#ben mears

„Yes, the erotica I made the class write, you remember? Are you sure you are alright?“

„Ah yes, the erotica, of course, how could I forget. Just a little tired; it's quite late.” You press your lips together, shifting from one foot to the other. Even though it is the middle of November, your face becomes increasingly hotter and hotter.

„If you want to, we can postpone this to another time.”

​„No no please not, it's fine, really. So, Professor, what exactly do you want to discuss?”

„Please have a seat.” You look around; the room is basically empty except for his old, heavy desk and the chair he currently rolled back with, patting his hand on his knee. „Come here, I won’t bite.”

It's not like you have a choice, so you walk over to him, eyes fixed on the floor. The corduroy fabric of his pants tingles the sensitive skin of your thighs. You press your own knees together, settling on the edge of his, but apparently he has other plans.

His big hand shoots to the side of your hip. „That doesn't seem comfortable. Here, let me help you.” With a dedicated pull, his upper body is flush to your back, and the chair rolls forward, the light pressure of the desk is almost grounding.

He reaches forward, holding up a piece of paper. „I want you to read the highlighted parts out loud. Think you can do that for me?”

That's it? He wants you to read aloud?

„He put his lips on her neck, placing a couple of kisses on the skin there.” You swallow hard, now that you hear it, it sounds even worse.

„Professor, I just want you to know, I’m not that experienced with stuff like that. Sure, I had some, but they weren’t that great.”

„That's what I’m here for, to teach you.” Suddenly, there are the ghosts of two of his fingers at the end of your hair. „Once more.”

„He put his lips on her neck,” you jolt in your spot as Professor Mears' lips tenderly graze over the soft skin behind your ear, whispering low and deep. „What did that make you feel?”

„I- I don’t know, good?” A hum is all he offers before repeating the movement, you jolt again while trying to keep focus.

„I feel goosebumps and a shiver in my neck?”

„Excellent, go on.” No, that, he is not going to guide you through all of it, right?

„Placing a couple, a couple of kisses on the skin there.” Your eyes flutter, and your body practically melts, his lips soft, as if they are covered in honey. „Are you feeling good again?” The smile and the huffed chuckle pull you out of it, back to reality. „Sir, I don’t think that is an appropriate way to, learn.”

„That is such a shame. You are my most excellent student, you don’t want me to let you fail this class, do you?”

„Of course not, Professor!”

„Then hold still and let me teach you properly, so that you will never forget feeling ever again.” You swallow hard, trapped like a mouse in a cage, but since you are already here, why not get the cheese? „Yes, sir.”

„Tell me what it made you feel?”

„It felt as if my body could finally let go, my mind shutting down for a second. Only the sensation present, nothing else.”

„Now I want you to put it all together. Think my smart girl can do that?”

„Yes, professor.” With a deep inhale, the words come together and turn into a scene you would never dare to show anyone outside of this room. With a feather-like tenderness, he brings his lips close to the sensitive skin of her neck. The brush, the slight breath sending a pleasant shiver through her body, her enjoyment revealed with a single movement of her hips. The kisses he then places, letting her body lose all of its restraint.“

„Mmh, there she is, next paragraph."

„His fingers coming up her upper legs, then to a stop on her waist.”

„A simple sentence that gets the job done, or does it?” Fast and lazy, his hands only slightly wander up your thighs, unsatisfying to say the least, his hold on your waist loose.

„I think you can do better than that. Want to give it a try?” Well, if you want to pass his class, you don’t have a choice. Your fingers clung to the paper in hopes it would steady you for what is about to come.

„The tips of his fingers glide up her inner thighs, gentle yet firm; he knows exactly what he is aiming for as they come to a tight hold around her waist.” You squeak in his hold, your legs trembling, Professor Mears not caring one bit. His body relaxed in a stark contrast to yours. One hand lets go of you, with the press of your lips, you are able to keep your mouth shut before a pathetic whine slips out.

He places some circles on the small of your back, soothing you. You really want to, but you can’t loosen up, you just can’t. „Sssh, just one more, okay? Just one more sentence because this one made me a little worried.”

„Worried?” Oooh, oh no. „Sir, I don’t want to be rude, but we really shouldn’t do this.”

„If I remember correctly, you don’t want to fail my class, right?” You nod, heart daring to jump out of its ribcage. “Then read for me, pretty girl.” You begin to pray that your voice won’t give out, no desire to have to repeat yourself.

„He presses her against the table, not wasting any time, his penis entering her in a fast, burning stretch.” The silence that follows is torture, maybe he lets you off the hook now.

„That sounds painful, the purpose of erotica is to make the reader feel good; nothing should be rushed, even though I won’t deny that some might find a liking to the rougher exploration."

„I understand, Sir.”

„I’m sure you do.” He squeezes your waist with so much force that you have to squirm, feeling it for the first time now. Underneath the barrier of your skirt and his pants he is... aroused, if not more than that, given the fact that you shuffle in his lap to find a comfortable position.

It happens by sheer accident that your movements drag a teethed moan out of his mouth, causing some bell to ring in your ear.

You can feel that something inside him shifts entirely, the grip intensifies. He rolls back, and next you find yourself with your chest pressed against his desk. All the air escapes your lungs, and you gasp. You want to prop yourself up on your hands, but he holds you down.

For a few heartbeats, nothing happens, you only hear his heavy breathing behind you. One hand is secured on your back, the other wandering down, all the way to the curve of your ass. The god damn skirt does not offer any cover.

He floods your senses as he bends over you, his body heat luring you into a dream of soft sheets and sunlight. All of that is gone when he whispers into your ear.

„I will be lecturing you on how this is done properly, and you will take it in, all of it, understood?”

At a loss for words, you shake your head frantically, not risking a look back that may tear you apart completely. He must have taken it upon himself to do that for you. “There is my good girl.” The smack stings for a second before it turns to pleasure. He is not letting you relish in it too long, his fingers finding the pink velvet lace panties you choose this afternoon.

„Seems like someone is as equally excited about our private lessons as me.” The amusement that accompanies his words sends a hot bolt of shame through you, your cheeks heating up to an extent that no makeup would be able to cover it. You decide to rest your face on the wood, granting you a short cool down.

„At least that means we can go to the fun part sooner.” Your hands press violently against the desk, not one but two of his thick fingers entering you from behind, the sound wet and slick.

„Oh god Professor, I can’t.” He has the decency to stop, actual concern in his tone. „It doesn’t hurt, or does it, pretty girl?”

„No Sir, but-”

„Good.” It's obscene and wrong still, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now as he works you open with precise and long, dragged-out movements. When he retreats, the pathetic whine you could stop early fills the room, loud and clear. You can’t make out what he is doing behind you until a belt, his belt, comes into your view, followed by the pop of a button and the sharp sound of a zipper getting hauled open.

„Now we are finally coming to the most important part, pretty girl. Again, it's not supposed to hurt, get it?”

„Mmmh.” Your nails dig into the desk like it could save you, holding your breath as he pushes forward further and further, coaxing a deep moan out of you all the way through until he is bottomed out. His lips next to your ear again, biting down softly on your earlobe. „You feel absolutely incredible.”

Never have you felt so full with past partners none of them made you feel like this. Utterly and completely drunk on lust. Ultimately, your body lets loose, giving into the slow, sensual rhythm he sets. His hips thrusting evenly, his cock hitting so deep and you swear you see stars.

„How is my perfect student feeling, hmmm?”

„Please, Professor, don’t stop.”

„Like I could at this point. Do you have an idea how breathtaking you look?” Even though his pace is not faltering, impatience gets the best of you. With all the strength you can gather, you move backwards, meeting his hips, almost throwing him off balance.

As a response, his hand flies to the back of your head, pushing your face down as the other holds you still by the waist.

„No no no, this is my lesson for you, not the other way around. Your only task is to take it, remember?” Another slap hits your ass, not as intense as it could be.

„Yes Professor! I apologize.” Then you simply do as he told you. Paying attention to every little or big sensation he sends you through,, to every sound he gives you, and the responding ones bubbling out of your own mouth.

