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Ace is angry.
Well, Ace is always angry these days.
The weight of his father’s name still lingers heavy on his tongue after confessing to Pops. His thoughts drift to poor little Tama, then to Luffy—pride swelling in his chest knowing his little brother should be setting sail any day now.
He’s a cesspool of emotions, but above all, the anger lingers—festering, humiliating, petulant. It creeps up on him every so often, haunting him. And he still hasn’t figured out how to burn it away on his own.
Pops knows he likes to go off on his own sometimes—which had even earned him the nickname ‘Tomcat’—but he doesn’t judge. Ace is a real leader now, and if this was what he needed to be a good one, no one questioned him.
Only two things helped him shake this kind of anger, and he didn’t need his new family up his ass about it.
He’d need to fight someone, or fuck someone.
Since joining Pops’ crew, anyone worth fighting gave him a wide berth. And as for finding someone to fuck… Well, the pickings have been slim lately. He and Marco had fooled around here and there, but he didn’t want anything too serious with someone he should consider his ‘brother’ now.
Just as he deemed this solo outing a failure, something at the docks stopped him in his tracks, and the angry fire within him lashes out even more the moment he even considers it.
The small Den-Den in his pocket practically sings to him like a siren. He tries to focus on the waves, the sting of salty air—but his fingers spark to life in defiance, fire licking at his palm. He folds and makes the call. It doesn’t take long to be answered, and he’s already annoyed by the very first inhale he hears on the other end.
“Well, hot damn. Portgas. D. Ace.”
The low, punctuated drawl drips into his ear, making his shoulders tense. It’s familiar. Too familiar. And the worst part? It works. That pisses him off.
He should hang up, forget about this stupid idea and sail on to the next island, or go back to Pops. There’s no real point to him being here, shivering by the shore and letting his body make this stupid choice for him.
What the hell am I doing?
The voices of his past crash down on him—every criticism, every warning, every condemnation.
Being who he shouldn’t be.
Doing what he shouldn’t do.
Wanting who he shouldn’t want.
And now, knowing what he shouldn’t know.
The moment he decided to tell Pops the truth, he hadn’t expected for the old man to have some truth of his own to spill. And this one twisted his stomach into knots, because it changed everything.
Yonko. Former cabin boy to Gol D. Roger.
Those words sank heavy in his gut, and have been simmering ever since he heard them.
From the moment he found the man in that cave, Ace had suspected there was something dangerous about him, even though he was the one who saved Luffy’s life all those years ago. He remembers that look in his eyes, like he could see straight through to the parts of Ace hidden from birth—parts that reminded him too much of Roger’s filthy blood, parts that shouldn’t even exist.
Had he looked at him then and seen nothing but that bastard’s shadow? Or maybe just something he’d been praying for to fill it? Had he seen Ace that way, and still decided to—
Ace clenches his jaw, cutting the thought off before it can go any further.
He should just hang up. But the half-scarred face on the little Den-Den is as smug as he’s ever seen it, and just that makes a combustion of nerves color his cheeks. He’s ashamed, he’s already turned on, he’s irritated beyond belief.
His grip on the receiver tightens, heat licking up his forearm—not just from his flames, but from the voice on the other end of the line. The tips of his fingers flare up, a protest against the choice he’s already making. He doesn’t even notice until the Den-Den lets out a tiny squeak of pain.
Shit. Sorry, buddy, he thinks, giving the little snail a look of remorse.
He quickly switches it to his other, cooler hand so he can flick the embers from his palm and try to regain some semblance of control, but the volcano inside him has already started erupting from the sound of that voice. It pours molten rock through his chest and gut, tortuous and slow until it settles somewhere lower, heavy like a stone between his legs—somewhere Ace’s brain seems to have relocated as well.
He hates how easily the coin flips, how quickly he loses the battle of will to his fire, to the hunger fueling it.
“Been a while, hasn’t it?”
The voice that haunts his dreams. Good ones and bad ones.
It makes him lose control again, his flames burning the deck under his boots a bit.
He never feels in control of his fire when these choices call on him. It’s like it snatches the reins from him and leads with pure desire, and no amount of well-practiced smothering will keep it from growing wilder, fiercer, from feeding off of everything that Ace shouldn’t want but can’t refuse.
Ace rarely feels his fire, as natural breathing, but now it feels as if it’s trying to claw its way out of him and follow the voice on its own, like it has stronger intentions for the night now that he’s crossed that line.
Having parts of himself at odds hurts, and there has only been one remedy for that, too. As far as he’s aware, it’s his flames that keep him rooted to the spot and finally answering the man on the other line.
Ace draws in a deep, conflicted breath. His free hand ignites again before he smothers the flames in a fist, hot nails digging into his palm and giving him a moment of clarity to answer. “You’re on Labaloo Island.”
He stares up at the imposing Red Force rocking calmly on the water, silent and void of her rowdy crew. He thought they’d be back at the Line by now, handling whatever it was the man said he needed to do in Mariejois, but there seems to be no escaping him.
“...You wouldn’t happen to be stalkin’ me now, would you, kid?”
Ace’s temples pulse. He’ll be at Gramps’ level of hypertension at this rate. “You gave me a piece of your vivre card.” He grits it out, still ashamed over keeping it. It was a moment of weakness, sue him.
“I did. And I distinctly remember you ballin’ it up and tossin’ it on the ground. Think you stomped on it a few times, too. Benn doesn’t believe me, but I swear I felt that shit—”
“Oh, piss off.”
“Ooh~! What’s got you all lit up, Firefly?”
Ace’s face heats up again before he pauses and reminds himself that the pet name, the saccharine charm in the older pirate’s voice, is just part of his game. His fire falls for that shit immediately, though, the teasing words having it practically swooning and pushing at the inside of his chest to burst out. But Ace can play his own games, too. “‘Call me anytime,’ wasn’t it? All talk, I guess.” Ace makes sure he mocks his deep voice in the way he knows riles him most.
“Oh, Ace, you know better than that. Did I not back up my words enough for you? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already…”
Ace swallows and licks his lips, pulls the receiver away from himself so he can let out a hot, shaky breath and try to calm down. He’s too pent up, his imagination sparking too quickly.
“Yeah, must’ve swallowed Sea water or somethin’.”
A thoughtful, warning hum vibrates his eardrum. “How ‘bout you come find me, then? Sounds like you need a…a good wringing-out.” Ace lights up once again, and he’s so grateful that no one sees him. “There’s a tavern around here, cozy little spot with the best damn malt this side of the Line.”
“Didn’t call you lookin’ for no damn malt,” Ace quips, making sure Striker is secure before slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“ No, I s’pose you didn’t,” the other captain says with a dramatic sigh. “Still, if you follow that slip of paper you kept, I’ll make sure you get somethin’ sweet. How’s that sound?”
Ace finally hangs up and starts walking. But not towards Striker like he should—he’s heading toward him.
He follows the vivre card inland, his fire licking at his skin, drawn forward by something he won’t let himself name.
Red-Haired Shanks sits in the corner of the tavern, nursing a drink while his crew raises hell around him. The gas lantern hanging above his head casts shadows over the set of his brow, across the bridge of his nose, over the sharp curve of his jawline. They fall into the deep grooves of his scar as it strains his easy smile to one side. He looks like he doesn’t have care in the world, like a hurricane could blow through and he’d be the only one still in his seat.
Ace swallows down his nerves—then has to swallow the anger that rises from having nerves over this man in the first place.
With a sharp breath, he walks over, trying to emit an air of confidence with each stride. He’s Second Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates, for fuck’s sake. He needs to act like it.
A few patrons avert their gazes when they recognize him, as they fucking should, but Shanks stares him down the whole time, expression fairly calm up until Ace is right in front of him. His eyes light up, and his grin widens.
“So. Second Division Commander, huh?” He makes it sound like Ace was made the leader of a little street gang, like he’s still some rookie, when he knows how much of a force Ace is to reckon with.
Asshole.
“So. Yonko, huh?” he tosses back. He’d failed to mention that to Ace any of the previous times they’ve hooked up. He had to hear that from Pops. It made him wonder just what else he doesn’t know about Shanks, what else he’s kept from Ace.
Red Hair waves down a barmaid as Ace approaches his table. He raises his unscarred eyebrow at the young pirate and looks to the seat next to him, inviting him to sit.
Ace stops right as he approaches, eyes flitting between the bench and the other man occupying it. It’s a final chance to back down, to walk away and make a better choice. His fingers twitch at his sides, silently reminding him of the part of himself that doesn’t want this. That doesn’t trust it anymore. But, after standing oddly for too long, he eventually caves and settles at the very edge of the seat, just in case he needs to bolt.
“Yknow, you resisted much longer than last time. Joined up with some other captain and been up to a whole lot, huh?”
Ace clenches his jaw then puts his hat on the table, refusing to give the Yonko any satisfaction from a reaction. But inside, a part of him bristles. He knows that look too well. It’s one he hates because it makes him feel like— Like a kid? Like someone who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing?
“What can I get you gentlemen?” the barmaid asks sweetly, stealing Ace’s attention for a moment. She’s cute. Warm brown skin complemented by the golden light, a confident smile offering something more than just New World hospitality.
If Ace had met her before running into the old pervert next to him… Well, maybe he’d have gotten tangled up in something other than his own self-destructive tendencies for once.
It’s tempting, but she looks too kind for what he’s after tonight.
“We’re just fine, thank you, doll,” he answers smoothly, cutting Shanks off before he can say anything. She reacts exactly how all barmaids react to Ace’s lazy smile and charm—cheeks coloring, eyes flitting down to his bare chest before she stammers out an offer to come back if they change their minds.
Ace watches her hips sway as she goes to clear another table.
“Doll?”
Ace cuts his eyes at Red Hair, fighting a smug grin as he pretends not to notice the older man’s childish pout. He spots the unfinished tankard on the table, noting that he’s had quite a bit to drink already. No way will Ace get what he came for if he lets Shanks take another sip, so without thinking twice, he snatches the drink and downs it in one go.
It’s certainly no cup of sake, the taste is thick and smokey, burning smooth down his throat. The conversation around them falters slightly, but Ace doesn’t care about that. He slams the tankard down, wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, and fully turns toward Shanks—expecting irritation.
