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He is nothing, no one.
Having no connections that he knows of, his short-lived life across the ocean to Britain had only serieses of mechanical transactions. He offered, and in return, he had been given. Yet Lord van Zieks gives and gives him until he gives him everything — even an identity — without expecting anything in return. To he, who is nothing, can only be nothing. And in the face of unprecedented kindness, he feels traitorous emotions stir within him.
It is wrong, to take advantage of his Lord’s hospitability like this. Prosecutor van Zieks is nothing but honorable and just, offering a job and a place to say as well as a set of clothes to dress in. A semblance of a purpose until he could finally grasp his identity from the murky waters, speak with clear confidence who he is. A kindness he extends without a price for a lost soul as such as he, which he returns through dragging the man through the pits of sodomy.
Still, he is too weak to back out of the embrace of his kind Lord when he is so willing to offer, so they fall in bed together. Only taking, without giving; surely a disciple as self-centered as he has no place in this world.
His Lord is nothing like the men he had previously bedded as necessity — those who fucked him against any convenient surface and took sadistic pleasure in his torn body. Van Zieks shows him there is pleasure for him to find in this as well, taking him apart with soft kisses against his shoulders and two vaseline-slicked fingers scissoring his flesh apart. He trembles as he is taken apart through blinding kindness and consideration that he does not deserve.
He grows gradually more vocal with each dip of those talented fingers, order to remain silent fleeing from his mind at every push against his prostate. Please, he wants to say, but his Lord slips two fingers into his mouth to serve as a makeshift gag, so instead he mumbles uselessly around the intrusion and squeezes his eyes. His cock, already hard and dripping, drags a line on his Lord’s stomach as he closes the distance between them.
When Lord van Zieks finally enters him, the pleasure is almost enough to tip him past the edge, but he restrains himself through insurmountable self-control, wishing to cum alongside his mentor. He lies effectively paralyzed, barely able to catch his breath as his mentor rams into his body with the same ferocity he goes after decrepit criminals.
His mind phases out to a rumble of pleasant nothings as the rhythm grows more erratic and the fingers scrambling up his thighs get rougher until they draw blood. As his eyes settle to a half-close, his body growing more lax at each press of his Lord's push against his prostate, he finds himself drifting — into the recess of his own mind.
And in that flash of moment it is suddenly not purple on striking icy blue he is seeing but rather warm brown on black, younger, innocent voice whispering choked compliments in his ear. Even as a part of him screams that he wants Lord van Zieks, whoever he is seeing must have been important to him, because his very presence comforts him like a fully-stuffed feathery blanket. Like a deja-vu from a previous life, an all-too familiar name remains on the tip of his tongue, so close but still slightly out of reach.
It is only as he is about to peak he remembers. “Ryuunosuke,” he groans a foreign name as he finally releases all over his stomach, staining the borrowed uniform with cum. And if he hears his mentor moan another name that is not his own, he believes that’s none of this business.
He cannot help but see his brother in his disciple. Perhaps that is why his bedding him has been inevitable.
It had been ten years since his brother had perished. An entire damning decade since Barok had last seen his idol motile and extant. Ten years should have been enough for him to move on, pack all of his deeply flawed feelings for his brother into a box and kick it down to hell where it surely belongs. Yet he is not strong enough, not even sane to be a standard man, and certainly isn’t enough to measure up to his unfaltering brother.
When Stronghart gives him a mindless doll to dress up however he see fit, he chooses his brother’s uniform that he had only kept out of sentimentality, lying to himself the reason why he’s not dressing his apprentice in servant’s clothes would be unfitting for the to-be prosecutor. Allows him to stay in his brother’s room, sleep in his brother’s bed, just for him to endlessly drag on this perverted fantasy that is ten years overdue.
The looks his apprentice gives him are obvious, yet he does not shut them down. Does not show any more opposition than a surprised gasp when he finally caves and kisses him hard on the mouth, needy and starved. Does not slap away the hand that pulls him towards his bedroom, pulls him onto the bed.
They are familiar steps to now a decade-old dance. Yet Barok hadn’t forgotten: never could. He goes through them effortlessly, even if his position back then and now have changed; become the accomplice rather than the initiator.
Push him against the bed. Hook your fingers onto the belt and tell him to undress. Grab the gel beside the bed as he fumbles to obey your orders. Bite the leather of your gloves to pull one off. Slick them onto your now-bare fingers generously, and smile as you give a little kiss on his lips, and slide in an index finger...
He’s so sensitive. He shivers at every push Barok give him, squeezes the finger down with an iron grip that has Barok gritting his teeth. His eyes even go dazed behind his mask, and from his lips tumble out wispy needs, and Barok quickly gags him on his still-gloved fingers.
(He tells himself it’s because he’s not permitted to speak, but Barok has always been an exceptional liar, especially to himself.)
The look he gives and the sheer trust that reflects off the glassy eyes give Barok a heady power rush he never knew he craved, and he fucks into him with a single thrust, appreciating how his apprentice’s body takes him so readily, like he’s made for this. From there, he’s taken over by an almost beastial need for his own pleasure, and he chases it with singleminded determination, not caring the marks he leaves on the body before him.
It’s near the end, when the adrenaline rush finally wears off and his muscles ache that the guilt comes wading into his thoughts again, somehow as he’s about to cum.
“Klimt,” he exhales brokenly as he finally wastes into the body before him, marking him on the shoulder one last time as he does. Once the pleasure passes from the orgasm only the overflowing guilt suffocates him, and if he hears his disciple moaning a familiar name other than his own, it is surely what he deserves.