Top Posts Tagged with #pfiahc writes

family bonds

part ii

Summary: You're beginning to think that Ben likes the secrecy of everything that's going down between the two of you. Smug asshole.

Warning/s: 18+!!!!!, NSFW, i'm fucking serious it's gross, dads!bestfriend!ben, bestfriends!dad!ben, au, language, ben being his own warning again, teasing, flirting, smut (kissing, biting, dirty talk, seriously filthy talk, p in v, car sex), i know there's probably more.

Word count: 8.2k

You and Johanna Hargrove had always been joined at the hip. Since birth. Since before. Two months apart, two houses down. You were in each other’s birthday pictures before you had teeth. Shared onesies. Shared lice. Shared the exact same taste in boys until about eighth grade, when she discovered swimmers and you discovered rage.

Your dads had never let either of you forget it.

They called your friendship fate, but said it the way you might say fire hazard. They shared beer, war stories, and old injuries that still ached when it got cold out. Best friends since high school, bonded by sports and boot camp and enough collective head trauma to make them nearly impossible to argue with.

You’d spent the better part of your childhood at Anna’s house. You knew where they kept the spare keys, the paper towels, the good cereal. You knew which floorboards creaked outside the guest bathroom and which ones Ben had reinforced himself, because "I swear to God if I fall through this fuckin’ floor because of your little dance party again I will burn this house down with all of you in it."

He was an asshole. Big. Loud. Sharp around the edges. Too tan, too American, too everything.

And until the night you let him wreck you in a bathroom with the door locked and the firepit still glowing outside—you’d always chalked it up to charm. The aggressive, inappropriate kind. The kind that got laughs in one room and complaints in another.

Ben Hargrove wasn’t charming. He was a menace. And for the rest of that vacation, he never let you forget it.

He didn’t touch you again. Not like that. Not when anyone could see. But it was there. In every glance. Every comment. The next morning, he greeted you at the breakfast table with a lazy “Morning, Trouble” and didn’t so much as blink when you nearly choked on your juice.

Your dad didn’t notice. Anna didn’t ask.

When she’d crept back into your shared room sometime after 2am, heels in hand, she hadn’t so much as looked your way. Just flopped onto her side of the bed and giggled into her pillow about how the guy had abs like a fucking Dorito and a tongue piercing that made her see God.

And you? You lay awake next to her, staring at the ceiling, still tasting salt and heat and Ben Hargrove’s cum in your throat like it had been branded there.

The week passed like that. Loaded. Laced. Ticking like a bomb. He never said a word out of place when your dad was in the room—but his timing was nothing short of surgical.

“Pass me the syrup, Trouble,” he’d say, eyes steady on your mouth as you licked something off your knuckle.

“You missed a spot,” he’d muttered once, brushing a crumb from the corner of your lip with his thumb, so casually no one blinked—but you’d felt it all the way down your spine.

One night by the fire, Anna had been retelling some stupid story from high school. You’d said something about how you’d always been the one cleaning up her messes. Ben had chuckled. Low. Without looking at you.

“Ain’t that the truth. She’s always been good with cleanup.”

Your dad laughed. You didn’t.

Later, when you crossed paths on the way back from the outside shower, towel wrapped around your waist and hair dripping down your spine, he didn’t say anything at first. Just looked you over. Slow. Heavy. Then, barely above a whisper—

“Keep walkin’, sweetheart, or I’ll leave handprints on that pretty ass and make you explain ’em.”

You didn’t sleep that night. You spent the week avoiding his gaze and chasing it in equal measure. And when it came time to leave—cars packed, sunscreen still in the sand, your dad honking from the driveway—he didn’t say goodbye. He just looked at you. Like he’d already done it in every way that counted.

The music was already too loud when you got there.

Ben’s kitchen looked like a Pinterest board threw up all over it—half-assembled ingredients spread across the counters, limes rolling around on the chopping board, Anna’s phone propped up against a tequila bottle with some blurry TikTok recipe paused mid-frame.

“Nachos?” You asked, dropping your bag and catching a runaway pepper with one hand.

Anna grinned over her shoulder. “Nachos. Quesadillas. Homemade guac. Maybe some shrimp tacos if I don’t burn the place down first.”

You rolled your eyes, but affectionately. “So you mean I’m cooking.”

She handed you a mixing bowl. “Obviously.”

It was easy—too easy—how you fell into the rhythm of her space. You’d done this since you were old enough to tell oregano from basil. Anna made the mess, and you followed behind, setting things right. Not out of obligation—just instinct. Like second nature.

Your fingers moved on autopilot: wiping countertops, re-sorting chopped veg into real bowls, tossing out the empty packets she left strewn in her wake like confetti. She kept talking the whole time, flicking through her camera roll, pausing every now and then to shove the screen in your face.

“Okay, but look at this one—no, seriously—look at the jawline on this man. I’m telling you, he’s unreal.”

You hummed noncommittally, nodding as you reached for a dish towel. “New guy?” You asked, already knowing.

“Obviously. I matched with him like two days ago—he’s coming to pick me up next week for sushi.”

“Hmm. Sushi Guy.”

“Sushi God,” she corrected. “And you’re gonna be jealous when I marry him.”

You grinned, then shook your head and turned back to the counter, slipping into the hum of the music and the smell of lime juice and cilantro and whatever chaos she’d left on the stove.

For a second—just a second—you forgot he was here somewhere. And then, as if summoned by the acknowledgement alone, the back door opened. Heavy boots. A familiar stomp. The creak of hinges that had never quite been fixed. Ben Hargrove walked into the kitchen like he owned it. And naturally, because he did.

