The video dropped at 9:00 p.m. on a Saturday, and by sunrise Sunday the internet had a new religion. Within twelve hours Ben and Ezra were trending on every gay corner worldwide: TikTok stitches, Twitter timelines, Instagram stories. The thirty-second teaser alone racked thirty-two million views before lunchtime. The full scene crashed two of the biggest gay tube sites in the first hour; people were screen-recording and re-uploading faster than the DMCA bots could breathe.
The comments weren’t just thirsty; they were devotional. @BearBait posted the teaser with the caption “I need to speak to the manager because this can’t be legal” and it instantly hit 12k likes. @ThroatGoat_92 quote-tweeted: “finally a top who fucks like he hates you (and you thank him for it)”, and @yourhungtop replied to that: “fuck yeah man this big ben dude just ended every other porn career.” @PowerBttmATL screenshoted the money-shot frame: “ezra’s soul left his body at 18:41 and i felt it in real time.” and @DaddyIssuesSF simply wrote: “this is the gay second coming and i’m ready to be saved”, which Big Ben himself retweeted to his feed.
By Monday morning Ben’s follower count had blown past 150 thousand, almost entirely gay and bi men and every other label under the sun, but even a few dozens of women who loved some man on man action. His OnlyFans subscriber number shattered 1,100, each paying at least ten dollars a month, which meant ten grand guaranteed by the end of the billing cycle, more than he ever cleared in his best month as an electrician. Tips from the Ezra collab alone topped twenty-four thousand in forty-eight hours. The name Big Ben trended in every gay space for three straight days.
The collab requests poured in like a flood after a dam break, each one wilder than the last. Alejo Ospina, the Colombian bombshell with almost 2 million followers, slid into Ben’s DMs with a shirtless mirror selfie and a single line telling all Ben needed to do was name the day and the place. @TenInchTopX, hung daddy with a cult following, proposed a tag-team destruction scene. The Bryant Twins , two identical, gym-carved blondes famous for their “double trouble” videos, pitched a Christmas-themed shoot: Ben as a ruthless Santa in a toy-factory warehouse, punishing two very naughty elves who’d been slacking on production. They even attached an AI concept art of Ben in a red velvet harness, beard dusted white, holding a candy-cane striped paddle.
The civilians were just as bolder. Every hour brought fresh hole pics: smooth, hairy, shaved, pierced, inked, spread wide in bathroom mirrors, gym locker rooms, expensive hotel sheets. Captions ranged from polite, “Your cock would be the best Christmas gift I ever got” to desperate, “Please come wreck my boyfriend while I film, sir, I’ll pay whatever you want”. One guy claiming to be an Arab oil prince went full cartoon villain: private jet at Teterboro, mid-flight breeding over the Alps, “clouds beneath us, my pilot discreet. but you’ll be the bottom”. Ben laughed, showed Jordan the message, and replied with a single middle finger emoji. Another, handle just a random name followers by a bunch of numbers, was more buttoned-up: iron-clad NDA, a weekend at a “senior administration official’s” Virginia estate after Congress recessed, black car pickup, five figures wired upfront, “discretion assured.”
Then, the dam broke. OnlyFans’ official account , the blue-check holy grail itself, tweeted a rare congratulatory post Sunday morning: ““Welcome to the family, @BigBenBear. You and @TakenByEzra just rewrote the record books.”. Twitter Analytics confirmed that, for a solid four-hour stretch on Sunday, no account on the entire platform, celebrity, politician, brand, nobody, gained followers faster than @BigBenBear. By the last day of November, PopPulse, the 8-million-follower pop-culture juggernaut that usually only tweeted about Taylor Swift and Marvel, dropped a rare adult-content nod: “@BigBenBear has officially hit 250k followers in record time. His debut scene with @TakenByEzra is now the most successful gay collab in OnlyFans history.” The tweet racked 200 thousand likes.
December arrived like a slow, glittering exhale. The cold sharpened overnight; every morning the Hudson woke under a thicker skin of frost, and by the end of the first week, the first real snow began to fall: fat, lazy flakes that stuck to the fire escapes and turned the loft’s windows iinto soft white lanterns. Chelsea transformed into a full-blown holiday fever dream: the florist on Eighth strung pine garlands thick as boas, the bodega on the corner swapped its usual salsa for Bing Crosby on loop, and the little indie bookstore on 20th became a gingerbread chalet with fairy lights dripping from everywhere. Even the grumpiest baristas started wearing elf hats. Christmas songs were inescapable; you couldn’t walk ten feet without “All I Want for Christmas Is You” chasing you down the block like a lovesick ex.
