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Triptych Mechanicus

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“The most sadistic scene yoi?”

“Yeah. Like, the one you’ve been harboring for a while. The one you’re kind of ashamed to bring up.”

“I gotta say, this is a total surprise coming from you, Ace.”

“Well, I have some ideas, and it sounds like a fun challenge! I mean, we all like mechanical engineering.”

“Oh, sure, this is all about mechanical engineering.”

“You’re tryna tell me you don’t have any ideas?”

“Of course I have ideas. Sure, I’ll play. We’ll what, draw names from a hat?”

“Marco, you in?”

“Of course he’s in—he’s been speculatively eyeing that piston set-up since we came in.”

“And I really hope I draw your name, Sabo. The most sadistic scene.”

“Awesome! We have… three nights left? We’ll do one per night; I can hustle and get mine done by dinner, I think.”

“Don’t forget Jozu’s birthday celebration on the third night, yoi.”

“I call dibs on that night.”

“...Okay, okay, safewords are still a thing, but yes, we’re all agreeing to do our worst? No matter who we draw, Sabo?”

“Oh, I think you’re gonna regret saying that to him, yoi.”


First Night

Sabo was beginning to think that Ace intended jealousy to be part of the scene. Ace knew him well enough, Sabo thought, to play him and Marco at the same time.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Ace told Marco in cooing encouragement. Stark black bands struck across Marco’s face: a blindfold and a bar gag. The only other black in the tableau was the machine Ace had spent the day whipping up, and then instructed Marco to sit on. With only lubricant and no stretching, Marco had gotten naked and allowed himself to be penetrated by the bulbous little toy on top (which, while not too big, certainly would’ve ached going in). He’d settled on the round-topped, saddle-like machine with his knees touching the ground on either side. Then Ace had tied his ankles to his thighs, prompting Marco’s weight to go onto his knees, his spine to arch forward as to keep in place.

Ace had turned the machine on, and then proceeded with the rest of the decorating.

The gag went on first, and before the blindfold covered up Marco’s eyes, Sabo had seen Marco’s expression, clearly startled by whatever the machine was doing to him. Sabo would put money on twirling; given the lack of noise, even with the machine placed flat on the wooden floorboards, it probably wasn’t vibrations, and the subtle shifts of Marco’s body didn’t seem to correlate with thrusting action either. Ace, the purported fan of mechanical engineering, had worked out in one afternoon how to make a fake cock swirl up around Marco’s insides, with parts purchased from the island of clockwork enthusiasts.

Ace had also secured gold-threaded rope from somewhere. It’s what had gone around Marco’s legs, and what were now netting across Marco’s arms and back. When he’d been preoccupied with this, the machine set low, Sabo had heckled from the bed, “I thought you said most sadistic scene.”

“I’m getting to it,” Ace had replied, dismissive enough to clue Sabo in on how he wanted to play this. It certainly worked, getting Sabo’s hackles up, more disgruntled with every second that Ace spent lavishing attention on Marco instead of engaging with Sabo.

Next up were nipple clamps. Gold, of course, because Ace had an aesthetic. When he snapped the first one on and Marco bit hard into the gag, Ace hushed him with a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth, available around the leather.

“I know I promised needles,” was Ace’s sigh of regret. “But it was too short notice. You’ll have to settle for these, I’m afraid. Oh! But let me make it up to you.”

Ace had also worked out a neat little controller, with two switches and a dial. He turned up one of the dials, and the muscles across Marco’s front all rippled as a keen escaped Marco’s throat.

“Stay still for me now.”

The clamps were attached by a chain, just like Ace had promised, so long ago. Once both ends were secure, Ace gave that chain a happy little tug. Fixed a merchant’s weight to the center of it. Let it drop.

“Isn’t he a sight?” Ace asked rhetorically.

“Useless to me,” Sabo replied, and Ace shot him a look of disapproval.

“I like him ornamental.”

Speaking of—Ace pulled out another piece of jewelry, this one removed from a sealed bag for sanitization. It was a metal ring that, if laid flat, had extending perpendicularly from it a hook about two inches on the long side, the short curve down reaching maybe half that. Instead of a sharp point though, the hook had a ball attached at the end, hovering over the center of the ring. Gold.

“This is gonna be a little cold,” Ace warned, before dolloping a heavy amount of medical-grade lubricant on the head of Marco’s dick. The gold ring went around, and as Ace slipped it down the shaft, he also aligned the ball with the opening of Marco’s urethra. “Ready?”

