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Knuckle, Buckle, Kneel

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Hank notices the kid the moment he steps into the gym.

“Good work,” he tells Markus absently, removing his gloves and patting his protege on the back. “Do some cooldown and hit the showers.”

“Sure thing, Hank,” Markus says, and Hank pretends not to notice the amused tone in his voice.

Hank ducks under the ropes and heads over towards Carl and the newcomer.

“A new featherweight?” Hank asks, eyeing the kid up and down appraisingly. Not exactly promising. Kinda scrawny, and with a face that belongs far away from swinging fists.

Carl laughs. “Oh, no, Connor’s just going to work here for the summer to supplement his scholarship. He’ll be helping around with the odd jobs,” Carl says benevolently. “Why don’t you show him around?”

Hank shrugs one shoulder, still keeping his eyes on the kid. “Why not,” he says, sticking his hand out. “Hank Anderson. Welcome to Manfred Gym. Connor, huh?”

There’s a slight smile on Connor’s lips as he takes Hank’s hand, nodding.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Anderson,” he says, voice soft and as lovely as his face.

Connor’s eyes flicker over Hank’s body, and then look away in way that he doesn’t even seem to realise is a blatant giveaway.

Fucking adorable, Hank thinks, a spark of want igniting in his gut. Why not - it’s been a while, anyway.

“Hank here used to rule the state boxing scene,” Carl says eagerly, and Hank waves his hand dismissively.

“That was a lifetime ago,” he says, and winces. Literally.

Carl pats his forearm, and shakes his finger at Connor. “Don’t you listen to him. Hank is our top trainer, he’s produced two very promising boxers out of this gym - who knows, maybe my Markus will be the third,” he says, beaming with parental pride.

Connor is looking at Hank, curiosity on his face.

“Do you still compete, sir?” Connor asks, and Hank raises an eyebrow.

Sir? Christ almighty, Carl has dragged in a puritan.

“Do I look like I have any business being out there in professional rings,” Hank says, barking out a laugh.

Connor glances at his arms and chest, and then blushes a very interesting and fetching shade of red. It’d be a lie to claim Hank doesn’t find it endearing.

He shows Connor around the premises, pleased that the kid seems to be actually paying attention instead of browsing his phone like half the people his age seem to be doing these days.

The Manfred Gym is old - not as an establishment as much as a space. Back in the day it had been a factory, which had been easily converted into a boxing gym in the 60s. Exposed brick walls and old, paned windows that arch up high towards the ceiling, cement floors with padded mats for those who need them.

With the rise of the fitness boom Carl had invested in turning a section into a more traditional gym, but the main area is still ruled by a boxing ring and training areas, punching bags and jump ropes. It had slowly become Hank’s second home - not only does he rent hours to train his own customers, it’s the best place to keep his own, albeit retired, skills honed.

“Carl tell you what you’re supposed to be doing?” Hank asks, leading Connor into the locker rooms.

“Not quite,” Connor says hesitantly. “But I’ll do anything from restocking towels to sweeping. I’m not picky, and I’m just glad to have a job- uh.” Connor trails off, standing awkwardly as Hank pulls his sweaty shirt over his head, dropping it on a bench.

Connor turns around sharply, and Hank grins at the rise of red visible on the kid’s neck.

“I can come back later,” Connor mumbles.

“No need,” Hank says easily. “I’m not shy. We’re both guys, aren’t we, Connor?”

“Um,” Connor says, but doesn’t move while Hank undresses and heads towards the showers.

“So what do you do when you’re not working for Carl?” Hank calls over the falling water, soaping himself up quickly and efficiently.

“I’m studying to become a sports nutritionist,” Connor says, his voice echoing against tiles. “I figured, even if I don’t really do anything related to nutrition here, it’ll look good on my resume.”

Hank hums, washing his hair and dunking his head under the stream.

“How old are you?”

There’s a moment of hesitation. “27, sir,” Connor says, and Hank snorts softly. For a moment he considers telling the kid to just call him Hank, but he decides he likes the way he says “sir”.

There’s a lull in their small talk while Hank finishes showering and then heads back towards the lockers, dripping wet, only a towel around his hips.

“Switching careers, or took you a while to find yours?” Hank asks.

Connor turns around, and Hank can see his throat bob as he swallows, his eyes darting down before he looks Hank in the eyes again, and then somewhere past his shoulder.

