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The thing is– and Connor won’t lie and say that he didn’t expect it– is that it’s not enough. Him and Hudson see each other whenever they can, spend even more time on Facetime just existing together, and Connor doms him out of his mind on the regular. It’s great. When Hudson makes the trek to LA he brings his beautiful devastating brown eyes and when Connor goes to him he takes firm fingers to dig into his skin, and it really is good, it’s just… Hudson is sweet and perfect but greedy, so fucking greedy.
Connor’s hand gravitates to the little scar on his thigh every time they fuck. It’s there now, his thumb pressed right next to it– a tease, a promise– and Hudson makes that wounded noise he always makes and lets his legs fall further open.
“Connie,” he gasps, head lolled back on the pillow, and Connor leans down to kiss him. It’s messy, wet with saliva and a little off-centre, but Hudson moans and sucks at Connor’s lip like it’s his lifeline. The clutch of his body is tight and hot and perfect and Connor is going to come, and when he digs his thumb properly into the scar Hudson cries out and thrashes like he is, too. “Connie,” he mumbles again, blinking his eyes open to fix on Connor’s face, “you should– should burn me again.”
It’s not the first time he’s brought it up. In fact, it’s always just like this: his head empty, his hole full, an orgasm coiling its way up his spine and flushing him pink. When he’s at his most beautiful, his most greedy, and unfortunately for Connor, his most irresistible. Connor massages a slow circle into the scar for the way it makes Hudson’s mouth drop open.
“Baby,” he croons, “we’ve spoken about this.”
Hudson shakes his head. He’s got one hand clutching the pillow and the other tangled in Connor’s hair, all of him splayed out and eager and offering, supplicating, and it would be so easy for Connor to give in. Too easy. Nicotine has nothing on this.
But the truth is that they have been over this. One scar is hard to explain, but there will be a way, if it ever happens to be noticed, but more than one is just plain suspicious. The media would spin stories about an abusive partner, an abusive parent, self harm, something nasty. Connor can’t have that. He needs the pain to taste so fucking sweet, to make Hudson bloom, not to constrict and to hold him back. Needs it to be something beautiful and just for them.
Hudson makes a heartbreaking little sound and arches into the press of Connor’s body.
“Need it,” he gasps, his fingers in Connor’s hair spasming, “need it, fuck, Connie– please, please, please–”
Connor kisses him again, feverish and desperate, just to shut him up. The begging is– too much. He needs Hudson to come before him.
“Okay,” he breathes, lips pressed to the corner of Hudson’s slack mouth, “okay, I’ll hurt you again. But– ah– no more burns, okay?”
The pulsing waves of Hudson’s orgasm crash through them both. Connor gasps and clutches him tight, fucks him through the rhythmic clench of his body, and then comes with a groan once Hudson starts to go loose and sated. That was– fuck.
“Promise?” Hudson asks, slurred, his breath still coming in stuttered pants. Connor hums and gives his hips one last roll just to watch him squirm.
“Promise.” He presses a little kiss to Hudson’s flushed cheek, and then pushes himself up to look at him. “But I get to decide how we do it.”
Hudson– sweet, beautiful, willing Hudson– nods eagerly. He likes the restriction of ownership, the clear walls for his brain to bounce around in instead of being all unmoored. Connor kisses him languid and slow amongst the pillows for a while after that, letting their bodies come down. Intimacy after sex always feels like a cosmic experience of some sort, everything still swimmy and warm and perfect and skin soft and damp. If Connor could freeze time forever, let it be now.
Their shower is much the same. He holds Hudson close under the spray, shampoos his hair for him while Hudson gives a monologue about the different species of bees native to the west coast of Australia. Connor has definitely acquired a lot of new, mostly random but very interesting knowledge since he met Hudson.
It’s when they’re lounging on the sofa afterwards that he brings it up again.
“Can I see your workout plan?” he asks, and Hudson roots around in the huge pocket at the front of his hoodie for his phone. He pulls up the plan on his notes app and holds it out to Connor.
His eyes track each movement as Connor changes things here and there– 12 reps where it said 10, 45 pounds where it said 40. He doesn’t change everything, just enough here and there to make it harder. Hudson’s breath is caught in his throat.
“Here.” Connor hands it back. “You wanted me to hurt you, I will.”
Hudson bites at his lip hard enough that Connor expects it to draw blood. His eyes have gone glassy again, and Connor is constantly in awe and a little honoured that he can get Hudson to drop so quickly. His sweet, easy boy.
“Can I blow you?” Hudson asks, fingers already heading for the waistband of Connor’s sweats. And, well, they do have the rest of the day to just lie around…
He gets the first voice message the day after Hudson leaves. It’s exactly what he asked for, exactly what had made Hudson drop to his knees for the third time when Connor had suggested it– a voice message every time you work out, so you can tell me how much I hurt you.
