mind around it. How can you talk to him here, in this moment, and at the same time be stuck anywhere in time?

“Look…” You rub your thumb over his knuckles. The softness of your touch makes his defiant gaze snap back to you. “We got to be realistic about this… Chances are, that my body’s already dead.”

Well. That’s not how he’d planned this conversion to go. You always shut him down with that argument. And honestly? It pisses him off how gloomy you are about the whole future thing.

Without a word, you pass him the blunt back. He takes a longer drag than usual. Time passes without either of you adding anything.

Maybe… maybe if you knew how he felt, you’d change your mind.

Ben’s throat works. He clears it from the smoke, but still, nothing makes it past his lips. He looks away, fumbles for those three damn words that he cannot seem to get in line. When he finally meets your eyes again, his determined frown has given way to something uncharacteristic for Soldier Boy. An expression, that’s almost… soft. 

It’s not like he hasn’t thrown around those exact same words countless times before. 

I love you, I love you, I love you. 

It should be easy, right? But this is the moment he realizes that they’ve never held this much weight for him until now. And that kinda terrifies Ben.

Ben turns away, flicking the roach into the mug on the bedside table. While still looking the other way, he rasps out your name – gosh, your name is so perfect when it rolls off his tongue. So perfect and complete. He wants to taste it, savour it. Never let it go again. Then brand every sperm of his ballsack with your initials and let everyone know that they belong to this perfect fucking woman he can call his own. See? That’s how romantic he can get. 

Come on, you fuckin’ pussy. Just get it over with.

He forces his shoulders to angle back towards you. 

The way you stare up at him with those wide eyes, naked body stretched out beneath him, is actually not helping at all. Ben fully turns to his side, braces himself on his right arm to slowly snake his free hand up your side and watch you shiver from it. Or, maybe it will. He lets his mouth follow his hungry gaze as he kisses a path down the front of your neck, over your collarbone, till the valley between your breasts. 

“I just think,” he muses, “it’d be a shame for these perfect tits to go saggy,” he grins against your skin. 

You gasp, then want to smack his shoulder. But Ben catches your wrist first.

“I’m not fuckin’ done yet,” he grunts. This is it. The moment he has to get those three little pathetic words off his chest before they crush his ribs like nothing physical ever could.

“What I’m tryin’ to say is…” he mutters gruffly, before he goes to press his lips to the inside of your wrist. “I lo–”

I love you.

The words still echo in the back of his mind. So clear. So triumphant. He sees it all now. Your face, your voice, your name. 

How could he ever forget. How could he ever leave you behind?

Then the moment’s gone.

His mind resets.

“You know, Clara used to say the craziest shit. That I was the strongest Supe alive, the “ultimate expression” of what we could be.”

Ben pauses – Why the fuck did I say that?  His fingers twitch around the blue liquid for a moment. He frowns down at it, but the thought slips him before he can catch it. When he looks back up at his son, his muscles seem to relax by themselves. 

His mouth continues. “But she was wrong. She hadn’t met you yet.” 

Homelander frowns slightly, in disbelief. “But you hate me,” he mutters. 

Soldier Boy exhales heavily through his nose, as he conjures up the image of what his memory system has saved as yours.

“I love S–” his brow furrows. “–Clara more. And this is what she would want.”

Then –

Black.

A hook in your chest yanks you backwards with such force, that your eyes snap wide open - but your vision stays dark. 

Fuck, you feel dazed. Nauseous like hell. You want to throw up, but you wouldn’t even know what way to turn. Or how to turn. 

There’s noise. So much noise around you.

People are… talking. And… clapping? 

“Good job, sir.” 

“Thank you, thank you. But none of this would have worked without Mrs. Vought–” 

The voices sound distorted, drowned out like they’re inside a dome.

“This is it, meine Damen und Herren... Mark this day… Phase one of The Great Reset is complete.”   What’s that voice - why does it sound so familiar? Phase one?

“Wh- m- I?” Your tongue feels numb.

“Eye movement detected. Asset is regaining consciousness, sir.” A voice says somewhere behind you. 

“Wha- s- on?” Yeah, still numb. Everything feels numb, now that you try to make out where your body starts and where it ends. 

“Heart rate is increasing.” 

“Signs of disorientation.” 

“Put her back to sleep.”

“Wh- n-o, n-no-” You want to protest. To scream. To thrash. But your body is so far away. And now you’re sinking through the void below you, down, down, down…

“Start phase two.” 

The woman with the German accent announces somewhere far away, followed by more clapping. 

Until it’s all fading into black.

And the voice of Michael Jackson.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I wish I could say I'm officially back - but the writer's block and my irl still have me in a chokehold. Maybe this'll help me to overcome it... we'll see how it goes. How are you all doing?? I miss y'all so much. And I'm so so sorry if I didn't get to reply to your ask or comment yet. </3

Soldier Boy / Ben Tag List (1):

@ambiguous-avery @lamentationsofalonelypotato @bettystonewell @my-stories-vault @chevroletdean @supernotnatural2005 @mostlymarvelgirl @champagnepoets @livya99 @thoughtfullyfurryangel

@janessi1 @salemslostwitch @n-o-p-e-never @jc-winchester @multiversefanfics @youdontknowe @123passwort @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90

@cupidluvzz @amethyst-bunny @pressedwater @lori19 @fleurenoir @alixxhere @royaler1999 @writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @theelephantroom4

@mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @tinysnacklefan @thebestqueenoftheworld @ultimatecin73 @hereswhatimyellingabouttoday

@wvffles @megara0224 @hobby27 @chaoticcreatorbluebird @allthingswickedpodcast @boobsbeesbongos @girlypopmymelody @nuoctis @bowahdean

"Doesn’t suit you." A playful voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

"..Huh?" You look up just in time to see a well-worn leather jacket brush past your shoulder.

The booth seat across from you is being filled as a stranger slides in. A plate in one hand and a spoon in the other. Your eyebrows rise, and for a moment you debate whether to tell him the seat is taken.

But the guy doesn’t seem to notice your thoughts. He’s busy ogling his food, humming a curious ‘hm’, and then shoving a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. All the while he continues to mutter, his words now half muffled, "That thing you’re doing to your face."

You blink at him.

He puffs his cheeks, and green eyes travel up to meet yours for the first time, "Makes you look like the Grinch." His lips quirk into a smirk.

What? The audacity.

You stare at him with a deadpan. "Thanks for the compliment." He continues to chew, the flakes crunching. Accompanied by a content hum. Well, at least someone’s enjoying their breakfast.

"Just sayin’." He purses his lips before he eats another spoon, his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk’s and an eyebrow arched. "What’s up with the face, sweetheart?"

"Uh," - is all you can manage at the moment. Too distracted by the way he's guzzling his yoghurt like a starved caveman. All eyes fluttered closed and nodding to himself like he's thinking ‘Finally, some good fucking food’.

He swallows. Tongue darts out to swipe a white dribble off his upper lip. When his eyes suddenly snap open, you avert yours in record time.

Your gaze's now fixed to the edge of the table, as if it’s the most interesting thing in the room. Left and right of it an elbow each. Of course you had to drop your gaze right between his arms. Well, this is awkward.

"You working on somethin'?" He suddenly asks, and you startle like a deer.

Your lips part - ready to form an answer - when you watch him splotching your notebook in slow-motion.

Your eyebrows twitch in irritation. You dart out a hand, just managing to pull your papers back before another dribble of his slobber taints your notes.

"Dude, please, you’re eating like a barn animal," you comment under your breath, face scrunched up as you wipe the stain off your paperback. Way to lose ones charm.

"But a handsome one," he quickly retorts. And stuffs another spoon into his wide grin, swallows and jerks his chin at your laptop. "So?"

Okay, fine. Maybe he still does have charm.

Your eyes follow his gaze down to the screen facing your way.

"I’m writing," you reply flatly, trying to hold his curious gaze as you tuck your papers safely under your forearms.

His expression flashes into a surprised one. Probably more at your tone than the answer itself.

Granted, the words 'I'm writing' should have come out enthusiastic. They at least used to. But that was before you’d been staring at a white screen for what felt like weeks.

"Uh-huh," he mumbles, the sound muffled as he keeps shovelling the muesli down his hatch. "Can I see?"

"W-what?"

How- how dare he? Only an uncultivated potato would ask that. This is like the biggest No-No. One does not simply ask a writer to look at their unfinished work. You don't stare at a painter when he's still painting. That's like asking someone to strip naked. And then have them bend over.

Let’s ignore the fact that there’s not a single written word to be ashamed of. Because there’s literally not a single written word in your doc.

"No." The answer probably came faster and more obvious of your inner panic than it should have, because to him it clearly translated to; 'Oh? Then I‘ll see it all the more.'

"Aw, c‘mon." His teasing grin spreads, the spoon tipped against his lower lip, "I won‘t judge." Damn it, why does he look kinda adorable?

Before you can react, the guy clamps the spoon between his lips, reaches over the table with his free hand and tilts your laptops screen back down.

"Hey!" you smack his hand away but it‘s too late - his grin just grows and he chuckles.

"Writing, huh? You mean you’ve been staring at a white wall. Here I thought you were writing some spicy stuff about me. What’s all the fuzz about?"

"I- I'm just... I'm still thinking..." you mutter and avoid his gaze behind a hand, trying to cover up the slight tint of embarrassment that’s crept onto your face. "I've got it all in my head, though." You try to back up your answer. He tilts his head back with a chuckle.

"All in your head, huh? For how long this been going?" he quips, lips twitching amused.

"Well, uh-" you begin, then clear your throat with an awkward rub of your neck, "A few days... or... weeks... maybe..." Your voice lowers more with every word until it's reduced to a sheepish whisper.

"Damn, that sucks." he huffs.

"Yeah," you admit with a heavy sigh, "It does."

For a moment you just share a look. His green eyes watch you closely. Calm and curious. But without ever being obtrusive. More like he's trying to get a read on you, like he's patiently waiting, allowing you to open up and reveal more.

And for some reason you find yourself to do just that.

"It's so frustrating, you know?" You begin and slump back in your seat. But he holds your gaze, the entire time and nods subtly, silently telling you to go on. "Like I've got all the ideas in my mind. I can see the scenes play out, can hear the characters talk. But the same moment I try to write it down, it all just-" you break off with a huff, gesturing a 'poof' with your hand.

After a moment, you add another frustrated sigh. "Honestly? Feels like the damn pipeline between my brain and hand's constipated." His eyebrows shoot up at that description.

"You’re an odd one," he laughs and sets the emptied plate down, "I like it."

"Pfff - look who’s talking. Mister 'handsome barn animal'." You jab and can’t help the chuckle. He smirks satisfied at your reaction, tugs at his leather jacket and winks at you.

You roll your eyes with a wide smile.

"What's your name?" You ask curiously.

"Dean," he answers simply. Then leans forward to rest on his forearms, "And you, sweetheart?" Your ears flush when he comes closer and you suddenly become very much aware of the effect his intense gaze has on you.

