#marco will beg on his knees head tipped back because sabo has yanked his head back by the grip he has on his hair

[xamaxenta]

Marcosabo smoking together its a thing they do

Marco only says it once like, that shitll kill you yoi

And sabo looks up from where hes lit his own cigarette with a snap of his fingers

He looks awful, huge dark circles under his eyes, theyre deep purple and bruised looking, his cheeks hollower than usual and his scar looks particularly mottled and pronounced when cast in the light of the cherry red tip

He shrugs and exhales a thin stream of smoke through his nose “its comforting.” Is all he has to say, mumbles around the filter

Marco gets it. Being a man of flames himself, the Phoenix whets the effects and burns away the impurities, he wonders if the mera mera functions in a similar way, Ace never was the smoking type so he never thought to ask

“You should find better comforts” Marco replies

Sabo doesnt look at him, focusing on something far out in the distance on the sunset horizon from where they stand on the ocean torn cliffs together

Its quiet for a long while, the sound of night critters and crickets singing and chirping, the gentle whip of weather aged fabric fluttering beside them, Sabo brushes a hand over the sun warmed stone, stone that remained warm even on the coldest nights, bare fingers tracing the carved letters of his deceased childhood couldve been—

“Like what.” Its not a question or a demand or anything really.

“A hobby perhaps.” Marco suggests and Sabo smiles, lips curving into something a little mean and a little sardonic “I went out of my way and made the time to visit you on this shitty little island and all you have to say to me is get a hobby?”

“What would you rather have me say?” Marco turns to look at him properly, its their first eye contact since Sabo arrived with his bag of tributes, flowers of course. White roses, sake and a prayer for Newgate, and pink hibiscus, orange firelilies and sunflowers; for Ace.

Sabo says nothing continues to sink his fingertips into the grooves of the letter A and bites down harshly on the filter of his smoke.

“Marco I want you to ask me to stay.” Marco changes his voice, altering it deeper and accenting it in that infuriatingly posh and mocking tone that he often adopts when mimicking Sabos voice

“You know I cant.” Sabo says quietly, feels the heat of his burnt down cigarette dangerously close to his lips, he doesnt care though, if he closes his eyes he can pretend.

“Then what about when its all over?” Marco doesnt sound hopeful

“When its all over? Id be lucky to even be alive when its all over.” He doesnt usually do bleak, but Sabo doesnt expect to see the future hes been fighting so hard for

Marco heaves a great sigh, it comes from his belly and leaves his mouth ashy and smoky.

“I don’t particularly cope well with loss.”

Sabo flinches. Draws his fingers away from Ace’s headstone sharply and looks away. Guilt sinking sharp claws into his stomach and tearing him open from the inside.

Of all the foolish and tactless things he couldve said.

“I dont think this is working out for us.” Is what he says instead.

Instead of sorry

Instead of i didnt mean it

Instead of i love you, i want to come home to you

Marco remains quiet, its too dark now with the sun having fully set a few minutes prior, to figure out what exactly his expression had changed to.

“You made time just so you could break up with me?”

It’s a little ludicrous, when spoken aloud like that.

“This isnt love.” Sabo rasps, that tiny blip of heat sitting just on the tip of his tongue now, he’s tired, its always hard coming here.

“Couldve fooled me.” Marco drawls, his tone betrays nothing but theres a difference in the way he says me, he steps closer regardless.

Sabo cant exactly see him now, refuses to ignite to sate his curiosity, just his general silhouette because the moon tonight is new and the island of Sphinx is very quiet and very dark.

“Here.” Marco proves a personal hypothesis— the phoenix has some kind of night vision— because Sabo has no other theory to explain when Marco finds his hand with ease, threads their fingers together with familiarity, “at least spend the night.”

Before i leave you and this place forever. Sabo doesnt vocalise this.

“And let you have the opening to convince me?” Sabo doesnt pull away

“Im not beneath begging.” Marco replies and Sabo watches his silhouette move, that half cigarette gets flicked off the side of the cliff with a smart snap of the phoenixes wrist

“Then beg.” Sabo whispers through a mouthful of ash and blood, snarling because Marco will beg, when he doesnt have to and Sabo will stay and see in him what Ace always had and loved and will continue to

[touchmycoat]

kinktober: day 10

day 10: flogging

the sub!Marco saga continues...

(CW: the flogging is done with a metal chain, which is absolutely a thing irl! Bike chains!)

//

//

“Good,” Ace said primly, before blowing a stream of cool air over Marco's chest. The sound Marco made was inhuman. “Thank you for your honesty.”

“I have,” Sabo muttered, attention fixed on Ace's lips, the corners of which turned up into a smug little grin when Ace noticed, “a fantastic idea.”

Ace—beautiful, generous Ace—straightened and gave Sabo the kiss that he craved, right there next to Marco's cheek. Sabo stroked the arch of Marco's neck along with the strokes of Ace's tongue, and pressed their bodies even closer together.

“Marco,” Sabo husked into Ace's mouth, “I'm gonna fuck you. But before that, I'm gonna beat you until you beg for mercy. Would you like that?”