The come stopper slipped into Marco’s cock with just the slightest push from Ace’s hand, and Marco gave the biggest jolt yet. In fact, he pitched forward so much Ace needed to catch him by the shoulders, lest he fell off the machine. Sabo got to see the toy inside Marco, its width not only tugging at Marco’s rim, but also gyrating in relentless circles, putting no doubt delicious pressure against Marco’s walls.

Ace pushed him back down, and the toy was entirely swallowed up by Marco’s ass again. Sabo swallowed around a dry throat.

“You taught me how to do that,” Ace said with soft fondness, cradling Marco’s face in his palms. “How do you like it?”

Marco’s nods were both desperate and eager, a trail of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth under the gag.

“Ready for more?”

Ace flipped the second switch, and got out three short lengths of chains. Sabo could now hear the guttural vibrations of the machine against the floorboards. They were weak though, because after a little start, Marco was spreading his legs more, now wanton in his efforts to grind down on the twirling, buzzing toy. His body had been given over entirely to submission, and the golden hoop at the tip of his bobbing cock glinted in candlelight.

“Still,” Ace ordered, catching the tip of Marco’s cock between two fingers. Marco’s obedience was immediate, though Sabo could see his thighs trembling with the strain of the hold. Sabo held his breath when Ace pushed Marco’s length flat down on the vibrating machine, holding it there.

He pulled out one chain, with not insignificant weights dangling from both end. Ace settled that just behind the head of Marco’s cock, and let go.

Marco made a sound in his throat that sounded a lot like a sob.

“Two more.”

The chain links weren’t insubstantial, so Sabo could only imagine how they felt, heavy shifting loops against Marco’s most sensitive skin. And the weights—they hit the sides of the machine where they hung, sibilating loudly as they conducted the vibrations back up the chain. Marco’s cock was so red, and getting harder by the moment. The come stopper though, was doing its job.

Ace laid the second chain down, and turned up the dial.

“Do not,” Ace remonstrated, flicking disapprovingly at one of the nipple clamps when the weights on Marco’s cock bounced off the sides of the machine, “let them slip.”

Sabo listened for it, but the noises coming from Marco’s throat sounded nothing like words. Nothing to indicate that he wasn’t entirely onboard with Ace’s most sadistic scene. It was a different style from what Sabo liked to dish out, and all the more delicious for it. The compliments for Marco, for example, usually came toward the end with Sabo, only once Marco was too strung out to process them in a regular way. What Ace could do for Marco was work at that soft underbelly, the part of Marco that flushed in happy pleasure at any open declaration of love.

And then, Ace could fucking wreck Marco. Ace could do this in a way with smiles and kisses that Sabo, on his own, with his relentless disparagement and clear-cut sadism, could never manage.

“Last one. You gotta tell me if anything hurts, alright?”

How Ace could love so blatantly, and still dish out hurt with that loving, Sabo hardly knew. Like a god with ichor in his veins, Ace received the gift of blood and pain with a cheery smile. When Ace took up the pulpit and the whip like this, his eyes shined like he had never been hurt—and that was part of his gift in return. A man like Marco was fucking made for supplication to Ace’s kind of deity, as kind as a hugging sickle. Marco gave, easy as ripe fruit, the succulent part of mango flesh and the garrulous drip of pomegranate juice.

“Stay,” Ace hummed happily.

So it was on this razor’s edge that Ace intended to leave Marco balanced. Sabo was truly marveling; Marco trembled almost in time with the vibrations, and Ace had little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He was playing the long game too, giving zero parameters for when Marco could be done. As if he fully intended to leave Marco there, mounted, a stag’s head after the hunt. I like him ornamental, indeed. Privately, Sabo thought about how Marco must be loving this, the shameless shedding of all boundaries, just Ace taking everything he wanted. Marco’s favorite tyrant. Ace’s favorite prey.

The sting of insecurity was as unpleasant as it was unwelcome. Sabo turned his head on instinct to hide his expression, but that motion was what drew Ace’s eye.

“Don’t,” Ace drawled, head tilted indolently over one shoulder to speak to Sabo, “be jealous.”

Sabo sucked in an offended, humiliated breath at the naked language. The slow blink of Ace’s eyelashes though, beckoned Sabo up from the bed and into Ace’s arms.

