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Connor knows Hudson well enough by now to anticipate some of his antics. He only flinches a little when three loud bangs explode against his hotel room door.
“Room service!” a warped, high-pitched voice rings out from the hallway.
There’s a brief moment where Connor considers whether he really wants to get up and let him in at all—whether that would, objectively speaking, be a wise decision. But the time for musing is short-lived, because Hudson lets himself in. Loudly.
“Honey, I’m hooome!” Hudson sings.
Connor refrains from responding until he hears the door swing shut behind him. Waits for the familiar clatter of Hudson yanking off his shoes. “Y’know,” Connor says at last, projecting his voice so it carries from the bed to the entrance, “this hotel is pretty fancy. I think it’s bad form to yell in the hallway—especially if you aren’t a guest here.”
“It’s cool, that’s why you gave me a copy of your key card, right?” Hudson calls back.
Connor’s about to respond in the negative when he hears the toilet lid crack lightly against the porcelain, followed by an obnoxious hiss and an even more obnoxious sigh.
“Close the door,” Connor says, for what must be the five-billionth time.
Hudson’s answering laugh echoes off the bathroom tile as he flagrantly ignores him. He finishes what is, honestly, an impressively long continuous piss. There’s a clatter as he washes his hands—something nearly knocked over—followed by a muttered curse under his breath. Connor rolls slightly onto his side, reaching for the long-abandoned TV remote to shut off the car commercial blaring from the screen just as the bathroom light stops casting shadows against the far wall.
“Perv. Stop listening to me pee,” Hudson titters as he emerges, tossing his phone and wallet onto the ornate cuck chair closest to the TV.
Connor busies himself rearranging the pillows into a more space-sharing-efficient configuration. “I hate when you take my complaining time and make it your own.”
“I was already finished pissing by the time you started to whine, you big baby,” Hudson shoots back—a blatant lie, sans a shred of shame.
Connor looks over just in time to catch Hudson sliding out of his suit coat and draping it over the chaise adjacent to the cuck chair. He makes the mistake of making eye contact, which seems to unlock some rarely dormant predator instinct within Hudson that provokes him to grin and immediately charge the bed.
"That’s not—no, nonononono—”
Hudson collapses on top of him, the impact knocking identical oofs out of both of them. Thankfully, Hudson is practiced enough at this sort of thing to know how to tackle without genuinely bruising—though there might be a real cracked rib buried somewhere under all his sudden weight, crushing Connor into the mattress.
“Didya see me, didya see me? On the TV—didya see me?” Hudson chants, fingers digging into Connor’s sides with merciless accuracy.
Connor yelps, squirms, writhes—fails entirely to discard Hudson to the side. Sometimes he feels like a bit of a poser. He would never admit it out loud, but his build is mostly vanity muscle, and with Hudson it’s unmistakable who would win in a legitimate fight. Hudson isn’t really fighting him now—Connor knows better than to engage him in an actual wrestling match—but still, Hudson has this way of making the length of his body go leaden, dead weight so significant it could probably sink ships.
Hudson relents only when Connor honest-to-god squeals and finally blurts, “Yes!—ah, cut it the fuck out—Hudson, I saw. Everyone and their mom saw you almost slap Jimmy Fallon’s ass on live television.”
Hudson laughs, immediately abandoning his attack and transforming into the world’s most boy-shaped mountain dog. “Improvised that bit, can you believe it? Jimmy said it was inspired.”
His breath smells faintly of tequila. Connor can also smell cigarette smoke clinging to his collar, riding the edge of his cologne.
“Oh, I can believe it,” Connor says, using all his remaining energy to try and really get Hudson off him—managing about one centimetre of movement up the bed.
“As you should. But seriously—notice how I called him Jimmy, not Mr. Fallon? He told me not to. I called him Mr. Fallon when they brought me in for prep and I for real saw something power down and die right behind his eyes, Concon. He’s genuinely a fucking robot, I’m so serious.” Hudson sighs, long and wistful, hot air brushing right up against Connor’s ear. “What a magical night.”
