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A soft, anticipatory silence settles in the hotel room as soon as Hudson ends his call with Katelyn; a quick check-in, lots of loveyoubye and seeyousoon.
The door clicks open, then closed.
Connor's here.
A pleasant thrill runs down Hudson's spine; he feels like a dog whose owner just came home. He probably acts like one too, running down the hall and plastering himself all over Connor. A “Hey, babe,” goes unnoticed as Hudson debates between greeting him with a crushing hug or loud, wet kisses. He chooses both and holds Connor against him as he puts his lips to whatever he can reach — jaw, neck, over Connor's gray suit, oops, that's Hudson's own hand.
Connor's fingers tangle in Hudson's hair, pulling him up so he can look into his eyes. This is something Connor is big on — eye contact. Hudson wouldn't want to miss it for the world, not when there is so much swirling in his irises, brilliant and kaleidoscopic with unshed tears. Hudson caresses Connor's cheeks, feels his own eyes welling up.
“I'm so proud of you,” he tells him softly, a smile splitting his face.
Connor lets out a faintly choked laugh, and the tears finally fall. He's gorgeous, cinematic even when overcome by genuine emotion, the pink flush on his cheeks only accentuating the blue in his eyes. Hudson lets Connor collapse against him, rocks him back and forth, kisses his golden curls. He hums the first song that comes to mind, and it could be either some hit pop song or one of Connor's obscure European artists he's been drilling Hudson on; he doesn't have a clue.
And then the leather they’re wearing rubs together, hard enough to squeak, and the part of Hudson's brain that had kept him preemptively half-hard since he first saw Connor in the thigh high boots suddenly lights up with a vengeance. A flipped switch, Connor's hands tightening against Hudson's waist, the slow lift of his head. A stern squint in his eyes, now a deep-sea blue. Hudson stares into the abyss and feels a visceral need to dive in.
“Think I did alright?” Connor says. Hudson knows he knows how great he was, but this is the game they're playing right now.
“You were the funniest bitch at the Saturday Night Live store. That's a fact, papi. Everyone loved you.” Hudson licks his lips. “Everyone wants to kneel at your feet.”
Connor's lips curl up, amused. “Don't care about this ambiguous ‘everyone’, baby. Do you? Want?”
Hudson drops to his knees. He stares up at Connor, through his lashes, because yes, he has the bottom eyes locked and loaded. Connor's hands twitch.
“Take your shirt off. Cummerbund stays on.”
Hudson obeys quickly, discarding it to the side.
A leather sole meets the naked skin of his shoulder.
Hudson's mouth drops open. There's no real pressure yet, it's just — the idea of it. Its presence, the hazy thought of it becoming more. Connor quirks an eyebrow. Hudson gulps saliva down. He nods.
Connor's foot travels just a bit further up so he can caress Hudson's jaw with the boot. Hudson turns his head slightly, blindly kissing what ends up being the decorative buckle. He plants more kisses there, against the metal, then higher towards Connor's ankle, slow and worshipful, until Connor decides he's had enough. He shifts his weight and pushes Hudson down onto the floor, heavy boot on his chest, until he's laid flat. His foot rises and falls in time with Hudson's breathing. Hudson holds Connor's ankle, wordlessly asking him to stay. He looks up at him, waiting for whatever crumbs Connor deems him worthy of.
Connor presses down.
It's like Hudson's breath is kicked out of him; Connor's weight bearing down on him for one, two, three beats, then letting up. He does it again, and again, until Hudson feels dizzy with it, until it hurts worse when there's no pressure. Hudson kind of wishes the boots were heeled, that the weight wasn't so well-distributed, that the heel would leave a pinpoint bruise. He wishes Connor would leave marks on him — physical ones, things he could pick at and make worse.
“Say thank you, baby,” Connor croons, leather sole rubbing circles against his skin.
“Thank you,” Hudson says, voice cracking.
“Good boy, Huddy.”
Hudson smiles, preening. He feels drunk and high and afloat in space. His hips twitch, cock hard as a rock, pants visibly tented.
Smooth leather grazes his skin again. It travels down, down, down. Connor's foot slips under Hudson's balls. He swings them up with the toe of the boot, making fabric strain further against Hudson's cock. Hudson whines, legs kicking out under him, nails digging into the carpet.
“Aw, poor masochistic baby,” Connor pouts condescendingly. There's a glint in his eyes that means Hudson is in danger. “You want these stepped on?”
Hudson feels like he just got a seventh concussion, something high-pitched ringing in his ear. “Holy shit.”
Connor's eyes widen. He moves his foot away, wary, just in case, but Hudson grabs onto his ankle and directs his foot right over where he wants it.
“Please,” he begs.
