Work Text:
Hudson passes the spliff back. Connor takes it from him like a life line, dragging his fingers over Hudson’s before withdrawing.
“I guess I’m picturing, like, a blowjob in dry storage?” Hudson continues, voice creaky around a lungful of smoke and genuinely contemplative about it, like they’re discussing theoretical physics instead of theoretical conquests. He exhales through his teeth, adding to the haze collecting over them on Connor’s second floor balcony.
Connor can’t help himself. “Just- Why do you want to fuck him at work, baby?”
Hudson shrugs. “I think he’d lose his nerve if we had to drive anywhere.”
Actually, it’s because Hudson’s a budding exhibitionist.
“Jacob is not fucking you within three feet of food storage. He’s way too anal retentive. It would have to be in his office.”
Hudson groans. “In his fucking rolly-chair? No. Office fucking your boss is so basic, Con. It needs to be more…” he moves his hands in a circle, searching for words and only serving to distract them both.
“Theatrical?” Connor offers after a second. “Pornographic?” Hudson swats him for his efforts.
Connor has half a mind to say something about how tacky and immature it is to try and fuck your boss (especially in this job market), but Hudson strikes like a snake when he feels cornered and who is Connor to ruin any chance of getting laid tonight?
“Maybe the break room after we close?”
“The cooks could still walk in.” Connor shakes his head. “They take forever to close ‘cause of the fry oil.”
Connor Storrie’s natural state is not the voice of reason. So this is driving him nuts. Not the picture of Jacob fucking Hudson— tragically, that exact mental image doesn’t do anything for him at all, and he has given it a valiant effort. But keeping Hudson from floating into the clouds about the whole thing is turning into a full time job in and of itself.
Hudson tips his head back on his shoulders and groans, melodramatic as all hell but at least giving Connor a nice view of his Adam’s apple in the dying light. “I thought maybe I had too much dignity to blow him in his car,” he grunts, “But that’s looking more and more likely.”
Connor passes back, waving the spliff in the air so Hudson will pull himself back up and pull the same teasing finger-drag move Connor had seconds ago, leaving a burning trail on Connor’s hand.
Exactly zero of Hudson’s Jacob related fantasies are even remotely likely. Maybe that’s why Connor doesn’t feel weird about it. Not that he has a license, necessarily, to feel weird about it. Not the point. He doesn’t.
“Hudson, baby, you don’t have a shred of dignity. I think you’ll be fine.”
Hudson just grins at him.
There are many nights such as this. They sit on Connor’s balcony, a minute tiled thing barely jutting out from his building far enough to fit the wicker bench pretending to be a couch, making their post-shift lower backaches worse and getting stoned. They’ll probably fuck later, if Connor can avoid pissing him off. Or maybe just walk to the 24 hour gym for some late night lifting.
Hudson’ll sleep over if Connor can keep him distracted past nine or so. If he lets Hudson big-spoon, he’ll pick Connor’s most defined curl and twirl it around his finger until they both melt into sleep. If he gets to be big spoon, he’ll fall asleep tracing the seams between Hudson’s muscles, leaving a trail of goosebumps on his chest and arms as he goes. Either way, it’s nice. Domestic.
“Con.”
“Hm?”
Hudson draws his knees up and angles his back against the arm of the bench to face Connor, mirroring his position.
He’s so pretty in the low light. His hair dried a little wonky after his shower. (He walked out with just a towel on his hips, practically steaming and smelling like Connor’s conditioner, and Connor had very valorously not pushed him up against the wall and fucked him sweaty again.) It’s gotten a little longer on the top lately, leaving Hudson looking like a young Leo Dicaprio with a heartthrobbing middle part and that same you don’t know me yet, but you will kind of cheeky gleam in his eye.
“I asked if you’d wingman me at the next work party.”
“Sure, baby,” Connor says genially, like that isn’t a ring of hell specifically designed to torture him brought to life in a sunny backyard.
“Your lack of faith in me is hurting my feelings.”
Connor forces his eyes to focus. Hudson is staring right at him, squinting but without any heat. Although, with this guy it’s kind of difficult to tell when he’s feeling any kind of negative emotion. He has an award-winning RBF. Half the time Connor thinks Hudson’s peeved at him he’s just deep in thought.
“Huddy,” Connor starts, haltingly. “I think you can fuck whoever you set your heart on. I just… don’t necessarily want to get fired with you when this spectacularly blows up.”
Oh, there it is. Hudson is feeling some kind of negative emotion. You can see it in his eyebrows. He offers the spliff, filter piece first, to Connor without breaking eye contact. Connor reads his mind and pushes himself forward, leaning up until he can toke from right between Hudson’s fingers. It’s a display of submission, like a dog sneezing. Connor plays the game. They both sit back.
“He wants me,” Hudson says after a moment, seemingly deciding on something internal that out-weighs whatever negative input his voice-of-reason-slash-best-friend could give him, “I think you’re just not good at telling when people want to hit.”