There’s a pause where they both catch their breath. Absorbing the state of themselves. Magical night. Magical lives.
“You were great, Hud. Really,” Connor eventually sighs back, giving in to the impulse to hug Hudson tight—earning an answering rumble of contentment. Hudson really was fantastic. Oozing charm all over the stage. It took Connor thirty minutes to get through a barely nine-minute video because he kept pausing and rewinding to admire the pink of his ears, the boyish tilts of his head.
“I was great,” Hudson agrees, lifting himself up on his elbows. “So. You ready for us celebrate how great I am?”
Connor looks at him blankly. Then over at the clock on the bedside table. It’s nearly 1 a.m. “Didn’t you just come back from the after-party?”
Hudson flashes that conman grin. “Us being the operative word here. That was my celebration—and a networking one at that. And you weren’t there. What are we gonna do, Connie-baby?”
Connor hisses through his teeth with a wince. “Ah—listen, man. I wanted to be awake in case you wanted to debrief in full, but I’m pretty fuckin’ beat—”
“Noooo,” Hudson whines before Connor can finish half-assing an excuse, collapsing back onto him with full dead weight again. “I was scrambling to get away as fast as I could so that we could get lit togetherrr…” His voice vibrates warmly against Connor’s throat. Big, spoiled, disgruntled puppy.
“How many shots and accidental smokes did you manage to fit in while you were ‘scrambling to get away’?” Connor mumbles.
He hopes he doesn't do too bad of a job of keeping the genuine gripe out of his voice. It really is late, and Connor is exhausted. He can hardly fathom the idea of picking up the phone to order room service, much less getting dressed to go out. He’s been around far too many people today—for the past several weeks, actually. Having all your dreams come true has turned out to be rather fucking exhausting. The last thing Connor wants is to willingly submit himself to a night of public appearance that’ll get dissected on Twitter or turned into a TikTok spread across hundreds of thousands of Instagram stories. His apps are on an indefinite deletion—his longest streak yet—and he’s struggling to find the willpower to redownload just to look at fan art or obsessively stalk his new, affluent following.
He’d much rather stay here. In this bed. Fall asleep to Hudson touching his hair, recounting the glitz and glam and chaos of his first late-night appearance.
He definitely does a bad job because Hudson lifts himself up again, another sly smile already curling across his face. “Aww, did you miss me? M’sorry I kept you waiting, sweetheart—but that’s why they’re accidental.” He pauses to push Connor’s curls away before leaning down and planting a wet, smacking kiss in the center of his forehead.
“We can do something chill, how about that? Somethin’ low-effort. Just for you, my sweet sleepy friend.”
Hudson hauls himself up and launches into the empty expanse of bed to Connor’s right with a little giggle, ignoring the scolding smack Connor delivers to his back as he goes.
Connor feels some of that infectious giddiness echo in his own chest despite himself. Their lives are fucking unreal. This is the nicest hotel he’s ever stayed in—king-sized bed, sheets so soft they feel otherworldly, like they might dissolve if you hold them too tightly. A minibar he helped himself to a couple hours ago not because he needed it or even particularly wanted it, but because he could. Connor doesn’t even like vodka that much, but what he tried tasted like money spilling directly down his throat. He knows Hudson was put up in a hotel just as nice as this one, roughly a thirty-minute drive away. But Hudson chose to come here tonight.
Connor thinks about that as he watches Hudson get comfortable, reclining back into the fine downy pillows, the long stretch of his body a dark, finely dressed cutout against all that white bedding. Sober Hudson would be fussing over the borrowed shirt and slacks, worried about wrinkles and returns and appearances. This Hudson, though, is clearly tipsy—riding an incredible performance high, the lingering euphoria of being greeted and dispatched from an A-list appearance surrounded by people who’d shown up just for a glimpse of him.
Connor doesn’t want to sour it. So he stays quiet. Doesn’t remind Hudson that all of this has to be returned tomorrow.