Just when you begin to think this might go on forever, to which you wouldn’t complain, you're on your back in a harsh twist, and the view that unfolds in front of you is something no words will be able to describe accurately. His hair is disheveled, nothing left of the prior well-groomed facade. There are tiny droplets of sweat clinging to his forehead. His pupils are blown to an extent that some could think he took drugs.

One of your legs swings to rest on his shoulder, and he leans forward; you think it's for a kiss, but instead the buttons of your blouse shatter to the ground. You don’t get the chance to think about pulling him down for a kiss, his hand grabs your jaw, and he chases your lips. He sends a violent grunt down your throat, and the kiss turns into panting.

His thumb ends up in your mouth, and you suck on it eagerly. When he places it on your clit it drags a guttural moan out of you from the deepest part of your core.

„Please tell me you are so smart to be on birth control, pleeease.” Your nails dig into the flesh of his exposed hips, leaving some scars as a souvenir. „I am, sir.”

Against all physics you know of, he increases his pace, hitting faster and deeper. Your toes curl, your back aches off the desk, and you see stars, or rather the whole night sky. „There she is. My smart. Pretty. Girl. Oh fuuuck.” You can feel him everywhere as he paints your inside white.

His body comes to a rest on yours trying to catch his breath, so do you until your eyes close shut and your mind drifts off into a blissful abyss.

-------------

You wake as a pillow hits you softly, you give a deep groan as a response. First, you notice the fabric of your PJs, probably the ones he gifted you last Christmas, matching his of course.

„Sorry baby but you have to wake up.”

The alarm clock on your nightstand says 1:21. „Beeeeen, what the hell is wrong with you?”

„Mr. Jackson called, Mark wants to get picked up.”  

Suddenly your body and brain remember how to function properly. You shoot up and regret it instantly. Your vision blurs into static for a second, causing you to fall back onto the bed.

Ben is on you immediately, one hand on your lower back. „Hey, easy. I said we have to pick him up, not go to war.”

As your eyes slowly adjust to the dim light of his bedside lamp, you see it. The frown, the sides of his mouth so far down as if he just found out someone had died. Fortunately, the simple gesture of your hands cupping his face is enough to let the wrinkles around his eyes disappear.

„It's okay. He is still a child, children want to get picked up from sleepovers all the time.”

„I know, it's just…” You tighten your hold, no chance for him to look anywhere other than straight into your eyes.​

„It is fine. We are going to pick him up, and then we can get a hot chocolate at Daisies, okay?”

He nods, a little spark in his eyes, surprising you with a kiss to the tip of your nose.

„Thought that hot chocolate would get your mood up. Thank you for getting me out of these clothes, by the way. Please remind me to buy a larger size next time.”

„Next time?”

„Oh yeah, next time we are doing editor and naughty author who can’t concentrate whenever she is in the room with him.” A light push with the tip of your index finger, and his back hits the mattress. “What did I do to deserve you?”

-------------

One of the first things Ben and Miles realised when they first moved in together was how vital it was to establish a new routine for the old concierge, one to help him adjust to having a family they’d stitched together in the aftermath of the Lot. Under Straker’s tutelage, his life hadn’t been his to control. Not to follow his passions or, heaven forbid, take it easy for a moment. Yet despite Miles’ best efforts to begin to process what had happened, he couldn’t shake off those lessons he’d staked his very existence on.

“The devil finds work for idle hands”

“Once an addict, always an addict. Once a murderer…”

That had been one of their greatest challenges - getting Miles to accept just existing. Being happy to leave the house untidy so he could lounge with his boyfriend in his arms, or reacquaint himself with his favourite books he’d been forbidden to read. Ben had bought them all on their very first trip to the bookstore. But no matter how hard he tried, they sat there collecting dust. He couldn’t do it. To sit still was to have time to think. To remember everything he had done, echoed back by Straker. And worse, how easily he thought he could slip back into the old Miles, the one who always found a way to hurt people.

All he had ever wanted was to be better. Someone he could be proud of. Now on his fourth, and what felt like final, chance at redemption, he couldn’t let that opportunity at making Mark and Ben happy after all they did to give him this new life. To him, they were his redemption.

So Miles worked. Day in and day out. And much to Ben’s dismay, he couldn’t tell the difference between the man he first met and the one who now shared his home. Naively, he thought without Straker, Miles would relax. Even more naively, after Miles had spent the whole weekend busying himself around the house, barely uttering a word to the writer, he told him the same. That he felt ignored, that he was beginning to think Miles cared more about chores than him. Miles didn’t understand what his problem was, but in his anger, Ben saw the slight wince and assumed Miles was lying. Before he could stop and breathe, Ben took him by the shoulders while his traitorous mouth kept moving-

“You’re making me feel like that monster. Always running around trying to please me - you need to decide, Miles. Am I your boyfriend or your master?”

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

God, that fucking wobble of his lip. Ben never wanted to see it again, but he never was very good at apologising. Unfortunately, Miles was too good at it… Normally. Ben sighed, loading up his assurances that no, it was his fault, he shouldn’t have yelled like that, he didn’t mean-

“-Tell me you didn’t mean that.”

Stunned at how harsh Miles’ tone was, Ben’s arms slowly fell away from his boyfriend’s shoulders as they squared up. “What-?”

“Don’t…” Miles was trembling, his fists locked by his sides, eyes watering but defiantly refusing to let the tears fall. “How dare you.”

If there was one thing Ben’s wife never did, it was let an argument go, but Miles did. Months had passed without an angry word said, just quiet ‘mhmm’s and a roll of the eyes as a gift to themselves in an effort to keep the peace. When Ben’s friends used to moan about the “old ball and chain” and how “it was never just an argument about the laundry, it was about respect or blah blah blah”, Ben would just laugh. If Miranda felt his laziness was about respect, she told him. Straight up. But neither man had dared to utter anything that could appear angry, lest their perfect happily-ever-after be jeopardised for a second. They weren’t good at disagreements; otherwise, maybe Ben could have explained himself better and desculated. Instead, he just crossed his arms - if it wasn’t about the laundry, then what?

“After everythin’ he did to me, you think I want to be like this?” Ben thought Miles would yell, but his voice was stripped of all emotion as it used to do when he talked about Straker, just so he could get through it. “I’m doin’ this for us, because if I don’t… then…”

They’d danced around it long enough. He tried for softness, but it came out clipped as he pressed, “Then what, Miles?”

“Then…” Then what use am I? What if you realise I’m worthless? What point was there to everyone else dying so I could live? “Then I’m… gonna go feed Dot. G’night Ben.”

It wasn’t directed at him, but it hit him all the same as Miles spat his name out, walking past him into the kitchen.

“No, you don’t get to drop it. Wait-” But without thinking, Ben grabbed Miles by the wrist and with too much nervous force, he yanked him back.

Miles froze, and with him, so did all of the air in the house.

He couldn’t believe he did that. Bile crept up his throat. For a second Ben just kept his eyes fixed on where his hand held his boyfriend, the muscle tight under his grip… Slowly, he followed the trail of goosebumps, up the cardigan that was bunched around his elbows and then to his face. 

It stabbed Ben right in the heart. Miles looked terrified… He stared at him like he was face to face with his old boss again.

Ben’s anguish must have been as clear as day as suddenly, Miles stepped back, horrified.

He went back to his old ways and apologised. “I… I’m sorry- I need to be alone”

“Miles-”

Before he could say anything more, Miles was gone. The bedroom door slammed shut with an almighty bang. Ben knew better than to crowd him, so he just… stood there. Because what else could he do? He’d accidentally set off Miles before - it was something he was still learning to forgive himself for as they worked together to unpack everything that had happened, but seeing Miles look at him like that?... Once his entire body stopped tingling, and his face no longer felt on fire, Ben snuck out behind the shed for a smoke. And then another.

 At least I didn’t say it was both our faults, huh, Miranda?

