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2026-03-21
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1/1
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monkey business

Summary:

It's getting harder not to kiss him in public.

Notes:

this really happened, i saw it (i am the eye confetti)

thank you shannon for the cheers <3 i did not write a drabble as you instructed, punish me however you see fit

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

He’s picking confetti out of Connor’s hair in a paps-free alcove when François’ triple threat pings through.

Taking your gf to a better party

In your car

You’re welcome

In its wake, riding the coattails: blurry selfie from said gf, kissy lips to François’ cheek in the roomy champagne-studded backseat. What it says on the tin, then. Hudson cackles loud enough to draw the eye of Jacob Elordi—not a sentence that should exist—and shoves the phone in Connor’s face.

Squinting and tutting and sliding the brightness down to zero, Connor is disappointingly unmoved. “I always forget he’s bi.”

Phone privileges revoked. Salty Connie doesn’t deserve the good news. “Stop erasing us.”

“Stop being a giant homo.”

Spotted: another wilted confett-eye flake, caught in the curls valiantly trying to prison-break out of the mullet slickback. Hudson pinches the stupid thing out, flicks it to the floor like the good kept boy he is. “We’re like monkeys, y’know?”

“Dude. Are you high?”

“No, the. Picking bugs out of each other’s fur and...” Oh, Connor done fucked up. Shouldn’t have asked. Shouldn’t have put that gremlin grin on Hudson’s face and begged for a demonstration.

“If you eat that, I’ll never kiss you again.”

“Wow. Hell of a double standard for a man who went ass to mouth not forty-eight hours—”

“Hudson.”

“What’ll we do on set if you won’t kiss me? Hire a mouth double?”

“Yes.”

“Do I get to choose the mouth?”

“No.”

So be it, then. Tongue out, way out, Hudson lays the confetti on the flat centre like he’s dropping acid, then sputters free of it. “Oh god oh fuck, it tastes weird. Fuck.”

“It was probably on the bottom of someone’s shoe.”

“Hope it was Jacob’s.”

“What? He’s not even—what?”

“Not our Jacob. Frankenstein Jacob.”

“Ohoho.” Finally, Connor makes first contact, inch-worming across the booth to manhandle Hudson’s thigh over his. Scandalous. No one can see under the table, but that’s the bait. Hudson could crawl underneath and blow him. Put actorboy’s acting chops to the test. See how well those serving cheekbones hold up under an overdue deepthroat. “First name basis, are we?”

Hook, line, sinker.

“Well. If you must know.” The fact Hudson hasn’t even met the man in question has no bearing on the conspiratory hand he cups over Connor’s ear when he leans in to whisper, “In the dungeon, I call him Master.”

Connor’s laugh is free as the wind, free as they were back when they were no one but each other’s. Back when staring into each other’s eyes was an act of safe spacery, and not the apocalyptic media liability it is today.

Connor stares at his mouth instead. Okay. Two can play. “Like anyone could brat tame you.”

You could, do it, tame me, train me, whip me into whatever condition you want me to be, mould me to your liking if it means they’ll bury our bodies in one tomb.

“Jealous, Papi?”

Papi won’t say yes. Doesn’t have to. It’s all in the face card. Lil’ jaw spasm (watch the cheek mole, that’s where it starts). Eyes pared down to sunset slivers. Anyone else would need a microscope to read this man. Hudson can do it on a side-eye while fingering the condensation on Connor’s highball.

“Everyone wants you,” Connor says.

“Everyone wants you. Oh, we’re the Spiderman meme.”

“What?”

“Ugh. Stop being chronically offline.”

But Connor’s smiling and his shoulders have softened out of the boulders they were in front of the cameras. Boulder shoulder. Coining that. Anyway, Hudson should pat himself on the back for the bang-up job he’s doing. This is why they came here, to the non-networking shadowy corner. Why, five minutes ago at the bar, in the middle of shop talk with a Sony exec, Connor reached back and pinched the raw-nerve underside of Hudson’s left wrist. Hard. As if Hudson needed the extra—as if he wouldn’t remember. That hurt more than the pinch. Even if his brain forgets, the body keeps the score.