"I- uh, I'm -" you introduce yourself with your name and he repeats it with a smile, like he's committing it to his memory.

There's a moment of silence again and you don't quite know what to do or say - luckily he seems to have picked up on your inner distress.

"So," he begins, his face suddenly taking an air of - what was it? Business-like? Professional? You couldn't quite tell. "Back to your constipation."

"Yeah? What about it? You interested in my constipation?" You return the question, trying to imitate his new tone.

"Y-yeah," He tries to stay serious, but you both have to bite back a chuckle. "I am, actually."

"What about it?"

"This may sound stupid, but..." He mutters and rubs his forehead like he knows the question that'll follow isn't formulated very well, "Can’t you just, write? You know, like will it through?"

"No- That’s not how it works... it’s - it’s not that damn easy- it's - you don’t understand… It's not that I don't want to. I - I just - ugh-" You groan, face dropped to your hands.

You take a deep breath. The frustration of the past weeks threatening to break down on you again. Your eyes begin to sting and you screw them up in an effort to keep yourself from having a full on breakdown in front of a stranger. In a full diner no less.

"Hey, it’s okay, I believe you." he says with a lower voice now, the flirty attitude gone. The sudden change in his tone and his last words catches you off guard.

Your eyebrows pull together and you lift your head just enough to meet his gaze over the edge of your screen.

The air gets caught in your throat when you notice how close he is. He’s leaned across the table, emerald glinting pools searching your face for a trace of an escaped tear. His hand twitches but he puts it back down before it brushes yours.

"Don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s not your fault, ‘kay?" He murmurs. Almost like he’s sharing a secret with you.

"What? What are you talking about..?" And your voice drops to an equally low level to match his.

"You’re doing great, sweetheart. Trust me." He reassures you but avoids your question with another cheeky smile.

Although this one seems different. Genuine. And soft at the corners.

Unfortunately you don't even get to fully take it in when he's suddenly up on his feet. His eyes dart around the diner before they return to you, a hand raised to ruffle through his dark blond hair.

"I gotta go," he mutters, his attention suddenly drawn down to his empty plate, "Ah - Could you pay for that? You're a real sweetheart."

"..What?"

He doesn't wait for your answer as he slides out of the booth and rounds the table. When he's next to you, he stops for a moment and leans in.

"Oh and - Don't do anything stupid, okay?" He whispers. Then straightens his back again, throws you a flirty wink and a wave of his hand while he bounces off with a casual, "See ya~"

"Uh-" your gaze follows him, perplexed, before you echo his words under your breath, "Yeah... see ya."

You kinda hoped you would.

Wait- why would you do something stupid?

The diner door jingles when Dean steps outside. After a glance left and right, he walks towards a taller guy. He looks not much younger than him, but longer brown hair frames his face, his focus on the papers in his hands.

When their eyes meet, Dean jerks his chin at him and he follows him round the corner and out of sight of the diner.

"And? You got a lead?" He asks hopefully.

"Yep." - He pops the ‘p’ - "Looks like it's our lucky day, Sammy. I think we've got our patient zero." Dean takes charge and heads over to a black Chevy, his hands fidgeting in his pants pockets for the car key.

His bow legs bounce off the concrete floor while Sam follows him with long strides.

"You think it's a deal gone wrong? Or maybe some sort of black magic that backfired?" Sam thinks out loud as he flips through the journal in his hand.

"I don't know man. She seemed pretty clueless to me. Maybe Bobby was right, and it is a curse." The car lock clicks and the trunk flings open.

He pulls out a shotgun and props it up against the lid before he starts rifling through the various contents. "I don't even know what I'm looking for." He sighs.

Sam rubs his temple with equal frustration, "Great. How the hell do we get rid of a writer’s curse?"

"Beats me." Dean huffs, then tosses a set of wooden stakes aside and leans back to run a hand through his hair, "Maybe we should call Bobby again…" - he turns to flash a boyish grin at his brother - "...and then check her out some more?"

Sam groans, "Dude, can you not think with your dick, for two seconds please?"

"What? She’s cute. Plus, she’s got that whole ‘tormented soul’ vibe."

"Seriously? Chances are, that she’s the cause for all of this crazy crap that’s going on in this city."

Dean’s smirk doesn’t falter. Instead he shrugs his shoulders unperturbed, "Let’s pay her a visit tonight. If she turns out to be a witch, we just gank ‘er."

"Dean," Sam scoffs and drags a hand down his face, "I know that look." Dean wiggles his eyebrows.

Sam shakes his head, followed by an incredulous chuckle, "Come on, man, you know you can’t charm your way into her pants. She's clearly not the type for a quick fling. And you’re not exactly Shakespeare."

Dean gets the shotgun out from under the lid and throws it back into the boot. "Oh Sammy, you've still got to learn a lot about women," he says, slamming it shut.

Sam rolls his eyes when his older brother turns to pat him on the shoulder, before he takes off to round the Impala. He pulls the driver's door open while Sam does the same on the opposite side.

"Mark my words, Sammy." He laughs and points a finger gun at him across the roof. "Every girl likes it dirty. Some just don’t show it."

If you reblog, I demand at least one gif of Dean that fits the last line. Cuz I couldn't find the one I was looking for and I want to wake up to many many flirty Dean gifs 😂

Dean Tag List

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24

@ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @champagnepoets @livya99

@salemslostwitch @supernotnatural2005 @lamentationsofalonelypotato (I'm tagging you for this because our talk partially motivated me to write this ♡ and to post it even though I hate it lmao 😂)

Speaking of, you keep half-teasing Dean that he should get checked for ADHD as well. 1) The guy has niche hyperfixations (he’s a fucking nerd when it comes to horror movies and classic rock. And cowboys. Don’t forget about the cowboys.). 2), He’s often quick-tempered / has poor impulse control. 3) He has stims. Lots of them. Happy stims, oral fixation when he’s focusing on something, the list goes on. 4) Terrible sleep pattern — basically non-existent.

If you own any fidget toys, you can count on Dean to try playing with them when he thinks nobody is looking. He ends up buying more, claiming they’re for you, but really, he likes keeping his hands busy too while you’re doing research together.

That said, sometimes research is a dread. Depending on how frustrating and/or boring a case is, your attention crumbles. Specifically during Sam’s long and tedious explanations about lore.

“Did you even listen to a single thing I said?” “Sure. Uh... vampires, or something.” Your guess couldn’t have been more wrong, but at least it makes Dean laugh. “Can’t blame ‘em, Sammy, your lectures are hella boring.”

When you refilled your cup of coffee for what must’ve been the third time, they almost scolded you for it. Weren’t you agitated enough? But you insist that it helps you focus, and damn, it does. You even managed to take a nap afterwards! Ever since, Sam and Dean make sure there’s always enough coffee in the Bunker.

Honestly, Dean and you make a mess of the bunker sometimes. Dean regularly misplaces stuff (or sniffs expired food, decides he doesn’t like it, and puts it back into the fridge anyway).

Your chaos is more organized, even if it only makes sense to you. Sam made the mistake of tidying up once — but after your day was ruined because you couldn’t find any of your stuff, he learned to never touch your things again.

You love Dean, you really do, but sometimes he drives you crazy. Like when he turns up the music in the car way too loud, or even worse, when his fingers drum along on the steering wheel. There’s listening to music, and there’s overstimulation. At first, you kindly asked him to turn it off. Over the years, you gained the courage to just reach over and do it yourself. Nowadays, all it takes is you rubbing your temples for him to get the cue.

In terms of RSD, that one is a reoccurring struggle between you guys. Talking about ✨feelings✨ isn’t exactly the Winchesters’ specialty. Unfortunately for you, who depends on some clear communication. Otherwise you’ll start overthinking.

Especially Dean, when grumpy, likes to just withdraw. The silent treatment is killing you, but the moment you hesitantly knock on his door and nervously ask him if you’ve done something wrong, he melts. He might carry a lot of anger inside of him, but none of it is directed towards you. Next time, he makes sure to at least tell you beforehand: “I promise it’s not you, sunshine, just need some space right now.”

Sam’s a bit more in touch with his emotions. If something actually upsets him, he’ll tell you — with the intent to talk it out properly. He always emphasizes how important it is to him that you don’t have to wonder. At the same time, he knows it’s not something you can turn off. All the more important that he checks in with you whenever he can see those wheels turning in your head.

Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester Taglist (Pt. 1):

@0ccvltism @ablondehoe @alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @alexxavicry @ambiguous-avery @angelicjackles @artemys-ackles @bejeweledinterludes2 @berryblues46 @bigivori @blueschevy @blueriver-shifting @bohoooitsme @calibootsgirl @cassieriddle713 @castielscaplan @charliesangel67 @chronic-fangirl-222 @conceepp @deanswifeyy @deanwinchesterlover67 @deekaag @dragonfly92 @edajcheel @emma1998sblog @emmy21842 @enchantedtomeetcoffee @fertilise-me @flanneledfae @foxyjwls007 @fuckingdamnitdean @hot-and-confused @idfc @idjit-central @jackles010378 @jensensswthrt @jey1ls @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78 @lessons-of-red @limbeldemango @lunaleah @lyarr24 @madelinessss @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @mahi-wayy @malindacath

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~3,8k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES I tried something different with this narrative. I hope it makes sense and you guys enjoy it. :D

Previous Page ❀ Sketchbook's Masterlist ❀ Next Page

"Emotions aren't clean or sleek. They don't follow straight lines or any artistic rules. Sometimes they're bold and other times hidden in details - but mostly it's all just messy and chaotic. Just like life."

That's why sketches are never finished.

The field notes are going well, until the clouds grow fat and decide to send you scampering for your RV at the end of the campsite.

You stumble inside. The door clicks shut behind you, keeping the splattering rain from ruining your papers taped to the walls and canvas stacked against the window. From under your jacket, you pull out a large notebook, shielded from the cloudburst. Some droplets of your sleeve land on the pile of creature studies as you add the saved booklet to your other things.

You take off your jacket, hang it over the stool to dry, rub your arms to warm up, dial the heater higher, and set the coffee to brew.

The small space hums to life around you.

Fresh coffee beans, acrylic paint and something sweet colour the air. As you move around your RV - changing into something dry and comfortable, rubbing a towel over your damp hair - you hear your family dog's familiar whine behind you.

It's faint - an echo at the back of your mind.

When you turn, there's Milo. Tail wagging, ears perked. His nose is nudging at the closest object, the way he always used to beg for your attention.

You sigh, a small smile tugging at your lips, and blink the ghost of a memory away.

Moments later, something clatters to the floor.

The coffee mug had tipped over the edge of the counter. Its contents seep into your bags and boxes you've got stored beneath the kitchen counter. Crap.

You grab the kitchen towel. Scramble for it - try to save as much as you can before it's drowned in coffee.

As you pull out one box after the other into the narrow corridor, one of them catches your attention. You wipe its lid clean. Pull it back into the low light and slowly lower to your knees.

You begin rifling through it - stop, when your fingers brush the edge of a worn, brown booklet.