“Chill sounds good,” Connor agrees.
He watches Hudson struggle with his cuff links for about two seconds before sitting up and reaching out to help. Hudson lets him easily, holds his wrists out in front of himself patiently while Connor works the small metal finery free.
When he’s done, Connor turns to set them down on the bedside table. “What are you thinking?” He asks. The light catches brilliantly on the gold wash. They’re heavy. Expensive, probably. Connor imagines one slipping from the table, disappearing forever into the hotel carpet, and immediately opens the drawer instead, tucking them safely inside.
Hudson hums, thoughtful. “I’m thinking you should blow me.”
Connor whips his head around to find Hudson idly toying with the matching gold link dangling from the apex of his shirt collar, utterly unbothered. “Oh, fuck off.”
“I’m serious! I—” Hudson starts, mouth curling with a grin before he abandons the sentence entirely and leans forward, baring his throat. “—wait. Help.”
Connor scoffs, shaking his head, and makes quick work of removing the collar link, dropping it into the drawer with the rest. “No. You’re a freak. And I’m going to bed.”
“Thanks,” Hudson says, selective hearing at its finest. “And no, you aren’t. You asked me how I wanted to celebrate—” He thumbs open the third button of his shirt, the collar gently parting around his neck, and flops back against the bed again. “This is how.”
Connor worries for his carbon footprint whenever Hudson is around, he sighs so much it can't be good for the environment. “This is your idea of a low-effort way for us to celebrate? Me providing you with a sexual favour? That’s the best you’ve got?”
Hudson shrugs, entirely unrepentant. “Pretty low effort from where I’m laying comfortably.” He gestures vaguely at himself, then winks when Connor’s expression doesn’t change. “Besides, sexual favour implies the potential for it to be repaid. Not a bad deal for you either.”
“Oh gee, thanks for your generosity, Mr. Williams,” Connor snaps. “How can I ever repay you.”
When Hudson opens his mouth to say, “You can start by blowing me—” Connor immediately grabs a pillow and whips it at his head, which Hudson immediately deflects to the floor with infuriating ease.
Hudson is maybe one of the most annoying people Connor has ever met—but his grin hits him square in the chest every time. Connor has to consciously steel himself to not answer with his own on instinct, and instead summon his best I’m Actually Done, Hudson face. “It’s been a long day, Huddy. C’mon.”
“No you c’mon. Is my special day, Hollander,” Hudson simpers, his mock Russian accent thick and cloudy on his tongue. Connor's eyes follow despite himself as one of Hudson's hands works his belt buckle open, leaves it loose and waiting for Connor to deal with before he tucks both palms behind his head and settles into a perfect picture of smarmy, entitled relaxation.
“We’ve both been busy as fuck. If anything, it’s our night—”
“Nuh uh.” Hudson shakes his head, mouth bulging a little with his tongue digging into the inside of his cheek, already smug about it. “You agreed with me that the night shows are different. Tonight was my night with Jimmy—”
“Can I be honest? It’s super fucking weird to hear you say the name Jimmy by itself and know you’re referring to Jimmy fucking Fallon.”
“—It can be your special night when your Seth Meyers thing goes live.” Hudson pauses, eyes bright with calculation. “And it feels weird to call him Jimmy, but enjoying your discomfort outweighs my own, so I’m gonna keep doing it.”
Connor narrows his eyes. “You are a very strange and annoying person. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Hudson pouts back at him, a well practiced expression—the inner part of his bottom lip all pink and shiny. “I mean, you say that to me all the time, but according to the rest of the world I’m charming and sexy and adorable, so I don’t even know what to believe anymore…”
Connor wants to suffocate him with one of these luxury pillows. But the worst part is that he also kind of wants to do the other thing.
He’s genuinely tired—brushed his teeth an hour ago already. But he's looking at Hudson and Hudson’s got a shadow of stubble creeping along the edges of his jaw, his styled hair soft and curling against his forehead just so. New York looks good on him. He looks good. And he’s licking his lips the way he always does when he’s looking at Connor’s mouth—and Connor realizes, a second too late, that he’s doing it back.