That month, Ben insisted on covering rent. He wired the money to their landlord from his phone while Jordan watched, quiet, the little green “transfer successful” banner flashing like a golden trophy.. Ben’s shoulders were squared, chest high, the old pride back in the set of his jaw. No hesitation, no shame. Jordan didn’t argue. He just smiled and let him. Afterward they spent the entire afternoon turning the loft into Christmas. A seven-foot Fraser fir crowded the living room corner, its pine scent thick and city snow drifting together through the cracked window. They strung fairy lights along every beam and windowsill until the whole place glowed soft gold, hung a fat pine wreath on the door, scattered candles that smelled like cinnamon and smoke. Every time one of them reached high to pin another strand of lights, the other stole a cocoa-tasting kiss, until the tree was half-dressed and they were breathless and laughing on the rug.
Jordan watched Ben wrestle with a stubborn string of bulbs, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration, and felt something in his chest unclench he hadn’t realized was knotted. This was why. This proud, steady man who paid their rent without blinking, who could still blush when Jordan kissed cocoa from his lip, this was the reason for every sleepless night, every jealous tear, every humiliating, throbbing second in that studio. To bring Ben back. Not the hollow shell who’d shuffled around the loft in oversized hoodies, scared of his own reflection. The Ezra collab had overwhelmed them both, the numbers that still felt impossible, a world that had stopped to watch Ben fuck like a god, but seeing him like this, humming off-key to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” while he wrestled the star onto the top of the tree, made every second of it worth it.
That evening in the back of the Rolls Royce still burned in the back of Jordan’s mind, a low, persistent ember he couldn’t quite smother. He tried to lock it away, to chalk it up to shock, to the surreal haze of watching Ben become someone else under those lights. A one-time hallucination born of too much adrenaline and too little sleep. But the memory refused to stay buried. It crept in at the edges of every quiet moment: the slick heat of Ben’s fist, the filthy promises growled against his ear, the way he’d sobbed and begged and come harder than he ever had in his life while Ben painted a future where other men spread for him and Jordan watched, aching, grateful, destroyed.
They hadn’t talked about it. Not once. Not the words, not the tears, not the way Jordan had shattered in Ben’s arms and begged for more. It would have to happen eventually. Jordan knew that the way he knew the snow would melt and spring would come. They would have to sit down, look each other in the eye, and decide what that night had really meant: a momentary kink sparked by the insanity of the shoot, or something deeper, something that had always lived quietly in the dark between them and only needed the right fire to roar to life.
But not yet. For now, the tree lights glowed, Ben hummed off-key to Mariah Carey in the kitchen, and Jordan let the silence hold. Some truths were still too big to speak aloud under Christmas lights.
December also brought a storm of work for Jordan.
At Harrison & Hale the end-of-year chaos was an annual ritual: collectors panic-buying for tax write-offs, galleries dumping inventory, and every wealthy divorcée on the Eastern Seaboard suddenly deciding December was the perfect month to sell the Basquiat she’d been hiding from her ex. Phones rang off the hook, provenance files multiplied like gremlins, and Jordan spent a lot of his nights on red-eye calls to Zurich or Hong Kong just to keep a single painting from slipping through the cracks.
What was unexpected was the second full-time job that landed on his desk the same week: managing Ben’s exploding OnlyFans empire.
It made sense on paper. Jordan already handled their household finances, taxes, investments because, well, Ben was really bad at math. So Jordan became the de facto business manager: setting up an LLC, opening a separate business account and filing quarterly estimated taxes. Every morning he woke to a new avalanche: request for collabs, some sketchy crypto token that wanted to “immortalize Big Ben on the blockchain,” and at least three marriage proposals before coffee. He built spreadsheets color-coded by revenue stream, set up auto-responses for the inevitable “will you breed me, daddy?” messages, and learned more than he ever wanted about payment-processor fees for adult content.
That was exactly what Jordan was doing that Thursday night.
Ben had vanished hours earlier with a secretive grin and a stern “No following me; Christmas surprises, babe,” leaving Jordan alone in the loft with strict orders to stay put. So he’d settled at the dining table, the one they rarely used for actual dining anymore, surrounded by the soft glow of the tree and the low hum of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” on repeat.