Hudson is still breathless, the audio slightly crackly.
“Hurt so good,” he says, “fuck, Connie, ‘s so good. It burns.”
Don’t jerk off, he sends back, paired with a kissy face emoji. Hudson sends back a string of cute little angry emojis. Connor saves the voice message and turns back to the script he was reading.
It stops hurting after a week, which, of course it does. Building strength and getting used to heavier weights is exactly what Hudson is going for, but his voice message sounds so sweetly bereft that Connor immediately knows he needs to find something else. He sends back add 5 more pounds on your tricep extension and gets thinking.
Another stolen moment, this time before an awards show. Hudson is back in Connor’s apartment, fretting to Aika over text, and it definitely came as a surprise to Connor to learn that he’s an anxious person. He comes across so confident, so put-together, but right now he’s bitten his lip to a pulp and his knee is bouncing up a storm. Connor steps up behind him and wraps him into his arms. Hudson chucks his phone down on the kitchen countertop.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, “why do I always get so stressed before these things?”
They have to leave in an hour. Connor presses a kiss into his hair.
“Because you care,” he says, “and because you’re sweet.”
Hudson makes a grumbly little noise and spins in the bar stool so he can press his face against Connor’s chest. Connor rubs up and down his back and then lets his hand trail up the back of Hudson’s neck, round his jaw, to pinch gently at the earring in his ear. Just a simple one, a little silver hoop, to be swapped out for big gaudy fancy ones at the event.
“Would you…” he starts, rolling the little piece of jewellery between his fingers, “would you ever get other piercings?”
Hudson lifts his head to look up at him. He blinks big brown eyes at Connor, his bottom lip jutted out in a tiny pout.
“Maybe? Why?”
Connor digs the nails of his thumb and forefinger into the soft lobe of his ear hard enough to make him hiss. But Hudson’s eyes suddenly widen, and, yeah. He gets it.
“Yes,” he says, soft with reverence, “yes. Wherever you want.”
Fuck, what did Connor do in a past life to deserve this? He must’ve been a saint, or a Nobel Peace Prize winner. He runs his fingers through Hudson’s floppy hair, thumbs at the shell of his ear, leans down to kiss him on the forehead.
“Okay,” he says, “let me think about it.”
Hudson deflates a little at not being given any more information than that, but Connor likes making him wait. Likes drawing it out, pulling at his impatience, showing Hudson his lack of agency. Likes how responsive he is to it.
Hudson’s not the only one being teased, though. Connor spends the whole night bathed in lavish clothes and flashing lights, and yet all he can think about every time he looks at Hudson is what his perfect skin would look like pierced with silver and diamonds, little bursts of light. And god, what options he has…
The following morning, before Hudson leaves, Connor takes him to the piercing place downtown where he used to get all of his done. It’s the only place he’d trust to do this for him, now that confidentiality is something they have to worry about. The woman behind the counter, Allie, greets him with a hug.
“Wow, Con, it’s been a while,” she says with a grin, “I’d ask how things are, but I think I already know.”
Connor introduces her to Hudson, who also gets a hug, and then Allie claps her hands together.
“Alright. What can I do for you boys?”
Hudson nibbles at his lip as he looks at Connor. He hadn’t wanted to know what Connor had planned, in the end, so Connor hasn’t told him, and Connor might just get so dizzy from all the trust that’s being imparted to him that he passes out. Instead, he nudges gently at Hudson’s shoulder.
“Hudson wanted a helix,” he says, and Allie nods, like it’s not at all odd that Connor is speaking for him. He’s known her a long time, she does kind of know some of the things he’s into.
“Cool. What side?”
Hudson doesn’t say a word. Fuck. He’s waiting for Connor to answer.
“Right side,” he says, trying to keep his voice as even as possible.
“Awesome. Come on back.”
Allie leads them through the black curtains behind the counter to the little piercing room, where she gets Hudson to hop up onto the chair. Connor lingers in the corner.
It’s a pretty quick process, all in all. Hudson has been pierced before, although never through cartilage, but he sits perfectly still while Allie draws the little dot, checks it in the mirror, and then sits just as well while she pushes the needle through followed by the jewellery. Connor chose it for him: silver titanium with a little clear cubic zirconia on the end. He’ll buy him white gold and real diamonds once it’s healed.
“How’s that?” Allie holds up a little handheld mirror. “I’ll go sort out payment, you two good back here?”
Connor nods. And then she heads back through the curtain, and it’s just Connor and Hudson, and Hudson shudders out a breath as he admires the little piercing in the mirror.
