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The red clay crunched beneath Ryan's boots. He stepped out of the transport van and onto the set of 'X-Men Origins Wolverine'. Trailers, cranes, cables tangled like metallic vines, and tents formed a temporary city. Morning's first rays began to burn away the haze that covered the distant Sydney skyline, but the set already buzzed. Dozens of figures moved with purpose, their voices hushed murmurs or commands through headsets. Wheeled carts stacked with equipment, footsteps thudding rhythms against the hard earth. Makeup artists, their kits clutched tightly against their chests, hustled between stations, their faces already set with the day's determined focus.
Ryan paused, his lungs drawing a breath he hoped looked casual but felt anything but. Okay. Alright just... pretend you've been here before, a voice, thin and panicky, whispered in his head. This was bigger. Bigger than the tiny Canadian indies, bigger than the sitcom guest spots, bigger than anything he'd ever imagined. Bigger crews, bigger expectations, a budget that could fund a small country. He'd run lines a hundred times last night but none of them had prepared him for the tidal wave of nerves currently making his legs feel like jelly.
He adjusted the worn canvas bag over his shoulder, the strap digging into his collarbone, and started across the clay. His gaze darted, searching for a landmark, a familiar face, anyone who looked like they wouldn't mind pointing him toward wardrobe. He tried to project an air of calm competence, a seasoned professional, even as his stomach churned with the cold dread of a rookie on his first day.
"Ryan!" The shout ripped through the air, loud and clear, echoing between the metal sides of the trailers. Ryan froze. His blood turned to ice. No way. He knew that voice. Impossible. He turned, slowly, as if caught in a dream.
Between two colossal trailers stood Hugh Jackman himself. The man grinned, a wide, genuine flash of teeth, as if they were old friends instead of total strangers. He wore half of his Wolverine getup: a white vest, the dog tags gleaming against the broad expanse of his chest hair. His hair, already styled into that iconic wolverine silhouette.
"You're-" Ryan started, his finger lifting, pointing awkwardly, then dropping. The words caught in his throat. "Calling your name?" Hugh laughed, the sound rich and warm, carrying easily across the distance. He strode forward, his walk loose, powerful, saturated with the easy confidence of someone who'd known the entire crew for years. "Of course I am! Come here, mate."
Before Ryan could figure out how to position his limbs and respond to this surreal moment, Hugh closed the distance. He wrapped Ryan in a warm, tight hug, a solid embrace that smelled faintly of leather and something fresh, like eucalyptus. Ryan blinked, stunned, his mind struggling to process. Hugh Jackman is hugging me. Hugh Jackman knows who I am.
When Hugh stepped back, his hands remained on Ryan's shoulders, steady and reassuring. The warmth seeped through Ryan's thin t shirt. "Big first day, huh?" Hugh's voice was low and kind, a deep rumble that immediately soothed Ryan's anxiety.
Ryan tried to play it cool, a smirk pulling at his lips, though his heart still hammered against his ribs. "Is it that obvious?" Ryan giggled shyly. "Only because I've been there." Hugh replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The sincerity in his gaze was reassuring. "Sets like this can swallow you if you let them. But don't worry, we're going to make sure you're comfortable. You're part of the family now."
Something unknotted in Ryan's chest at those words, a tight ball of tension unwinding, melting away. He'd admired Hugh for years, from the power of his performances to the cheeky charm of his interviews, to the way the man seemed to radiate generosity and an almost impossible warmth. And now, standing here in the early morning quiet, that admiration settled into something deeper. Awe. Fondness. That rare, startling sense of connection you don't expect to find on your first day at work, especially not from a global superstar.
"Thanks." Ryan said softly, the word barely a whisper. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some composure. "Really. That means more than I can explain without sounding like a complete disaster of a person."
Hugh grinned, a flash of perfect, white teeth. "Trust me, you're doing better than most on day one. Come on, I'll walk you to wardrobe." He slapped Ryan lightly on the shoulder, then gestured with a tilt of his head.
As they headed off together, their boots crunching a synchronized rhythm across the red clay, the set didn't feel quite so overwhelming anymore. The trailers still loomed, the cranes still stretched skeletal arms towards the sky, but the sharp edges of his fear had softened. Maybe Hugh was right. Maybe everything would be okay.
