Chapter 1: Practice Makes Perfect—And Then Some
The script pages felt slick under Dunk’s sweating palms. He’d read the scene sixteen times. Seventeen. The words ‘their lips meet, a slow, searching kiss’ blurred and swam on the page. He dropped the papers onto the cluttered coffee table, scattering a bag of half-eaten chips.
“G, I’m gonna puke.”
“You’re not gonna puke.” G didn’t look up from his phone, slouched in the corner of the worn leather couch. “It’s a kiss. People do it every day. Hell, you’ve done it. A lot.”
“Not with a guy. Not on camera. Not with Joong.” Dunk ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots. “He’s… it’s Joong. He’s going to know I have no idea what I’m doing.”
G finally looked over. His eyes, always holding that glint of privately shared mischief, scanned Dunk’s panicked face. He put his phone down. “So what’s the plan? You gonna just stand there like a dead fish and let him do all the work? That’s a one-way ticket to ‘awkward behind-the-scenes footage’ hell.”
“I don’t know!” Dunk stood up, pacing the short length of the rug. The bare bulb overhead made his shadow stretch and warp against the film posters. “How is it different? Is it different? It can’t be that different. It’s just… mouths.”
G snorted. “Famous last words.” He stretched, arching his back like a cat, then settled into the couch cushions, regarding Dunk with a calm, assessing look. “You’re overthinking it. It’s about intention. Connection. You follow the other person’s lead, but you give back. It’s a conversation.”
“A conversation with tongues. Great. Helpful.”
Silence hung between them, thick with the unasked question. Dunk bit his lower lip, the skin already raw. He stopped pacing and faced his friend. The words came out in a rushed, shaky jumble. “Can you kiss me?”
G didn’t move. His playful expression didn’t flicker. “What?”
“Just… so I don’t embarrass myself in front of him. A practice run. One.” Dunk’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Please?”
G was quiet for a long moment. The only sounds were the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant sigh of traffic. Then, a slow smile spread across his face. It wasn't his usual teasing grin. This was darker, more deliberate. He uncrossed his legs and stood up in one fluid motion.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, closing the space between them. “If we’re practicing, we’re doing it right.”
His fingers didn’t hesitate. They curled into the soft cotton of Dunk’s shirt, just above his waistband, and pulled. Dunk stumbled forward, his hands coming up to brace against G’s chest. He could feel the heat, the firm muscle through the thin fabric.
“First,” G said, his voice a low hum that vibrated against Dunk’s palms. “Stop thinking of me as G.” His free hand came up to cup the side of Dunk’s neck, thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. “I’m Joong. For the next few minutes, you look at me and you see him. The guy you’re supposed to want in this scene. Got it?”
Dunk managed a nod. His mouth was desert-dry.
“Good.”
G’s eyes dropped to Dunk’s lips. The air in the apartment shifted, grew heavier, saturated with a charge that hadn’t been there a minute ago. The playful friend was gone, replaced by someone focused, predatory.
He leaned in. Dunk’s eyes fluttered shut.
The first touch was a ghost, a soft brush of closed lips. It was testing, gentle. It felt… like a kiss. Dunk’s shoulders loosened a fraction. Maybe this was okay. Maybe he could—
G’s mouth settled fully against his, and the thought shattered. This wasn’t gentle. It was firm, assertive. G’s lips moved, coaxing Dunk’s to part, and when they did, the world narrowed to sensation.
The warm, wet slide of G’s tongue against his own was a shock, a lightning bolt straight to his gut. It was different. It was deeper, more invasive, and overwhelmingly intimate. A low sound, half-surprise, half-something else, caught in Dunk’s throat. G swallowed it.
The hand on his neck tightened, angling his head for better access. G explored his mouth with a lazy, confident thoroughness that left Dunk dizzy. He tasted of the coffee they’d drunk an hour ago and something uniquely, essentially G. Dunk’s hands clutched at his chest, his earlier panic melting, reforming into a sharp, startling heat in his abdomen.
He tried to follow, to give back as instructed. His own tongue moved tentatively against G’s. The response was immediate—a hungry growl from deep in G’s chest, and the kiss turned filthy.
It was all wet friction and building pressure. G’s tongue fucked into his mouth with a rhythmic intensity that was unmistakable, obscene. The clean, lavender scent of his apartment was now laced with the salt of their skin, the hot smell of arousal. Dunk was hard, painfully so, and the rough denim of G’s jeans grinding against his own made him buck his hips forward with a broken gasp.
G broke the kiss, panting. A string of saliva connected their lips for a second before snapping. His eyes were black, pupils blown wide.