You didn’t look up right away. Just wiped your hands on the dish towel and tossed it toward the sink. But you felt him. The way you always did now. And when you finally looked, he was already looking at you.

Just for a second before Anna turned. “Hey, Daddy,” she chirped. “We’re doing Mexican tonight. I’ll bring you a plate to the den when it’s ready.”

Ben scratched the back of his neck, wandered toward the fridge like he hadn’t just stabbed you with his eyes and left the blade in.

“Mm,” he muttered. “Dick-Shredder not here yet?”

Anna blinked. “Oh my god. Dad.”

“What?” He said flatly. “She’s got fuckin’ braces. You think I’m trusting a mouth full of razor wire around my beer bottles?”

You snorted. You couldn’t help it.

Anna shot you a look. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m not fuckin’ wrong,” Ben added, grabbing a beer and cracking it open with one hand. “Little gremlin’s been droolin’ on the furniture since middle school.”

“She’s getting her Invisalign in like, a year,” Anna muttered. “You’re such an asshole.”

He grinned. Smug. Unbothered. Too tan. Then his eyes flicked back to you. “Evenin’, Trouble.”

You didn’t answer. Just kept chopping cilantro, heart stuttering like it hadn’t already survived worse.

But Ben didn’t leave. Of course he didn’t. He settled himself in the doorway instead, one shoulder braced against the frame, beer lifted lazy to his mouth like he’d just wandered in to supervise. He looked casual. Relaxed. Like he wasn’t watching you out of the corner of his eye.

You felt it anyway.

That prickle along your spine. The sense of being seen—not glanced at, not noticed, but tracked. Every step you took between the counter and the stove. Every time you bent to grab something from a lower cupboard. Every time your fingers brushed salt from the counter and you sucked them clean without thinking.

Anna didn’t notice. She never did. She was pacing now, phone in hand, talking with her whole body the way she always had—gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over the guacamole bowl you’d just finished smoothing.

“I’m serious,” she said. “We should do something before everyone disappears back to their colleges. Like—one last girls’ holiday. Just us.”

You shifted to her side automatically, moving the bowl out of harm’s way. “All five of us?”

“Exactly!” She chirped. “Me, you, Kayla, Marissa, Jessie. Like… Spain. Or Greece. Somewhere hot.”

You hummed, reaching for the tortilla chips. “Marissa can’t handle heat. She’ll snore herself into heatstroke.”

From the doorway, Ben snorted. “You mean Chainsaw?” He asked. “Good luck sleepin’ through that. Girl sounds like she’s chewin’ gravel in her dreams.”

“Dad,” Anna warned.

“What? I’m helpin’. You’ll need earplugs. Or a tranquilizer.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head as you lined the chips up on a tray. “And Jessie?” You added. “She’ll spend the whole trip taking photos of herself and calling it cultural enrichment.”

“Selfie-stick,” Ben supplied immediately. “Girl’s got more pictures of her own face than the fuckin’ DMV.”

Anna groaned. “Be nice!”

“I am nice,” he shot back, sipping his beer. “Just selective.” His gaze slid back to you. Slow. Intentional. “I’m nice to you,” he added. “And to Trouble.”

Your hand stilled on the counter for half a second too long.

Anna didn’t catch it. “Yeah, because she actually helps instead of just existing loudly.”

Ben huffed a laugh. “See? Standards.”

You glanced over your shoulder then—just briefly. He was already watching you. Not leering. Not obvious. Just that steady, knowing look that made your skin feel too tight, like you were acutely aware of where your hands were. Of your mouth. Of the way you shifted your weight when he spoke.

“Greece would be wasted on ‘em,” Ben went on, like this was a normal family conversation. “Dick-Shredder’d lose her retainer in the ocean. Chainsaw’d scare the locals. And Selfie-stick’d get arrested for trespassin’ in someone’s vineyard. Or for talkin’ like a goddamn baby all the time.”

Anna threw a dish towel at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

He caught it without looking. Smirked.

You bent back over the counter, pretending to focus on arranging the nachos, pretending you couldn’t feel him behind you like a heat source.

“Where would you go?” Anna asked you suddenly.

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. If it was just you picking.”

You opened your mouth—then hesitated, aware of the weight of his attention, of how quiet he’d gone.

“Somewhere quiet,” you said finally. “Somewhere you don’t have to perform.”

From the doorway, Ben exhaled softly. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything. “Smart girl,” he murmured.

Anna rolled her eyes again. “You two are so weird.”

You didn’t disagree. And Ben didn’t look away even as Anna’s phone lit up in her hand.

“Oh—Kayla’s here,” she said, already moving. “Don’t burn anything. And don’t kill each other.”

She left before either of you could answer—back door swinging open, her voice already drifting down the driveway. The house shifted the second she was out of earshot. Not quiet. Just… different.

She’s gone maybe ten seconds before Ben speaks. Still leaning in the doorway, still drinking his beer like this isn’t an ambush. His eyes drag over you. Slow. Lazy. Mean.

“You know I jerked off thinkin’ about your fuckin’ mouth last night?”

You freeze. Half a tomato in one hand. Knife in the other.

He doesn’t stop. “Thought about how you sounded,” he goes on, voice low, hot like breath behind your ear. “How you looked—tears down your cheeks, that pretty little throat all stretched open. So fuckin’ desperate to take it.”

You slam the knife down. Hard.

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

He grins. “Why not? Gonna pretend it didn’t happen?”