The clock struck midnight as he ground the last cig into the grass. Ben knew it was unfair, but he couldn’t help it. Over the last couple of hours, replaying the argument in his mind, he just felt himself getting… angrier. He’d tried so hard to give Miles space, to be there when he needed him. And now finally it had spilt over; he had run away. What about him? He’d lost so much. His entire childhood was destroyed by Straker and Barlow, and never had Ben asked for any consideration- 

Then he thought, maybe he should have done. Maybe Miles wouldn’t feel the need to prove himself so much if Ben would let him into his shit too.

Fuck. What a day.

What routine they had managed to agree on mostly revolved around bedtime, and for as angry as Ben still felt, what better way to show he was serious about establishing a new routine that helped both of them than by sticking to it now. He went back inside and found that maybe… Just maybe, Miles felt the same way. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. They had promised that no matter what happened, they wouldn’t sleep in separate rooms out of anger.

When Ben entered, he could tell Miles was still awake under the covers, but as he got changed and slipped in, he heard him exhale. Relived. It was torture lying there, not holding him, but Miles had an incredible ability to take up almost no space in bed after years of his tiny bunk at the El Royale. It felt like an entire continent lay between them, yet somehow, hearing the steady, calming rise and fall of Miles’ breathing, Ben eventually fell into a gentle slumber. Sleeping hadn’t come easy since Miranda died. Maybe the routine was helping him too.

And when Ben awoke, he didn’t open his eyes. Not at first. There was their second agreed routine, initially made in jest but that had quickly become one of Ben’s favourite parts of the day. While he loved to lie in, Miles always woke up early, so it was only natural that he made the first cup of coffee. Much to his disappointment, it was rare that Ben got the pleasure of waking up with Miles in his arms; it was just too difficult for him to lie there and enjoy it when the house was quiet. So when Ben heard him breathing next to him with the radio on for company, he didn’t know what to make of it.

Eventually he braved it. His lid opened in increments, the morning sun cutting through the blinds, and there, sat against the headboard, was Miles. He couldn’t make out his expression, only that his leg shook nervously up and down. 

“You don’t have to stay”, Ben murmured, his voice weighed down by sleep.

Miles didn’t turn to look at him, but he did relax a bit. “I know… I want to, though. I want to learn.”

Ben didn’t think Beethoven or Sinatra had made music that sounded so beautiful to his ears, but just as beautiful was the feeling of a hot cup of coffee pressed into his hands, the same as every other day, and he hoped, every day to come. He could tell just from the first sip that Miles had spent just as long and with as much loving attention to get it exactly how he liked it.

With something approaching a smile, Miles hummed. “It was both our faults.”

His family sat around the kitchen table, all happy and healthy, especially seeing they collectively agreed that Mark’s “man flu” deserved no such sympathy. Fifteen years ago, it had been a cheap fold-up, grubby IKEA piece that even in his student years he’d have balked at. Inherited from the neighbours, it barely fitted Ben by himself, let alone Miles and Mark. But over the years, it evolved. First, into a standard catalogue affair, picked more for its next-day delivery than any attempt at Feng Shui, and now into a large, professionally handmade dining table that could house entire PTA meetings, just as snug as it could their stitched-together extended family. 

Mark and Miles grouped themselves to the chairs nearest the window, looking out over the latest additions to Ben’s pride and joy: their garden. Somehow, as he had gotten older and the greys had settled in, Miles had returned to that childhood he never truly got to experience the first time around. No longer having to worry about being the perfect exemplar for his ward, or hiding the worst parts of himself out of fear of traumatising the boy, now they talked as equals. And most importantly, horror fans. Or they did, until Ben’s powers were called upon.

You see, a superhero could only do so much by himself. Superman, Batman… Whatever that sexy latex-clad lady with the whip was called from Ben’s teenage daydreams. For all their strength, money, and… whips, they all needed help once in a while. Namely, a distraction.

Mark’s wife, Christine, perched herself next to Ben. She was far out of Mark’s league, as Ben loved to remind him, and while he admitted that would have put her out of anyone's, she was, at least, on Ben Mears’ wavelength. Giving him a conspiratorial wink, she pushed over a few choice discarded plates and took a bite out of her homemade casserole. It was up to him now.

The stage was set. The enemy? Soon to be destroyed. Devoured. The sidekick? Ready and willing. The distraction- he cleared his throat. The duo kept talking about the latest monster film or slasher, totally oblivious of the spectacle about to unfold. 

“Blah blah”, Miles blabbered, sexily, hotly, gorgeously, and handsomely, with perpetual love hearts in his eyes. “They don’t make them like they used to.” 

Mark agreed, nudging his glasses up his nose like the nerd he was, using made-up words and names too European to be real. He was still the same, enthusiastic, intelligent kid he met all those years ago, even if he now knew the toils of a mortgage and- Ben strained to listen… Jörg Buttgereit? 

Okay, first act of heroism of the day. Save these two nerds from this boring conversation. With a serious, if seriously ineffective, attempt at a hard stare- or not. When that didn’t work, Ben ‘psst’ over to Miles. Once he got over the offence of being shushed, the realisation slowly dawned on him, and like magic, the realisation passed over Mark’s face immediately after. They exchanged the withered looks Ben knew all too well. Not looking entirely convinced, they shrugged a ‘why not’ anyway. If nothing else, it would be entertaining. But that was fine; people doubted Clark Kent too.

Okay. Let’s try this again.

Battle? Sorted. The enemy? Getting colder by the minute.

The sidekick? Thankfully, still loyal.

Distraction? Ben gave them the nod. They were a-go.

All that was left, was to stick the landing.

“Mark, y’didn’t see where I left my food, did you?” asked Miles, somehow failing miserably at acting like himself. God, this is why Ben refused to supervise the movie adaptation of his last werewolf book. Actors.

Still, his husband’s inability to lie, even for a dumb ploy such as this, was one of the many reasons he loved him. Mark, the little shit, had no such issue, as Ben knew too well after hours-long interrogations in his teenage years about exactly where he was last night. 

“Nope.” He popped the ‘P’ as if the letter had personally wronged him. “That the stuff Ben made yesterday?”

Miles nodded, murmuring a loud ‘uh-huh’ for effect.

“Damn, sorry, no, I haven’t. But you know, even if I did, I’d honestly just lie anyway and steal them. Those carrot sticks? Incredible. Used to dream about them all week when I was a growing kid, but Dad only let me have them on the bestest, most special of occasions.”

Miles sniggered, very very rudely, but it made his nose bunch up like a rabbit, so Ben graciously forgave him. “Aw shucks. They’re my favourite too. I think he even slaved away over some hummus last night, said it was only for the most special, incredible person in the whole wide world.” Miles stared at his husband straight in the eyes, his cheeks appling in a gentle, warm grin. Ben thought he was about to have a heart attack right there and then. “Wish he looked at me like he did when he talked about ‘em. Whoever they are, they must be really somethin’”.

Mouth cocked in a lopsided, dewy smile, Ben had half a mind to carry Miles like a damsel from the table and usher the rest of his family out the door to spend the afternoon safely locked away in his shed. Dammit, it wasn’t supposed to be a distraction for him. Before he ruined everything, Christine perked up to save the day. 

“I bet. I know he’s too humble to admit it, but those snacks he makes? I heard, they give you magic powers. Just like his.”

At that, Ben felt a shuffle behind his back. A clutch at his shirt. And then, finally, a tug on the end of his hair, as though it were a bell to an English lord’s loyal butler. And in a way, it was.

Bingo.

 Holding the plates as securely as if they were the crown jewels in his lap, Ben took one of the fabled, magic carrot sticks, dunked it into the definitely homemade- not Costco bought- hummus, and with enough ham to make Miles look like Brando in comparison, Ben brought it up and over his shoulder. The carrot stick hung silently for a moment in anticipation; it and everyone else in the tiny kitchen. But not Ben. What kind of hero would he be if he doubted himself?  