Hugh walked beside him with an easy confidence, his broad shoulders swaying slightly with each step. He chatted about the day's schedule, the call times, the specific shots they needed to get, as if they'd known each other for years, swapping stories over morning coffee. Ryan nodded at the right moments, interjecting a mumbled "Yeah" or "Right" when appropriate, but most of his awareness was locked on the stunning man next to him. On the warmth of his presence, the deep timbre of his voice, the way sunlight made his hazel eyes sparkle.
Get it together, Reynolds. The thought, sharp and sudden, sliced through the haze of his awe. You're on a film set, not on a date you didn't know you were on. And yet.. something strange kept tugging at him. A fluttering in his stomach, a giddy feeling that he couldn't chalk up to first day nerves anymore. He stole a glance at Hugh: at the sculpted lines of his arms, veins visible beneath his tan skin, how he walked with his head held high. He felt heat rise to his face, a blush that prickled his cheeks.
Okay. Nope. Absolutely not. This is new. This is confusing. What are we doing here, brain? He'd been attracted to people before, of course. To women. It had always been clear, uncomplicated. But never like this and never to a man. It wasn't something he'd prepared for, not something he'd even considered. He had no idea what to do with the swirl of admiration, fascination, and… whatever else was happening under his ribs.
Still, he said nothing. The feelings remained a secret storm, brewing beneath the surface. As the day unfolded, Ryan threw himself into his scenes, determined to prove he belonged here, to silence the shouting of his own emotions. The crew, initially a blur of unfamiliar faces, began to blend into individuals: a kind lighting technician, a straight forward script supervisor, and a director who gave calm, precise instructions. They were supportive, their professionalism a steadying force. Hugh checked in on him every few hours, a quick thumbs up or a cheeky wink from across the set, a quiet joke shared between takes that made Ryan laugh harder than he should have, the sound bright and a little breathless.
Every time Hugh smiled at him, that unfamiliar flutter returned. Stop it. Just stop. Focus. You are here to work, not internally panic about how handsome Hugh Jackman's face looks up close.
By late afternoon, Ryan's nerves had mostly settled. He found his rhythm, the lines flowing more naturally, his movements less stiff. He began to feel a sense of accomplishment, a quiet pride in his work. Until the final shot of the day. The director called for take after take. The sun dipped lower, casting long, distorted shadows across the set. The air grew cooler, a brisk wind whipping through the trailers. Ryan flubbed a line. Then another. He stumbled over a piece of blocking, his foot catching on an unseen cable. Then he delivered a line that technically wasn't a mistake but felt awkward and stiff. The directors voice, usually calm, grew taut.
When the director finally called cut, the word felt like a judgment. Ryan felt embarrassment crawl hot up his spine, a flush that spread from his neck to his hairline. He wanted to disappear, to disintegrate into the dusty floor. The crew began wrapping cables, coiling them with practiced ease, and powering down lights, plunging sections of the set into sudden darkness.
Hugh, still in partial costume, the dog tags glinting dully in the fading light, approached with a soft, concerned tilt to his brow. His expression was open, empathetic. "How're you feeling, mate?" he asked, his voice gentle. Ryan swallowed. His throat felt tight, constricted. "Like I should've done better. That last take.." He let out a humorless laugh, a short, sharp burst of air. "It wasn't my best. Might've been my worst." He kept his gaze fixed on their boots, unwilling to meet Hugh's eyes.
Hugh moved closer, hands warm and dominant around Ryan's biceps, his thumbs working gentle, calming circles into his muscles. He lowered his voice, making it a private conversation amidst the winding down of the set. "Hey. Listen to me." His tone was gentle but firm, a quiet command that made Ryan look up, finally meeting his gaze. "Everyone has off moments. Everyone. One shaky take doesn't define your work. I’ve had plenty." Ryan shook his head, a quick, dismissive gesture. "Not like that. I don't want the crew thinking I'm some rookie who can't handle it. That I'm wasting their time."