He steps into the room now—slow, loose-hipped, that I know you want me to say worse swagger that’s all smoke and gasoline.

“Gonna pretend you didn’t gag around me and fuckin’ love it?” He mutters. “Pretend you didn’t crawl on your knees in the bathroom and beg with your fuckin’ eyes?”

“I didn’t—”

“Oh, but you did. You looked up at me like you wanted to ruin me. And you did, Trouble. You did.” He’s in your space now. Close. His beer hits the counter with a thud. “I came so hard I thought my knees were gonna give out,” he growls. “Thought about it all goddamn night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw you with spit down your chin and that fucked-out look on your face like I was the only thing you’d ever wanted.”

He leans in. Doesn’t touch. Just presses his voice into your skin.

“You gonna tell me you haven’t thought about it? About how I’d sound if I came in your fuckin’ pussy instead?”

You’re breathing too fast. Your hands are fists.

“Ben—”

“Or maybe,” he cuts in, low and dangerous, “you’ve been thinkin’ about what I’d say if I bent you over that kitchen counter right now and made you come with my fuckin’ fingers inside you and my daughter just around the corner.”

Your stomach flips. Your legs nearly give. Outside, the back gate opens. Anna’s laugh filters in. Footsteps. Ben steps back. Wipes his mouth like he’s wiping yours. Picks up his beer.

“You gonna serve dinner lookin’ like that?” He says, perfectly normal. “People are gonna think I’ve been doin’ somethin’ filthy to you.”

He smirks. Then, without looking:

“‘Cause I have.”

You don’t have time to answer. Not with the sound of the back door swinging open behind you, letting in the clatter of voices and wind.

Anna’s voice hits first—bright, chirpy, oblivious. “—you’re gonna love these nachos, I swear. Kayla, you’re not still not eating gluten, right?”

Your body jerks like a puppet cut loose. You don’t turn. You don’t breathe. You feel him behind you—molten and still grinning, that filthy mouth no more than a breath from the shell of your ear—and you want to vanish into the fucking countertop.

But he moves. Of course he does. Smooth. Unbothered. Lazy steps backward like he hasn’t just cornered you and spat sin between your ribs. By the time the girls step into the kitchen, Ben’s already reaching for his beer again.

“Oh,” Anna blinks, pausing as she clocks him still there. “You didn’t go downstairs?”

“Nah,” he says, raising the bottle to his lips. “Figured I’d let your friend get a word in before her tongue falls outta her head.”

Kayla giggles awkwardly.

Anna rolls her eyes. “Jesus, Dad, be nice.”

“I am nice,” he says, then jerks his chin toward you. “Ain’t I?”

Your eyes snap to him, daring him to say more. He does.

“I’m nice to you, and to Trouble.” His gaze doesn’t leave yours as he repeats his earlier sentiment. “Everyone else can fuck off.”

Your stomach plummets. The room feels humid, air thick with grease and unspoken history. Anna doesn’t notice. She’s too busy unpacking the bags she left on the porch. Kayla’s already grabbing glasses from the cupboard, asking about tequila.

And Ben? Ben sets down his empty bottle and stretches like he’s got all the time in the world. The hem of his T-shirt lifts just enough to show the curve of his stomach, the waistband of his jeans riding a little too low. Then he looks at Anna.

“Send Trouble down with my plate when it’s ready, would ya?” He says, too casually. “Rude of you to leave your guests alone.”

You freeze.

Anna frowns. “She’s not—”

But he’s already walking away, pausing just long enough at the doorway to glance back at you. Not at your face. At your hands—still trembling on the chopping board. At your mouth—tight, wet-lipped, your breath caught in your chest like a secret trying to claw its way out.

Then he disappears down the stairs. The door swings shut behind him.

You exhale, finally. But it doesn't help. Because your pulse is still thudding in your ears. And that plate? You already know you’re going to take it.

The kitchen hums around you. Laughter, chatter, the sharp clink of glass against glass. The kind of domestic noise that should feel comforting—familiar, easy, like muscle memory.

But your head’s somewhere else entirely.

Your hands work on instinct, slicing tomatoes into neat little half-moons, knuckles brushing against cilantro leaves, spoon clinking against the side of the guacamole bowl. Somewhere to your right, Kayla is rambling about her latest orthodontist appointment—something about switching bands, maybe, or her jaw hurting—and Anna’s shaking a bottle of margarita mix like she’s in a goddamn commercial. You barely catch any of it.

Because all you can think about is the basement door. Shut now. Quiet. But he’s behind it.

Ben, king of smug and filth, self-proclaimed man of the house—and he asked for you. He asked for you to bring him a plate. Like he was ordering off a menu. Like he already knew what you’d do with the request.

Your face burns.

Is he sitting there in the dark right now? Legs spread wide in that stupid leather recliner, still half-hard from the way he cornered you in the kitchen? Is he palming himself through his jeans, waiting for you to come down like some obedient little thing?

You swallow, hard. Your knife stutters on the cutting board.

“You good?” Anna asks, pouring too much tequila into a glass that already smells like regret. “You’ve been quiet.”

“M’fine,” you mumble. “Just concentrating.”

Anna snorts and moves on, grabbing the bag of shredded cheese from the counter.

Kayla starts talking about some guy she matched with on Hinge who “looked like if Machine Gun Kelly had an iron deficiency,” and you try to smile, but it slips. Your eyes keep flicking toward the stairwell, toward that door, like it's gravity-bound.

He’s down there.

And you’re up here.

Trapped between two people who don’t know—who can’t know—that your pulse is hammering in your throat because Ben Hargrove spoke to you like he owned you five minutes ago and now expects you to show up like you agree with him.

