#induck

Oh no, did someone think those were indie, outdoor-set film titles?

No, nono, he heard someone mention Glory Hole Confidential. They know what they’re getting. 

As he smiles at production assistants scurrying about to ready the street for the days filming, he tucks his hand into his pocket and wraps it around his fidget cube, reminding himself that he’s watched every rom-com Amnesty put out in the last three years and he knows he can do this. 

“Indrid! There you are, dear boy.” Ned, the director, appears with remarkable silence for such a large man from around a trailer, “I trust you found accommodations and such without issue?”

“Yes, thank you. Bit of a coincidence, there being an Amnesty Lodge where we’re filming.”

“Not in the least; Amnesty is where our studio took it’s name from. The founders did all their brainstorming and writing there and shot their first film right here in Kepler. Mama, who runs the Lodge, was our first ever final girl. In fact, if you look just there…”

Indrid lets Ned talk as he leads him through the roped off chunks of the street forming the set, immensely grateful that the older man is clearly trying to put him at ease. As Ned is showing him the make-up trailer, a man with bright green eyes and a deep green bomber jacket steps from it. 

Indrid knows him instantly: Duck Newton, the most handsome, most engaging part of Indrid’s deep dive into Amnesty’s videography. 

Duck is playing Drew, a carpenter in the sleepy mountain town that Ryan, Indrid’s artsy, trust-fund laden character arrives in. Being attracted to him will be the easiest part of Indrid’s job. 

He raises his hand in a little wave as Duck looks up from his phone. A round face goes through a dozen emotions before landing on a small smile and an awkward, stiff wave in return. Indrid tries not to read into it; after all, his porn never went mainstream. The odds of lots of people on set, let alone his co-star, having seen it are incredibly low.

—------------------------------------------------------------

Emperor Moth is his fucking co-star. Emperor Moth, the guy Duck has jerked off to at least once a week for years, is apparently the exact same person as Indrid Cold, who Duck has promised to help feel comfortable on his first movie set. 

What the fuck is Duck supposed to do?  

His mind supplies his favorite scene from Bar Room Brat in reply and he shakes his head like that will somehow bang all those memories from his brain and send them out his ears. The guy is probably nervous, Duck knows he was the first time he stepped on a real film set, and Duck wants to help him out, wants him to feel comfy and safe and maybe stay on as part of Amnesty. He’s betting saying “hey, I love your movies” isn’t as welcoming when it means “I’ve seen your dick and know exactly how many piercings you have.”

Joe always says that, while Hallmark doesn’t show it’s actors fucking, he wants his characters to at least seem like they want to. Duck likes to think he walks that line, but what if having Indrid next to him makes him come off as slavering instead of charming? What if he makes him uncomfortable?

He slumps against a brick  wall under the sign for Dave’s Dehumidifiers and takes a deep breath. He’s a professional. Indrid is too. They can just do their scenes and chit chat between them, and no one has to be the wiser that Duck thinks Indrid makes the cutest noises on earth when he cums. 

Rain patters on the pavement and he makes tracks to the Lodge cafe, finding a solo table to read through his script. He’s glad Ned–and, to a lesser extent, Joe–cast him in this one; he knows Late Winter Love is written to fill Hallmarks programming gaps between Christmas and Valentine’s day, but he likes the idea of a love story that takes place after all the bright lights and whimsy of the holidays are past. Yeah, kissing under mistletoe or out in the snow on Christmas Eve is romantic, but so is finding someone who’ll stay by your side when it’s grey and slushy and summer is a thousand years away. Someone who thinks all the presents in the world can’t compare to one rainy afternoon with you. 

His phone dings with a text. It’s a photo from Aubrey, who’s over doing special effects for Dead of Night. It seems Dr. Harris Bonkers, her fifteen pound rabbit, got into the fake blood again. As he’s teasing her that she better shampoo the bloodthirsty monster before Joe finds out, the door dings and Indrid walks into the Lodge. 

Off camera, he favors red-tinted glasses and keeps his silvery hair half-up, making him look even more like someone mashed the one a.m fantasies of a dozen, horny goths and weirdos into one body and set him loose to roam the night. 

Indrid flashes him a smile and he manages one back. As soon as the taller man turns to order, Duck stands, not quite ready to make an ass of himself in front of his co-star, and heads for the door, grateful the whole way that he can’t get a noticeable hard-on. He doesn’t need that embarrassment and neither, for that matter, does Indrid. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Don’t play this too flirtatious just yet. You’re feeling each other out, but neither of you is seeing the other correctly.” Ned hops into his chair, “action.”