Good god the kid is pretty when he blushes.

“It’s my second degree,” Connor says, voice a little choked. Hank doesn’t miss the way his hand twitches, moving to cover his crotch, almost casual.

“Hmm. Smart and pretty,” Hank says, voice low, and Connor’s mouth parts, his eyes wide.

“I- I don’t think n-nutrition requires a lot of, uhm-” Connor stutters as Hank steps towards him and slowly reaches behind him for a fresh towel off the rack to dry his hair with.

“It’s not a challenging subject,” Connor finishes weakly when Hank steps away.

“And your first degree?” Hank asks.


Hank barks out a laugh. “Now that’s a derailment,” he says. “Let me guess - one’s what your parents wanted, the other’s to piss them off.”

“Am I that transparent?” Connor asks, a rueful smile on his face.

Hank gives him a long look until Connor shifts uncomfortably.

“Nah. Just that I was young once too,” he smirks. He puts his hand on the knot on his towel and raises an eyebrow at Connor.

“You’re welcome to stay, but only if you promise not to file a sexual harassment suit.”

Connor jumps, floundering for a moment, and then stammers out an apology before making a beeline for the exit.

Hank laughs, shaking his head. At least there’s something new to occupy his days with.


Connor comes in on four days a week, including saturdays, and Hank wonders if the kid doesn’t have anything better to do. He cleans up, maintains the equipment, restocks and reshelves, and during downtime Hank often sees him reading - either textbooks or paperbacks that fit in his back pocket.

He never sees Connor work out, even though he could do it for free. Not that the kid looks weak by any means, but most people who are into fitness tend to have considerably more muscle mass.

He catches Connor struggling with a set of weights that some asshole has left lying around after their workout.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Hank says, leaning down and lifting both weights off the floor, placing them on the stands.

“Oh, t-thanks,” Connor says, giving him an uncertain smile.

“You need some brawn on you,” Hank grumbles, reaching out to wrap his hand around Connor’s wrist. His can nearly get his fingers around the slender bones there, and he drags his hand up Connor’s arm, feeling his biceps.

“I prefer running,” Connor says softly, staring at Hank with his big brown eyes. Like a deer in headlights.

“I could coach you,” Hank says, turning Connor around so they’re facing the large mirror wall. He puts his hands on Connor’s shoulders, squeezing lightly.

“Free of charge,” he murmurs, mouth so close to Connor’s ear he can smell him, a hint of sweat under clean soap and detergent.

“That’s, uh, very kind of you,” stammers, cheeks turning ruddy again. Hank steps a little closer, his chest and stomach brushing against Connor’s back.

“I’d really put you through the wringer, what do you think?”

Connor stares at him in the mirror, looking a little panicked. Hank doesn’t blame him - standing like this, Connor looks like a toothpick compared to him, slender and lithe. Most men look small next to Hank, but despite Connor hardly being short himself, Hank practically towers over him.

“Would you like that? I could really whip you into shape.”

“I- I think I’m good, thank you, sir,” Connor blurts, and stumbles out of Hank’s reach.

“Sorry, I have to, uhm. There’s-” He looks around helplessly, and then darts around Hank. “I’ve got work to do,” he says, with so much conviction in his voice Hank can’t hold back his laugh as he watches the kid march off, disappearing into the office.


It becomes a somewhat of a game for Hank. See how far he can push the kid before he bolts. He’d feel like an old creep, if not for the fact that Connor never runs away from him beforehand. He always smiles at Hank in the mornings, shy and too damn chipper in Hank’s opinion. And Hank sees him watch, sometimes, when he’s training or coaching, sees the flushed look on the kid’s face, the way his eyes go a little glassy.


There was a day when Hank had needed to blow off some steam and pummeled at the sandbag until his shirt was drenched and his arms and shoulders ached, he’d turned only to see Connor, meters away, staring with a slack expression, his book gripped tightly in his hands, covering his lap.

And the way the kid had scurried away when he’d realised Hank had caught him staring.

So Hank indulges a little. It’s not often he finds himself the center of such shy attention from a pretty little thing like Connor - why not make the most of it. He helps Connor place weights, crowding him little too close every time, taking pleasure in how the kid’s nostrils flare and his eyes go a little wide when he smells the sweat on Hank’s skin and invariably stares at his muscles. He waits until Connor is cleaning the locker room to head in to change, and each time Connor lingers, until Hank removes his sweats, and then he makes a beeline out.