Something has you hesitate. Fingertips hovering around its cover.

Then you feel the cold press of a wet nose nudging the back of your hand. It's Milo. He's sat next to you, his doe-eyes looking up to meet yours.

He whines softly. Just once, before his gaze drops to your lap.

Your attention shifts back to the sketchbook in your hands.

Finally, you sink to the floor, elbows propped up on your knees. You open it. Hold your breath without realizing it.

The rain drums against the roof.

Slow.

Rhythmic.

The light inside your space is warm. Safe. Like a lighthouse in a storm.

You remember the day you wanted to start that sketchbook.

But once again didn't.

You weren't in the mood to create. You were in the mood to tear things down.

It was the same sound in your ears as the rain rushed down the roof and tapped against the window of your old attic.

From your window, you watch a sliver of pink disappear behind the horizon, the sunset swallowed by the torrential rain. A Subtle, earthy scent lingers in the air. The light of the lamp, which hangs from the beam overhead, paints your attic in a serene filter of amber.

The mattress wobbles beneath your feet, snapping your focus back to the postcard you're trying to fit into the gap on the sloped wall beside your bed. In your other hand is the Polaroid of your ex - you in his arms, in front of a Ferris wheel. You take its pin. Use it to fill the new space with the postcard featuring an RV parked at the foot of a mountain with your grandpa leaning against it and Milo sitting at his boots as always.

Your gaze wanders and lands on the cardboard box on your desk. Sticking out are a flask, an old leather leash and a simple, carved, wooden eagle. But your eyes are drawn to the key-chain hanging around its neck, holding a car key.

It's been taunting you for weeks. Yet you can't get yourself to stow your dream away.

One minute you're grateful for the safety and comfort of your family home - the next you wish you could just hop into your grandpa's camper and hit the road with no destination in mind.

Safety. Freedom. One has always outweighed the other.

You sigh.

The Polaroid crumples up in your palm. You toss it across the room against the rim of your bin. It bounces back. Lands on a pile of more.

As much as you hate your ex, he was right about one thing;

You don't know where to go with your life.

A loud bark of Milo has you snap out of your thoughts. You look around the room, follow the familiar whines to the dormer window. Moments later, a jar with old paint-water slips off the windowsill and its contents sink into the cracks of your floorboard. You hop off your bed - almost stumble when there's a crash on the roof above the same instant.

At the window, you press your cheek flat against the cold glass, trying to get a glimpse at what could've caused the ruckus.

There are a lot of critters which like to take the path across your roof, especially in the late evening. It's probably the neighbour's cat. Or the local family of raccoons, or pigeons fighting for a dry spot under the chimney's raincap.

What you didn't expect was a six feet-something guy hanging off the edge of your dormer roof.

You blink. Then your inhale catches in your throat.

His fingers cling to the slippery tiles, his boots swiping below in an attempt to find some ground. Without thinking, you yank the window open.

"Take my hand!" you scream against the noise of rain drumming on terracotta tiles.

You lean over the edge of your windowsill. Extend a hand to him, helping him climb the remaining tiles until his boot finds purchase on your sill. He hurls himself up, slips - you lose your balance. Your hands tighten around each other when you tumble backwards, pulling him along as you're sent crashing into the wooden floorboards.

"Son of a-!!" he exclaims, but his curse is cut off by a grunt as his jaw hits your sternum and you yelp before you're buried under his weight.

The water sprays into the attic through the open window, billowing curtains send the cups and brushes off your canvas stand with the force of a whip - the papers scattered across your room fluttering like a flock of birds trapped under your roof.

When the wooden beam above you comes back into view, it takes you a moment to catch up with what just happened.

However, you don't get any time to think about it.

Something's on top of you.

Or rather, someone.

His large frame blocks the only light in your room. The drenched leather jacket of his seeps through your clothes as it sits heavy between you, the weight of his body hovering only inches above yours.

Neither of you move. Your head bracketed by his forearms, trapping you between them.

He looks down at you - you stare up at him.

He's so close, you can feel his breath on your lips. Noses almost touching. When his chest heaves, it briefly brushes yours. You hitch on your inhale, fingers twitching around something - and you just notice then that they're still joined with his next to your head.

It all feels way too intimate for a stranger.

Seconds feel like they're going by in slow-motion.

His eyes are wide as they hold onto yours. Mesmerizing. Honeyed moss in the shade.

Oh - how his mouth parts. Just a tiny gap between those perfectly plump lips.

His hair looks dark from being soaked and plastered to his forehead.

You catch how his gaze flickers down to your lips, just for a split second, before they return to your eyes. He swallows.

"Hey," he breathes. The timbre of his voice has your heart stumble.

"H-hi?" you stammer back.

He gives a small smirk.

A single drop of water rolls down the slope of his arched brow, follows the bridge of his sprinkled nose until it collects at the tip.

Then drops.

You gasp, eyes scrunched up - the moment shatters - the water splatters onto your cheek and some of it blurs your vision.

You try to blink it away.

Although - Maybe I should just keep them closed. Hold a little longer onto the moment.

You're convinced he's gone now. Convinced you must've just stumbled and hit your head. It's a manifestation of your vivid imagination, like -

"You okay, gorgeous?"

Holy shit.

He's real.

The open sketchbook is propped up on your knees. Your eyes are drifting across the first page, fingertips carefully trailing the corners of the drawings you'd glued there subsequently.

The edge of one of them catches on your nail; It's an ink drawing of a magpie, surrounded by pine needles and cones.

You like to study the birds. They often bounced the top branches of the pine tree across of your window. A rich evergreen, mixed with hues of teal and an experimental dash of burgundy fill the page. The watercolours bleed through the black contours of your linework - then fade out before they complete the drawing.

You smile to yourself. Reach over your shoulder to tug the blanket off your bed and over your shoulders - eyes closing for a moment.

A draft licks at your feet and has your exposed thighs shiver and clamp together, right after the window slowly creaks open, then closes with a soft click.

For three days, your attic's window has been a portal to sex.

Well, not quite. Not just sex. It's where adventure comes climbing through.

One thing led to another. And it just... happened.

You helped him get dried off. An accidental touch here. Another there. Lingering eyes. Leaning in - closer... closer.... a feather light trace of his fingertip, curling a strand of hair behind your ear. Charming whispers of his between drumming rain and rolling thunder. Sweet giggles of yours in the night. Compliments you'd never been told before. And now...

Now it's; Three knocks. Every night. No warnings - of course not.

Magic comes in the unexpected.

And with him? In the form of good laughs, unbelievable stories, and sex.

God, the sex is definitely an adventure.

The rustling of your papers stops. Warmth settles again between the familiar smells of your attic. Old wood and books, fresh paint and tea.

Discarded boots hit the floorboards somewhere behind you, before silent steps draw closer, like a predator sneaking up on their prey. He circles around the crooked canvas stand, sidesteps a half-empty coffee mug on a cardboard box labelled "TO BE SORTED", slightly ducks under the wooden beam, beelines past some toppled-over art and comic books, foot nudging aside a Game Cube controller on the fuzzy rug, before carefully stepping over an unfinished painting lying on the floor.

The skin on your back prickles when warm lips press a kiss to the slope of your neck. It's become a familiar welcome, teasing and quickly followed by another kiss further up. You chuckle his name. Roll your shoulder under his chin - it's the side of your hand that hovers, brush poised over the page.

"Hold on," you mutter, teeth pulling at your lower lip as you try to keep your concentration.

"Whatcha doin', art girl?" he asks smoothly against your soft skin. Another kiss.

"Wanna get this done first," you reply. You still haven't picked a fourth colour for the shading.

Dean "uh-huh's" next to your ear, but his hands go on nonetheless.

They find your shoulders, heavy and hot as he slowly lets them wander down the side of your arms first, then trails inwards where they wrap around your upper waist, his thumbs and index splaying right beneath the swell of your breasts.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he coaxes, and presses another kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear, "'m hungry."

He pushes them up, lightly begins to massage them through your hoodie.

"Dean - wait-" you giggle and squirm between his flexing biceps.

"Can't." Dean nips the exposed skin of your neck lightly. His large palms begin to knead your tits. He manages a small gasp of yours as he rolls your perked pebbles under his thumbs, then squeezes them less patiently.

"Gimmi, like, ten minutes - dude - I can't paint like this!"

His forehead drops to your shoulder and he whines. "Ten minutes? You want me starvin' to death?" He sounds so dramatic. Like a cat next to its empty bowl.

You fight for the tip of your brush to reach the watercolour palette, when he tugs you back in your chair, pinning you against his chest. He curls around you, lips moving over your front.

"How long've you been stalling again, huh?" he mutters into your collarbone.

"I'm not stalling. I want to get this damn thing to look good." You jerk your shoulder and his head rolls off it. His eyebrows furrow.

"You kiddin'? It looks awesome," he says confused.

Now your brows furrow. "Please. The colour composition is just -" you wiggle an arm free to wave a frustrated hand at it, "- eugh." That makes his usual smirk drop.

"Bullshit. You're just gonna make it look worse," Dean objects, sounding convinced.

You look up at him, your mouth opening in protest at the thought that he's only saying this to make you pliant - but a squeal comes out instead. Dean has his arms tightly locked around you. His face is nuzzling your neck.

It makes arguing difficult. And he knows it.

"Dean," you say, trying to sound firm despite the hitch in your voice. You don't need to see him to know that he has that shit-eating grin spread across his face.

"Know what?" he drawls, nudging your elbow aside and reaching over you to pluck the sketchbook from under your fumbling hands, "That's enough paint, Pollock."

"But-" you don't get to finish.

Next thing you know, Dean's hauling you off the chair, carrying you over to your bed in two long strides. He drops you on the mattress. It wobbles beneath you when he joins you and you start play-fighting like teenagers. But you quickly give in.

Dean keeps you there until the colours are dried, and the sheets are soaked.

Below the colours, there's a rough charcoal drawing of a pair of hands. Knuckles bent, like they're in action. Grasping at something.

Its lines are sharp. Coarse. Pefectly capturing its calloused fingers. In quick, curved strokes you recognize his two chunky silver rings, touching between the ring- and middle finger of his right hand.

Dean's hands.

His black elephant hair bracelets are broad lines around one wrist, and slightly smudged is a blocky square on his other - his wrist watch.

You can't help but pull on your lower lip when you stare at it.

Even though the drawing is far from perfect, warmth begins to spread in your body. Your skin prickles. Its messy shading mirrors the energy of the moment before it was created.

Each of its powerful lines elicits a phantom-touch.

The veins in his arms pop when he flexes them.

Cool silver's sliding down your back, then sinking into the plush of your ass when his fingers twitch around you.

Every grip, firm. Palms hot, heavy.

Bunching.

Squeezing.

Pushing your back into the mattress.

Lifting you off the bed and pulling you back down. Always onto himself, rocking up into that tight heat of yours without any restraint.

His movements are always hungry.

Always passionate.