Wrist (L): I need a break

Wrist (R): get me out of here

(Forged in the fires of the first press circuit. Cute how they were so green they could overstim from a few indie Canadian outlets.)

Not in the red zone yet, but Hudson’s monitoring symptoms. “How’s your battery?”

Connor covers the truth with eagle-spread arms on the back of the booth. “Draining steadily.”

“When can we leave?”

Aw, there it is. The someone has to be the grownup groan and its critically acclaimed sequel, existential sigh while pinching the bridge of my nose. “We are, technically, here on business.”

“So pay me for my services.”

The hand on Hudson’s leg twitches, too close to the ol’ halfway in thigh marker to be an accident.

Battery not fully drained, then. Enough juice left to come in Hudson’s mouth, and he will be coming in Hudson’s mouth. Hudson has earned that juice. Nom, slurp, suck, swallow.

Connor pokes him. “Don’t you have more schmoozing to do?”

“Only between your cheeks, loverboy.”

Connor should know better than to clap a hand over Hudson’s mouth. Like. What good’s that gonna do besides get his sweaty palm licked? The skin doesn’t taste like Connor—all those A-list handshakes must’ve rubbed off his pheromones or whatever—but it is Connor, so. Nom.

“Already did my schmoozing, anyway. You know. At the Oscars.” Punctuated with the cuntiest cuticle inspection he can manage, given Aika’s impeccable standards. “Besides, the food here tastes like air and gossip.”

“Wait, there’s food here?”

“In a manner of speaking. Hey. Unclench. You’re starting to look constipated.” Time to debut the Transatlantic geezer he’s been tinkering with: “You’d be a whole lot prettier if you smiled, sugar.”

It works, conversely. About damn time. “What do you want, baby?”

Hudson grins.

“To eat.”

Dumber, sloppier grin.

“Hudson.”

“I want to binge Traitors at your shitty apartment and order pad thai from the place you hate.”

“My apartment is not—”

“And eat it off your ass.”

“Christ.”

“And then eat your ass for dessert.”

“Should be the apéritif, actually. Comes from Latin, to open.”

Hudson blinks. “Can I bend you over the table?”

Ripe red blush, but still no flinch. “What if someone here can lip read?”

“I’ll bust anyone who looks at your mouth.”

“Your mouth is the problem, honey.”

“Not what you said two nights ago.”

“Behave.”

“Feed me and I will.”

“Liar.” But he’s scanning the room, risk management. Light at the end of the tunnel. A business card for a chauffeur service teleports to Hudson’s palm, discreet as a high-end escort. “Wait in my car. Ten minutes.”

Any last-word slut worth their salt would say I’d wait forever. But Hudson watches him rise from the booth to his full it-factor height, star power recharged and ready to work the room, and no words come. None he could ever say out loud.


_


Logistics swallow up the ride. Use my account, I’ve got premium. No, not that one, they fuck up the rice. We both know you’re not gonna eat your leftovers.

At one point, the domesticity of it hits like a nine on the Richter. Hudson has to grope him in the backseat just to keep from turning to rubble.

Freed of optic obligations, Connor gropes him back. Traps Hudson’s hand on his thigh like a live wriggling bug on a pinboard, links and unlinks and re-links their fingers just to simulate muscle memory. Doesn’t even let go on the sprint from car to building.

They can’t keep getting away with it, but they do. Tonight, they do.

From there it’s all ritual—the methodic stripping from rentals to rags. Netflix on mute while they change. Phone on standby for delivery. Hudson has stuff here from last time, sweats and a tank at least, but he rummages through Connor’s dresser and slithers into the Gold’s Gym tee on principle. 

“If you get food on my shirt...”

“You’ll what? Rip it off me?”

The leering once-over he gets in return is yes in every language.

They haven’t kissed tonight yet because they’re still in the Pringles phase—once you pop, you can’t stop. They’d suck face until their lungs collapse—food gone cold, bellies howling, eyes twitching from exhaustion—then pass out on or in or around each other without even brushing their teeth.

The window’s closing, though. Connor’s starting to yawn and they have to return the clothes by noon. If they were back in Toronto, Hudson would make a Red Bull run to the Circle K next door while Connor cleaned up the takeout. Or they’d go together, holding hands, racing, laughing the neighbors awake.