Connor inhales. There’s an incredulous, manic grin on his face. He presses down lightly, and Hudson can feel even that going straight to his stomach. He clings onto Connor for dear life as the pressure increases in intervals; an all-encompassing, can't-breathe, dizzying pain — then nothing at all, and Hudson is left reeling, mumbling nonsense, his back arching off the ground.
“Oh my god, Connor, baby, please, fuck, papi, that feels amazing–”
Connor lets up with a little love tap that makes Hudson sit up and curl in on himself. Connor watches him catch his breath with a self-satisfied smirk on his face that sends a shudder down Hudson's spine. Hudson rests his head on Connor's hip. He doesn't expect Connor's expression to soften when he looks up again, but it does; Connor bends at the waist to kiss him on the mouth sweetly.
“You did great, baby.”
A little whine escapes Hudson's mouth.
“God, you're cute. Wish I could have you all to myself.”
“You have me now,” Hudson exhales against Connor's lips.
Something in Connor's eyes shuts down. “Yeah. For now.” He straightens up. His smirk is back on when he says, “Use the boot to get off, puppy, come on.”
“Fuuuck,” Hudson groans.
He feels Connor's foot slide under his crotch, leather on leather, at the perfect angle for Hudson to grind onto. Hudson adjusts himself a little higher so he can thrust against the covered sex sells tattoo. If Connor notices, he doesn't say anything.
“Thank you, Connie,” Hudson exhales, breathless.
Connor smiles down at him, petting his hair. “You're welcome, baby.”
Hudson thrusts up, his mouth open over Connor’s slacks. When he gets going, the friction is– not good, not enough, too many layers between them. But Hudson doesn't care, can't care. His cock strains against the lining of his pants, and there's a wet spot forming on the front of his briefs — but it isn't visible from the outside, so only he knows how desperate for it he is, only he knows how crazy and dumb and mindless it’s making him feel. He holds onto Connor's thigh, over the rim of the boot, fingers dipping inside, and thrusts, and thrusts, and thrusts, and his needy moans turn into sobs, because it’s not enough, he's not being good enough, please–
“–please, I need you, I need more, I’m sorry, Con, ‘m so greedy–”
“Shhh, baby, look at me.”
There is drool on Connor's pants, where Hudson's mouth was. Hudson looks up. Connor pushes sweaty hair away from Hudson's forehead, eyes flicking between Hudson's. Connor's pupils are so large they've almost swallowed his irises.
“I know what you need, Hudson. I always do.”
Connor opens his zipper one-handed, his other hand otherwise occupied — caressing Hudson's forehead, his cheekbone, his bottom lip, anywhere Connor can reach. Connor takes himself out of his slacks; he's leaking, the tip red and glistening. He doesn't undress further at all. Hudson kneels before him, shirtless and panting, and feels something heady take over him. His mouth opens wide at Connor's prompting, and lets Connor feed him his cock, slow and steady until it hits the back of his throat.
Hudson feels himself go lax. Yes, yes, this is how it's supposed to be, his mouth full and stretched, saliva dripping down his chin. He hums, content, appeased, and feels Connor's fingers tightening on his hair.
“I'll fuck your mouth, baby, yeah?”
Hudson relaxes further. Connor knows his muffled whine is an enthusiastic yes, please. Connor pulls out slightly and thrusts back in, finding a rhythm he enjoys. Hudson lets himself be used, amplifies the wet gurgle of his throat with loud moans, looking up at Connor with unfocused, tearful eyes, hoping Connor can see in them what Hudson can't say: thank you, thank you, thank you, I needed this, I needed you.
I've missed you.
There's a hitch in Connor's thrusts, his cock burying itself deep inside Hudson. He can't breathe for a second, and then Connor pulls out just enough for Hudson to choke on the spurts of cum. He's mean about it, not letting Hudson up until he's done. Hudson coughs as soon as his mouth is free, light-headed and shaking and trying to swallow what he can and– Connor's boot presses down on his cock– Hudson screams, clinging onto Connor's slacks like they're his only lifeline. He feels himself hump Connor's foot, needy and pathetic and so, so close.
“Oh, god, Connor, please, fuck, thank you, I need you–”
“You made a mess, Hudson.”
Hudson feels his jaw click shut. The stern tone in Connor's voice is sobering, the way he's not even looking at Hudson even more so. Hudson follows Connor's line of sight. There's cum on his boot, Connor's own, that Hudson accidentally spat out when he coughed. Hudson's body shudders hot, then cold, then hot again in shame. He failed. He didn't do good. He didn't–
“Oh, no, baby, you're not in trouble, you're okay.” Connor swipes a thumb over the corner of Hudson's lip and feeds a stray drop of cum back to him. Hudson drinks it up. “You just need to clean it up, yeah?”