You press your hands flat to the counter. Try to focus on the food. The cheese. The way Anna’s dropped at least half of it on the floor. You bend to pick it up and catch a flash in your mind—Ben’s hands in your hair, the sound he made when he came, the way he looked at your mouth like he could see himself all over it.

You stand up too fast. Knock the bowl of salsa.

“Jesus,” Anna laughs, catching it mid-spill. “You sure you’re good?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just… hungry.”

And you are. But not for nachos.

The movie is already playing when you set your plate down. Some godawful rom-com Anna loves—high-saturation lighting, twinkly music, two actors with too much botox trying to pretend they’ve never kissed before. Kayla's curled into the corner of the couch, her braces catching the light every time she laughs. Anna's already halfway through her second margarita and talking over every line of dialogue.

“You coming?” She calls when you don’t sit.

You shake your head. “Gonna take your dad his plate.”

Kayla snorts. “You volunteered to go to the predator pit?”

“He asked,” you say smoothly, reaching for one of the shot glasses still out on the counter. “Figured I’d be a good guest.”

Anna waves you off without looking. “Tell him to stop being a hermit.”

“Tell him yourself,” you mutter—but they’re already absorbed in the screen again.

You toss the shot back—tequila, gold, sharp—and hiss through your teeth as it burns down. The heat in your chest doesn’t even touch the heat in your skin. Then you grab the plate, balancing it carefully in one hand, and walk to the basement door. The handle feels colder than it should. Like a warning. You ignore it.

You open the door.

It’s darker than you expect—just the dull yellow glow of a lamp at the bottom of the stairs, barely illuminating the landing. The air shifts as you descend: cooler, quieter, thicker somehow. The floor creaks under your bare feet, and every sound feels amplified—your breathing, the scrape of your heel on wood, the faint clink of cutlery on ceramic.

You don’t call out. You don’t need to. Because you see him the second you step off the stairs.

Ben’s already there—lounged back in one of those ridiculous oversized leather chairs, a beer bottle dangling from two fingers, his legs spread in that deliberately cocky way that takes up more space than any man has a right to.

He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t move. Just watches you. Lit half in shadow, half in gold. That same fucking smirk stitched across his mouth like he’s been waiting.

Your throat tightens. You try to play it cool.

“Hope you like ‘em hot,” you say, voice steadier than you feel. “Anna put extra jalapenos. Said to clear out your sinuses or some shit.”

You hold the plate out. Ben doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t even blink. His eyes rake over you—slow, deliberate, like he’s checking if you’re trembling under the weight of his stare. Like he knows you are.

“‘Bout time,” he says, voice low and smooth. “I was startin’ to think you forgot who you belonged to.”

The plate nearly slips from your fingers. Ben still doesn’t take it. He just leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, beer bottle balanced loosely between his fingers. That look in his eyes could carve you open.

You stay standing, the plate awkward in your hands.

“Put it down,” he says finally. Voice like gravel and smoke. “Over there.”

You do as you're told—set the plate down on the small side table next to him, fingers brushing ceramic like it might keep you grounded. It doesn’t.

He leans back again, watching you, letting his gaze drag slow over the slope of your thighs, the hem of your shorts, the curve of your mouth.

"You always this obedient?" He asks.

You roll your eyes. Try for flippant, but your voice’s already unsteady. “Only when I’m bored.”

His smile is all teeth. "That what this is? You, bored? Comin’ down here all quiet, all flushed… bringin’ Daddy his dinner like a good little girl?"

Your breath stutters.

"Jesus, Ben—"

“Nah, don't do that,” he cuts in, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t say my name like you don’t already know how I like it. You think I haven’t noticed? Every time you mouth off upstairs, tryin’ to get under my skin. Flashin’ those fuckin’ thighs and biting that lip like it’s a nervous habit.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He stands, slow and deliberate, towering in that way he always does. “You think I don’t hear the way you talk back, just to see if I’ll snap?”

He’s in front of you now. Not touching. Not yet. But everything in you hums like it wants to be touched. Bruised. Marked. Ruined.

“Tell me somethin’,” he says, tipping his chin. “You come down here just to feed me, Trouble? Or were you hopin’ I’d take somethin’ else from your hands?”

You blink up at him, defiant. “I came down because you told me to.”

“Mm.” His thumb brushes the side of your mouth. It shouldn’t make your knees go weak. “And if I told you to get on your knees?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly—mouth parted, breath shaky—and he exhales a sharp, amused noise.

“That’s what I thought.”

When he grabs you, it’s not rough—but it’s firm. A hand at your hip, the other in your hair, tugging just enough to bare your throat.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’,” he mutters.

You laugh, breathless. “Neither do you.”

“No?” He mouths the edge of your jaw, teeth scraping your skin. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this since you were old enough to start given’ me that goddamn attitude.”

That should make you recoil. It should make you run.

It doesn’t.

Instead, you fist your hands in the front of his shirt and haul him down, kissing him like a threat. Like you’ll shatter if he doesn’t devour you. He groans into your mouth—deep and filthy—biting your lower lip, dragging it between his teeth. His hands are everywhere. Down your back. Beneath your shirt. Thumbing the waistband of your shorts as he threatens to “Rip ‘em off.”

You’re breathless. Dizzy. Whispering something like, “Rip them, I don’t care,” into his mouth—

When:

“Hey! You down there?”

Anna. Top of the stairs. Voice loud, oblivious, and way too close.

