The Rolls was pinned in a glittering snarl of traffic on Eleventh Avenue. To the left, the Hudson lay black and flat beyond the chain-link fence, reflecting the orange smear of sodium lights. To the right, a row of glass-box luxury condos rose like lit aquariums, their lobbies glowing turquoise. A 24-hour bodega spilled harsh fluorescent light onto the sidewalk; its neon “OPEN” sign flickered pink, then white, then pink again. Across the street, a closed ramen shop had its steel gate half-down, graffiti curling over the metal like smoke.
Rain had started sometime after they left the studio, thin, cold needles that streaked the car windows and turned every headlight into a bleeding comet. Brake lights ahead bled the same red, endless, unmoving. A yellow cab idled beside them, driver half-asleep against the wheel. An Amazon Prime van blinked its hazards two cars up, boxes stacked high in back like pastel bricks.
Jordan catalogued every detail with desperate precision: the way the raindrops raced each other down the glass, the faint condensation forming at the edges of the window where the heater fought the November chill. Anything to keep his eyes from sliding sideways to the man sprawled in the opposite corner, legs wide open, chest rising and falling slow, skin still smelling of someone else.
They had been crawling through traffic for over an hour, and the silence inside the Rolls had teeth. Jordan’s mind kept sliding back to the moment everything ended: Ben’s roar still ringing in his skull, triumphant, shaking the rafters; the final thrust; the way Ezra’s body had convulsed beneath him.. Then, nothing. Just the sudden, stunned hush of the studio. Afterward, the crew had snapped into motion like a machine remembering its purpose. Lights powered down with soft electronic sighs. A P.A. scurried past with a spray bottle and a brush, blotting sweat from the mattress before it could stain. Another coiled cables with the bored efficiency of a fisherman coiling line after the catch of his life. Leo ejected the memory card from his camera like it was made of gold, cradling it in both hands as he carried it to Victor.
Victor himself was already on the platform,, eyes shining like a kid on Christmas. He threw his arms around a still-naked, still-sweaty Ben, his cock still half-hard, swinging heavy between his thighs, and hugged him so hard his feet left the ground for half a second. When he tried to spin him, actually tried to lift all two-hundred-sixty pounds of solid muscle and triumph, Ben didn’t budge an inch. Victor only laughed harder, wild, manic, the sound bouncing off the concrete like gunshots, slapping Ben’s back, shouting something Jordan couldn’t hear over the blood still pounding in his ears. Ben had laughed too, low, breathless, chest heaving, arms loose around Victor’s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world to be congratulated for wrecking another man.
“You’re my fucking idol, man,” Victor crowed, both hands clamped on Ben’s shoulders, shaking him with pure, delirious joy. “That shit on your first real scene? Fucking hell, you’re gonna break the internet. You were born to fuck ass, brother. Born for it.”
“He sure as hell was,” Ezra’s voice floated up, lazy and wrecked, from the mattress.
Ben and Victor turned. Ezra was still half-sprawled on the ruined sheets, legs trembling, cum cooling on his face and chest and stomach, a dazed, satisfied smile curving his swollen lips. Gideon stood over him, face dark, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone, one hand gripping Ezra’s elbow to haul him upright. Fury rolled off him in waves, but his touch on Ezra was careful, almost protective.
Ben’s grin faltered, the cocky edge slipping for the first time all evening.
“You okay there, man?” he asked, voice suddenly quieter, almost uncertain.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Ezra answered, waving Gideon off more than Ben, though his legs still trembled when he tried to stand. Then that trademark wicked smirk curved his lips again, lazy and sharp. “Just warn a guy next time you go full berserker, okay?”
Ben flinched, a second time, harder, the swagger draining from his shoulders. Before he could open his mouth, Gideon snapped, venom in every syllable, “There won’t be a next time. Not with any client of mine.”
Ben’s face tightened; something almost regretful flickered across it.
“Shit, man… sorry,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor. “Don’t know what got into me.”
Ezra laughed, still half-sprawled against Gideon for balance.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said, voice husky with satisfaction. “That’s exactly what I was looking for when I begged Gideon to find me new partners. Vic’s right; we’re gonna break the fucking internet when this drops.”