A perfect partner to his sneaky hand-over, a small clump of fingers appeared from behind his back, and took it. Eagerly. And then, just as quickly as it came into view, it disappeared again. Replaced by the sound of crunching, a soft, evil, and to Ben’s ears, victorious giggle, and eventually another tug to his hair. A hand splayed out, waiting for another.

The plebs all marvelled at him. Miles looked like he was swooning, although maybe he was just rolling his eyes. Still, Ben, with his super sight, saw the smile hidden from behind his orange juice.

Later, once lunch was done, Ben Mears stretched. He supposed all heroes had their weakness, and his was still his back. But what did that matter when his favourite, if only granddaughter, now full of an entire plate of veggies, clung to him like Spider-Man. Throwing her arms around his neck and kneeing his sides like a pony, excitedly begging him to race around the garden against her dad.

Okay, so maybe Ben Mears wasn’t a superhero. But to his granddaughter, Carrie, and her beleaguered parents. He was just as good as one. 

Ben Mears leaned against the wall, and the wall leaned away.

To its eternal credit, the floor gave him a moment to catch himself before it spun around him, sending him careening into the side of a drinks table with just an overzealous flick back of his hair as cover-up. Thankfully, all heads turned to the fashionably late gaggle of beat writers who had just entered. The very ones who wrote extensively about never being caught dead at such a gathering, and who now deposited their coats and took their thrones by the already melting ice sculpture. 

Ben sighed and counted to three, punctuating each beat by tapping his third, but most prestigious award of the week against his thigh. If thousands of tons of concrete weren’t enough to keep him upright, maybe a fresh Pabst Blue Ribbon would- Ah, who was he kidding? If he smuggled something that cheap into here, one of the plain-clothed bodyguards would have taken him to the ground by now. 

He eyed the rows of luxury amber spirits… Surely, his ten-year subscription to the New Yorker had covered the cost of his host’s drinks by now? His guilt assuaged (he knew whose influence that was), he grabbed two glasses of brandy and poured them into a third one, and toasted the grand, shining ice maiden. The duel was on for which of them would last the longest amongst all this hot air.

With this hour’s models finally settled in, the miniature, enclosed Times Square, for a moment completely frozen in time, burst into life again. A sea of people all criss-crossing through makeshift thoroughfares and landmarks of authors, critics, and publishers (who had magically forgotten Ben’s past flops) merged into one monstrous deluge of silk and designer cashmere as Ben gave up trying to track the stoned waiter with the cheeseboard. 

Just a few blocks away, the real Times Square roared with angry car horns and the jeers of excited tourists. However, not even the busiest intersection in the world could cut through the cacophony of perfunctory chatter, aggressive networking, and backhanded compliments sharper than any wooden stake. Or so they seemed to Ben. Maybe it was all innocent. Maybe his fellow nominee really was delighted that a previously mid-tier writer had ‘such a marvellously rich backstory’, but then again, he had supposed ‘everyone must have something worth mining’. Asshole. As the Washington Post critic, an old acquaintance at these parties, had put it better over entrees, “By Jove, there’s something between those sideburns after all.”

He quite liked her. She certainly made for more engaging conversation than the probing money men snooping around for his next critically acclaimed hit, even if it was his worst seller in years. At least she had actually read it. Judging by the same rotation of questions he had spent his evening answering, most of the ass-kissers could not say the same.

Now his partner-in-insults was canoodling with her inner circle while Ben practised his wall-flower pose, perfected through awkward college years, and quietly made redundant as his conversational tag-team with his wife steadily bloomed. Their eyes briefly met through the crowd, exchanging sly, exhausted winks. Between the verbal jabs and brief moments of unity while they bemoaned the state of literature (for which she held him partly responsible), she suddenly mused that he looked taller than the last time she saw him, whatever the fuck that meant. He didn’t think that was possible after Jerusalem’s Lot. Stuck in a suit that chafed at every angle, surrounded by people whose faces filled the trades, not just the tabloids like he used to, he felt smaller and smaller.

Ben always refused to think of himself as a victim, despite the death that had haunted his whole life and practically written his magnum opus for him. But a victim of his own success? Oh, now there was a thought. The writer-for-hire ten years ago would have happily left twenty victims in his wake to be called that, plus a few choice reviewers and publishers as thanks for such a lofty moniker. A lopsided smirk stretched out his punch-drunk, rosy cheeks as one such publisher strutted past. 

Miles always called it his wry whiskey look, the one that reared its handsome head whenever he selfishly shared a joke with only himself.

But no, he wasn’t thinking of him right now. He was at home, looking after their son and far more demanding cat, despite his insistence that he would come if Ben wanted him to. And Ben did, of course he did, but he also knew this was his idea of hell. So instead, Ben cleared his throat and head in the same sip and went once more into the breach to schmooze with the best of them. Unfortunately for him, the best of them included his editor, who threw an arm around his shoulders before he could retreat behind the chocolate fountain and gleefully marched him straight into the lion’s den.

A hand from somewhere topped up his glass, “So what’s the next one about, Mears?”

“Werewolves”, he proudly affirmed with the most serious expression he could fix. “Although I may change it to an incubus.”

Miles would have laughed at that. Mark would have rolled his eyes, but what was the point of being a dad if you couldn’t embarrass your son every once in a while?

Instead, a woman in a dress worth more than his partners’ entire wardrobe cut in. “I love the story at the end about meeting your wife. She sounded so special.”

“She was”, Ben said simply. It was partly why he had written the book - to close the chapter on his childhood that Miranda had worked with him to put into perspective. She hadn’t lived to see it through to the end, but dedicating the book to ‘M’, without whom none of this book would have meaning, ‌felt like something approaching closure. Little did anyone else know the ‘M’ referred to three people, not just his wife. 

“Are you going to write about her next?” the woman probed.

“No. Or at least, not yet. Don’t think I have it in me right now.”

She hummed out an insinuating, disingenuous noise- it was a dead ringer for the sound Miles made when he devolved into one of his rarest, but Ben’s favourite, moods: petty. Such was the power of the most condescending parents at his school’s PTA meetings that even a man as polite as Miles had honed a pitch-perfect imitation of them to rival a New York socialite. It should have got a chuckle out of him, but seeing her eyes suddenly glaze over as though it could literally erase him from her sight made his jaw tighten further.

“But we’ll see,” he bit. “Hopefully, I can get caught up in a few more tragedies and see if that sparks something.”

He captured her withering gaze between the teeth of his wolf-like, unamused smirk. She only broke free when habit made Ben glance to where his son should be, suppressing an annoyed laugh or the urge to run away and join the circus, like he always threatened to do when Ben caused a scene.  

Before he could take another swipe, his fellow nominee, Sam- or whatever his name was, hooked his arm through his and dragged him away with an excuse about checking the Mets' score together for a bet. Sam wove through the disinterested crowd with ‌the practiced ease of a man who had always been nominated but never quite won. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw the ice sculpture standing strong. Fucker.

If only Miranda were here. She would have executed that woman before all her peers with a single, scathing remark, so subtle that she would have experienced social death long before she’d ever even realised she had been cut. When they first met, Miranda’s ease of wit terrified Ben, almost as much as it turned him on. But it was also why Miles hated these things. The ride home usually consisted of lamenting what he wished he’d said, instead of how he had actually smoothed things over with his southern hospitality and quiet, if nervous, charm. But on the odd occasion when the knives did come out? Ho boy. Ben couldn’t squirrel him home fast enough. 

Ben Mears landed softly on the chair nearest the pianist. In all the hubbub, he didn’t even realise they’d been a piano, let alone music. Sam, definitely Sam, didn’t take the seat next to him. With a smile wryer and whiskey-er than his own, he gestured a tip of his proverbial hat. “Don’t ruin that nice face of yours with a broken nose, it’ll look terrible on the dust cover.”

Despite the joke, Ben looked suitably admonished. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure if he had misread her intentions or not. He’d been out of sync all day, exhaustion and homesickness mixing into a potent concoction. Sam patted his shoulder. “Give yourself five. Hey, maybe take the time to work your wife into that werewolf story? It’ll buy you a second house to store all the awards you can steal from me again.”

