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Connor feels like he has a livewire buried directly underneath his skin. Though, he supposes this isn’t surprising given that he was living in Ilya’s the past few months. Like all the roles he plays, Rozanov gently gets pushed back down behind his ribs, taking up residence, a part of him forever. It’s sad, yet invigorating. What the cast of Heated Rivalry did, along with countless crew members, set coordinators, intimacy directors, writers, producers, the works, was something special. Something he’s never felt so grateful to be a part of.
Wrapping on set felt like saying goodbye, even though he’s not ready to let go yet.
He remembers walking somewhere private, attempting to collect himself—
Connor sighs shakily, running a hand through his curls, slightly longer than he prefers. They feel frizzy and unkempt and he knows it’s from Hudson running his hands through them at the cottage, that scene in front of the firepit pumping heavily in his veins like honey. He tells himself this is why he’s so upset, because he’s been Ilya for the past twelve hours, that they ran that beautiful scene of him telling Shane about his mother one too many times, that he can’t shake the lines that are still on the tip of his tongue in an accent.
That it has nothing to do with this journey being over, that even if they don’t get a season two, that all of this will have been worth it.
Connor feels Hudson before he sees him, has gotten so used to his presence that his body resonates like a magnet. To think they didn’t know one another a year ago, in which there is another universe that a different Ilya and Shane are standing here, seems utterly impossible.
He’s meant what he’s said—there are some people that you meet, that you just know. You’re mine. A soul recognizing another.
“I’m fine,” He admits a little gruffly, his accent nearly sticking to some of the syllables. He clears his throat, waiting until he’s sure he sounds like himself before he speaks again, “I just need a minute.”
Connor’s always been an emotional person, he playfully blames it on the fact that he’s a water sign. Mutable, all-feeling, empathetic and deeply sentimental. So it’s unsurprising to him that he’s reacting like this to something that’s impacted him on so many levels.
“I promise you,” Hudson says after a moment, coming to stand in front of him. He brushes both hands through his curls, cupping Connor’s face. “This isn’t the last time you’re going to see my ass.”
A laugh sputters out of his chest, something wet that dislodges more tears down his cheeks because, jesus, what a fucking idiot. But he’s smiling and he knows that was Hudson’s intention. Sometimes he thinks about how easily things have fallen into place between them—how they instantly got along, had things in common, right down to obscure movies and having physical touch as their love language. It feels like fate in a way that Connor’s always thought it would work, the universe bringing two people together for a certain reason.
He remembers asking Hudson if he believed in fate at one point, eating ramen on his couch in L.A., tucked under blankets together.
Hudson had crinkled his nose, smiled, and said, “Nah, not really. But I believe in you.”
Connor thinks about that all the time.
“I mean,” Connor sniffles, “You did work really hard for it.”
Hudson lets out a dramatic sigh because he did, they both did. They put two hundred percent into everything these roles were asking of them and then some. It’s something incredible that’ll live with them, something they can call home.
“At least the ground beef nightmare is over.”
Hudson draws his thumb along his cheek, removing a tear track. He steps closer, so close that Connor can still see the spattering of Shane’s freckles on his cheekbones. “I’m gonna miss a lot of things but it’s not going to be that.”
Connor is not strong enough to ask him what fits into ‘a lot of things’. Instead, he closes his eyes and allows his face to turn into the palms of Hudson’s hands, taking in a deep breath. An insecure thought slithers through all the others,
“What if no one watches it?”
And distantly, he knows that’s not true, that that’s not the right question. They’ve already met countless book fans who are going to watch—who are eager and excited and who trust them to be the best versions of the characters they’ve only been able to picture in their reader’s mind.
But…what if, despite all their best laid plans, despite all the hours and hard work and dedication and fucking magic they’ve put into every single, living detail…the book fans hate it? The general public shames it for the sex of it all? What if his career goes absolutely nowhere? He’ll have to go back to waiting tables, something that makes a small piece of soul die to admit.