“Damn right you will,” Victor whooped, grabbing Ben’s shoulders again and giving him another exhilarated shake. “Where’s Jordan? We need to celebrate, champagne, the real deal, none of that cheap shit!”
Victor spun, scanning the warehouse with bright, drunken triumph, searching for the boyfriend he’d forgotten existed for the last hour. Ben didn’t search .His eyes went straight to Jordan, unerring, like he’d known exactly where he was the entire time, like he could have pointed to him blindfolded in the dark. The weight of that stare pinned Jordan to the wall.
Jordan flinched when his name left Victor’s mouth, a full-body jerk he couldn’t hide. For one dizzy second he’d started to believe he really had been erased, made invisible by the sheer gravity of Ben and Ezra fucking. Now it was like every head in the room swiveled toward him, and the sudden attention felt like a spotlight burning skin.
He was still there. They just hadn’t needed him until now.
Ben crossed the loft toward him, still naked, skin gleaming under the dying lights, every step radiating the loose, sated swagger of a man who had just conquered something and knew it. To Jordan he looked like a victorious warrior returning from the battlefield, blood-smeared and invincible.
Dread pooled cold and heavy in Jordan’s stomach. For one insane, heart-stopping second he was certain this was it, Ben would stop in front of him, eyes hard, and spit the words right there in front of the entire crew: We’re done. I don’t need you anymore. Jordan braced for the blow, breath trapped in his throat, every muscle locked. Then Ben smiled. Not the cocky smirk he’d worn for the cameras, not the victorious grin he’d given Victor; just a small, soft, familiar smile, the same one he used to give Jordan across the kitchen table during dinner. The one that said you’re home. He stepped in close, slid both big hands around Jordan’s waist like they still belonged there, and bent his knees just enough to bring their eyes level.
“Hey, baby,” he murmured, voice low, tender, thumbs tracing slow circles through Jordan’s shirt. “How you’re holding up?”
Jordan’s breath stuttered out of him in a sound that was half sob, half relief. A part of him hated how much he needed that smile. Hated that it still worked.
“F-fine,” Jordan managed to push past his teeth, the word cracking in half. Ben’s brows lifted a fraction, gentle, somewhat amused. Jordan cleared his throat. “Are you… uh… almost done here?”
Ben studied him for a long, quiet moment, that old, searching look that used to feel like home, the one that peeled Jordan open and read every secret written on the inside of his ribs.. Under it Jordan’s cheeks burned hotter, embarrassment flaring at his own stupid question. Are you almost done, as if Ben had been at the grocery store.
“Yep,” Ben said at last. “I’m done.”
He straightened, one hand still resting on Jordan’s waist.
“Victor wants to drag us out for fancy champagne, though.” A half-shrug, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Wanna celebrate?”
Jordan opened his mouth, already fumbling for an excuse, but Ben just laughed easily, the same laugh that once greeted him after a long day and made the world small again.
“Yeah, didn’t think so,” Ben murmured. “Me neither. Come on, let’s ditch ’em and go home.”
They fed Victor some polite lie about an early call time tomorrow. Victor’s face fell theatrically (“Come on, boys, just one glass!”), but five seconds later he was already spinning toward the crew, arms wide, shouting about bottle service at some rooftop in SoHo, the invitation to Ben and Jordan already forgotten. After that, Ben disappeared into the makeshift dressing room to pull his clothes back on. On the way he passed Leo and Dan, both still packing lenses, and both of the cameramen stopped him. “Fucking killer work, dude,” Leo said, clapping him on the back hard. “You nailed it, man. Literally,” Dan added with a grin, landing another solid slap between Ben’s shoulder blades. Two P.A.s materialized next, eyes shining like they’d just met their favorite K-pop idol.
“Yo, Big Ben, could you follow us back on Insta? Please?” Ben laughed and pulled out his phone.
When they drifted past Jordan waiting by the exit, both P.A.s flashed him huge, bright smiles, perfectly synchronized.
