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"Look, Kid, you gotta keep your eyes on the shoulders. That's how you catch their first move before they can even make it. Whether they're aiming for your heart or trying to get you to stumble into a trap, you gotta make sure to stay focused on what really matters.
"Got it," Sinclair said, even though he really, really didn't. He was still struggling to translate the information to his body. Eyes on the shoulders so he can... see where his arms are shifting, right?
Except it was so hard to focus when it was his master in front of him.
Broad shoulders that spoke of a quiet but indomitable strength. A handsome smile made handsomer by the wrinkles lining his face. Muscles that showed readily even through layers of clothing. Every time he stretched or stood up or did anything, he always caught a glimpse of them, thick and toned and ready to—
Sinclair swallowed. Wait, no, he was supposed to be training. Not wax poetry about Gregor's muscles even if they refused to leave his eyeballs. He had to stay focused. Had to keep his mind sharp and ready. Gregor was taking the time to teach him, instead of more important things like looking for their next contract.
His eyes darted to his master's jaw, to the slope of his neck, to a stray drop of sweat. There. Weakness. The same inch of bare skin he could never seem to stop himself from thinking of or staring at.
One swing later, he was lying flat on his back again.
"Heh, looks like I got you good again, Kid," Gregor said. He reached out his hand, and Sinclair fought a shiver as he took it. It was a warm, steady thing, despite the metal that sheathed its grip.
If only he could pause time to bask in its warmth forever. But all too soon, Gregor let go of his hand. "Now, Sinclair. Tell me what you've learned here," he said. Familiar words, and ones he dreaded the most.
Sinclair sighed, wishing he had something to brag about for once. It wasn't hard to list his mistakes, especially when they came to him so easily. Like his tremors, or lack of confidence. If only he was as good at fighting as he was at tea-brewing. "To not get distracted. To not hesitate to strike," he mumbled. He sounded like he was back in class, reluctantly reading the next passage. "To keep your eyes on your opponent's shoulders and the reach of their weapon at all time."
Gregor nodded, though he didn't look satisfied yet. There was still one more thing. One more mistake of his to confess.
Sinclair resisted the impulse to bite at his nails, instead opting to stare at a spot on the floor. "And I was overthinking things again. I shouldn't have let it get to me. I'm sorry, master. Next time, I'll try to do better."
They were the words that always marked the end of his lessons, and they never failed to taste like sludge on his tongue. How many times had he already repeated them to Gregor? How many more times would he have to repeat them in the future?
But his master simply smiled and clapped Sinclair on his back, a touch that had his breath hitching despite the familiarity. "Well, you're still a greenhorn, Kid. Even I was the same way once."
Now that had Sinclair's head snapping up to attention.
"Really, Master?" he asked. It was hard for him to believe, especially with how confident he always looked and seemed in everything. From managing the office to sipping his tea—even when he simply laughed, it was always with such unbelievable ease. His master was the picture of everything he wasn't. Something that would've stung if it weren't how much he admired him.
"Of course! I wasn't always the Fixer you think I am, y'know? I made plenty of mistakes before finally finding my footing. Which means I know you'll catch up soon enough. Birds of a feather always flock together, 'ne?"
He sounded so sure that Sinclair almost believed him. He looked at him so confidently that Sinclair wanted to believe him. But he couldn't—not when he was still small and weak and floundering with the basics.
Whatever faith Gregor had was simply undeserved.
Guilt twisted painfully like a knife in Sinclair's stomach. He bit the inside of his mouth, if only to soothe the worst of it. His hands were getting restless, nails digging into sweaty palms.
"Um, master, I think I'll stay behind to train some more," he suddenly said.
Gregor's eyebrow raised, fondness shining in his amber eyes. "Oh? Is that the sound of youth I hear? Brings a warmth to my heart to see our little chick working so hard."
A flush rose to Sinclair's face. He wasn't sure if it was because of the guilt or the praise. "C'mon, master... it's nothing special. I'm only doing what needs to be done to be a better Fixer."
"And that's admirable, Kid. Don't cut yourself short—it's a trait you don't get to see much in the City these days. Just don't go overboard, alright? Wouldn't want you to strain your back like mine."
Sinclair nodded, even as the knife in his stomach dug deeper. "I will, master," he said, hoping his voice was still steady.