“What if it flops?”
Hudson doesn’t shame Connor’s feelings. He never does. Hudson’s not as sensitive in the sense that he preens in absolute chaos; he takes a lot of conversations by the throat and forces their gaze to drink him in, to not be able to get enough of him, to want more. A social vampire. An incredible human. One he may never have had the chance to meet.
He breathes in, still wiping away tear tracks from Connor’s cheeks. He tilts his head down a little, catching his blue eyes with his brown ones. He draws his thumb over his lower lip, pressing just a little,
“But Connie,” He grins, a confidence that shines as bright as the sun; something that’s unable to be duplicated or fabricated. Something purely fucking Hudson, “What if it fucking doesn’t?”
—and he supposes that’s what has made him feel the most lucky out of all of this. That he met someone he never saw coming, yet can’t picture being without.
Hudson tosses a heavy arm over his shoulder at a crowded bar, the heat of his body mapping out against his own. Connor finds himself closing his eyes for just a second, memorizing the weight of him, knowing that it won’t last. At the very least, not in the way he wants it to. There’s a handful of talk-shows, podcasts and interactive interviews that are set up for him and Hudson to knock out to talk about Heated Rivalry as it airs. All perfectly lined drops that are intended to increase engagement and interest for the show. But there’s also this yawning desperation clawing against his ribs, like a cage, knowing that they’ll separate to go work on separate projects.
That they might never be together again like this. Like this might be a blip in their shared timeline and nothing more.
Hudson’s fingers clasp his chin, forcing his eyes open, tipping his face up to look at him. His biceps flex distractingly, on full display thanks to the black sweater vest he’s wearing. He’s hired a stylist to create this ‘messy-put-together’ look for his hair and Connor’s one hand twitches as he resists running it through his strands.
“Be here with me.” Hudson says over the music, having to lean close enough (or maybe not) so that he can hear him. A shiver wraps down Connor’s spine as his lips brush the shell of his ear.
He offers him a sheepish smile, “Sorry. Got a lot on my mind.”
Hudson hums, something he can feel through the vibrations of his chest rather than by sound, “I can hear the wheels turning,” His hand moves from his face and settles on his hip, “It’s really distracting.”
Connor’s lips twitch into a smile, leaning further against the bar and trying to forcibly put himself into the moment that they’re in. Despite everything rattling around his head, Hudson’s right. He needs to be here with him, he needs to enjoy what’s right at his fingertips. The future could hold so many possibilities; he has no idea what the reception to the show will be. It might be fucking incredible, it might open so many doors for him he won’t know which ones to walk through.
Regardless? He knows he has Hudson through it all, every step of the way, stumbling or gliding through together. And that’s what really matters.
Connor breathes in, glancing around the packed area of the bar. It’s some sort of hole in the wall, though technically not a dive. There’s dancing tucked into the corner, a few dart games and a pool table by the bathrooms, but most of the activity lies where they are. Trying to get drinks. Hudson leans more fully into the counter, his hand slipping from Connor’s waist but automatically finding his fingers. They lace together lazily, absentmindedly, like breathing. Something easy and reflexive.
Connor squeezes Hudson’s hand, not trying to get his attention, but there’s a brief smile that pulls at Hudson’s mouth and he, in turn, runs his thumb over Connor’s knuckles.
He’s about to suggest they move towards another area of the bar when Hudson finally manages to snag the bartender's attention, a bright grin on his face that fills Connor’s entire chest up. It’s funny, he thinks, how unlike their characters they are. How they’re sort of like the opposite. Connor is more reserved, careful, calculated sometimes in how he reacts in certain situations, soft. Hudson is vibrant, sometimes brash but not because he’s an asshole, but because he’s confident, skirting the line of cocky but in that attractive way that you can’t help but be captivated by him. Shane and Ilya personified in different bodies.