Knowing how much the man likes his liquor, Ace thinks he’s finally rattled him with that move. He lets out an unceremonious belch to top it all off. Shanks’ crew laughs while other patrons whisper their disgust, but it’s nothing Ace hasn’t heard as a kid just for existing.
The initial shock on Shanks’ face dissolves into something more amused than anything.
“Wasn’t quite finished with that, y’know.” He doesn’t sound like he really cares that much. He might have even liked that. Dammit.
“Yeah, well. Too bad.”
Ace is already gritting his teeth, regretting his choice. He wanted to piss the older man off, but somehow he feels like he’s just lost a game he didn’t realize they were playing.
Shanks hums, tilting his head slightly, like he’s considering something. Ace is about to snap at him to stop looking at him like that when he suddenly grins again, broader than before.
Ace rolls his eyes and grumbles, out of ideas. “You got a room?”
Shanks slaps his hand to his chest with a dramatic gasp. “At least let a man buy you dinner first, Ace.”
There it is again—that way he says his name. Like he’s sampling the finest sake, savoring it, but Ace swears he’s the one who feels drunk off of it, and he fucking hates it. He rolls his shoulders to ground himself, trying to hide how unnerved he is before Shanks notices.
“Whatever , let’s just—”
“Don’t tell me you ain’t hungry, boy.”
Boy.
The word wraps around him, slow and easy like smoke. He addresses him like there’s a promise lacing his words, one that violently makes itself known by striking something deep in Ace’s gut. He balls his twitching fingers into fists, willing the little flames that flare up on the tips of his ears to die out. Before he can even shrug in agreement, Red Hair is already calling the barmaid back to serve them.
He gives Ace a harder-than-necessary slap on the back and orders enough to feed at least half of his boisterous crew.
But when the food comes, he tells them that it’s all for Ace, and Ace alone.
The young pirate can’t hide the heat rising up his neck from the special treatment. Fire licks the inside of his belly, but whether it’s from the hunger he hadn’t noticed or something else he doesn’t want to admit to, he doesn’t know. But the attention riles him, in a way he should despise, but it stuffs him full before the food even arrives.
When the hearty spread is set down in front of him, he figures it’s the least he can do to look into the heavy-lidded eyes of the seasoned captain next to him.
“Thank you.”
Ace will be known for nothing if not how polite he is.
Ace forgot how obnoxious Shanks is when he’s drunk.
Even so, he got drunk enough to sleep with the man the first time, so he’ll try to keep up until he’s drunk enough to do it again.
But watching Shanks ignore him in favor of goofing around with his crew and sniffing after the skirts of giggling barmaids—when he was the one who invited him here—makes Ace’s ass itch more with every passing second.
He hates how much he wants the older man’s attention.
It’s the worst whenever Shanks sits back down next to him to take another swig of his umpteenth drink. Ace is forced to watch the muscles in his corded neck shift as he takes large, gluttonous gulps. Dribbles of liquor spill from the corners of his mouth and flow down his throat, and Ace has to fight the impulse to lick it clean.
He’s fucking losing it.
He grits his teeth and waits. Waits for Shanks to stop pretending he isn’t here. Waits for him to stop fucking around and get to what they both know they came here for.
He grips his own mug tighter, the wood creaking under his fingers. His chest burns—not just from the booze, but from the fact that the Yonko hasn’t even so much as glanced his way.
The edges of his vision blur, the din of the tavern muffling into something distant and warped. His body sways before he can stop it, forehead knocking hard against the table. The jolt snaps him back, and he jerks upright, heart pounding as he holds his breath.
Shit.
Across the room, Benn catches his gaze. He exhales smoke through his nose, brow ticking up in quiet concern.
Ace briefly considers sauntering over and dropping himself onto the man’s lap. Maybe he’d entertain Ace’s company. Maybe it would piss Shanks off as a bonus. But Benn’s a stand-up guy who’s loyal to his captain—Ace would probably strike out before he even got comfortable.
Now he’s even more annoyed. His body’s betraying him, throwing him out of sync, all because of Shanks.
The tavern drags on—more drinking, more shouting, more songs—and Ace clenches his teeth through it, waiting, waiting, waiting. Finally, Red Hair clumsily drops into the seat beside him again, sighing happily, radiating nothing but warmth and merriment as he leans back against the wall behind them.
That’s what finally does it for Ace.
He snatches up his hat and shoves away from the table, but the moment he stands, his body sways again. The floor tilts, his vision darkens—
A warm arm catches him before he can hit the ground.
When he comes to, he’s lying down, something firm and solid beneath his head. He blinks sluggishly, disoriented but not unfamiliar with the sudden blackout.
Fuck. Again?
He’s been spending too much time on Striker.
It takes another slow, blinking moment before his vision sharpens enough to see—
Shanks.
Staring down at him.
Ace freezes. His brain struggles to catch up, to place where he is, what’s happened—why the fuck his head is resting in Red-Haired Shanks’ lap.
A few of the Red-Hairs are glancing their way, a few murmurs and chuckles rippling through the air, but mostly the tavern carries on. Ace swallows thickly. He’s mortified.
He moves to sit up too fast, dizziness slamming into him all at once again. A strong hand steadies him, fingers warm against his lower back.
“Careful there, Fire Fist.” Shanks’ voice is smooth, lilting, obnoxiously amused. “Don’t want you goin’ down on me again, now do we?”
Ace barely has time to process the words before they sink in. A few of the Red-Hairs chuckle again. Another whistles low.
Heat flashes through Ace’s face, and his first instinct is to snap something back, to wipe that smug grin off Shanks’ face. Instead, his brain lags, caught between the lingering haze of sleep and the realization of just how that sounded.
Shanks watches him, too damn pleased with himself, and Ace scowls, shoving himself upright with a growl.
“Fuck you,” he mutters, yanking his hat down low over his eyes. He knows his face is burning, but there’s no way in hell he’s giving Shanks the satisfaction of seeing it.
Fire floods his veins, and this time he doesn’t bother holding it back. He turns sharply, grabbing a fistful of Shanks’ cloak and yanking him forward. His fingers curl into the thick black fabric, heat blooming in his palm. The scent of singed cloth reaches his nose.
Shanks finally looks at him. His gaze flicks from Ace’s burning fist to his face, brow ticking up in mild disapproval. He’s probably pissed about the cloak. Good.
Ace hopes he left a nasty mark.
“Don’t wait up for me, boys,” the Yonko says smoothly—voice laced with more amusement than anything—earning hoots and hollers from his men.
Ace growls and just drags him toward the stairs, giving no grace to Shanks’ drunk stumbling or his own legs feeling like they’re filled with lead. He hauls him upstairs, straight to the room number engraved on the brass key he swiped earlier.
“Hey, hey, hey, where’s the fire?” Shanks huffs as he’s shoved down into the red suede chair by the window, then cackles at his own joke, like he just can’t help himself.
Ace grits his teeth but lets it slide. For now.
He drops to his knees, fingers yanking roughly at Shanks’ belt. He tells himself it’s just impatience, but his hands are shaking. Not from nerves. Not from excitement. Just frustration.
He was supposed to confront him tonight.
That had been the plan. To get him alone and force him to look him in the fucking eye for once instead of tossing him scraps of attention between his stupid drinking games and flirtations. Ace had been bracing for a fight—had been wanting one. But now—
Now, Shanks is here, beneath his hands, cologne coating his lungs like a fucking drug, and Ace is so fucking weak.
Shanks lifts his hips to help him along, but not without snorting at the kid’s impatience.
Ace knows he should snap at him. Should tell him to shut the hell up.
But instead, he pulls his cock free, and suddenly, the desire to fight feels like a distant dream.
Shanks finally quiets, and Ace’s mouth is too full to think. Everything as it should be.
Warm, smooth, and thick on his tongue, it fills his mouth perfectly—enough to steal his breath, leave him lightheaded, and drown out everything but the musky scent that’s been haunting his dreams.
Shanks is by no means little—far from it—and that alone makes Ace’s stomach flip, leaving him giddy and breathless. Knowing he’s inside him, stretching him open, taking up space; just the thought sends a hot shiver down his spine. A few deep breaths through his nose, and his body melts—tension in his muscles seeping out as easily as the anger and frustration he’s been carrying.
Shit. He could almost thank him for this.
Ace gives an experimental suck, his tongue dragging slow along the underside. The reaction is instant—a deep, pleased groan from above, a strong pulse against his tongue, and the first faint, salty taste of precum. Ace groans back, swallowing around him, relishing the texture, the girth, the way it sits heavy on his tongue.
Shanks rewards him with a lazy scratch to the side of his head, thumb tracing slow, idle circles against his temple—soothing, absentminded, like he’s petting a sleepy puppy. The lamplight catches in his red hair, turning him almost celestial—like some benevolent god bestowing a blessing upon his most devout worshiper.
Ace clenches his eyes shut, fighting not to lose himself in that image.
The room falls into an easy rhythm—Ace working him over, slow and unhurried, while Shanks hums along to some old Sea shanty crackling from the radio.
For once, Shanks knows when to stop talking, and Ace is grateful for it.
It’s been half an hour now, maybe more, and sure, he’ll make him come eventually, but that’s not really the point. It’s just nice to have a pacifier of sorts—something to go dumb on that’ll silence the chaos for a while. It’s the slow, mindless suck, the warmth of praise given in lazy grunts and murmurs. Not too much, not too often; just enough to let him drift in the haze between pleasure and exhaustion, where sleep looms but never quite takes him.
A shuddering sigh makes Ace crack an eye open just in time to see Shanks tilt his head back, his throat bobbing as he gulps.
“Fuck.” The word is rough, unfiltered. “Couldn’t buy a mouth like this if I tried.”
Ace huffs a quiet laugh through his nose as he thinks, And yet I let you buy me dinner.
He pulls off the man’s cock slowly, his lips dragging slick over the length until only the tip lingers in his mouth. He flicks his tongue over the slit, rewarded with the broken moan he was waiting for, before swallowing him down again until his nose brushes against rough red curls.
A sharp exhale from above. Fingers twitch in his greasy hair.