You both freeze. Ben’s hand flies off your waist. You stumble back like you’ve been shot. He clears his throat. Mutters, “Fuck,” under his breath and scrubs a hand over his face, pacing a tight line. You’re trying to flatten your hair, wipe your mouth, blink away the haze of want.

“She’s comin’!” He shouts, voice hoarse.

You hear footsteps overhead—her retreating back into the kitchen. For a second, the silence between you is louder than her shout. Then Ben turns. Still flushed. Still rock hard. He nods toward the plate, jaw tight.

“Go on then, Trouble. Better not keep her waitin’.”

You step back. His eyes don’t move. Not when you adjust your hoodie. Not when you smooth your palms down your thighs. Not even when you clear your throat, like you might say something to break whatever the hell this is, whatever you’ve just let happen.

You go to turn.

“Hey,” Ben murmurs, spread in that chair like a damn king, one hand hanging loose between his legs, the other rubbing slow over his beard. “Next time you bring me somethin’ that hot, Trouble, you better sit on my fuckin’ lap while I eat it.”

Your breath catches.

He grins, all teeth. “And quit makin’ that face,” he adds, voice lazier now. “You're adorable when you're tryin’ not to picture it.”

Your ears go hot. You turn too fast, mutter something that isn’t even a real word, and take the stairs two at a time. The plate is long gone, but your hands still shake like you're carrying something fragile.

The basement door clicks shut behind you.

The voices from the living room drift in, familiar and harmless—Kayla talking about her new tattoo, Anna giggling at some inside joke. You follow the sound on autopilot, body moving through the motions: sit, smile, sip, nod. Let them paint your nails. Let them talk about boys. Let them pull out the face masks and tequila and laugh so hard you know Ben can hear it through the floor.

But you’re not really there. Not when Kayla calls you out for zoning out. Not when Anna nudges your knee and asks if you’re tired. Not even when they settle on a movie and kill the lights.

Because your brain is downstairs. Downstairs in that dim room. That chair. That smirk. That voice. Those goddamn hands. That comment.

Sit on his lap.

You're still flushed, pulse fluttering like a bird in your throat, every cell in your body remembering the heat of his stare. The way it made your scalp tingle. The way your thighs still ache. The way he looked at you like he knew.

No one else notices. You're the good girl. The best friend. The one who always cleans up after Anna and keeps everyone from drinking too much.

But your skin’s too tight tonight. Your hoodie too warm. And when you shift on the couch, you do it too slow, like your body forgot how to not move for him.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. But the thoughts do. And every single one of them is filthy.

You’d walked home the next morning before the sun had fully settled in the sky. Told Anna you were feeling off—“Just that college anxiety again”—and she didn’t ask questions. Just hugged you at the door and told you to call her later.

You hadn’t.

Now it’s nearing dusk, and your room is too warm. The kind of warm that crawls under your clothes and sits behind your knees, makes your skin feel too sensitive and your thoughts too loud. The air is thick with it—heat and memory and a tension that won't leave your bloodstream.

And then: a sound. Low, gravelly, mechanical. The groan of a truck you could identify in your sleep. Ben’s pickup.

You freeze, half-curled in bed, and listen. Tires crunching gravel. Doors slamming. Laughter—your father’s—rich and familiar and followed by something deeper. Rougher. Sharper.

Ben’s voice.

“Jesus Christ, again? That guy couldn’t throw a ball to save his—”

More laughter. A thump of boots. The unmistakable clink of bottles. You don’t move. Not at first.

Your throat’s dry and your stomach’s fluttering and your heart feels like it’s about to stage a rebellion. But then the heat flares again—anger, maybe, or pride—and you swing your legs over the side of the bed. Stand. Straighten your spine.

You’re not hiding. He doesn't get that.

So you wipe your face. Tug your shorts back into place. Tuck your tank top where it sits just right against your hips. Tie your hair up—not too tidy, but not careless either. Bite your lip once to bring some colour to it, then set your jaw.

You head downstairs.

The noise of the game hits you first—sports commentary, some crowd screaming through the TV speakers. Then your dad’s voice: “We’re outta beer already?”

You pass the living room door in a flash of movement and sound—your father reclined in his armchair, feet up, Ben spread out on the couch, one hand curled loosely around a bottle. He’s in a t-shirt this time, not flannel, but it’s tight enough to show everything, and his legs are open like they always are. Casual. Wide. Possessive.

You don’t look too long. Just long enough for your dad to notice you.

“Hey, sweetheart—you mind grabbin’ us a few more from the fridge?”

“Sure,” you say, tone breezy, effortless. Like your blood isn’t trying to crawl out of your skin.

You step into the kitchen, tug the fridge open with more force than necessary, and lean in. The cold air helps. A little.

Behind you, their voices continue—Ben’s louder now, complaining about defense, your dad arguing about penalties—but you feel it.

You feel him watching. And you haven’t even turned around yet.

You carry the bottles like they’re heavier than they should be. Like the glass is holding more than beer. You can feel his eyes again—burning into your back like a brand—as you return to the living room and pass them out. One to your dad, who grunts his thanks without peeling his eyes off the screen. One to Ben, who takes it slow, fingers brushing yours deliberately, gaze dragging up the length of you like he’s peeling something back.

You don’t react. Not outwardly.

Just let the bottle go and shift your weight like nothing happened. Like the contact didn’t shoot straight through you like a live wire.

“You just gonna stand there?” Your dad asks, tipping his chin toward the couch. “C’mon, park your ass. Game’s getting good. We need our resident commentator.”