“Well, well, back already, city boy?” Duck leans against the wall of the hardware store. 

Indrid turns, arms crossed, and glares at him, “I don’t have to buy anything here, you know.”

“That you don’t. But if you know another place to get the gear to fix busted front door hinges, a stuck window, and a draft that’d kill a polar bear, you better tell me so I can scope out the competition.”

He raises his eyebrows, “How did you know that’s what was wrong? Were you spying on me?” Before Duck can answer he stalks forward, “look, if you think you can pull some kind of, of Deliverance thing on me-”

“Whoah, whoah, hang on.” Duck is bright pink, “I, uh, I was just, I used to live there, uh, uh, fuck” he spits out the last word, “sorry Ned.”

“No harm done, let’s take it again.”

They get the scene in four takes. And so begins a pattern of Duck continually missing lines or coming across as stiff or awkward during their scenes. They always get it in the end, but Indrid’s been in  orgies that were more efficient. 

When he combines this with the fact that Duck is polite but evasive with him off-camera and constantly leaves when Indrid arrives in a space, there’s one, obvious conclusion: Duck’s figured out who he is and his previous line of work. If he wants to be weird about it, fine, that’s his choice, but Indrid worries the awkwardness will be unavoidable in the final take and make them both look bad. At which point he can count his film career as a dead fish in the pond of his dreams. 

It’s time he and Duck have a little chat. 

—------------------------------------------------------------

Duck’s reading his Best Science and Nature Writing compendium when there’s a knock. Opening the door reveals Indrid, whose smile is tight as he says, “May I come in?”

“Oh, yeah, uh, sure.”

He catches a whiff of vanilla as Indrid slips past him, closes the door just as the taller man whirls on him, mouth set in a line. 

“I want you to know that I am not ashamed of my past work. Whatever fears you have or, or ideas you have about it or me are yours to deal with, so please stop fumbling through your lines because you can’t handle talking with someone who’s had sex for money.”

Indrid’s hands, which usually conduct a symphony as he speaks, are jammed in his pockets, and Duck gets the feeling he’s rehearsed this. He also feels like a dick. 

“I, uh, I do know that you’re, uh, you’re Emperor Moth. I actually watch your stuff.”

“Lovely, you’ll get off to me but-”

“Lemme finish. I really, really like your, uh, your other work. Which is why I’ve been so goddamn weird. I didn’t wanna come across as this drooling fanboy who wants you to know he’s seen you gettin’ fucked. You’re my co-star. I, I wanted to make sure you were comfortable and I guess I didn’t pull it off the way I was hoping.” He scratches the back of his neck as Indrid’s hands slip from his pockets and cross his chest. 

“No, you most certainly did not.” He looks at the zig-zags on the carpet, “All the same, I apologize for assuming the worst.”

Duck shrugs, “Guessin’ you’ve had folks be weird about it before.”

“And then some. I, ah, I’ll let you get back to your book.”

He sets a gently hand on Indrid’s shoulder, “How about we get dinner instead? My treat. Feel like we got off on the wrong foot, and since you’re kickin’ ass on set so far, don’t think this’ll be the last time we work together.”

“I’d like that.” Indrid falls into step beside him as they head to the cafe. They give Billy their order and sit in the corner booth, Indrid tracing shapes in the condensation on his water glass. 

“So, uh, how’d you end up auditioning for Amnesty?”

“A friend of mine, Barclay, got cast in the horror side of things. Not Dead of Night; The Woodsman. He’s playing the killer.”

“Damn, that’s a score. That’s gonna be the second, no, third Amnesty one to get a theatrical release.”

“He’s overjoyed.” Indrid smiles, genuine and shy, “and he’s a good friend; he didn’t have to put me in touch with Ned and the casting team, but here we are. As for why I actually tried for it, I want to make them jump to movies. It’s not that I hate what I do, but I like acting much more and I figured the worst they could do was turn me down. Plus this script didn’t make me gag or roll my eyes out of my skull.”

“I hear you.”

“How’d you end up with Amnesty?”