Connor makes his best stoned approximation of an indignant scoff. “That’s bullshit. I pick up on stuff. You seduced me in less than a week.”
“That’s because I’m direct,” Hudson says. “If I spent the last year and a half making fuck-me eyes at you and batting my eyelashes, you’d still be a virgin.” Petty words, but the heat he’d been holding to for a few moments has all but evaporated. Thank you, pot and nic, for keeping Huddy’s inner rage at bay.
Connor laughs, full bodied and unabashed the way he can only get with Hudson these days, and drives a heel into his shin. “Fuck off,” he says while Hudson makes a show of holding his shin and hissing. “That’s not fucking true. I would have seduced you first. Eventually.”
“Mhm,” Hudson intones. “Maybe by month seven. I saved us the wait-time, you’re welcome. And now I’m seducing Jacob.”
“I don’t think the same moves are going to work on him.”
“No?”
Definitely not. Hudson had snuck his hand around Connor’s waist in the middle of a shift and invited himself over to Connor’s place to smoke weed and (direct quote) give him the most mind-blowing head of his life. If he was free. Connor had been very free. He feels a little flushed now, reflecting on it, so he pivots the discussion.
“And you only think he’s so hot because you know you can’t have him.”
“Hm-hm,” Hudson shakes his head. “It’s the silver fox thing. I wanna turn the rest of his hair gray if you,” he laughs, ruining his own punchline. “If you know what I mean.”
Connor makes a grabby hand for the spliff. “Horrifying. Give.”
Hudson obeys.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t get it up for older guys, Con.”
“Older guys who don’t tell me when I can and can’t chew gum, maybe.”
“I like ‘em bossy.”
Connor snorts. “No shit.”
“Anyway. My point, originally, was that you wouldn’t know if Jacob wants to fuck me or not. You haven’t a clue in the world, baby girl.”
“I would too! I actually have a pretty firm grasp on who wants to fuck who at work, thank you very much.”
“Name one.”
Connor rolls his eyes. “I’m not gossiping. You’re just trying to get information out of me.”
Instead of saying what he assumed he would, something like Mel wants to fuck me too and you didn’t notice Hudson says, “François wants to fuck you.”
Connor chokes on his inhale, surrendering the spliff back to Hudson while he coughs with his whole body. When he can open his watering eyes again, Hudson’s eyebrows are raised smugly at him. Connor suddenly feels a lot more… off-kilter. Buzzy from the nic and goopy from the weed, two parts of his brain stretching and squeezing against each other like the blobs in a lava lamp.
“No,” he croaks, blinking fast at his watering eyes as he catches his breath. “He doesn’t.”
“Would you let him?”
Actually, Connor had already slept with François. About a month before Hudson would crash into his life like a 747, François would invite him over for an old French black and white and some wine.
Connor liked François. He demanded a certain kind of trust. Like a hot math teacher. It was the only time in his life Connor had confidently bottomed, right there on François’ huge leather couch, movie still playing and wine forgotten on the ringed coffee table. Being before Hudson, it was also before Connor had bulked up, so he was lithe and his hair was a little longer and girlier, and François had taken a gentle fistful of it, not pulling enough to give that satisfying sting, just to tilt Connor’s head back so he could suck a deep purple hickey into the flesh where his throat turned into his shoulder.
He spoke French the whole time. Connor kept up, sorta. Regional dialects aside, it was dizzying. His shoulders were— are— fucking massive. He’d taken Connor’s nipple into his mouth while he opened him up, worrying the pad of his tongue at the stud Connor would later take out so he stopped getting looks at the gym, until he was swearing and gripping at his short hair. He picked Connor up by the ass cheeks and pulled him apart with thick, strong fingers, the whole time wearing this bemused, almost assholish expression that Connor tried really hard to interpret as endeared and not patronizing.
He’d slept over but hadn’t stayed for breakfast. François gave him coffee in a travel mug and told him he looked forward to next time, but it never ended up happening. Such is life. Connor still has the mug. He had to wear concealer on his neck for over a week.
François wanting to fuck him isn’t news, is the point.
“No,” Connor drawls through a deep breath, trying to relax his lungs and shoulders. “You’re projecting, Huddy. You want to fuck me.”
“I always want to fuck you,” he says. “That’s how I know he wants it bad. Game recognizes game.”
“Is that what they call what you have? Game?”
“More game than him. That’s why he’s single and in his fifties and I have a roster.”
Connor loves how bitchy he is. Connor loves him, probably.
“Your roster, consisting of your best friend, hypothetically your supervisor, and…?”
“Yeah,” Hudson deadpans.
Connor snorts and makes a grabby motion for the spliff, which Hudson hands over. “I think François’ only like, thirty-nine.” He knows this for a fact, actually, because he knows he’s a July Cancer.
“I rounded up.”
They don’t get along, Hudson and François.