Once Gregor left, he hurriedly made his way to the bathroom, splashing cold water onto his face, hoping against hope it would help. Unfortunately, all it did was make things considerably worse. He was now uncomfortably cold and uncomfortably guilty. A combination that made him feel not unlike a wet pile of mush.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He tore off his glove and bit into his thumb. Why was he still struggling? Still so goddamn weak, even a year later? He didn't want to be a burden, to always be helpless and lagging behind. There were only three of them in the office, which meant rent was a looming threat.
And worse—more honestly, more selfishly, more pathetically—he especially didn't want to disappoint his master. Despite how much he still struggled, Gregor remained unfailingly kind. His master was like another father, with the way he looked at him, talked to him, and touched him. A hand patting his back as he affectionately called him Kid. A warm smile on his distinguished face whenever he greeted him. He ruffled his hair as he praised him, teased him, which was regularly too, calling him the Yellow Ssanghwa or a promising young chick. His voice held a richness carried by decades of experience. Every sight of his broad back always inspired a paltry attempt at confidence.
He was his mentor, his boss, and a father figure all rolled up into one. Someone to be admired and someone to be respected. And he was someone Sinclair felt safe with, his presence like a steady anchor.
Which was why he didn't understand: why being near still made his heart race. Why he was still getting so distracted.
...Why every time he jerked off, his mind went to Gregor.
Sinclair groaned, tasting copper inside his mouth. He'd bitten enough to draw blood, and it still wasn't enough to stop him. At first, he'd told himself it was a simple case of crossed wires. The last time he felt a kind touch was when his family was still alive, which meant it'd been too long, and his body had simply become desperate.
He just needed some time. Let his mind figure it out. Back then, he hadn't been in the best of states, more a nervous wreck than anything with weight. But weeks turned to months, and then months turned into a year. He was still staring at Gregor, still getting terribly distracted by him. Still masturbating over him, too. especially the way he looked at him, talked to him, and touched him. Good boy, he'd say as he patted him so precariously near his neck. I taught you well, didn't I? Even when it was something basic like holding the correct stance.
His face would flush hard, and his traitorous dick would jump inside his pants. To have this much attention, this much affection, especially from someone who was far older and stronger than him... It also didn't help that his prosthetic reminded him of his father. Sinclair had been afraid of it, had even despised it. But now, it was a comfort. A reminder of family. The closest way he could be with his father again.
Something like bile rose inside Sinclair's throat. Already, he gnawed the tip of his thumb and forefinger raw. Fuck. He was so fucked-up. Marring his need to be wanted with his need for a father figure... There was no way this was going to end well, if it already wasn't.
He had to stop. He needed to stop. And yet, the more Sinclair tried, the more his mind fought against him. Gregor was everything he wanted in a man: someone as old as he was handsome, as reliable as he was strong. Whose presence was always a solid weight besides him.
Who could have him on his back without breaking a single sweat.
Before Sinclair even realized it, his hand was already snaking down his pants—palming at his cock that was already half-hard. He thought of Gregor's hands, throat going tight as he did. Always hidden behind gloves, a tantalizing fantasy—they were big and solid and capable of so many things. Like throwing a punch that could crush a man's throat. Lifting a block of stone that'd send his muscles rippling.
And holding him down. Pinning his wrists above him. Yanking back his hair as he manhandled him like he was nothing. He'd once seen him do it to someone who'd thought him as an easy target. Just a harmless old fart, his face had read as he slowly crept up behind Gregor.
It was a sight that left Sinclair in awe, the way his master shoved him to the floor so effortlessly. Hand clamped around his neck, another wrenching his arm back.
All Sinclair could think about was how strong Gregor was.
All he could think about was: if only that was me.
It felt like scratching a particularly vicious itch. One he couldn't stop, no matter how much of a bad idea it was. He bent forward, rutting into his hand, imagining it was himself struggling under his master instead. Metal hand gripping the back of his neck, his other holding him down and making sure he felt it. He'd fuck him from behind or in the front to see him cry, spreading him wide enough to test much of his cock he could take. Gregor wouldn't stop, not until he got what he wanted—a body that couldn’t refuse, eyes that watered with each thrust. A mouth that begged please, dad, oh please-
Sinclair came hard.
Pulsing into his hand, hot and wet and sticky. He couldn't stop, even if he tried, and he realized he didn't want to. It felt so good, so unbearably good, to think of Gregor shoving him against the floor, of fucking him until he cried. His knees buckled, hips thrusting hard like he was still coming, and he was a little. He always did when it came to his master. A name spilled from his lips, one he knew all too well.
Father-master-Gregor. There was little difference in his eyes.