Connor looks down again, weighing.
The belt is matte black. It didn’t show up well on camera, sank right into Hudson’s silhouette—unobtrusive as he got on all fours and arched his back in front of a live studio audience, a bigger, hungrier mass of fans online, and his mother. And God.
“Does the special night stuff mean that I have to wait for Seth Meyers to get my favour returned?” Connor asks carefully, a finger hooking through the empty buckle.
Hudson doesn’t miss a beat. “At the rate you’re going, it’s gonna have to wait until then,” he says, shirt spreading wider with each button undone. His teeth flash like he knows he’s already won because he has.
Connor is a competitive person. He considers it one of his least favorite things about himself. It’s embarrassing to get worked up over small, stupid things, and worse, it’s a dangerous habit to have around someone like Hudson, who starts fights whether or not he thinks he can finish them, and then frequently does. One of the wondrous, slightly eerie things about his relationship with Hudson is that when Hudson challenges him, Connor doesn’t mind. He doesn’t feel the familiar spike of anxiety, doesn’t dread the possibility of losing. There’s no hollow ache in his chest at the thought of coming in second. Sliding Hudson’s belt free doesn’t feel like losing at all.
Neither does rubbing his hands up the supple fabric stretched tight across Hudson’s thighs—not when Hudson lifts his hips just a fraction off the bed to help Connor tug them down, not when his hands remain pillowed behind his head in a way that stretches the Hobbes inked along the inside of his bicep.
“You were so waiting for this, weren’t you,” Hudson says, licking his lips around a smile.
Connor glares at him just in time to almost catch a knee to the gut as Hudson kicks his pants away.
He ignores the comment entirely, and instead settles between Hudson’s legs and slides onto his stomach, inhaling against the swell in Hudson’s boxers. His eyes fall shut. This is Hudson’s reward—but Connor can still have fun. Hudson loves this shit anyway. Confirmation unnecessary, though still provided by Hudson’s airy, helpless, “Fuck.”
Connor runs his hand down the length of Hudson’s leg, then up again, breathing with the motion—mouth open against the soft shape of him, thickening against his lips through the fabric. The smell is heavy enough to make Connor salivate. Hudson’s been primped and preened a few dozen times today, but a long day is still a long day.
So often they’ve been in a rush—snatching twenty minutes here between hours on set, stealing an hour there from time that should probably be spent sleeping. It’s a luxury to be in the same city. To take it slow. To feel firm muscle under his palms and nuzzle Hudson through his underwear, breathing him in. Connor lets one hand slip from the top of Hudson’s thigh around between Hudson and the bed, claiming a palmful of his ass. He squeezes once, then shifts to pull the short boxers down.
Hudson wiggles, hissing when Connor lets the waistband of his briefs snap lightly against his skin. Connor strokes the backs of Hudson’s knees on the way down, already damp with sweat, then gives one ankle a small squeeze just because he can. On the way back up, Connor plants a hand on Hudson’s inner thigh and nudges it wider, reaching between his legs with the other hand to fondle his balls. Connor wishes that he could be everywhere, all the time.
“How hard was it to keep your boner down when you walked through the curtain?” Connor muses aloud, voice muffled and wet against the soft skin of Hudson’s navel.
“I’m not a thirteen-year-old boy, Concon, I’m a professional—”
The response dies fast. Hudson’s thighs tense beside Connor’s face as he gets a proper handful, and both legs tremble slightly when Connor lets his fingers dip between his ass cheeks, the middle one brushing over his hole.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
"M'not." Connor scoffs, even though he sort of is. Was. Rubs a dry finger pad against the furled muscle of Hudson's hole a few times, teeth and tongue scraping closer to where Hudson's really filling out until eventually Hudson bites down on a curse and a hand appears in Connor's hair and pressed him closer to where he wants him.