You almost laugh. Because that’s what you used to be. Perched on the armrest, mocking their fantasy drafts and stupid touchdown celebrations. Swapping sarcastic commentary for sips of whatever sugary cocktail you’d smuggled in from the kitchen. You’ve been doing it for years.

But that was before.

Before the vacation. Before Ben's voice had turned low and dangerous in your ear. Before his hands had been on you and in you. Before you’d fallen asleep thinking about him and woken up raw from the memory of it.

Still. You nod. Smile. “Sure,” you say, light as air.

The couch only has one free seat. Right beside Ben.

You sit. Not quite pressed up against him, but close enough. Your thigh hovers a breath away from his. Your shoulder shifts every time he moves. He smells like beer and aftershave and heat. It should be familiar. It should be normal.

It isn’t.

Your mom’s bustling somewhere in the background, slippers whispering against the hardwood. She drifts in and out—collecting laundry, humming to herself, commenting vaguely about the mess in the sink before disappearing again.

The game plays on. Someone scores. Your dad jeers, Ben mutters something about blind refs, and you throw in a deadpan, “Wow, you’d think you guys were personally offended by that play.”

Your dad chuckles. “There she is.”

But Ben doesn’t laugh. He just shifts. Leans back a little deeper into the cushions, legs spreading wider, his thigh barely grazing yours now. He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. Just sips his beer, jaw tight, eyes locked on the screen like he’s trying not to think about the way your body is inches from his.

And you—

You can’t even pretend to focus. Your skin is buzzing. Your blood too loud. You fold your arms and unfold them. Tap your fingers against your knee. Your mouth is dry and your thoughts are filth and you need—

“Think I’m gonna go for a walk before bed,” you say suddenly, shifting forward like movement might help.

Your dad grunts. “This late?”

“Just around the block. It’s hot in here.”

Ben’s voice cuts in, too casual.

“I’ll drive her.”

You both turn.

Your dad raises a brow. “That’s… nice of you.”

Ben shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he’s not already gripping the neck of his beer tighter than he needs to. “Don’t want her gettin’ snatched up by some fuckin’ scumfuck. I’ve seen the true crime shit she watches.”

Your dad snorts and pushes up from his chair with a groan. “Alright, alright. I’m headed up. Long day tomorrow.”

He leans down to kiss your head as he passes. You force a smile.

“Night, sweetheart.”

Then he claps Ben on the shoulder. “Don’t keep her out too long.” He mumbles as he stretches. Then he turns to you. “And lock up when you get back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ben mutters, voice thick.

You don’t move. Not until the footsteps vanish up the stairs. Not until the door clicks shut. Not until the silence really settles—and you finally risk looking at him. He’s already looking at you. Smirking. Tense. Dark eyes heavy, the kind of stare that makes you feel like you’re already on your knees.

“You still want that walk?” He asks.

But you both know that’s not what he means.

Outside the truck, streetlights cast long shadows across the front lawn. Inside, the air is thick with a different kind of tension—close, charged, unbearable. Ben hasn’t started the engine.

You watch his profile in the faint glow of the dash. The hard cut of his jaw. The way his mouth works, chewing at the inside of his cheek like he’s holding something back. Something that’ss been simmering for years—through barbecues and holidays and long nights where he’s looked at you a beat too long and said nothing at all.

The lake had cracked it open. This—this felt like the moment it finally broke.

He turns his head slowly, deliberately, and the look he gives you makes your stomach drop. A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. Lazy. Knowing. Dangerous.

“You got any idea,” he says, voice low and rough, “how obvious you are?”

The sheer audacity of him almost makes you laugh.

Almost.

You don’t look away. You refuse to give him that. Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, let the challenge live in the space between you.

“Oh?” You say. “And what exactly am I being obvious about?”

His breath huffs out, half a laugh. His hand leaves the steering wheel, slow enough that you feel every second of it, and settles against your thigh like it belongs there. It shouldn’t. But it does.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Trouble,” he murmurs. “You’ve been starin’ at me all night like you’re deciding whether to bite or bolt.”

His thumb shifts—barely—enough to make your pulse spike.

“I see it,” he continues, leaning closer now. “The way you tense when I walk into a room. The way you go all quiet when I get too close. You think I don’t notice you losin’ your train of thought every time I open my mouth?”

You swallow. Hard.

“You’re really gonna sit there and tell me you’ve been watching me?”

His grin widens, all teeth. “Every damn time,” he says without hesitation. “You walk by, I notice. You laugh, I notice. You get that look on your face like you’re about to say somethin’ smart and think better of it?” He shakes his head. “Drives me fuckin’ insane.”

His hand tightens on your thigh, just enough to make the point.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about it,” he goes on, voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “About what it’d feel like if I stopped pretendin’. If I did somethin’ about it.”

The truck feels too small. Your breath comes shallow.

“You think you know what I want?” You challenge quietly.

He leans in until you’re sharing air. “I don’t think,” he says. “I know.”

His gaze flicks to your mouth. Lingers.

“You want me just as bad,” he murmurs. “You wouldn’t be sittin’ here otherwise. Wouldn’t be lettin’ me talk to you like this.”

A beat.

“And you definitely wouldn’t be breathin’ like that.”

Your resolve fractures.

“I want you,” you admit, the words leaving you before you can stop them. “I’ve wanted you.”

Something dark flashes in his eyes—satisfaction, maybe. Or relief. “That’s what I thought,” he says softly. “Good. Because I’m done pretendin’ I don’t.”