When he finally came down from his orgasmic high, when he finally could take in a lungful of air, the shame hit him not unlike a slap to the face. What was he doing, jerking off to his master instead of training?
He got up, still shaking, cleaning off the cum as well as he could. Luckily, he always kept an extra set of clothes in the office.
Unluckily, he still couldn't stop thinking of Gregor. Of the way he looked at him, talked to him, and touched him.
Weeks passed since he shamefully masturbated in the office bathroom. Sinclair tried his best to be focused, to remain focused. He couldn't go back to sinking so terribly low again. Especially with rent coming up soon—they were still thousands and thousands of Ahn short.
Unfortunately, it was difficult to throw himself into work. He was constantly around Gregor, and Gregor was constantly around him. Faust oversaw the fieldwork, which meant they both dealt with the paperwork. Every morning, his master would already be hunched over at his desk, and every night, he would always be the last one to turn off the lights.
Sinclair tried to pour his whole attention to the contracts—scouring over the details and separating the ones that seemed trustworthy. But every time he glanced up, every time Gregor passed by him, he couldn't help but stare too long at his everything: the plane of his back, the erotic glimpses of his nape. His strong thighs and the unbearable curve of his ass. Both his hands that he could still feel holding him down from wet dreams.
The only change to this routine came when Faust finished a contract early. She returned, smelling like ashes, and looking none the worse for the wear as usual.
"As expected of the pride of our Office," Gregor beamed. Sinclair heartily agreed—their office wouldn't be the same without her.
Faust acknowledged his praise with a near imperceptible smile. "Your words are merely a description of Faust's talents, Herr Gregor," she said. Still the smile on her lips seemed to linger a touch longer.
A quiet warmth quickly settled over the space of their little office.
Unfortunately, it was soon broken by the sound of a whistling kettle. Sinclair nearly jolted, suddenly jarred back into action. "Oh! S-sorry, just a moment," he mumbled. He hurried to the kitchen, taking the kettle off the stove top. Even though it was only tea, Sinclair still took to the duty seriously—blending his seonbae's favorite milk one and adding a whole red jujube to the ssanghwa-cha. The bags under Gregor's eyes had gotten worse lately, and Sinclair wanted to help, however meager it might be.
Right as he set down both teas, though, Faust immediately turned her attention towards him.
"Sinclair, I see that you've grown taller in my absence," she said. It was more a statement than anything else. Yet, Sinclair startled, nearly tipping over both tea cups.
"Um, uh, what?" he asked stupidly.
"Ooh, is that true? Is our little chick growing up?" Suddenly, Gregor was there, peering down, examining him. He leaned in, and Sinclair could feel his heart starting to pound. He shuddered, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they were together.
"Well, well, looks like Frau Faust is right-"
"Of course, Herr Gregor. Faust is always right."
"-Our fledgling here is finally growing out his wings!"
A hand reached out, traveling from his head to Gregor's chin. Sinclair blinked. Oh, he really was getting taller, wasn't he? Tall enough that their little office seemed just a bit smaller now. Tall enough that he didn't have to strain his neck when he looked at Gregor anymore. He was closer to his height than he'd ever been before, which meant, in some way, he was getting bigger. Stronger.
He should've been proud at this sign of visible growth. Should've been ecstatic that he was finally getting somewhere. That was he was no longer a kid, no longer someone who was stuck being weak and small. It was what he wanted, wasn't it? What he'd been working towards since he became a Fixer.
Except he didn't, not until this very moment, at least. He hadn't quite realized what it would mean if he was getting stronger. Gregor was still larger than him, but for how long would it last? Would he one day outgrow him, dwarf the mountain that was his master?
"O-oh, um, really?" Sinclair said, trying to smile. But it came out shaky, and he could see something flicker across Gregor's face.
Gregor frowned. "You okay, Kid? Looking awfully pale there."
Sinclair shook his head, too fast to be the truth. "I-it's nothing! I just, um, just need to head to the bathroom. That's all."
He took off before any of them could ask more questions, willing his stomach to give him something more substantial than anxiety pangs. It was stupid, he knew. He was being ridiculous for not wanting this.
But Sinclair couldn't help himself. As selfish as it was, as pathetic as it was, he wanted to remain weak and small, so that Gregor would forever be the one big and strong.
Once again, he made his way to the bathroom. And once again, he splashed cold water onto his face. This time, it helped, if only a little. The ice-cold shock was almost enough to bring him back to his senses.
Stupid. Idiot. Dumbass. He squinted at his reflection, at the blurriness that smudged it, and realized too late that he'd forgotten to take off his glasses. Sinclair sighed, mentally kicking himself in the head again.