“Had a bit-part as a ranger in Blood Cabin and both Joe and Ned encouraged me to read for more parts. Lucky they did; I like doin’ romcoms, but there ain’t a lot of studios that see me as the romantic lead type. Comic relief if I’m lucky, background dude if I’m not.”

“Which only confirms those studios are run by people with no taste.” The waitress sets their drinks on the table and Indrid dumps sugar into his tea, “I like A Cowboy for Christmas. You wear a Stetson and boots well.”

His smile is turning flirtatious, which is ten times more distracting than when he does it on camera. Duck’s not going to think about anything else for the rest of the night. 

“Thanks. Joe keeps pushing to see if Hallmark will take a movie called A Werewolf for Christmas. Or if they’ll take an actual, decent Halloween rom-com.”

“Now there’s something I’d watch of my own volition.” Indrid rests his elbow on the table and his face in his palm, “out of curiosity, what were you reading?”

“Essay about how carnivorous plants might be able to count.”

Indrid leans a little closer, and Duck realizes he wants him to continue. So he chats about plants until dinner arrives, and which point they switch to debating what genre is hardest to make porn of. And by the time they’re walking back to their rooms, Indrid is sticking close enough to him that his goodnight consists of bumping, cat-like, into Duck’s shoulder and murmuring, “See you tomorrow.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“You know, I told you my favorite film of yours. But you never told me your favorite of my work. That hardly seems fair.” 

The bag of chips crunches between Duck’s hands and Indrid cackles, laying back in the rare burst of sunshine they’re sitting in to eat lunch. 

“It’s alright, you don’t actually have to tell me. I was simply curious as to what you would do.”

“Jerk.” Duck playfully whacks his knee. The best part of them clearing the air has been the ease with which they can talk, how they can joke, how Indrid feels like he’s flirting with his high school crush all over again. 

“Were the Doritos damaged in your alarm?”

“Nah. And, uh, it was Silverlocks and the Three Bears.”

“Mmm, that one was a very nice shoot. Though it’s seldom where people know me from.”

“I watched it the first time because you were in it and there was a trans guy bein a dom, which still feels fuckin impossible to find some days. But I like to re-watch it because…I dunno, it’s so playful? You seem like you’re havin fun.”

“Oh I was.” Indrid stretches out in the sun, relishing the image of Duck on his couch on splayed on his bed, fucking himself with a toy or rubbing his dick with his fingers all because he likes how Indrid looks smiling and on his knees. 

“You know I had a guy dump me because I ‘didn’t take sex seriously? All I did was laugh a lot, and I, I really can’t handle certain kinds of dirty talk. Even if I think it’s hot, if it sounds corny I can’t help it. I crack up.”

“Goodness. That hardly sounds like a dumpable offense. Then again, if my work proves anything, it’s that what turns people on, and off, is incredibly diverse.”

Duck’s smile still seems a bit glum as he asks, “You have a favorite of the ones you made?”

“Not really, though I’m partial to the Bear Hunter series.” He winks Duck’s way, “I like the subject matter.”

Before he can say that he thinks Duck is the best bear to ever cross his path, Ned is calling for them. He’ll just have to wait to show Duck how lucky someone would be to have him.

—--------------------------------------------------------

Wrap days don’t mean much at Amnesty; most of the cast and crew return for multiple shoots a year and keep in touch with each other, so the bittersweetness is reserved for fact they all have to drive back into the city instead of staying out here in the woods.

Ned’s all but confirmed that they’ll cast Indrid opposite him again. Which is good, because they shot their final kiss scene this morning and Duck’s lips are still burning for another. What’s strange is that he hasn’t seen Indrid since they finished the shoot; he can’t have left, he promised Duck he’d see him at the wrap party. 

He unlocks his hotel room and sees the silver hair on his pillow before he even turns on the light.

“Well now, seems like someone’s been sleeping in my bed.”

There’s a snicker and Indrid disappears further under the covers.

He pulls off his shoes, “If he ate my leftovers I’m gonna be pissed.”

“In my defense, they were delicious.” Says a voice muffled by the red-checkered bedspread. 

Duck steps to the edge of the bed, grabs a corner of the covers, and flips them open. 

“Oh no” Indrid, wearing only some tight boxer briefs and a smile, throws a hand over his head, “I’ve been found by a bear.”

“Pfft, teddy bear maybe. I…are those fuckin bear-patterned boxers?”