There’s a 7-Eleven down the street, but Hudson has four million followers now.

“Do you ever wish we’d got, like, ten degrees less famous?”

Connor chews thoughtfully. Pretty face. Pretty in the TV glow, framed by a coffee table collage of pungent styrofoam. Pretty jaw, hard at work. Good at the job but overqualified. Hudson could unzip right now and give it a promotion.

“What do you mean?” Connor asks.

“You know, so we could run to the store without...”

“Shit, babe, I forgot your Red Bull.”

Connor's soft, de-blinged knuckles kiss the top of Hudson's cheek, tender enough to cry about, and Hudson’s internal organs collapse.

Connor forgot. Which means he tried to remember. He knew they’d end up here.

Hudson’s mouth stops working, which Leilani would call an answer to prayer, but he’d call knee-jerk self-preservation. It’s not like he can sit here stabbing a spring roll and say I think I’m in love with you.

Not exactly a revelation, but the first time he's given it space to breathe; a voice.

“I think it’ll die down, someday." Connor's hand sheathes over his, drawing the plastic fork to himself to fellate the stump of spring roll, all coquette eyes and hyperbolic throatwork like the blue-ball tease he is.

"Or," Hudson reclaims hand and fork as a matter of dignity, "one of us'll get Twitter-cancelled."

"What’ll you get cancelled for?"

"Hm. Bestiality."

"Damn. Straight for the deep end.”

“Go big or go home.”

“Headline, please."

"Ah... Canadian EGOT winner caught in compromising position with President Streep's labradoodle at White House Correspondents' Dinner."

Connor snorts. "Lord Cockshire in the drawing room with the paring knife?"

"What, what the fuck is that accent?"

"I dunno. Gilbert and Sullivan?"

Hudson slams the fork down. "Cancelled."

"No, gimme a better one."

"Okay, fine, you’ll go down for a problematic 2015 tweet in support of, uh…"

"Fracking."

"There we go."

There’s that smile. There be Hudson’s baby boy when Tinseltown’s not draining his blood. Belly up, arms laid in a heart above his head, cat-stretched on his stupid unvacuumable shag because he swore to his twelve-year-old self he’d spend his first five-figure check on something ostentatious. The rug goes above and beyond that call of duty, in Hudson’s opinion.

“Do we have to shower?” Connor has the nerve to ask with his regrown happy trail on display, whoring itself out in the window between his shirt and boxers.

“Nope. But I’m putting my mouth on you either way and you always get weird about it if—”

A growl and a blur, and Hudson’s flat on his back in the yarn field, anchored by six feet of man and impaled by his favourite tongue in the world. 

God it’s good, stupid good, grindy and heavy already. The kind of good that could save the planet, cure disease, pH balance every pore. Connor frots like a lifer gymnast, rhythm, poise, intent. The hips don’t lie but they do play tricks—one sec it’s a fluid balance of give and take, Hudson moving with him; the next, he can’t move at all.

Connor loves a challenge, an equal. He only powerplays the bulk card when he’s wound up tight, when he needs something to control besides his own nervous system. Hudson is a willing target, happy to squirm, fake a fight, like he’s not half hard and astral projecting already just from Connor’s two-point hold: hip to hip and hand to throat. Not squeezing, only collaring. Trapping Hudson’s neck like a guillotine just to feel it strain and clench when he fucks his tongue into Hudson’s mouth.

Connor’s only topped him once in the precious few nights they’ve scavenged since the dam broke in Feltre, which frankly borders on cruelty. Probably not in the cards tonight, but hey. Absence makes the hole grow fonder.

Even bound by Connor’s weight, his cock still seeks out Connor’s like a metal detector, scanning for treasure. When he does strike gold, he gropes his way under Connor’s shirt and takes his mark at the starting line just above Connor’s waistband. Then, aiming a sharp up-thrust that with any luck will get him flipped, he rakes his nails up Connor’s back hard enough to welt.

“How—” Connor rips their mouths apart, gasping a ragged path to his neck, “the fuck—” Bold, stinging snaps of teeth that threaten to leave evidence, “do you always do that without catching a single mole?”