“See?” G’s voice was rough, ruined. “A conversation.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He kissed him again, deeper, one hand fisting in Dunk’s hair to hold him still. This wasn't practice anymore. This was a claiming. Dunk’s brain short-circuited. All he could do was feel—the scrape of teeth on his lower lip, the dominant thrust of G’s tongue, the hard line of G’s cock pressing against his hip.
Dunk’s hands slid up, tangling in G’s hair, pulling him closer. He was drowning in it, the heat, the taste, the sheer fucking rightness of the friction. He moaned, open-mouthed and desperate, into the kiss.
G pulled back again, breathing hard. He searched Dunk’s face, his own a mask of fierce concentration. “You getting it now?”
“Yeah,” Dunk breathed, his lips swollen and wet. “Yeah, I’m getting it.”
“Then show me.”
This time, Dunk initiated it. He crashed their mouths together, less skilled but fueled by a raw need that surprised them both. He licked into G’s mouth, mimicking the same raw rhythm G had used. He felt G smile against his lips, a feral, triumphant thing.
G’s hands dropped to Dunk’s ass, gripping hard, pulling their bodies flush. The contact was electric, agonizing. Dunk rutted against him, a clumsy, frantic rhythm, his jeans now a torturous constraint. The room was too hot, the air too thick. Every nerve ending was on fire.
G spun them and pushed Dunk back against the wall, next to a framed poster of some old noir film. The glass rattled. The kiss devolved into a series of hungry bites and panting breaths. G ground his hips forward, a slow, deliberate roll that punched another moan from Dunk’s chest.
“Fuck, Dunk,” G muttered against his throat, his lips hot on the sweating skin. “You’re a natural.”
The words, the tone—some distant part of Dunk’s mind recognized this had spiraled far beyond a friendly lesson. This was a threshold being vaporized. And he didn’t want to stop.
G’s hand slid from his ass, around his hip, and palmed him roughly through his jeans. Dunk cried out, his head thudding back against the wall.
The sound of a phone buzzing violently on the coffee table cut through the haze like a shard of ice.
They froze, a tangle of feverish limbs and ragged breath.
It buzzed again. And again. Relentless.
Reality seeped back in, cold and unwelcome. The flickering bulb. The script on the table. The friend in his arms.
G’s body stiffened. He slowly, carefully, pulled his hand back. He rested his forehead against Dunk’s shoulder for a second, his breath still coming in hot gusts. Then he pushed himself away.
The space between them felt arctic.
G walked to the couch, not looking back. He picked up his phone, stared at the screen, and swiped to silence it. His back was to Dunk, shoulders tense.
Dunk stayed against the wall, his body screaming in protest, his mind a roaring static. The taste of G was still in his mouth. The heat of him was branded into Dunk’s skin.
“So,” G said, his voice forcibly light, stripped of its earlier heat. He still didn’t turn around. “You should be fine with Joong.”
He grabbed his jacket from the arm of the couch.
“G—” Dunk’s voice was wrecked.
“I gotta go,” G said, heading for the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, his profile sharp in the dim light. He finally glanced over, his eyes unreadable. “Don’t overthink it.”
The door opened and shut with a soft, definitive click.
Dunk slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, his legs unable to hold him. He stared at the empty space where G had just been. His lips were tender. His body was a live wire.
The script for the kiss scene lay on the table, innocuous now. A simple stage direction.
He touched his fingers to his mouth. He was completely, utterly fucked, and they hadn’t even gotten past the kissing.
The floorboards were cool through his jeans. Dunk sat there, listening to the echo of the door click in the silence of his own skull. His cock throbbed, a painful, insistent reminder against his zipper. He could still feel the press of G’s hands, the bruising grip on his ass, the brand of his mouth.
“Fuck,” he whispered to the empty room. The word hung there, pathetic.
He shoved himself up, legs unsteady, and stumbled to the bathroom. The fluorescent light was a brutal shock. He braced his hands on the sink, head down, and forced himself to look in the mirror.
His lips were red. Swollen. Clearly just been fucked by someone’s mouth. A faint redness marked his neck where G’s stubble had scraped. His eyes were wide, dark with a residual heat that looked like terror.
He turned the cold tap on full and splashed water on his face. It dripped from his chin onto his shirt. He cupped more and drank, trying to wash the taste away. It didn’t work. He could still taste him—the coffee, the specific warmth of his friend’s mouth.
His phone buzzed from the other room.
A jolt, equal parts dread and a sick, thrilling hope, shot through him. He walked back, his body moving on autopilot.