“Bye, Jordan! Nice meeting you!”, the words sweet, polite, and completely normal.
Jordan managed a nod that felt like lifting weights.
He felt as if he’d stepped through a mirror into some inverted, Bizarro world. Those same two P.A.s, the ones who’d been sneering, mouthing “cuck,” laughing at his tears not 10 minutes ago, were now all bright smiles and polite waves, like perfect little hosts at the end of a dinner party. Leo, who’d been rock-hard behind the lens while filming Ben wreck Ezra, was calmly curling a thick XLR cable, humming under his breath. The tattooed kid who was almost masturbating over his pants was over by craft services, stacking empty Red Bull cans into a neat pyramid with the bored efficiency of someone who’d done it a thousand times.
Everything looked… normal. Just a warehouse full of tired professionals breaking down lights, wrapping cables, wiping down the platform like it was any other job.
Jordan’s pulse stuttered. Had he imagined it all? The laughter, the cruelty, the way they’d watched him unravel like it was part of the show?He scanned the loft again, half-expecting to see the air still shimmering with the heat and filth of what had just happened, but the haze was gone. The stench of sex had already been swallowed by industrial fans. Someone had even opened a window; cold November air knifed through, carrying the faint smell of rain and the Hudson. Just a bunch of people ready to go home after a long shoot. Nothing more.
Jordan hugged his arms to his chest, suddenly freezing, and wondered if he was the only one still burning.
Gideon lingered ten feet away, arms crossed tight, the bruised ego still radiating off him like heat from asphalt. Ezra was nowhere to be seen, probably off to get his clothes too. When Gideon’s eyes flicked to Jordan’s, they locked for one brittle second before Gideon he his gaze away as if the contact burned. Jordan felt it again, that same scalding rush: the word Gideon had spat at him, you fucking cuck, echoing in his skull, tasting of copper and gasoline. It had humiliated him, yes, but it had also lit him up from the inside, a filthy, secret flare he couldn’t extinguish. Gideon remembered too. Jordan could see it in the stiff line of the agent’s shoulders, in the way he refused to look back. Jordan waited, breath shallow, to see what Gideon would do: pretend it never happened, or step closer and mutter an apology, or worse, lean in and say it again just to watch Jordan squirm.
He never found out. Ben’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder, warm and grounding. The second it did, Gideon slipped away into the shadows of cables and half-packed lights, disappearing like a man who’d decided some conversations weren’t worth having after all. Jordan exhaled, shaky, caught between relief and something that felt dangerously like disappointment.
“Guess what,” Ben said. “The Rolls is ours for the rest of the day. You think that fancy driver would have a heart attack if I asked him to hit a McDonald’s drive-thru?”
He laughed and Jordan laughed with him, and for one second it almost felt like before.
Almost.
The fancy driver, that they found out was called Barnaby (“Just Barnaby, sir”, he’d replied with the faintest flicker of amusement when Ben had asked, as if he was a character in Downton Abbey) didn’t bat an eye at the McNugget request. He simply nodded in the rear-view mirror, glided the Rolls into the right lane, and flicked on the indicator toward the next golden-arches glow three blocks ahead. Then they hit the wall of brake lights. Eleventh Avenue had turned into a parking lot: horns bleating, wipers flicking, rain smearing everything into red-and-gold streaks. Barnaby eased the car to a complete stop, shifted into park, and let the engine idle with aristocratic patience.
Ben peered out the window, sighed, and flopped back against the leather.
“Guess we’re not getting spicy sauce tonight,” he said, half-laughing. He drummed his fingers once on his thigh, then glanced at Jordan curled into the opposite corner. “Looks like it’s just you, me, and Barnaby for the foreseeable future.”
Outside, the rain thickened, drumming harder on the roof. Inside, the cabin felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier, the distance between them shrinking whether Jordan wanted it to or not. Ben entertained himself with his phone. Ben sprawled loose across the seat, legs wide, thumb flicking idly through his phone. Jordan’s stomach knotted with certainty: he was back to watch Ezra’s old solos, feeding the addiction that had swallowed him whole an hour ago. He risked a glance. The screen was full of Instagram reels: tiny kittens tumbling off couches in slow-motion, followed by a clip of some bearded lumberjack splitting firewood with a single swing of a massive axe, the log exploding into perfect halves. Ben’s mouth curved in a soft, stupid smile.