“Connie,” he mumbles, tucking his hair out the way for a better look. The apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears are flushed pink, his teeth digging into his lip again. Connor has half a mind to stop him doing that so much, but he knows the pain grounds him.
“Did it hurt?”
Hudson’s lip wobbles as he nods.
“Yeah. Fuck.”
“Good.”
Hudson looks through the racks of different jewellery as Connor pays. Allie gives him a knowing look, glancing at Hudson, and Connor fails to bite back a smile.
Back at the car, Hudson can’t stop bringing his fingers up to toy with his ear. Not too close to the piercing, but enough that Connor tuts and gently guides it away.
“Don’t touch, baby. You want it to heal well, right?”
A nod. Connor grins to himself as he catches sight of the slight bulge in the front of Hudson’s jeans that is definitely not just the fabric bunching. Jesus Christ, Connor Storrie is a lucky man. He drives them back home quickly, has Hudson on his knees before the door is even closed behind them, and comes down his throat so quickly he’s almost embarrassed about it.
The piercing will take a long time to heal. Connor chose it with that in mind, wanted something that Hudson would have to feel and take care of for many months. Something he couldn’t just forget about after a couple of weeks.
He gets updates every day. Hudson has to change how he sleeps, has to stop wearing headphones in favour of ear buds, has to be extra careful while he washes his hair. Has to carry a piece of Connor around with him everywhere he goes and have it playing in the back of his mind the whole time. It’s maddening, he says, because every time he knocks it and it hurts he thinks of the way Connor hurts him so good he goes mindless with it.
A week in, Connor gets him to jerk off talking about the article he saw online about Hudson Williams’ blingy new piercing.
“No one else knows what it means,” he rasps while Hudson whimpers through the phone, “no one else knows it’s for me.”
And when he asks if it still hurts, Hudson says uh huh and comes with a sob.
This time, it’s Connor who gets greedy. He feels like he’s in over his head but also like he’s never been more sure of anything in his life, and Hudson is this beautiful willing thing who unerringly begs him for more.
So he finds a photo on Pinterest and sends it to Hudson, a hand around his cock late at night, and almost immediately receives a Facetime request.
“Fuck,” Hudson wheezes, the screen shaking around before he holds it up to show his face, “when can you next come up here?”
Connor squeezes frantically at the head of his cock, a bead of precome dripping down his hand. Tomorrow, he wants to say– right now. He’ll come over right now.
“I don’t know, baby,” he says, voice strained and breathless, “but you could– get them by yourself, and I can see when I next come up.”
Hudson warbles out a moan.
“Can I touch? Please.”
Connor nods. He feels like he’s going crazy, the pure unfiltered arousal running through his veins and chasing rational thought out of his head. Hudson bites back a frantic little sound and Connor can hear the rustle of fabric as he shoves his sweats down and then the hitch in his breath at the first touch to his cock.
“‘S gonna hurt so much,” he whines, slick noises filtering through the phone, “so much, Connie, fuck– and every time my– my shirt touches them–”
Connor can’t see much of his face, since it’s dark, but he watches Hudson’s eyes fall shut and his mouth drop open, all of his pleasure held in the palm of Connor’s hand. He picks up a quicker pace as he strokes himself.
“Gonna make you so sensitive,” he gasps, and Hudson whimpers around a nod, “I’ll– fuck– be able to hurt you so much easier.”
Hudson’s only been touching himself for a few minutes, but Connor is well acquainted with him and his hair trigger. His eyes roll back as Hudson’s high, desperate little moan filters through the phone, arousal rolling through his body in waves. Fuck, only a couple more strokes–
Hudson blinks open damp, glassy eyes to watch Connor gasp through his orgasm. Come splatters up his stomach and he’s still kind of turned on, because how could he not be when Hudson is so sweet and eager and offering to do something like this to his body? To do it for Connor, so Connor can inflict syrupy sweet pain on him with even more ease.
“Tomorrow,” Hudson pants, “I’ll go get them tomorrow. Send you photos.”
Connor groans. Fuck, Hudson’s gonna be the death of him.
True to his word, though, Hudson sends through a photo the next afternoon. Connor has been trying to read scripts all day, has a photoshoot later he absolutely will not be able to focus properly on, and when the little notification pings he practically leaps out of his chair.
And oh, Jesus motherfucking Christ. A saint, he decides. He must have been a saint. Because the photo is the single hottest, most beautiful thing he’s seen in his life. It’s a mirror selfie, cut off halfway down Hudson’s face to show off his torso, and he’s got the hem of his shirt caught in his mouth to keep it up. His chest is flushed the way it gets when he’s turned on, and right there, centre stage on his pecs, are the piercings.