One one memorable occasion he’d grabbed the paperback out of Connor’s back pocket, and Connor had whirled around, only to let out an undignified squak when he’d tripped, his pale hands coming to rest on Hank’s chest, pressing against the damp fabric of his tank top.

“All you have to do is ask,” Hank had murmured, and Connor had taken a step back, face flaming red, and disappeared into the bathrooms.


Connor gets a little bolder too. He stops making weak excuses when Hank requests his help in the ring, sometimes to show his newer clients what they’re doing wrong.

It’s fun, Hank decides, positioning Connor like he’s got the upper hand. Hank touches him freely, feeling the slight trembles of Connor’s body when Hank trails his hands down his ribs, presses himself against Connor’s back to move his arms, nudges his knee between Connor’s thighs to spread his stance.

“Lean back to me, Connor,” Hank says.

“Uh,” Connor says, shooting him a look over his shoulder. Hank gives him a hard look, and Connor ducks his head down, doing as he’s told, going relaxed against Hank’s chest.

“You can’t be in a full crouching position like this,” Hank says to his client, and then pushes Connor upwards, pressing down against his shoulders. “You need to keep your balance. Good job, Connor,” Hank says, stepping back, and Connor gives him a shy smile before ducking out of the ring and hurrying to clean up a shelf that’s already immaculately organised.


Hank would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t a little sweet on the kid, besides wanting to fuck the living daylights out of him. Connor keeps mostly to himself - he’s nice and friendly to the customers, gets along well with Carl and Markus, and mostly seems to talk with Hank. When Hank gives him space and doesn’t tease him until the kid’s vibrating with tension and the desire to flee, he’s surprisingly talkative.

Hank likes listening to Connor talk about his studies, about the books he reads, about the movies they’ve both seen. Hank works out and Connor cleans nearby or spots him, rambling away in a soothing cadence as Hank grunts and sweats away.

Still. He can’t stop thinking about the noises the kid would make, speared on Hank’s cock. The way he’d surely hide his face, shy and ashamed, only for Hank to coax him out of his shell and beg for more.

Hank’s never backed away from a challenge.


He gets a little fodder for his fantasies when he orders Connor to help with a demonstration in wrestling for a group of trial customers. It’s not Hank’s forté, but he knows enough to give coach beginners.

Connor has learned enough from observing Hank (and doesn’t that send a jolt of pleasure through Hank) that Hank can put him in a defensive post, only to bring him down, pinning him hard to the mat, his body covering Connor’s.

He grins at his clients, who look politely interested.

“That’s a clean takedown,” he says, and then turns his attention back to Connor.

Connor’s eyes have gone a little glassy, his breathing shallow. He tries to lift himself up, and Hank pins him down harder, not taking his eyes off Connor.

“Remember not to let your opponent surprise you,” he says, voice loud enough for his audience to hear. Connor lets out a soft breath, shifting, and Hank feels the brush of his swelling erection against his hip.

He grins wolfishly, and Connor’s eyes go wide, and he starts scrabbling against the mat.

Hank takes pity on him and rolls away, getting to his feet and reaching down to pull Connor up.

“We need to get more muscle on you,” Hank murmurs in his ear, and Connor gives him a panicked look before making a hasty exit.


One saturday brings a storm with it, and the gym is empty, everyone huddled at home. Connor turns off most of the lights and sits down on the mats with his book, waiting for Hank to finish his workout.

The weather reminds Hank of the night of the accident, the sound of rain like nails on chalkboard. He craves a drink, and so he stays, pushing his body to its limits, until he can be sure that when he goes home he’ll pass out, too exhausted to dream.

“You can go,” Hank says quietly, pulling his gloves on. “I’ll close up.”

Connor lifts his face from his book, blinking owlishly at him. The wind and rain whips against the large paned windows, and the whole gym feels a little oppressive, the old brick walls bad at insulating the humidity.

“It’s okay. I like being here. My roommate’s home for once, and he doesn’t like me,” Connor says, sounding oddly contented despite his words. He turns to look over his shoulder at the storm raging outside. “Besides, I’m hoping it’ll die down soon so I won’t get drenched.”