He took off his glasses, wiping away the water—
"Sinclair? You there?"
—before hurriedly putting them back on again.
Heart in his throat, Sinclair swung around, coming face-to-face with his master who no longer had his usual laid-back smile. Instead, concern lined his face, yet another thing Sinclair didn't deserve.
"Master, you didn't need to... I was..." Sinclair trailed off.
"Can't an old man worry about his chickling?" Gregor asked. Despite the amusement in his voice, Sinclair could hear a strong hint of worry.
His shoulders slumped. "It's nothing! Really, it's... nothing at all," he mumbled. "Sorry, I-I just needed some... some fresh air, I think."
"...And you think you can find that in our dinky little bathroom?"
Sinclair winced.
Gregor sighed, though it held no disappointment. "Look, Kid, I'm not looking to interrogate you. I'm just simply worried. You've never taken off like this before."
"...Not even that one time I accidentally spilled ssanghwa-cha all over your lap?"
Gregor grinned, eyes crinkling fondly at the memory. "C'mon, that was fun! Nothing like an good ol' splash of tea to bring our little family closer."
Sinclair couldn't help but laugh, feeling some of the tension drain away. His master always knew how to make the heavy mood lighter. Even when things got tough, the bills breathing down on their necks, he never failed to crack jokes or reassure them when they needed it.
It was enough to dislodge some words from his throat, to get Sinclair out of his own miserable head again. "Master... the truth is..." Sinclair looked down, at his hands wringing each other. "When you and seonbae said I was getting taller... I wasn't actually happy about it."
Gregor nodded. "I thought so. You looked like we just told you we were going to move to District 23 to become chefs. While I'm not going to tell you how you should feel, I just want to know why you weren't too pleased about it."
"Well..." The hand-wringing quickly intensified. God, he didn't want to say it. Not when it was selfish and stupid. Gregor would probably never look at him the same way if he did.
"Hey. It's alright. Can you look at me, Kid?"
Slowly, inexorably, Sinclair lifted his head up.
His master was smiling at him instead of frowning like he deserved. He looked so gentle that Sinclair could feel his heart threatening to burst. "Whatever you say, I promise to hear you out," he reassured. "You're my pupil. The pride of the Office. Whatever has your stomach twisting into knots, I'll be here to help you untangle them."
Something cracked inside Sinclair's chest, something that'd stayed lodged for far too long. Under Gregor's kindness, the shame didn't feel so overwhelming anymore. "I'm afraid," he confessed quietly. "That one day, I'll be stronger than you. That I'll look at you and find you so much smaller than me. And I-I don't want that. I don't want that at all."
He looked up at him, almost begging, almost pleading. "I want you to always be my master."
Silence passed for a few moments as Gregor took it all in. He looked at him thoughtfully, a hand at his chin. "So you're afraid of outgrowing me, huh... well, I can't say I'm not past my prime. My body still struggles, even in a chair. I'm no longer fit as a freshly-made fiddle."
Sinclair's stomach lurched. Shit. He didn't mean to make it worse. Didn't mean to remind Gregor all the ways his age was failing him. Didn't mean to force him into confirming what he was afraid of.
But before he could apologize, before he could make an attempt to fix it, his master continued.
"Still, that doesn't mean I'm close to croaking. I may be an old dog, but I've still got some handy tricks up my sleeve."
Sinclair blinked. And blinked. Huh? What did he mean by that? Was it a new technique he hadn't shown off yet, or some tactic he kept in case things went south? Surely, it wasn't something like a new hobby, right?
Then, he spotted movement. Noticed his master slowly taking off his gloves. It was a small, simple gesture that he'd seen from other Fixers, and yet it was this one that had Sinclair's mouth going dry. His cock twitched, suddenly straining against his pants. Very rarely did he see his bare hands, and it always felt dirty whenever he did. Like he was a teenager again, sneaking in a forbidden glance.
They were even more gorgeous than he fantasized, erotic in their nakedness and beautiful in how they flexed. One made of gleaming metal, the other of sword-carved callouses.
Sinclair didn't even register he was staring until Gregor moved, so fast he barely saw him, so deftly he barely noticed him. Suddenly, he was lying flat on his back again, gasping like the air was being punched out of his lungs. Those same gorgeous hands were now pinning him down.
His master was suddenly on top of him.
Gregor gazed down, the light of the room bathing him in a warm glow. It was as if the sun had risen, and Sinclair had only a moment to witness it.