A half-empty mug of coffee sat beside him, long gone cold. The laptop screen cast a harsh blue-white light over scattered printouts: revenue spreadsheets, 1099 forms and a legal pad covered in frantic scribbles. He’d been grinding for hours, finally making headway after being stuck for nearly sixty minutes on a single discrepancy that refused to balance. The numbers mocked him, off by a maddening $842,63 no matter how many times he ran the reconciliation. He’d recounted, re-categorized, sworn under his breath, refreshed the bank feed twice. Nothing. Frustration had climbed so high he was ready to hurl the entire laptop out the window into the snow. Then, on the hundredth double-take, it hit him. He wasn’t looking at the Harrison & Hale client escrow account. He was staring at the spreadsheet he’d built for Ben’s OnlyFans. The missing $842.63 wasn’t a firm error; it was last week’s tips from some of Ben’s solo videos.
When the front door clicked open, Jordan blinked up from the laptop for what felt like the first time in hours, eyes dry and stinging. Ben stepped in, snowflakes melting in his beard, cheeks flushed red from the cold, and wearing a new bomber jacket (black leather, thick shearling collar) that made him look like he’d walked off a movie poster. He was carrying so many glossy shopping bags the handles cut white lines into his forearms.
Jordan’s brows shot up.
Ben’s grin faltered the second he spotted Jordan hunched over the table, surrounded by spreadsheets and cold coffee. “Don’t tell me you’ve been doing that the whole time I was gone, Jord,” he said, half-scolding, half-worried.
He crossed the room in three long strides, dumped the mountain of bags on the table, took off his jacket and leaned down to kiss Jordan hello.
Jordan shrugged, nodding at the bags. “You robbed Santa or something? Who are all those for?”
Ben’s smile came back full force, sheepish and proud at once. “More than half are for you,” he said, tapping one glossy black bag with a discreet gold logo. “But I got stuff for your parents, for Walt, for Derek… and yeah, maybe a couple things for myself too.”
Jordan peered into the bags and felt his stomach dip.
Apple, Hermés, Rolex… even a simple Old Navy bag that somehow looked expensive just because it was next to the others. Ben must have spent a fortune.
“What? Come on, you better not have spent all that money on me, Ben.”
“’Course I did,” Ben answered, matter-of-fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Gonna spend even more on my boyfriend from now on.”
He said it with the same easy certainty he used to say “pass the salt” like spoiling Jordan was a new law of physics he’d just discovered and planned to obey religiously. Jordan rolled his eyes, but bit his tongue.
Things were still new for Ben. New money, new power, new proof he could take care of the people he loved. Let him have his moment in the sun, let him feel ten feet tall dropping bags on the table like a hunter bringing home the kill. There would be time later for lectures on fiscal responsibility and why you don’t blow five figures on Christmas when the tax man cometh in April. For now Jordan just reached over, hooked a finger in Ben’s shirt, and tugged him down for a kiss that tasted like cold air and victory.
“Idiot,” he muttered against Ben’s lips, bursting with love
Ben’s grin was all teeth. “Your idiot. And I’m just gettin’ started.”
Ben snatched Jordan’s forgotten mug, took a dramatic swig, and immediately gagged like he’d swallowed dishwater. “Ergh, cold. Enough working, Mr. Businessman. Time for food.”
Jordan opened his mouth to protest (there were still three spreadsheets waiting), but the words died when Ben’s huge hands slid under his thighs and lifted him clean out of the chair like he weighed nothing at all. Jordan yelped, half-laughing, and looped his arms around Ben’s neck on reflex. Jordan rolled his eyes, but the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. He let his head rest against Ben’s shoulder for a second, breathing in the faint scent of snow, and allowed himself to be carried. God, he’d missed this: the easy strength, the playful bossiness, the old banter that used to fill the loft before everything got heavy.
On the way he snuck a hand under Ben’s tank, palm sliding over the hard swell of a pec that definitely hadn’t been that big a month ago. His fingers traced the ridge, testing, greedy.
“Jesus, when did these get so huge?” he muttered, squeezing once for emphasis.
Ben’s laugh rumbled under his ear, proud and smug. “Told you I’ve been puttin’ in work. Like ‘em?”
Jordan answered by digging his nails in just enough to make Ben hiss, then soothing the sting with a slow circle of his thumb. They both knew the answer.
They were halfway through dinner, slow-roasted pork shoulder with rosemary and garlic and crispy Brussels sprouts, when Jordan’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it, ready to silence it, then froze.
Nolan Montgomery.
Guilt hit him like a slap.
His cousin. Eighteen, freshly out, sharp-tongued and soft-hearted, had been texting for days, sending Jordan a string of polite little check-in like “hey cuz how’s the city treatin u?”, and “u still alive up there or nah??” and then “evrythin ok??”