Then—
“You know,” Shanks muses, voice slow and easy, like he’s been holding onto the thought for a while, “was thinkin’ of invitin’ that pretty barmaid up here before you called me.”
Ace almost chokes, his own dick throbbing hard at the idea, the ache nearly unbearable.
Shanks groans, either at the squeeze of Ace’s throat or the way he stiffens, then keeps talking: “Yeah, I’d been shinin’ up to her for a few days. Bet she’d love to come up and play with us. You could show her—goddamn—what a nice mouth y’got, hm?”
It’s tempting, but the idea of it—of someone else here, watching the things he lets Shanks do to him—makes his skin prickle with something too raw and too sharp to be pleasure.
Ace pulls off with a wet pop, gasping as he wipes the drool from his chin. “Nah,” he mutters, voice rough, “tryin’ to break less hearts this year.”
Shanks barks a laugh, tilting his head to meet Ace’s eyes, mouth curling at the corners. “Yeah, right.”
Ace should roll his eyes, throw some kind of jab back, but the warmth in that gaze—steady and soft—twists something inside him, and suddenly he can’t look at him anymore.
He hears a teasing chuckle. “Feelin’ shy, Fire Fist?”
The slow creep of heat down Ace’s neck must have given it away.
Shanks hums, twirling a lock of Ace’s hair around his finger. “Ooh, I see… Just want me all to yourself, that it?”
No. No, of course not. That would be stupid. That would mean something, and whatever this is between them doesn’t mean shit. But his throat is too tight to say it.
“Want me to give you all that attention you’ve been needin’?”
Ace could probably end the drought in Alabasta with how goddamn soaked he is.
He doesn’t mean to whimper, but it slips out, and he can’t take it back. Desperate, he shoves a hand between his thighs, palming himself over his shorts to relieve the unbearable ache building there. He has half a mind to just rut against the man’s leg, to take the friction he needs, but some tiny scrap of pride holds him back. Barely.
“Well, that’s okay, sweetheart,” the Yonko coos as his thumb strokes the young pirate’s freckled cheek in slow, lazy circles.
That tone—that voice—it’s fucking dangerous.
“A wonder like you…” Shanks lets the words linger, lets Ace feel them settle under his skin, “deserves every bit of my attention.”
He’s being too soft, too gentle.
Ace tenses, every muscle locking up. He’s tired—so tired—of trying to be hard all the time, and it’s not just the frustration weighing him down. Whispers of fatigue poke at him, warning him, but he fights it off. Not now. Not when Shanks is finally looking at him.
Regardless of how bad he’d wanted that gaze on him the whole night, there’s still something left in him, a sliver of pride keeping him from slipping completely. And if he lets go of that, he’s done for.
Shanks tips his head down, gaze unbearably warm.
“What d’ya say?”
Ace breaks.
He stutters, and before his mind can catch up, his body is already moving. He nods. Just once to admit the truth neither of them will say out loud.
A pleased rumble from above.
Ace swallows him down again, deep and eager, whining softly at the stretch in his throat.
It makes him forget he’s embarrassed. The slow rhythm, the warmth, the familiar act—it’s almost too soothing. Ace’s mind starts to fog at the edges again, his hands loosening where they’d been gripping Shanks’ thighs. His thoughts float somewhere far away, and the world goes dark for what feels like a blink of an eye.
A thumb brushes over his cheek.
“Still with me, Fire Fist?” Ace startles, inhaling sharply through his nose and slurping around the dick still in his mouth. Shanks hisses out a low chuckle. “Seas, kid, never knew anyone to find it that relaxin’.”
Ace huffs, irritated and fully awake again, and lets his teeth scrape along the length of him.
That wipes the smarmy look from the bastard’s face real quick.
He hopes it’s enough to make the man lose his train of thought. If he says anymore, Ace thinks he might melt into something much more sweet and compliant than he thinks Red Hair deserves.
But still, he wants more, wants to take all of him, anywhere. He doubles his efforts, wanting to prove that he—
A sharp inhale. Shanks’ thighs tremble.
“A-Ah—c’mon now, heh, enough of that.”
Shanks pulls Ace back slowly by his hair, gliding wetly from his mouth. It’s to move things along, but he gets caught up in the sight of his slick, flushed cock smearing against Ace’s freckled cheek.
Ace looks up at him, dark eyes low and hazy with desperate heat, tongue darting out to chase the taste as well as catch a much needed breath. No use in concealing his desire anymore—he’s already lost.
Shanks huffs and shakes his head. “Geez…”
Ace grins, slow and wolfish. Gotcha.
Yeah, okay, now he gets why Shanks likes teasing him so much.
“Not at your limit already,” Ace pants, swiping his tongue over the flushed tip, “are ya, old man?” He prays that’s not the case, still not having gotten out whatever it is that’s still running rampant in his system.
Shanks groans, tightening his grip in Ace’s hair, giving his head a rough shake. “Not on your life, brat.”
Even so, he looks just wrecked enough, and Ace wants so much more of that. He exhales, dragging the leaking head of his cock across Ace’s swollen, spit-wet lips, groaning low when the boy cleans the trail of precum with his tongue.
“Bed,” he mutters, voice rough and thick with want. “Now.”
Ace’s stomach flips. He feels himself clench around nothing, his whole body wound tight with need. His thighs tremble. He swallows thickly, tasting salt and heat and a hint of surrender.
Finally.
He stands and does as he’s told, fingers slightly unsteady as he tugs at his belt. He can feel Shanks’ eyes on him—watching, waiting—so he takes his time, letting the fabric slip down his hips inch by inch. It’s not that he’s trying to be a tease, not exactly, but he wants to savor this, the way he knows Shanks is openly drinking him in, heat simmering behind those half-lidded eyes. He doesn’t want to see it, unsure if he can handle that look in his eyes. It means something different now, something that will fuck him up worse than he already is.
A slow, measured breath suddenly warms the back of his neck. Ace hadn’t even heard Shanks move, but he feels him now, a heavy presence behind him. His skin prickles as stubbled lips press against his bare shoulder, soft but deliberate. Ace instinctively tenses for just a second before forcing himself to relax.
“Hey,” a large arm snakes around his middle, moving up to rub a soothing thumb on his freckled shoulder, “you seem a little… You’ll say somethin’ if we need to stop?”
Ace nods, but doesn’t speak. He hadn’t thought about what he really needed, but that train is stopped short when he feels another gentle kiss to the back of his neck.
“Tell me if you change your mind. We can stop and just…talk. If that’s what you need.”
“…Sure.”
Shanks’ hand keeps traveling, dragging down, nails scratching lightly over his abdomen before slipping between his thighs.
“You want my mouth now, honey?”
Ace bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut.
Shanks’ mouth.
Ace won’t deny that the man is good with it—too good—but he knows it’ll just make him worse. Shanks will take his time, lazily mouth at his cunt until Ace is woozy and desperate—and then he can really do whatever he wants with him.
But it’d be so fucking good—hell, he’s even considered it to be the best he’ll ever get.
He slowly shakes his head, licking his dry lips before murmuring, “N-No, just—just…”
He doesn’t even know how to finish that thought. His body knows what it wants, but his head is spinning, caught up in everything else. The way Shanks isn’t teasing him right now, the way his voice has softened, the way his touch isn’t just hungry, but…something else, too.
Something Ace doesn’t know how to deal with.
Shanks presses a kiss to the shell of his ear, and Ace shudders as those fingers keep moving, keep searching.
“That’s alright,” the older pirate murmurs. “How ‘bout you tell me where you want it, then?”
Maybe it’s the way it feels like he’s suddenly making it all about what Ace wants? It contradicts everything he’s thought about the man since he found out the truth.
Red Hair’s voice is velvet over gravel, thick and low as his hand finds what it’s looking for. He cups Ace’s heat fully, fingers teasing at the slick, swollen folds that part so easily for him. Ace gasps, gripping Shanks’ arm, torn between wanting to pull him away and pressing him closer.
“Here?” Shanks’ hand dips lower, fingers teasing at the entrance to his soaked cunt, just barely pushing inside. Then he curls his fingers further back, pressing against the tight, sensitive ring of muscle behind it. “Or maybe here?”
Ace whimpers. His legs are shaking.
His mind goes blank, too caught up in the way Shanks’ fingers move, in the heat pooling in his gut, the way his body clenches in response, eager and needy.
Shanks’ movements are so slow and torturous, and Ace gets so caught up in how fucking good it feels that he almost forgets to answer the man’s question. His knees nearly give out when the thick digits return and push at his cunt again.
“Uh, th-there— Fuck, there, there…”
“Here, huh?” Shanks chuckles excitedly, fingers pressing in, promising to work him nice and open, to give him more more more—
Ace frantically twists out of Shanks’ hold and stumbles forward, falling face-down onto the bed before he can embarrass himself further. His head is like an anchor dragging him down. His skin burns, sticky with sweat. He shakes his head, frustrated.
He grabs a pillow and buries his face in it, trying to quiet his uneven breath. His body moves on instinct, hips tilting, thighs parting as he bends one knee, spreading himself open. Offering himself up without thinking.
He doesn’t know what Shanks wants, doesn’t know how he’ll take him, but he doesn’t fucking care.
“’m good to go now,” he pants, muffled against the pillow. “S-So c’mon…” Before I think too much.
He’s so fucking dizzy and his chest is so tight, that he can barely hold back what’s been on a low simmer inside him since Pops told him everything.
“…Look, kid…” Shanks sighs, his voice gentler than before. “If you’re havin’ a tough night, we can just—”
“I said I’m fine, so just fuck me.”
Silence stretches between them.
He hears the slow shuffle of fabric, the soft thud of boots and belts hitting the ground, and then—
The bed dips as Shanks climbs up behind him, and Ace feels it—the heat of him, the strength coiling in his muscles as he moves in close.
A firm, steady hand drags up the back of Ace’s thigh, palm rough against sensitive skin. Then he grabs a handful of his ass, fingers digging in to hold him in place, like Ace belongs to him.
“Mind turnin’ over for me, Firefly?” His voice is thick, hushed, laced with something Ace can’t name.
Ace takes a deep breath, wondering if he can handle watching Shanks like this tonight—the way his face will twist in pleasure, the way he’ll stare at him as he takes him apart.