“You know I’ll always let you play with my toys,” Ace whispered into the crook of Sabo’s neck.


Second Night

Marco’s voice was still hoarse from Sabo’s brutal throat-fucking (and sundry) the night before. Ace was ever grateful that they had, all three of them, settled so well into each other that he could confidently conceive of the most perfectly painful scene for Marco, execute it, and come out the other end more loved and loving because of it. He and Sabo had taken turns in Marco’s mouth, played more with the dials, and then when Marco finally begged (and begged and begged, because Ace didn’t invoke Sabo’s sadism for nothing), pulled the come stopper free.

(And then Sabo, with a booted foot, had stepped on Marco’s cock, holding him down on the machine through and after orgasm. Marco had made such noises, he only got his voice back that afternoon.)

(Ace really did love Sabo’s decisive malice; Sabo had the ability to bring about play in ways Ace could only dream of, all perfect frostiness and the boots to match.)

Tonight though, Marco proclaimed to get his revenge. Sabo and Marco’s endless sniping back and forth was a constant source of amusement for Ace, and he wondered what might’ve happened had Sabo gotten Marco’s name instead.

(Wondered what Marco, ever-perceptive about Ace’s deepest fears and shames, would’ve built for him from this clockwork island.)

But—no point speculating, because Marco, bringing out large coils of rope (no gold inlay), promised a good show. Sabo was surprisingly quiet during the entire suspension, probably because he was actually pretty eager to take what Marco was supposed to dish out. Most of Sabo’s barbed comments, Ace knew, were baits on a hook, which Sabo swapped out for himself when Marco finally bit.

With practiced hands, Marco shaped a series of two column ties into a hip and chest harness. Sabo’s scars, they knew, irritated more easily against rope, so Marco was careful to distribute Sabo’s weight only against unmarked skin. Part of Marco’s scene was the rigging frame, a tall-standing contraption—presumably the promised fucking machine—at the side of the frame hidden under a black sheet.

When Sabo was finally in the air, he had one leg bound in half beneath him, the other pulled long and forward, exposing his ass. His arms were also stretched out, tied in front of his body with almost a spinal series of knots, secured palms-out against his lower knee. The result was of course Sabo being forced to bend forward. He could still look up and glare if he wanted to though, which he immediately demonstrated when Marco stepped away.

“By the time you’re done, I might be as ancient as you,” Sabo complained, wiggling in the suspension rebelliously. Ace caught Marco’s satisfied little smirk when the metal frame rigging didn’t even creak.

“My scene, yoi,” Marco shrugged, popping the cap on a bottle of lubricant. “I’ll take my time.”

While Sabo initially looked hopeful at the introduction of fingers in his ass, it soon became obvious that Marco only opening him up in the most perfunctory of ways. Almost doctor-like in his motions, Marco smoothed lubricant along Sabo’s inner walls, coaxing the muscles to release and simply coating the passage, before withdrawing all digits and setting the bottle aside.

More rope came out, and Sabo groaned, “come on.”

“I’ll give you one thing you like,” Marco compromised with a roll of his eyes. He doubled the length of rope over his hand, and looped it neatly around Sabo’s neck. Muted approval returned to Sabo’s expression.

The noose though, barely tightened more, even as Marco knotted it off and secured the end to the part of the frame above Sabo’s head. In fact, the entire suspension seemed mostly loose to Ace, with none of the exquisite tension they all knew Sabo liked to struggle against, feeling wholly immobilized.

Which, Ace realized, was certainly the point. I have to kill Marco, Sabo had once joked to Ace, he knows too much about me. Ace thought about the dual purpose of sadism, and knew Sabo had been all-too-correct in his assessment of the depths of Marco’s knowledge.

Purpose one, inflict torment on your partner.

Marco unveiled the machine he had devised—spartan and single-purpose. The cock attached to it was perfectly middling in size, flesh-toned, not even punishingly rigid. When Marco turned it on to test, it only did the one thing it was clearly made to do: thrust forward, pull back, thrust forward, pull back. There were two buttons on it. Speed one and speed two.

“Here you are,” Marco said pleasantly, fitting the cock to Sabo’s hole and pressing the first button. The pace, though slow (maybe a thrust a second), had quite the lengthy reach.

Though that wasn’t working out as well as Sabo had probably hoped.