Dean pulls sounds from you that has you roll back your eyes and bite your lips while his blunt fingernails sink into your hips and leave crescent marks for the next morning. It's the only proof that this was real - and not some impossibly delicious dream.

Your jaw goes slack when his chunky rings press into your hips with every drag of his grip. Pulling you back to meet him every time his cock disappears inside you.

"Goddamn - you feel so good..."

Thrust.

"...taking me so well..."

Thrust.

"...that's it, sweetheart..."

Dean rasps out words of praise between every roll of his pelvis. When your legs begin to shake, he pats your hip. His voice close to a coaxing murmur. "C'mon baby, you can give me one more... yeah?"

You nod.

Dean hooks your knees over his shoulders. One, then the other. Then slips a strong hand under you, fingers splayed at the small of your back to cant your hips for him. He pulls all the way out, pauses -

"You like me taking you apart night after night?" he asks with a smug smirk and you can only grin and barely nod again. Hell yeah you do. Whatever you two had going - you hoped it would never end.

Then his necklace swings forward again until the black cord goes taut and he's fully buried inside you - knocks the air out of your lungs - before it slaps back against his bare chest. You shudder. Clench around him as he keeps pushing deeper.

Dean's jaw tightens. A low hiss escapes him from the way you react.

He repeats the action. Greedy for more. The pendant swaying between you in the rhythm of your entangled bodies. Mattress squeaking, bed frame rattling.

"Damn right. My little secret," he groans down at you with a hint of pride to it.

"Pshhh -" you giggle and Dean's smirk only widens. His green eyes glint mischievously as he leans in to mutter against your kiss-swollen lips. "What's up, sweetheart?" - his free hand moves between your bodies, finding your sensitive clit - "Afraid your parents might hear ya gettin' wrecked?" Your hips jerk, walls fluttering around him.

In retaliation, you're threading your fingers through his long strands of hair. Feel them damp and thick, curling around your knuckles before he pushes back into you - bottoms out - they slip your grip, whimpering his name - then twist your fingers around his locks to drag them back again.

Dean hisses. Dives down to catch your lips in a messy kiss.

It's all breathless groaning, hot breaths, tongues tangling, and threads of spit that connect you even as he pulls back just enough to watch your face when you unravel beneath him for the third time.

Wedged in between the pieces of glued in paper, are a series of doodles. You remember adding them later. As space fillers, or mind dumps.

You remember how your pen danced across the page.

Keywords, patterns, shapes - the mindless ones. Circling around seemingly random thoughts as you’re huddled up in your sheets with your bare skin still flushed and hair tussled.

They're little things that remind you of him. Still do.

Coarse pine wood in the rain. Beer soaked moss. Old bonfire smoke clinging to an oversized, aged leather jacket.

Cocky. Handsome. Flirty. Intense, exhilarating, intoxicating.

And you're... well.

Boring.

You glance over the edge of your page, the side of your thumb absent-mindedly spinning the chunky ring on your index finger. You deliberately keep the motion of your wrist going.

The sound of pencil scratching the paper fills the space, but your focus is elsewhere. You catch a nice view of Dean tugging his jeans over his perfect ass. Watch him slinging his belt, bare shoulder blades working as he wiggles his broad shoulders into his shirt, before adjusting his odd looking pendant above it.

He's just so... fucking gorgeous.

You're nothing alike him.

You're not adventurous. You're not free like he is. You're stuck in a eight-to-five you hate. Still living at your parents' house. Still retreating into this little world under the roof the moment you get home. Creating stories you can only play out in your mind - dream of places you can only ever visit on paper.

And yet, for some reason, he keeps showing up.

Always needy, always horny.

Every evening, he climbs the lower roofs and sneaks in through your dormer window like some thief, careful not to alert your parents.

He's become that stray dog, swinging by whenever he's close and he's hungry, craving either food or affection (especially affection), who then wanders off again by morning, doing God knows what.

While your thoughts wander, you find yourself doodling a no sign with the ghost "Mooglie" curling around the diagonal slash. You like to believe that he works some cool Ghostbusters gig - this sounds crazy without context.

Yesterday, when you'd asked him what he was doing on your roof, he'd chuckled "Would you believe me if I told you a ghost bit me in the ass?".

Of course your imagination ran with that.

Or maybe - you grab the eraser, rub the lines away to add a pair of brass knuckles to the ghost's stick-hands - maybe he goes to cage fights? Every time he shows up, he carries new bruises above old scars like they're badges.

One thing is for sure: there's nothing regular about the man with eyes like an old pine tree in a summer sunset.

You've stopped asking questions.

Figured it's easier this way. Makes things more interesting. Less complicated. No strings attached and all that - or however that saying goes.

Dean makes you laugh. He makes you feel good, feel wanted. Even if it's just for a couple of hours. And he's the only thing that keeps you from drowning in self-pity after the messy breakup with your ex.

Hah, if he knew I got this handsome bastard between my legs. You lick your lips, grin to yourself. Guess what, Steve? He knows where to suck to make me come.

Asshole can go crawl back to Susie's tits for all you care.

Your hand stills, tip hovering over paper. Teeth worrying your lower lip, you watch him slip into his boots. He turns halfway in the soft light of your bedside lamp, looking for something while ruffling his long strands of hair back.

"Looking for this?" You hold up your hand and wiggle your fingers. He smirks when he sees his jewellery on you.

"You lil' thief. Don't go stealin' my stuff," he tries to sound annoyed but his face betrays him. "I ain't ready to put a ring on you yet." With his calloused fingertips he pulls the silver ring over your knuckle before sliding it back over his own where it clinks against its companion part. He looks up at you once more, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

And with that he disappears out the window.

That guy is a puzzle to you.

Dean Winchester: A flashy album cover with its borders sealed.

You've learned to enjoy the artwork as long as it lasts.

But sometimes, you wish you could get a glimpse of what's on that vinyl.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES The day after I posted the masterlist to this, everything went sideways irl. Hopefully it didn't show in my writing, cause the amount of editing I had to do was crazyy lol. And I've still got a lot more to do with the other parts... So please bear with me. 🥲

Thank you all for your support, comments / reblogs / likes - I appreciate you guys a lot. ♡ And I am sorry for being mia for so long. I miss you all so much!

Dean Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @zepskies @maddie0101 @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @voodoochildthings @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @my-stories-vault

@waynes-multiverse @jc-winchester @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @livya99 @youdontknowe @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny

@alixxhere @royaler1999 @writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @hobby27

@boobsbeesbongos @bowahdean @icreatemyownharem-blog @uniqueeamber @ralilda @biancalinkas @westendgirlsworld @foxyjwls007 @soullessambs @deanspinsterwitch

@fuckingdamnitdean @star-yawnznn @s0uz4s @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~3,8k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES I tried something different with this narrative. I hope it makes sense and you guys enjoy it. :D

Previous Page ❀ Sketchbook's Masterlist ❀ Next Page

"Emotions aren't clean or sleek. They don't follow straight lines or any artistic rules. Sometimes they're bold and other times hidden in details - but mostly it's all just messy and chaotic. Just like life."

That's why sketches are never finished.

The field notes are going well, until the clouds grow fat and decide to send you scampering for your RV at the end of the campsite.

You stumble inside. The door clicks shut behind you, keeping the splattering rain from ruining your papers taped to the walls and canvas stacked against the window. From under your jacket, you pull out a large notebook, shielded from the cloudburst. Some droplets of your sleeve land on the pile of creature studies as you add the saved booklet to your other things.

You take off your jacket, hang it over the stool to dry, rub your arms to warm up, dial the heater higher, and set the coffee to brew.

The small space hums to life around you.

Fresh coffee beans, acrylic paint and something sweet colour the air. As you move around your RV - changing into something dry and comfortable, rubbing a towel over your damp hair - you hear your family dog's familiar whine behind you.

It's faint - an echo at the back of your mind.

When you turn, there's Milo. Tail wagging, ears perked. His nose is nudging at the closest object, the way he always used to beg for your attention.

You sigh, a small smile tugging at your lips, and blink the ghost of a memory away.

Moments later, something clatters to the floor.

The coffee mug had tipped over the edge of the counter. Its contents seep into your bags and boxes you've got stored beneath the kitchen counter. Crap.

You grab the kitchen towel. Scramble for it - try to save as much as you can before it's drowned in coffee.

As you pull out one box after the other into the narrow corridor, one of them catches your attention. You wipe its lid clean. Pull it back into the low light and slowly lower to your knees.

You begin rifling through it - stop, when your fingers brush the edge of a worn, brown booklet.

Something has you hesitate. Fingertips hovering around its cover.

Then you feel the cold press of a wet nose nudging the back of your hand. It's Milo. He's sat next to you, his doe-eyes looking up to meet yours.

He whines softly. Just once, before his gaze drops to your lap.

Your attention shifts back to the sketchbook in your hands.

Finally, you sink to the floor, elbows propped up on your knees. You open it. Hold your breath without realizing it.

The rain drums against the roof.

Slow.

Rhythmic.

The light inside your space is warm. Safe. Like a lighthouse in a storm.

You remember the day you wanted to start that sketchbook.

But once again didn't.

You weren't in the mood to create. You were in the mood to tear things down.

It was the same sound in your ears as the rain rushed down the roof and tapped against the window of your old attic.

From your window, you watch a sliver of pink disappear behind the horizon, the sunset swallowed by the torrential rain. A Subtle, earthy scent lingers in the air. The light of the lamp, which hangs from the beam overhead, paints your attic in a serene filter of amber.

The mattress wobbles beneath your feet, snapping your focus back to the postcard you're trying to fit into the gap on the sloped wall beside your bed. In your other hand is the Polaroid of your ex - you in his arms, in front of a Ferris wheel. You take its pin. Use it to fill the new space with the postcard featuring an RV parked at the foot of a mountain with your grandpa leaning against it and Milo sitting at his boots as always.

Your gaze wanders and lands on the cardboard box on your desk. Sticking out are a flask, an old leather leash and a simple, carved, wooden eagle. But your eyes are drawn to the key-chain hanging around its neck, holding a car key.

It's been taunting you for weeks. Yet you can't get yourself to stow your dream away.

One minute you're grateful for the safety and comfort of your family home - the next you wish you could just hop into your grandpa's camper and hit the road with no destination in mind.

Safety. Freedom. One has always outweighed the other.

You sigh.

The Polaroid crumples up in your palm. You toss it across the room against the rim of your bin. It bounces back. Lands on a pile of more.

As much as you hate your ex, he was right about one thing;

You don't know where to go with your life.

A loud bark of Milo has you snap out of your thoughts. You look around the room, follow the familiar whines to the dormer window. Moments later, a jar with old paint-water slips off the windowsill and its contents sink into the cracks of your floorboard. You hop off your bed - almost stumble when there's a crash on the roof above the same instant.

At the window, you press your cheek flat against the cold glass, trying to get a glimpse at what could've caused the ruckus.

There are a lot of critters which like to take the path across your roof, especially in the late evening. It's probably the neighbour's cat. Or the local family of raccoons, or pigeons fighting for a dry spot under the chimney's raincap.