Even now, as Hudson very clearly flirts with the bartender and engages him in a conversation that makes him feel utterly at ease, Connor knows that he’ll have him wrapped around his finger for the rest of the night. That if they want another round of drinks, the bartender will spot Hudson in the crowd of people waiting and hone in on him like a beacon.
It makes heat unspool in his belly; it makes Connor want to kiss him.
Not because a script told him too, not a lazy brush of his lips to his cheek, or a peck in saying hello or goodbye, or not because they’re a bit too high on his balcony, drinking shitty beer and sitting in one another’s laps and one thing leads to another.
No, because he wants to. Sober. With meaning.
It would be easy, so easy, for him to tug on Hudson’s sweater vest and pull him into a kiss. They’re both single and there’s an obvious attraction between them that goes beyond the physical; it’s been there since the first Zoom call.
Their drinks are set down and when a stool opens up behind Connor, Hudson places his hands on his hips and manhandles him backwards. A soft noise rumbles in his throat, something you can’t hear above the music in the bar, but Hudson seems to sense it because he smirks.
“Are you purring?” He teases him, not letting go even when Connor perches himself upon the stool. Their usual height-to-height is slightly thrown off balance now, making Hudson just a bit taller as he steps closer, between Connor’s legs. “Is that what my touch does to you, baby?”
Connor shudders, his hand reaching out to wrap his fingers around Hudson’s sweater vest, keeping him close. The clothes he has on tonight are lightweight, despite the colder weather outside—a pair of slacks and a sheer button down shirt, black with small rosebuds. It’s supposed to help him feel cooler in a place he knew was going to be packed and yet, with Hudson so close, he feels sweat kiss the back of his neck and along his hairline.
Connor picks up his drink, having a long sip, the cool condensation along the glass against his hand regulating his pulse just a little. He thinks about the promise Ilya and Shane made at the cottage, to be honest with one another, to tell eachother what they really thought and how they really felt. It’s why he finds himself nodding, picking up his hand and tracing Hudson’s cheek with his thumb,
“You know it does, that’s why you’re so determined to torture me with it.”
Hudson’s eyes light up, “No one’s ever called me a tease before, Storrie.”
A laugh rumbles in Connor’s chest, “I highly doubt that.”
Hudson turns his head and presses a kiss to the inside of Connor’s wrist, picking up his drink afterwards, like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done. Like it’s normal for them. And maybe it is. But Connor keeps getting stuck on those details, like a snag, what exactly are they doing? It’s hard for him to be in the moment, as much as he wants to be, when he wants more.
He draws in a breath, centers himself the best that he can, and has another pull of his drink.
The night continues in a series of moments. They dance together, they take shots, they talk about the future (in what they’ll do if Heated Rivalry goes nowhere, of what they want if everything works out). It’s strange how much Hudson has become such an integral part of his life, that he can’t picture his place in L.A. or what his future projects look like without him.
They make their way back to the bar to have one more drink. Connor can’t wait to get his hands on some water—his shirt is starting to stick to him a little bit and his curls feel frizzy from sweat and lack of gel. He sits down on an open stool again, Hudson pressing into him from behind, nosing at a mole that’s along the back of his shoulder.
“You know I counted these.”
Connor snorts, shaking his head, his hand traces Hudson’s forearm as his arm wraps around his waist, “No you fucking didn’t.”
“I did,” He promises, “When you fell asleep on me that one time on set, remember?”
How could Connor forget? His eyes slip closed for a moment at the thought. It was after the tuna melt scene and both he and Hudson were feeling emotionally wrung out, particularly vulnerable, bodies and souls a bit tired. When there was a break on set, Hudson had tucked himself onto the couch in Ilya’s flat and encouraged Connor to come lay on him. Emotionally supportive weighted blanket, he’d teased, tucking him underneath his chin. It’d been so easy to fold himself into Hudson’s body, something they’d done so many times, on set and off. He had fallen asleep to the feeling of Hudson’s fingers in his hair, of them trailing down his spine. His shirt was still off from Ilya’s scene and he felt his touch pausing every so often, circling around his moles.