"Master?" Sinclair whispered. He was frozen, but not with fear. His skin was buzzing with something hot, something much more sensitive.
"You see, Kid? You say you're afraid of being stronger than me. Yet here you are, nothing more than a fly at my mercy.”
Gregor shifted around, knees straddling the sides of his waist. It was just like the time he shoved the guy to the floor, except so much better, his body a real, delicious weight.
"I watch everything you do, y'know. Every shake of your hands when you think you're not good enough, every little bead of sweat as you swing your sword tirelessly. You work hard, Kid. Sometimes even harder than me."
A hand came up to his face, and Sinclair shivered. It was already too much—the touching, the straddling, the tenderness in his words. But Gregor didn't stop, fingers moving up to brush his cheek. Feeding into the father-shaped hole of his heart whose maw was gaping open, begging more, more, please.
"But you're still too young to leave the nest. You may have wings, but you still need help fluttering in the air. Which is why I'm here, and why you don't have to worry. It's my responsibility as your teacher to be strong enough for the both of us."
Sinclair's eyes widened, feeling like something precarious had snapped. It was too much; he couldn't help it. A moan slipped from his lips. One that was loud and undeniably not innocent.
Gregor immediately stilled, and Sinclair felt like he could die at any moment.
"Oh god, I-I'm so sorry, master, I-I didn't mean-"
"Is this what you need?"
Sinclair stared at him. "...W-what?"
Gregor's hand trailed down to his mouth, the cool metal kissing the flush of his skin. It stopped short of his lips, and he barely resisted the urge to lick it.
"Don't think I haven't caught you staring at me, Kid. It's why I took off my gloves in the first place. But I never had the guts to try something like this on my teacher. You're a bold one, Sinclair."
His thumb brushed his lips, and this time, Sinclair couldn't refuse it. He parted open his mouth, letting Gregor enter inside him. The cold touch of metal, of his master washed through him, especially as he pressed against his tongue, forcing Sinclair to taste him. Another moan spilled out, just as headily as his first one as he licked across the rigid plates, enjoying the texture.
But all too quickly, Gregor withdrew.
"Is this what you need?" he asked again, this time softly. He was still holding him down, still pinning him with his body. But his grip had loosened considerably. If Sinclair wanted to, he could easily push him off, end it as quickly as it'd started.
But the problem was, he didn't want to. The problem was, he was painfully, incredibly hard. Like he'd been jerking off for hours, teasing the head over and over. Waiting for his master to walk through the door and catch him. He wanted to be held down by Gregor, to feel every weight of his strength. To know how small he was, and how small he would always be underneath him.
"Please, master," Sinclair croaked out. His hips rocked up desperately, and Gregor's face twitched. "I-I still can't stop thinking about the day I outgrow you. I need you to help me."
He licked his lips.
"I need you to teach me my place."
Gregor's eyes went dark, and his hands dropped back to his face instantly. Fingers tightening around his jaw, a taste of that indomitable strength. "Teach you your place, you say... then I'm not going so lenient," he murmured. "Not when it's my job make sure my dear pupil learns."
It was like lightning to Sinclair's dick, the promise in his hands and voice.
Immediately Gregor's fingers pushed back into his mouth again, and Sinclair moaned, a high, needy sound. Drool streamed down his chin as he closed his lips around them. He sucked and gagged like he was trying to swallow him to the hilt.
"Such a greedy boy," Gregor said affectionately. He shifted upward before rolling his hips. Sinclair nearly choked as he felt his erection press against his. His master was hard. His master was getting off on this.
It was so big and thick and hot like a Stigma weapon. He couldn't think at all, except how much he needed it.
"Please," he begged through the thick fingers stuffing his mouth. His eyes nearly rolled back as he felt them scrape the back of his throat. "N-need—urgh—need y-you to-!"
"No. Be patient. I'll fuck you when I want to, alright?"
Like he was a little kid. Like he was small and helpless and weak. Like he needed Gregor to teach him how to wait for his reward. Sinclair groaned, feeling like his dick was about to burst. He couldn't come yet, but already, he was so, so close.
A whine spilled from his lips when Gregor's fingers left with a wet pop. But soon, a gasp replaced it as he felt hands pulling at his clothes. His jacket and pants were tossed to the side, his underwear following them not long after. His turtleneck was ripped off for an easy access to his throat.
His master was so strong. His master was going to ruin him.