What you didn't expect was a six feet-something guy hanging off the edge of your dormer roof.

You blink. Then your inhale catches in your throat.

His fingers cling to the slippery tiles, his boots swiping below in an attempt to find some ground. Without thinking, you yank the window open.

"Take my hand!" you scream against the noise of rain drumming on terracotta tiles.

You lean over the edge of your windowsill. Extend a hand to him, helping him climb the remaining tiles until his boot finds purchase on your sill. He hurls himself up, slips - you lose your balance. Your hands tighten around each other when you tumble backwards, pulling him along as you're sent crashing into the wooden floorboards.

"Son of a-!!" he exclaims, but his curse is cut off by a grunt as his jaw hits your sternum and you yelp before you're buried under his weight.

The water sprays into the attic through the open window, billowing curtains send the cups and brushes off your canvas stand with the force of a whip - the papers scattered across your room fluttering like a flock of birds trapped under your roof.

When the wooden beam above you comes back into view, it takes you a moment to catch up with what just happened.

However, you don't get any time to think about it.

Something's on top of you.

Or rather, someone.

His large frame blocks the only light in your room. The drenched leather jacket of his seeps through your clothes as it sits heavy between you, the weight of his body hovering only inches above yours.

Neither of you move. Your head bracketed by his forearms, trapping you between them.

He looks down at you - you stare up at him.

He's so close, you can feel his breath on your lips. Noses almost touching. When his chest heaves, it briefly brushes yours. You hitch on your inhale, fingers twitching around something - and you just notice then that they're still joined with his next to your head.

It all feels way too intimate for a stranger.

Seconds feel like they're going by in slow-motion.

His eyes are wide as they hold onto yours. Mesmerizing. Honeyed moss in the shade.

Oh - how his mouth parts. Just a tiny gap between those perfectly plump lips.

His hair looks dark from being soaked and plastered to his forehead.

You catch how his gaze flickers down to your lips, just for a split second, before they return to your eyes. He swallows.

"Hey," he breathes. The timbre of his voice has your heart stumble.

"H-hi?" you stammer back.

He gives a small smirk.

A single drop of water rolls down the slope of his arched brow, follows the bridge of his sprinkled nose until it collects at the tip.

Then drops.

You gasp, eyes scrunched up - the moment shatters - the water splatters onto your cheek and some of it blurs your vision.

You try to blink it away.

Although - Maybe I should just keep them closed. Hold a little longer onto the moment.

You're convinced he's gone now. Convinced you must've just stumbled and hit your head. It's a manifestation of your vivid imagination, like -

"You okay, gorgeous?"

Holy shit.

He's real.

The open sketchbook is propped up on your knees. Your eyes are drifting across the first page, fingertips carefully trailing the corners of the drawings you'd glued there subsequently.

The edge of one of them catches on your nail; It's an ink drawing of a magpie, surrounded by pine needles and cones.

You like to study the birds. They often bounced the top branches of the pine tree across of your window. A rich evergreen, mixed with hues of teal and an experimental dash of burgundy fill the page. The watercolours bleed through the black contours of your linework - then fade out before they complete the drawing.

You smile to yourself. Reach over your shoulder to tug the blanket off your bed and over your shoulders - eyes closing for a moment.

A draft licks at your feet and has your exposed thighs shiver and clamp together, right after the window slowly creaks open, then closes with a soft click.

For three days, your attic's window has been a portal to sex.

Well, not quite. Not just sex. It's where adventure comes climbing through.

One thing led to another. And it just... happened.

You helped him get dried off. An accidental touch here. Another there. Lingering eyes. Leaning in - closer... closer.... a feather light trace of his fingertip, curling a strand of hair behind your ear. Charming whispers of his between drumming rain and rolling thunder. Sweet giggles of yours in the night. Compliments you'd never been told before. And now...

Now it's; Three knocks. Every night. No warnings - of course not.

Magic comes in the unexpected.

And with him? In the form of good laughs, unbelievable stories, and sex.

God, the sex is definitely an adventure.

The rustling of your papers stops. Warmth settles again between the familiar smells of your attic. Old wood and books, fresh paint and tea.

Discarded boots hit the floorboards somewhere behind you, before silent steps draw closer, like a predator sneaking up on their prey. He circles around the crooked canvas stand, sidesteps a half-empty coffee mug on a cardboard box labelled "TO BE SORTED", slightly ducks under the wooden beam, beelines past some toppled-over art and comic books, foot nudging aside a Game Cube controller on the fuzzy rug, before carefully stepping over an unfinished painting lying on the floor.

The skin on your back prickles when warm lips press a kiss to the slope of your neck. It's become a familiar welcome, teasing and quickly followed by another kiss further up. You chuckle his name. Roll your shoulder under his chin - it's the side of your hand that hovers, brush poised over the page.

"Hold on," you mutter, teeth pulling at your lower lip as you try to keep your concentration.

"Whatcha doin', art girl?" he asks smoothly against your soft skin. Another kiss.

"Wanna get this done first," you reply. You still haven't picked a fourth colour for the shading.

Dean "uh-huh's" next to your ear, but his hands go on nonetheless.

They find your shoulders, heavy and hot as he slowly lets them wander down the side of your arms first, then trails inwards where they wrap around your upper waist, his thumbs and index splaying right beneath the swell of your breasts.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he coaxes, and presses another kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear, "'m hungry."

He pushes them up, lightly begins to massage them through your hoodie.

"Dean - wait-" you giggle and squirm between his flexing biceps.

"Can't." Dean nips the exposed skin of your neck lightly. His large palms begin to knead your tits. He manages a small gasp of yours as he rolls your perked pebbles under his thumbs, then squeezes them less patiently.

"Gimmi, like, ten minutes - dude - I can't paint like this!"

His forehead drops to your shoulder and he whines. "Ten minutes? You want me starvin' to death?" He sounds so dramatic. Like a cat next to its empty bowl.

You fight for the tip of your brush to reach the watercolour palette, when he tugs you back in your chair, pinning you against his chest. He curls around you, lips moving over your front.

"How long've you been stalling again, huh?" he mutters into your collarbone.

"I'm not stalling. I want to get this damn thing to look good." You jerk your shoulder and his head rolls off it. His eyebrows furrow.

"You kiddin'? It looks awesome," he says confused.

Now your brows furrow. "Please. The colour composition is just -" you wiggle an arm free to wave a frustrated hand at it, "- eugh." That makes his usual smirk drop.

"Bullshit. You're just gonna make it look worse," Dean objects, sounding convinced.

You look up at him, your mouth opening in protest at the thought that he's only saying this to make you pliant - but a squeal comes out instead. Dean has his arms tightly locked around you. His face is nuzzling your neck.

It makes arguing difficult. And he knows it.

"Dean," you say, trying to sound firm despite the hitch in your voice. You don't need to see him to know that he has that shit-eating grin spread across his face.

"Know what?" he drawls, nudging your elbow aside and reaching over you to pluck the sketchbook from under your fumbling hands, "That's enough paint, Pollock."

"But-" you don't get to finish.

Next thing you know, Dean's hauling you off the chair, carrying you over to your bed in two long strides. He drops you on the mattress. It wobbles beneath you when he joins you and you start play-fighting like teenagers. But you quickly give in.

Dean keeps you there until the colours are dried, and the sheets are soaked.

Below the colours, there's a rough charcoal drawing of a pair of hands. Knuckles bent, like they're in action. Grasping at something.

Its lines are sharp. Coarse. Pefectly capturing its calloused fingers. In quick, curved strokes you recognize his two chunky silver rings, touching between the ring- and middle finger of his right hand.

Dean's hands.

His black elephant hair bracelets are broad lines around one wrist, and slightly smudged is a blocky square on his other - his wrist watch.

You can't help but pull on your lower lip when you stare at it.

Even though the drawing is far from perfect, warmth begins to spread in your body. Your skin prickles. Its messy shading mirrors the energy of the moment before it was created.

Each of its powerful lines elicits a phantom-touch.

The veins in his arms pop when he flexes them.

Cool silver's sliding down your back, then sinking into the plush of your ass when his fingers twitch around you.

Every grip, firm. Palms hot, heavy.

Bunching.

Squeezing.

Pushing your back into the mattress.

Lifting you off the bed and pulling you back down. Always onto himself, rocking up into that tight heat of yours without any restraint.

His movements are always hungry.

Always passionate.

Dean pulls sounds from you that has you roll back your eyes and bite your lips while his blunt fingernails sink into your hips and leave crescent marks for the next morning. It's the only proof that this was real - and not some impossibly delicious dream.

Your jaw goes slack when his chunky rings press into your hips with every drag of his grip. Pulling you back to meet him every time his cock disappears inside you.

"Goddamn - you feel so good..."

Thrust.

"...taking me so well..."

Thrust.

"...that's it, sweetheart..."

Dean rasps out words of praise between every roll of his pelvis. When your legs begin to shake, he pats your hip. His voice close to a coaxing murmur. "C'mon baby, you can give me one more... yeah?"

You nod.

Dean hooks your knees over his shoulders. One, then the other. Then slips a strong hand under you, fingers splayed at the small of your back to cant your hips for him. He pulls all the way out, pauses -

"You like me taking you apart night after night?" he asks with a smug smirk and you can only grin and barely nod again. Hell yeah you do. Whatever you two had going - you hoped it would never end.

Then his necklace swings forward again until the black cord goes taut and he's fully buried inside you - knocks the air out of your lungs - before it slaps back against his bare chest. You shudder. Clench around him as he keeps pushing deeper.

Dean's jaw tightens. A low hiss escapes him from the way you react.

He repeats the action. Greedy for more. The pendant swaying between you in the rhythm of your entangled bodies. Mattress squeaking, bed frame rattling.

"Damn right. My little secret," he groans down at you with a hint of pride to it.

"Pshhh -" you giggle and Dean's smirk only widens. His green eyes glint mischievously as he leans in to mutter against your kiss-swollen lips. "What's up, sweetheart?" - his free hand moves between your bodies, finding your sensitive clit - "Afraid your parents might hear ya gettin' wrecked?" Your hips jerk, walls fluttering around him.

In retaliation, you're threading your fingers through his long strands of hair. Feel them damp and thick, curling around your knuckles before he pushes back into you - bottoms out - they slip your grip, whimpering his name - then twist your fingers around his locks to drag them back again.

Dean hisses. Dives down to catch your lips in a messy kiss.

It's all breathless groaning, hot breaths, tongues tangling, and threads of spit that connect you even as he pulls back just enough to watch your face when you unravel beneath him for the third time.

Wedged in between the pieces of glued in paper, are a series of doodles. You remember adding them later. As space fillers, or mind dumps.

You remember how your pen danced across the page.

Keywords, patterns, shapes - the mindless ones. Circling around seemingly random thoughts as you’re huddled up in your sheets with your bare skin still flushed and hair tussled.

They're little things that remind you of him. Still do.

