Chapter Text
Most people in this industry, the gay porn industry, knew the name Castor Page.
Well, Ace, actually. Castor Page was just his alias for the industry, an easy anagram from his real name.
It was rare for a performer who mainly played the top to gain recognition. And if that had ever happened, that meant one thing: charisma. Ace had it. His charm didn’t come from fulfilling the dominant, controlling fantasies, instead it radiated from his sweet, warm, and kind neighborhood guy persona he created outside the screen. An energy that made people fantasize about being folded under him, paired with an appearance that wasn’t easily interchangeable.
He did a bottom character once, and it gave the reversal charm from viewers. Paid better. Of course, being the one taking it into the ass was not easy, at least the industry understood that. Back then, he saw it as research, a way to understand what worked for his partners. But that was in his early years. Now, with years of experience and Castor Page becoming a household name, he didn’t need to. He earned double regardless. And six hours of shooting only to walk away with a sore ass the next day? Yeah, he wouldn’t sign up for that again. Ever.
So when he heard he would be paired with a newcomer who had just snagged Best Bottom at the GayVN Awards, Ace was intrigued. Someone willingly taking the hard part and excelling at it? Mad respect.
“Where’s the guy?” Ace asked around as soon as he arrived on set, shrugging off his puffer coat.
The director tilted his head toward a corner of the studio. There he was, Ace’s partner for the shoot, sitting quietly, bent over a consent form. Just another guy, at first glance. Then again, some porn actors looked like regular men you would pass in your neighborhood… just a little hotter.
He was blond. That stood right away, though Ace couldn’t see his face clearly because his bangs hung low as he concentrated on the paperwork.
Right. Paperwork.
“Hey,” Ace greeted, sliding into the seat beside the blond with his own stack of forms in hand. “Castor.” He continued with a friendly, professional smile. A first-time shooting partner didn’t need to know his real name anyway.
The blond finally looked up, consent form half filled. And one thing Ace noticed was that his eyes were colors that Ace couldn’t describe; they were blue, but also green, but also showed a light brown streak near the pupils. They matched well with his golden hair. But what truly set him apart were the scars around his left eye. Striking, undeniable, and rare in an industry that regarded flawless appearances above all else.
God, he is pretty. If this kind of face was coupled with a great performance, no wonder he won the Best Bottom Award in a short time. It all made sense.
“Hey,” he answered shortly and gave Ace a small nod, “Bass.” And in the next heartbeat, his eyes were already back on the paper, as if Ace’s presence hadn’t disrupted his focus at all.
There was a strange tug of curiosity in Ace… was Bass his real name, or just another alias like Castor? Still, it was only fair; Bass knew him by his stage name too. And Ace definitely wasn’t about to sneak a look at the real name on his consent form. Absolutely not.
“So, Bass,” Ace started working on his own paperwork, “heard you from Falcon studio?”
Lame. But it was the only line he could come up with.
Bass, flipping into the next paper now, onto the release form. “I am.” He replied shortly, voice even.
Cold, collected… So that’s the type, huh? A classic cold-beauty bottom. Ace got the idea now, and it sparked something in Ace that only made him even more eager to find out what this cold beauty could bring into bed later, to see how his icy composure shattered when Ace folded him in half with some hilarious scenarios presented to them.
Before Ace could press further, the director and production assistant stepped into their shadows, and like a diligent student he was, Bass collected all needed documents–the consent form, compliance sheet, and STI result, while Ace was left scrambling to finish his own paperwork, signing in a rush.
***
The director and production assistant stayed for a while, going through the boundaries list, which Ace already knew by heart after working for several years in this industry.
“Castor, Bass, are you okay with rimming?”
The question was mostly for Bass, but Ace kept listening and followed up to answer anyway. Just in case. Sometimes things played out differently once the cameras rolled.
“Do you allow cum inside or only external?” The director went on without stopping. “Facial? Chest?”
“I’m okay with all of them.” Bass answered without hesitation.