“Yes. I bought some for a shoot but they’re a very nice texture so I bought more. And I, ah” a blush slides up his chest, though Duck’s gaze stops to admire the silver bars in his nipples, “I thought about being naked when you came in but I didn’t want to presume.”

“Awful thoughtful for a fella who broke in.” Duck crawls onto the bed, “or did someone let you in?”

“I picked the lock.”

“All that trouble just to surprise me? Ain’t you a sweet thing.”

Indrid whines adorably and hides his face in his arm. 

Duck chuckles, “You’ve done porn for years and it’s sweet talk that makes you blush?”

“Yes. Especially when you do it. I love your voice.” Indrid’s breath catches as Duck fiddles with the band of his underwear. 

“Tell me what you want, sugar.”

“You. I want you, I’ve wanted you for weeks and I, we, we don’t have to do anything wild or kinky, just because I do it at work doesn’t mean I need it now, we can just do what you feel comfortable if that’s…what…oh.” Indrid hums happily as Duck kisses him, and when his tongue slips into Duck’s mouth he can feel the piercing. 

“I asked what you want ,sugar.” Duck straddles him, stroking his hair as they kiss and snickers when Indrid’s hands instantly grope his ass.

“Will you tie me up with something? I, I’ve been dreaming about being at your mercy.”

“I can do that.” Duck hops up, searching the room as he sheds his clothes. He settles on using the tie from the complimentary robe instead of his leather belt. When he climbs back into bed, Indrid growls softly and grabs his waist, kissing his belly and pawing his ass and thighs.

“Sugar, if you want me to tie you up you gotta give me your hands.”

“Ugggggghfine.” Indrid puts his hands above his head but keeps his face pressed against Duck. This makes tying his wrists tricky, but Duck doesn’t mind at all. 

“You want me to drive?” 

“For tonight, yes. But know I don’t come by my reputation as a bear tamer lightly; I fully intend you have you tied in all sorts of lovely rope and then fuck every hole you’ll let me.”

“Christ.” Duck straddles his chest, “yeah, yeah let’s do that soon as we’re back in the city. But for now….know you already had dinner courtesy of my fridge. So open up for dessert.”

Indrid “mmphs” as Duck lowers onto his face, and a welcoming mouth and clever tongue set to work on his dick. For a moment, all his insecurities rear up and he wonders if he could ever compare to someone who does this for a living. Then Indrid is moaning and squirming beneath him, and he forgets why he was so worried. 

Bound hands sneak towards his thigh, so he grabs them and pins them to the pillow while his other hand tangles in silver hair, “Uh uh, focus on what I told you.”

There’s a whine and he tugs on Indrid’s hair, grinding against his face, “That ain’t negotiable. Make me cum and, and then we’ll talk oh, ohfuck.” He tightens his grip as Indrid doubles his efforts, losing himself in the eager attention of his mouth and the muffled squeaks and moans as he treats him like a toy. 

His orgasm hits him out of nowhere and remarkably fast. Whether that’s due to the weeks of pent up desire, Indrid’s skill, or some kind of sex magic, he’s not sure, but as he slumps and crawls off his partner, he’s hit with a brilliant idea. 

“AH!Ahhhhhhn Duck please.” Indrid thrashes as Duck strokes his dick. When he tugs one of the nipple piercings, Indrid yelps and moans and fuck does it sound even better in person. 

“Always wondered if that was fun.” He tugs again, “Turns out it is.”

“Ohhhhhgod. A, again, more” Indrid bites his lip as Duck tugs harder. He thought, if he ever get this chance, the hottest thing about this would be Emperor Moth coming apart under him. 

Turns out it’s much hotter to have Indrid, his Indrid, twisting and begging to cum. 

“Okay sugar, since you asked so sweet and look so goddamn cute.” He strokes hard and fast, bending down to tug the silver bar with his teeth, and then cum is spilling down his hands. 

He pants, wiping his hand on Indrid’s discarded underwear. Even in the aftershocks of his orgasm, Indrid turns and wiggles into Duck’s arms, humming happily and peppering his shoulders and chest with kisses. 

“You okay there?”

“I’m wonderful. As are you. So very wonderful.” Indrid cuddles closer, holding him tight, “mmmm, you’re right, you really are a teddy bear. So perfect to hold.”

“Be your teddy bear any time, darlin.” Duck fumbles with the blankets, pulling them up to cover them from the draft coming under the door. 

“Have dinner with me Friday?”