Coarse pine wood in the rain. Beer soaked moss. Old bonfire smoke clinging to an oversized, aged leather jacket.

Cocky. Handsome. Flirty. Intense, exhilarating, intoxicating.

And you're... well.

Boring.

You glance over the edge of your page, the side of your thumb absent-mindedly spinning the chunky ring on your index finger. You deliberately keep the motion of your wrist going.

The sound of pencil scratching the paper fills the space, but your focus is elsewhere. You catch a nice view of Dean tugging his jeans over his perfect ass. Watch him slinging his belt, bare shoulder blades working as he wiggles his broad shoulders into his shirt, before adjusting his odd looking pendant above it.

He's just so... fucking gorgeous.

You're nothing alike him.

You're not adventurous. You're not free like he is. You're stuck in a eight-to-five you hate. Still living at your parents' house. Still retreating into this little world under the roof the moment you get home. Creating stories you can only play out in your mind - dream of places you can only ever visit on paper.

And yet, for some reason, he keeps showing up.

Always needy, always horny.

Every evening, he climbs the lower roofs and sneaks in through your dormer window like some thief, careful not to alert your parents.

He's become that stray dog, swinging by whenever he's close and he's hungry, craving either food or affection (especially affection), who then wanders off again by morning, doing God knows what.

While your thoughts wander, you find yourself doodling a no sign with the ghost "Mooglie" curling around the diagonal slash. You like to believe that he works some cool Ghostbusters gig - this sounds crazy without context.

Yesterday, when you'd asked him what he was doing on your roof, he'd chuckled "Would you believe me if I told you a ghost bit me in the ass?".

Of course your imagination ran with that.

Or maybe - you grab the eraser, rub the lines away to add a pair of brass knuckles to the ghost's stick-hands - maybe he goes to cage fights? Every time he shows up, he carries new bruises above old scars like they're badges.

One thing is for sure: there's nothing regular about the man with eyes like an old pine tree in a summer sunset.

You've stopped asking questions.

Figured it's easier this way. Makes things more interesting. Less complicated. No strings attached and all that - or however that saying goes.

Dean makes you laugh. He makes you feel good, feel wanted. Even if it's just for a couple of hours. And he's the only thing that keeps you from drowning in self-pity after the messy breakup with your ex.

Hah, if he knew I got this handsome bastard between my legs. You lick your lips, grin to yourself. Guess what, Steve? He knows where to suck to make me come.

Asshole can go crawl back to Susie's tits for all you care.

Your hand stills, tip hovering over paper. Teeth worrying your lower lip, you watch him slip into his boots. He turns halfway in the soft light of your bedside lamp, looking for something while ruffling his long strands of hair back.

"Looking for this?" You hold up your hand and wiggle your fingers. He smirks when he sees his jewellery on you.

"You lil' thief. Don't go stealin' my stuff," he tries to sound annoyed but his face betrays him. "I ain't ready to put a ring on you yet." With his calloused fingertips he pulls the silver ring over your knuckle before sliding it back over his own where it clinks against its companion part. He looks up at you once more, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

And with that he disappears out the window.

That guy is a puzzle to you.

Dean Winchester: A flashy album cover with its borders sealed.

You've learned to enjoy the artwork as long as it lasts.

But sometimes, you wish you could get a glimpse of what's on that vinyl.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES The day after I posted the masterlist to this, everything went sideways irl. Hopefully it didn't show in my writing, cause the amount of editing I had to do was crazyy lol. And I've still got a lot more to do with the other parts... So please bear with me. 🥲

Thank you all for your support, comments / reblogs / likes - I appreciate you guys a lot. ♡ And I am sorry for being mia for so long. I miss you all so much!

Dean Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @zepskies @maddie0101 @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @voodoochildthings @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @my-stories-vault

@waynes-multiverse @jc-winchester @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @livya99 @youdontknowe @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny

@alixxhere @royaler1999 @writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @hobby27

@boobsbeesbongos @bowahdean @icreatemyownharem-blog @uniqueeamber @ralilda @biancalinkas @westendgirlsworld @foxyjwls007 @soullessambs @deanspinsterwitch

@fuckingdamnitdean @star-yawnznn @s0uz4s @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~3,8k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES I tried something different with this narrative. I hope it makes sense and you guys enjoy it. :D

Previous Page ❀ Sketchbook's Masterlist ❀ Next Page

"Emotions aren't clean or sleek. They don't follow straight lines or any artistic rules. Sometimes they're bold and other times hidden in details - but mostly it's all just messy and chaotic. Just like life."

That's why sketches are never finished.

The field notes are going well, until the clouds grow fat and decide to send you scampering for your RV at the end of the campsite.

You stumble inside. The door clicks shut behind you, keeping the splattering rain from ruining your papers taped to the walls and canvas stacked against the window. From under your jacket, you pull out a large notebook, shielded from the cloudburst. Some droplets of your sleeve land on the pile of creature studies as you add the saved booklet to your other things.

You take off your jacket, hang it over the stool to dry, rub your arms to warm up, dial the heater higher, and set the coffee to brew.

The small space hums to life around you.

Fresh coffee beans, acrylic paint and something sweet colour the air. As you move around your RV - changing into something dry and comfortable, rubbing a towel over your damp hair - you hear your family dog's familiar whine behind you.

It's faint - an echo at the back of your mind.

When you turn, there's Milo. Tail wagging, ears perked. His nose is nudging at the closest object, the way he always used to beg for your attention.

You sigh, a small smile tugging at your lips, and blink the ghost of a memory away.

Moments later, something clatters to the floor.

The coffee mug had tipped over the edge of the counter. Its contents seep into your bags and boxes you've got stored beneath the kitchen counter. Crap.

You grab the kitchen towel. Scramble for it - try to save as much as you can before it's drowned in coffee.

As you pull out one box after the other into the narrow corridor, one of them catches your attention. You wipe its lid clean. Pull it back into the low light and slowly lower to your knees.

You begin rifling through it - stop, when your fingers brush the edge of a worn, brown booklet.

Something has you hesitate. Fingertips hovering around its cover.

Then you feel the cold press of a wet nose nudging the back of your hand. It's Milo. He's sat next to you, his doe-eyes looking up to meet yours.

He whines softly. Just once, before his gaze drops to your lap.

Your attention shifts back to the sketchbook in your hands.

Finally, you sink to the floor, elbows propped up on your knees. You open it. Hold your breath without realizing it.

The rain drums against the roof.

Slow.

Rhythmic.

The light inside your space is warm. Safe. Like a lighthouse in a storm.

You remember the day you wanted to start that sketchbook.

But once again didn't.

You weren't in the mood to create. You were in the mood to tear things down.

It was the same sound in your ears as the rain rushed down the roof and tapped against the window of your old attic.

From your window, you watch a sliver of pink disappear behind the horizon, the sunset swallowed by the torrential rain. A Subtle, earthy scent lingers in the air. The light of the lamp, which hangs from the beam overhead, paints your attic in a serene filter of amber.

The mattress wobbles beneath your feet, snapping your focus back to the postcard you're trying to fit into the gap on the sloped wall beside your bed. In your other hand is the Polaroid of your ex - you in his arms, in front of a Ferris wheel. You take its pin. Use it to fill the new space with the postcard featuring an RV parked at the foot of a mountain with your grandpa leaning against it and Milo sitting at his boots as always.

Your gaze wanders and lands on the cardboard box on your desk. Sticking out are a flask, an old leather leash and a simple, carved, wooden eagle. But your eyes are drawn to the key-chain hanging around its neck, holding a car key.

It's been taunting you for weeks. Yet you can't get yourself to stow your dream away.

One minute you're grateful for the safety and comfort of your family home - the next you wish you could just hop into your grandpa's camper and hit the road with no destination in mind.

Safety. Freedom. One has always outweighed the other.

You sigh.

The Polaroid crumples up in your palm. You toss it across the room against the rim of your bin. It bounces back. Lands on a pile of more.

As much as you hate your ex, he was right about one thing;

You don't know where to go with your life.

A loud bark of Milo has you snap out of your thoughts. You look around the room, follow the familiar whines to the dormer window. Moments later, a jar with old paint-water slips off the windowsill and its contents sink into the cracks of your floorboard. You hop off your bed - almost stumble when there's a crash on the roof above the same instant.

At the window, you press your cheek flat against the cold glass, trying to get a glimpse at what could've caused the ruckus.

There are a lot of critters which like to take the path across your roof, especially in the late evening. It's probably the neighbour's cat. Or the local family of raccoons, or pigeons fighting for a dry spot under the chimney's raincap.

What you didn't expect was a six feet-something guy hanging off the edge of your dormer roof.

You blink. Then your inhale catches in your throat.

His fingers cling to the slippery tiles, his boots swiping below in an attempt to find some ground. Without thinking, you yank the window open.

"Take my hand!" you scream against the noise of rain drumming on terracotta tiles.

You lean over the edge of your windowsill. Extend a hand to him, helping him climb the remaining tiles until his boot finds purchase on your sill. He hurls himself up, slips - you lose your balance. Your hands tighten around each other when you tumble backwards, pulling him along as you're sent crashing into the wooden floorboards.

"Son of a-!!" he exclaims, but his curse is cut off by a grunt as his jaw hits your sternum and you yelp before you're buried under his weight.

The water sprays into the attic through the open window, billowing curtains send the cups and brushes off your canvas stand with the force of a whip - the papers scattered across your room fluttering like a flock of birds trapped under your roof.

When the wooden beam above you comes back into view, it takes you a moment to catch up with what just happened.

However, you don't get any time to think about it.

Something's on top of you.

Or rather, someone.

His large frame blocks the only light in your room. The drenched leather jacket of his seeps through your clothes as it sits heavy between you, the weight of his body hovering only inches above yours.

Neither of you move. Your head bracketed by his forearms, trapping you between them.

He looks down at you - you stare up at him.

He's so close, you can feel his breath on your lips. Noses almost touching. When his chest heaves, it briefly brushes yours. You hitch on your inhale, fingers twitching around something - and you just notice then that they're still joined with his next to your head.

It all feels way too intimate for a stranger.

Seconds feel like they're going by in slow-motion.

His eyes are wide as they hold onto yours. Mesmerizing. Honeyed moss in the shade.

Oh - how his mouth parts. Just a tiny gap between those perfectly plump lips.

His hair looks dark from being soaked and plastered to his forehead.

You catch how his gaze flickers down to your lips, just for a split second, before they return to your eyes. He swallows.

"Hey," he breathes. The timbre of his voice has your heart stumble.

"H-hi?" you stammer back.

He gives a small smirk.

A single drop of water rolls down the slope of his arched brow, follows the bridge of his sprinkled nose until it collects at the tip.

Then drops.

You gasp, eyes scrunched up - the moment shatters - the water splatters onto your cheek and some of it blurs your vision.

You try to blink it away.

Although - Maybe I should just keep them closed. Hold a little longer onto the moment.

You're convinced he's gone now. Convinced you must've just stumbled and hit your head. It's a manifestation of your vivid imagination, like -

"You okay, gorgeous?"

