#hudcon Connor and Hudson are sitting in the trailer. Hudson is leaning his hips against the table, frowning as he reads through his lines in the script, circling something with his pencil and crossing things out.
Connor approaches him, hooking his fingers into the cutout at the hip of Hudson’s slightly ridiculous jumpsuit and tugging the fabric aside. He runs his fingertips over the barely visible stretch marks, feeling the skin erupt in goosebumps beneath his touch.
“Baby, I’m busy.” Hudson places a hand on his lower abdomen, stopping him from moving any closer, but not pushing him away. Connor needs to touch him so badly it’s almost like withdrawal.
“I won’t disturb you,” he whispers, sinking to his knees, his lips finding Hudson’s thigh. He brushes them over the pale lines, one hand wrapped around Hudson’s leg just below the knee. Hudson draws in a sharp breath through his mouth, biting down on his lip.
Connor traces his tongue over the skin, catches it gently between his teeth, and presses closer.
“Let me leave a mark, Hudson. Please, let me.” He doesn’t care if anyone might think it’s pathetic. Connor closes his eyes, feeling so hungry that it almost hurts.
“Please, please, please.”
He barely made it through all those scenes with the mask, and he feels like he’s about to explode when Hudson finally sets the script aside and leans back against the mirror on the table, giving him permission to do whatever he wants.