Jordan had seen every one and let them sit unanswered, swallowed by the avalanche of Ben’s sudden orbit. Nolan’s life had gone sideways last month: Aunt Theresa had taken the news of his sexuality with tearful hugs and immediate redecoration of his bedroom in rainbows, but Uncle Nick had reacted with cold distance, slammed doors, and a lot of charge silences. Nothing violent, just a slow freeze that left Nolan sleeping on friends’ couches more often than at home. Jordan had promised Aunt Theresa he’d be there for Nolan, the cool older gay cousin in New York, the safe harbor. And then he’d vanished into spreadsheets, viral clips, and the surreal new reality of managing a boyfriend who’d become minor gay royalty overnight.
He stared at the newest message, thumb hovering.
“wtf why u ignoring me?”
He winced, guilt punching him square in the chest. Feeling like a complete asshole, he typed fast:
“Sorry, cousin, I promise I’m not. Things have been insane over here. What’s up? Everything okay?”
He hit send at the exact same second, a low, impressed whistle slid out of Ben’s lips. Jordan glanced up. Ben was staring at his own phone, eyebrows raised, that slow, wicked grin creeping across his beard again.
Jordan’s stomach flipped.
“What?” he asked.
Ben’s grin was pure, unfiltered swagger when he slid the phone across the table.
“Guess who wants to collab with Big Ben, babe.”
Jordan frowned, puzzled, and took the phone. Twitter DM, open and glowing.
@DanteMontoyaXXX
Yo Big Ben, what’s good, man? Straight up: I’ve decided to finally pop my on-camera cherry and I want YOU to be the one to do it. Full disclosure, I’ve bottomed IRL plenty, but never on film. Engagement’s been flatlining lately and I need to shake shit up. Figured, what better cock to take my “first” than the one that absolutely demolished Ezra Johnson, you know? I’m in NYC soon for a couple days. Hit me back if you wanna link and talk details, bro.
Jordan’s stomach did a slow, dizzy roll that was half thrill, half dread, while Ben sat there looking like he’d just been handed the keys to a new truck. Jordan hadn’t heard of any Dante Montoya, so he thumbed open Twitter on his own phone and punched in the handle.
940k followers, blue check, banner photo of him shirtless on a balcony, sun hitting all that bronzed, hairy muscle just right. Cuban, Miami-based, built like a linebacker who’d decided to live in the gym: thick pecs, heavy arms sleeved in ink, abs you could grate plantains on, and a fat, veiny cock that wouldn’t look small next to Ben’s. Jordan scrolled for a while. Dante’s whole persona screamed macho: gym mirror flexes with captions like “chest day = happy day,” football Sunday thirst traps in nothing but a jock and a backward cap, clips of him barking orders at bottoms while he railed them senseless. Pure top energy, zero exceptions. Not a single scene where he bent over. The guy had built an empire on being the guy who fucked, never the one who got fucked.
Until now.
“Well?” Ben asked, voice amused.
Jordan swallowed. His throat went dry. He glanced up. Ben was watching him, that cocky half-smirk still in place, waiting for the reaction. Jordan handed the phone back, slow, like it might burn him.
“He’s… never bottomed on camera.”
Ben’s grin sharpened, all teeth.
“Not yet.”, Ben answered, voice almost dangerous. “What does my agent say?”
Jordan set his own phone down like it was hot. It buzzed two times again, probably Nolan answering his text, but his cousin would have to wait. As Ben’s manager, the math was brutally simple. Dante Montoya was a phenomenon on the same tier as Ezra: different lane, same altitude. Nine hundred forty thousand followers who worshipped him as the ultimate macho Latin top. Giving him his on-camera bottoming cherry to Ben would be seismic: the follow-up punch to the Ezra knockout, proof Ben wasn’t just a one-trick bear who wrecked pretty twinks. It would brand him as the versatile powerhouse who could flip the script on even the most dominant guys in the game. The clip would break the internet again. The money would be stupid.
As Ben’s boyfriend, though…
Jordan’s stomach knotted so hard it hurt.
He pictured it with perfect, unwanted clarity: Dante’s thick, hairy thighs spread wide, that macho swagger stripped away, voice cracking as Ben sank in slow. Dante looking up at Ben the way Ezra had, worshipful, ruined, grateful, while Ben wore the exact same triumphant grin he used to save for Jordan alone.
He swallowed.
“It’s a smart move,” he said finally, the words tasting like rust. “Career-wise, it’s huge. Sets you apart. Shows you’re not just… one type of top.”
Ben’s eyes searched his face, sharp behind the glasses, reading every flicker Jordan couldn’t hide. “But…? ” he asked quietly.