Holy shit.

He's real.

The open sketchbook is propped up on your knees. Your eyes are drifting across the first page, fingertips carefully trailing the corners of the drawings you'd glued there subsequently.

The edge of one of them catches on your nail; It's an ink drawing of a magpie, surrounded by pine needles and cones.

You like to study the birds. They often bounced the top branches of the pine tree across of your window. A rich evergreen, mixed with hues of teal and an experimental dash of burgundy fill the page. The watercolours bleed through the black contours of your linework - then fade out before they complete the drawing.

You smile to yourself. Reach over your shoulder to tug the blanket off your bed and over your shoulders - eyes closing for a moment.

A draft licks at your feet and has your exposed thighs shiver and clamp together, right after the window slowly creaks open, then closes with a soft click.

For three days, your attic's window has been a portal to sex.

Well, not quite. Not just sex. It's where adventure comes climbing through.

One thing led to another. And it just... happened.

You helped him get dried off. An accidental touch here. Another there. Lingering eyes. Leaning in - closer... closer.... a feather light trace of his fingertip, curling a strand of hair behind your ear. Charming whispers of his between drumming rain and rolling thunder. Sweet giggles of yours in the night. Compliments you'd never been told before. And now...

Now it's; Three knocks. Every night. No warnings - of course not.

Magic comes in the unexpected.

And with him? In the form of good laughs, unbelievable stories, and sex.

God, the sex is definitely an adventure.

The rustling of your papers stops. Warmth settles again between the familiar smells of your attic. Old wood and books, fresh paint and tea.

Discarded boots hit the floorboards somewhere behind you, before silent steps draw closer, like a predator sneaking up on their prey. He circles around the crooked canvas stand, sidesteps a half-empty coffee mug on a cardboard box labelled "TO BE SORTED", slightly ducks under the wooden beam, beelines past some toppled-over art and comic books, foot nudging aside a Game Cube controller on the fuzzy rug, before carefully stepping over an unfinished painting lying on the floor.

The skin on your back prickles when warm lips press a kiss to the slope of your neck. It's become a familiar welcome, teasing and quickly followed by another kiss further up. You chuckle his name. Roll your shoulder under his chin - it's the side of your hand that hovers, brush poised over the page.

"Hold on," you mutter, teeth pulling at your lower lip as you try to keep your concentration.

"Whatcha doin', art girl?" he asks smoothly against your soft skin. Another kiss.

"Wanna get this done first," you reply. You still haven't picked a fourth colour for the shading.

Dean "uh-huh's" next to your ear, but his hands go on nonetheless.

They find your shoulders, heavy and hot as he slowly lets them wander down the side of your arms first, then trails inwards where they wrap around your upper waist, his thumbs and index splaying right beneath the swell of your breasts.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he coaxes, and presses another kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear, "'m hungry."

He pushes them up, lightly begins to massage them through your hoodie.

"Dean - wait-" you giggle and squirm between his flexing biceps.

"Can't." Dean nips the exposed skin of your neck lightly. His large palms begin to knead your tits. He manages a small gasp of yours as he rolls your perked pebbles under his thumbs, then squeezes them less patiently.

"Gimmi, like, ten minutes - dude - I can't paint like this!"

His forehead drops to your shoulder and he whines. "Ten minutes? You want me starvin' to death?" He sounds so dramatic. Like a cat next to its empty bowl.

You fight for the tip of your brush to reach the watercolour palette, when he tugs you back in your chair, pinning you against his chest. He curls around you, lips moving over your front.

"How long've you been stalling again, huh?" he mutters into your collarbone.

"I'm not stalling. I want to get this damn thing to look good." You jerk your shoulder and his head rolls off it. His eyebrows furrow.

"You kiddin'? It looks awesome," he says confused.

Now your brows furrow. "Please. The colour composition is just -" you wiggle an arm free to wave a frustrated hand at it, "- eugh." That makes his usual smirk drop.

"Bullshit. You're just gonna make it look worse," Dean objects, sounding convinced.

You look up at him, your mouth opening in protest at the thought that he's only saying this to make you pliant - but a squeal comes out instead. Dean has his arms tightly locked around you. His face is nuzzling your neck.

It makes arguing difficult. And he knows it.

"Dean," you say, trying to sound firm despite the hitch in your voice. You don't need to see him to know that he has that shit-eating grin spread across his face.

"Know what?" he drawls, nudging your elbow aside and reaching over you to pluck the sketchbook from under your fumbling hands, "That's enough paint, Pollock."

"But-" you don't get to finish.

Next thing you know, Dean's hauling you off the chair, carrying you over to your bed in two long strides. He drops you on the mattress. It wobbles beneath you when he joins you and you start play-fighting like teenagers. But you quickly give in.

Dean keeps you there until the colours are dried, and the sheets are soaked.

Below the colours, there's a rough charcoal drawing of a pair of hands. Knuckles bent, like they're in action. Grasping at something.

Its lines are sharp. Coarse. Pefectly capturing its calloused fingers. In quick, curved strokes you recognize his two chunky silver rings, touching between the ring- and middle finger of his right hand.

Dean's hands.

His black elephant hair bracelets are broad lines around one wrist, and slightly smudged is a blocky square on his other - his wrist watch.

You can't help but pull on your lower lip when you stare at it.

Even though the drawing is far from perfect, warmth begins to spread in your body. Your skin prickles. Its messy shading mirrors the energy of the moment before it was created.

Each of its powerful lines elicits a phantom-touch.

The veins in his arms pop when he flexes them.

Cool silver's sliding down your back, then sinking into the plush of your ass when his fingers twitch around you.

Every grip, firm. Palms hot, heavy.

Bunching.

Squeezing.

Pushing your back into the mattress.

Lifting you off the bed and pulling you back down. Always onto himself, rocking up into that tight heat of yours without any restraint.

His movements are always hungry.

Always passionate.

Dean pulls sounds from you that has you roll back your eyes and bite your lips while his blunt fingernails sink into your hips and leave crescent marks for the next morning. It's the only proof that this was real - and not some impossibly delicious dream.

Your jaw goes slack when his chunky rings press into your hips with every drag of his grip. Pulling you back to meet him every time his cock disappears inside you.

"Goddamn - you feel so good..."

Thrust.

"...taking me so well..."

Thrust.

"...that's it, sweetheart..."

Dean rasps out words of praise between every roll of his pelvis. When your legs begin to shake, he pats your hip. His voice close to a coaxing murmur. "C'mon baby, you can give me one more... yeah?"

You nod.

Dean hooks your knees over his shoulders. One, then the other. Then slips a strong hand under you, fingers splayed at the small of your back to cant your hips for him. He pulls all the way out, pauses -

"You like me taking you apart night after night?" he asks with a smug smirk and you can only grin and barely nod again. Hell yeah you do. Whatever you two had going - you hoped it would never end.

Then his necklace swings forward again until the black cord goes taut and he's fully buried inside you - knocks the air out of your lungs - before it slaps back against his bare chest. You shudder. Clench around him as he keeps pushing deeper.

Dean's jaw tightens. A low hiss escapes him from the way you react.

He repeats the action. Greedy for more. The pendant swaying between you in the rhythm of your entangled bodies. Mattress squeaking, bed frame rattling.

"Damn right. My little secret," he groans down at you with a hint of pride to it.

"Pshhh -" you giggle and Dean's smirk only widens. His green eyes glint mischievously as he leans in to mutter against your kiss-swollen lips. "What's up, sweetheart?" - his free hand moves between your bodies, finding your sensitive clit - "Afraid your parents might hear ya gettin' wrecked?" Your hips jerk, walls fluttering around him.

In retaliation, you're threading your fingers through his long strands of hair. Feel them damp and thick, curling around your knuckles before he pushes back into you - bottoms out - they slip your grip, whimpering his name - then twist your fingers around his locks to drag them back again.

Dean hisses. Dives down to catch your lips in a messy kiss.

It's all breathless groaning, hot breaths, tongues tangling, and threads of spit that connect you even as he pulls back just enough to watch your face when you unravel beneath him for the third time.

Wedged in between the pieces of glued in paper, are a series of doodles. You remember adding them later. As space fillers, or mind dumps.

You remember how your pen danced across the page.

Keywords, patterns, shapes - the mindless ones. Circling around seemingly random thoughts as you’re huddled up in your sheets with your bare skin still flushed and hair tussled.

They're little things that remind you of him. Still do.

Coarse pine wood in the rain. Beer soaked moss. Old bonfire smoke clinging to an oversized, aged leather jacket.

Cocky. Handsome. Flirty. Intense, exhilarating, intoxicating.

And you're... well.

Boring.

You glance over the edge of your page, the side of your thumb absent-mindedly spinning the chunky ring on your index finger. You deliberately keep the motion of your wrist going.

The sound of pencil scratching the paper fills the space, but your focus is elsewhere. You catch a nice view of Dean tugging his jeans over his perfect ass. Watch him slinging his belt, bare shoulder blades working as he wiggles his broad shoulders into his shirt, before adjusting his odd looking pendant above it.

He's just so... fucking gorgeous.

You're nothing alike him.

You're not adventurous. You're not free like he is. You're stuck in a eight-to-five you hate. Still living at your parents' house. Still retreating into this little world under the roof the moment you get home. Creating stories you can only play out in your mind - dream of places you can only ever visit on paper.

And yet, for some reason, he keeps showing up.

Always needy, always horny.

Every evening, he climbs the lower roofs and sneaks in through your dormer window like some thief, careful not to alert your parents.

He's become that stray dog, swinging by whenever he's close and he's hungry, craving either food or affection (especially affection), who then wanders off again by morning, doing God knows what.

While your thoughts wander, you find yourself doodling a no sign with the ghost "Mooglie" curling around the diagonal slash. You like to believe that he works some cool Ghostbusters gig - this sounds crazy without context.

Yesterday, when you'd asked him what he was doing on your roof, he'd chuckled "Would you believe me if I told you a ghost bit me in the ass?".

Of course your imagination ran with that.

Or maybe - you grab the eraser, rub the lines away to add a pair of brass knuckles to the ghost's stick-hands - maybe he goes to cage fights? Every time he shows up, he carries new bruises above old scars like they're badges.

One thing is for sure: there's nothing regular about the man with eyes like an old pine tree in a summer sunset.

You've stopped asking questions.

Figured it's easier this way. Makes things more interesting. Less complicated. No strings attached and all that - or however that saying goes.

Dean makes you laugh. He makes you feel good, feel wanted. Even if it's just for a couple of hours. And he's the only thing that keeps you from drowning in self-pity after the messy breakup with your ex.

Hah, if he knew I got this handsome bastard between my legs. You lick your lips, grin to yourself. Guess what, Steve? He knows where to suck to make me come.

Asshole can go crawl back to Susie's tits for all you care.

Your hand stills, tip hovering over paper. Teeth worrying your lower lip, you watch him slip into his boots. He turns halfway in the soft light of your bedside lamp, looking for something while ruffling his long strands of hair back.