He looked… completely normal. Just the man Jordan had fallen in love with, big, warm, a little goofy, humming under his breath at a video of a kitten attacking its own tail. The ravenous, untamed beast who had roared and claimed another man like territory was gone, as if he’d never existed at all. As if Jordan had hallucinated the entire night.
How could he be so calm?
Jordan’s pulse still hammered in his throat, his skin still prickling with the phantom echo of every moan, every thrust, every second he’d watched his boyfriend become someone else entirely. The world felt tilted on a new axis, the ground cracked open beneath them, and Jordan was free-falling with no idea where they would land. Uncharted territory. Everything ahead was blank, terrifying, unknown. And Ben was stretched out like a man waiting for a red-eye flight, chuckling at kittens and lumberjacks, breathing slow and even, as if the evening had been a particularly good workout and nothing more.
How the fuck was he so chill?
Jordan hugged his knees tighter, nails digging into his palms, and stared at the rain streaking the glass while the question burned a hole straight through his chest. He felt like he was going to explode, pressure building behind his ribs, a scream clawing at the back of his throat. He twisted in the wide leather seat, searching for any position that didn’t feel like sitting on broken glass. He dragged both feet up onto the bench, knees to chest, arms locked around them; held it for three shaky breaths, then dropped his feet back to the carpeted floor with a thud. A minute later he crossed his legs tight, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee, then immediately uncrossed them, switched sides, crossed again, every small movement loud in the hushed cabin, every shift screaming I’m not okay while Ben kept scrolling without looking up.
“You’re fidgety,” Ben said, distracted, eyes still on his screen.
“Yeah, sorry. Just wanna get home soon,” Jordan muttered.
Something in the brittle edge of his voice must have cut through the haze. Ben’s gaze lifted, slow, searching. “You okay, babe?”
“Of course,” Jordan answered, too fast, the words tripping over themselves.
Ben’s brow creased; he caught it, the lie, the tremor. One eyebrow rose, puzzled, mouth already forming the next question, and then his phone pinged, bright and sharp. He glanced down automatically, thumb hovering, and the moment slipped away like water through fingers.
Ben let out a low, amused chuckle. “Damn, these guys don’t waste time.”
He tilted the phone toward Jordan so he could see.
The email was from [email protected]. Subject line: Big Ben x Ezra - Teaser Ready!
Melissa, apparently head of marketing at Gideon’s studio, had written in breathless, effusive paragraphs: how Ben’s debut had “absolutely shattered every expectation,” how the raw energy was “career-defining,” how the entire team was still buzzing. Then the ask: they’d cut a small teaser for Ezra’s millions of followers and wanted to know if “Ben or his team” could post it to @BigBenBear anytime after 9 p.m. tonight. Cross-promotion gold. Attached was a video file: TEASER_BIGBEN_x_EZRA_FINAL.4K.
Jordan’s stomach dropped straight through the floor of the Rolls. Without thinking, his finger darted out and tapped the attachment before Ben could.The video buffered for two agonizing seconds, then exploded at full volume: Ezra’s shattered moans and Ben’s guttural growls filling the cabin like a physical force. Jordan jolted, heart slamming against his ribs. He fumbled, thumb smashing the side-button to silence it, the sudden quiet louder than the noise had been.
His eyes snapped to the black privacy glass. Holy fuck. Had Barnaby heard that?
Ben just laughed, unbothered, the sound rolling out of him like he hadn’t a care in the world.
“If you’d waited two seconds I would’ve told you to turn it down,” he said, eyes dancing with amusement.
Jordan shot him a scowl that could’ve curdled milk. He thumbed the volume down to a safe whisper, something that wouldn’t announce to poor Barnaby that the backseat had turned into a private screening room, before he tapped play again.