It’s mostly François’ fault. Or, like, by extension possibly Connor’s. He and Hudson had become mind-melded pretty instantly once he was hired, and François backed off with a non-negligible amount of bitterness, like he’d invested in something and had his payout spoiled. Hudson, in turn, filled every crack and crevice in Connor’s life that other people used to, territorial and all-encompassing and completely unwilling to acknowledge it.
Last January François had been out with a pretty vicious flu for, like, days. And everyone on the serving team was like, why do you need so much time off? You’re the bar guy, you’re not even touching the plates. And Connor had politely run interference about how yes it did suck to not have François taking care of drink specials and bar apps and whatever, but they should cut him some slack and blah blah blah. And then when he came back, probably one or two days too early because someone else was out with the flu and they really did need someone fielding bar apps and martinis, Hudson had stopped him in the break room with faux concern and told him he looked “really, really rough”.
So actually, it was likely more Hudson’s personality’s fault than anything else.
(When Hudson left the room, François turned on Connor, grabbed his arm and with his sallow, dead, pathetic flu eyes and a very sexy sore-throat voice he said, “Housebreak him, or I will.” So Connor had to wear his server pouch directly over his half-chub that night, which was just awesome. It was the last time François touched him, professional pats and tight hallway squeezes where fingers sometimes lingered on his waist not included.)
“How are you into Jacob’s dad thing but not François’ hot older brother thing?”
“So you would fuck him.”
“Answer my question,” Connor laughs.
If Hudson picks up on his deflection, he lets it pass without comment. He just waves his hand like you wouldn’t get it, probably because no one else in his life ever asks him to explain himself in any situation. He probably usually gets away with being quirky and cute and loud and everyone just smiles and nods, grateful to feel the heat of his spotlight as it passes over them.
“Jacob,” Hudson sighs, taking the smoke back when Connor offers it, “Looks at me like he wants to eat me.” Connor makes a skeptical face that Hudson either doesn’t see or completely ignores. “François looks at me like I personally voted against Québec sovereignty.”
Maybe 60% of their beef is Connor related, and the other 40% is because both of them are used to being able to control any given crowd’s perception of a Canadian in LA, and the other directly goes against the energy they’re trying to cultivate. Which comes out in French-shaming and over-corrective patriotism.
Jacob’s whole point of going out of his way to hire so many damn Canadians was so they’d build a little enclave community together, but that’s as lost on François as it is on Hudson.
“And if I politely disagreed about Jacob looking at you like he wants to do anything but hand you a sani cloth?”
“I’d ignore you.”
Connor hums. He gave it a good shot.
Hudson details his next plan of action while Connor slowly melts into the flat cushions.
It’s one of those clammy kinds of evenings, like the whole city is air-drying after sweating all day. They’d both worked the lunch shift and showered at Connor’s place after. Hudson tugged on one of Connor’s shirts (an Eddie Van Halen tank that cost him sixty bucks on eBay back before he had bills) and the pair of sweats he keeps in Connor’s dresser. Every time he changes position or shifts his weight— he’s an animated story teller, especially when baked, so that was nearly every other word— the wicker squeaks underneath them, angry both at the very suggestion of movement and at being left on a patio 24/7 instead of in an air-conditioned grandma house like it deserves.
It’s not a comfortable bench by any means. The cushions tied on are flat and ancient. The arm digs into Connor’s spine and is slowly cutting off blood flow to his shoulders, but he doesn’t care. At the very least, it’s wide enough for them to stretch out so long as they don’t particularly value personal space. Hudson talks and talks and the bugs sing and Connor takes in another lungful of smoke, holds it, and melts a little more.
He’d been kinda surprised to find that LA had cicadas like home. They sound a little different when he closes his eyes, but that’s not a bad thing. Everything’s a little bit different than he expected. LA and his “day job” that was threatening to become a lengthy career in food service. Hudson, most of all, had been unexpected. A new coworker turned questionably-platonic soulmate. Who really wants to fuck their boss for some reason.
“Fuck, Connie, you’re hogging. Is that the last hit?”
Connor doesn’t open his eyes, just continues on the inhale. It is for sure the last hit.
Hudson sits up, leaning over and squeaking the wicker.
“You asshole. Hey!” His hands are warm as they find Connor’s face and manually pull his head off its loll, cupping his cheeks and before Connor can even open his eyes, Hudson is slotting their mouths together.
Connor groans the smoke out, opening his mouth and focusing very gallantly on not coughing directly on to Hudson’s tongue. Hudson breathes it all in deep, his broad chest expanding with the slow drawl in, and in the end they don’t even break apart to let the last of the smoke go, they just melt into slow, wet, repetitive kisses and the slide of their tongues together.
Connor winds his arm up around Hudson’s head, finally running his hand through his stupid, soft hair, nearly petting him. Hudson doesn’t let go of his face. He holds him there, propped up and tilted back just past what would be comfortable for any period of time. He has no fucking idea the lengths Connor would go through for him. Crick in his neck and worse. Fuck.