Hank makes a dissatisfied sound but doesn’t push it. They both have their reasons to be here, and perhaps they both need the company.

He pummels the punching bag, his form slipping the more he pushes himself, past the ache in his muscles, past the fatigue.

He sees Connor move from the corner of his eye, approaching him hesitantly.

“What?” Hank barks, winded, dripping sweat and feeling a little high on adrenaline.

“I finished my book,” Connor says meekly, holding up the paperback.

“I’ll be done soon,” Hank says, and then pauses.

“Come here,” he says, motioning for Connor to approach, the bag swaying lightly between them.

Connor gives him a questioning look, and Hank gives the bag a light nudge.

“Hold on to it. Like this,” he demonstrates, and Connor does as he’s told, as usual.

He doesn’t hit hard, just enough to wind himself down, an easy cooldown. Connor struggles anyway, his jaw clenching as he makes an obvious effort to hold the bag against the force of Hank’s punches, sweat beading on his brow, his cowlick damp against his forehead.

Satisfied, Hank gives the bag one strong, playful punch, and Connor lets out a surprised yell, swaying back and falling down on his ass, sprawling on the matt.

Hank laughs, stepping between his legs. “Sorry, kid,” he says, not sounding sincere at all.

Connor bites his lip, looking up at him, propped up on his elbows, and Hank stills.

He can feel the tension thick even in the humidity of the gym, can see it in the way Connor is looking at him, brown eyes wide and mouth parted, chest rising and falling steadily.

On any other day Hank would take advantage of it.

Today there’s a pain in his heart that the ache in his muscles can’t mask.

He gives Connor wry smile and leans down to offer him his hand.

“Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

The expression on Connor’s face is a mix of confusion and hurt. Eventually he grips Hank’s hand, and Hank pulls him up easily. They stand in silence for a fleeting moment, Connor’s pretty face so close that Hank would only need to take a step towards him and kiss him.

Instead Hank touches Connor’s shoulder, nudging him towards the exit. He can shower at home, he decides, grabbing his bag.

Together they turn off the lights and lock the doors.

The ride to Connor’s apartment is quiet, Connor staring out into the rainy streets while Hank drives. He keeps fiddling with his book, running his thumb along the pages, letting them flutter against his skin. Hank itches to reach out and put a stop to it, the constant movement in the corner of his eye setting him on edge.

He pulls over to the curb, and Connor peers up at the lit windows, some of which, Hank assumes, must belong to him and his roommate.

“Well,” Connor says reluctantly. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Don’t mention it,” Hank says gruffly. Connor reaches for the door handle and then pauses, slowly turning to look at Hank.

“Why didn’t y-” He stops, snapping his mouth shut. “Nevermind,” he adds quickly, speaking softly, and then he’s gone, slamming the car door shut.

Hank watches him dart across the parking lot and disappear into the building.


On monday Connor avoids him, like a kicked dog skirting its owner. Hank wants to regret the decision he made - Connor had let his guard down, had gathered his courage, and Hank had turned the offer down.

The timing had been off, and Connor has no way of knowing.

On the way home that day he stops by a bookstore, and he carries his purchase with him for two days until Connor is back at work.

“You like these ones, don’t you?” Hank says, handing Connor the paperback. Connor takes it, his mouth curving into a sweet smile.

“Yeah, he’s one of my favourites,” he says, and when he looks up at Hank his face is wide open, everything on display.


The next day Connor lingers around the locker rooms. This time when Hank pushes his sweats down, he sees Connor steal a look before hurrying out.


Weeks later however Hank is starting to feel a little frustrated. Connor lets him close, only to back away at the last moment, and Hank’s set his mind on bringing this little game of theirs to a close.

“Connor, come over here!” He yells, and Connor jerks his head up from his book. Obedient little thing that he is he heads over to Hank.

“Spot me,” Hank says, settling down on the bench and reaching for the bar. The gym is empty, just the two of them remaining before closing.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s safe, I can’t really-”

Hank cuts him off. “They’re not that heavy, just a precaution,” he says, and Connor hesitates before settling behind the bench, hands hovering under the bar as Hank begins to lift.

He keeps his eyes on Connor, and Connor keeps watching Hank’s arms. Hank lifts with a little bit more force than necessary, making sure to work up a good sweat, his biceps and pecs bunching with each rep.