When Marco stepped back in clear airs of satisfaction, it became obvious what game was afoot. The machine was fucking into Sabo, yes, but Sabo had also been suspended in such a way as to deny him any leverage to brace against. The result was Sabo swinging along with the thrust of the machine, not getting any of the depth or friction he needed.

His glare at Marco this time was pure venom.

“And what,” he asked through gritted teeth, “is the big idea here?”

“The rules are simple yoi,” Marco said, his tone ironic enough to invoke what Sabo liked so much to say to him. “This is all you get, until you do one thing for me.”

“And what is that?”

Marco stroked Sabo’s cheek with a fond thumb, and then smiled, all gunpowder and bayonet.

“Cry, yoi.”

Purpose two: enjoy yourself while they hurt. Ace swallowed hard, and adjusted his stance for relief. What a tripwire for Marco to pick—yes, Sabo could summon crocodile tears at the drop of a near-sociopathic hat, but Sabo wouldn’t do that now, here. Not after Marco’s laid down the challenge: to cry was to forfeit, and if Sabo could be counted on to do anything, it was holding forfeiture in violent contempt.

“As fucking if.”

Sure enough, Sabo steeled his jaw, and jerked his chin away from Marco. He coughed a little at the resultant choke of rope against his windpipe, but he’s made his point. Marco held his hands out in smug surrender, and stepped all the way back.

So began the show. Sabo first tried using what give in the ropes he had to swing himself down on every forward thrust of the machine. It kind of worked, giving him more penetration than before. The victorious light was quick to devolve back to frustration though, when A, his abs got quickly sore from the jerking, and B, two lines of rope burn marked above and below his Adam’s apple. Marco had probably spent more time figuring out the suspension than working on the machine, which chugged along at its same, steady pace.

Marco turned and wrapped an arm around Ace’s waist.

“While we wait yoi,” he said, low and sultry, pleased with both himself and the impressed look Ace couldn’t quite keep off his own face, “how shall we entertain ourselves?”

“Haven’t we already played at leaving him out yesterday?” Ace said in light apprehension. His hands were already peeling open Marco’s shirt though, so he mentally apologized to Sabo for his lack of discipline.

“Sabo can join us whenever he wants,” Marco reminded everyone in the room. He slipped a hand down the back of Ace’s shorts, and Ace groaned obligingly. “He knows what to do.”

“Fuck you old man,” Sabo snarled from his nest of ropes, and Ace happily let himself become the favored toy between Sabo and Marco’s tug of war, welcoming Marco’s tongue deep into his mouth.

“Fine yoi. We’ll all have fun.”

It took Marco’s third check of circulation in his limbs for Sabo to crack.

Fuck—”

“Yes?” Marco hummed mildly, lifting Sabo slightly to rub at Sabo’s bent leg. The hold, too, held Sabo in place against the machine enough to get the fake cock penetrating all the way inside Sabo. Voice cracking in the middle of his shout, Sabo jerked against Marco’s hold, but was quickly released once more. As he swung alone in the air again, Sabo made a choking sound that stopped Marco in his tracks.

“What was that yoi? I didn’t hear you.”

“You’re a fucking bastard,” Sabo whispered. Sweat was pouring off every visible inch of his body, and Ace longed to step forward and sooth him. Give him the fucking he wanted. But he’d have to surrender to Marco first. “You’re really—the worst—

“And you,” Marco laughed, indulgent and loving as he cupped his hands around Sabo’s face again, “are so stubborn, aren’t you?”

There was resistance left in Sabo, yes, but Ace could see the way he had settled fully into the ropes, letting all the painful stretches and digs into skin soak thoroughly into his body. The way Marco had positioned his palms out made Sabo look incredibly vulnerable, all trussed up with no satisfaction. In the perfect position to, after all the teasing and frustration, screw his face up and cry.

Sabo’s bottom lip wobbled, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Do you know why I want to make you cry?” Marco asked quietly, cherishingly as he brought his face closer to Sabo’s. If Sabo weren’t too busy controlling his breathing through shaky streams of air, Ace was sure he’d answer, ‘cause you’re a sadistic old prick keen on humiliating me. “You know that I love you, right?”

Ace felt his heart squeeze at those words, his own state of arousal completely forgotten in favor of the scene Marco was putting on.

“You know yoi, how much I love your body?” Marco continued, stroking down the rope-strewn length of Sabo’s torso with a dragging hand. The machine continued to push Sabo back and forth ever so slightly. “How flexible you are, how much pain you can take?