Maybe Hudson had counted them.
“One more drink,” Connor shifts the subject, can’t comment on the other one. He just can’t. “Then we’re going home.”
Hudson shifts, his nose and lips brushing his neck, making Connor’s cock twitch. “Your place or mine?”
A small smile spreads over his lips unabashedly and he bites down on the inside of his cheek for a comment that wants to spill forward, home is wherever you are—because he can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. He closes his eyes, doesn’t respond, but instead leans further back into Hudson’s body. His arm squeezes him again, fingers lazily stroking Connor’s hip.
Hudson excuses himself to use the restroom a few moments later, leaving Connor missing the heat of his body like a physical ache. He breathes in, shifting on his stool, checking his phone for any missing notifications. Another body hauls up next to him, bumping right into his arm, trying to squeeze closer to the bar to order a drink.
Connor looks over his shoulder, shifts, but doesn’t say anything. That however doesn’t stop this guy from sneering at him.
“What?”
Connor shakes his head, not intending on saying anything back. The guy is a head taller than him and far bulkier, there’s also a glassiness to his eyes that tells him he might be a bit drunk. He gives his full attention to his phone instead but he can feel this guy’s attention not swaying from him. He then uses his body to encroach on Connor’s space again, purposely trying to make him uneasy.
Connor straightens his spine, turning his body a little, “At least buy me a drink first.”
And maybe that’s the wrong thing to say, but fuck, he’s not going to allow someone to make him uncomfortable. This guy is being a dick for no other reason than just because. He’s had too many moments in his life where he’s made himself smaller, to try and blend in, to try and not to make waves. Connor refuses to do that anymore, especially to someone with an inflated ego. Drunk or not.
“What’d you fucking say?” And then a slur follows, something that comes down on Connor’s shoulders like a sharp stab. No matter how many times he’s heard it tossed carelessly in his direction, it doesn’t mean he’s any more used to it.
A hand touches his lower back and he hates that he flinches, almost like a physical hit, because he knows who’s behind him without looking. Hudson takes a step, purposely pressing himself closer, a grounding weight that calms Connor’s pulse.
“You need to back up.” Hudson’s voice has an edge to it that it rarely possesses.
The guy scoffs out a noise of disgust, standing up to his full height, and fuck—this is the exact opposite of the night Connor wanted to have. They were having a good time, celebrating a project ending, looking forward to new possibilities and the promise of something more. The very last thing he wants is some sort of altercation breaking out, for Hudson to get hurt. Because despite his fighting experience, there’s always that slim chance that something could go wrong.
“I don’t need to do shit,” The guy spits, “Your pansy boyfriend is the fucking problem.”
Connor stands from the stool, his hand falling onto Hudson’s wrist, “Alright, we’re leaving. C’mon.”
He can feel the edges of Hudson’s body coiled like a spring, adopting a stance in which he could throw a punch, if he really needed to. Connor suddenly shakes his head, reaching up to force Hudson’s gaze to find his own by clasping his chin between his fingers.
“No, it’s not worth it,” Then, because he’s particularly desperate, he adds “Please.”
Hudson swallows, nods and they’re about to turn to head for the exit. But then everything happens at once. This fucking guy who can’t quit reaches for Connor, he grabs onto his shoulder, he’s in the middle of saying you need someone to fight your battles for you—
It’s the hand on him, it’s the touch itself that flips something in Hudson like a switch. Connor can tell the exact moment when Hudson’s vision bleeds red. The tensing of his shoulders, the way he bites down and feathers the muscle in his jaw, his fingers in his right hand drawing into his palm.
Hudson, who is usually so easy-going, who’s the life of the party, who dances ridiculously and laughs loudly and leans on any and everyone when he’s a bit tipsy, who smiles with his eyes—is suddenly moving to knock this guy’s lights out.