That got a laugh out of him. Yeah, he remembered Sam from the old days now. Make that five, or was it six favours he owed him? As thanks, he’d get Miles to pray for him when he got back to Minnesota, but in the meantime, a promise to behave and the last of his brandy would have to suffice.  

Miles. 

Ben had tried not to think about him and Mark while he was here so he could focus, but it was no use. 

He missed them. He’d been on his victory lap for two weeks now, and the nerves along his skin were already pricking at him. Feather-like, ghosts of touch in the shape of their outlines, enticing- urging him to return to the real thing. However, it was nothing compared to the 32 years he’d missed them before he first saw his future husband in an innocuous antiques shop in Maine, and his would-be son bounding up the stairs of a run-down drive-in. He could do this; he was being ridiculous. Ben just had to hold out for a few more days, and he’d be on the plane home.

He slowed his breathing, just as Miles had taught him. The woman at the piano must have been at least in her sixties, her grey hair slightly dishevelled as she moved to the bars of her music while the crowd moved to the open bar. Basking in his own little oasis from the chaos, he leant over, and after the third psst, she recovered from her reverie and nodded at his request- Nina Simone, one of Miles’ and Miranda’s favourites.

Listening to her deftly transition into his song, Ben forced himself to relax into the sofa. He flexed the old crick in his neck from too many long hours writing. Left. Right. Then back to the left in time with the soft piano music. And then it stayed there, suspended over his shoulder. A flash of annoyance hit him. The crick always went away on the third stretch, right where a soft, auburn mop would gently buff against it and massage it out as it nestled in closer. Without it, Ben looked like a curious puppy, struggling to make sense of the ocean of colourful patterns of designer suits and dresses before him. 

And then, just as his stomach rumbled, an angel appeared. He thought he’d never see that beautiful face again.

It was the blessed, stoned waiter. Red-rimmed eyes and cheap deodorant, which barely hid the telltale grassy odor, announced him long before his lumbering steps did. Wherever the hell he’d been, it didn’t matter now. He was here. And he’d refilled his platter.

“Um, Mr Mears?” he stuttered.

“That’s me.” Ben jumped in his seat, any pretense of being the aloof writer thrown out the window.

“Hey uhh. L-listen, I know I’m not supposed to be weird at these things, but I’m a b-big fan.”

He didn’t mean to sound quite so surprised. “You read my book?”

“Yeah, man!” he shouted, quickly hushing himself before his supervisor caught him. Although Ben figured the young man couldn’t be that concerned about professionalism as he dived to take the seat next to him. “Loved it! I almost didn’t recognise you; you’re taller than I imagined.”

Ugh. There was that stupid expression again. It bothered him so much that he missed the blundered “and older too.” What the hell did that mean? 

While Ben suspiciously squinted at him, as though perhaps it was some code, or even a curse, the waiter looked him over anxiously. Waiting to see if it had worked. Eventually, Ben gave up and relaxed. “Well, it’s good to meet you…?”

“Rudy!” he shouted again. He tried and failed to mirror his hero’s casual pose. “You’re my girlfriend’s favourite too. She’s read all your stuff.”

“Really? Well, that’s kind of you to say,” and weird, he mentally amended. He wasn’t sure what the appropriate level of enthusiasm was for someone’s book about parental death and childhood trauma, but it wasn’t this. Still, once upon a time, he had been the star-struck fan, so he muscled through as though Miles was there judging his politeness like an all-seeing, exacting God. “She… must have very morbid taste. I’m impressed. A woman like that’s a keeper - make sure you hang onto her.”

“I will!” Rudy nodded like a puppet on a string, hanging on his every word. “Um, you wouldn’t sign this for her, would you? She’ll freak.”

Ben pointed at the cheese platter. “That cheese still up for grabs?” 

It was on his lap in an instant. “Go for it. I already fucked up and spilt half a glass of wine over some hotshot. I ain't getting another gig here.”

That got a genuine laugh out of him. He happily took the disconcertingly sweaty napkin to sign while popping cubes of cheddar into his mouth. 

All the while, Rudy watched him like a hawk, committing every squiggle to memory. “You, um... writing a sequel, y’think?”

Ah, there it was. Ben sighed, his teeth gritting together. Betrayed by his own guardian angel of all things, but his husband’s voice echoed loud and clear, Be nice, sweetheart. 

“God, I sure hope not.”

The stomach next to him rumbled. Taking mercy on the young man, Ben passed him a handful of Hors d'oeuvres, which he instantly snapped up, grateful to have something to occupy his mouth with before he ran it off more. It lasted all of two seconds.

“Ah, but the cliffhanger was so good! That sex scene in the park? And when that chick died and then came back to eat her boyfriend? Or the dude who got so scared he had a heart attack on the spot? It was awesome!”

Wait… What?

Ben shoved down the sudden urge to clamp his hand over Rudy’s mouth. To accuse him of writing such things was tantamount to treason in a place like this, but instead he fell back onto the sofa with a warm, billowing laugh. Of course, he hadn’t read the Marsten book. 

It had been his first novel since The Lot. He’d listened to Miles and Mark exchange thoughts on their favourite monster movies and comics while he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the tales of heroes who always saved the girl, villains who got their comeuppance, and mandatory happy endings. But after what happened in that accursed town, why not? Why not believe in them again? One ridiculous, thinly veiled yet gratuitous vampire book later, he had overcome his writer's block and was ready to put his childhood to paper. Ben had only intended the shlock for his family and closest friends, but they’d encouraged him to send it to his publisher, and then, before he knew it, they had one hell of a beautiful new kitchen and one very full college fund for Mark. 

“Oh, that book?” The cracker almost lodged itself in his throat as he chuckled. “Ahh. I mean, I hadn’t really thought about it.”

An angry voice came from behind them, demanding that Rudy return to work before they threw his sorry ass out. Reluctantly, he got up, clutching the napkin, his clammy palms already smudging it into one giant blob. “Well, if you do, we’ll be the first in line. Oh, man - if you call a character Rudy, give him a cool-ass death for me?”

Ben grinned and crossed his heart. “I will. Extra gory.”

He couldn’t remember the last time someone looked so excited. Definitely not in these four walls.

As the waiter disappeared into the crowds, Ben felt lighter. And, somehow, rather inspired. God, his family would be insufferable when he told them… 

He sighed again. Dammit. Now that they were on his mind, they were all he could think about as everything else passed him by. The volume swelled in the room until the ground shook; he couldn’t hear the people who came over to congratulate him, nor did he much care by that point.

Ben Mears had finally achieved his childhood dream of becoming a prestigious, award-winning author. He was proud of himself, truly. He’d defeated vampires, writer's block, and his adopted son’s homework between furious, inspired writing sessions to get here. And yet all he could think about was how he missed them all… and how he wanted to give Rudy the final send-off he gallantly deserved and land himself straight onto the list of banned library books. Suddenly, the idea of being ‌a full-time horror writer sounded rather appealing. If nothing else, he knew how to give those stories the endings they deserved.

Just a few more hours. He just needed to get his shit together.

Any moment now.

He clicked his fingers.

…. Now!

….

Ah, fuck it.

Instead, he gathered up his shit, and threw as many free entrees into his bag as he could. On the way out, he passed ‌‌the ice sculpture, still standing. Just. 

By the time the crowds started to make their excuses to leave, the only sign Ben Mears had ever attended the party at all was the glass of whisky hidden under the pianist’s chair, with the pinky of the ice sculpture snapped off to keep it cool, a star-struck twenty-something’s signed napkin and one Washington Post critic. Entertained, and thoroughly smug, as her ploy to tell that fawning waiter how to ingratiate himself into his favourite author's good graces actually worked. Just say he looks taller, he loves that.

As Ben called the cab, stepping out into the bulging mass of pedestrians, the slayer of vampires, the saviour of Maine? America? The world? Breathed in the frigid, gas-soaked air of New York and disappeared back into the night. No longer Ben Mears: the author, but simply Ben Miller-Mears of Ashford, Minnesota, he felt…better…no, taller. He mirthlessly smiled. 