"Helpless little thing," Gregor murmured as he dipped down. His mouth was hot at his ear, beard scratching roughly at his neck. Fingers threaded through his hair before they suddenly yanked back. Sinclair groaned, a loud and filthy plea, something that would've been embarrassing if weren't for his cock leaking all over his stomach. His master was still clothed while Sinclair wasn't, and the friction of fabric against naked skin burned.
Gregor was sucking on his neck, nibbling at wet, sensitive skin, grinding languidly against him as he writhed and groaned. Sinclair was already past his limits, but then Gregor pinched his nipples, biting down, marking him same time he did so.
His entire body shook. Distantly, Sinclair was aware that he was screaming. But he couldn't care, not when everything else was so overwhelming—the pleasure that ravaged through his system, his body arching high off the floor. How he couldn't stop groaning, couldn't stop shaking. The sticky white that splattered all over his heaving chest and stomach.
Dark spots danced erratically in his version. He was gasping like a hapless fish tossed on dry land. His release was so intense that it bordered on agony.
And this was all before Gregor put his cock inside him.
"Holy shit, Kid," Sinclair heard from above him. He blearily blinked, trying to see through the smudges. His glasses were now fogged-over and stained in sweat, but he could still make out the heat in Gregor's wide eyes.
His mouth hanged open, like he wanted to say something but couldn't. He looked impressed. And he looked incredibly aroused. His master was breathing heavily, his face a shade of red he'd never seen.
Sinclair felt arousal shooting straight to his dick again. He spread his legs open, as wide as they could go. 'Please, master," he begged. "It's not enough. I-I need you inside me."
He watched as Gregor's throat bobbed up and down, as sweat dripped across each bare, irresistible inch. There. Weakness. "Yeah. Yeah. Alright. Don't worry, Kid, I got you," he said, voice hoarse.
Those thick, strong hands that once punched a hole through a man's chest—they were now gripping his thighs, bending him back, back, back. Until he was folded in half, straining deliciously under his weight.
He could come again like this. Would have, if a hand hadn't suddenly gripped his cock.
"I said to be patient, didn't I?" Gregor murmured. His voice was gentle, but it held a firm warning inside. Sinclair's heart jumped. He wanted to hear more of it. Wanted Gregor to scold him, to dominate him. To let him take the reins and take care of everything for a moment.
He nodded desperately. "I'm sorry, I was wrong, I didn't meant to go against you. Please, dad, I'll be-"
His eyes widened. Oh, fuck, oh, fuck. He hadn't meant to say it, had meant to keep it as fantasy only. But the word hung in the air now, lingering like the strong stench of blood.
But Gregor didn't push him away or tell him he was wrong or disgusting. When Sinclair dared to meet his eyes, he found them conflicted. Hungry.
"What did you say?" his master asked, so softly that Sinclair couldn't help but shiver.
"I-" He swallowed. "P-please, dad, I'll be good."
Gregor stared at him for a moment before groaning heavily.
"Heilige Scheiße," he muttered under his breath. Sinclair shuddered. Gregor rarely swore. He only did so when it was dire, when he lost control. The fact that he could pull it out of him when very few could—
"Dad," he breathed. "Dad, please fuck me."
It was as if he'd spoken the four magic words. Whatever conflict that remained melted away into pure arousal.
His hands released his thighs before moving to his belt. "Don't worry, Kid. Your dad's here to help you," Gregor murmured. "But first, you'll going to have to do everything I tell you."
Sinclair nodded. He could do that, he thought. He could make his master, his father proud.
"I'm going to put my cock inside your mouth, and you're going to be a good boy and suck on it," Gregor said. It wasn't a question but an unmistakable command.
Pre-cum dribbled from his cock. "I can do that," Sinclair moaned. "I can be good."
Gregor quickly unbuckled his belt, the movement uncharacteristically hurried and unbridled. He pulled out his cock, a thick, hefty thing, so big that once again, Sinclair felt his mouth going dry.
A mass of hair framed the base, and like his beard, it was trimmed rather neatly. Sinclair couldn't stop staring, eyes roving from his heavy balls to the head. It was swollen and wet, and he wanted it in his mouth immediately.
"Ready, Kid?" Gregor asked as he brought it up to his face. Pre-cum smeared his lip as he gently rubbed it against him. Sinclair only needed to nod once before Gregor readily pushed it in. Feeding him inch by inch, until he bottomed out in his throat.
Both of them groaned, bodies shaking against each other. Sinclair gagged around him as more pre-cum spilled down his throat. His master, his mentor, his father tasted so good that he couldn't stop himself from groaning, from chasing after each thrust.