“Yes.” The answer came immediately, guttural and groaning. Marco's hips were stuttering like he didn't know whether it was better to arch forward into Ace or back into Sabo. “Anything you want yoi.”

“Anything?” Sabo's critical tone was paired with a scolding rake of nails across Marco's Adam's apple, and Ace turned his head to watch, blinking with the indolent satiation of big cats facing cornered prey.

“Anything,” Marco promised. The sheer amount of power he was trusting Sabo with was as heady as it was aggravating. This was probably slightly different from what Ace was feeling, Sabo reflected. For Ace, the sharp edges were a weapon, wielded and worn to damage but ultimately home in a scabbard or stored away in a chest. For Sabo, the edges were underneath—if he just unfolded his fingers like peeling away skin, he could show Marco the metal belt buckle inside. What pretty bruises it would make.

But—

“This would be too easy for you.”

Sabo stepped back with a wink and a loud, mean slap to Marco's flank. As he crouched to pull out the box underneath the bed, Ace draped himself over Marco from the front, lazily grinding his hips.

“What, the flogger?” Ace asked dubiously. “Haven't we used it on you already?”

“I'm just an average, breakable human with fragile skin and nothing to prove. That nice soft flogger is mine,” Sabo replied absently, sliding the big heavy box aside as he reached past it. The nature of a ship—no matter how large—was that space was limited and sometimes, the corners underneath your bed ended up stuffed with sailing material.

Sabo grabbed a large fistful of the metal rigging chain coiled beneath the mattress, and yanked it out into the light.

Marco didn't even see it, but the sound was enough. The noise he made in response—Ace didn't even bother asking for mercy.

“Oh.” Fingers clawing into the welts on Marco's back, Ace's eyes went dark and vicious. “Can I do it?”

“Um, yes.” As if Sabo's ever wanted anything else. Haki in his fingers, it was a simple matter to cut off a suitable length of the chain, about as long as his belt. A bottle of medical-grade alcohol from Marco's shelf emptied into a wooden basin, and Sabo was watching the minute, anticipatory shivers of Marco's back as he loudly dipped the chain in and out of the sterilizing bath. “I think I'll get his dick in my mouth.”

How much more, Sabo wondered as he approached, would it take to drive Marco fully insane? Like some smooth courtship dance, Ace backed away as Sabo got closer, cocked his head in vivid consideration as Sabo draped the chain first over Marco's shoulders. Marco flinched at the touch, then at the cool burn of the alcohol dripping down his torso.

And Sabo was about to make this so much harder for him.

“The rules are simple,” Sabo declared. He glided a hand down Marco's left arm to the elbow, then guiding the whole limb up until Marco's upturned palm was about shoulder-level. There was a hardcover book on the desk, which he placed in Marco's hand. There was also a drinking glass (one of three), which he placed on top of the book.

There was a pitcher of drinking water, which Sabo slowly tipped, until the glass balanced on the book was filled to the brim.

“One,” he told Marco, “you don't have to say mercy if you don't want to. If the water spills, we stop. Easy as that.”

Which was the punishment and which was the reward?

“Two.” With a nonchalant crack of his neck, Sabo dropped to his knees in front of Marco. He glanced up with a flash of teeth. “Try not to move your hips too much, yeah? You know I have that sensitive gag reflex.”

Sabo didn't think there was a more intoxicating sight than Marco's expression at that moment, telegraphing so clearly, I don't think I can do this.

...He was proven wrong just a second later, when Marco's met his gaze, eyes all hazing and trusting, pledging, but I will since you asked me to.

All, thank you for asking me to.

Ace took up the chain, and Sabo took Marco's cock between his teeth.

//

The chain was brutal on his back.

Pain, Marco thought, was pain. There was nothing unclear about it. It wasn't pleasure, not like a warm lap of tongue against sensitive flesh, nor was it the ecstasy of friction and accelerating tempos. Pain was pain, was thudding where the weight of the metal slammed into his flesh, was stinging where the tail-end chain link licked into his skin. Pain was the enamel edges designed to rend meat scraping up the length of his cock as Ace guided his hips forward then back, in and out of Sabo's mouth. Pain was the strain in both his arms, but particularly the left one, outstretched without support and weighted so precariously on his shaking palm.

Pain was pain, and Marco loved every fucking second of it.

How could he not? There was the bone-deep quivering shame of not being the one on his knees, the one in service and of use. But with that came the allaying recognition that all this was punishment and righteous. This was what Marco, when he wanted to be at the center of attention, deserved. This was him taking and taking and taking what the two most beautiful boys in the world wanted to give him. This was them trusting him with their darkness and their blood.

It was the least Marco could do, giving his in return.

There really wasn't that much blood; the part of Marco's mind doused in phoenix fire was certain, absolutely clear on the extent of his wounds even as Marco held it back. His back though, felt dripping with it. It must be the alcohol, cold then burning against the breaks of skin, trickling down a swathe of muscle before catching in another welt right underneath. It felt like Ace was flaying him open, and Marco wanted nothing more than to bare his ribs.