He notices, slow and incrementally like finding honey running down your arm, that Hudson’s pulled away. He forces his eyes open, lids fluttering, and lets himself lean back against the arm of the bench again, breathing too hard and dick chubbing disproportionately fast.
Hudson is worrying his lip between his teeth and staring. He stares a lot. Connor stares too, but he has the decency to own up to it. Hudson only lets himself get caught with his pupils blown like this when they’re alone. The right side of his face and hair are haloed by the patio lights. He looks like an angel.
Connor splits into a grin and laughs— he’s so fucking high. Hudson is more like a teenage puppy experiencing behavioral regression than an angel— and it breaks the spell between them. Hudson ducks his head and laughs too, lighter and more out of breath, then pushes himself back on his haunches and lands back on his own damn side of the bench. Their legs, though, stay a bit more tangled than they were before. Connor’s whole body lights up at the brush of their bare ankles.
He stretches up with his arms, probably not as subtly as he meant it, in a sneaky but successful venture to get his shirt rucked up, then he wriggles deeper into the useless arm pillow protecting the base of his skull from its new spot against the arm. He’s got Hudson trapped on the inside of the sofa, barred in by his newly straightened legs propped up on the opposite arm, but he doesn’t say anything if it makes him feel claustrophobic or overheated. He just wraps one hand around Connor’s shin like they had to be touching or one of them would blow away.
This is what’s so hypnotic about Hudson. It’s the Aquarius in him. He’s so… all-encompassing. It used to make Connor dizzy, honestly, like a glass of liquor hitting your stomach faster than you meant it to. Or worse. When Hudson turned his attention on Connor shortly after being onboarded, it was like Dorothy seeing color for the first time. Now, months later, he doesn’t feel like he’s going to fall on his ass if Hudson whispers his name, but he’s still just as desperate for the next hit.
He’s too baked at this point to follow Hudson’s ongoing babble— a wandering, winding line of logic about seducing Jacob at a party where literally every coworker they have will be there watching them— but he smiles and nods. Stares at Hudson’s mouth. Interjects when strictly necessary and otherwise lets him monologue.
Then Hudson’s fingers find Connor’s heart tattoo, and Connor forgets all about Jacob.
They got matching tattoos as a bit. Two months into their friendship (which was really early, looking back, but Hudson probably could have asked Connor to marry him at that point already and Connor’s only reservation would have been about the steep LA venue prices) they’d trailed after each other, stifling giggles inappropriate for public, into a tattoo shop and left as physically changed on the outside as they already had been on the inside.
If they’re not fabulously wealthy and famous by thirty (or at least card-carrying SAG-AFTRA members or something) they’d start doing porn together. Sex sells. That’s the bit.
“Like that crazy wrestler porn where they oil you up and pretend like the winner gets to top. So the muscles don’t go to waste,” Hudson said after, admiring his hot, angry skin under the layer of plastic.
“Makes sense to me,” Connor nodded, casual and grinning like he wasn’t going to picture that in the shower for the next week straight and then again every time his shin throbbed for the rest of the month.
Hudson hasn’t said as much, but he gets off on the ownership branding of it all. They aren’t together, yeah, but they’re each others’. In some ways that are normal, some ways that would probably require a team of psychologists to sort out. Whatever. They’re each others’. For the weeks after they got the tattoos, Hudson would run his fingertips over the slightly raised lines on Connor’s leg whenever they were together, irritating the broken skin and sending shivers up Connor’s shorts.
“Wanna get another one for one year?” Connor floats without thinking. “We could get like a dumb, ironic couple tattoo. Like Frog and Toad or Bert and-"
“I’m gonna blow you.” Hudson smacks Connor’s leg with a loud clap, and Connor jumps upright.
“You’re- wait a minute-"
But Hudson is already moving, corralling Connor back up against the arm of the bench and making room enough for him to push Connor’s knees apart and lay on his stomach between them. His thighs barely fit on the bench before hitting the arm on the opposite side, leaving his socked feet dangling up.
The wicker protests warily. They’re big guys, thanks to their gym playdates and the many ways Hudson has shown him how to eat ground beef.
Hudson raises his eyebrows at him, slowing his roll with firm, scalding hot palms planted on the inside of Connor’s thighs so his fingers just barely enter the shadow of his cut-off sweat shorts. He looks up at Connor, deliberately through his eyelashes, the little shit, then back down to Connor’s crotch. His boner is obvious.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” Connor stage-whispers.
Hudson slides his hands up another inch. “That doesn’t bother me.”
“Of course it doesn’t bother you, you won’t have to do communal dishes if we get caught.”
Their neighbors are safe, thanks to some pretty hideous faux vines intertwined in the bars to enclose the patio and make it safe for his roommate Dinah’s weenie dog to bark at birds without adult supervision, but to the opposite side, over the back of the bench, lives a very very real danger, that being three roommates who have all separately yelled at Connor for screwing around in communal spaces. All three of them. Separately. Right there past the sliding glass door.