Those bastards.

However, in his defence, it helped that he carried his award for all to see. Let them gawk; he would leave ‌sainthood to his husband. He had a sequel to write.

In his younger years, Ben Miller-Mears could never let a falsehood go uncorrected, even if he wasn’t sure if he was right; however, age, fatherhood and marriage had softened him (unless it was about sports). Now, he didn’t mind; some he even rather liked, such as how his husband thought he was the clumsiest oaf this side of the border. Which was half-true; he was clumsy. But not this clumsy.

The clock struck 10. It had taken him nearly 24 hours to get back, but he had done it.

Mark should be asleep by now, while Miles prepared for their daily phone calls while he was away. Throwing the front door wide, it whined on its hinges and clicked loudly when he closed it. He jangled his keys before putting them on the sideboard. Having some sense of self-preservation, he toed off his dirty shoes, but clambered over every squeaky floorboard and clanked the glasses against the worktop. Just quiet enough to let Mark sleep, but loud enough for Miles to know he was there.  

For as far as they had come, it still wasn’t a guarantee how Miles would react if Ben snuck up on him. He didn’t want to spook him, but he had been gone for weeks. He had time to think, plan. So instead, he let Miles assume, not for the first time, that he had gotten one up on him. He really should have won his prize for husband of the year instead.

As their cat let the wayward food-dispenser scritch under her chin, Ben caught sight of their bedroom down the corridor. He half-expected to see a shadow potter around through the slit in the door, but the house was completely quiet. It was so tempting just to barge in there and kiss the man inside senseless, but he’d waited two weeks for this. He could do five- four more minutes. 

Ben placed the award on the kitchen table and patted it on the head. You, my friend, are going to win me so many arguments. Little did he know in the darkness that he had left it on top of all Miles’ newspaper clippings of his recent award success.

Being back in his own home, surrounded by all his old comforts, Ben felt like he could breathe again. And when he did, he smelt the homemade brownies that Mark and Miles always made together on a Thursday night in time for the weekend. This was the life. Following his nose, he opened the fridge, and there inside was a sight even more beautiful than he imagined. Brownies, yes, but there was more.

Pabst. Blue. Ribbon.

A whole, beautiful case of them, waiting just for him.

And underneath? Oh sweet, Miles. A selection of cheeses from the local farmers' market, without a drop of bargaining required, and next to that- His heart stopped. An expensive bottle of gorgeous amber, more delicious than mana from heaven, with a note attached.

‘Missed your rye whisky smile - Love, Miles x’  

Shit. Four minutes was too long. Without ceremony, he grabbed the bottle, ignoring the glasses, and necked a quick swig. A bit of liquid courage went a long way for what Ben had planned, and while Miles didn’t drink, he loved the taste of it on Ben.

His socks padded along the floor towards their bedroom, stopping just to check in on Mark as he lay sleeping. In only a few months, he’d be starting college. And after that, who knew? But for all the mixed feelings his soon-to-be absence stirred up, Ben never took for granted that after everything he’d been through, they wouldn’t have to worry about him. He closed the door gently. He’d tell him all about his book ideas… tomorrow. 

Ben felt more anticipation walking down that final stretch of carpet than ‌when he stepped up to take his award. The scent of chamomile and sandalwood filled his nostrils, a subtle smell that somehow turned heady in his weary senses, bringing him back to life and down to earth all in the same inhalation. The plane had been delayed, and his taxi hit every traffic light between the airport and here, but none of that mattered because now he could smell chocolate fudge brownies and sandalwood.  

With a small push, he let the door creak open. And there on the floor was his Miles. Ben had been picturing him on his knees since he left New York, although to his eternal damnation, if definitely not his eternal shame, it hadn’t been an image of him praying. Yet there he was, his back to him, his elbows resting upon the mattress with his Nana’s rosary in his hand. The only sign that he knew Ben was there at all was how quickly he thumbed through the beads.

Ben relaxed against the frame, crossing his arms. Even as his skin shivered at being so tantalisingly close, he watched, not wanting to disturb the scene before him. And yet, Miles always said he was the heretic? When he was the one innocently praying in his most seductive, scandalous briefs, and Ben’s traitorous, oversized bedshirt that had stolen Ben’s fantasy for itself and swallowed him whole. Sure, it was the cheap supermarket briefs he wore every day, but he had no right wearing something that slutty. Allowing it to hug the plump peach of his ass while his own husband, of all people, was standing right there empty-handed.

When finally Miles got to the last bead, he tittered to himself. Ben thought he sounded like a beautiful songbird, or a fiendish imp. It was normally one and the same.

“You prayed for an angel, Mr Miller-Mears?” Ben asked, with all the panache he could muster, even as he panted through every word, still recovering from his race back from the airport. 

On cue, Miles got up and turned to sit on the edge of the bed in one smooth, elegant motion that Ben’s knees ached in envy of. How was it that he could look so innocent, and yet so knowing all at once? It wasn’t fair. The dimples of his cheeks burrowed to a sharp point, ballooning out his pink cheeks like a chipmunk prepared for the winter. A small tilt of the head, a flutter of his lashes, and a glimmer in his eyes that held him as though for the first time all over again. 

Ben licked his lips. Miles couldn’t move his fast enough.

“That depends; I was prayin’ for the house to dust itself. They teach y’that up in heaven?”

Miles had the gall to shimmy in place to get comfortable, wriggling his ass against a fabric that wasn’t Ben’s increasingly tight pants. 

“I didn’t think you were supposed to make demands of the big man,” Ben tutted.

A ray of sunshine struck Ben as Miles’ smile grew pearly white teeth. “No’, but I don’t have much to bother him with these days. ‘Specially now you’re back.”

Ben’s eyes softened. All those years of writing, and yet his fae could surpass all his best work with just a few words. But what stuck in his throat the most was that it was true. They still had bad days, sometimes downright horrific ones, but as they pushed through every one of them, it paved the way for the quiet, gentle knowledge that they would always pass. The party would end, the nightmare would let them go, the broken dishwasher would get fixed. And Ben would always return. 

An enigmatic smile fell upon Miles’ face when Ben didn’t respond. He hadn’t meant to throw him off; however, he always preferred to know when Ben was out of sorts. Not pushing him further, Miles held out his hand, and Ben followed it like a lost child. Their fingers entwined together as Miles brought it up to cup his own face. “And what did I do to deserve a visit from a heavenly thing like you?” 

He pressed a kiss to the swell of Ben’s thumb, and before he could do it again, Ben tipped his face up between both hands and kissed him. Tender, at first, a few passing swipes of his lips as though they needed time to warm up after so long apart. And then harder, full. Coaxing Miles just enough to plunder his mouth as Ben opened up for him. He could feel the exact moment his beloved tasted the whiskey on his tongue when Miles hummed in satisfaction straight into his mouth. 

Voice as smooth as the drink, Ben whispered, “That’s what you did.”

Leaving him with a quick peck, Miles leant back just enough to see the thing he had missed most. “There it is.” He kissed the corner of his mouth again as if he were greeting an old friend. “So pretty f’me.”

He lazily traced his smile with his thumb, smoothing out his chafed lips and onto his laugh lines as though he had the power to make wrinkles disappear. Ben didn’t need to see himself to know it had worked. It took everything Ben had not to chase, but after a few blinks, his brain caught back up. Nothing could wipe that smile off his face now, especially with Miles tracking his every movement as he stepped back and then paced around the bed. Who needed the baying crowds at the awards ceremony when he had the only audience he ever needed right here?

“Wait-” Miles suddenly interrupted. “Y’not back early cause somethin’ happened are ya’?”