“Ya sure you don’t want me to train you?” He huffs, his rhythm never faltering. “Bet you’d love it if you tried it.” He pitches his voice low, and Connor swallows hard, shifting on his feet.

“Stance,” Hank barks, and Connor widens his stance a little, his face flushing that sweet shade of pink again. It’s become Hank’s favourite colour.

“I’m good, thank you, sir,” Connor mumbles, tongue darting out to wet his pink lips.

What Hank would give to have them wrapped around his cock.

“Need to get you to work up a sweat,” Hank grunts. “You’d look good on your back like this,” he adds quietly, and Connor stares down at him.

Hank’s dick is starting to chub up in his sweats, the slight swell accentuated by the soft, loose fabric. He watches Connor’s eyes flicker up and then back down to settle on Hank’s chest, and sees a shiver run through Connor. Hank tilts his head, and sees that Connor’s shorts are tented.

“Mr. Anderson-” Connor says, voice shaky and panicked.

Hank growls and sets the bar down with a loud clang, and before Connor has time to step away, he curls his hand around Connor’s thigh and grabs his ass, forcing him to lean forwards and grab the bar for support. Hank tips his head back and presses his face against Connor’s crotch, inhaling.

Connor lets out a yelp and jumps back, nearly colliding with a shelf behind him.

“Sir- Mr. Anderson!” Connor cries out, and Hank is off the bench and circling around the weights until he’s standing in front of Connor.

He takes a step forward, and Connor backs away, his back pressed against the wall. Hank closes in, pinning Connor against his chest.

“You scared, boy?” Hank asks, voice gravelly with lust, and Connor stares at him with wide eyes. He shakes his head mutely, wetting his lips again.

“No? Then why do you keep running away, hm?”

Connor lifts his hands, placing them on Hank’s chest, touching fleetingly before lifting them away again. Hank grabs his wrists and puts his hands back, watching the way Connor’s breathing picks up.

“You like watching me, don’t you? Like seeing me fight.”

Connor shakes his head, frantic, and Hank laughs, low and dark.

“No? So I’ve been imagining all the times I’ve seen you watch me spar, the way you’ve gotten all hot and bothered when I come out on top? You sure you didn’t wish that was you? Wished it was you I was pinning to the mat?”

Connor swallows again, his throat bobbing, and Hank wants to put his lips there and suck a mark on that pale skin.

“I could hold you down so easy,” Hank growls, moving Connor’s hands to the wall, holding them there.

Connor lets out a soft sound, a breathy little moan that he tries to swallow down, his lashes fluttering.

“You want me to stop?” Hank asks, eyes hard on Connor’s.

Connor blinks at him, slowly, as though his mind is running sluggishly, and then shakes his head. It’s barely a jerk, but it sends a surge of arousal through Hank.

“What do you want, boy?” Hank demands, and Connor presses against the hold Hank has on his wrists.

“Tell me what you want, or I’m walking away,” Hank growls. He won’t force himself on anyone - games aside, it’s not what he’s into.

Connor turns his head to the side, closing his eyes for a moment. Hank watches him breathe, deep and rushed, and he’s about to let go and step back when Connor parts his lips.

“Touch me,” he says, voice so soft Hank has to strain to hear him.

“Where do you want me to touch you? Hm, baby?” Hank asks, pitching his voice low and sweet.

Connor shivers against him, his eyes fluttering open.

“I don’t- anywhere. I just want your hands on me,” he whispers, and the look in his wide eyes is almost pleading.

Hank lets out a low sound and frees Connor’s wrists. He wraps an arm around Connor’s waist and pulls him close, grabbing the back of his head as he leans in to kiss him, hard.

Connor moans, soft lips parting under Hank’s, and Hank nips and sucks at Connor’s bottom lip, drawing sweet little sounds from the kid.

He slides his hand down to grip the swell of Connor’s ass, slotting their hips together. Connor’s knees buckle and he falls against against Hank, whimpering softly.

“H-Hank,” he huffs, and Hank hums, dragging his beard over Connor’s soft cheek.

“Come here,” he coaxes, moving back until he can set Connor down on his knees by the bench. He guides Connor around, pushes his shoulders until his chest is pressed against the padding. Hank leans over him to nuzzle at his neck, breathing in his scent.