“Do you know how beautiful I think you are?

“Your hair.” Darkened at the roots with sweat. “Your eyes.” Fevered and pooling with saltwater, but not yet letting them fall. “Your lips.” Gnawed red, then pressed white beneath Marco’s hand. “Your scars.” Kissed. A wet gasp of breath. “I love all of you, yoi, and you know what I love the most?”

Sabo was suspended at such a height that Marco didn’t even need to lean down to be eye-to-eye. And Marco’s hands slipped into that beloved hair, drawing Sabo’s head back until Sabo’s face was fully exposed to the air. Red, sweaty. Marco kissed him oh-so-sweetly on the lips, the softest negotiation of flesh against flesh.

“Your heart,” Marco said, “your mind. And I want all of it, yoi. So—” His fist suddenly tightened, and one jerk pressed Sabo’s throat hard against the noosing rope. “—cry for me, love.”

Sabo did, mouth opened in a soundless scream as tears finally spilled onto his cheeks. Marco released his hair, but not yet his face, leaning forward again to lap up those tears, kissing them away right from the source when more water came.

“That’s it, yoi. That’s perfect. You’ve done so well.” Marco’s gaze found Ace’s, fever-bright and just a little sheepish. “Ace, would you mind?”

“Not at all,” Ace breathed. He made his way over to the machine, and waited for Marco’s nod to press the second button.

The machine roared into life, the speed of its thrusts increasing perhaps fivefold. Marco, now with his hands on Sabo’s body, could fully brace Sabo, and the cock plunged deep into Sabo’s ass in perfect machine abandon. Sabo howled. Came almost immediately. Cried some more when Ace reached for his legs, only to pull them a bit wider apart.

“See now,” Marco said, biting at Sabo’s lips through Sabo’s uncontrolled ah! Ah! “Now we get to have fun, yoi.”


Third Night

Marco could hear the sounds of their crew partying from beyond the curtained walls of the room. Jozu’s birthday, and Sabo had called dibs. Drawn Ace’s name.

The moment Sabo had guided the blindfolded Ace into the room, he had immediately deposed Ace to the ground with a swipe of a leg. Ace had grunted in surprise, but kept his voice down, in awareness of the crowd beyond the clearly not-soundproof walls. Not just any crowd, their crew, their family.

So Ace was wrestled into submission in relative silence, the blindfold pulled triumphantly off his face. Sabo’s ropework was significantly less involved than Marco’s, but it did the trick: one of Ace’s feet pulled up tight and straight above him, so that only the top half of Ace’s back could brace against the ground. His arms were strapped easily at the wrists behind him, and his other ankle attached to that. Ace still had range of motion, and Marco imagined, if Ace truly wanted to get out, he could just do an immense sit-up and chew through the rope his foot was hanging by.

Marco folded his arms across his chest, leaned back against the dark velvet curtain encasing all four walls around them, and waited.

“So funny story,” Sabo said, not bothering to keep his voice all that quiet. It should still be fine at this volume though, Marco surmised, provided Blamenco kept guffawing as loudly as he was doing outside. “I suck at engineering, so I made the thing but it barely works.”

To demonstrate, Sabo wheeled out his version of the fucking machine, with one tall stem and an arm coming out of it with the cock attached at the end. It was the same sort of thrusting mechanism as Marco’s, only aimed downward.

Ace was already prepared, as per Sabo’s pre-blindfold instructions, so the toy slipped in him easily. But when Sabo flicked at a switch, settled between bundles of wiring on the body of the machine, nothing happened.

“See? My bad.” Leaving everything exactly where they were though, Sabo stepped away from Ace with a bright shrug. “Guess you’ll just have to do all the work, Ace.”

Marco could feel his own eyes widening at what Ace was being told to do. Then he chuckled; he had to hand it to Sabo, coming up with this kind of innovative play on the fucking machine. If it can’t fuck you, you gotta fuck it.

Visibly tentative, Ace engaged his core muscles and thrust up against the machine. It was nothing like the frozen state Marco had suspended Sabo in—Ace had perfect leverage, if an awkward angle. Ace fucking himself on the machine like this was as good as a gym workout, and soon, all of Ace was agleam with sweat. His gaze flitted up uncertainly at Sabo, looking like he wanted to question the instructions so badly, but not wanting to risk his crew overhearing.