But Hudson’s hands are so fucking hot on his thighs and Connor doesn’t care, God he could not care less about fucking dishes, whatever! Let Hudson be an exhibitionist! Connor doesn’t care! It’s half through sunset, anyway. Maybe no one can see?
Hudson grins when he starts nodding, and wastes no time in extricating his hands and replacing them on Connor’s waistband to drag them down to his ankles and over one foot.
“Slut,” Hudson sing-songs the word into two syllables. “Why aren’t you wearing any underwear?”
Connor just drapes an arm over his face to hide the flush he can feel taking over his cheeks. He is breathing way too fast.
Hudson trails light fingers over Connor’s dick, just enough pressure to sort of tickle and wake up the nerves and not nearly enough to be anything but frustrating. Still. Getting Hudson’s hands on him is always the highlight of Connor’s day. Is that pathetic? He has these little calluses in tiny circles on his palm, one below each finger from lifting without gloves. So maybe it’s a texture thing, right? Ribbed for her pleasure and all that.
Connor peeks out from under his arm just as Hudson spits a rather unimpressive glob onto Connor’s cock. He suppresses an undignified noise.
“Fuck, my mouth is so dry.” Hudson twists his mouth and jaw around like he’s trying to work up a better lather.
Connor hangs his head, gives up on choking anything back, and whines. Thirty seconds into a blowjob and he’s already desperate. He snakes his hands into Hudson’s pretty hair and starts pulling him down, but Hudson knocks his hands away with a swat.
“Quit it, I’m doing foreplay.”
“Hudson,” Connor groans, putting his hands right back, pulling futilely. He’d be worried about sounding annoying if he weren’t stoned. Tiny blessings. “Don’t need foreplay. I need your mouth, baby, please.” When he pulls his head back up with what truly felt like a herculean effort, Hudson is smiling at him like he’s trying not to, suppressing it into something cute and understated and lopsided.
His hand is hot and tight but not enough. Connor’s just about one second from spitting down there and jacking himself when Hudson reads him and finally ducks. He licks a flat stripe on the underneath of Connor’s cockhead. Connor hisses through his teeth, knees ducking inward to press against Hudson’s ears. Everything is so fucking hot. He’s having a fucking hot flash or something. He hasn’t stopped sweating all fucking day and now his own personal furnace is huffing hot breath directly onto his tip.
His cock doesn’t mind as much as his brain does, it seems, well familiar with the anticipation of its favorite tighthotwet. It finishes filling out as Hudson licks again, this time a series of sloppy stripes on the side. Connor reaches for his cock— just to grip the base, honest— and his hand is smacked away again. Hudson looks up at him, grabbing him instead with a hold just a tad harder than is comfortable.
“Are you going to be patient and behave or are you going to have to get off in the shower once I leave?”
This song and dance is familiar like a crack in his molar worried by his tongue every day. They would each take turns pretending like they’re in charge, trade off a couple times, and pretend like it was a coin toss when Connor eventually takes full control and gets them both off.
Hudson has the mischief in his soul to be a really fun top, but Connor doesn’t bottom. (And when he does bottom, he doesn’t want a fun top. He wants serious and safe and borderline vanilla.) But Hudson also has enough mischief in him to be a really fun bratty little hole, and Connor is more than willing to remind him that he knows how to beg for cock when they get down to it.
So he smiles sweetly, relaxing his legs apart again, says, “I can be patient, Huddy,” even though they both know he’s lying, and lets Hudson do his thing.
Three or four hours (or what felt like it, full of hot breath and hands in Hudson’s hair and stupid, infuriating little kitten licks, like he was trying to make sure not a single patch of Connor’s dick felt neglected or even remotely satisfied) Hudson finally takes him into his mouth. He slides on to Connor’s dick so suddenly Connor actually slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle whatever embarrassing grunt was making its way out.
Hudson is always a bit of a pussy about blowjobs at first. He hams up the beginning, probably getting off on the concept of eroticism itself or, like, by picturing what they must look like from the outside, and then the actual blowjob part is borderline conservative. He only takes about two inches of Connor into his mouth and yeah, two inches of heaven is still more inches than he was getting before during Licking Purgatory, but Connor knows what Hudson is capable of when he loosens up.
When he stops thinking about the mechanics of a blowjob and starts getting his mouth all sloppy and starts rutting against the bench cushion, he’ll take Connor all the way and moan about it. It’s always like this. Kind of like he wants himself to have to work for enjoying it. He’s the same way with sex, always rushing through the prep when he’d rather be dismantled by excess lube and patient fingers and light presses on the back of his head. Sometimes he has to be reminded that the middle parts can feel good too.
Hudson’s never answered in a straight way when Connor’s asked him who he was fucking before they met, but maybe they were an asshole about it. Fuck if Connor knows. For all of their push back and forth, the one thing Connor can say he confidently isn’t is an asshole in bed. He and Hudson read each other like their favorite paperbacks, every page worn with touch and familiar in a way that requires no focus. Kindred spirits, Connor’s called it before. Out of Hudson’s earshot.