Silver bars bracketed with little clear gems to match his helix. His nipples are swollen, the skin around them red and stained with the purple ink of the pen and a tiny crust of blood, and they look like they hurt. Connor would know: his hurt like a bitch for a good long while. Easier for him, though, since he isn’t a raging masochist. At the bottom of the screen Connor can make out the bulge in the front of Hudson’s jeans.
He curses, has to put his phone down for a moment to drag air into his lungs. And then he texts tell me how much they hurt.
Hudson starts typing immediately.
huddy (shane)
so fuckinf good ohm y god
pleas please can i touch im so harf
Connor’s laughter is strained. He wants to sink his teeth into the broken, irritated skin, suck at the little metal bars until Hudson is sobbing and moaning and writhing, suck bruises around them so the pain blooms even deeper. The thought of doing that to his own fresh nipple piercings makes him slightly nauseous, but Hudson would probably beg for it.
He texts back go on sweetheart and then dont get come on them.
Hudson sends a string of emojis that Connor can’t really decipher but he’s hard enough that he doesn’t even try, just drops his phone back on the couch and resigns himself to yet another frantic, hurried hand job. His dick is starting to chafe. That’s the great thing about Hudson’s mouth: it’s soft and wet and doesn’t leave him feeling all rubbed raw.
The media goes crazy over the piercings. Hudson hides them as best as he can, but three weeks in a paparazzi photo catches the impressions of them through his shirt and that’s it. Hudson even flaunts them in a photoshoot a week after that, all caution thrown to the wind. Connor pours over the photos and makes Hudson fuck himself with his favourite dildo on Facetime the night they come out, comes to the sound of his wet, breathless whimpers.
“I’m coming up next week,” he pants, wiping the come off his stomach. Hudson is still flat on his back on the bed, can’t take it face down like he prefers because the piercings would catch on the sheets, chest rising and falling as he fucks himself shakily through the aftershocks. He likes it when the pleasure draws out into oversensitivity sometimes, likes forcing himself to take it. Connor lets him.
“They still won’t be healed,” Hudson says through a pout, turning his head to look at the camera. His hair is all askew from his squirming, damp with sweat. Connor grins.
“That’s okay. There are other ways I can hurt you.”
Hudson makes a wounded noise and his hips kick. Next week can’t come fucking fast enough.
Not touching Hudson’s nipples is basically akin to torture. Connor has never been faced with such a challenge. They’re still kind of puffy, which Hudson claims they are most of the time except when he’s cold, and so fucking sensitive all it takes is a puff of air blown over them for him to whine and go limp. Connor gets him straddling his hips, sinks into his loose, slick hole, and makes him just sit there for a minute while he admires them.
A thumb gently brushing below one of them, a kiss pressed right next to the other. Hudson gets more and more wound up the longer it goes on and devolves into begging Connor to suck on them, to bite, to make them hurt so much he cries. He’s sweet and lovely and very convincing, but Connor would rather die than mess up the healing process. Pain is good, infection is not. Instead he rolls his hips up and starts fucking him, gets Hudson properly putting his own hips into it, and then he’s too caught up in mind-numbing pleasure to beg any more. Connor shoves two fingers into his mouth for him to drool around while he comes.
Tipped back onto the mattress to catch his breath, Hudson pants up at the ceiling. His hair is plastered to his forehead, sweat slicking his chest, his own come smeared up his stomach. He’s so fucking beautiful. Connor backs down the bed to settle between his legs and then gets his mouth on the tender skin of his inner thigh– the one not scarred– and sinks his teeth in until Hudson cries out. Lips, tongue, teeth. He works his mouth against the area, moving a little here and there, until there’s a bruise about half the size of his palm blooming on Hudson’s skin. It’s the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen, and Hudson thanks him through a breathless whimper.
“Missed that,” he slurs, dragging Connor up so he can drape himself the length of his body, “should bruise me more often.”
Connor hums into the crook of his neck. He’s too exhausted to get turned on again but he should, he really should. Bruises are easy to cover and all of their makeup teams signed NDAs.
Connor stares out the plane window, nibbles on the salted peanuts, and thinks about ownership. It’s a funny thing, because if asked, he would say he owns Hudson in every way except physical– there’s nothing about him or on his body that would signal to an outsider that he’s Connor’s. He thinks Hudson would say the same. He thinks Hudson would like that to change. Thinks this because sometimes, when Hudson’s close, eyes rolled back and head lolling on the pillow, he drags one of Connor’s hands up to curl loosely around his neck. Not to tighten, not choke, just to hold, to own, so Connor– Connor stares at the clouds passing outside the window and thinks about a collar.