But has he always been looking at Ace, or someone else?
“…Why?”
“Wh— So I can see you?” Red Hair laughs a bit when he says it, like Ace said something funny, like it’s obvious what he wants, and it lights an uncontrollable fire in him.
“So you can see me,” his teeth clench, “or him?”
The second the words leave his mouth, regret crushes him. Shanks goes quiet and Ace’s stomach twists, shame clawing up his throat.
Why did he say that?
Maybe something ugly inside him wants to ruin this. Ruin himself. Maybe deep down he feels like he’d deserve it. And maybe, just maybe, a part of him hopes Shanks will just do him the kindness of ending it all.
“What do you even—”
His words come out strained, as though he’s wrestling with the fear of letting Shanks see how fucked up he is, how much pain his own blood causes him. He keeps his forehead pressed into the pillow, unable to look at Shanks in case he can’t hide it. His hands lightly singe the sheets, the tension that he came to get rid of steadily bubbling up again.
He shouldn’t say any more. He doesn’t know why he even thought to in the first place. He knew it would kill everything.
But the words keep clawing their way up his throat.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” he grits out.
“Listen...kid—”
“I know you were part of his crew, and I—I know you know who I am.”
The words come out strange. They feel almost distant, like he’s talking about someone else. His ears are ringing, heart charging against his ribs, pulse hammering as his brain catches up to his own sabotage.
Why did it have to be Shanks?
“If you’re gonna keep using me as a placeholder, then be a fucking man about it!”
A pause.
The air turns thick, suffocating, pressing down on him like the weight of the Sea.
Ace sits up on his knees and anchors himself with his hands, bracing for the worst. He waits for something—anything. A wave of Haki. The pierce of a sword. A sign he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life.
It doesn’t come, so he keeps going.
He finally risks a glance behind him, and Shanks is watching him with dark, unreadable eyes. “What the fuck do you even want from me? Why do you keep doing this? Why, if it isn’t—”
His heart aches when he thinks of the first time he let Shanks lay him down on his black cloak in the back of that icy cave. Both their crews asleep, Shanks behaving like he’d been starving for Ace despite having just met the boy.
Why did it fucking have to be Shanks?
“I know he’s all you ever saw, ever since we—”
Shanks tilts his head, watching him carefully as he continues,
“It’s just gonna be this, over and over and fucking over, with anyone I—”
Ace turns away again, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths, his chin turned down. He doesn’t want to look at Shanks anymore, doesn’t want to see whatever expression is on his face—pity, disappointment, amusement. The thought brings bile up his throat.
“I don’t care why you want to use me, I just—I just need to know the truth.”
It’s barely above a whisper, but he knows Shanks hears it.
Ace’s fingers twist into the sheets, moisture clouding his eyes, his vision swaying again. He’s waiting for an answer, dreading it and aching for it all the same.
The longer the silence goes on, the harder his pulse hammers, the tighter his throat feels. “I need to know if I’m just—” His breath stutters, chest unbearably tight. He doesn’t know if he’s even making sense anymore. “Can you just—”
Before Ace can finish, the crack of a slap shatters his spiraling thoughts. It lands sharp on his ass, the sting blooming across his skin. He gasps, body jerking—more from the shock than the pain. His body tenses in response, but before he can say anything, a solid, unyielding hand presses between his shoulder blades, easily guiding him, pinning him back down on his stomach.
“That’s enough.” The words are final, absolute. No room for argument.
Shanks leans over him, pressing his weight into Ace’s back, keeping his thoughts present. His voice is steady—unshaken, unbothered, full of authority.
“I don’t want to hear another word about that.”
Ace’s breath catches in his throat as Shanks’ hand slides up his side, slow and deliberate, his touch both comforting and commanding.
“You listen to me.” His voice is low, more serious than Ace thinks he’s ever heard it. “Yeah, he was my captain, and I won’t pretend I didn’t see glimpses of him in you when we met. But you’re not a spittin’ image, or anything, kid, I just—” An exhale, slow and measured. “I want you because you’re you. Not because of him. Not because of anyone else. Just you.”
His hand drags back down, rough palm mapping over the curve of Ace’s ass before squeezing hard. Ace shudders.
He says it all like it’s nothing. Like Ace hasn’t spent his whole life living in the shadow of a ghost. A ghost he never even met, but who still shaped nearly everything about the world he knows today. A ghost who will always haunt him, who will always ruin his life.
“You got that, boy?”
Ace’s mouth is dry. His head is spinning. He can only nod, not trusting his voice to remain steady.
“I need to hear it, Ace.”
Something stirs deep in his gut; something he’s never felt before, something as grounding as it is terrifying.
Another sharp slap lands on the back of his thigh. He jolts, gasping.
“Do you understand me?”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
The moment he utters those words, horror lances through him. He hadn’t meant to say that—hadn’t even thought about it, really. It just slipped out, like something buried deep inside him had clawed its way free.
Shanks goes still for a moment. Then, a low, knowing chuckle rumbles against Ace’s back.
“Good.”
Ace burns. He buries his face into the pillow, mortified, but his body betrays him, heat pooling low and unbearable between his thighs.
“I just need you to be you, Firefly.” Shanks’ voice is gentle, but firm. “No more hidin’ from me.”
Shanks takes his time now, dragging his hand over Ace’s body like he’s committing every inch to memory. His touches are firm—possessive—but never rushed. Ace knows he’s meant to feel this, to know he’s completely under Shanks’ control.
“Now, can you tell me what you need?”
Ace muffles a sniffle into the pillow. He hopes he wasn’t heard. Again, he can only manage a small shake of his head, hoping that’s enough. He truly doesn’t know, and his head is too fogged up to think about it.
“Alright, honey. You just tell me what you don’t want, okay?”
Ace swallows hard. His pulse is pounding in his ears again, and he’s so overwhelmed and afraid his time is limited again.
But then Shanks presses a light kiss to the back of his neck, then drops back onto Ace, arm reaching up to lace their fingers together.
Ace’s breath is ragged as he fists the fabric beneath him. Shanks is everywhere—his full weight pressing him down, his heat seeping into his skin. The slow, teasing drag of his thick cock pushing between his thighs is too much, and yet not enough.
“You feel that? Feel how much I want you?” Shanks murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “That’s all you, sweetheart. Only you.”
Ace bites his lip. He can’t answer, doesn’t need to—Shanks can feel the way his body reacts, the way he shudders and presses back, even as his mind still screams at him to pull away. His thighs tremble where Shanks is slotted between them, hot and heavy against his cunt, but he’s not moving.
Ace whimpers, trying to shift his hips back for something, but Shanks tsks and gives him another light tap on his thigh.
“Be patient.”
Ace lets out a shaky breath, his body screaming for more, but he forces himself to stay still. He wants this—wants Shanks to take control, to strip away all the doubt and second-guessing.
Shanks rewards him with slow, torturous touches, his fingers sliding down over his hot, sweaty skin until they’re teasing at his soaked entrance.
“You gonna let me take my time with you?”
Ace’s body trembles with the effort of keeping still.
“Y-Yes…yes, sir.” It doesn’t feel foreign this time. It feels like a choice. It feels right.
Shanks hums in approval, finally pressing two thick fingers inside, sinking them deep. Ace moans, his back arching as he clutches at the sheets.
“Thank you. Let me in now, alright?”
The words send a sharp thrill down Ace’s spine, straight to his core. He’s helpless against the way his body reacts to them.
Part of him hates this—hates how much he still wants to fight, hates how easy it is to give in. But the moment he lets himself sink into it, the weight of Shanks above him, the slow ache of being stretched—he stops thinking. And it feels so fucking good.
Shanks works him open slowly, methodically, dragging pleasure from him with every precise movement. Ace already feels like he’s going to fall apart, to be reduced to nothing but sensation.
Shanks curls his fingers, hitting that spot inside him that makes his hips jerk and sends stars across his vision.
“Sweet thing. How could you think you’re not enough? More than enough?”
Ace doesn’t have an answer. He can barely think. He shakes his head frantically, panting.
Shanks withdraws his fingers, shifting above him. He nudges Ace’s legs apart with his knee, spreading him open. He drops his solid, heavy mass against his back again, pinning him into the mattress with enough weight to make Ace wheeze.
He’s so fucking big.
And his cock is right there, trapped between them, smearing hot precum against the backs of his thighs as he finds a comfortable position.
Ace’s toes curl, his head spinning from the way Shanks moves, the way he openly groans low in his throat as he fucks the wet tip of his cock against his puffy, hungry cunt. It feels too good already.
Too much, and not enough.
“Shanks…please…”
“Easy, baby,” Shanks hums, his hand moving to give the slightest bit of pressure to the back of Ace’s neck to steady him. “I got you.” He presses another kiss to his spine.
Ace barely has time to process it before lips press right over his tattoo. More kisses, slow and lazy, work their way back up until Shanks’ chest is flush against him again.
The solid weight of him is almost comforting, grounding in a way, making Ace feel like he belongs there, like he was always meant to be underneath the Yonko, held down and spread open. That thought makes something hot and shameful curl in his gut, but before he can chase it, Shanks guides himself in, stretching him wide open.
Ace whimpers with the overwhelming sensation, with the sheer intensity of being taken slow like this. He bites the pillow, feeling his temperature rise and trying to focus on tampering it down before he lights the damn bed on fire.
Shanks grips his hip, holding him still as he sinks deeper.
“Fuck,” the man exhales, voice a little unsteady as Ace’s cunt sucks tight around him. “Always so goddamn hot inside.” And Shanks is too goddamn honest.
It’s too much all at once, the stretch just toeing the line between pain and pleasure.
Ace feels so full it’s like he’s complete, Shanks leaving no space in him for anything else. The heavy weight inside and out, Shanks steadying his breath above him, the ache of how wide he has to spread his thighs for it.
It’s all just right.
A hot flash shuffles its way up Ace’s spine until the tips of his ears flare up again. He’s burning up from the inside, everything in him tensing and trembling, his breath coming out in frantic little pants.
A whine slips from him, and it feels wrong—too needy, too weak.