He twitches his hips up as subtly as he can manage, but Hudson catches him and plants both his hands on Connor’s hips, pinning him down without missing a beat. Connor groans. Hudson’s biceps and shoulders are like… he’s too stoned to think of a metaphor. They’re fucking hot. They’re rippling under his smooth tanned skin, hypnotizing all the words out of Connor’s brain. He wants those biceps firm around his neck. He wants his arms pinned to the bed while Hudson rides him.
“You’re so fucking hot,” Connor says, blowing no one’s mind but unable to keep it in.
Hudson pulls off and lets Connor’s cock bob down to his stomach, flushed and glistening. He’s rosy and out of breath despite not pulling out the stops yet, and he lays his head against one of Connor’s thighs. Scratch that last fantasy. Connor wants to lock his legs around Hudson’s head and keep him on his cock forever.
“You look fucked, dude,” Hudson chuckles at him, raking his blint nails through the trimmed hair around Connor’s base in a way that nearly send his eyes rolling back into his head. It’s been a while since he’s booked a gig requiring him baby-butt smooth and his happy trail is back in full force. Hudson pretends to hate it, but can never seem to stop touching.
Aimless petting like this really turns Connor’s brain to soup. Hudson scratches up his lower stomach like they have time to lose, ignoring Connor’s half-hearted, pitiful thrusts upward. If they were inside, alone and behind an opaque door with a lock, Connor might have leaned into it and lifted his shirt, signaling Hudson with their best-friend telepathy that he was in the mood for nipple play. But he’s sure as hell not doing that outside, brain soup or no. Even if Hudson’s hot mouth fits so perfect around his nipple, still as sensitive as when it boasted a silver bar from all the internal scarring. Even if the pressure could probably make Connor cum already if he just pinched it-
Oh, he’s moaning, grazing his own chest with mindless palming. Hudson doesn’t even have a mouth on him and he’s moaning. Connor brings a knuckle on his free hand up to bite, squeezing his eyes shut.
“So fucking easy.” Hudson ducks his head to press a kiss to Connor’s balls— which jump a bit with the contact— while Connor tries to focus his bleary eyes on the sight below him. “Buy a guy some weed and he won’t keep his clothes on for-"
“Yeah, yeah. Got anything better to do with that mouth?”
“Don’t interrupt me,” Hudson mumbles, lips pressed against Connor’s shaft like he can’t stand to pull off entirely.
“Shut the fuck up,” Connor says bluntly. They’ve turned a corner, here. His junk is getting chilly where spit’s drying and if he doesn’t get inside of Hudson some way or another in the next thirty seconds they’re going to have to fast-forward in their routine to the Mean Connor segment, blowjob be damned. “And suck my dick.”
Hudson, ‘cause he likes to be told what to do no matter what he says about it or or how he acts, listens and sucks his dick.
Incrementally, with careful, repetitive bobbing, he makes his way down Connor’s cock. Right about the time Connor starts to register drool accumulating around his base, he sees that telltale subtle undulation of Hudson’s ass as he grinds against the bench cushions. It’s hard to miss. Fuck, they should invent a blowjob where you can still grab your partner’s ass. They can’t very well sixty-nine on the fucking patio. Connor makes do by sliding his fingers back into Hudson’s hair, just to hold him, cradle him with both palms.
Hudson hasn’t sucked anyone else’s dick since they met, Connor is pretty sure. They aren’t exclusive, or anything. Like, technically he would still describe their relationship as “open to seeing other people” but they also just… aren’t. Hudson overshares (clearly) so Connor is sure he would have heard about so much as a Hinge date if he were going on one. Which means he wasn’t, since he hasn’t heard hide or hair of it. Which means they’re only seeing each other. Even if they kind of aren’t “seeing” each other at all.
Anyway his oral fixation is only ever fully satisfied when Connor fucks his face. And he only ever comes to Connor to get it out of his system. That’s not nothing, right? He gets so hard it looks damn near painful when he blows him. Connor likes to fuck his throat against a wall, stick his leg between Hudson’s knees and let him grind on his foot like a dog. Hudson seems to like Connor horizontal for blowies a bit more. Relationships are built on compromise. Even platonic ones.
Hudson had just made it all the way down his length, to his closest unaided approximation of deep throating while Connor lays there like a very patient respectful boy waiting for his turn to be in charge, and that’s why Connor doesn’t register the noise as the sliding glass door opening until his roommate, Shelby, is already talking.
“Hey, do you know where the- oh my god, guys!”
Connor jolts, his whole body jerking including his dick, which must have been uncomfortable for a fraction of a second before Connor stilled the sway of the stupid creaky wicker by slamming one foot to the floor.
Shelby’s holding her hand up over her eyes, squeaking every cuss word she’s ever heard, stepping backwards over the lip of the door frame and stumbling.
“Oh my god,” Connor scrambles for something appropriate to say other than “Sorry!”, and when he comes up with a complete blue fucking screen he realizes it’s because Hudson hasn’t stopped.
