You were the ‘it girl’ of cinema after Clara Bow in 1920s, at least that’s what the papers said, and you’d only made it that far after becoming a supe in the ‘40s, something which miraculously decreases aging for people with Compound V in their veins. People worshipped you, so Vought made it a point for you to be the sweetheart of the people.

Fucking pimping you out as a good girl.

For the cameras and behind it, every move was controlled. You wanted to let it all go, but then you were put in a movie with Ben, a man who seemed larger than life in person and by god, was he just that. You were in your hotel room when he was let in— of course he was. He had that authority, of course he had that authority.

Though you’d never seen a man who exuded sex more than him, blunt that was probably made with some strong, engineered weed to his taste hanging from his lips. All muscle and smirks and green flashing eyes, which looked over you appreciately. Damn, did he like what he was seeing, very much so.

“So, you’re my pretty costar.” Ben’s grin was charming in a way that made you feel a little warm, urging to press your thighs together in your dressing gown. Yeah, he’d heard about you being Vought’s good girl. America’s precious sweetheart.

Oh, was he not minding the view of that silk dressing gown on your body. He wasn’t blind to anything Vought had going, he knew that they dressed you, made you do what they wanted, act how they wanted. Maybe he could change that. “Such a darl’, aint’cha?” His chuckle was low, rumbling, sexy.

You were in deep shit.