“Aww,” Shanks coos, voice coated in amusement, “don’t worry, I got you.”
He starts a slow roll of his hips, dragging his thick cock out and then pushing back in at a torturous pace, testing how much Ace can take. Ace feels his insides clench around him, a simmering heat trying to burst out with every move.
“Always take it so well, sweetheart. You were made for me, weren’t you?”
Ace can only moan in response, too lost in the feeling of being utterly claimed.
Shanks picks up his pace, fucking him open with deep, measured thrusts, making sure Ace feels every inch of him. He leans over him, pressing kisses across his back, whispering praises against his skin.
He hates how easy it is to let himself be taken, to just sink into it and stop thinking. But as long as he’s on his stomach, he doesn’t have to face it. Doesn’t have to see the way Shanks looks at him—doesn’t have to see himself through his eyes.
But suddenly—there’s nothing. No movement, no heat rolling over him in steady waves. Just stillness. Ace realizes how hard he’s been breathing.
He notices he’s empty, and he sobs. “…Sh-Shanks?”
“Turn over.”
Ace’s stomach flips. He swallows, trying to steady his breath. His limbs won’t move. “Wh—why?”
Shanks presses a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “I said I wanted to see your face. So, you’re gonna show me your face.”
Ace shakes his head, desperate to avoid it. “R-Really, m’fine like this,” he mutters, trembling voice muffled in the pillow.
A chuckle rumbles against his back, low and knowing. “That right?” Shanks shifts, the full weight of him pinning Ace down again to murmur against his ear. “Well, I’m not askin’, boy.”
Ace’s body betrays him—clenching, trembling, aching for more of the older man’s touch. He already feels too exposed, even without facing him. He just wants Shanks to keep going, to take him, to break him—
But he can’t bear to look. He can’t.
Shanks exhales against his skin, and then, slowly, he forces Ace to turn.
Ace resists, pushing back, but it goes ignored—Shanks is stronger, bigger, and Ace isn’t fighting as hard as he could be. So one arm is enough.
Ace lands on his back, chest heaving with ragged breaths, dazed and vulnerable under Shanks’ weight.
Then Shanks looms over him again, slotting his warm thighs between Ace’s, their sweat making them slide together. The lamplight above them brings that halo back around his crimson head, shrouding his eyes—but not the deep feeling in them. It’s something Ace isn’t ready to face.
The smell of salt and rum, the rough scrape of stubble as he moves his mouth from Ace’s cheek down to his throat—it’s dizzying, so overwhelming.
He might die if he doesn’t come soon. No—he’s already dying. Right here, right now, and Shanks is the one killing him.
Shanks takes his time, leaning up to watch Ace’s chest rise and fall, a flush spreading down his throat. His cock is so close, pressed against Ace’s own, but he doesn’t move—just studies him, just waits.
Ace closes his eyes and turns away.
“Can I have a kiss, Firefly?”
Ace is terrified to open his eyes, terrified of how fucking handsome Shanks is—or maybe just how much that face can make him do. He doesn’t want to look because he knows what he’ll see—Shanks watching him, patient and wanting, like Ace is something worth holding so close.
“Aw, c’mon now. I’ll even say please.”
Ace can count on one hand the amount of times he’s let Shanks kiss him. He gets a kick out of telling the man no when he can, but the request feels different this time. His voice is as teasing as always, but there’s something almost needy underneath it, and Ace feels his resolve slipping.
“Oh, please, Fire Fist Ace? Won’t you give a poor old pirate like me a little kiss? Who knows how much longer I’ve got left!”
Ace finally looks at him, glaring through the absurdity, his frustration boiling over. “The hell is wrong with you?”
Shanks guffaws—but then, quieter, gentler: “Sorry, heh, can’t help myself—got a soft spot for brats like you,” he says, plain and simple. He cups his chin, caring but firm. “Is it so wrong to want to feel your lips, Firefly?”
“I…” His throat locks up as his cheeks darken. Defiance flares within him again, trying to get him to run. He tries to look away, but Shanks won’t let him. His fingers tighten—firm enough to make that clear.
“You really think I’m here for anything else but you?” Shanks murmurs, thumb brushing the wet corner of his mouth.
Ace’s eyes sting. His pulse thunders in his ears. And suddenly, it’s too much.
“Fine. Whatever,” he breathes, and the tears roll.
Shanks smiles—soft, patient, knowing—as if he’s always seen this struggle in Ace and has been waiting for him to lay it out before him.
He thumbs away a hot tear, leans down to kiss him slow and deep, then finally presses into him again.
And Ace—helpless and trembling as he’s filled to the brim—breaks.
An embarrassingly loud moan rips from his throat. He can’t stop it. His arms come up to cling to the man above him, and his legs part as wide as they can, hips rocking up for more as Shanks’ cock smoothly glides in and out of him.
“F-Fuck—!”
Shanks groans into his open mouth, low and filthy. “That’s it, honey. Give it to me.”
Ace is gone.
Heat spikes up his back and singes the sheets beneath them, so he starts kicking his legs and slapping Shanks’ back, unable to use his words with them being repeatedly punched out of him.
Luckily, Shanks is more attentive than any normal person should be, stopping so quickly it almost seems like he saw it coming.
“You alright, sweetheart?”
“Y—” Ace closes his eyes and swallows, trying to soothe his throat after how hard he’s been breathing, “Y-Yeah…just—shit, just gimme a sec.” He’s so, so close, but Shanks has him feeling more out of control than he’s ever been during sex. He’s burned people before while in the throes of it, and he’s learned that he has to temper himself to avoid it. That means slowing down, stopping the delectable rise and settling for a dampened orgasm. It sucks, but he’d rather not incinerate the person he’s sharing a bed with.
Shanks tilts his head thoughtfully, eyes scanning as the young pirate takes deep, strained breaths through his nose. Little flames grow and shrink all over him as he breathes, and when Ace cracks an eye open, he instantly spots a red, hand-shaped mark on Shanks’ shoulder.
Shit.
Before he can get an apology out, Shanks is pulling out of him and rising to his knees.
Ace panics, his hands shooting up and desperately grabbing at the Yonko’s hips, worried he’d ruined things. “No, fuck, m’sorry, please—” Please, don’t leave me.
“Hey, easy,” Shanks soothes, his voice low and pleasantly wrecked, “I ain’t goin’ far.”
Ace is so distressed he almost doesn’t believe him, his fingers twitching against Shanks’ skin like he’s fighting the urge to claw him closer. But he takes a deep breath and nods.
Shanks nods back, slow and steady, trailing his palm down Ace’s thigh and calf as he shifts away. The touch is warm, grounding, and Ace clings to it—to him—like an anchor. It keeps him tethered, makes him feel wanted even as the distance grows. It scares him more than it probably should.
Then Shanks has to fully pull away to use his lone arm, and it feels like all the heat went with him. Ace’s fire flickers, still and yearning—something he’s never felt before. A strange, cold tension climbs up his throat, and for a split second, a strange feeling arises, like he might…cry.
He bites the inside of his cheek. Don’t think too hard about it.
His eyes lock onto Shanks as the older man rifles through his discarded clothes. His expression is casual, but there’s a clear purpose in the way he moves, no wasted motion. Ace can’t look away, the absence of Shanks’ touch making him feel like he’s been set adrift.
Then Shanks glances back at him, catches him staring, and grins like he knows exactly what Ace is feeling.
Ace scowls, looking away as warmth creeps up his neck. Bastard.
“Ah-hah! Was afraid I lost it,” Shanks announces, triumphant, as he turns back toward the bed. His fingers are curled around something, keeping it hidden, and given his track record, Ace narrows his eyes and crosses his arms defensively.
“Oh, don’t be so cynical.”
Then don’t be so predictable, Ace wants to say, but curiosity keeps his mouth shut.
Shanks, unbothered as ever, sits beside him on the bed and finally uncurls his fingers. Resting in his palm is a small, dull gray ring.
Ace blinks.
Shanks rolls it between his fingers, watching Ace’s reaction with something unreadable in his gaze. “Had this made in Wano a while back. Just in case.” His voice is gentle, even, but there’s weight behind the words.
Ace swallows hard, something unspoken swelling in his chest. “You’re fucking insane.”
Shanks smirks and shrugs. “So I’ve been told.” Then, more seriously, “Give me your hand, brat.”
Ace hesitates.
This is stupid. An unnecessary sentiment, or probably a joke, knowing Shanks. But his body ignores his apprehension—his hand drifts forward, palm up.
Shanks hums approvingly and lifts Ace’s hand, turning it over with a careful grip before slipping the band onto his ring finger.
The effect is instant.
A wave of exhaustion crashes over Ace, his body almost falling over, his limbs going slack. He exhales sharply, almost moaning at the sensation, at how quiet everything suddenly is inside him. His fire dims—not snuffed out, just softened, tamed into steady embers instead of a raging inferno. His heartbeat feels slower, his whole body lighter and heavier at the same time, like he’s not constantly on the verge of either burning out or falling apart.
It’s relief. A kind he’s never known before.
Shanks watches him closely, expression serious, and then moves to sit close, his hand bracing against the bed beside Ace’s thigh. “How do you feel?” he asks, voice softer now, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. Like he cares.
Ace breathes deep, head hazy, his body warm in a way that has nothing to do with his fire. He lifts a sluggish hand to Shanks’ arm, fingers curling on it weakly.
“S…Sea prism?” he finally manages. He’d know the sensation anywhere, but there’s none of the nausea and fatigue he’s come to loathe about the stuff.
Shanks nods, dark eyes scanning for anything wrong. “Mm.” His lips quirk. “Not too much, is it? S’posed to be just enough to take the edge off.”
Ace stares up at him, still catching his breath. His grip on Shanks tightens slightly, grounding himself in this—the press of his body, the return of his damned halo, the way Shanks has steadied him without chains, without force.
He swallows thickly. “How…How did you…?”
Shanks’ grin softens. His fingers ghost down Ace’s throat, pausing over the quick beat of his pulse before settling over his heart. “You know…” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to Ace’s forehead and holding his wrist, “I’m not entirely sure. The smithy mentioned craftin’ it with a lower density, or somethin’ like that. I dunno, but it’s all very scientific.”