Fuck.
Connor inhales again, deep, wishing he’d shed his clothes before getting down to it. He doesn’t want to pull away now to do it properly, so he settles for one hand over his own shorts. He realizes he’s already half hard against the warm nudge of Hudson’s leg threading through his—when did that happen? The contact through the thin fabric makes his blood sing.
“Quit fucking around,” Connor whines, grinding down once against Hudson—against sex sells—before manhandling Hudson’s leg back to the side.
Hudson goes easily, laughing at him only a little. “M’sorry. Missed you.” His voice is too affectionate. Too gentle. Connor feels his own expression soften in response, because that’s the other thing. Hudson is sweet.
So are the insides of his thighs—downy-soft hair tickling Connor’s cheeks as he snugs in, hands braced on Hudson’s gorgeous, thick legs. Connor tucks close, that velvety cock sliding hot against his cheek as he kisses the base, nips at the divot of Hudson’s hip.
His gaze drifts upward through his lashes when Hudson’s fingers curl around the shell of his ear to tuck back a lock of hair. Unecessary. Hudson’s parted lips are wet with spit—glossy, perfect for Connor to put his fingers there—but Hudson is petting his head instead, gentle and urging.
Connor spits into his palm, strokes Hudson dry and slow while he gathers more saliva on his tongue. He feels like he’s got dry mouth—probably just a side effect of not having kissed Hudson yet, who’s always a little slobbery. Not in a bad way. Just a little messy. Connor doesn’t mind messy.
He pillows his lips against the tip of Hudson’s cock, dribbling spit as he goes, as if to prove a point to his own inner monologue. Satisfaction blooms warm in his chest when Hudson makes a punched-out sound.
“C’mon,” Hudson says, teasing—but Connor doesn’t miss the plea threaded underneath. “Gonna let me in?”
The hand that’s apparently taken up permanent residence in Connor’s hair drags down the side of his face, Hudson’s thumb pressing lightly against Connor’s lips. Connor nips at it, then grabs Hudson’s wrist to guide the hand back into his hair before finally taking Hudson’s dick into his mouth.
The weight on his scalp tightens into a sweet sting as Hudson’s fist closes, eyes half-lidded, mouth falling open in pleasure. Watching Hudson’s face crumple like this is such a treat that Connor knows exactly where their show has found so much of its success. Very horny people on the internet, nut also the way Hudson’s lip trembles on a sharp intake of breath as Connor suckles at the tip of his cock.
“Ah—you’re so good at this. Perfect for me. Just what I needed,” Hudson says, voice low, as Connor begins to bob his head, one hand pulling lightly on his sac. Connor feels the praise like a physical touch when it sizzles through him, stoking the fire in his gut.
“That’s it,” Hudson murmurs. “You want it bad, huh?”
Connor pulls off just long enough to huff a response. “You were pretty clear about this being your reward, not mine.”
Hudson is unbothered. He curls two fingers around the base of his cock, rubbing the tip up against Connor’s lips. “Mm, yeah. My reward.”
Connor’s brain feels fuzzy with it. Hudson likes praise too—he’s clearly asking for it, and probably deserving of it today. He presses in close, takes Hudson deep into his throat just to watch him choke for it, then lifts off again with an obscene slurp.
“’Cause you were good?” Connor prompts, working Hudson’s wet, hot length in a tight fist. He has to clear his wet throat before the words come out, not entirely confident in how convincing he sounds.
Hudson buys it. The fist in Connor’s hair tightens again, a quick, eager nod. “M’yeah. I was good, right? M’good?”
Close enough. If Connor were in a worse mood, he’d make him cough up something better—but this works. He hums soothingly, holds Hudson’s gaze as he ducks to mouth at his balls, licks down his perineum, flickers his tongue just over his hole.
Hudson whimpers, thumping in his grip. One of Hudson’s hands lands on Connor’s wrist, stopping him with a sharp hiss. “Con—stop—stop, shit—ah—”
Connor feels a mean smile spread across his face. But the hour is late, and his own dick is fucking aching.