“Hudson,” Not Huddy, not baby. His full name to get him to stop. Connor grabs at his arm, the momentum of his body moving forward nearly making him stumble. It’s too late, he’s already locked into this decision— Hudson’s other hand reaches out, shoves the guy in the shoulder, enough force behind it to throw the drunk asshole off balance.
Connor practically pushes on Hudson’s chest, getting him to go in the opposite direction, encouraging him to move outside, “Stop—stop.”
Hudson huffs out a noise that sounds a lot like fuck and allows Connor to turn him around to leave, grabbing his jacket out from underneath the bar. He pushes the door open, spilling out onto the pavement. The air is brisk, nearly taking his breath away, goosebumps skittering all over the skin of his arms and up his back. He wraps his arms around himself, a crawling sensation underneath his pores, making him want to reach for a cigarette.
Hudson runs both hands through his hair and Connor turns to look down the street, wondering if he should start walking to clear his head. It’s a bit further than ordering a car, but part of him feels like he needs to move. He runs his tongue along his teeth, letting out a breath that puffs a bit into the night air.
His emotions solidify like a knife sliding between his ribs, going for all his soft parts. Connor knows it’s mostly the adrenaline banking, that it’s not really about the man in front of him and yet, that’s who he finds himself upset with.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”
Hudson blinks, almost taken back. His mouth opens and closes as he glances towards the entrance to the bar and then back to Connor. The fight leaves his shoulders and they sink just a little, something very Shane-like kissing the edges of his body, like he’s worried he’s done something wrong.
Connor expects him to argue, to bring up the guy at the bar and name all the reasons in which he had to say something, in why he got so angry. But instead, something shifts in the air, almost like static electricity, sparking in the space in-between. Connecting them.
“Why not?” Hudson’s voice is too soft.
Connor shakes his head, running a hand through his curls, tugging a bit at the ends as frustration peaks like a wave inside of him. Why not? Why not? He thinks about the way that his body slotted up against Hudson’s own as they danced, the way his lips brushed the shell of his ear when he leaned in close to talk, the way he touched him—with purpose, with longing, with words left unsaid. He thinks about how well they work together and how Connor desperately wants more projects with him, even if Heated Rivalry is over. He thinks about how devastating it’s going to feel when they’re not automatically at one another’s fingertips, the promise to stay close all that it becomes. Just a promise.
“You know why.”
Hudson draws in a breath, holding his gaze for what feels like a lot longer than a few moments. There’s a barely there nod before his chin dips and he’s looking at the pavement. The silence pops in the air between them, hurting Connor’s eardrums.
He runs his hands up and down his arms, a small shiver making his body tremble, “I’m going to…I’m going to walk back.”
Hudson swallows, “I’ll go with you.”
Connor shakes his head, “No,” He says softly, “It’s not that far and I want some time alone.”
His last sentence feels like a punch, he can see the words spread across Hudson’s face. There’s hurt there in its wake but he eventually nods again, respecting that decision, even though he might not agree with it.
“At least take this,” Hudson holds up his coat, “You’re cold.”
Connor is shaking his head, the words I’m fine leaving his lips but Hudson is rolling his eyes and wrapping the fabric around him.
“C’mon Connie,” He mumbles, “So stubborn. It’s literally against the law for me as a Canadian if I can’t offer my jacket to my baby.”
Connor chews on his lower lip, sliding his arms through the sleeves, drawing in the other’s scent. Hudson tugs it closed but doesn’t zip it up, instead fixing the collar and playing with a curl near his neck. They’re too close; he can feel his resolve slipping. Maybe Hudson’s intention, or maybe just a byproduct of how easily they can impact eachother.
He presses his nose into the fabric near the shoulder and it takes everything in him not to mention that the way Hudson is a gentleman would also include walking him home. But Connor needs to create the tiniest bit of distance, at least for the small journey back. He needs to clear his head, he needs to rebuild a wall, he needs to try to create a bit of an emotional separation to protect his heart.
So he whispers thanks Huddy, and turns to cross the street. He can feel Hudson’s gaze on him all the way down the sidewalk until he turns the corner. Connor forces himself not to turn around.