Matte black leather, buttery and smooth. Simple, nothing too complicated; black stitching, shiny silver hardwear, a little tag at the front. Connor’s boy. A loop for a leash, maybe, if Hudson wanted. Lined with something soft so Hudson could wear it for hours without it chafing his neck, or maybe he’d like that– the tiny burst capillaries, the rawness. Lined with something rough, then.
He contacts Manon, a leatherworker back in Texas he’s known forever, when he gets back to LA. The absence of Hudson pressed against him is like a bruise of his own, but this is a good distraction.
She’s mostly unsurprised to hear him asking about collars. The last one he commissioned from her was for himself, for a photoshoot, the simplest design she could make since he couldn’t afford anything fancy. Now, he’s comfortable enough to go a little more lavish.
Who’s this for? She asks, and Connor bites at his lip.
For someone special.
Just out of interest, what is the public status of this special someone?
He glances around the room, considering.
About the same as mine.
The conversation shifts, after that. She suggests something more discreet than a collar, something his special someone could wear all the time without it being picked up on, if he wanted, and Connor greedily goes with it.
She sends through some ideas; he shoots back some of his own. A quote, and then a time estimate, and then he sends off his payment. He makes dinner practically vibrating with a dizzying combination of excitement, trepidation and arousal, imagining his mark of ownership sitting proud on Hudson’s body everywhere he goes.
Later, when Hudson Facetimes him before bed, he doesn’t say anything. Hudson is sleepy and soft on his screen, bathed in the yellowy light of the lamp on his nightstand, and he moves the camera down to show off the bruise on his thigh with a sigh and a happy little shudder.
“Can I touch it?”
Connor tuts and shakes his head.
“You know those are just for me.”
Torture, denial; Hudson arches a little against the bed, dragging the camera back up to capture his teeth sunken into his lip, the droop of his eyelids. Connor hadn’t even really intended on getting them both off tonight, exhausted from his flight and sated from a couple full days of getting to be close, but he hears the question before Hudson can even speak it.
“Go on, baby, you can touch. Thank me for your pretty bruise.”
Hudson is so fiery, such a force of nature, bright and vivacious and loud, but when he’s Connor’s he’s stripped down to his very core. His lips stutter around a silent thank you and his eyelids flutter, the only noise filtering through the phone as he pushes a hand into his shorts his breathy whimpers and the slick sounds of his fist. He says thank you, Connie and thank you, thank you, fuck– and Connor presses a noncommittal palm to the half bulge of his cock in his sweats. He’s too tired to come himself, but Hudson seems to need it with a regularity and intensity that overrides everything else.
“I’ll have something for you,” Connor says, “when you next come to LA. Something I think you’ll like.”
Hudson makes a sweet little noise and comes all over his fist.
It’s a little while before Hudson makes it down to LA, which is enough time for Manon to finish his commission and send it off. It sits in the drawer of Connor’s nightstand for three days until Hudson arrives.
A kiss at the door. Hudson breathes out slowly, evenly, decompressing entirely against Connor’s body, luggage forgotten in favour of reacquainting themselves with each others’ mouths. Hudson tastes like chewing gum and stale coffee and Connor cups his face, cups his waist, keeps him close and safe until Hudson pulls back and flutters his eyes open.
“Fuck. I missed you.”
Connor strokes a gentle hand over his cheek.
“Likewise. You wanna come get settled in?”
There’s already a towel in the bathroom for Hudson and some clothes for him to change into on the bed. His favourite food in the fridge and everything perfect just for him, just how he likes it. Connor makes them lunch in the kitchen while Hudson showers, and swallows down the nerves tickling at the back of his throat. There’s nothing to be nervous about. Hudson has taken everything Connor has given him so far with nothing but his beautiful brown eyes and a whimper here and there, even begged for more than Connor could give, so this should be fine.
They catch up over lunch. Not that there’s much to get caught up on, since they speak every day, but there’s always something to say. Hudson is pink-cheeked from his shower, hair dewy, wrapped up in Connor’s clothes the way he always should be. He doesn’t even really bring clothes when he comes over anymore, just the stuff he travels in. He places his empty bowl down on the coffee table, gives Connor a flicker of his soft eyes.
“You said you had something for me? When I next came over?”
Watching him try his subspace on for size when he’s not quite in it yet is always so achingly endearing that Connor feels like he might spontaneously shatter into a million pieces. He piles his own bowl into Hudson’s and folds his hands in his lap.
“Did I?”
Hudson’s eyes go a little wider, a little more imploring. He’s so beautiful Connor would give him the whole world if he so much as hinted at wanting it.
“You did.”