“You had it made so you could fuck me.”
Shanks pulls back, Ace’s blunt response and deadpan stare clearly not the reaction he was hoping for. He pouts. “…Doesn’t sound as romantic when you put it that way, but…if you say so.”
Ace snorts, trying to ignore the word Shanks chose to describe his gesture.
Romantic.
It lingers in his head longer than it should, wrapping around his heart like a vice. He doesn’t know what to do with it, so he shoves it aside, focusing instead on the weight of the Sea prism ring on his finger. It hums against his skin, dampening the constant burn inside him, letting him fully feel instead of fighting against himself. He exhales slowly, something in his chest loosening.
It’s weird. But comforting? Maybe even…nice.
Shanks watches him, his smirk fading into something softer, more considering. He shifts, his fingers still curled lightly around Ace’s wrist, his thumb absently brushing over his pulse. Ace shivers at the slow, idle touch, his body unusually sensitive, too aware of every point of contact.
“You seem relaxed,” Shanks observes, voice low, approving.
Ace scoffs. “Well, yeah. Feels like…I’ve been dunked in the Sea, but…she’s not drowning me.”
Shanks hums, thoughtful. His fingers trail up Ace’s arm, light but deliberate, his calloused palm dragging over bare skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Feels nice, though, yeah?”
Ace shifts under the weight of his gaze, hyper-aware of the heat building between them again. He huffs, thinking of mouthing off, but it comes out shakier than he’d like. “Gettin’ real smug about your fancy little ring, old man. Bet you get off seein’ me like this, all soft and fucked up.”
“How could I not?” Shanks grins, but there’s something in his eyes—something deeper, unreadable as always. His hand drifts down, tracing the lines of Ace’s ribs, the flat planes of his stomach, mapping him out with a quiet sort of reverence.
Then, his touch shifts—he pushes, attempting to lower Ace onto his back.
Ace naturally resists, but Shanks soothes him, murmuring, “Let me.”
Ace doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, but something about the way Shanks says it has him relaxing, heat pooling low in his stomach.
He settles gently on his back, and Shanks lays on his side next to him, slotting his hairy thigh between Ace’s like he was always meant to be there.
And then he just looks.
He looks, and exhales slowly, his hand coming up to stroke his thumb along Ace’s cheek. His eyes trace over every inch of him, lingering like he’s seeing something rare—something he can’t quite believe is there.
Ace shifts, unsettled by the weight of it. “What?”
Shanks doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans in, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to Ace’s temple. Then another, softer this time, like a silent vow. Ace’s breath stutters as Shanks’ lips travel lower, brushing over his cheekbone, his jaw, the corner of his mouth—but never quite claiming it.
Shanks moves carefully, his lone hand mapping out Ace’s body like he’s memorizing the shape of him. He skims down Ace’s freckled skin, palm spreading over his sternum before ghosting lower, thumb sliding over the small, sensitive mounds of his chest.
He lingers there, just enough to make Ace tense, his breath catching in his throat. “Shanks…?”
Shanks hums, low and pleased, as he dips his head, his breath warm over Ace’s chest. “Pretty,” he murmurs, almost to himself, like he’s in awe of what’s before him. He brushes his thumb over one of Ace’s nipples, circling slow and yearning before leaning in to press a lingering kiss over the other. “So damn pretty.”
“Ugh, shut up.”
There’s no urgency in his movements—only a kind of reverence, a kind of aching need that has Ace’s pulse stuttering in his throat.
Shanks continues pressing gentle, open-mouthed kisses all over Ace’s chest before dragging his wide tongue over one, slow and indulgent. Ace jerks, his fingers curling into the sheets.
“Still so warm,” Shanks murmurs against him, voice rough with something deeper than desire. He moves to the other side again, lavishing the soft flesh with the same attention, just enough to make Ace gasp. “You just can’t stop, can you?”
Ace huffs as he thinks about those words. If Shanks can still feel his fire, when it’s simmering lower than Ace thought possible…
Is he simply meant to burn himself down to the last wick?
Shanks snaps him back with a light bite to his nipple. Ace jolts and hisses, making Shanks chuckle, unbothered, then soothe the sting with his tongue, leisurely, like he’s savoring the taste of him.
Ace sucks in a breath through his teeth, heat pooling low in his stomach. “Shanks—!”
“Mmh?” Shanks doesn’t lift his head, his mouth still exploring, his hand firm against Ace’s hip to keep him still. “What is it, Firefly?”
Ace chokes at the pet name, then gasps sharply as Shanks drags his tongue in unhurried, teasing circles before he closes his lips around a nipple and sucks with aching slowness. The wet heat of his tongue, the light scrape of his stubble—it sends shivers rippling through Ace’s body, his back arching into the touch before he can stop himself.
Shanks hums like he expected that reaction, his hand drifting up Ace’s side again, thumb tracing slow circles against his skin. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, voice rough with satisfaction. He licks over the stiffened bud, flicks it lightly just to watch Ace squirm. “That’s good.”
Ace swallows hard, his fingers twitching in the sheets. The teasing edge in Shanks’ voice should piss him off, but the heat between them has thickened—too much, too good—and the next sound that escapes him is a ragged, breathless moan.
Shanks stills for half a second, then groans like Ace just did something unspeakably unfair to him. His grip tightens, grounding them both, and then he’s kissing, licking, sucking again like he can’t help himself, leaving faint bruises in his wake. Ace barely registers that he’s grinding against Shanks’ thigh until a strong hand pins his hip down again, keeping him still.
Then, he pulls back just slightly, breath fanning over damp skin, and drags his fingers lightly over the marks he’s left behind. A frustrated whine catches in Ace’s throat. His fingers move before he can think, curling into Shanks’ sweaty hair, tugging him closer. If the bastard’s going to tease, then he can deal with the consequences.
Shanks laughs against his skin, delighted, and bites down again—harder this time.
"Fucker," Ace breathes, shivering at the way Shanks handles him like he’s both fragile and something to be devoured.
As much as he’s finding out how much he loves his tits played with, he can’t take it anymore.
He tugs on Shanks’ hair again, bringing him up to face him. He spreads his legs so Shanks can settle between them. He demands another kiss, not caring if he’s giving the older man something else to tease him about. Shanks’ tongue is warm and smooth and experienced, yet it’s Ace who has him chasing after his mouth like a starving dog.
His legs lock around Shanks’ wide hips as they continue, his hands clutching at broad shoulders, scars, bright red hair, dragging him closer, wanting more, more, more. Shanks is fairing no better, scrambling to his knees to frantically reach down between them and grab his cock. Then he finally rocks forward, spearing Ace’s cunt open again at a slow and torturous pace. They moan into each other’s mouths, and then Shanks is fucking into him deep and steady, his breath hot as a brand against Ace’s tongue.
More.
More.
More.
Ace’s capacity for pleasure is expanding now that he doesn’t have to worry about his fire, and he doesn’t hesitate to let the Yonko know.
“Fuck, Shanks— Y-You can—harder. Please, I—hah— Harder!”
If he regrets it, so be it.
The slow, steady pace vanishes, and then Shanks fucks him like he means it, like he wants Ace to feel him for days, like he wants to burn his presence into every inch of him. The slap of skin echoes through the dimly lit room, drowning out the creak of the bed, the wind howling outside, the hammering of Ace’s pulse in his ears.
At some point Ace can’t take the embarrassment anymore and covers his mouth, but Shanks rips his hand away and pins it to the bed. He links their calloused fingers together and moans at that simple contact, shameless and open, completely unbothered by the display of need. Ace doesn’t think the man has ever struggled with expressing himself, and he feels a flicker of jealousy at that.
Shanks kisses him again like he can’t help it, open-mouthed, tongue teasing, groaning against Ace’s lips. “God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger, breath hot and heavy—and then, without breaking away, he spits into the kiss, wet and messy, forcing Ace to taste him. Ace whimpers as he swallows it without thinking.
He knows Shanks feels it—the way that makes him tighten, the way his legs twitch to close, then spread even wider.
Ace sobs, overwhelmed, and Shanks devours the sound, rolling his hips in sharp, devastating thrusts.
“C’mon, Firefly. Be mine.”
Ace shuts his eyes and shakes his head, ashamed at the wave of heat that flushes through him at the request.
“I don’t know why you ran off to Whitebeard. I wouldn’t make you do—mmn—do a damn thing but be you. Just look pretty for me and—ah—keep my bed warm and…call me Captain, of course.” That makes him grin. “And take my cock when I give it to you, just like this.”
Ace’s whole body jerks at the image Shanks drops into his head. His breath stutters, his cunt clenches, and a wrecked sound spills from his throat before he can bite it back.
“Like that idea, huh?” His thrusts pick up, rougher now, pushing Ace deeper into the bed, forcing him to feel everything. “How ‘bout it, then? Or do I gotta fuck a brat or two in you to make you mine, boy?”
He rears back and slams into him again, harder this time, knocking a breathless, broken sound out of Ace. Shanks’ hand drags down Ace’s quivering stomach, pressing lightly, feeling the tremors beneath his palm.
He’s relentless, fucking into Ace like he’s staking a claim, like he’s dragging every last drop of pleasure from him until there’s nothing left but a shaking, wrung-out mess. His grip is bruising when he holds Ace’s hip again, anchoring him, tethering him.
Ace is gasping, barely able to breathe, let alone think. The words fuck a brat or two in you keep looping in his head, tangled with the way Shanks is looking at him—like he already belongs to him, like he’ll make Ace his whether he agrees to it or not.
Then Shanks groans—a deep, broken sound, like it’s being torn out of his throat—and Ace watches him unravel. His movements lose their precision, turning frantic, desperate. He fucks into him like he doesn’t want it to end, like if he just buries himself deep enough, he can stay inside Ace forever.
Ace’s breath catches. He doesn’t need to see it—he feels when Shanks comes inside him, the way he shudders, the thick spurts of it filling him up. But fuck, seeing it makes something in him snap.
The man is wrecked. His head tilted back, mouth open, choked moans spilling free. His whole body tenses then trembles over and over, the muscles in his arm flexing where he holds Ace like a lifeline. His eyes are hazy, his lips swollen and parted, his face slack with pleasure, completely lost in him.