“Gonna cum?” Connor rumbles, putting a little bass into his voice because he knows Hudson likes it—maybe more than he should. “Gonna be a good boy for me?”
Hudson’s answering sound is helpless, trapped low in the back of his throat. “Mm—yeah, fuck, Con. Can I? Please? Please—”
God, he’s adorable. Muscles everywhere bulging with the effort of holding himself still, taking only what Connor gives him.
Connor doesn’t reply. He returns to Hudson’s cock, keeps his eyes up on Hudson as best he can with his lips still hugging the head, tonguing the slit. Hudson is gorgeous from any angle, but Connor loves this one most—Hudson gazing down the length of his own body at him, fond and aroused, a desperate pinch between his brows that still carries a remnant of that easy confidence in his dark eyes and the angle of his jaw. Dreamboat seven ways to Sunday.
Connor shoves a hand down his shorts again to grip himself—tight, just holding. He pushes his head down, down, past the retching reflex in his throat and the tears that gather in his water line until Hudson makes a broken little groan. Connor’s eyes blink shut reflexively as the image of Hudson cutting through crowds of fans flashes through his mind—sunglasses on, cocky grin on full display.
When he opens them again, he finds the familiar sight of Hudson’s eyes clenched shut, jaw tight, his cock twitching in Connor’s mouth as the salt of precum bursts bright over his tongue. Connor moves to pull off a little too early by accident and can’t help the pleased little sigh that escapes him at the tickle of spit and pre dribbling down his chin.
Hudson watches it happen, and the sound that punches out of him is guttural and desperate. Connor wants nothing more than to return the sentiment, stuffing as much of Hudson’s fat cock into his mouth as he can fit, hungrily kneading the underside of his ass.
“Oh man, Connor—” Hudson sounds as shattered as he feels.
One hand holds Connor steady at the base of his skull while the other grasps his own shaft, squeezing a fat, pearly dollop of cum from the head and smearing it across Connor’s parted lips through shuddering gasps. Connor’s head tips back helplessly at the slick drag of it—an obscene almost-kiss. Nothing short of luxuriously indulgent as Hudson spills, smears, pushes his cum past Connor’s bruised lips, murmuring, “Good. So good.”
Connor stays there feeling slow and stupid and then smug despite all of it, until Hudson grows oversensitive and finally maneuvers him. He draws Connor upward with a grateful hum, pulling Connor’s dick free from his shorts as he licks into his mouth. Connor moans into it, their slick mouths joining, clinging to Hudson’s wide shoulders.
A lot of effort goes into talking. “Don’t—I don’t need a lot—can you, just—”
“Say the word and you’ve got it, babe,” Hudson breathes back against his lips.
That alone knocks the air out of him. “Lie down.”
Connor’s got all sorts of ideas—runs through the ways he could use Hudson right now as he yanks off the singlet he still hadn’t discarded, drags his shorts down—but watching Hudson shove a hand through his now sweaty, perfectly styled hair, eyes glued to the fast, needy motion of Connor’s hand on his own cock, wipes everything else clean.
“Genuinely how the fuck do you look like that,” Hudson murmurs, breathless like he’s still being touched instead of just watching Connor touch himself.
Connor tries to laugh but it melts into a sigh, hardens into a grunt as he knees closer, swings a leg over Hudson’s torso and straddles his stomach. Hudson shifts automatically—always in sync, more intuitive than is probably good for him—sliding lower down the bed to give Connor ample room to work with.
“Finally gonna make good on that titty-fucking challenge?” Hudson says, humour threaded through the excitement Connor can hear anyway. His hands roam—up Connor’s thighs, over his stomach, squeezing his ass, drifting up to his chest—everything about him begging Connor to give the word and let him press his pecs together.
“Stop talking,” Connor says. He doesn’t mean it. He plunges two fingers into Hudson’s mouth anyway, because it’s easy and because Hudson likes it. Hudson’s tongue swirls around them like he’s been waiting all night.