One hand held a thick fistful of Sinclair's hair, the other cupping lightly around his aching jaw. Gregor would alternate between shoving deep inside him, and drawing back just enough to let Sinclair take in some air.
His head buzzed with a searing intensity that grew the more he licked, the more he swallowed, the more he begged for this to not end. He loved breathing Gregor in and tasting his rich, deep musk. Loved feeling the way his cock fit perfectly inside his mouth. How every time he bottomed out, his nose was buried deep in his hair, taking in his scent, making sure it never left him at all. How obscene they both sounded, his lips around his cock and his cock deep inside him.
More than that, however, he loved how good he was making Gregor feel.
His nails were now digging into his scalp, and he could see the way his thighs were flexing and trembling. When Sinclair dragged his tongue along the leaking slit, he could hear Gregor groan, a sudden staccato in his voice.
It was so unbelievably hot, knowing that he was losing his composure, that he was letting Sinclair see it, that he was letting Sinclair break it. He redoubled his efforts, working his tongue over him, taking his cock full length every time he sucked and swallowed him.
Perhaps he was too good at it, because suddenly, Gregor had to yank him off. He looked down at him, face flushed harder than before. Sweat drenched his skin. His glasses had fogged-over from sheer body heat. He was breathing heavily, mirroring the rise and fall of Sinclair's cum-stained chest.
"You okay?" Gregor asked, stroking his hair, and Sinclair could barely nod, throat still too sore to properly speak.
"Good. You did really well, so I wanted to make sure." His fingers suddenly tightened. "Because I'm going to fuck you now."
Sinclair's body went still, like a Pavlovian reaction. He gazed up at Gregor as though he was a benevolent god. Gregor smiled down, so gently, so warmly, his wrinkles deepening as he did. He was so fucking handsome. So fucking strong.
All of it was enough to nearly make him come again.
Gregor brought his hands to his legs, clamping his soft thighs, folding him in half again. So easily, like he was nothing, and Sinclair's cock drooled against his stomach. He could see the muscles of his arms flexing under his clothes.
He moaned desperately, and again when he felt him lining up to his hole. "Please," Sinclair begged. "Oh, please, please, dad."
"Please, what?" Gregor's dick was rubbing against the rim, the tip teasing in, but never truly entering inside him. "It's important, y'know? I wanna hear what my kid needs from me."
My kid. God, this was going to kill him, and he'd never be happier for it.
"Please fuck me. Please fuck me and fill me," Sinclair moaned.
There was only a split-second of hesitation, a split second of fingers digging in and feeling his cock twitch against him. Then Gregor pushed in, a long, slow motion that sent Sinclair's toes curling and his mouth hanging wide open. His back arched off the floor, and he could barely breathe as he did. Each second he was stretching him, it felt like he was burning.
"Scheiße, augh-!" he gasped as Gregor kept pushing himself in. His legs locked around his waist as he tried to adjust to the intrusion. God, how many times had Sinclair imagined this with his own hand? How many hours of the night did he spend obsessing over this very moment? He groaned as Gregor draped over him, pinning his body down even further. His cock was trapped between his stomach and Gregor's chest, each movement causing his clothes to scrape against sensitive skin. Fuck, it was good, and he couldn't stop squirming, couldn't stop moaning. Gregor was so big and warm, filling him up completely and perfectly like his mouth. Sweat dripped onto his face as Gregor kept thrusting, kept pushing, kept going, until finally, finally he was buried inside him.
Sinclair couldn't breathe; he was so fucking full. He could only helplessly twitch as he watched Gregor shudder. His eyelashes were damp with sweat, and he was groaning like it was unbearable. Once again, he swore under his breath, before he drew back and slammed inside him again.
A yelp was torn from Sinclair's mouth, before another one quickly took its place. Gregor was thrusting harder now, more frantic than before and more relentless too. Grunts spilled from his throat, and every time he bottomed out, Sinclair could hear him hiss and groan. It was overwhelming, each delicious spike of pressure, the way he could feel him, the way he could see him if he glanced down and squinted hard enough. There was a bulge to his stomach, a bluntness jutting out of the flat plane. Sinclair's body shivered every time he caught a glimpse of it.
But it wasn't until he felt Gregor's hands clenching him tight, sending him up and down the bathroom floor with each powerful thrust. It wasn't until he pulled out, lifting his legs high onto his shoulders and plunged back in, that he felt himself writhing and screaming again. It was like he dug his finger inside a wound, one that was tender and raw and excruciatingly sensitive. Pleasure roared through Sinclair's gut, and tears welled up in his eyes. They streamed down as Gregor rammed into that spot again and without mercy.