—
It’s complicated—that’s what Connor keeps telling himself.
There are too many factors in which things are too much or not enough, in which things would be incredibly easy and so fucking difficult. He thinks he knows how Hudson feels about him, but that’s also something layered and built in half truths. Their affection and attraction could be whittled down to their on-screen chemistry, how well they love eachother through Ilya and Shane. Or it could be something more, something that seamlessly lives in the two of them, one half recognizing the other.
They’ve never talked about it because they’ve rarely needed words to communicate. And Connor doesn't know what it’ll look like if they do that, if they actually talk.
He pinches the bridge of his nose after he pulls on a pair of briefs and a t-shirt, fresh out of the shower. His curls are still wet and he can feel water drip down his neck. He knows he’s not hungover, at least not from alcohol, and yet his temples are beginning to pound, accompanied with a slight pinching behind his eyes.
He glances up when he hears knocking. Eyebrows drawing together, he wonders if that’s coming from inside his head. But then he hears it again.
Connor’s heart jumps right into his throat because as he crosses the space to the front door, he knows who it is without looking through the peephole. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead on the wood for a second before opening up.
There Hudson is. As if he belonged anywhere else.
He can tell Hudson hasn’t gone back to his flat nearby, he’s still dressed from the bar, hair messy from running his fingers through it. Connor opens his mouth to say something, though he’s not sure what—to ask him to leave? To mention his jacket and give it back? To tell him everything that’s been on his mind?
But Hudson gets there first. “I’m sorry,” He says, his fingers twisting together for a brief moment of nervousness that he rarely shows, “I know you wanted space but. I just—I just can’t.”
Connor swallows over a sudden lump in his throat because fuck, that says so much without too many words. He knows exactly how that is. How much he hates any distance between them, like they need one another in order to feel like he’s not completely throwing off his circadian rhythm. His fingers, which are wrapped around the edge of the door, squeeze until his nails dig in.
“But that’s how you make me feel,” Hudson continues, “Like I can be a bit selfish for once.”
“Hudson,” His voice is ragged, trying to get him to stop. They’re teetering on such a fine line, one they won’t be able to walk back from, one that if they erase, they won’t be able to redraw.
“I know,” He nods, looking away for a brief moment. Connor can see the soft sheen to his eyes, something so Shane-coded that it hurts his chest for different reasons, like Ilya behind his ribs is trying to claw out between the bones. “Just…ask me for something else. Anything else. I’ll give it to you.”
Connor stares at him, like he doesn’t know exactly what to ask for. As if he doesn’t want to eliminate the distance he created, that he thought he needed, as if he doesn’t want to alter everything between them, to change the shape of them so that they’re unrecognizable. How can Hudson just stand there and ask him for something else. For anything else.
Fuck it.
He isn’t gentle as he grabs Hudson by the sweater vest and yanks him over the threshold, over that invisible line, destroying it, slamming his mouth against his.
Maybe things are complicated—until they’re not.
—
Hudson is quick on the uptake—he wastes no time in questioning what Connor is doing, what he’s asking for. He stumbles into his body, blindly slams the door closed behind him and in one swift motion lifts Connor up and into his arms. His legs wrap around his waist as his hands fist into Hudson’s hair, gently tugging. He’s navigated through the flat until Hudson bumps into the couch, Connor’s one arm reaching out to try and stabilize them as the kiss breaks.
“Fuck, who moved this thing here?” Hudson asks, his lips a little shiny. Connor lets out a breath of a laugh, tilting his head down to tug at his lower lip with his teeth. A soft groan emanates from Hudson’s chest, making his cock twitch.
There’s a silence that pops in Connor’s veins like champagne bubbles and they’re just…stuck there, like that, Connor practically seated on the one arm of the couch, legs around Hudson’s waist as he holds him there. They’re breathing in one another’s air, noses bumping, a small smile on Hudson’s mouth as he lifts his hand and runs it through Connor’s damp curls.