Ace nearly choked on his own spit. Damn it. As the questions kept rolling, with Bass giving consent to almost all of it, Ace was already gone. He hadn’t heard it wrong.
He was already picturing roughing Bass under him. The moment Bass said he was okay with hair-pulling, Ace’s fingers twitched instinctively, itching to thread through that golden hair and to yank, to twist, driving him to the edge, to the point Bass would be gasping and teary-eyed, begging for more.
And those vivid fantasies had never happened before. Not even when he co-starred with the so-called Most Fuckable Bottom from the social media polls. Why the hell was he acting like some rookie again around Bass?
And here it came, a seemingly innocent question across the hardcore ones. “Do you consent to kissing?”
“Kissing is okay,” Bass answered again calmly, then turned his gaze toward Ace. “How about you?”
“I-uh,” his throat tightened. Why the heck was he shy with the idea of kissing like some high schoolers? “Kissing is okay if it’s with you.”
Now, that came out weird.
The director continued shooting questions, noting ‘fire’ as their safeword, before waving them toward the green room.
“I need to stretch.” Bass murmured as he passed by, and Ace’s ears caught it instantly.
His lips curled. Perfect. An opening.
He trailed after Bass, not too close, keeping a respectful distance, but leaned just enough for his voice to carry in a low, teasing whisper:
“Don’t start early.”
Bass stopped in his tracks and Ace felt he was winning already. Was he coming off as a pushover senior? Nah, Ace didn’t care. He needed to see this guy crack, even if it took hours. Six hours of shooting suddenly didn’t sound bad.
What Ace didn’t expect was a reply from Bass that came after:
“Well, making sure my legs will spread well.” Bass replied without any hint of mischief, just pure professionalism. And he went away, straight to the green room, leaving Ace frozen, burning with frustration.
Fuck.
***
They shared the green room. It took everything in Ace not to steal a glance every two seconds at Bass. That blond guy smiled sweetly at the makeup artist, not only that, his energy was bubbly and friendly to everyone. But not to Ace.
One thing Ace noticed after Bass changed into the filming wardrobe–simple, thin white shirt and barely-there shorts, straight out of a classic porn fantasy–was the scars around his eye crept down along the left side of his body. The make-up artist, Inazuma, did an impressive job at covering Bass’ scars. But every time the foundation kept being applied more and more around the scars, Ace’s stomach twisted in an unpleasant way. He felt an unusual attachment to the scars that weren't even his, like he hated seeing them erased.
“All hair trimmed?” Inazuma asked casually, purely out of professionalism. Yet Ace felt every word pierce him. It was impossible to focus when Inazuma kept asking about Bass’ preparation.
“All clean.” Bass answered casually and Ace wanted to explode, completely not thinking about where exactly the clean parts were, his mind racing in directions he shouldn’t have been imagining.
“You are staring,” Izo, the other makeup artist, pulled Ace from his train of thoughts while touching up his hair a little bit. “You really think he won’t notice you staring through the mirror?”
“I was… getting into character,” Ace replied, though the heat creeping up his neck betrayed him. Izo just laughed, giving his shoulder a friendly pat. With all preparations done, Izo and Inazuma left, leaving Ace alone with Bass in the green room.
Shit, this was messing with his head. He felt like some nervous amateur. In the mirror, Bass sat there casually flipping through a magazine, completely unbothered. His bare legs crossed in an inviting way, gleaming deliciously from the lotion he had rubbed all the way up to his thighs, and that damned white shirt with almost underwear-like shorts did nothing to calm the hunger crawling under Ace’s skin.
Remind him again, who was supposed to be the experienced one here?
“Hey,” Ace broke through the heavy silence. He was desperate to talk with him. “You want to run through the boundaries again?”
Bass didn’t even blink. “We already did that with the director.”
“Yeah, but-” Ace rubbed the back of his neck, still staring at Bass through the mirror. His gaze was unreciprocated. “I want to hear directly from you. Makes me feel better knowing we are good.”