With a smirk that spells trouble, Ben leans in—close enough that his breath brushes your lips. Then he kisses you. Not softly. Not kindly. It’s rough, claiming, soaked in beer and fire and the kind of hunger that didn’t ask—it takes.

His mouth works yours like he owns it, like he’s been waiting years to shut you up this way. Teeth on lip. Tongue all heat and scrape. Possessive. Brutal. A low sound rises from his chest, something close to a growl. You answer it with a needy sound of your own, fists twisting in the collar of his worn jacket.

When he pulls back, his voice is ruined—lower, rougher, edged with something wicked. “Good girl,” he rasps. “This time you’re gettin’ all of it. Every. Fuckin’. Inch.”

His hand dips between your legs, slow and confident. His smirk widens as he presses against your underwear—right where he knows you need him. He doesn’t even have to look to know the truth of it.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He murmurs. “Knew you would be. Jesus. Can feel it through your fuckin’ panties. What’d I tell you? Trouble.”

You can’t breathe. Not properly. Not when he says things like that.

He leans in again, breath hot against your throat, his thumb dragging upward in a maddening tease. “Goddamn,” he mutters. “Your body’s beggin’ for it. Just don’t know how to say it yet.”

You gasp. He chuckles.

“Don’t worry, Trouble,” he says, pulling his hand away like a fucking tease. “Just gettin’ comfortable.”

And he does. In the worst possible way.

With one rough grunt, he manhandles you across the console and into his lap like you weigh nothing. You land with a soft gasp, straddling his thighs, heart hammering against your ribs. His hands grips your hips, firm and possessive. The press of him beneath you—hard. Insistent.

He looks up at you with all the smug confidence of a man who’s already won. “Fuckin’ finally,” he mutters, voice thick. “You got no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

One hand slips to your back. The other drags down your side, fingers playing dirty just under your waistband.

“Gonna have to tear these off you,” he warns. Amused. Hungry. “And you know I’m not exactly gentle.”

Your fingers find the edge of his belt, trembling with want, and he tilts his head to watch you. His cocky grin returns—dark and mean.

“There she is,” he says, voice almost fond in that twisted way of his. “My pretty little pervert. You like this, huh? Like sittin’ in my lap like a good girl. Fuckin’ filthy.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Your voice has been stolen, burned away by the heat of him—by the filth spilling from his mouth like it’s second nature.

“Bet you’ve been thinkin’ about it every night since the lake,” he says. “Touchin’ yourself with your hand between your thighs, whisperin’ my name like a fuckin’ prayer.”

You make a sound—something raw and desperate—and his grip tightens.

“Yeah,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours. “Thought so.”

Your fingers tremble against the button on his jeans. Eager to free him, eager for more of his touch. He shifts, helping you pull them down. His cock springs free. Thick and veined, already glistening with precome. Your eyes widen.

He watches your reaction. Possessive satisfaction in his gaze. “Like what you see, princess?” He asks, low and smug and wet. “Yeah, you do. I know that look.”

He takes your hand. Guides it to wrap around the base of him. Throbbing hard in your grasp. You stroke him—slowly, tentatively—feeling the velvet heat. He groans. Deep, primal.

“God, you’re good at this,” he murmurs, hips grinding against your palm. “So good.”

Then he pulls your hand away.

You make a soft, involuntary noise—half frustration, half protest. A pout, forming before you can even stop it.

Ben laughs. Loud. Brash. Slightly unhinged. “Christ on a fuckin’ cross,” he drawls, eyes burning as they drag over your face. “You’re a goddamn whore for me, ain’tcha?”

Your stomach flips.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hands come to your hips, broad and calloused, lifting you like you aren’t a weight to register. Your thighs clench instinctively around his waist, anchoring there. The shift in position makes the air feel thinner—hotter.

Your chest heaves in tight, shallow breaths as his gaze meets yours. Everything about him dark, hungry, unrepentant.

“Ready?” He asks.

His voice is low. Rough. A promise and a warning all at once.

You can’t speak. Only nod—wordless, flushed, already aching.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “You fuckin’ are.”

He pushes, slowly, deliberately. The blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick folds, stretching you. You gasp—high and breathless—as he begins to slide in. It’s a tight fit. A glorious, agonising stretch. You feet yourself open. Yield to him. Taking him inch by excruciating inch.

“Fuck,” he grinds out, jaw tight, eyes screwed shut like the sensation alone might snap him in half. His hips slam into yours, seat-deep, forcing a choked gasp from your throat.

“You feel that?” He growls, one hand braced tight on your ass, the other fisted in the fabric at your lower back. “You feel how fuckin’ deep I am in you?”

You nod—barely. Can't speak. Can’t think. Every nerve in your body lit up, burning from the inside out.

He laughs. Cruel and low. “Goddamn. You’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight I could lose circulation. You always this needy, sweetheart? Or is it just me that gets your little cunt beggin’ like this?”

He snaps his hips once, harsh and deliberate. Your back arches, your mouth opens in a strangled moan.

“That’s it,” he purrs, voice soaked in smug satisfaction. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought. Nobody else’s ever been this deep, huh? No one’s ever stretched you open like this. Bet they barely even touched you.”

His fingers drag along your spine, gripping your hair tight at the base. “You were made for me. And I’m gonna ruin you for anyone dumb enough to try after I’m done.”

Then softer—deadlier: “I oughta thank your dad. Bet he’d lose his goddamn mind if he knew what that sweet little girl he raised lets me do to her.”

He starts to move again—slow and deep, just to prove he can. Just to hear the way you whimper when his cock drags against every sensitive inch inside you.