“That’s it,” Sabo said encouragingly, “keep it up. And maybe I can fix this machine while you do.”

“You’re—I don’t—”

Ace’s clenched-jaw protests broke off in time with an inopportune crest of silence outside. He was so much more sensitive to the potential of exposure than Sabo was, Marco recognized, in a way that wasn’t just about it being to people he knew. All of Ace’s casual nudity in their day-to-day and the showy décor to his body (both permanent and impermanent) might indicate a merry exhibitionism, but Marco knew it was more complex than that. The time that Ace requested a sensory deprivation scene was a moment of key insight into his relationship with general existence. Ace, with his indulgence in politesse and feats of performative daring, liked the control of his public image, liked to curate how he existed in the eyes of others.

Trust Sabo to needle exactly where it’d sting the most; Ace, hung upside down like nothing more than a showpiece, was told to take his own pleasure in the most immodest display. There’s no dignity here, only the primal threat of exposure, with a milling, unaware crowd pressed so near, waiting on entertainment.

“Ah!” Sabo exclaimed cheerily, and Ace flinched in an aborted motion to shush him. “I think I got it.”

The machine he’d built shuddered to life. It carried standard, happy vibrations that wouldn’t have been out of place in, say, Thatch’s walk-in refrigeration unit. The buzz of it against the floor though, was loud enough that Marco heard tittering comments about it outside—Blenheim, this island and its damn machines. You hear them running twenty-four seven with no reprieve.

Curiel, they’ve got some fantastic weaponry though.

Ace, foot twitching in its rope hold, stared up at Sabo in barely concealed panic, along with a healthy dose of I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. Sabo’s hands paused in his rewiring (which of course was just for show, Marco realized a bit belatedly).

“Yes?” That was Sabo’s most put upon tone. Whenever he used that sort of voice on Marco, it tended to be exponentially more bitchy. For Ace, he just sounded like a wary, exasperated tutor who knew that his tutee’s nescience was deliberate. “If you want something, you gotta ask for it.”

Ace opened his mouth, but no words came out. The choice of location, timing, and Sabo’s treatment had so efficiently put him in a nonverbal headspace, his limbs already trembling with strain and humiliation. This was Sabo’s game at its finest.

With a little simper, Sabo left the machine for just a moment, and with grease-stained fingers tilted Ace’s head up. They got close enough that Marco thought Sabo would kiss him.

“And I’m about to make it so much worse for you,” Sabo spoke, lips grazing Ace’s, looking so utterly pleased to be doing this. It was as intimate as a kiss. “Would you like to see? Marco, my lovely assistant, come over here please.”

With an amused huff, Marco approached, and let Sabo position him standing upright directly in front of Ace. He turned with Sabo toward the far wall—the one that Ace would be staring at if he just arched his neck back from where he’s bound. Sabo’s hands curled into the dark velvet cloth, and the rings it hung from rattled on the bar above.

Sabo threw the curtains open and revealed the glass wall underneath.

“Tadaa!” he stage-whispered, as Ace gave his most violent jerk on the ropes yet. Even Marco was startled, heartbeat speeding as he came face-to-face with the bright room, the party, and Thatch directly outside. Looking in. Then looking away. Thatch’s expression, though Marco was so damn sure their eyes had met, gave no indication that he’d seen Marco, much less Ace impaled on a fake dildo hung upside down behind Marco.

“St. Glass material,” Marco blurted out, and Ace’s terrified little whimpers stoppered. “How did you—”

“Got lucky,” Sabo answered absently. All of his attention was focused on Ace, and Marco stepped aside (like a yielding sentry) to let him approach Ace once more. There had only been a dim overhead light in the room before, and now, with the light outside pouring in, Marco could see Ace’s torso dappled with cold sweat, his completely flaccid cock, his eyes wide and glassy as they stared straight ahead at nothing.

“Ace?” Sabo said quietly, stroking Ace’s bottom lip with a thumb. “Say my name for me, won’t you?”

“S-Sabo,” Ace breathed out, then forcefully recoiled from the direction where, on the other side of the wall, Haruta and Namur were sassing each other with increasing loudness. “Sabo.”

“Now say Marco if you want to stop.”

Ace’s jaw wavered before he clenched his teeth.

“Can’t you close the curtain?” he begged in an anguished undertone.

“I had wanted to pull them all open,” Sabo replied with an uncompromising eyebrow lift.

“How do I—How do I end this?”