He looks down and meets Hudson’s eyes as Shelby slams the sliding door shut as hard as it’ll go on a very rusty track, and then the vertical blinds twist closed and they’re alone again, and the whole time Hudson is bobbing his head a fraction of an inch, nose nearly touching Connor’s pubes, tongue working back and forth in its confined space.
Connor tilts his head back for a second and whines. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he whispers. The Roommate Gods would punish him, but he can’t bring himself to care much for Future Connor’s plight. Not with Hudson’s pretty plush lips stretched around his cock. Not with his eyes finally going a bit glassy by playing dirty.
Hudson starts to pull up— Connor sees it in the tense of his gorgeous shoulders in his stupid tank top. He’s going to pull off of Connor and start talking shit and, well. He’s already had his turn.
“Uh-uh.” Connor tightens his hold on Hudson’s hair, holding him down. Their opposing resistances only battle for a moment before Hudson gets the memo and his eyes flutter shut. He surrenders his aborted upward motion and lets Connor push him back down. Push him further.
Hudson grunts, muffled and choked and barely audible but it’s the closest thing to a moan he can probably manage with his mouth full and it sends what might as well have been a toe-curling electric shock up Connor’s dick.
Using his newly planted foot on the ground as leverage, Connor thrusts his hips up. Once. Twice. Into the tight, wet confines of Hudson’s throat. His eyes are watering enough to be noticeable even past his eyelids screwed shut. Pretty fucking tears on his pretty eyelashes. Connor draws a low moan, breathy and as quiet as he can manage.
Sloppier now and shiny with drool, his mouth is so fucking hot around Connor that he might go blind. The next jerk of his hips bumps something uneven on the inside of Hudson’s throat but he only reacts with a startled grunt, one hand white-knuckling Connor’s bunched shorts, the other gripping Connor’s waist with five tiny pricks of pain.
“You’re so good on my cock, baby,” Connor mumbles through gritted teeth, punching up again a little lighter. “No wonder you wanted it so fucking bad.”
He twines his hands into a better, more even grip in Hudson’s hair so he can lift him up about an inch and push him back down. In the second Hudson’s esophagus is free he sucks in a deep, wet breath before it’s muffled again. He’s going to sound so fucked after. Connor uses his mouth, rolling his hips up to compliment the motion of pulling him down.
Hudson starts to falter with the suction after a few more manual movements on his cock, so Connor knows it’s coming. Two taps on his stomach— two is good. Three taps would mean he wouldn’t be able to finish, would have meant maybe he was rougher than he meant to be. Two meant everything was going fine.
He pulls Hudson off his cock by his scalp. Hudson’s head bobs just a bit when he lets go, like he wasn’t expecting to have to support himself so soon, like he’s made for sucking cock and would have to take a second to pretend he’s a person again. But Connor has a vision and a dedication to execute, so he smacks Hudson’s cheek, lightly popping him just enough to get his hazy eyes focusing again. He tells him to pay attention, but shoves his thumb into Hudson’s mouth before he can answer, holding the side of his face and pressing his thumb against his bottom molars to keep his mouth open.
His other hand jerks himself roughly, a dirty, slick sound filling the balcony with the ease of Hudson’s spit, right up to the edge.
“Don’t swallow,” he says, firm in a way that sends Hudson’s wet puppy eyes fluttering right back closed. And Connor cums in his mouth.
He has to focus through his orgasm a little bit more than he perhaps would have wanted to at this point in his stoned-horny haze in order to maintain his aim, but he manages it. He pistons his fist around himself as he paints Hudson’s tongue with spurts of hot white, abs clenching and nearly bent in half, groans eeking out from behind clenched teeth.
And Hudson… is a fucking sight. His lips are puffy and red— even more than they are on a normal basis, borderline plush like a fucking cartoon character. The flush that’s normally relegated to his cheeks has completely taken over his face and neck. From exertion as well as arousal, although for him the two are so intertwined that they may as well be mutually exclusive. His eyes flutter open, wet eyelashes sticking to one another and pupils huge and blown but still managing to look through the haze and straight into Connor’s soul. And his mouth. Fuck. His tongue pooling with cum while he catches his breath with a slack jaw.
Connor falters, leaning his head back into the cool abyss of new night air that hasn’t been heated up with their bodies. When he looks back up, he sees the last spurt of his cum dripping from Hudson’s cheek bone and lips.
He has half a mind to keep him there for a couple minutes, see how deep into the headspace Hudson’s gotten where he can manage to follow directions and practice patience. But with his sweat suddenly cooling on his neck and a furtive glance towards the little streams of light coming in through the blinds, Connor instead tells him to swallow. He does, licking his lips and smearing a glob of cum over his cupid’s bow.
Connor drags him into his lap by his hair.
It doesn’t bother him to kiss the cum off Hudson’s face. He’s done way crazier in the name of eroticism. But Hudson moans, open mouthed and wanton against Connor like it’s so pornographic he’s going to black out. Connor laughs in between two quick licks around his sticky lips.