He did. Connor leans in for a soft, fluttery kiss and then heads to his room, where he retrieves the box. A deep breath, another. When he comes back out again Hudson has his legs crossed under him on the sofa and his lip caught between his teeth, the sleeves of Connor’s hoodie pulled over his hands. Connor wants to bundle him into the cushions and kiss every thought from his pretty head, but he has something important to do first.
Hudson takes the box from him with a curious little glance at Connor. It’s pretty unassuming as it is, just a dark blue box with a silver line around the edge, but when Hudson pries it open Connor hears his breath catch in his chest.
“Connie…” He looks up at Connor again, and when Connor nods, reaches into the box and pulls out the little item nestled in tissue paper inside it.
The planning and negotiation had been extended and thorough. Connor had wanted it to be perfect, wanted it to be comfortable, not cause any actual damage but just enough pain that Hudson would feel it. He watches Hudson run his fingers along the cuff: matte black leather, just as he’d planned originally, black stitching, a shiny silver buckle that lays flat and not too bulky. Hudson undoes the buckle with reverent hands. What lines the inside is where the true intention lies: matching shiny silver studs that come to a point in the middle, not so raised that the cuff won’t do up but spiky enough to dig a little into soft skin.
Hudson’s eyes have gone watery. He presses a finger to the point of one of the studs, hard enough for his skin to turn white and then rush with pink. Before Connor can get a word out he’s sliding off the sofa and onto his knees in the space between Connor’s feet, the cuff held up in a pleading hand. Connor swallows around a surge of emotion.
When he buckles the cuff around Hudson’s wrist it’s like they both let out a long-held breath. The sense of calm that settles over Connor’s mind is like nothing he’s felt before, an amplification of what he feels every time he gets Hudson on his knees or on his back or under his hands, the overwhelming feeling of everything just being perfect. He chuckles softly when Hudson shuffles closer and slumps forward so his face is buried against the crook of his hip. His eyes are closed, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks, shoulders rising and falling with his even breaths. He looks like he’s asleep, but Connor knows he’s just so blissed-out and at peace it’s all his body can do to stay upright, laying all of his trust right in Connor’s lap.
“There,” he breathes, settling a gentle hand on the back of Hudson’s neck, “you’re all mine now, yeah?”
A soft whimper of a noise, a flutter of eyelashes. Hudson takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and then makes it very clear he has no intention of moving. Connor has no intention to make him.
It’s twenty minutes later when Hudson stirs. Connor has the TV on low, playing something mindless and easy to follow, and he hums when he feels Hudson shift a little. His head moves, presses closer, and then his lips part, mouth hot and damp against the front of Connor’s sweats, and oh. Connor bites his lip around a chuckle. The hand he still has on the back of Hudson’s neck moves up to gently slide into his hair and Hudson goes liquid, his mouth turning sloppy.
“You want something, sweetheart?”
A nod, a broken groan. Hudson’s eyebrows furrow and he unearths himself from the front of Connor’s sweats to mumble “uh huh, please.” Connor is partway hard already, just from the sweet display of service and the drag of a hot, wet mouth against him.
So it’s easy, then, to tug himself out of his sweats and guide Hudson onto him. Hudson makes a breathy sound and goes a little limp. Connor lets him get used to the intrusion, which doesn’t take long, and then fucks his mouth slow and sloppy, saliva dripping out around his cock, Hudson’s throat making wet noises every time he brushes it. It’s not enough to make him come, even though Hudson begs for it with tiny cut-off whimpers around his cock, just enough to keep him wet and giddy while Hudson works himself up.
He’s so easy, such a sure thing for Connor. When Connor tugs him all the way down to sheath himself fully in his throat Hudson goes the rest of the way limp, a complete surrender, all of this beautiful submission held safe in the cradle of Connor’s hips. He keeps him there five seconds, ten, fifteen, until the flutter of his damp eyelashes starts to go groggy and slow. And then he pulls out, dragging with him a mouthful of saliva that drips down Hudson’s chin. Hudson whines at the drag over his tongue. Perfect, beautiful boy.
“What do you say?” Connor taps the head of his cock against Hudson’s swollen bottom lip. Hudson’s tongue darts out to lap at it like he just can’t help himself.
“Thank you,” he mumbles, voice a little rough, “thank you for– for using my throat.”
So well trained. Connor rewards him with a firm little pat to his cheek which Hudson soaks up with another flutter of his eyelashes.
“Come on. You want me to fuck you?” Connor gives his shoulder a tap to prompt him to sit back on his heels. He hadn’t even noticed Hudson had both hands in his lap, one thumb rubbing back and forth over the leather of his cuff. Connor’s heart does this funny leap in his chest. He has his beautiful boy, right here, taking his cock like he was moulded just for it and soothing himself deeper with the cuff Connor gave him, the mark of his claim. It’s– so fucking much. He tucks himself back into his jeans.