Then he saw it; Bass raising an eyebrow, staring back at him through the mirror before closing the magazine. He propped his elbow on the armrest, resting his chin on his palm. “Fine, what do you want to know?”
“Everything.” Ace replied too quickly, his gaze didn’t leave the mirror, watching the other guy like a starving man. Like he could eat him through the mirror. “What’s off-limits?”
Bass listed them evenly, no hesitation, no fluster. And as Ace listened, his pulse climbed higher. Bass allowed almost everything. Rimming, deepthroating, cumming inside, cumming anywhere, rough positions, hair-pulling, face-fucking. God. And when Ace asked, “Choking?” Bass gave a short nod like it was the most casual thing in the world.
“Holy shit.” Ace breathed, realizing he had been holding his breath for a while. “I’ve been doing this for years, and there’s always…. always. A line. Somewhere. But you’re just sitting here like… like you would let me do anything I want and call it a day?”
“Yes,” Bass said simply.
Ace dropped his head into his hands, groaning. “Fuck me.”
“That’s not usually my role,” Bass deadpanned and Ace could see that he wasn’t joking. That indifference. Ace swore to God, it would kill him.
It was enough to make Ace spring up from his seat, turning fast to Bass, and finally, Bass was looking back at him with those… eyes. “You are telling me, I can do anything to you and you will just take it?” His voice came out louder than he realized.
“That’s what I’m getting paid for.” Bass shrugged again, perfectly unbothered.
Ace threw his head back with a groan, burying his face in both hands. Bass would really be the death of him.
***
When Ace walked into the set, a sense of familiarity and a small wave of calmness washed over him. The set itself was nothing crazy, just a simple living room perfectly fitting for their scenes. A stepbrothers’ sex scenario. Taboo to some, sure, but it would never fail to work. People could be so hypocritical about the things they secretly loved. Because the market's tastes were predictable, even if they pretended otherwise.
Besides, this pairing had its own pull: Castor Page, the seasoned veteran everyone loved, and Bass, the rising newcomer everyone was waiting to see.
This was not the first time Ace filmed a stepbrother scenario. He had done plenty of them with different twists and premises. When he read the script for this shoot, it was nothing groundbreaking: two people who hated each other. Became stepbrothers. They fucked. Simple and easy. Almost too fitting, given the way Bass acted around him.
But the complicated and hard part was not the script. It was keeping himself from jumping on Bass the moment he stepped into the set, still looking fresh. Ace didn’t even understand. This was their first time meeting in person, and yet every instinct in him screamed to pin Bass down and fuck him senseless.
Ace kept his composure when Bass stepped closer, trying his best to be calm while letting Izo comb his hair one last time before shifting his focus on the laptop, a simple shooting prop in front of him. Ace slipped into the role of a college student buried in assignments. Papers and books scattered across the coffee table while he sat on the floor, shirtless, in sweatpants, and leaning against the foot of the couch.
The director’s cue came: camera rolling.
Ace didn’t have to look to know when Bass joined the scene. He felt it in the slight dip of the couch behind him, the subtle shift of weight as Bass slid into place, his long frame laid across the couch like he owned it, head propped on the palm of his bent arm.
“You are actually studying for once,” Bass began, just like in the script, slipping easily into the role of the smug stepbrother who always excelled in class. His lips curved faintly as he added, “Your trash GPA finally slapped some sense into you?”
It sounded too natural. Bass delivered the line as if they really were college classmates who couldn’t stand each other. He didn’t soften the bite of his teasing, not even with Ace being the actual veteran in this field.
“At least I didn’t lick the professor’s boots to pass the class,” Ace retorted back, again still sticking to the script.
Bass gave him a mocking scoff. “The professors like me because I’m a good student, don’t get it twisted.”
“Yeah, you keep asking questions in class while batting your eyelashes. Pretending you’re cute. Any old man would fall for that.” Ace’s eyes flick over Bass, acting like an annoyed man. But his thought was contradictory. Bass doesn’t need to pretend to be cute.