The tease had only thity seconds. It opened on Ben, sweat-slick, Aviators flashing under the lights, slamming his palm into Gideon’s shoulder. Gideon’s face was a smeared pixel blur, but the violence was unmistakable: body airborne, crashing into the C-stand, metal erupting in glittering slow-motion chaos. Cut to black. White text bled in, stark and huge: EZRA JOHNSON. BIG BEN. Then one merciless heartbeat of Ezra’s face in ecstasy ,mouth slack, eyes rolled white, tears shining, while Ben’s torso snapped forward again and again from behind, relentless. REAL SEX. NO SCRIPT. THIS SATURDAY. The screen snapped to black on the raw, overlapping soundtrack: Ezra’s broken, worshipful sobs braided with Ben’s primal growls.
Silence rushed back into the Rolls like floodwater.
Jordan sat frozen, phone still tilted between them, the ghost of those sounds still vibrating in his teeth, growls and sobs echoing in his skull. His jaw actually slackened. He never thought, not in a million years, that Gideon, with all his righteous fury and threats of cops, would let the moment Ben lost control and physically shoved him stay in the final cut.
“Holy shit,” he whispered. “I can’t believe they’re using that.”
Ben snorted, soft and unsurprised. “I can. Guy’s a fucking shark. And you heard Victor: that shit was golden.”
Jordan handed the phone back to Ben and turned to the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. Outside, Eleventh Avenue sat motionless, a river of metal turned suddenly to stone. A lone cyclist in a neon vest darted between cars, headlamp cutting a thin white path. The same cab from earlier was still by their side and that poor driver probably had fallen asleep by now. A billboard for some luxury watch flickered overhead, the model’s perfect smile frozen in gold. Jordan’s cock was hardening again, swelling thick and insistent against his underwear.
He wasn’t even surprised. Not after how painfully hard he’d been the entire shoot, every thrust and moan driving another spike of blood south until he’d thought he might pass out. He had the worst case of blue balls in his entire life, a hot, throbbing ache that had eased for a while, but now, just those few seconds of Ezra’s broken moans and Ben’s snarls echoing from the phone were enough to set him burning all over again, heat pooling low, unforgiving, shameful.
Jordan wanted to talk about it so badly the words clawed at his throat. He wanted to ask everything: how it felt, how Ezra felt, why Ben had lost control like that, if Ezra was really that good, if that was the reason Ben had turned into someone Jordan didn’t recognize. He had to know. He’d watched Ben go insane with lust; he deserved the truth.
Just ask him, a voice whispered inside his skull, sharp and insistent. It’s Ben. There’s never been anything you couldn’t say to him. Jordan swallowed. All he had to do was open his mouth: So, Benny… They were trapped in this car for God knew how long, rain drumming, traffic frozen solid. At this rate he would lose his mind long before they saw their apartment.
He turned his head, just an inch, eyes fixed on Ben’s profile. The question burned on his tongue, white-hot… then the Rolls lurched forward a full car length. Jordan almost gasped. See? Shut up. You’re better off not knowing. He was halfway to convincing himself when the car braked again, hard, and settled back into the same motionless red glow.
Dead stop.
Fuck.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
“Ben,” Jordan said, the name scraping out raw and cracked, “can I ask you something?”
The words slipped out before he could choke them back, before he could stuff them down into the dark where they belonged.
Ben’s thumb paused mid-scroll. He glanced up, the soft blue glow of the screen still painting the beard and the lenses of his glasses. “Sure, what’s up?”
Jordan’s mouth went dry. The cabin felt suddenly airless, the rain drumming harder on the roof, sealing them in.
Just spit it out, for fuck’s sake.
“How…” Jordan’s voice cracked like thin ice. He forced the rest out, eyes locked on his own knees, the denim creased and trembling under his clenched fingers. “How was it?”
He swallowed, the sound loud in the sealed cabin that there was no way Ben missed.
“You know.” The words scraped his throat. “Fucking Ezra.”
Silence.
It stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the steady slap of rain against glass. Jordan felt Ben’s gaze shift slowly, deliberate, suddenly heavy as a hand on the back of his neck.