It wasn’t G. It was a notification from the group chat with the production assistants, a scheduling update for tomorrow. The mundane normalcy of it felt like a slap.
He dropped onto the couch, the leather sighing under him. The spot where G had been sitting was still slightly indented. Dunk picked up his script again. The kiss scene. He tried to read it, to see Joong’s face, to feel the character’s motivation.
All he saw was G’s dark, focused eyes. All he felt was the rough demand of his tongue.
His own phone buzzed again, this time a private message. His throat tightened.
It was G.
G: So.
G: That got out of hand.
Dunk: Yeah.
G: You okay?
Dunk: I don’t know.
G: Look. It was practice. It meant nothing.
The words were a deliberate douse of cold water. They should have helped. They just made the knot in Dunk’s gut twist tighter.
Dunk: Right. Nothing.
G: But for what it’s worth… you’re not going to have a problem with Joong.
G: You kissed back. You got into it. You learn fast.
Dunk’s face burned. He remembered the moment he’d stopped thinking and just reacted, pulling G’s hair, grinding against him like some desperate thing.
Dunk: I guess.
G: No guess. You fucking know. When you’re over there tomorrow, and he puts his hands on you, just remember the lesson.
G: Remember what it feels like to want it so bad you forget the camera’s even there.
A fresh, sharp ache bloomed low in Dunk’s belly. He was hard again. Just from the texts. From the memory and the blunt, filthy instruction.
Dunk: This is fucked up.
G: It’s practice. I was helping. That’s all.
A pause. The three dots blinked. Blinked again.
G: Unless you want another session. Really make sure you’ve got it down.
Dunk’s breath caught. His thumb hovered over the screen. Every responsible, rational cell in his brain screamed to type ‘NO’. To laugh it off. To put this back in the box where it belonged.
He typed one letter. Then another.
Dunk: When?
The response was immediate.
G: My place. Now. Before I change my mind or you regain your sanity.
Dunk was moving before he’d fully processed the decision. He grabbed his keys, his wallet. He didn’t change his shirt, the one that still smelled of sweat and G. He left the script on the table, the apartment door unlocked in his rush.
The night air outside was cool, but it did nothing to calm the fire under his skin. He drove on autopilot, the streets a blur. G’s apartment was across town, a sleek high-rise that felt a world away from Dunk’s cluttered nest.
The elevator ride up was silent, sterile. His reflection in the bronze doors was a stranger—flushed, eyes wild.
G’s door was slightly ajar.
Dunk pushed it open and stepped inside. The apartment was dark, only the city lights painting geometric shapes on the bare floors. G leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed. He’d changed into a pair of low-slung sweatpants and nothing else. The defined lines of his torso were pale in the gloom.
“You came,” G said. It wasn’t a question.
“You knew I would.”
A slow smile. “Yeah. I did.”
No more talk. G pushed off the wall and crossed the space in three strides. This kiss wasn’t like the first exploratory one, or the second fierce one. This was pure hunger, acknowledged and unleashed.
G’s mouth was devastating. He licked into Dunk’s mouth, a claiming stroke, and Dunk opened for him with a helpless groan, his hands flying to G’s bare shoulders. The skin was hot, smooth over hard muscle.
“Lesson two,” G muttered against his lips, walking him backwards until Dunk’s knees hit the edge of a large, low bed. “Following through.”
He pushed. Dunk fell back onto the cool duvet. G followed him down, a solid, heavy weight that knocked the air from his lungs in the best way. The smell here was all G—clean linen, expensive cologne, male skin.
G broke the kiss to yank Dunk’s shirt over his head. He stared down at him, his eyes roaming Dunk’s chest, his heaving stomach. “So fucking pretty,” he breathed, and the words dripped like honey and poison into Dunk’s ear.
Then his mouth was everywhere. Not just Dunk’s lips. His jaw, his throat, his collarbones. He bit at a nipple and Dunk arched off the bed, a choked cry ripping from him. G sucked the tender nub into his mouth, his tongue circling, before moving lower.
He mouthed Dunk through his jeans, the wet heat shocking even through the denim. Dunk fisted his hands in the duvet, his hips pumping up involuntarily.
“Please,” he heard himself beg. A broken, foreign sound.
G made a low, approving hum. His fingers made quick work of Dunk’s button and fly. He peeled the jeans and briefs down in one rough pull, tossing them aside. The cold air hit Dunk’s exposed skin for a second before G’s hands replaced it, spreading his thighs.
G sat back on his heels, looking. Drinking him in. Dunk was fully exposed, achingly hard, his tip already wet. Shame warred with a blinding need.
