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There’s nothing special about the day – a distinctly overcast Tuesday afternoon after the first track practice of the week and a long morning of staying mostly awake through geography – but Connor musters up a sudden courage, to attempt what he’d always wanted to do.

Coach Anderson is further within the locker rooms, to clear out any last stragglers. Not that there are any. Connor had checked, and he swiftly moves to lock the main door before doubling back to catch up to Hank.

His coach looks unimpressed to see him still there. “Time to head home, Connor.”

“Wait –” Connor comes to a stop and holds up a hasty hand. “I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Ask away.” Hank still looks unimpressed, but at least he stands still for a moment to look at Connor. To look down at Connor. Connor gulps and takes another step closer – for courage.

Hank’s eyes momentarily flash downwards, and Connor uses the distraction to blurt: “I want to suck your dick.”

The room is silent. It had been mostly silent before, but Connor feels the silence much more acutely now, pressing down on his ears as he fidgets with his shirt and stares belligerently up at Hank. At least, he hopes it comes across as belligerent – there’s a quaver in his lower lip as he chews on it, and Nines has always liked to say he was too soft. Whatever that means.

Hank stares back at him, mouth agape. He unfreezes when Connor makes to move closer. “No you don’t. And that wasn’t a question.”

Semantics. Buoyed by the lack of outright refusal, Connor bounces on the balls of his feet. He’s had this speech rehearsed, and it all comes spilling out of him as Hank continues to stand there, flabbergasted. “I do – and I know you want me to. I’ve seen how you look at me during training and –”

“I’m checking your form!” Hank interrupts, “Like I do with all the other guys!”

His words throw Connor off a little, but he barrels on undeterred. “And I know that you’ve never mentioned having a partner or spouse, and that you don’t wear a ring on you anywhere, and that the phonebook lists you as living by yourself. So you have no reason to say no.”

Hank’s expression immediately morphs from bewilderment to something a lot more serious. “What about the fact that you’re fifteen, Connor? And my personal life is none of your business.”

“I’m old enough!” Connor protests. He had expected this to be an issue as well, but public records had also indicated that Henry Anderson, born in Detroit in 1985, did not have any children – which increases chances in his favour.

Hank’s face is stony. “You’re a kid.”

“I’m a teenager.”

“Same difference.”

If Connor had tried two years ago, when he’d only distantly known what track was, and Mr Anderson was a P.E. teacher he’d seen teaching the older years, then yeah, he could admit to being a kid. To hear it from Hank’s mouth now leaves him feeling somewhat miffed.

He pushes closer, annoyed. At least he can still feel Hank’s body heat from here, radiating off him in waves. Connor has already cooled off from practice, but he can feel sweat start to form just from the realisation he’s in Hank’s presence.

“Come on, kid. Back off – go take a cold shower or something.” Hank takes a small step backwards, voice weary. He’s just about backed up against the wall now, but the kid’s relentless, staring up at him with his big brown eyes. Body angled towards him, and his intentions are unmistakable even without that initial, horrifically brave, proposal.

Fifteen, Hank thinks dazedly. Kid is insane, but then again, he’d seen enough playground drama to know what the kids in Connor’s class would get up to in their spare time. Cornering their coaches in the changing rooms was a possibility he should’ve foreseen.

Connor reaches out an arm, hand drifting suspiciously downwards, and Hank catches his wrist before the kid can try anything funny. “Watch it!”

He’s slender all over, thin-limbed – a runner’s build. His wrist fits snugly in the palm of Hank’s hand, and that’s when Hank realises he might’ve made a mistake. Granted, there were probably many moments where he could’ve made better choices – getting the hell out of dodge the second Connor approached him comes to mind – but Hank remains committed to the error of his ways.

He grasps Connor’s wrist, frozen. The kid stares. Stares down at his arm, then back up at Hank. Looks down once more as a delicate blush starts to creep over his cheeks.

Goddamnit, Anderson.

“U-Uh,” Connor stutters, and there has to be something wrong with Hank, that he doesn’t immediately let go. Connor’s wrist is cool for how much it burns a brand into his palm, and Hank has been holding on for two seconds now. Three.

“C-Can I…” The kid mumbles, confidence rapidly flagging – and that’s a funny image, Hank thinks. He’s only ever known Connor to be confident and determined in whatever he does.

It’s the last thought on his mind before Connor springs forward (those legs of his, Hank thinks later), and plants a surprisingly gentle one on his lips. His palms rest against Hank’s chest for support, and they feel like butterfly wings.

Hank remains frozen. A whirl of appropriate things he should say in this situation fly out of his brain, and the first thing he blurts is: “That’s not suckin’ my dick.”

Hank swallows. The realisation of what he’d just said washes over him like a cold front. That was definitely not a ‘no’, and he’s all but dug himself into this hole now. Condemned himself to whatever is glimmering in Connor’s eyes as he stares up at Hank, wrist shaking in his grip.

Connor leans forward to kiss him again, and this time Hank closes his eyes and lets Connor suck eagerly on his tongue. He tastes heady, and like excitement.

He squeezes Connor’s waist, for lack of something better to do with his hands, and feels the kid wriggle. Connor lets out a small gasp. A little puff of cool air rolls onto Hank’s tongue before he surges forward to lick into Connor’s hot mouth, and his gasping quickly turns into a strangled moan.

