Chapter 2: Advanced Training
The silence in G’s bedroom was a physical thing, a third presence swelling in the space between their bodies. Dunk stared at the crack in the ceiling, each breath feeling like it scraped his lungs raw. The cooling come on his stomach was a vile, drying testament. The ache deep inside him was a brand.
He heard G swallow beside him.
“Fuck,” G said, the word flat, empty of its earlier heat.
Dunk couldn’t speak. His mind was a scrambled, shrieking mess. One thought surfaced, clear and horrible: he had just let his best friend fuck him. More than let. He’d begged for it. He’d come apart from it.
The script. Joong. Tomorrow. The reasons felt like paper-thin lies, dissolving in the acid reality of the sweat-slick sheets.
G rolled onto his side, propping his head on a hand. Dunk could feel his gaze like a touch. “You still with me?”
Dunk managed a nod. His voice, when it came, was a shredded whisper. “That wasn’t practice.”
“No,” G agreed, no hesitation. “It wasn’t.”
“Then what was it?”
G didn’t answer for a long time. He reached out and brushed a thumb over the bite mark on Dunk’s shoulder. Dunk flinched. “It was me taking what I wanted,” G said finally, his voice low. “And you letting me. Maybe you even wanting me to.”
“I have to film with Joong tomorrow.” The sentence was a lifeline, a desperate grab for the wreckage of his original purpose.
“And you will.” G sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. His back was a tense landscape of muscle and fading scratches. “You’ll go in there, and you’ll know what it feels like. To be full. To be fucked. It’ll be in your bones. And when he kisses you, you won’t be nervous. You’ll be hungry.”
The words should have been comforting. They were anything but. They painted a future where Dunk was permanently altered, a secret etched into his body.
“Get up,” G said, not unkindly. “Shower. You’re a mess.”
The shower was a baptism in scalding water and shame. Dunk scrubbed at his skin until it was pink, but he couldn’t wash away the feeling of G’s hands, the phantom stretch, the bruises already forming on his hips. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, the water pounding his back.
When he emerged, wrapped in a towel, G was in the small kitchen, brewing coffee. He’d pulled on his sweatpants. The domestic normalcy of it was surreal.
“Here.” G pushed a mug across the counter. “We need to talk before you run away and start catastrophizing.”
“I’m not—” Dunk started, then stopped. He was. He absolutely was.
“Look at me.” G waited until Dunk raised his eyes. The playful glint was gone, replaced by a startling solemnity. “What happened… that’s on me. I crossed a line. A big fucking line. You asked for a kiss. I gave you… that. I’m not sorry I did it. But I’m sorry if it fucks you up.”
Dunk sipped the coffee. It was bitter. “It already has.”
“Good.” At Dunk’s shocked look, G shrugged. “It should. It was a big deal. It means something. But it doesn’t have to mean everything. It can just be a thing that happened between friends. One fucked-up, intense, really hot thing.”
“Can it?” Dunk asked, clinging to the possibility.
“It has to,” G said, and for the first time, Dunk heard a sliver of something like fear in his friend’s voice. “Otherwise, we just torched our friendship for a fucking training session.”
They sat with that, the truth of it hanging in the cinnamon-scented air.
G’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it. “You should go. Get some real sleep before your call time.”
Dunk dressed in silence, his clothes feeling like a stranger’s costume. At the door, he paused. G was leaning against the kitchen doorway, watching him.
“Will it… will I be okay? With Joong?”
A ghost of the old smirk returned. “You’ll be more than okay. You’ll be fucking spectacular. Now get out of here.”
The film set was a controlled chaos of lights, cables, and hushed voices. Dunk sat in the makeup chair, a cape around his shoulders, as a woman dabbed powder on his face. He felt like a fraud. The concealer covered the shadows under his eyes, but it couldn’t touch the hollowed-out feeling inside.
He saw Joong across the soundstage, laughing with the director. He was beautiful, effortlessly charismatic. The scripted object of desire. Dunk’s stomach twisted. All he could think about was G’s weight, G’s voice, G’s cock.
“Nervous?” Joong asked, walking over as makeup finished. His smile was kind, open.
“A little,” Dunk admitted, his throat tight.
“Don’t be. We’ll find it together. It’s just us in the moment.”
Just us. The words echoed falsely. There was a third person in the moment now, a phantom with mischievous eyes and rough hands.
“Places!” the assistant director called.
The set was a replica of a cozy library. Cameras loomed like silent predators. Dunk took his mark, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Joong stood close, his cologne a subtle, clean scent. Not lavender. Not cinnamon and sweat.
“Action.”
The dialogue came automatically, lines he’d memorized in a different life. He saw Joong’s character fall in love with his. He felt the shift, the magnetic pull the script demanded. Joong was a phenomenal actor. His eyes softened, his gaze dropping to Dunk’s lips with a convincing mixture of fear and longing.
This was it.
Joong leaned in. Slowly. Giving him time.
Dunk’s mind went blank. All his practiced theories vanished. But his body… his body remembered.
As Joong’s lips met his, soft and questioning, Dunk didn’t think. He reacted. He remembered the lesson. He gave back. He parted his lips, inviting more. He felt Joong’s startled intake of breath, then a surge of confidence as the kiss deepened.
It was different. Softer. More choreographed. But underneath the technique, Dunk accessed something raw and real. The memory of being consumed. The hunger G had unlocked. He poured that into the kiss, his hand coming up to cradle Joong’s jaw, his tongue sliding against the other man’s with a surety that surprised them both.