Hudson slumps back down on his heels, relief coursing through him. He licks his lips, tasting salt and musk, and bends so he can lap up his mess. The leather is smooth in his tongue, contrasting sharply against the taste of Connor. As soon as he's done, Connor rakes his fingers through Hudson's hair and pulls him up, harsh and unforgiving. Hudson's cock jumps in his pants.
“Good job, Huddy baby. You were so, so good tonight.”
Hudson whimpers, trying to nuzzle into Connor's hand. It only makes Connor's grip tighten further, and in turn, Hudson's hips kick up. He's on a hair trigger, a gentle breeze away from bursting, but he needs to hold on, needs to hear it from Connor, needs to be good for him.
Connor hovers his foot over Hudson's balls. “Say please.”
“Please.”
“Say, ‘please let me cum.’”
“Please, Con, let me cum.”
Connor smiles down at him. “Good boy, Hudson. Go ahead.”
Connor, once again, presses down. Hudson screams. He sees stars, fireworks; there are white spots dancing in his vision as he cums inside his pants, his briefs ruined. It probably soaks into the lining too, with the way he grinds on Connor's foot through the aftershocks, until the ringing in his ears quiets down and the only noise he hears is his own ragged breathing. He lets the fabric of Connor's suit go, and knows he’s wrinkled it beyond belief.
“Connie,” Hudson tries. His voice is wrecked, his bottom lip trembles. “Concon, we owe our stylists so much money.”
Connor's answering grin is wide and delighted and adoring. He holds up a hand so Hudson can take it and be directed towards the bed, where he's unceremoniously shoved down to be brought back to himself. Hudson lets Connor undress him, lets him clean up, lets himself be held as he resurfaces. And if he watches Connor for a second too long, his gaze too loving, he can blame it on the hazy afterglow.
He blinks, and Connor is in his briefs before him, sheets pulled up to their shoulders. Their legs are tangled together already, Connor's hands caressing Hudson's arm. Hudson likes to think he's petting Hobbes.
“You're wonderful, Huddy,” Connor tells him. “Thank you for indulging me.”
Hudson's lips pull down in what he now knows is his can't-accept-a-compliment pout. “I could say the same thing. I feel indulged.”
“Hudson.”
“I'm serious! Not everyone has a soulmate who matches their freak so well they'd crush their balls on demand.”
Connor cringes. “Oh, god, do they hurt?”
“Well. They're not not sore, but it's good, I promise. You were great.” Hudson sees Connor’s eyes flit around in distress. He grabs Connor's face and makes him look into his eyes. “Connor. You were great tonight. You are great, always.”
“Thank you,” Connor tells him. “For tonight. All of tonight.”
“Of course, Concon, how could I miss out on this? My baby's big night.”
He kisses Connor, soft and sweet, until he feels like drifting off. He'll take a quick shower in the morning before he leaves. Probably when he lands, too. But, actually, maybe, he shouldn't get too comfortable, since he did just get stepped… on… Hudson feels his shoulders rise up to his chin in disgust.
“Connor. Please, for the love of god, tell me you didn't step on me with the same boots you wore outside. Connor. Oh my god, I'm going to fucking hurl–”
“Huddy, come on.” Connor is biting his lip, trying not to smile. “They are brand new, you dummy. They didn't touch the filthy streets of New York City in any capacity, baby, I wouldn't do that to you. I wouldn't let you soil clothes you'd have to give back, either, for the record, I respect Anastasia too much.”
“Oh thank fucking god, Jesus H. Christ, I'm a believer.” Hudson slumps back into the sheets, relieved he won't be needing an emergency chemical shower. Then he starts connecting dots. “You fucking planned this.”
Connor's nose scrunches up, delighted and devilish. “As soon as I saw the look on James’ board. The brand loves me, Hudson, I barely had to pull any strings.”
Hudson blinks at him. He tries to tell himself he's a normal person that feels normal about these things and definitely doesn't have to tell his dick to shut its whore mouth up.
“You're an evil mastermind. You need to be in jail, Concon.”
Connor smooches him loudly. “They'd have to catch me first, babey.”
“And we know how hard that is.”
A beat. The joke landed wrong, too close to something. There's a sharp tilt in Connor's smile, a distance in the way his fingers stop their dance on Hudson's waist.
“Well, you know me, Huddy. Wild, free spirit.”
“That's you, Connie baby.”
Connor kisses Hudson's lips briefly. It feels like a goodbye. “You leave earlier in the morning than me, right? Wake me up before you go.”
“Before I go-go?”
“Before you go-go.”
Hudson tries not to cling to him too tightly in the night, and tries not to miss him as soon as he turns away.
At the airport, Hudson rubs his chest, and wishes he had bruises in the shape of Connor.