Ace can’t stop staring. Can’t stop feeling.
And Shanks doesn’t stop moving. Even as his body shakes from the aftershocks, as overstimulation pulls another broken groan from his throat—he keeps going.
He keeps slowly fucking into Ace, pushing his cum deeper, dragging out every last spark of pleasure his cunt has to give.
Ace is barely holding on. His whole body is tight, his breath shuddering. His hand drops between them, slipping over his own stomach, down to the sticky mess of where they’re joined. He groans as he touches himself, still stretched open, still full. Shanks twitches at the movement, groaning as he watches.
Ace moans, his own hips rocking in slow, mindless movements. He’s so close, strung so tight, and Shanks is watching him, still inside him, still holding him down like he can’t stand to let go.
And then his pleasure crests, violent in its intensity, burning through him like wildfire. A strangled sound leaves his throat—something desperate and strained—and then his body seizes, his back arching as he comes over both of them, hot and slick.
Shanks groans, deep and pleased, as Ace’s cunt gushes between them, wet and warm, soaking his hips, his thighs, the sheets beneath them. His grip tightens just enough to make Ace feel held. “Makin’ such a goddamn mess,” he growls, voice hoarse and wrecked, thick with satisfaction. He doesn’t sound the least bit bothered—if anything, he sounds proud.
Shanks’ fingers are suddenly tugging at Ace’s cock, helping him, guiding him, trying to push him over the edge again. Ace whimpers and squirms, overstimulated and embarrassed, but Shanks just eats it up.
“That’s it, Firefly,” he rasps. “Gonna come on me again? Greedy little thing.”
Another orgasm rips through him, searing and unstoppable. Ace moans, his whole body tightening, seizing as it crashes through him again, white-hot and electric, burning him up from the inside out. Another choked sound leaves him, and then his limbs go slack, his vision darkening at the edges.
Shanks curses at the feeling of Ace pulsing around him, at the way he weakly squirts just a little bit more over his hand.
“Fuck, good boy, good boy,” Shanks groans, voice thick and reverent. He keeps fucking into the mess they’ve made with slow, deep rolls of his hips, dragging out every last aftershock, like he’s trying to make Ace feel it—his touch, his words, all of it—until there’s no room left for doubt.
Ace blinks sluggishly, barely able to lift his gaze. His chest feels tight, but there’s barely any nerves this time—just the overwhelming flood of relief, of tenderness. The release is so complete that his body can’t hold onto it anymore, and before he knows it, a few tears slip down his freckled cheeks.
Shanks sees them immediately. His thumb catches one before it can fall too far, his expression softening as he brings it to his mouth to taste.
“You’re you, Ace.” Ace’s breath hitches. “And I don’t want anythin’ else. Never have.” The tears are coming faster now—hot and unexpected—and his chest aches with how much he wants to believe those words. His throat closes up, tight, but Shanks is there, sliding his hand over Ace’s stomach, up to his chest, thumbs stroking over the soft, sweat-damp skin that he marked. But not to claim, just to soothe.
Shanks sighs, shifting to press a slow, lazy kiss to Ace’s forehead, then another to his temple, his cheek. His hand settles over Ace’s heart again, warm and steady. “No one burns as bright as you,” he says, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “You hear me?”
Ace swallows, blinking slowly.
Shanks nudges their noses together, gaze soft but firm. “You don’t gotta be anythin’ else,” he murmurs, before smirking, nipping at Ace’s lips. “If I wanted Roger, I’d go dig him up.”
A rough, breathless laugh escapes Ace before he can stop it—half a laugh, half a sob—and Shanks huffs a chuckle of his own, pressing a final kiss to Ace’s mouth. Ace giggles into the kiss, still amused by the comment. It’s just the kind of fucked up joke he’d make in his own head, and hearing it from Shanks makes something nameless in his chest soar.
The laughter fades, but the warmth lingers.
Ace barely has time to process the weight in his limbs before sleep starts tugging him down, inevitable as the tide. His body is spent, his mind hazy, the pleasure still humming through his bones.
Shanks strokes his hair, slow and careful.
Ace had spent the night resisting, wanting to fight Shanks, trying to make him say all the things he already believes about himself.
But Shanks wasn’t fooled, and in the end, Ace finds himself with nothing left to fight against.
Shanks rolls onto his side, then lets his fingers trace soft, calming patterns on Ace’s skin, pulling him further from the edge of his thoughts. His breath evens out, slow and steady, the tension in his chest unwinding like a bowline knot being loosened.
“Hey,” he mumbles sleepily, rolling on his side to press closer.
“Hm?” Shanks answers, sounding just as tired.
Ace takes a nervous chance, reaching up and cupping the scarred side of the Yonko’s face. He leans into it, never taking his eyes off Ace’s warm, sleepy face. “Thanks for… Thank you, for…” He struggles to put it into words.
But then he can feel his body giving in—too exhausted, too full of everything—until his mind quiets, and there’s nothing left but the warmth of Shanks’ hand and the gentle lull of sleep that pulls him under.
The first thing Ace sees when he wakes is red hair—and he startles at the sight.
Shanks lies beside him, half-sat up on a few pillows, blanket pooled at his waist, sweat still cooling on his skin. His fingers brush Ace’s hair from his face, like he’s trying to keep him lulled in softness.
When the older pirate notices he’s awake, his face softens with something Ace can’t name. No one’s ever looked at him like that.
He feels like a trapped animal again—but it isn’t fear. It’s something else, and just as raw. He can’t name it, not when his brain’s still fogged up and fucked stupid.
Shit, he just got the wits fucked out of him; he tells himself not to take it too seriously.
“I know y’don’t like to hear it,” Shanks says, voice rough and low, “but you’re goddamn beautiful, boy.”
He shifts, like he means to reach for Ace. He even laughs, soft and surprised, like he’s forgotten he’s missing an arm—like the urge to touch the young pirate runs deeper than memory.
Ace tries not to stare at the space where his other arm would be. It makes him think of Luffy—of the kind of person Shanks must be, to have given up a limb to save his dumb, crybaby little brother. The thought warms him, with yet another thing he doesn’t want to name.
Shanks exhales a soft sigh, settling onto his back. “Sorry if things got a little weird there.”
“S’fine.” Ace says, flatter than he means to. He’d meant to downplay it—how much that weirdness turned him on—but now the softness between them curdles, heavy and awkward.
Shanks grabs a battered tin of cigarettes from the side table, and Ace watches him struggle one-handed to get one free. That gives him an idea on how to cozy things back up.
He leans up and snatches the cigarette from the Yonko, sticking it in his own mouth and sparking his finger—or trying to at first, before removing his Shanks’ damn ring—to light it. He takes a long drag, then plants the cigarette back between Shanks’ lips.
Ace flops back onto his arms, facing him, then blows the smoke through a sly grin. Shanks snorts, shaking his head, and draws deep from the cigarette.
“Thank you, Doll,” he says, lips curling into a smile so wickedly handsome Ace has to turn away to hide the butterflies it sends through him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, staring at the stained headboard instead of at him.
Shanks puffs lazy clouds of smoke in his direction, either to get his attention or to just to be a shithead. Ace bets on the latter, since Shanks has always been like that.
The first time his easy smile and lighthearted teasing had lured Ace to his bed, there was nowhere else the boy would have rather been. After feeling so alone for so long, it was nice to be wanted.
“This world ain’t been too kind to you, has it, boy?”
That’s what had started this, back in that cave where Ace found him.
And he’d been right. The world hadn’t been kind.
It had been easy—too easy—to sink into the warm, intoxicating pull of everything he’d been starved of since the day he was born.
“I can fix that, take care of you some. How’s that sound?”
Ace remembers Shanks’ calloused palm sliding up his thigh, remembers trembling under a frighteningly knowing touch. He can still hear the low, approving hums pressed into his overheated flesh.
Ace had been so, so lonely out on the Sea, even with the crew he’d built up. He was homesick for his baby brother’s love, still unsure of himself and his aspirations. Angry, confused, touch-starved—teetering on some teary-eyed line between embarrassingly virginal and shamelessly desperate for a firm, gentle hand. He’d felt like a fishing line about to snap.
But then Shanks had swiped an escaped tear from Ace’s cheek with his thumb before popping it into his mouth, just as he had tonight, and some part of him had been ignited.
The memory is so vivid that it has him wet and aching between his thighs again faster than he wants to admit.
No one else has made him feel like this. Not Deuce, not Marco, not Yamato… Not even that adorable little cook from The Baratie. Ace isn’t too proud to admit he’d grown a little sweet on him, those couple of days he stayed.
What he is too proud to admit—a truth that will never see the light of day—is that something in him changed when he realized Shanks’ knew who his father was, but didn’t want him dead for it.
He has so many questions about Roger, and he hates that he does, but part of him is desperate to try and fill in that empty space in his head, to try and color his father in with something other than hatred; if only to disprove the world that wanted him dead—if only to hate himself a little less, even for just a moment.
No, the world hadn’t been kind. But Shanks did what he’d promised—taken care of Ace, gently, effortlessly. Whenever he was with the man, he could forget about all the cruelty he’d endured. He could imagine what life would have been like if he’d been treated kindly from the start.
Maybe he wouldn’t loathe every breath he takes—if only the world had been kinder.
But why would it? And why would Shanks?
Ace knows he should be dead—should’ve been a long time ago. The whole world knows it. Maybe even Shanks. Does he pity him, then? Pity the walking corpse on borrowed time?
Shanks shifts beside him, puffing more smoke into the sex-stale air. The scent pulls Ace back to the present before he can sink too deep into memory.
“Hey—” He flinches away when Shanks puts his hand on his shoulder.
The anger is coming back—but he just wants tonight to end on a good note, not drowned in the same old shit his brain won’t let go of, not even for one second. Not even so he can have one good thing.
“S-Sorry. Hah, I’m…a little fucked up.” His palm flickers weakly as he presses it to his forehead, as if trying to cauterize the thoughts and memories before they can take root. “The… Sea prism, o-or too much booze, maybe? S’what I get for tryin’ to keep up with a drunkard like you.”
But Shanks doesn’t laugh like he expected, just runs his fingers through his sweaty, crimson locks.