He heard a muffled groan—from Joong or himself, he didn’t know. The heat was there, sparking under the staged passion. His skin prickled. For a few terrifying, exhilarating seconds, he wasn’t acting. He was just a man kissing another man, and it was electric.
“Cut! Beautiful! God, that was perfect!”
They broke apart, both breathing heavily. Joong’s eyes were wide, his lips slick. He blinked, as if waking from a dream. “Wow,” he breathed, a genuine, stunned smile spreading across his face. “That was… wow. You’re full of surprises, Dunk.”
Dunk managed a shaky smile. His body was humming, a live wire of confused triumph and guilt. He’d done it. He’d been more than okay. He’d been, as G predicted, spectacular.
And all he wanted was to run back to G’s apartment and scream at him, thank him, fuck him again.
The rest of the filming passed in a blur. Every congratulatory pat on the back, every knowing smirk from the crew, felt like a layer of grime. He had delivered the authenticity they wanted by betraying a part of himself he didn’t yet understand.
He declined the cast drinks, pleading exhaustion. It wasn’t a lie.
His own apartment was a tomb of normalcy. The script pages were still on the table. He picked one up. The kiss scene. It felt like evidence from a different crime.
His phone lit up. A message from G.
G: Well?
Dunk: They said it was perfect.
G: I knew they would. Told you you’d be hungry.
Dunk stared at the words. His thumbs moved before his brain could stop them.
Dunk: I was. I am.
The response was immediate.
G: My place. Now.
It wasn’t a question. It was a command Dunk’s body was already obeying. The shame, the confusion, it all combusted into a single, primal need. He needed the real thing. The source. The poison and the cure.
He didn’t bother with the elevator this time. He took the stairs to G’s floor two at a time. The door was unlocked.
G was waiting in the middle of the living room, in the same low-slung sweatpants. The room was dark again. The city lights cut across the hard planes of his chest.
No words. G crossed the room, his eyes black in the shadows. He grabbed Dunk by the back of the neck and kissed him, a violent, claiming kiss that tasted of coffee and intent. Dunk kissed back just as fiercely, biting G’s lower lip, tasting blood.
“You liked it, didn’t you?” G growled into his mouth, walking him backward toward the bedroom. “Being that good for him? Knowing you learned it all from me?”
“Shut up,” Dunk gasped, tearing at the waistband of G’s pants.
“You liked knowing my cock was in you while you kissed your pretty co-star.”
They stumbled into the bedroom. G spun Dunk around and shoved him forward, face-down onto the futon. The faded floral blanket scratched his cheek. He heard the click of the lube bottle.
G’s weight came down on him, pinning him. His teeth grazed Dunk’s shoulder, right over the existing bruise. A fresh pain-pleasure bloomed.
“Lesson three,” G growled in his ear, his voice dripping with a dark, possessive venom. “Prep work. Pay attention. This is the part you imagine Joong doing tomorrow.”
A slick, thick finger pressed against him, not asking, just breaching. Dunk cried out, his fists clenching in the blanket. It was rougher than last time, impatient. G worked his finger in deep, crooking it, scissoring him open with ruthless efficiency.
“Fuck, you’re still loose from me,” G muttered, the words a hot, obscene whisper. He added a second finger, the stretch a bright, burning ache. “Still mine. You take my fingers so well. Imagine it. His cock. Stretching you open like this. While you think of me.”
Dunk was dissolving, his hips pushing back against the invasion, his own cock leaking onto the sheets. The filth of the words, the brutal penetration, the sheer psychological fuckery of it—it unspooled him completely.
“I’m not thinking of him,” Dunk sobbed, the admission ripped from him. “I’m thinking of you. It’s always you.”
G stilled. The fingers inside him curled, a punishing, perfect pressure that made Dunk see stars. Then they were gone.
He heard the tear of foil, the frantic slick of lube.
G shoved his sweats down and notched himself at Dunk’s entrance. He didn’t pause. He didn’t ask. He gripped Dunk’s hips hard enough to bruise and slammed all the way in with one brutal, shearing thrust.
The scream that tore from Dunk’s throat was raw, animal. It was too much, too fast, a glorious, punishing fullness that blotted out every thought, every fear, every shred of tomorrow.
G set a savage, unrelenting pace. Each drive punched the air from Dunk’s lungs, each withdrawal a cruel emptiness. The futon rocked against the wall with a rhythmic thud. G fucked him like he was exorcising a demon, or worshiping one, his breaths ragged grunts against Dunk’s spine.
“This is what you wanted,” G chanted, a brutal mantra. “This is what you came back for. To get fucked. To be used. To remember who you belong to.”
“Yes!” Dunk screamed, his voice breaking. He was hurtling toward the edge, his orgasm building not from friction but from the devastating totality of the act—the submission, the possession, the raw, ugly truth of it. “Yours! God, G, I’m yours!”
The words shattered G’s rhythm. With a guttural roar, he plunged deep, holding himself there as he came, his body shuddering violently. The hot, pulsing release inside was the final trigger. Dunk’s own orgasm ripped through him, blinding, silent, wrenching every last piece of his composure from his body.
G collapsed on top of him, a dead weight. They were both slick with sweat, gasping like drowned men.
In the heavy, spent silence, G’s mouth found Dunk’s ear. His voice was a shattered, broken thing.
“Now you’re fucked for tomorrow, too.”
He rolled off, leaving Dunk empty and freezing on the soaked sheets. The hum of the city seeped back in. The chapter was closed. The lesson was over. All that was left was the consequence, slowly seeping into Dunk’s bones, colder than any come, deeper than any kiss.