“Gonna let me make you feel good?” He asks, and Connor nods, knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the bench.

Hank moves his hand from Connor’s neck, down his back to his ass, and hooks his fingers in the waistband of his shorts. He waits for a moment to see if Connor wants to put the brakes on, and when Connor simply arches his back, Hank draws his shorts and boxers down.

“Oh, look at you,” Hank breathes, leaning down to press a kiss to the swell of Connor’s left ass cheek. “Fucking perfect.”

Connor huffs, pressing back into Hank’s touch.

“Ever had anyone eat you out?” Hank asks, pulling Connor’s clothes down his thighs and off his legs, one by one.

Connor cranes his neck to look at him over his shoulder.

“No… Do you mean like-” He blushes again, so innocently that Hank’s heart nearly aches with it.

“Gonna fuck you open with my tongue,” Hank growls, grabbing the globes of Connor’s ass with his hands, fingers digging into the soft flesh. He doesn’t wait for Connor’s reply.

He noses his way between Connor’s buttocks, spreading him open with his palms. The first touch of his lips to Connor’s tight hole gets Connor bucking, and then he stills. Hank can hear him panting. He pulls away a little, brushing his thumb over Connor’s entrance.

“Don’t worry, you’ll love it,” he murmurs, and then he dives back in, laving at Connor’s crack with his tongue before pressing the tip against Connor’s hole.

“Oh!” Connor yelps, pushing back against him. Hank chuckles, pushing deeper before pulling back again to kiss at Connor’s hole, sucking at his rim, mouthing him until he’s slick with Hank’s spit.

Little by little Connor falls apart on the bench, his choked, breathy sounds becoming more bold until he’s moaning and crying out, rolling his hips back for more. Hank fucks him with his tongue, and then adds a finger, slick with his saliva that’s soaked into his beard by now, and Connor jolts.

“Are you- are you gonna fuck me?” Connor asks, voice shaky.

Hank sits back, leaving one hand on Connor’s ass, caressing it as he thinks.

“Do you want to?”

Connor inhales deep, his shoulder-blades hunching, and then he slides off the bench and turns to face Hank. Hank gets a good eyeful of his cock, curving against his belly, flushed and wet at the tip. Such a cute thing.

Then he has his lap full of Connor, pushing him down onto the padded mats, straddling his belly.

“Is it okay if I don’t want to?” Connor asks, biting his bottom lip. Hank strokes his forearms and then pulls him down against his chest, trapping him against him.

“Not gonna force ya,” he says, and Connor lets out a soft breath.

“Maybe we could do something else,” he says shyly, turning his head to look at Hank.

Hank raises an eyebrow. “Oh? What did you have in mind?”

Connor purses his lips, looking like he’s trying to decide something.

“That was nice, what you did,” he says softly, pressing a palm to Hank’s side. Feeling him up a little. Hank smirks.

“Yeah? Want me to eat you out a little more? Suck your cute little asshole?”

Connor groans, burying his face against Hank’s chest. He mumbles something Hank can’t make out, and Hank laughs, rolling them over.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, and grabs Connor’s slim hips, flipping him over onto his belly and then lifting him up. Connor gives out a shout, scrambling to get his knees under himself, and it trails off into a moan when Hank shoves his face against his ass again, not bothering to hold back.

He slobbers all over Connor’s hole, fucking him with his tongue, sucking at the at rim, loosening him up. He may not get to put his dick in there tonight, but that doesn’t mean he can’t give the kid a taste.

“Hah- Hank!” Connor cries out, fingers scrabbling on the mats for something to hold onto while Hank indulges himself, his beard chafing along the soft skin of Connor’s cheeks and inner thighs as he rims him. The sounds Connor make go straight to his cock, aching and swollen in his sweats, and he reaches between his thighs to palm himself.

It’s not enough, and gets up on his knees and drags his pants down to his thighs, giving his throbbing cock a few strokes.

“You’re gonna like this, trust me,” he growls, and Connor pauses, trying to look over his shoulder.

“Wha?” He says blearily, and then Hank forces his thighs closed, holding him steady by his hips. Hank spits in his hand and spreads it over his dick and leans forward, nudging the tip of his cock between the warm, soft flesh of Connor’s thighs.

“Oh, wait, are-” Connor breathes out, and then he goes slack, moaning Hank’s name softly.