Isn’t it obvious? Hudson would shrug if he weren’t imprisoned. Instead he grabs a handful of cake and kneads Connor’s cheeks apart until he can wedge in a finger, earn himself a hot little whimper, tease him enough to make him forget the stupid shower. “Memorized ’em.”

Eye of the storm, Connor stills, staring down at him. “When?”

“A week into filming.”

The scrutiny is a spotlight, and now the answer feels transgressive. Like what if this is the boundary breach that makes Connor throw in the towel, come to his senses and finally decide that Hudson is just the wrong side of too much?

The hand on his throat shifts to his cheek and sweeps away the bullshit like it’s nothing but dandelion fluff. There’s no tongue in the next kiss, or the one after that or the one after that, syrup slow and syrup sweet and still it leaves him dizzy.

“You’re kissing me.”

“Yes.” Connor is no longer kissing him. “And?”

“I ate the Illuminetti.”

“What?”

“The Illuminati confetti. You said if I—”

“Oh my god shut up, shut up,” and he does it himself, plugs up Hudson’s mouth with his tongue until Hudson’s brain is so scrambled he’d do anything to keep this, keep devouring this man’s wicked mouth until they rot. “Missed you,” Connor spills in an oxygen break. “God, I missed the hell out of you.”

Can’t resist. “Prove it.”

Connor pushes into a plank, burpees up to his feet, and heads for the hallway, only turning around in the door to beckon him with a finger and a smirk that could start a war.


_


Under the water, all bets are off. Connor lets himself be manhandled under the shower stream and handwashed only as a means to an end. The end being Connor’s palms to the tile and Hudson on his knees behind him, prying him apart at the seam to lick him boneless, lick him wetter than tears, lick him into heat if he could. Connor’s halfway there already, his hole is hotter than sunlight. Hudson almost pulls away to make a Black Hole Sun joke, but he does still want to get off tonight and he’s trying not to drown as it is, no small feat when he goes for the reacharound so he’ll know when Connor’s close.

Unmedicated though he may be, never let it be said that Hudson Williams cannot multitask.

Still, he’s getting sloppy with it, lost in his own bliss, chasing the dark earth flavours that linger under the soap-clean. Connor’s getting sloppy, too, rutting back to ride his face with unwavering confidence in Hudson’s breathwork skills. Hudson would laugh, but eating Connor out is a sacred privilege. Drown or smother if you must, but if you don’t put your whole mouthussy into it, what’s the point?

They should be doing this on the bed, it sure as fuck deserves a bed, but the second they hit the mattress they’re gone, no one’s ready for the night to be over, and Connor’s tell comes fast and loose. Baby, baby, when Hudson syncs up hand and tongue, jerking him in time with each spearing breach of the rim. For every version of Connor he loves, this one takes the cake—the one on the edge with shaky legs who can’t control what comes out of his mouth. Baby, your fucking mouth, I love you, so good, you’re mine, don’t stop, I need you, don’t leave me, oh god, don’t ever leave.

Loose lips sink ships, and Hudson sinks along with him. 

When he gets the signal, Fuck shit god— he pulls back just to spin him around, get his mouth around him so Connor has something better to come into, so Hudson can taste him, swallow him, store a part of him long enough to quell the ache when he’s twelve hundred cold-blooded miles away. He’s not, though, he’s here right now and right now has to be enough—the glass-shatter pitch of Connor’s moan, like he realized all he had to do was scream out the stress of the night. The airtight grip in Hudson’s hair when Connor shoots off, pulsing at such waterfall velocity that Hudson barely gets a taste. But it’s safe inside him and that’s what matters.

Shower sex is not—optimal—he’ll feel it in his knees tomorrow but that’s the point, so he stays, leak-throb hard between his legs but loose and tingly everywhere else from the film of spunk that clings to his tongue, that he spreads around his mouth, coating the walls and roof. From Connor petting his hair, hypnotic, gazing down at him like Hudson is something more than a mess of a man who wants too much and can’t get his shit together, can’t seem to rip his heart off his sleeve to shove back in its cage.

Knuckles at his cheek again, hard over soft. He’s no stranger to the power in a fist, the damage it can do, how gentle Connor is in contrast. Too gentle, maybe, but he can’t be blamed when Hudson’s purring into his palm.

“You should fist me with the rings on next time.”