"They don't." Hugh said, his voice laced with a certainty that soothed the panic twisting in Ryan's stomach. "And neither do I." Something in Ryan's chest loosened again, a release he hadn't realized he desperately needed. The warmth of Hugh's reassurance washed over him, grounding him in a way he didn't fully understand, a quiet comfort in the face of his own self doubt.
Hugh turned, his gaze sweeping over the lingering crew members, his voice suddenly projecting across the set with the authority of someone universally respected, someone who commanded attention without effort. "Alright, everyone, back into wardrobe!" he called out. "We're running the scene again." A few people blinked in surprise, their movements momentarily stalled, but they followed without question, a testament to Hugh's command. A few people exchanged glances, but the hum of activity slowly resumed.
Ryan stared at him, bewildered. "Hugh, you didn't have to do that." The words were a choked whisper, barely audible over the renewed clatter of equipment. "Sure I did." Hugh said, flashing that same bright smile that had been messing with Ryan’s head all day. "You deserve a take you feel proud of. And we've got your back." Ryan felt the sting of gratitude rise behind his eyes, a hot sting that threatened to spill over. He blinked it away quickly. He didn't want to cry on day one, not in front of Hugh Jackman, not in front of anyone. "Thank you." he whispered, the words thick with emotion.
Hugh clapped a hand on his shoulder, warm and steady, a dominant weight. "Come on. Let's go nail this thing." As they headed back toward wardrobe, the sun a fiery streak on the horizon, Ryan's thoughts tumbled in a mixture of admiration, awe, gratitude, something dangerously close to longing. Confusion, too. A lot of it. But beneath all that was one clear, unshakable truth: on the biggest set he had ever stepped onto, a place that had threatened to swallow him whole, the person who made him feel safest was the one he'd least expected.
A dark, cool hush settled over the earth, the kind that arrives only after the day has surrendered completely to the night. Ryan's eyes, a deep, restless brown, tracked the broad back of Hugh Jackman as he strode away. The set's chaotic symphony of shouts and distant engine hum fading into a dull throb in Ryan's ears. Hugh's costume, a tight white tank top and dirty blue jeans, clung to his sculpted frame, emphasizing the muscles that rippled beneath the fabric. The man moved with an animal grace even when merely walking to his trailer. Ryan felt a peculiar heat bloom low in his gut, a sensation both foreign and familiar.
"Alright, Reynolds, that's a wrap for you!" The assistant directors voice, sharp and booming, sliced through the fog of Ryan's thoughts. He tore his gaze away from Hugh's thick thighs and firm ass, offering a tight, almost automatic smile. "Alright, See you tomorrow." Ryan replied. The walk to his own trailer felt endlessly long, each step heavy, the desert grit crunching under his boots. The air inside the small space was still thick with the scent of stale coffee. He kicked off his boots, the leather thudding softly against the floor, and peeled off his costume, tossing the rough fabric onto a nearby chair. He stood wearing only his underwear, his reflection in the narrow mirror above the sink showed a man whose usual cool headed nature was momentarily absent, replaced by a subtle tension around his jaw.
He splashed cold water on his face, the shock briefly clearing his head, but one image persisted: Hugh, his effortless smile, sun kissed skin, and the crinkles around his hazel eyes. Hugh's laughter on set, a rich, resonant sound that carried over the hustle and bustle, echoed in his memory. And those arms. Forearms corded with muscle, biceps bulging, a faint tracing of dark hair covering them. Ryan's own muscles, though well defined, felt almost insubstantial in comparison.
A slow, deliberate breath hitched in his chest. He moved to the small, built in sofa, the thin cushions offering little comfort. His fingers, long and nimble, began to trace the line of his own jaw, then drifted lower, to the pulse throbbing at his throat.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the cool trailer wall. The scent of Hugh's cologne, a subtle, woody spice, seemed to linger in the air, a ghost of his presence. Ryan imagined Hugh's hand, rough and warm, closing around his own. He pictured those strong fingers, calloused from lifting weights and wielding prop claws, brushing against his skin. A shiver, involuntary and potent, coursed through him.