Jordan met his gaze, chest tight. Ben’s eyes searched his face, sharp behind the glasses, reading every flicker Jordan couldn’t hide.
“But… I don’t know.” He forced a laugh that cracked halfway through. “I guess I hadn’t realized you’d be fucking other guys after Ezra so soon.”
“You think it’s soon?”
Jordan shrugged.
“Shouldn’t we… seize the moment?”, said Ben. “I’m hot shit right now, but this thing changes overnight. Maybe I should make as much money as I can while they still love me, you know?”
“Yeah, but it was never really about the money, Ben. Remember that? It was about you.”
“Look, babe,” Ben said, softer now, leaning forward so their knees touched under the table, “sure, it started like that… but come on, things have changed. You know that. The money… fuck, it’s really good, Jord. I never had cash like this. You know that too. It could change my life. Our lives.”
“I get that…”
“Do you want me to stop, babe?” Ben asked, voice suddenly serious.
The question hung between them, heavy as the snow piling up outside. Jordan opened his mouth. Closed it. He thought of the bags on the table, of the way Ben’s eyes had lit up wiring rent money without blinking. He thought of Dante Montoya’s DM, of the next offer, and the one after that, and the one after that. For one dizzy second the words were right there: yes, stop, please, let’s pretend none of this ever happened, but they tasted like a lie even before they reached his tongue.
He thought of the roar in the loft, of Ben’s cock buried in Ezra while Jordan watched from the dark, hard, forgotten. Of the backseat of the Rolls Royce, Ben’s hand on his cock, Ben’s lips forming the most filthy promises. He thought of how fucking good it felt to be on his knees in his own head while Ben became a god for strangers.
He thought of the word cuck still ringing in his ears like a bell that wouldn’t stop.
And he thought, with a sick, electric jolt straight to his cock: I don’t want him to stop. I want it more. I want it worse. Shame flooded in right behind it, hot and humiliating, but it only made the throb between his legs sharper.
“No,” he said at last. “Don’t stop. You’re right. You’re… you’re hot right now. Ride it while it lasts.”
Ben’s shoulders eased, just a fraction. He studied him for a long, quiet beat, hazel eyes steady and piercing behind the lenses, as if he could read every filthy, unsaid confession flickering across Jordan’s face like subtitles. Then he nodded, something dark and satisfied flickering across his expression.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Then we ride.”
Ben smiled, reached over, and squeezed Jordan’s knee. Jordan smiled back, shaky, and let the lie sit there between them like a loaded gun.
Inside, the truth burned brighter than the tree lights: he didn’t just want Ben to keep going.
He needed it.
And he hated how much he needed it.
To prove to Ben he wasn’t second-guessing anything, Jordan picked up his phone, opened Twitter on the @BigBenAgent account he’d created the week he officially became “management,” and fired off a DM to Dante Montoya, saying he and Ben had talked it over and were willing to talk logistics via Zoom call. He hit send before the doubt could crawl back in, then turned the screen so Ben could see. Ben’s grin came back full force, proud, like Jordan had jus t handed him the moon.
The tension from Dante’s message dissolved as easily as it had arrived. They slipped back into the easy mood from earlier like shrugging on an old, favorite jacket: Ben hip-checked Jordan away from the sink so he could wash the dishes, Jordan stole bites of pork straight from the pan just to make Ben laugh and threaten to spank him with the spatula, and somewhere between the clatter of plates and the low hum of the dishwasher they were them again. Later, sprawled on the couch under the glow of the tree lights, Ben dragged a few bags into his lap like a kid who couldn’t wait another second.
“Look what I got your dad,” he said, pulling out a bottle of Macallan 18 wrapped in gold foil. “Figured he’d appreciate the good stuff.”
Jordan whistled low. “He’s gonna cry. In a very manly way.”
“Your mom,” Ben continued, producing a sleek camel-colored leather tote from Loro Piana, butter-soft and understated in the way only five-figure bags can be. “The woman at the store told me ‘if he doesn’t marry you, his mother will’”
Jordan just shook his head, smiling.
“And Derek gets a new iPhone, because the fucker’s still rocking a cracked 11 like it’s 2021.”
Jordan tried to peek through the Hermés bag, but Ben slapped a hand over his eyes.
“Nope. Your gifts stay secret till Christmas morning, you little gremlin.”
Jordan laughed, tackled him sideways into the cushions, and kissed the protest right out of him until they were breathless and tangled under the tree lights, snow ticking softly against the windows, the city quiet for once.
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