Hudson’s been good. So has Connor—patient all evening, wound tight from holding back. It’s made idiots of both of them. So Connor gives in, flattens his hand over the top of his shaft and drops his weight heavier, rutting against Hudson’s chest, into the soft, pillowy valley between his tits.
Hudson moans and pulls Connor’s fingers from his mouth just to hold his hand instead. “Yeah—fuck. Oh my god. This is the best day ever.”
Connor hates how much the vibration of Hudson’s voice alone is doing to him—even when Hudson’s saying dumb shit that feels engineered to make him go soft. He pulls free, drags Hudson’s hand up to his chest instead, where he thumbs at his own nipple. Slut.
“Where should I cum, honey—show me,” Connor urges. He’s too far gone for it to sound like anything but sticky-sweet molasses, his brain thick with sludge as he stays locked on the image of Hudson beneath him—big, solid, shifting up the bed with every thrust.
The skin where Connor rubs himself is slick with pre, close to chafing, but Hudson’s turning such a pretty pink from the friction burn that Connor can’t stop.
Hudson is eager to please—better than obedient. Observant. Smart. Perfect. He spits into his hand and joins Connor, pressing his cock up against his chest, his other hand pushing one pec up to meet it. There’s not really a crevice to fuck between, but he makes such a picture of it—eyes flicking wildly from Connor’s face to the angry red of Connor’s cock humping his chest, hissing every time friction hits just right.
Connor’s been on the edge forever. He can’t tell where it started—only where it’s going to end. He can’t tip over, hypnotized more by the image than the feeling, rutting against Hudson not because it’s what he wants most but because Hudson is letting him. Because Hudson wants it.
And Hudson really wants it. Connor sees it in the way Hudson gropes his own chest, frantic to make a firmer landscape, in the way he bats Connor away just long enough to wrap his fingers properly around his shaft.
“So gorgeous—need you to cum on me, yeah? Fuckin’ look at you. Need to see it. Need you—baby—show me—”
Connor comes hard, a groan tearing out of him louder than he expects, sharp enough it almost hurts. For a split second he wonders if he’s faking it out of habit—neural pathways wrecked from simulating pleasure so often on set (not to mention the dry spell, the months without a decent lay that wasn’t a six-foot wasian who insists on pissing with the door open).
But the thought evaporates when Hudson moans with him, working Connor’s cock with tight, greedy twists of his wrist, streaking cum up his chest and collarbones, thumb mashing into the flushed tip like he’s hoping there might still be more.
Connor watches him, chest heaving. The flutter of Hudson’s lashes is hypnotic, a soft, residual thing, and the callouses on his hands feel strange and good where they rest against Connor’s oversensitive, slowly softening cock. It all feels a little splintery, like if he moves too fast the moment will shatter.
It’s only when Connor notices the thin streak of white caught at the corner of Hudson’s chin that he finally shifts. He lifts off carefully, shuffles on his knees back toward the bedside table and fumbles for the box of tissues. He pulls one free, leans back in to swipe gently at Hudson’s chin first, then uses another to wipe at himself, catching the places that still feel tacky and wet.
When he’s done, he sets the box down between them and nudges it toward Hudson without a word. Hudson plucks a few from the box, still a little dazed, and Connor collapses onto the mattress beside him with a long, full-bodied sigh. He stares up at the ceiling, listening as his breathing evens out, as Hudson drags tissues over his own sex damp skin.
“You know,” Connor says eventually, voice still rough, like it has to climb its way back out of his chest, “I had a good night too. In case you were wondering.”
“Of course I was wondering,” Hudson says easily. “Didn’t ask because you didn’t want to talk about it.”
Connor turns his head toward him—and of course Hudson is already looking at him. There’s no challenge there, no probing curiosity. Just a quiet certainty, like he already knows the answer and doesn’t need Connor to dress it up for him. Like even if Connor tried to contradict him, Hudson would trust his own read more than Connor’s words.