“Jesus, kid,” Hank groans, sliding between Connor’s thighs, enveloped in the warm softness of him. “Fuck, you’re perfect, fucking made for this.”

Connor shivers, gone loose now, one cheek against the floor padding. Hank can’t look away from the flutter of his lashes against his flushed cheek, or the way his tongue swipes across his pink lips.

“Do you have any idea-” Hank chokes out, and then grits his teeth as Connor tenses his legs, creating a tighter space for Hank to fuck into.

The tip of Hank’s cock presses against Connor’s balls, and Connor lets out a choked sound, his eyes flying open. Hank chuckles, leaning over him until his chest and belly are draped along the curve of Connor’s back, bracing himself low on the mats, caging Connor in.

Connor moans softly, a breathy sound that goes straight to Hank’s cock as he ruts between the kid’s legs, feeling the build of his orgasm in his gut.

“Look at you, how you fit under me perfectly,” Hank murmurs, lips brushing Connor’s ear. “I could snap you like a twig. Break you in half for sure. I think I could fit your pretty little cock in my hand, what do you think?”

“Please,” Connor sighs, turning his head clumsily, searching, and Hank gives him what he wants and kisses him, messy and greedy.

He drags one hand down Connor’s side, his t-shirt rucked up under his armpits, and curls his palm around Connor’s cock.

Doesn’t quite fit, but Hank wasn’t too far off.

Connor bucks, moaning into the kiss, a bit of drool escaping the corner of his mouth. Hank laughs, nipping at his neck.

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” He asks, and Connor nods his head jerkily. He moves his hips in an unsteady rhythm, fucking into Hank’s grip and back against his hips, and Hank thrusts against him, feeling on the edge.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come, baby,” Hank groans, and then slams his hips against Connor’s thighs as his orgasm hits him, every muscle in his body tensing up as he spills between Connor’s legs, marking him with his seed.

“Oh god, Hank, did you-” Connor moans, shuffling his legs apart and snaking a hand between them, feeling Hank’s come. Hank can feel him quiver, and then he feels Connor’s come-coated hand cover his.

“Come on, baby, you gonna come for me?” He rumbles, and it seems to trigger something in Connor. It only take a few more strokes, and then Connor comes with a shiver, shaking apart under Hank’s weight pinning him down. Hank cups his hand over the head of his cock, catching his release.

Connor stops trembling and lets out a long exhale, body going sweet and lose beneath Hank.

“That’s it, nice and easy,” Hank coos, lowering Connor down onto his side, smearing his come over his hip.

Connor blinks up at him, eyes a little hazy, faze flushed and a little sweaty. His t-shirt has ridden up so high one of his pink, pebbled nipples is exposed. Come stains his hip and thighs, and he looks absolutely ruined like this.

“You should see yourself,” Hank mutters, and Connor gives him an exhausted smile. His eyes trail down to Hank’s cock, hanging heavy between his thighs, thick even when flaccid.

“I always thought maybe you wore a cover or something when you work out,” Connor says conversationally, and Hank laughs, pulling his sweats back up. He helps Connor back into his shorts and then pulls the kid up, holding him in his arms for a moment.

“Do you want to come to my place?” Connor asks, a hint of sleep in his voice. Hank hesitates, tension building in his gut.

“Isn’t your roommate around?”

Connor shrugs, and falls silent.

Hank presses a kiss to the top of his head, trying to push down the desire to do what he usually does - push Connor away now that he has what he wanted, move on, keep himself safe.

“You could come home with me,” he says softly. Connor turns his face up, looking at him with his sweet doe-eyes.

“You sure?”

“I wouldn’t have asked, would I?” Hank says a little irritably, but Connor only grins.

“Then I’d like to.”

“As long as you don’t mind dogs. I have a St Bernard,” Hank says nudging Connor towards the exit. No point showering here, he thinks. He plans on getting dirty the moment they get through the door.

“No, I love dogs. Does he get to sleep on the bed with us?” Connor asks eagerly, and Hank swats his ass.

“Only if you’re not planning on getting laid again tonight,” he barks. Connor laughs, grabbing his book and smacking Hank’s arm gently with it.

They shut off the lights and lock the doors, and halfway across the parking lot Connor tucks himself under Hank’s arm, giving him a blinding grin.