Ben clucked his tongue in feigned shock. “For a man of God, you have such little faith.” His voice lowered an octave, sultry and with more ham than even his harshest critic had accused him of. “I’ll have you know, I was the model writer. I gave my speech. I thanked them and all my fellow nominees for the honour. And now that I’ve been a very good boy, I’ve come to claim my real prize.” He elongated the word until it ran out of oxygen and his throat ran hoarse, like Barry White. Or, as Miles worried, the beginnings of a chest infection.

He giggled anyway, “You’re incorrigible.”

“Maybe, but I’m obviously not doing my job as your husband if you can use big words like that, country boy.” Ben came to a stop by the old record player and lowered the needle onto whichever record was there. Crossing his fingers, his hopes lifted with the violins, and then dropped again as the sullen, dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra sang, ‘The Stars Will Forget You’. Shit. 

He closed the curtains. The owls didn’t need to see this. It was going to be a challenge, but Ben Miller-Miles had overcome worse. With a deft hand, Ben undid the top button of his suit jacket.

And at the same time, Miles undid one of his.

The music burst into life, creating a hushed burst of laughter from Miles as he admonished. “Shhhh, Mark’s asleep.”

Conceding his point, lest their young ward come in and scar himself for life, Ben did as he was told, increasing his challenge level by lowering the volume until it reverberated low across the room. Luckily for him, Ben had never met a challenge he couldn’t blunder or talk his way through. He could barely make out the lyrics, but what little rhythm there was dragged his hips from side to side to the beat.

Ben beamed. Miles groaned, “Oh, Lord.” It must have been a record for how quickly Miles’ eyes rolled into the back of his skull as his back hit the mattress with a soft thump. However, the ceiling was a momentary reprieve from the embarrassment. 

Grabbing Miles by the ankle, Ben pulled him back down the bed before he could even think of escaping, or divorce. “Ah, ah, ah. Where do you think you’re going? Your favourite show is on,” he admonished, sitting Miles up on the edge and kicking his legs out so he could stand between them in his own exclusive stage.

He undid another button before lowering his lips to Miles’ ear. His hot breath felt like fire against Miles’ skin. “Now, my love. How do you want me? Soft and sensual or hard and fast?”

Sheer delight danced along Miles’ countenance, even as he strained for smugness. “Benjamin, that's like when you ask me how I want my eggs. We both know you can't crack an egg to save your life. They’re gonna be scrambled either way, so give me the Husband Special from the beginnin’.”

Ah, the famed husband special. Previously known as the fiancé special, and then boyfriend special before that. There weren’t any secrets between them, not anymore… Except one. He didn’t want to tell him what Miranda had dubbed it.

“An excellent choice, sir,” Ben said with all the seriousness of the servers he had met in New York, and all the pomposity he hoped Rudy never learnt. “Although I must say, I do make an excellent omelette.”

Okay, maybe he still had to be right sometimes.

However, for all the jokes, Miles could see he needed reassurance. It had been a couple of years since they’d been apart for so long, and Ben’s early return didn’t make him worry - no, he knew him well enough to read that it wasn’t serious. But it did instill in him a sense of purpose. One that led him to bring Ben’s hands together and knight them with a kiss.

“And you always take such good care of me when I need to stop thinkin’, or when I wanna be close to you.” Miles squeezed them tight. “But I’ve missed my bubba.”

I missed you my whole life, Ben wanted to say. But that was too corny. Corniness was tomorrow’s agenda along with cuddles, ice-cream with Mark and whatever dusting Miles wanted. So instead, with a flick of his wrists, another button fell. “The Husband Special it is then: Slow and dumb.”

He didn’t have to worry about impressing anyone here. Without further ado, Ben popped another button, then another in time to the music. Standing in the tiny spotlight of his beloved’s gaze, he girated to the crooning, somber piece as though it was the soundtrack to a seedy strip-joint. He heard a crack in his knee. And then his ankle. But no matter. He persevered, snaking his tie out of his shirt and lassoing it around Miles’s neck, drawing him in as if to kiss before pushing him back.

“Miles”, he hissed. “I can’t hear the music if you’re giggling.”

It was a defense he had uttered time and time again. “Then stop making me-”

The tie hit his face before the words ever passed his lips. 

The song was already winding down, and if Ben remembered correctly, they were nearing the end of the album. Before things got very quiet and very awkward, Ben worked his way down the jacket with the dry efficiency of a Formula One crew as the album went dead before skipping to the next tune. A livelier one, if not somehow more miserable. Thankfully, ‘Ol Blue Eyes was no match for Ben’s that glinted mischievously as he worked his belt free from the buckle and then cruelly spun on a dime, leaving Miles with an eyeful of his plump, ample cheeks that swayed like a cobra trying to hypnotise its prey.

Maybe it was just the time apart, or perhaps he really was that easy, but it somehow, infuriatingly, worked. Miles remained glued to his seat. His bottom lip glowed a crimson, shiny red that alternated between opening in shock and being sucked ‌between his two front teeth, looking like a cartoon bunny obediently waiting for its treat. But two could play at this game. 

Knowing exactly what it did to Ben for Miles to wear his things, he undid his shirt as Ben hooked his thumbs into his pants. Where Ben inched them lower, one drumbeat at a time, Miles left his shirt hanging loose off his shoulders and reclined back onto his elbows. The expanse of his scarred chest was on full display, all muscle and soft, pillowy fat. Still, the underwear stayed on; that could be Ben’s treat for the show. 

Once his pants hit his knees, Ben shimmied them down the rest of the way like a failing hula-hoop and kicked them across the room- thinking better than to bend over and risk a spanking from Miles that would send him tumbling. Finally, free of its confines, Ben teasingly turned back, whipping his head around first and letting his hefty, pronounced bulge follow. As if there way any chance Miles wasn’t looking, he cupped himself and squeezed.

Since leaving New York, Ben had eaten nothing but a tiny bag of peanuts and a square of complimentary chocolate, yet he wasn’t salivating the way Miles was. That is, until he saw how confident his trickster fae looked. There, in his briefs, stained with a small wet patch, and his shirt that parted like the Red Sea over the subtle swell of his-

“-Tits.”

He didn’t even realise he said it until Miles’ luscious laugh graced his ears. Great, Miles wasn’t just a better writer; the good Catholic boy was effortlessly the better stripper too. All bets were off. Shaky hands lashed out at the rest of his buttons, helped along by Miles’ much steadier ones until his shirt too joined his pants in the ether. The music now forgotten, Miles kissed and licked at every piece of flesh he could latch onto, as though Ben were the last meal of a starving man. Leaving little pink marks in his wake, Miles descended lower and lower until he reached his belly button and speared it with his tongue. He pistoned it in and out like it was his greedy hole until every muscle in his torso flexed in both surprise and pleasure.

The connection between brain and body momentarily severed, Ben threaded his fingers through Miles’ hair and, after a quick nod, Ben heaved one foot onto the bed and brought Miles’ head straight into his crotch. His attempt to keep to the music lasted as long as it took for Miles to mouth at the underside of his balls. Helpless to do anything other than chase after the delicious sensation, Ben panted under his breath while his husband nuzzled his painfully hard cock with his nose, teased at the fabric with his teeth and licked, from top to bottom, the full length of his shaft.

It may not be the full thing, but just the weight of him on Miles’ tongue was addictive. 

And besides, two weeks was an awfully long time. After a couple more sucks, Ben was dangerously close already. His member twitched under the confines of his briefs, bumping up against wherever it thought Miles would kiss next, desperate for just that bit more friction. He didn’t want it to end so soon. And yet, against his better judgement, he moved Miles’ head with him, rubbing him further into his bulge as Miles did his utmost to keep up and let his mouth hang open, his tongue lolling out so Ben could hump against it like a dog in heat.

“Sweetheart”, Ben groaned. “You feel so good. Missed this. Missed you.”

In response, Miles grabbed a handful of Ben’s butt and held him in place while his other hand devilishly went to work and pulled Ben out of his briefs. Not fully. That could wait, but just enough for the head to shyly peek out the waistband, blushing and purpling. 