“Without safewording, you mean?” Ace nodded jerkily, shifting in his ropes. The cock was still buzzing away inside him, and it couldn’t have been comfortable. “Nothing you haven’t done before—I’ll let you down once you come.”

Ace arched up toward Sabo, looking so tortured that Marco was honestly impressed Sabo hadn’t given up the ghost. While neither Marco nor Sabo were particularly good at hurting Ace, Sabo always seemed to take it far more to heart. It made Marco wonder how much it was tearing him up on the inside, to keep so calm and cool while Ace was practically crying beneath him.

(But what a great gift Sabo gave them, when he got like this. Masochism only kept the company of shame, but sadism had fettered to it ignominy and self-loathing. They all switched roles, but it was only Sabo who sat with sadism like it was live wires coiled around his insides both scorching his heart and keeping it beating. Marco would never stop being grateful for Sabo’s daily decision to not only work through that agony, but also wrap it up and hand it over, even when he himself didn’t believe it to be a worthy gift.)

He gave Ace pain to fight through.

“I don’t think I can,” came Ace’s tattered confession. Sure enough, Sabo stroked his still-soft cock, humming in sympathy.

“Sure you can.” Sabo’s voice came warmer now, the ardent encouragement he was always ready to offer Ace. That tone never failed to make Marco slip, for just half a second, into self-consciousness, worried he was intruding on their intimacy. “You’ve always loved putting on a show for us, haven’t you? Look at you now—stunning. Might as well oil you up and call you a god.”

“Sabo...”

“And if you need help, then you only need to say,” Sabo continued flippantly. He tipped forward, knees falling on either side of Ace’s face so that he was within licking distance of Ace’s dick. Sabo spat first though, a pragmatic wetting of skin that still had Ace mewling in sensation. Sabo stroked, fingers curving in articulated arches around Ace’s shaft. Gloved. “Handjob? Blowjob? Something to get you started.”

Sabo,” Ace whined, before remembering where he was and clamming up again. His eyes were screwed so tightly shut Marco thought he must be holding back tears.

“That’s my name,” Sabo said agreeably, before taking Ace all the way down in his mouth. Slowly circumambulating the display, Marco could see Sabo’s throat working and working, the tosses of Ace’s head getting more and more frustrated. Finally, Sabo released Ace with a satisfied sigh, the length hard once more as it bobbed out of Sabo’s mouth. “There we go. I’m afraid you’ll have to do the rest of the work though.”

Sucking in a steadying breath, Ace did as Sabo bid, bucking up until he’d taken the entirety of the fake cock’s buzzing length in him. Then he slid down, and fucked himself back up again. Sabo got to his feet, pleased.

“That’s it. You’ve always been so wonderfully athletic.”

The ropes, the motions, Sabo’s voracious gaze—it all made Ace look puppet-like, dancing to his master’s tune. When Ace found the perfect angle to arch up into, he stared right back at Sabo, clinging, with eyelashes and soul, to Sabo’s attention, like it was the only thing he could keep moving for, the only thing that kept him agent. This, now, was Ace at his most exquisite state of vulnerability, every layer of tissue stroked wide open, wet and parted for Sabo’s perusal.

Sabo got a hand on the curtains once more, and slowly drew it further apart.

More light danced in, and tears fell from the corners of Ace’s eyes. Ace’s teeth were all bared in a silent shout, but he stayed hard. If anything, he fucked himself with more fervor, abdominal muscles carved and aching along his front.

“That’s right, none of them can see you,” Sabo told Ace in a baritone of contentment. “Just us. You’re doing all this just for us.”

It was small and probably stupid, but Marco felt a warm bloom of gratitude at Sabo’s choice of pronoun. He mirrored Sabo’s pace around the room, as each curtain was drawn fully into a corner, and they became gradually surrounded by familiar faces. Ace didn’t look, just kept his eyes closed as he continued, determined, in his motions. Sabo let him.

“You love performing for Marco in particular, don’t you?” Marco raised his gaze, and let Sabo beckon him forward once again. Sabo pressed warmly up to Marco’s back, and dropped his hands to the front of Marco’s pants. “He’s so respectable. You love that he’d watch you at your most depraved, and still love you for it. You love that he sees your filth and thinks it gold.”

Sabo palmed Marco’s partial hardness, first through his pants, then skin-to-skin. Sabo’s free hand wrapped around Marco’s eyes and pressed his head back, as the other hand proceeded in brutal strokes.