“Uh huh.” Hudson licks at his raw lips, likely tasting iron. “Fuck, please.”
Losing his words already, sweet thing. Connor guides him up slowly, pulls him into a kiss, a hand at his jaw and the other on his waist to hold him steady. Hudson drapes his arms around Connor’s waist and sways into his chest, until Connor’s taking most of his weight and they’re giggling into each others’ mouths.
“You’re all floppy.” Connor boops Hudson’s nose with his finger; Hudson pretends to gnash his teeth at it.
“Just feel so… mmh.”
Connor giggles again.
“Is that good?”
“Fuck.” Hudson rolls his neck. “So fucking good. My brain feels like cotton wool.”
Connor kisses his flushed cheek.
“Perfect.”
More lingering kisses as they make their way to the bedroom. Hudson keeps his hands on him, tangled in Connor’s hair or settled at his waist, and when the backs of Connor’s knees hit the edge of the bed he only pulls away long enough to drag himself up to sit against the headboard. The weight of Hudson settling in his lap is like coming home.
“What do you want, beautiful boy?” Connor drags a gentle palm down his chest through his hoodie, over the thick muscle of his pecs and the faint divots of his abs. He’s bulked up so beautifully and it makes Connor entirely crazy, how much of him there is to touch, how solid and strong he feels under his hands. So much room to bite, to bruise.
Instead of tumbling into breathless descriptions of everything he wants Connor to do to him, Hudson looks away all coy.
“I have… something for you, too.” He nibbles at his lip, the flush on his cheeks going darker. Connor goes a little dizzy for a moment.
“Oh?”
Hudson nods. His fingers toy with the hem of his hoodie, before slowly tugging it up, exposing his stomach, and then his ribs, and– there, on his side, the smear of purple against his smooth skin. Connor’s breath catches in his throat. Hudson pulls the hoodie the rest of the way up and off and the sight of it all– the piercings and this new bruise– is enough to make him feel genuinely winded.
“Do you like it?”
Connor reaches up and presses a soft, reverent hand just below the bruise.
“How did you get this?”
“At the gym.” Hudson’s breathing picks up a little at the proximity of Connor’s hand to the blooming ache. “Dropped a weight. It’s not bad, just…”
Connor presses a tentative thumb in, not in the centre of the bruise but right at the edge, where the dappled purple starts to form.
“Hurts a little?”
Hudson nods. His eyes are completely glazed over now, properly out of it, and he’s starting to look a little uncomfortable at being the one on top. Sometimes, when he’s really deep, having his body positioned over Connor’s makes the taste of submission sour, everything wrong, and Connor tuts.
Rolling him over is muscle memory. Hudson goes boneless once he’s lying amongst the sheets, all of him open and giving, his pretty blush spreading down his chest. Connor kisses him deep and thorough with Hudson’s arms draped over his shoulders and thinks, distantly, that they’re going to have to stop kissing long enough to get to the main event at some point, but not yet. Not when Hudson’s mouth opens and yields and takes, his ribs expand under Connor’s hand every time he takes a breath, and the press of his clothed cock against Connor’s is so fucking good.
“I like it,” Connor murmurs, pulling back just enough so that their lips brush together, “I like it a lot.”
Hudson shudders and surges back up. Connor really, honestly could do this forever, is the thing, especially when Hudson starts to go all kiss-drunk and clumsy, his mouth sloppy and sweet and the rasp of his swollen lips against Connor’s the sweetest balm to the sweetest ache. When everything starts to feel syrupy-slow and all Connor can think about is tipping Hudson deeper into his lovely headspace where nothing else matters but this.
One last kiss. Hudson whines and chases his lips.
“Baby.” Connor holds him down with a gentle hand at his clavicle. “Thought you wanted me to fuck you?”
Hudson blinks his eyes open like he finally remembered.
“Oh f-fuck, yes, please.”
Getting out of the rest of their clothes is a team effort. When everything is finally shed Connor sits back on his heels to run reverent hands down Hudson’s body, digs his fingers into his hips to tease as he goes. Hudson’s breath hitches. His eyes are glassy and soft, lips delightfully red. There’s still a smear of saliva and precome shining on his chin and fuck, Connor aches with the need to get his hands and mouth on him. His skin is beautiful and smooth but, bar the bruise on his ribs, entirely unblemished, and that just won’t do, will it?
Connor starts at his neck. Hudson tips his head back on the pillow and takes the nips and bites and leisurely sucking with a moan high in his throat, fingers knotting into Connor’s hair. Making his way down Hudson’s chest has his cock kicking and drooling against both of their stomachs, and by the time Connor gets to the purple splotch at his ribs Hudson’s breath is coming in double time.