A bead of pre-cum wetted the tip, but was gone as quickly as it came as Miles took him in his mouth and suckled on it. Distantly, Ben could feel him doing it in time with the music. Or what he could remember of it. His blood pounding against his eardrums like a big brass band, Ben gave himself over to his partner’s control. And how easy it was to control him after all these years. Miles sucked on the engorged, bulbous tip like a lollipop, obscene, wet sounds cascading from the back of his throat, and from Ben’s sweet lips, a more luscious, sweeping orchestra than even Sinatra could ever conjure. 

He should have known better. He did know better. However, Ben looked down anyway. From over his crown of hair, whipped up into a windswept, autumnal frondescence of curls, Ben saw Miles palming at himself. Sensually teasing and keeping himself on the edge as he lapped at the sensitive underside of Ben’s head like it was his god-given mission. 

A liquid pleasure stirred in Ben’s gut at the sight, threatening to erupt. Miles must have felt Ben’s eyes burning into the back of his head as he slowly leaned back, and with his mouth still full of Ben’s cock, he batted his lashes up at him. Ben’s whole body lurched.

“I’m close, baby. Please.”

But the faes of fairytales weren’t known for their mercy. With a resounding snap of his briefs that shot both their heads to the door to check that they hadn’t woken their son, Miles put Ben back into place. 

When the coast was definitely, 100% clear, Ben pushed Miles onto his back with a single tap. Miles scrambled on his elbows toward the headboard, but Ben lunged before he could even reach the middle of the bed. If entire states had separated them for weeks, now not even a centimeter remained between them. Chest to chest, legs weaving together, and mouths drinking the same glorious moans, Ben’s skin no longer thrummed along the outline of its other half, waiting for it to return. Their bodies were together again, and with it, Ben’s slowly heart settled into its keeper’s embrace.

At first, they just enjoyed the taste of each other again. The feel of their hair streaming between their fingers, of Ben’s sideburns and the security of Ben’s weight against Miles’ body. None of them knew who started it, but when their clothed bulges ground together, everything built back up until they devolved into a mess of limbs and muffled moans.

“B-Ben. Bubba- Sugar-” 

As Miles went through the Rolodex of pet names, Ben’s whole existence honed in on where he could punch out another choked whimper from his love. He rutted their hips together with abandon, rolling and thrusting into Miles’, their spit and pre-cum slick underwear keeping them contained. Each pass was electric. Each kiss grounding and devastating in equal measure. The only thing keeping either of them from cumming was the control Ben barely hung on to which kept the bed from banging against the wall.

But neither of them would last much longer, nor did they want to.

On a particularly hard thrust, Miles threw his head back, a high-pitched whine strangling his throat as he struggled to stay quiet, but he was too far gone. His cock throbbed against Ben’s, which seemed to pulse in response to his arousal. Chasing that feeling again and again with little stutters of his trapped hips, he punched out tiny ‘uh uh uh’s until all of a sudden, Ben’s hand clamped down on his mouth. Eyes wide, pinned open just as Ben pinned him to the bed, his husband smirked. And then, oh so very slowly, he brought his mouth to the back of his hand and placed a gentle kiss on where Miles' mouth lay underneath. Miles groaned, the vibrations warming Ben’s palm, but he kept at it, building the kiss further until he was making out with him through the barrier of his skin. It had no right being that hot. Then again, neither did his attempt at a striptease.

Whatever he gave, Miles returned tenfold, dragging Ben by the hair as close as possible, undulating his hips in time with the kiss, dragging their cocks together, until saliva pooled under Ben’s palm. Ben couldn’t be sure if Miles was trying to drive him crazy or simply got lost in the feel of him, but whatever his intentions, they were all working. 

In a flash, Ben whipped his hand away and crashed their lips together. The reaction was instantaneous. Miles rose to meet him, almost pushing him onto his hands through the strength of the kiss as he feasted on Ben’s lips, drawing out every pretty sound he could. Yet just as quickly as he moved, Ben pushed him back down, rearranging them so he could lean over just enough to lower their underwear. 

Miles’ hips stuttered as Ben fisted Miles’ dick and then his own, coating them in their joint slick and then encircled their cocks together with his hand. The simple motion released another gush of pre-cum from Ben. His hand didn’t fully encase them, but Miles was on it, mimicking his position at the root of their shafts, while Ben took the tip. It was enough. They stared entranced as their hips worked without them, gliding their lengths together in a jerky, stilted rhythm that somehow heightened the feeling of ecstasy with every pass and squeeze. 

Miles’ cheeks flushed. His balls drew up, his hand losing what little grip it had, and his toes curled and kicked at the bed.

And yet it was Ben who finished first. By the time Ben realised he was cumming it was too late. However, ever the eagle-eyed, prepared concierge, Miles caught the telltale signs and brought their mouths together to swallow the wrecked, drawn-out groan that wrung Ben’s body and soul from the outside in. As Ben spurted ropes of thick, pearly white cum onto Miles’ tummy, Miles clamped the heels of his feet over the defined demarcation between ass and thigh. He rocked Ben into him, giving him the friction and comfort he needed to ride the crest of pleasure even as it crashed and slammed against him, leaving him a quivering wreck in Miles’ arms.

Miles kissed his clammy forehead, cooing sweet nothings into his hair, as though it would hold on to them until Ben had recovered enough to hear them. Just as his breath started to even out, Ben suddenly twirled him and Miles around, landing on his back as Miles sat up over his waist, his cock standing to desperate attention.

“On me, on me, love,” Ben begged. Drool pooled out of his mouth as though he’d lost the wherewithal to close it.

Well, who was Miles to deny him after such an incredible rendition of the Husband Special? Taking himself in hand, it moved in a blur as he jerked himself off, helped along by his husband who cupped ‌his balls and groped mindlessly at his thighs, biceps, stomach- anywhere he could reach.

“That’s it”, the writer slurred. “So beautiful. Give it to me, please.”

With a soft whimper, Miles succumbed to the pleasure that had been building since Ben had first walked into the room. His spend pulsed out of him, hitting Ben square on the chest, dribbling down onto his stomach and onto his hand as he lost himself in the image of Ben’s rapturous, beatified gaze that soaked in every drop, as his skin did the same.

Gathering what little strength he had left, Miles collapsed onto his side so he wouldn't squash Ben. His heroic attempt was for naught, however; Ben guided him straight back into his chest, wanting so deeply to feel Miles plastered against him that he ignored the mess between them. With sleep trying to wrestle Ben away, he hadn't meant for his hand to drift up and cup Miles' pec; it just went where it pleased.

Trying not to laugh and jolt his recovering husband, a crooked, dreamy smile painted Miles' lips as he kissed Ben's jawline. “Still incorrigible.”

So much for making him forget his big words. Without meaning to, Ben yawned. Not to worry; it could go on tomorrow's agenda with the rest.

But one thing that couldn't wait was his speech. Absently, his brain urged him on. This was the perfect opportunity to extoll all his husband’s superlatives and ensure that Miles knew, without a shadow of a doubt, just how much he had missed him.

“And you.. You’re…” God, words should come easier to a writer. Miles’ eyes were too distracting, so instead, he serenaded his other favourite body part: His tits. “Hot.”

Close enough.

His speech won him the best award of the week, a slap on his flank and a kiss to his nose. He would have to move soon and get cleaned up… But he figured he had saved five minutes earlier on when he came rushing in; he could claim them back now. Heavy lids gently closing under the weighted blanket of Miles’s tender caress, the hours spent on the plane suddenly caught up with the middle-aged writer. His neck seized. He cricked it to the left. Right. And then back to left. And as he did, a soft buffer of hair nuzzled into it and soothed the ache away. Ben was home. 

That night, as he slept like the dead, he dreamt of the undead. Not of being bitten, or of his family being turned and damned for all eternity. But of one stoned waiter, stake in hand, drenched in blood and making one last stand against a horde of ravenous vampires. But perhaps he would disappoint his friend, if just a bit. Rudy would have his day, and then maybe he would live to see another one, because all Ben could dream about, encased in his soulmate’s arms, was happy endings.