And the next thing written on the script was that Bass’ irritation had to spill over, so he did exactly that. “It’s not my fault that they like me. You are jealous and angry all the time!” he snapped, finally pushing himself upright on the couch. Ace could feel the other man’s gaze burning into his back. By not even turning around, he only fed into Bass’s character’s frustration, making the outburst hit harder. “God, I hate living with you!”
Ace's fingers stopped typing on the keyboard, head eventually turned around to face Bass.
Oh, Bass finally looked at him with a flicker of anger, an emotion. Though it was just acting, it was enough for Ace to glimpse what might be hiding underneath. What if Ace pushed for more? Would he break immediately?
“Then you should stop running your mouth off.” Ace replied, reminding himself not to make a detour far from the script.
“Fuck you.”
That was another cue, Ace rose and Bass played his part, acting as if he was caught off guard just before Ace grabbed both of his wrists and shoved him back hard against the couch, and Ace instantly climbed onto the couch, looming over Bass. The cameraman swiftly followed, Bass’ wincing face was worth a shot.
“You talk big for a little brother,” Ace whispered against Bass’ ear, closer than the script required. The faint grimace that flickered across Bass’ face snapped something inside him, making Ace’s pulse spike, his grip tightening without meaning to. The urge to pin him harder, to see how far that cold composure could bend before it shattered.
“We–we are only two months apart.” Bass replied and flinched in the next beat, as if he realized he accidentally said too much and Ace caught it instantly–Bass made a mistake. But the director didn’t make a call, and Bass continued quickly to cover it up by scrambling back into the script again, “You are not my real brother.”
But the slip clung to Ace like fire under his skin.
We are only two months apart.
Was Bass improvising, trying to crank up the heat by playing with age dynamics? Or did he know Ace’s real birthday? That would be even filthier. Either way, the thought made Ace’s heart pound. Heat curled in his gut, but he forced himself to stay grounded. Then from the corner of his eyes, he could see the assistant director making a sign, it was time to move into the kiss.
And Ace kissed him hard. Like he was trying to swallow Bass completely. Bass’ mouth tasted like a mix of mint and strawberry that Ace already knew by heart. He had tasted it in every actor that he kissed; mint from toothpaste or candy from the shooting preparation, and the strawberry came from the chapstick that most actors applied in the green room.
But Ace didn’t need to taste other actors on Bass. He wanted more. Ace licked deeply, greedily. He wanted to swipe them all clean, desperate to strip away the artificial layers until only Bass remained. Raw, unflavored–his real taste. And when Bass went sloppy beneath him, Ace didn’t care. He wanted to devour it all.
Ace knew this wasn’t professional of him, but the director didn’t call cut, and Bass had given permission to do anything to himself. So Ace didn’t bother to stop, he angled his face, guiding Bass by the chin so their lips could slot better. The kiss burned hot, messy, and overwhelming. Bass struggled to keep pace, his hand landing against Ace’s chest in a weak slap that carried no real threat, just the kind of resistance that only made Ace want to push harder.
Only when Ace was about to grind, the director finally made a call. Ace held back his curse and broke the kiss reluctantly. With the small distance between them, he caught the ragged sound of Bass’ breath, the way he gasped for air. Bass turned his face away, brows drawn tight in an unreadable expression, the back of his hand pressed over his mouth as if guarding against another kiss from Ace.
Ace pulled back when the staff stepped into the set, arranging the lighting to fit the mood for the next scene. The director checked up on them, making sure that everything was still fine to go on.
When they finally had time to slow down and Ace was going to ask about the slip–
“Can I do the final check again?” Bass asked the director, who agreed easily. Final check. Yeah. Ace knew exactly what that meant: Bass was going to reapply the lube himself, making sure he was ready for the sex scene.
The director shifted his attention to Ace, his gaze dropped briefly below before staring back into Ace again with slight mischief in his eyes.
“I was about to ask if you also need prep,” the director teased. “But it seems you are more than ready.”
Ace groaned under his breath. He knew full well without anyone telling him. He was already rock hard down there. No drugs. No fluffing. That was the effect that Bass had on his body.