Wet heat pooled deep inside his cock. Sinclair could feel his eyes slowly rolling back. "Dad," he groaned, squeezing tightly whenever he did. Oh, god, it was too much, but Gregor wasn't stopping. He was still picking up the pace, still driving into him relentlessly.
Still fucking him with an intensity that he'd only seen him reserve for his enemies.
Sinclair whimpered, hands scrabbling desperately to find some kind of purchase. He clung onto Gregor's shoulders before dragging them across his back. Without thinking, he dug in his nails, feeling fabric tear as Gregor thrust inside him with abandon. He was being pried open, all the way from his ass to his throat.
And there was nothing he wanted more, nothing he needed more. Once again, his legs encased Gregor's waist, pulling him closer. With every thrust he met them with one of his own. Gregor groaned above him, so naked in his want and so obscene in his desperation. His mouth hung open, saliva dripping from his lips. It was hard to see through his fogged-up glasses, but this close, Sinclair could tell that his face was contorted. There was a twist of his brows as damp locks fell over them in disarray. It was a sight that Sinclair couldn't stop staring at, not when Gregor always looked perfect. Not a strand out of place and never a crack in his face.
But now he was the same as him, a sweaty desperate mess. He couldn't stop if he wanted to, and Sinclair knew he didn't want to. He shoved him harder against the floor, forcing his cock to pry him open even further. Hands dug into the meat of his thighs, hard enough Sinclair was sure he'd feel them days later. He moaned, feeling Gregor chase his own pleasure, so unbearably hot that it was enough to drive him over the edge.
"Dad," he gasped, mouth pressed against Gregor's throat. Teeth dug in—his, all his. "Dad, dad, I'm going to-!"
He cried out as he spilled between them.
Verdammter Scheiße, he heard Gregor gasp, and Sinclair nearly came again at how vicious he sounded. Gregor plunged back in, one, two, three more times before he shuddered and joined him, his own release making him tremble.
Hot liquid streamed out of Sinclair as he came, a sensation that had him whimpering helplessly. He clenched tight, hoping to lock Gregor in like a knot. He wanted it burned into him like a stigma, the sensation of Gregor coming inside him.
The air was suffused with the damp sound of their breathes. It was a while before they could move, and even longer before they could speak. Gregor slowly pulled out, making sure Sinclair wasn't caught-off guard. He watched, eyes wide, as his hole twitched and spasmed.
"You okay there, Kid?" Gregor asked, suddenly looking embarrassed. Sinclair was still catching his breath, all too aware now of the sticky mess on both their chests. "Afraid I might've gone too far with this lesson of mine."
He shook his head, trying to find the means necessary to speak again. “No, i-it's alright. It was exactly what I needed. Thank you, master, for taking your time to teach me again.”
Gregor snorted. He got up and went to the dispenser, getting a couple paper towels before handing some to Sinclair. It didn't escape Sinclair's notice that his legs were shaking slightly, and he felt an ache make itself known somewhere in his gut again.
"Well, since you've said it, guess it's my turn now, huh?" He looked at Sinclair, that warm smile on his face again. "Now, Sinclair. Tell me what you've learned here."
Sinclair closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them again.
"That you're strong, even when you're past your prime. That even with your age, you can still toss me around one-handed." A smile tugged at his lips. "That I can catch you off-guard and see the sides of you others don't get to. That you're still my master, no matter how much I grow."
Gregor chuckled, ruffling his hair with a clean hand. "And what else?"
Of course he was going to make him say it. He wouldn't be his master if he didn't.
"I was overthinking things again. I shouldn't have let it get to me." Still, Sinclair's smile remained, growing just a bit wider. "Next time, I'll do better. I promise you that, master."
Gregor grinned, and it was unbearably tender and handsome.
"I know you will, Kid. Like I said before—you and Frau Faust are the pride of the Office. In the meantime, though, let me take care of you, yeah?"
Sinclair smiled back, before suddenly realizing something.
"Wait, did seonbae-?"
"Nah, don't worry. Shortly after you took off, she went out for another contract. Though, I suppose it did help that I happened to have one on my desk." Gregor patted him on his back, a hand helping him clean up the mess. "Of course, she might figure it out if we don't get ourselves cleaned up soon enough. Why don't we take a shower together, and maybe have another ssanghwa-cha afterward?"
Sinclair couldn't help but laugh.
"Of course, master."