“Uh…” Ben’s voice dropped, curious in a way that made Jordan’s stomach knot tighter. He set the phone face-down on the seat between them. “What do you wanna know, exactly?”
Jordan shrugged, the motion jerky, almost violent, like his shoulders were trying to shake the question off his skin.
“Just… how it was.” His voice cracked hard on the last word. “You know.”
Ben didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch until Jordan’s pulse was a frantic drumline in his ears, until the rain sounded like static trying to drown him out. When Ben finally spoke, his voice was careful, the same tone he once used when he was coaxing a barely awake Jordan out of a nightmare at three in the morning.
“It was… good, Jord.” A soft exhale. “The guy’s a pro. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“Yeah?” The word scraped out of Jordan’s mouth, rough as sandpaper, barely audible over the rain.
“Yeah, babe.” Ben’s reply came gentle, almost fond, followed by a soft huff of laughter that carried no edge, no mockery, just a low, stunned wonder. He shifted in the seat, the leather creaking under his weight. “I mean… you were there. You saw how I lost it.”
Jordan swallowed hard, the motion hurting all the way down.
“Wh-what was that about?” he managed.
Ben exhaled through his nose, like he was tasting the memory. He dragged one huge palm down over his beard, the rasp loud in the tight cabin of the car.
“Shit, I don’t even know.” His voice dropped even lower, very private now. “I mean, yeah, he’s that good. Fuck, more than good. But to be honest…” He paused, eyes drifting to the rain-streaked glass, watching the city bleed past in red and gold smears. “Wasn’t really about him.”
Another beat. The Rolls inched forward half a car length and stopped again.
“Same thing happened during the livestream, remember?” Ben said, softer now, almost wondering. “It’s like… something just switches.” He lifted one shoulder, let it fall, the motion heavy with confession. “Cameras on, people watching, and I turn into someone else. Can’t stop. Don’t want to stop.” His gaze flicked back to Jordan, steady behind the lenses. “No idea why.”
He said it like he was confessing to a crime he didn’t regret committing, voice low, almost reverent, the way a man might admit he’d kill again if the moment came. Jordan stared at his own reflection in the dark window, pale, a ghost pressed against the glass. He didn’t know if that was bad or good. Maybe good? Because if it wasn’t really about Ezra, iif it was the cameras, the eyes, the thousands of strangers watching, then it wasn’t about Jordan either. Wasn’t about Jordan not being enough, not being tight enough, hot enough, filthy enough. What they had in the dark of their loft, the slow mornings, the lazy Sundays afternoons when Ben used to kiss him like he was something precious… that was still theirs. Private. Unfilmed. Unshared. Not sliced up and sold to every pervert with twenty bucks and a hard-on. That sex had never been porn.
It had been love.
But then the thought twisted, sharp and vicious, the way a hook catches flesh and won’t let go. Shouldn’t he have that part of Ben too? That snarling, unstoppable animal who took what he wanted, who didn’t ask, didn’t gentle, didn’t treat the body under him like something breakable. The Ben who had pinned Ezra down and fucked him like the world was burning and the only thing keeping him alive was the clench of that greedy hole. The Ben who had roared, who had marked, who had looked almost cruel in his pleasure.
That Ben belonged to strangers now. To Ezra. To every faceless screen that would watch the clip on loop and jerk off to the moment Ben lost his mind.
Jordan’s stomach lurched, hot and cold at once.
The idea sounded so fucking hot he could feel it in his cock, a sudden, treacherous throb against his zipper. Being taken like that. Used like that. Not kissed awake on quick morning before work, not cradled like something precious, but bent over and split open and ruined, just a hole for that monster cock to empty into while Ben growled filthy things against his neck. No tenderness. No love. Just raw, brutal need. He pictured it for one dizzy second: Ben’s huge hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back; the slap of that big gut against his ass; the stretch, the burn, the way Ben would slam home and not stop, not ever, until Jordan was sobbing the same broken, worshipful sounds Ezra had made.
Would he like it?
Would he survive it?
Or would he finally understand, in the most humiliating way possible, why Ben had never turned that side of himself loose on the man he claimed to love?
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