“You smell good.” He tilts his head down, presses his nose and lips to his neck, breathing him in. Connor’s stomach flutters as he squirms, making Hudson laugh, “Forgot you were ticklish.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Hudson pulls back just a little, cupping Connor’s cheek. His thumb traces along the bone, “You’re right,” He whispers after a moment, “No, I didn’t.”
The air around them feels charged and Connor can feel how hard Hudson is against his waist, making heat slither low in his belly and his hips shudder forward involuntarily—wanting friction, wanting him. He can’t stop thinking about what Hudson said when he showed up, about not wanting to give him space, about choosing one another.
“You make me want to be selfish too.” Connor says after a moment.
Hudson can’t help but smile, stealing a soft kiss, nose pressing to his cheek, “Well do you want to be selfish here on the couch or…kitchen counter? The floor?...your bedroom?”
A laugh stutters out of his chest because fuck, he doesn’t care. He just wants him, “Here,” Connor leans back a little, forcing himself out of Hudson’s arms so that he’s lying down on the couch. He has to shimmy himself up the cushions, but once he’s got one of the pillows behind his back, he slides his hand down his chest, cupping himself through his briefs.
Hudson mouths the word fuck, unbuckling his belt and undoing his jeans. He removes his shoes, sliding his jeans off next, tossing them towards the coffee table, “Yeah, you’re right,” He moves to map his body along Connor's, holding himself up with his arms over his waist, “We’ve wasted enough time.”
He uses his one hand to tug the t-shirt up off of Connor’s chest, dipping himself down to rest on his elbows, his mouth tracing moles, tongue curling into his bellybutton. A noise he is not proud to make instantly slithers out of Connor’s mouth, like it’s been waiting for Hudson to touch him like this. To use his mouth in ways that have nothing to do with a fucking script.
Hudson encourages him to sit up just enough to take his sweater vest off, throwing it towards a chair and inches his body up higher, kissing every mole he comes across until their chests are pressed together. Connor opens his legs further to accommodate Hudson’s body and a low moan sits between them as their cocks line up.
The fact that they’ve both got their underwear on only adds to the frustrating pleasure, Hudson rolling his hips down and groaning, “Drove me fucking crazy tonight.”
Connor’s head feels like it’s spinning as he tries to connect the dots to what Hudson is saying. His hands splay flat on his back, digging his nails in a bit as he drags down, toying with the waistband of his briefs. “What did?”
“You,” He pants, placing open-mouthed kisses to his jawline, his neck, his collarbone, “You in that fucking sheer shirt, the way you’re always smiling when you talk, how you slotted up against me when we danced—”
“Like we fit.” Connor murmurs.
“Exactly,” He tips his head, stealing a kiss, his tongue slipping into his mouth. Connor’s hand slides into Hudson’s briefs, squeezing his ass. “Like we fit.” Hudson pulls back just a little, his hand cupping his cheek. His thumb traces the bone before pressing along the bow of Connor’s lip, “Then that fucking guy.”
Connor’s eyebrows draw upwards and the entire motion of what they’re doing is almost derailed because he suddenly laughs. Not at his comment, exactly, but— “Huddy, oh my god. You’re not serious.” He doesn’t think it’s about jealousy or anything like that, but he also can’t believe he’s still allowing that drunk guy to take up residence in his thoughts. He didn’t matter.
There’s something that shifts on Hudson’s face, not cold or angry, exactly. But serious. He clasps Connor’s chin between his fingers, forcing his gaze to his own. A shudder works through him at what he sees there—a possessiveness that makes his toes curl. He rolls his hips up, one of his legs lacing behind Hudson to angle his pelvis.
“I thought I was gonna lose it when he put his hand on you.” Hudson moves his hand from his face, finally sliding it between their bodies, dipping into his briefs and holy fuck. His fingers wrap around Connor’s cock, making his head dip back and a whine empty from his throat. “You’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” He chokes out instantly. Yours, yours, yours—like a buzzing in his head to match his rapid heartbeat in his ears, the pulse in his throat, the hammering in his chest.