“Ace, look.”

Now that it was Marco who couldn’t see, he could only imagine what Ace was opening his eyes to. Marco standing so visibly over him. Sabo determined to fist Marco to completion in record time. Commanders and crewmates standing about, mugs of rum in hand and none the wiser. Marco made no effort to stop the tightness drawing up in his balls, allowing Sabo to aim him, then take him over the edge. Ace cried out, self-muffled, in mortification.

“Perfect,” Sabo told Marco, tucking him back in his pants with a solicitous little pat. “You should thank Marco for that.”

That, of course, being the streaks of come splattering down Ace’s front and even his face. Marco shivered at the sight, and Sabo treated him to a kiss on the neck.

“Well? He’s waiting.”

“Thank you,” was Ace’s barely audible whisper.

“Thank you Commander.”

“Thank you Commander,” Ace managed a little louder, as he got on another angle of penetration. No matter how athletic, Ace’s energy was flagging now, and Marco knew he’d have to go over the edge soon. “Sabo—Sabo please.”

“Yes?” Sabo folded his hands, all, Yes Ace? What can I do for you today, Ace?

“Turn the fucking machine on,” Ace demanded, too loud. Whitebeard pirates outside meerkated, noting the continued absence of their Second Division Commander (despite the allusion to his distinctive voice), and carried on talking.

Sabo’s lips split into a mean grin.

“Oh, sure.” As if he hadn’t made a whole song-and-dance about the ineffectiveness of the machine. “It’ll be louder than that, though.”

One twist of wires, and the machine immediately kicked into overdrive, practically punching in and out of Ace in its eager performance. It wasn’t actually louder than Ace’s voice had been, and nobody outside paid it any more attention—Marco knew then that Sabo had spent most of his allotted competition time engineering that relative quietness, because both of Ace and Marco’s machines had been much, much louder.

Ace, though—

Sabo’s hand clamped tight over Ace’s mouth, the dark leather creaking as it muffled Ace’s mindless scream. Outside, Speed Jiru had shattered a glass for no apparent reason, and attentions gravitated away toward the commotion. It left Marco feeling like he’d accidentally been tossed into the eye of the storm and now was in free-fall, none of the rules he’d just been playing by now applying. Sabo reached for Ace’s hips, held him just so, and Ace screamed some more, shaking violently into orgasm.

“Yank some of the wires out, won’t you?”

Marco obeyed, drawing the fake cock completely free from Ace even as the machine slowed to a stop. Ace’s hole was red and wet, calling to Marco’s tongue—but this was Sabo’s scene, and Marco wouldn’t interrupt that. Sabo was now smearing the come decorating Ace’s chest—both Marco’s and Ace’s own—into skin, rubbing the wetness on his gloves over Ace’s nipples and Ace’s lips. Ace was hanging entirely limp in his ropes, arms heavy and no doubt straining his shoulders as they swayed at his back.

“That’s it. You did everything I wanted so perfectly.”

“Sabo…”

“You’re perfect. How the hell did I get so lucky as to have you?”

In that bright little room transparent only from the inside, surrounded by family and loved ones, Marco turned his back to Sabo and Ace with a helpless smile, giving them a little privacy.


“So who won?”

“I think it’s safe to say we’re all winners, yoi.”

“But who gets the five million belli?”

“Where the fuck did you get five million belli from?”

“You know. Piracy.”

“You are the only non-pirate in this room.”

“Okay fine, so I don’t have five million belli. But seriously though, who built the best machine?”

“I did, obviously.”

“Now wait a—”

“Hang on yoi—”

“Mine had two motions, plus a dial for intensity. Yours only had two speeds, and yours worked for all of two seconds.”

“Yeah ‘cause it only took two seconds for you to nut—”

“And the competition wasn’t about complexity, it was about the scene.”

“Marco’s right.”

“...Hang on yoi, I gotta savor this moment.”

“Don’t push it. I’m still mad at you for the hanging thing.”

“It’s pronounced grateful.”

“It doesn’t matter because you’re wrong and Marco’s wrong. I clearly said it was a mechanical engineering competition, and my machine was clearly superior.”

“...Well, if he wants to be the judge that badly…”

“It’s only fair if he tries out all the machines, isn’t it yoi?”

“Hey wait—”

“Grab his legs.”

“I’ll show you a winning machine.”