Something in Hank’s conscience flashes warning signs at the sound, while his groin rears up like Sumo about to go on a walk. If he had the blood in his brain, he would’ve let go immediately, but instead Hank fists a hand in Connor’s hair and splays his other hand across the sturdy, but narrow, curve of his back.

Connor bends willingly under him, takes a half-step back to steady himself. He kisses like a dream, and Hank is loath to let go when Connor finally pulls back, face flushed red and panting.

“Fuck,” Hank breathes. “Is the – is the fuckin’ door locked?”


“You fuckin’ menace.”

Despite his words, the light-hearted tone makes Connor smile. It’s cute. He’s adorable, and sexy – and Hank is falling so, so hard. Connor leans in to give him another kiss, before settling back onto the balls of his feet. He drops his arms, to fidget with his clothes again.

“Can – can I…” He starts to bend at the knees before finishing his question, and Hank groans, in what can only be described as overwhelming disbelief. He lets go of Connor, but keeps the one hand loosely threaded in his hair.

“You’re gonna kill me, kid.” And that’s just from seeing Connor kneeling at his feet.

The first touch of slender, slightly cool fingers to his waistband shaves about ten years off his lifespan. With shaking hands, Hank helps Connor tug his shorts down, and then his boxers. He hadn’t been sweating as much as the kids, but it’s still objectively gross – Hank catches a whiff of himself and grimaces.

Connor doesn’t even bat an eye. He stares at Hank’s semi, then up at his face, eyes big and dark against the glowing pink of his cheeks.

“Go on,” Hank nods. His voice comes out a tad shaky, and Hank has to hold back a moan when Connor gives him a first, tentative lick.

The kid scrunches his brow up, and Hank nearly has a small heart attack. Second one of the day. He’s about to say something, to tell Connor to get back up or leave entirely, when the kid dives back in. Hank chokes on a groan as his dick is suddenly engulfed in wet warmth, tip scraping against the roof of Connor’s mouth.

Connor makes a similar noise, and Hank has to smile as that furrow reappears in his brow.

“You don’t have to take it all in one go.” Connor’s determined, but the way he’s struggling with the second half of Hank’s dick isn’t going to get him anywhere. “This your first time?”

Connor makes an affirmative sound, and Hank sighs. Of course it is. He runs his fingers through the curled mess on Connor’s head.

“Well. You’re doin’ good so far.” Connor’s awkwardly lapping at the side of his dick, but it still feels pretty damn good. “Watch your teeth, yeah? And don’t force yourself – you don’t wanna be choking.”

Connor’s ‘mm-hm’ vibrates through Hank’s dick, and the kid looks pleased as all hell when Hank swears. He resumes with vigour, bobbing his head as Hank gently guides him up and down. He only ever gets about halfway down Hank’s dick, but Hank remembers his first blowjob just fine – and it wasn’t pretty.

Not as pretty as Connor, anyway. His lashes flutter on his cheeks as he gazes downwards with an admirable focus, and when he looks up, Hank has to break eye contact.

“Fuck yeah… good boy.”

At his words, Connor lets his eyes fall shut and moans around Hank. One of his hands is furiously working his dick in his boxers, and he looks close. Hank feels a sudden pang at the thought that he’ll miss out on sucking the kid off in turn, and then a tentative flash of guilt at the idea of a next time.

Connor makes another muffled sound, and Hank has to resist the urge to thrust into his mouth. He’s holding back as much as he can already, trying to remind the instinctual part of his brain that Connor’s virgin throat won’t take to all that abusing. He squeezes the base of his dick and feels Connor’s lips brush up against his fingers.

Hank pants. “Fuck, fuck –”

It doesn’t take long for Connor to stiffen, hand slowing in his pants. His face scrunches up, and that’s all the warning Hank gets before Connor comes, whining and trembling around Hank’s dick.

If that was his ass, Hank’s brain conjures, and his dick pulses desperately on Connor’s slack tongue. Another aborted thrust, and Hank’s coming hot and uninterrupted into Connor’s mouth. He holds Connor’s head in place until he hears the kid splutter, at which point his conscious brain takes over.

Oh fuck. “Shit, sorry.” Hank lets go, and Connor pulls off a second later, coughing, lips come-stained.

“It’s –” Connor coughs. “It’s okay. Thank you.”

“The first thing you say after suckin’ a man’s dick is thank you?” Hank scoffs. And because Connor’s a gentleman, he even tries to tuck Hank’s dick back into his pants for him.

“You’re not just any man,” Connor says plainly. There’s still come on his lips that he hasn’t bothered licking off. And don’t think Hank hadn’t noticed him swallowing – what kind of a virgin is he?

“God, you sure know how to make a man feel special.”

Connor beams. “Yeah! You’re special.”

What the fuck. “…Right.” It takes Hank a second to screw his head back on properly and fix his pants. “Right. Well, uh – time to head off. We shouldn’t do this ever again.”

“Really?” Connor pouts, the little devil, and Hank has to look away.

“Yes, really. Just go – go bother kids your age or something.” It’s a little late for advice, but Hank’s brain pretends that he can still salvage this situation.

Connor nods. “I won’t. See you on Friday!” And then with that, he leaves.

The door clicks in the distance, and Hank is still reeling. Friday afternoon couldn’t come later.