“Shh,” he grins. “You’ve already gotten me in trouble, don’t get me arrested too.”
“I gotta cum, Connie,” Hudson is practically slurring, trying to talk at the same time he mouths at Connor’s face, poorly aimed movements landing mostly on his lower lip and chin. He’s probably savoring the prickle of Connor’s stubble. He always bitches when Connor lets his facial hair grow, which means he thinks it’s hot.
He mouths his way down Connor’s jaw to suck a bit of his neck into his mouth, but Connor has more of an aversion to wearing hickies to work so he hums and shoves Hudson to the side. One of his knees hits the cushion and the other stays in between Connor’s legs.
“You looked really wrecked, Huddy,” he mumbles, using the pad of his thumb to wipe a stray remaining streak of gloss from Hudson’s chin. “You get this hard just by choking on my dick?”
Hudson’s shoulders will probably hurt from loosely bracing over him but Connor doesn’t think he’ll mind. Below him, he has such a good view to see him bite his lip, blink a couple times like he’s searching for words. He’s trying to come up with something bitchy to say but he’s too dick drunk.
Connor ruffles his hair and chuckles at him, deciding benevolently to save him the trouble and casually offering, “If you promise to be a good boy and stay quiet you can hump my leg and cream your pretty little shorts.”
While he has a second of still and quiet, during which Hudson squeezes his eyes shut, ducking his head against Connor’s chest and suppressing a gasp, Connor reaches down and snakes his naked leg through the other side of his shorts, getting just clothed enough that the cooling evening air doesn’t chill his dick. Then he cranes his neck forward to press a kiss to Hudson’s bedhead.
Hudson mumbles something into his shirt, rubbing his face on the soft cotton and probably getting it drooly and stained with cum, but Connor can only laugh. Hudson’s thoughts are as clear as day to him. They’re seriously, truly torn from the same cloth in a way probably only replicated by, like, Paul and John. So he plays into Hudson’s game and grabs a rough fistful of his hair to jerk his head up, as suddenly as he can with their bodies so close and telegraphing his moves.
Hudson makes a strangled keening noise so erotic that Connor’s dick twitches. Do not wake back up, penis. We do not have time for that.
“You want it,” he shakes Hudson just a bit and relishes the way he chokes on a gasp and how his eyes seem to roll back as his eyelids flutter. “You can be a good boy and ask for it.”
Hudson chews his lip for a second, probably weighing the likelihood of getting off if he plays hard to get, then folds.
“Please can I hump your leg so I can cum?” He croaks, wet and pathetic.
Connor hums and tilts his head like he’s considering. He lands on: “And?”
“And I promise to be quiet.”
Hudson swallows, audibly, hips already starting to move. Connor drops him and ascents.
Hudson makes light work of getting himself off, which is good because Connor’s own post-nut clarity is starting to scream things like roommate boundaries and public indecency. But at this point, he’s already facing the full extent of roommate law here, right? So he slides his hand inside of Hudson’s boxers to squeeze his perfect ass just as his movements get a little jerky, making his way over to ghost his fingers against his dry hole right as (coincidence? maybe) Hudson tenses and drops his head against Connor’s chest, cumming in his sweats with fistfuls of Connor’s shirt and a full body shudder.
Hudson collapses on to him, breathing heavily. Connor lets him take his time coming back up, petting a small stripe on his lower back and greedily drinking up what skin to skin he can reach until they’re both a little chilled and clammy and Hudson’s breathing slows.
Eventually, Connor presses another kiss to the crown of his head, whispering into the hair, “My ass cheeks are falling asleep.”
Hudson snorts then takes a deep, tired breath in, pushing himself up and shaking his head to clear it like an athlete shaking off a concussion.
“That was so fucking hot, Con,” He croaks, rolling his shoulders back and stretching his neck gingerly from side to side. “I need a fucking cigarette.”
He sounds just as fucked as Connor knew he would.
Later, Connor goes ahead and moves his face magnet from the THIN ICE section to the FIREY PITS OF HELL section on the roommate behavior chart. Repentive, he does the mountain of bad roommate dishes left in the sink while Hudson scrolls on his phone, pausing to watch whatever videos he deems funny enough to deserve an audience. They don’t go to the gym, but they do fall asleep in their boxers with their limbs freshly re-scrubbed and intertwined. Connor gets to be big spoon, as per usual after they get rough, and he drifts off trailing his fingers over Hudson’s tattoos in the dark.
They go to work together the next day, Connor an hour early for his shift and Hudson fifteen minutes late for his and yeah, the entire staff knows they’re fucking which is sort of mortally embarassing. And yeah, they’ll probably eventually have to do the oiled-up wrestler porn to pay LA rent when Jacob fires them. But Hudson keeps his pen behind his ear like he does his unsmoked cigarettes and sneaks kisses from Connor at the drink station, so. Possibly everything is fine the way it is.