Then harder. Then meaner. The truck rocks with the force of it, every thrust knocking the breath from your lungs, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing in the cab like applause for something sinful. Wet squelches dragging out of you.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he snarls, voice guttural. “Listen to you. Listen to that soaked little pussy.” His hand grips your ass, forcing you to take every inch like it’s owed. “Shit’s so tight it’s like you trained it for me. Like you’ve been walkin’ around all these years just waitin’ for me to come ruin it.”

He slams into you again, sharp, punishing.

“Fuckin’ filthy girl,” he spits against your neck, then licks the spot clean. “Lettin’ me do this shit where your daddy could walk out any second. While you moan like a bitch in heat.”

You claw at his shoulders, desperate, brain leaking out your ears. He only laughs.

“Yeah. That’s it. You’re mine now. Got my cock in you and you’re actin’ like nothin’ else in the fuckin’ world matters.”

He buries his face in your neck, breath ragged, voice lower now—gravel and hunger.

“You were made for this. And you fuckin’ know it.”

His mouth crashes against yours again. The kiss is violent—carnal. His tongue drags across the roof of your mouth, his teeth catching your chin, grazing your cheek. Feral. Sloppy. Claiming.

You tighten your legs around his waist, hips rocking to meet every brutal thrust. Urging him deeper. Harder.

He tears his mouth from yours, panting, eyes locked on you like a man starved.

“You fuckin’ love that, don’t you?” He growls. “Takin’ it so goddamn good. I’m hittin’ spots no one else ever fuckin’ found.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, your voice barely audible. “God—yes.”

He picks up the pace. Harder. Rougher. No more teasing—just the sharp, relentless snap of his hips against yours, the kind of fucking that leaves no room for air, for thought, for anything but him.

The truck jolts with every thrust, suspension whining under the force, as if the damn thing knows it’s being used for something it was never designed to handle.

Your body jolts with his every movement—overstimulated, slick, raw. Every nerve ending sparks where your skin meets his, where your cunt squeezes around him, where he’s pinned you to his chest like he’s trying to mark you.

You can feel it building—heat curling low in your belly, tight and unbearable.

Ben grunts, low and mean, voice right at your ear. “Shit—you're fuckin’ drippin’ all over me, baby. So fuckin’ wet, I could drown in this pussy.”

He slams into you again. Then again. Each thrust unforgiving, obscene.

“You’re right there, ain’tcha? About to lose it. About to make a goddamn mess all over my truck.”

His hand slides under your thigh, lifting you higher, driving himself deeper.

“I feel you,” he growls, breath hot against your cheek. “C’mon, Trouble. You owe me this. Least you can do is wring me out with that tight little pussy—show me who fuckin’ owns you.”

He slams into you. Harder, deeper. His balls slap against you. You cry out, a high, keening sound. Your cunt convulsing around him. Your vision blurring.

“Shit—goddamn—that’s it.” His grip tightens, mouth at your ear, breath hot and ragged. “Don’t even give a fuck if your daddy hears you.”

He groans deep. Guttural and delirious and hot against your throat. And then he shudders, his body tensing. Cock throbbing, filling you with hot pulses. He buries his face in your neck, his breath ragged.

For a long moment, you just hold on to him—bodies slick with sweat, breath mingling in the heavy air. The cab stinks of sex, raw and potent, like it’s sunk into the fabric of the seats. Outside, the world stays quiet. Inside, your hearts thunder in unison.

Ben shifts beneath you. Just a little. Pulls back enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are low, his face flushed, jaw slack. But there’s something there—something sharp underneath the haze. A twitch in his hand. A breath caught in his throat.

“You good?” He asks, voice low. Rough, but not in the way he usually was. No swagger. No bite. Just a question, clean and quiet, scraped down to bone.

You nod. Breathless. A slow smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “More than good.”

His thumb brushes your cheek. The callous catching on your skin—just enough to remind you who he is. What he is. But his eyes don’t match the roughness. They search you like they’re trying to memorise every inch of your face.

“Yeah?” He asks. A beat passes. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with that same hand, thumb lingering just long enough to make you shiver. “’Cause I need you to be. Don’t give a fuck about nothin’ else if you ain’t.”

You blink at him, caught off guard.

And then—like it costs him something—he’s leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead. Soft. Careful. Reverent.

“You’re somethin’ else, Trouble,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “Always fuckin’ knew it.”

A/N: okay okay okay, calm down. i know i've done it again. i swore i wouldn't with this one but i couldn't help myself. it's so good. also, i know i've done the same sort of opening at the first part, but i really wanted to do some more setting before we got to the fucknasty shit in this part so... i hope y'all like the additional world building. anyways, i'm well and truly fucked after writing this and i fear i may need to take a day off (she says, not intending to take a day off at all...) please let me know what you's think of it. i always love hearing your opinions. all the love <3

soldier boy/ben taglist: @bruisedfig @sacr1ficialang3l @angelicjackles @tinas111 @ccainesideboob @anxiety-prime-max @vmiina @deanspookiebear @bejeweledinterludes @love2liz @lunaleah @angelically-yours @kblognar @angrydragon90 @mj-102009 @sl33pylilbunny @emeraldcrs @suckitands33 @lyarr24 @winchestersbgirl @never-brooks @sunnyfuffly @spookyysinsanity @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @artemys-ackles @sbwifey @angellust333 @sunnyteume @deans-yn @allthingswickedpodcast @paristheonewhoreads @0ccvltism @insensiblelimerence @podiumackles @acklesarchives @itshellfire @hyperlustre @livya99 <3

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