His underwear felt suddenly too tight. He pushed them down, letting them pool around his ankles, his cock, already stirring, sprang free, jutting out from a nest of soft brown hair. He reached for it, his fingers closing around the warm, velvety shaft. The sensation was immediate and intensely pleasurable. But his mind wasn’t on his own body. It was on Hugh.
He saw Hugh's face, etched in the golden light of the desert sunset, a smile playing on his lips, those hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. He pictured Hugh's body, the broad chest, the tight, sculpted abs, the V line disappearing beneath his trousers. He imagined those thick, powerful thighs. His thumb brushed the head of his cock, a soft pressure. He remembered Hugh's voice, a deep, melodious growl that had sent a curious vibration through Ryan's own chest earlier that day. "Good take, mate." Hugh's voice, a warm baritone, had been directed at him, a genuine compliment. Ryan had felt a blush rise to his cheeks, a sensation he hadn’t experienced in years.
He shifted on the sofa, a low groan escaping his lips. His grip tightened, his fingers working his cock with increasing speed. He imagined Hugh's cock, he's sure it would be thick, heavy and veiny, the pale pink head peeking out from the foreskin. It filled his mind. He imagined it pressing against his own lips, the smooth, hot head nudging his mouth open. He sucked in a breath, his other hand flying to his mouth. He jammed two fingers, then three, into his mouth, sucking them hard, taking the tips deep into his throat. He tasted salt and the faint metallic tang of his own skin. He imagined it was Hugh's cock, long and hard, sliding between his lips, filling his mouth.
He moved his fingers in and out, a rhythmic, desperate motion, his tongue swirling around them, tasting them, working them. A guttural moan tore from his throat, muffled by his fingers. He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, trying to deepen the fantasy, to make it more real. He felt the wetness gathering at the tip of his own cock, the insistent throb building. The scent of his arousal, musky and strong, filled the small space. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving.
He imagined Hugh's hips thrusting, a slow, powerful rhythm, driving his cock deeper into Ryan's imaginary mouth. He pictured the bulge of Hugh's balls, heavy and full, slapping against his chin. He heard the wet, sucking sounds, the imaginary 'plapping' of skin against skin, the rugged groans. His fingers in his mouth worked faster, more frantically, his tongue desperate and seeking. He bit down gently on one finger, feeling the faint pressure, imagining the head of Hugh's cock, dripping and ridged, pressing against his soft palate, threatening to choke him.
"Hugh.." The name was a whispered plea, a ragged exhale of air. His cock was throbbing now, a relentless pulse. He felt the tightening in his balls, the exquisite tension building behind them. He leaned forward, his back arching, his hips grinding against the sofa. His fingers in his mouth were wet with saliva, glossy and warm, mimicking the feel of a real cock.
He opened his eyes, staring at the dimly lit ceiling of the trailer, the metal blurring. He saw Hugh's face again, those hazel eyes now hidden, clenched shut with pleasure, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. He imagined Hugh's hand reaching out, gripping the back of Ryan's head, forcing him down, deeper.
A violent shudder ran through him. His body tensed, every muscle stiffening. The pressure in his groin became unbearable, a sweet, agonizing ache. He felt the first tremor, a tiny ripple, then a wave. "Ah..hnngh..." The sounds were torn from him, raw and desperate. His hips bucked, his cock spurting, a hot, thick gush of cum painting his stomach and thighs. He cried out, a pathetic whine, his fingers still jammed in his greedy mouth, still sucking, still tasting. His body convulsed, shaking, the spasms slowly subsiding.
He lay there, panting, the smell of his own cum sharp in the air, mingling with the faint, phantom scent of Hugh's cologne. His fingers slowly slid from his mouth. He licked them, tasting his own saliva, the lingering tang of his fantasy. His body felt heavy and spent. He looked down at the sticky mess on his stomach, a blush creeping up his neck. The fantasy had been vivid, almost real, but it wasn't real. Hugh was out there, in his own trailer, completely oblivious.
He slowly sat up, reaching for a towel, wiping himself clean. He wondered if he would ever look at Hugh Jackman the same way again. A slow, knowing smile, tinged with a hint of mischief, finally touched his lips. This was going to make working together interesting.