Fuck, holy shit, you were in the same room as Ben. He’d been your celebrity crush when you were a teenager who just discovered hormones, so you’d crank up your favourite band, grab your Soldier Boy pillow and hump it to oblivion, that’s how bad it got. And now Hughie had asked for you to watch Ben, and your mind was going crazy.

Albeit it was during his captivity.

And he was larger than life, sexier than your wildest dreams, all low voice, huge frame, low voice that made you feel things. He was the epitome of masculinity and as much as you aligned with modern day feminism, you’d happily throw it away just to get a taste of him— oh, what was he doing to you?

And it wasn’t like Ben didn’t think you were a looker— you were such a pretty little thing, with those big eyes of yours, gorgeous lips. Even better that he did a little digging and found out about your little crush, and his merchandise pillow in a closet. To find out you were a fan? Oh, it really did wonders.

He spread his legs — manspreading that got any female regardless of age looking — and chuckled, crushing Bennies with the handle of a knife, and gave you a once-over. And another— damn, did he want a piece. “I know you had the hots for me.”

His grin was devilish, really, sexy, as his thighs flexed under his sweats, which made your brain go to mush. Ben bet you were a desperate type of fan, you just needed it brought out. He bet that pillow had seen the sexiest of you, right— oh, baby girl. “Bet y’humped that pillow raw and wet, huh?”

Fucking entertaining.