"Looking for this?" You hold up your hand and wiggle your fingers. He smirks when he sees his jewellery on you.

"You lil' thief. Don't go stealin' my stuff," he tries to sound annoyed but his face betrays him. "I ain't ready to put a ring on you yet." With his calloused fingertips he pulls the silver ring over your knuckle before sliding it back over his own where it clinks against its companion part. He looks up at you once more, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

And with that he disappears out the window.

That guy is a puzzle to you.

Dean Winchester: A flashy album cover with its borders sealed.

You've learned to enjoy the artwork as long as it lasts.

But sometimes, you wish you could get a glimpse of what's on that vinyl.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES The day after I posted the masterlist to this, everything went sideways irl. Hopefully it didn't show in my writing, cause the amount of editing I had to do was crazyy lol. And I've still got a lot more to do with the other parts... So please bear with me. 🥲

Thank you all for your support, comments / reblogs / likes - I appreciate you guys a lot. ♡ And I am sorry for being mia for so long. I miss you all so much!

Dean Tag List (1):

@lamentationsofalonelypotato @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @zepskies @maddie0101 @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @voodoochildthings @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @my-stories-vault

@waynes-multiverse @jc-winchester @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @livya99 @youdontknowe @123passwort @lillied31 @amethyst-bunny

@alixxhere @royaler1999 @writtenbyhollywood @ralilda @mostlymarvelgirl @deansimpalababy @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @spnaquakindgdom @hobby27

@boobsbeesbongos @bowahdean @icreatemyownharem-blog @uniqueeamber @ralilda @biancalinkas @westendgirlsworld @foxyjwls007 @soullessambs @deanspinsterwitch

@fuckingdamnitdean @star-yawnznn @s0uz4s @champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester

“The picture of your boyfriend’s dick.” He replies. The motel’s dim light frames the intense gaze occasionally drifting toward you, a teasing smile tugging at his beard when he continues. “Can’t ignore the way you’ve been practically eye-fucking that thing for the past six joints.” He jerks his chin at the phone now tightly clasped under your hands likes it’s holding all your sins in one place.

“What- that’s not- no- what the hell.” You stutter, while you’re secretly relieved that his mind took a different direction.

“Hm,” he grunts, unconvinced, his eyes briefly closing. You tense up in the couch when his elbows slide off the table, now resting on his spread legs, his head tilting your way. “What’s it then, huh? Internet?”

Ah yes, you were looking at internet. Hughie had mentioned the word to him some days ago, but no one seems to have had the patience – or guts – to properly explain it to him. You smirk to yourself, but keep the mocking comment back. You didn’t want to risk him snatching your phone away again, as he had done many times before just to annoy you.

“Yeah, internet. It’s like a – a library, but digital, you know?” You try to explain. Your hands casually let the phone disappear in your jeans’ back pocket while you make sure to keep the discussion going. “How do you even know about dickpics? My gramps sure as hell wouldn’t know.”

“Oh fuck off.” He throws you a half-arsed scowl over the edge of his canted beer, “I basically invented it. The concept of showing off your dick to your girl ain’t that goddamn new-fangled.” He sneers the word ‘new-fangled’, his free hand waving dismissively in your direction.

The frown on his lips shifts into a crooked smile at what seems to be a particularly fond memory popping up in his mind. Cute, it suits him.

“I once had Warhol print my dick in the colors of the American flag. Surprised Countess with one on every fuckin’ wall.”

“Wow.” You can’t help but shake your head and crack a laughter at the mental image. “I bet she was ecstatic.”

“Oh you can bet my nutsack. That night we fucked like bunnies. Skeeted those paintings. Redecorated the whole damn thing.” He grins like a proud boy before his fond smile suddenly flips, “Now the bitch’s gargling dirt.”

The air thickened and your chest tightens. Only the sound of his fingers briefly strangling the neck of his beer bottle fills the tense silence in the room.

Your eyes drift to the ground, scrambling for something to say to steer the conversation away from his dead ex - but he beats you to it.

Ben has let out a heavy sigh after he took a swig, the beer bottle now tipped in your direction.

"So. No boyfriend then, huh?" He muses before he tilts his head, his lips curling into a smug smirk, “Gonna spend your national fuck day all alone with a pillow between your legs?”

“I- I’m not spending my - as you call it so colourfully - ‘national fuck day’ with a pillow between my legs. Thank you very much.”

“No? Not gonna rawdog it while you’re thinking of me?”

Your eyes widen at that wild accusation - not that he was wrong about the latter assumption. But you certainly wouldn’t let him know that.

Your cheeks flush slightly and you quickly force your parted lips into a firm, tight line. “For your information. I’ll not spend my day all sad and pathetic home alone but will be going out to Jerry’s Coffeehouse and treat myself with an extra large matcha milkshake with chocolate chips and loads of vanilla syrup. And it’ll be my best fucking Valentine’s day.”

His eyebrow pops up at that, his sharp eyes observing you for a moment as if he’s considering something, his expression a mixture between amusement and something else which you can’t quite read.

After a moment his lips quirk, voice confident, but there’s also a hint of curiosity hidden behind it, “Ah, that’s a code word for you rounding the bases, hm? Get yourself a sweet fuckin’ home run. All Turn-Down and the whole nine yards.”

“What? No – agh - Not everything’s about sex, Ben.” You groan and drag a hand down your face, trying your best to hide the tinge of bitterness in your voice. “Unlike me, I bet you wouldn’t survive a day without jerking off if I wasn’t cockblocking you with my mere presence.”

“And I bet I could ruin you real fast if you didn’t act like a little tight-folded nun around me all the time.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment. In all these weeks, Ben never made a move on you. Not even a single attempt at flirting with you. To the point that - even though you knew you shouldn’t - you started to wonder whether it was your looks or your personality you’d have to blame for.

So, yes, you have indeed acted rather, let’s say, ‘reserved’ around Ben.

But that wasn’t because you were appalled by the thought of what he could do to you with you sprawled out beneath him, all open and inviting. Quite the contrary. It was because you liked the thought, but also didn’t want to fall for yet another man who’d just use you for his pleasure.

So you made sure to keep him at an arms length.

“Jesus, you’re so damn vulgar.” You utter, your back slumped against the couch’s armrest while you try your best to act unaffected by his words, “ You kiss a lady with that dirty mouth of yours?”

“What’s the deal with you chicks? I ain’t friggin' Cary Grant, y’know?” He takes a messy swig of his beer and briefly wipes his beard with the back of his hand, “Y’all so damn sensitive.”

“Yeah, I wish.” You grumble, the words slipping your lips before you can give them a second thought.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t believe me, sweetheart?”

“You know what? Yeah.” You retort out of nowhere, purely driven by all the pent-up frustration of the past months. Straightening up, you proceed to make it worse in such a confident tone which even surprises yourself, “I bet my ass that I could outlast you in bed.”

It was frustrating. And felt embarrassing. Really. It didn’t help that you tried to sell it as if it was an achievement worth an oscar.

"Well, that just proofs it then."

"Proofs what?"

"That you're a wuss-fucker. Just some pathetic fucking dicks dippin' in there." Ben jerks his head towards the spot hidden between your tightly crossed legs and he snorts in amusement at your grimace. "What? ‘Tis a real shame’s all I’m sayin’. I mean, what real man doesn't make sure his girl gets off first.” He leans back and sneers against the mouth of his beer bottle, “'S pathetic, really."

"Yeah, right." you roll your eyes, your voice tighter, "'Cuz I bet you're such a gentleman in bed. But you can't proof shit."

“Oh you’re on.” He quickly sets down the bottle and flashes his cocky grin at you, his voice dropping an octave to hit that tingling spot inside you, “I’ll have you cum so damn hard, you’ll be screamin’ and kickin’ while I hold ya down. And guess what, sweetheart…”

He pushes off the chair, his large frame looming over you before he bends down to your eye-level, his voice dipping into a low, deep gravelly tone, “I ain’t gunna let ya move a single inch… and have you take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”

Silence. Only the soft gulp of your last sense of self-control getting forced down your throat cuts through the thick air between you.

He holds your gaze, a playful smile spread across his lips when he straightens up again, his voice nonchalant. “‘Course, only if you want.”

“I do.” The answer came faster than you could even process it.

He looks back down at you, a flash of genuine surprise crossing his eyes before he covers it up with a smug expression, “Oh yeah?”

His words were like the flick of a switch.

Next moment clothings were flying across the room, partially torn as neither of you had the patience to get them off properly. The heat between you skyrocketed, heavy breathing filling your ears in tandem with intense drumming of your heart. Soft golden rays peek through the shutters, their light bouncing off his darkened eyes and casting shadows of wild, fervent bodies moving through the room like a tempest.

God you felt so pent up - it was driving you mad. The desperate need for relief, for reaching that sweet peak of ecstasy. It clouds your mind, has your will to think straight completely subdued.

Ben doesn’t seem to be in much more control either, his hands flying across your body, like he doesn’t know what to explore first. He pushes you up against the wall, the force deliberately kept to a minimum. His nose draws a line across your shoulder, inhaling your scent like a drug, all the way up your neck until he exhales again, the hot breath pressed against your skin under your jaw.

“Fuck me – you’re intoxicatin’, woman.” He rasps out, his voice raw and full of barely contained need.

Your breath comes out shaky, head tilted to the side without a second thought. “Ben,” you say his name close to a whine, your mind handing over the reigns to him, “Please don’t stop.”

“Won’t-” he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled by the trail of kisses, “’M not gonna stop until you’ve cum.” His teeth skim along your pulse point and for a moment you feel like your legs give in. But he quickly steadies you, his large hands moving down your sides to hold onto your hips with a firm grip. “Promise.” He adds hoarsely, some of your skin now tugged between his teeth as he starts to leave love bites in his wake. “We got a bet goin’, after all.”

Your body’s now moving on instinct and for only one purpose. Your need, your heat, it’ll keep you going, you know it. No matter how long you’ll have to pant like a racing horse, no matter how much you’ll regret it the next day when you’ll feel stiff and aching at places you didn’t even know you had muscles.

It all doesn’t matter right now. It is all just you and him. The world reduced to his strong arms wrapped around your fragile frame, his muscles flexing as he lifts you up, and his world reduced to your legs wrapping around his hips, your aching core pressed up against his bulging boxers.

Your lips collide with his, their first meeting sending a bolt of pleasure through your body. Your mind goes hazy, your legs tighten around his hips and your hands hang onto his shoulder in an attempt to hold him close.

Your heads swivel, mouths working passionate. But to your surprise, Ben still keeps it slow, savouring every bit of your lips dancing around his. His tongue’s tasting the inside of your mouth as he swallows your moans and fills it with his own groans. Teeth gently pull at your lower lip before he finally breaks the kiss, to give you the chance to catch your breath.

You pant against him, your lips burning from the stubbles but still lingering there. You suddenly feel the rest of your body again, a shudder running down your spine, right to your aching core.