What's an All-American apex of manly evolution without his pretty little woman on his arm? At least, that's what Vought told Ben, and it's not exactly news to him.

Hell of a piece of eye-candy, you. Bit young for him—but fuck, he’d make an exception. He’d tap that piece of ass anyday, contract or no.

"Darlin’, say cheese.” Ben drawls through his teeth, scruff grazing your shoulder as he leans in.

He’s got you backed up against the mirror against his dressing room. He loves it this way. So he can watch your pretty little face contort, plush lips frozen in a gasp, pupils blown wide, spit speckling your gorgeous reflection.

You hear a belt buckle unclasp behind you, Ben’s voice a low growl against your neck. He’s surprisingly soft with you, hands gentle. Don’t wanna mark up that angel face, He’d grunted, once, even if he really fucking wanted to—he at least wants to play the perfect partner role, for the public. That won’t do if you show up with purple bruises blooming alongside him.

Ben can be sweet like that. Sometimes. Though, he thinks you’ve gotta be kinda sweet on him too. After all, this isn’t part of the contract, is it?

“All dolled up in that frilly little apron.” He mutters, and you can see his face behind you in the mirror, nuzzling into your neck. You’re still dressed up for that photoshoot. “Lookin’ so girly.”