Part of him wants to draw this out as long as they can but every touch from Hudson, every kiss, every purposeful flick of his tongue, he knows he won’t be able to grasp onto control. He’s wanted this for so long, a build-up of what-ifs and maybes finally coming to a head, teasing right over the edge.
Hudson lifts himself up just enough to slide down his briefs, to encourage Connor’s hips up to do the same for his. An obscene groan empties into Hudson’s mouth as their cocks line up and he deepens a kiss. For a while it’s just like this, the rolling of their bodies, a desperation jerking their hips forward, an aching pleasure that’s not enough.
Connor’s so turned on that his entire body feels like an exposed nerve, every point where their bodies are connected feels like pure torture, pleasure coiling so tightly in his lower body that he almost chokes on the next set of syllables leaving his mouth.
“Baby, please,” Sweat sticks to their skin, his limbs are trembling. Connor’s not above begging—he doesn’t care, he wants this so badly, wants Hudson to be the reason he loses himself, wants to hear and feel what it’s like for Hudson to do the same thing.
“I got you,” Hudson promises, drawing him into a distracting kiss, leaning up a little so he can maneuver his hand to wrap around them both. There’s enough precum to give just enough friction and he angles his leg to thrust his hips into the motion, his head tipping back and exposing his neck.
Hudson’s lips then find a home there, working their cocks together in his grip and when Connor feels a small lovebite to where his pulse point is, he fucking loses it. He cums so hard that he swears he sees fucking stars, a gutteral groan leaving his lips as Hudson follows a few seconds later.
He collapses back onto the couch, his heart pounding in his ears, body shaking slightly as heat rolls off his skin in the semi-cool room. He’s distantly aware that Hudson is pulling away, grabbing tissues, cleaning them up. Connor covers his face with his hands, pressing his fingertips against his eyebrows, trying to clear the post-orgasm haze from his head. He waits for the guilt to swirl to the forefront, the regret, the sensation of dread that he’s done something wrong.
But none of those emotions come.
Instead it’s just a tenderness and affection that he usually associates with Hudson as he gets them dressed again, though he blissfully leaves off his jeans, signaling to Connor that he’s not going to leave.
He lays down on the couch, barely big enough for both their bodies, Connor tucked against the cushions as Hudson stretches out beside him. His palm rubs at Connor’s chest before he reaches up to gently pry his hands away from his face. Hudson leans down, his nose brushing the side of his, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Do you want me to go?” Hudson asks.
“No,” Connor says quickly. He never wants him to leave, which is probably, inherently, part of the problem. I don’t ever want that problem to ever go away.
Hudson draws his thumb down the bridge of Connor’s nose, making him crinkle it. “I can hear you thinking.” Just like before in the bar; he’s always wearing his emotions so clearly on his face, like words printed on skin.
Connor licks his lips, “I’m just—I don’t know how this is…how we do this.” There’s so much at stake, even if Heated Rivalry doesn’t end up becoming anything more. They’ll both have separate addresses, separate job offers, separate lives to get back in order. There are so many fears and uncertainties spinning around in his chest like a tornado, capable of taking him out at his knees. That despite this big step forward, he’s worried it’ll all come crumbling down like a house of cards.
He swallows, forcing himself to look up at Hudson. His hair dips down a bit over his forehead, the browns of his eyes wide and earnest, those lips a living smirk. There’s an optimism there that Connor wants to let himself drown in.
He lifts his hand to cup Hudson’s cheek, stroking back and forth over his smooth skin. “What if it doesn’t work out?”
That same, familiar smile is back as Hudson leans forward, mapping the upper half of his body over Connor’s. He presses a few kisses to his lips, over and over, until Connor melts under his touch, disarming him.
“But Connie baby,” He nuzzles their noses, “What if it does?”