He watches Ace closely, his easy amusement from earlier replaced by something quieter, something careful. Ace’s stomach drops.
“I need to ask,” he says, voice softer than it should be. Fuck. “Did you think I was gonna hurt you if I found out?”
Ace closes his eyes, holds in a sigh. He doesn’t know what to say.
Shanks exhales smoke, takes another slow drag from his cigarette. The ember flares, the only bright thing in the dimly lit room.
“I’m just wonderin’ what you keep comin’ to me for.”
Ace huffs a dry, dismissive laugh as he turns on his back, “The hell’re you talkin’ about, old man? Don’t tell me I fucked you stupid or somethin’.” There’s a fierce need in him to move things along—either with a fight or by getting the man on top of him again—but he just needs things to move along. “Look, I—”
“Is that what you came for?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “For someone to rough you up?”
Ace’s stomach twists. He hates how easily he’s been made. It’s not fair. His breath starts getting shallow. Why is Shanks doing this to him? Why does he care enough to in the first place?
Shanks sighs, setting the cigarette down in the ashtray beside the bed. Then, his voice quieter now, gentler—almost regretful, like he already knows the answer:
“Is that what you think you deserve, Ace?”
And just how the fuck is he supposed to answer that?
Ace squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenching so hard it hurts. His throat tightens, that hot ugliness swelling inside him again. He still can’t find any words, doesn’t know if he could even speak if he tried.
But Shanks is still there. Still watching, waiting. Not pressing, not demanding—just waiting, as if Ace might let him in.
But he doesn’t know if he can.
“W-What, you think you know everything?” He spits it through his teeth with all the venom he’s got. It’s not much, because Shanks just shrugs, his expression sharper now—clearer.
“I know what it looks like when someone’s tryin’ to punish themselves by callin’ it pleasure. I’ve done it, too.” He reaches over, brushes a strand of damp hair from Ace’s face. “You don’t owe me anythin’, Firefly. But I’m not gonna pretend I don’t see you.”
Ace swallows hard, says nothing. The silence between them thickens, heavy as a wet rope. Something sharp blocks up his throat—guilt or grief or the aching anger of being understood too well.
He doesn’t answer. Just stares at the ceiling and lets the silence stretch.
Ace curls away onto his side, trying to make his body smaller. He gets barely a few inches between them—just enough to reclaim the illusion of distance, of detachment.
Then a big, firm hand clamps down on his hip, holding him in place. Not punishing, not harsh. Just…solid. Final.
Shanks won’t let him get any farther away from him.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?”
Ace doesn’t answer. Doesn’t meet his gaze. Just shrugs, tension already building back under his skin.
Shanks drags his thumb over the curve of Ace’s waist. “Don’t. Don’t do that.” It’s not a command, not like before. He’s asking Ace to fight against every muscle that’s telling him to run.
Ace stiffens, jaw clenching until his teeth hurt. “Do what?”
Shanks leans in, close enough to speak against his ear. “Whatever it is you try to do to yourself every time you climb into my bed.”
Ace snaps. “Got a problem with how I fuck now?”
“I got a problem with you usin’ me like a weapon on yourself.”
His voice is low. Unyielding. Laced with the kind of certainty that doesn’t ask for agreement, or leave room for argument.
“You come to me sometimes like you’re starved for somethin’—like you’re chasin’ punishment, not pleasure. And you think I haven’t noticed?”
Shanks flips him onto his back with ease, bracketing Ace with his weight. Not pinning, not aggressive—owning the space. Owning him.
Ace doesn’t fight it. Barely breathes.
“You wanna feel somethin’?” Shanks rumbles low in his chest. His fingers curl gently around Ace’s throat—not squeezing, just there. A reminder. “You want someone to fuck you ‘til you forget who you are? Until the rest of the world is shut out?”
His grip tightens, just enough to make Ace’s breath catch on a whimper, his thighs to squeeze together.
“I’ll give you that. Just don’t lie about why you’re here. Not to me. And not to yourself.”
He tilts Ace’s chin up, so he has no choice but to look at him, eyes wide and exposed, like something’s cracked open, a wound he can’t hide. Shanks’ cool, steady gaze takes him in—not with pity, but with something deeper.
“I’ll take you apart, if that’s what you need,” he promises. “But I’m not gonna let you just disappear.”
Ace’s eyes sting, his chest tightens with the need to get out of here. He doesn’t know what’s worse, the way Shanks looks at him like he genuinely cares about the fucked up shit going on in his head, or the way some selfish, pathetic part of Ace wants to stay because of it.
He wants to throw himself into the Sea and jump into the older man’s arms all at once, just drown in him and feel safe and wanted and—
But what has he done to deserve that?
“You’re worth too much to me, kid. More than the world could afford.”
The words settle in his chest like an anchor, heavy and unfamiliar. He stiffens, his throat closing around a response that won’t come. He’s been laughing it off, cracking sharp little rebuttals all night—but now, he can’t. His body betrays him, trembling under the weight of something dangerously close to hope.
Shanks leans down and presses a soft, ghost of a kiss to his slack lips. Ace gasps when he tastes salt—his own tears, he realizes belatedly. He wipes at his cheeks, but the older pirate tuts softly, kissing the corner of his mouth with an affection that makes Ace’s breath stutter.
“Aww. You’re so sweet.”
A fresh sob wracks his chest before he can stop it, and the tears follow like they were waiting for permission. His body shakes, and when Shanks kisses his tears away, he licks them from his lips reverently, possessive in a way that Ace only craves more of.
Shanks gets his hand between Ace’s legs again, gets him whining and easily undone once more. This time, when he cleans the boy up, Ace doesn’t try to run. He lets himself be pulled close, lets himself breathe in the scent of salt and rum and sun; the scent of something like home.
“Stay the night,” Shanks murmurs against his temple, coaxing like he had the first time they met. “You’re in no shape to go wanderin’ around.”
Ace knows he’s right, and the warmth of his chest, the weight of his arm around him, feels too good to leave behind just yet.
“Said I’d take care of you, didn’t I? So let me.”
Ace doesn’t answer. He stays stiff for a long moment, still poised on the edge of fight or flight.
But Shanks is warm, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat drags him down like an anchor—but this time it feels safe, not like drowning. His muscles loosen as exhaustion wins out once more. His fingers curl into the fabric of the blanket. He lets himself believe—just for tonight—that maybe he’s not meant to be alone.
And if Shanks hears him cry again at some point in the night, he doesn’t say anything. He just holds him tighter, whispering things Ace can’t understand above his own sniffling—but feels, deep and real, all the same.
It’s not the sun that wakes him—it’s the deep, throttling snore of a forty-something pirate who definitely got the best ass of his life last night.
Dawn creeps in through the shutters, pale blue light slipping between the slats, reminding Ace his time to bask in the tangled warmth of the bed is limited.
He should go. But for now, he rests.
His cheek is pressed to Shanks’ chest, rising and falling with each slow breath. The bastard’s heart is steady, unfazed, like he hadn’t spent half the night rearranging Ace’s insides. His snoring rattles through his ribs, shaking Ace along with it.
Annoying. Endearing. Comforting.
Ace grabs Shanks’ hand, massaging the flesh between his thumb and finger—a little trick he picked up from sleeping next to Luffy, meant to quiet restless bodies and minds.
Shanks breathes in deep, exhales, then settles. Ace listens to the even heartbeat beneath his ear a little longer.
He could stay.
He could stay, let himself sink into the safety of Shanks’ arm, let himself be held for a while.
But that’s not him.
And it’s not them.
Ace got what he came for—some answers, a reset, a warm body to remind him he’s still alive.
That should be enough.
But it isn’t. They both know it.
Shanks shifts, stretching his arm before wrapping it around Ace again. He frowns and grumbles in his sleep, like he knows Ace is thinking of leaving. He tugs him close, like he’s trying to hold him there.
Ace could let him.
Could let himself have something good, even though he knows he doesn’t deserve it.
But eventually, it would take its toll.
Like a rabid dog, he’d chew through his own leg just to be free.
So, carefully, he unwinds Shanks’ thick arm from his shoulders, subconsciously memorizing the weight of it, the veins and muscles that strangely know exactly how to hold him down—how to ground him.
Shanks lets out a low, drowsy groan, reaching blindly for what was taken from him. Ace dodges it, and the older captain just sighs and sinks back into the mattress, his hand left half-open, still waiting.
Ace stares.
Memorizes the cut of his jaw, the way his scar carves through the side of his face like a story left unfinished. Memorizes the lips that could unmake him with nothing but a smile.
He memorizes the bare, peaceful, vulnerable form of one of the strongest men on the Seas.
And then, after setting the Sea prism ring on his pillow, he leaves.
The port is a longer ways away than he remembers, but last night he’d been keyed up and single-minded, so maybe he just hadn’t noticed.
It’s windy, so he holds his hat down and lets his fire warm him from the inside out. At the docks, Striker is right where he left her, ready as ever to cheat death with him as he follows the wind. He throws his bag beneath her boards, then starts picking apart the sloppy clove hitch he tied in a rush.
When he’s set and ready, his thoughts drift back to the man he left behind.
He pats his shorts down, checking each pocket until he finds the small tear of paper he’d been looking for. It’s warm, has a lifeforce to it.
Ace holds it flat in his palm, watching it gently tug in the direction of the inn.
Shanks’ voice drifts through his memory like a fire that won’t go out:
“You’re like a damn firefly, y’know? Hard to catch, harder to keep—always gone by mornin’.”
He could go back. Just for a while. Maybe until lunch. One more day, one more hour, one more minute—
If he’d seen how Shanks reaches for him when he wakes, half-asleep and frowning, hand closing around nothing but a cold ring and a warm sheet—if he’d seen how Striker’s fading light on the horizon only makes Shanks smile, soft and knowing—maybe he might’ve stayed.
But the Sea is calling.
So Ace kicks off with fire at his heels and the wind clawing at his hair, the pull of the Sea, stronger than anything else.
He doesn’t look back. Not today.
It’s easy, this time.
It won’t always be.
But now he knows that scrap of paper will always tug him somewhere worth returning to, so he’ll find his way back again.
Someday.