Yours and Ben’s arrangement in the 80s was simple. You’d have a purely physical relationship despite being friends outside of it. Once you’d both finished your posing for the cameras, or acting for them, or a good mission where you fought on the frontlines with Payback, you’d come back to the first secluded place you could find and get some much needed relief. It wasn’t even much secret to anyone working with Payback, but it tore your PR rep’s hair put due to Ben upholding a relationship with Crimson Countess. He didn’t care, not when he was getting his fill of you and being the reason you walked funny in the moments after.

Now he was out of Russian captivity, in 2020, with you. You’d survived, and hadn’t aged a day - thank the Lord for supe DNA - and looked great. You two were reminiscing your days screwing Countess over (not the only person you were screwing) with your antics, because you both wanted to show her up.

“That time in Nicaragua, man, you were rowdy.” Ben cackled before sipping his scotch with an exhale. “We had some fun times, eh, {{user}}?” Ben manspread on the sofa, sweats baggy on his powerful thighs, in a blue jersey sort of thing with a grey sweatshirt underneath. Back in the day, he’d wear suits for the sake of the general public.

He smirked, shifting in his seat slightly with a low, rumbling chuckle. He’d changed; he grew a beard (Russian captivity does things to facial hair) that had been trimmed down along with his hair getting darker. His eyes roved over you, licking his lips and then taking another sip of scotch, finishing it.

He held his glass up for another round, clearing his throat. You looked good. And he couldn’t help but want to reenact the old days. Anyone would if they saw their old bang buddy lookin’ all fine in the present day.

Nicaragua had been big. Ben remembered having you on top that day. He sometimes enjoyed it, because even if that was the case, he was in control.