“Look at you,” G said. He wrapped a firm hand around Dunk’s shaft, pumping slowly once, twice, spreading the moisture. Dunk whimpered. “All worked up from just a little kissing and some texts. Imagine what the real thing will do to you.”
It wasn’t Joong he was imagining. It was the raw, possessive look in G’s eyes right now.
G leaned down. He didn’t kiss him. He licked a long, slow stripe from base to tip.
Dunk shouted.
G took him into his mouth, deep, with no hesitation. The wet, sucking heat was an absolute madness. Dunk’s back bowed, his head thrashing against the pillows. G’s mouth was relentless, a perfect, tight pressure, his tongue working the sensitive underside. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking hard, and Dunk saw white behind his eyelids.
“G—I’m gonna… you have to stop…” Dunk babbled, his hands tangling in G’s hair, not pushing him away but holding him there.
G pulled off with a wet pop. His own breathing was ragged. “Not yet you’re not.” He shoved his sweatpants down, freeing himself. He was thick, hard, angry red. He fumbled in the nightstand drawer, pulling out a bottle and a foil packet.
The sound of the cap clicking open was obscenely loud. G slicked himself with quick, efficient strokes, then sheathed himself. He never looked away from Dunk’s face.
“This part’s different,” G said, his voice gravel. He moved over Dunk, lining himself up. The blunt, slick head pressed against Dunk’s entrance, a shocking, impossible pressure. “This part, you really have to trust the other person.”
Dunk was trembling. He’d never done this. He’d thought about it, in vague, blurry ways. Not like this. Not with his best friend’s cock pushing into him, burning, stretching him open in a way that felt too much, not enough, terrifying, and right.
“Breathe,” G commanded, and Dunk sucked in a ragged gasp.
G pushed in. Just the head, popping past the tight ring of muscle. The burn was intense, a sharp, bright pain. Dunk cried out, nails digging into G’s biceps.
“Fuck,” G groaned, his forehead dropping to Dunk’s shoulder. He was shaking with the effort of holding still. “You’re so fucking tight.”
He waited. A suspended moment where the only sounds were their ragged breaths. The pain began to recede, morphing into a deep, filling ache. Dunk’s body adjusted, accepted.
“More,” Dunk whispered.
G slid in deeper, an inexorable, slow invasion. Dunk felt every inch, the brutal stretch, the overwhelming fullness. When G was finally sheathed completely, hips flush against Dunk’s ass, they both went still, joined, gasping.
G looked down at him, his expression shattered, all pretense of the lesson gone. “Dunk.”
Then he moved.
He pulled out almost all the way and slammed back in. The pain-flare was momentary, instantly swamped by a bolt of raw pleasure so intense it stole Dunk’s vision. He screamed.
G set a punishing rhythm, each thrust punching the air from Dunk’s lungs, driving him up the bed. The slide was slick, filthy, the sound of skin on skin mixing with their guttural moans. G fucked him with a single-minded intensity, his eyes locked on where they were joined, on Dunk’s face contorted in pleasure-pain.
“Is this what you wanted?” G gritted out, hammering into him. “When you asked me to kiss you? You wanted this?”
“Yes!” Dunk sobbed, his legs locking around G’s waist, pulling him in deeper. He was completely lost, a creature of pure sensation. The friction was igniting something primal, building a coil of tension so tight in his gut he thought it would snap him in half.
G’s pace grew erratic, brutal. He shifted angle slightly and then—
“There! Fuck, G, right there!” Dunk howled as something exploded inside him, a white-hot point of pleasure that radiated out with every punishing thrust.
G’s control shattered. He plunged into Dunk, once, twice, three more times, his body going rigid. A raw, broken shout tore from his throat as he came, his hips stuttering, his whole weight collapsing onto Dunk.
The spasms deep inside him, the hot, muffled cry against his neck—it pushed Dunk over the edge. His own orgasm ripped through him, violent and mindless, painting his stomach in hot stripes. He clung to G, shaking, sobbing, completely unraveled.
Silence, save for their heaving breaths. The smell of sex, sweat, and spent lust hung thick in the dark room.
Slowly, G softened and slipped out. He rolled off, landing beside Dunk on the ravaged sheets. They lay side by side, not touching, staring at the ceiling.
The reality of what they’d just done settled over Dunk like ash. It wasn’t practice. It wasn’t a lesson. It was a line, vaporized.
G’s phone lit up on the nightstand, casting a blue glow. A notification. Then another. The real world, impatient, waiting.
Dunk closed his eyes. He had a kiss scene to film tomorrow. And he had no idea who he was anymore.