He must be imagining it, but Connor swears the skin here is even warmer than the rest of him. When he flutters his lips over it Hudson gasps, and when he finally, finally presses his mouth to it Hudson’s shaky moan rumbles in the depths of Connor’s ribcage.
Sucking on the bruised skin feels like worship. Hudson arches into the pressure, hands pulling tight in Connor’s hair, noises falling from his lips like Connor just forced an orgasm from him, and Connor feels a little like crying with it all. He’s buried himself so deep in Hudson’s mind that every time he hurts he thinks of Connor, every time he gets a bruise he brings it back for Connor to play with, every time Connor tells him to go out and do something that hurts he does it.
He sucks and licks and works ever so gently with his teeth until the center of Hudson’s bruise is blooming even darker. The skin is shiny with saliva when he pulls back and he gives a little puff of air, watches gooseflesh form, watches the tremor work its way through Hudson’s body.
When he moves up a couple inches to press his mouth just below one of the piercings, Hudson gives a warbling little sob. Connor’s mouth waters.
“Please,” Hudson gasps, “please, please, fuck–”
Connor tuts.
“You know we can’t, baby. You can be patient for me, right?”
A sniffle. Hudson juts his lip out in a pout and shakes his head. Connor’s heart melts into a gooey blob.
“You can,” he says, “because you’re so good for me.”
He flutters kisses around the piercings indulgently, avoiding them just purposefully enough that Hudson’s noises start to pitch up with his impatience. God, the day Connor can get his mouth on them will be a revelation; he wants to see if Hudson can come just from having them played with, wants to see just how much more sensitive they make him. Wants to bite down on them until he cries.
By the time Connor finally pushes into him, Hudson is boneless and flushed all the way down his chest. He curls one hand into the pillow, the other flopped uselessly over his stomach, mouth open and brows pinched and cock drooling like he’s about to come. Connor gives him a few slow thrusts to let him get used to it, before he plants the heel of one hand on his bruised ribs and leans forward to put his weight on them.
Hudson cries out like it’s agony. Like it’s bliss, like it’s salvation, like it’s so fucking perfect he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Tears gather in his lashes and then drip down his face to dampen the hair at his temples. The pleasure oozing from his ribs and from Connor inside him has him shuddering, arching as best as he can under Connor’s firm hand, making another little broken sound as he sinks deeper. His eyes roll back. Connor swears under his breath.
It builds quicker than it usually does. Connor is close before he even registers what the tug in the pit of his stomach is, his skin smeared with Hudson’s precome. He takes Hudson’s wrist– the one bearing his ownership– into his hand and presses it to the pillow above his head, holds him down and holds him close and carves out a place for himself in the aching warmth of his body the way he knows how to do so well. Hudson’s body yields and opens for him like there’s nothing better, nothing sweeter, and his thigh is still scarred and the piercings are still sitting proud on his chest and everywhere Connor looks he sees the way he has made him.
Hudson comes just like that, Connor’s hand clamped around his wrist to dig the spikes in even deeper. He whimpers out something that sounds like a request for permission, and at Connor’s frantic nod, spills all over their stomachs with a cry that sounds like he’s seeing god. Connor can’t even think about trying to last longer than that.
This afterglow draws out for hours. Hudson stays in some variation of subspace for the rest of the day, all through the sips of water and sliced fruit Connor feeds him afterwards in bed, through the shower, through the cuddles on the couch and then making dinner together in the kitchen. Connor takes the cuff off to inspect any damage and finds the skin dented in places from the spikes but not broken, just a little red, and buckles it right back on.
“Never gonna take it off,” Hudson murmurs, eyes wide and in awe as Connor lifts his wrist to press a kiss to the inside, just above the cuff.
The goodbye, three days later, is agony. Hudson is subdued all morning and only brightens up when Connor gets him on his back to suck another dark purple bruise to his hip, and they wipe each others’ tears away at the airport. Now that Hudson’s his Connor doesn’t want to be away from him for even a moment, it feels like watching a piece of his heart split off and head for the departures gate.
He’s not left too morose for much longer, though. Their daily Facetime calls continue, and all of Hudson’s public appearances feature the cuff. Connor had told him he didn’t have to wear it all the time, obviously, but he had insisted, and four days in a fan on Threads posts a question into the ether about Hudson’s new accessory. He replies it’s a gift from someone very special with a kissy face emoji.
Connor kicks his feet a little. The best, the worst, the most maddening thing is that no one actually knows. No one knows Hudson is collared, no one knows what sits between the soft leather of the cuff and the vulnerable little strip of skin at his wrist, no one knows that it’s all because of Connor. That it’s Connor’s.