The realization lands oddly in Connor’s chest. “Well,” He says to the ceiling, because it feels safer than admitting anything.
Hudson sighs, rolling onto his side a little so they’re closer without quite touching. “So,” he says, casual as anything. “How was your dinner, Connor? I saw somewhere that Dakota Fanning was there. Did you pee your pants?”
Connor barks a laugh, sharp and a little too loud, though his eyes sting suddenly—probably just exhaustion. Has to be. “It was good,” he says, and then immediately rubs at his eyes like he can scrub the feeling out of them, hard enough that fireworks burst behind his lids.
Yeah. Hudson’s right. It’s too much to talk about right now. He’s still absorbing the insane number of recognizable faces he saw tonight, the way each one stacked on top of the last until it stopped feeling like a delight and rather like a mean joke. Connor's been feeling vindicated by all the attention and recognition, but that doesn't stop him from being overwhelmed, or from having the sudden inexplicable anxiety that if he blinks too long, he’ll wake up on a low budget soundstage with cold coffee and a PA mispronouncing his name.
Hudson hums beside him, low and content. Before Connor can even think to ask or brace himself, there’s a hand in his hair. Blunt fingers, warm and sure, rubbing slow, gentle, exquisite pressure into his scalp.
Connor groans helplessly as his bones threaten to liquefy.
“I don’t want you to suck my dick after Seth Meyers,” he murmurs, shifting closer into Hudson’s touch, forehead tipping toward Hudson’s shoulder. “I just want this.”
Hudson snorts. “That’s kinda dumb,” he says mildly. “You don’t need a crazy gig for me to touch your hair.”
Connor doesn’t answer right away. He’s just really tired—that has to be why the air trapped in his chest feels watery, why swallowing feels like it takes a little more effort than usual. He knows he’s genuinely emotional about this, he knows where it’s coming from, but he also knows he needs to keep it contained because it’ll puff his face up like crazy and he doesn't have the time for swollen eyes.
Speaking of his face. He should probably go wash up.
Connor counts down from ten in his head before forcing himself up and away from Hudson’s magic hands. “I gotta go brush my teeth again,” he says with a pointed grumble.
Hudson just beams at him, all teeth and satisfaction. “Now that you mention it, I’ve just realized I seem to have forgotten to pack my toothbrush for our slumber party.” He finishes the sentence with an exaggerated batting of his eyelashes, so aggressively cute it almost works.
“Dude.”
Hudson just keeps blinking.
That same hand from before drifts back, idly whorling patterns over one of Connor’s thighs like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. And Connor gives in because he’s weak. And because he knows Hudson’s morning breath is gnarly. “Okay,” he sighs. “But I get to use it first.”
Hudson’s grin turns wicked in the split second before he leans in and pecks Connor’s mouth, quick and smug. “Not a chance, cum breath.”
Then he launches himself into a reckless somersault off the bed, barely avoiding smacking into the dresser as he escapes out of reach.
Connor squawks, deeply offended—because even though the cum breath is real, in every way possible it is not his fault—still, the indignation doesn’t last long. Not when he’s distracted by the sight of Hudson’s ass jiggling as he pulls his briefs back on, fabric snapping into place over muscle Connor knows far too well.
“You know,” Connor says to Hudson’s back, eyes tracing the familiar lines of ink there over and over again, like he’s memorizing them anew, “you could just go back to your own hotel. With your own toothbrush. And your own skin stuff.”
Hudson doesn’t even turn around. Just whoops, “Special night!” and pumps a fist in the air as he swaggers toward the bathroom, radiating the unshakable confidence of a man who gets what he wants and has been indulged for it so frequently that he now expects it.
Connor always hates to see Hudson leave, loves to watch him go. Doesn't look forward to tomorrow evening when Hudson has his flight back to YVR. For now, Connor thinks he’s at peace with the fact that he can’t think of a single thing he’d rather do right now than what he always does; get up, and follow him.