Connor’s grin is plenty indulgent. The wee little slap is just a bonus. “My contract says otherwise.”

“That’s not a no.”

Oh yeah, look at those blackout eyes. The post-nut brainfog has him considering. “Maybe we try it without the rings first.”

“Party pooper.” Never show your hand. But Connor hauls him up by the hair to be kissed so hard he had a better chance of survival drowning on his knees. Then Connor’s sinking down instead, gorging himself on Hudson’s dick before his knees even hit the floor. “Shit, you fucking maniac—”

Connor doesn’t suck, he inhales. Hudson had always wondered, you know—the choices one makes on set, Connor’s being King of the Hurricane Deepthroat—and was in fact quite tickled to learn it wasn’t a character choice at all. That’s just how Connor swallows cock: with the suction power to exorcize every one of Hudson’s demons, because Hudson must have done a very good deed in a past life.

He knows he talks too much during, Connor teased him about it once, but he also knows it makes Connor hard, he can see it happening in real time with every That’s it, that’s my baby boy; every So good, Connie, so good for me, and once you pop, well. Look at you, look how fucking hot you are, wanna live and die in your pretty mouth, love you so much, you’re my savior, make me wanna repent, and so what if he comes in thirty seconds, have you seen this god of a man?

Even when the water’s cold, Connor doesn’t let him go, suckles and cradles and cockwarms him until they’re pruney and goosebumped.

There’s a perfunctory toweling off, but sheets do the heavy lifting there, and their codependent need for touch takes care of the rest in short order. Most of the moisture is licked away with the last of their energy stores, rolling each other over in turn just to lap at the beads. Spent and side-perched, facing each other, Hudson collects the leftover dew from Connor’s upper lip, drags it down his chin and chest, settles a clammy palm on his heart.

If heaven exists, et cetera.

Connor’s one slow-blink away from snoring when, out of the clear blue, “Is she really okay with this?”

So close.

Always this, never us. You can't fuck up a relationship that doesn't exist. This, contrary to speculation, only big-banged into existence two months ago in a hotel room with a trick window they opened for air and couldn't manage to close again so the whole room smelled like garlic from the osteria below, which in theory was not romantic, but, but, the open air, the tune of cutlery on ceramic, the locals’ wine-fed laughter and the click of heels on cobblestone, and then there was the matter of the Chianti in the gift basket. When Hudson started belting fake Italian arias, Connor had finally finally shoved him into the wall next to the sailboat painting, because there's always a sailboat painting, and made up for eighty-four lost years by sucking his soul out through his mouth and his brain out through his dick.

Subsequent reunions have more or less followed the same blueprint: yes-anding their way to a repertoire of bed-ruining, hole-ruining, life-ruining sexcapades. Fun fact, Connor will agree to anything when you get a couple fingers in him. His prostate’s like an off switch for the whole prefrontal cortex. Hudson can word-vomit unhingery like I want to claw through your skin like a mole rat, swim in your blood and live in your bones and Connor says yes, Connor says do it, as long as Hudson keeps fingerfucking him to high heaven, praise the lord. Power corrupts and Hudson has let it, drunk on it, on him.

It's getting harder not to kiss him in public.

“No,” Hudson says, and it floors him. “I don’t think she is.”

Connor stiffens. “But you guys have always...”

“Yeah, well. One-night stands aren't the same as...” The weight of it thickens the air like smoke. Connor’s heart patters under his palm.

“Do we need to talk about it?”

“Not tonight.” To double down, he unfolds Connor onto his back, turns those pecs into pillows—better to monitor Connor’s heart—and makes himself the blanket.

Connor peels the wet-mop fringe off Hudson’s brow. “Okay.”

But the smoke doesn’t clear. Time to pivot. “Would you let me eat bugs out of your hair?”

“Told you,” stretched wide over a yawn, “day one. I’d let you do anything.”

“What if I want to marry you?”

It comes out easy because it’s a joke. It could be a joke.

“Oh, Huddy,” with a fond stroke down the peaks of his spine, and not a speck of surprise. “Aren’t we already?”

Notes:

asked myself what would be the funniest way to get them alone at the afterparty, and myself answered “ship their plus ones with each other”

thx for reading <3 tumble with me