And Sabo—that wicked, brilliant brain. He who designed this particular round of torture, he who announced the rules. The cup of water stood tall and trembling, but not a single drop has spilled over its edge (onto Marco's accounting book, Sabo that bastard). How the hell had Sabo found the exact perimeters of what Marco was capable of, then gotten his fingers in, then stretched Marco open to accommodate him and Ace? How the hell was Sabo grinning slyly up at Marco, all white teeth and hot breath, promising to ruin Marco if he broke and to ruin Marco if he didn't?

The next lick of Ace's chain struck so perfectly into a previous welt that Marco had to scream. The glass didn't tip. The next lick of Sabo's tongue lapped insistently under Marco's foreskin and into his slit. The glass didn't tip.

Fuck. I can die like this.

The game, Marco knew, was no fun if he held out for too long. He knew the role he was meant to take, going boneless and trembling with exhaustion as he finally let the water glass fall, shatter on the floor portending Marco's own fate. He knew he could take hold of the mercy so readily offered and be helped to the bed. Be gently stretched opened and then thoroughly filled.

But—the arm stayed up, stayed steady, shot through with rigid iron and a determined shout of No! You can take this! You can take it all. It was a mantra preaching selflessness. Take everything they want to give you. It was the most selfish shock of thrill. This is what I want. They are hurting you because you asked for it. This is all for me.

Sabo, jaw probably sore, allowed his lips to draw back over his teeth, encasing Marco in a silky wet warmth. His hands gave Marco's pants a firm downward tug, and obligingly, the material fell puddled at Marco's feet. When Marco shifted to lift his legs, Sabo stopped him.

Leave it, Sabo's gestures, the demeaning arch of his eyebrow said. Marco felt his ears going hot with shame, and at once he felt so itchingly compelled to kick his pants away, to stand totally nude instead of as this humiliating, obvious object of undress. Which was the intended reaction. So Marco hissed through his teeth and forced all his attention onto keeping the glass steady and water unspilled.

And that's when Ace decided to switch his aim, bringing the whip of the chain down to the flesh of Marco's ass.

An arch of water jolted over the rim, splashing soft on the worn leather of the notebook. Both Ace and Sabo froze in all their motions.

“Sorry,” Marco choked, a terrible fear beginning to eat into his skin. “Sorry yoi, I—Sorry—”

“Sorry's not the word I want to hear,” Ace said from behind him, so low and steady that Marco felt instantly like grounded lightning. “So do you have something else to say, or can I continue?”

He wants to continue.

He wants to do this for you.

“No,” Marco said, the most pious man in the world. “Please continue.”

And then, when the next stroke came: “thank you.”

Sabo, beneath him, was just letting Marco's cock sit in his mouth. It was a gift. It was torture. Ever cognizant of Sabo's request not to choke him, Marco ached with the effort of not letting his hips so much as twitch. A drop of water fell onto Sabo's cheek, and for a moment Marco feared the worst, that this was all over because of his stupid mistake tipping the glass—but then he realized it was his sweat, dripping off the tip of his nose. So Marco pulled his head upright, focused on the glass again. Focused on keeping it tall at every whip of metal across his ass. Focused on keeping it safe on the strikes that licked into the insides of his thighs. Focused on keeping it unbroken as Sabo just kept breathing, doing very little else, around the tip of Marco's cock.

Tears as well as sweat ran down Marco's cheeks, but he didn't notice.

His attention was tunneling, everything whittled away except for the thud-sting of the chain in a rapidly steadying rhythm and the inadequate clasp of almost-suction around his dick. Marco could hear nothing, see nothing beside the shaking arm and the tendons of the wrist and the book and the glass and the trembling water. Had lost all concept of things like breath and time and motion. Just knew that one thing, then the other, stopped, and there was nothing else but the water and feeling so profoundly lost that he wanted to collapse sobbing—and then there was a hand—a hand on the glass with the water—the hand tipping the glass with the water over—

Marco shook back into himself with an awful gasp. The loud smash of the glass against their cabin floor followed immediately after, Sabo standing upright now before Marco with one hand still unapologetically outstretched over the space where the glass had once been placed.

“Oops,” he said, his casual shrug so catastrophically mismatched with the intent expression on his face. “Oh well. We've had quite enough of that anyways, haven't we?”

“I'm gonna bring your arm down now,” Ace said quietly. He was so close and warm next to Marco's ear that Marco started. There was, indistinctly, sensation in some faraway part of Marco's body—his fingers, he realized. Both sets, gone numb and cold that Marco could clearly imagine just cutting them away with little pain. Ace was gently prying his right hand loose from the grip on his restraint (restraint—hah! As if such a self-imposed thing could truly be called a restraint), and Sabo had removed the leather-bound book, massaging feeling gently back into Marco's left hand.

When Ace grabbed firm hold of Marco's entire right arm and pulled it down, a soft, agonized cry escaped Marco's throat. Sabo took the same moment to lower Marco's left arm as well. Marco squeezed his eyes shut so tightly against the pain that he didn't know whose thumb came up to gently wipe away the tears on his cheeks.

“You're one stubborn bastard, aren't you?” Marco didn't know how much of the grudging admiration in his tone Sabo meant to let him hear. “That was good, wasn't it? That was everything you wanted. Just say that's enough, that's all you needed, and we'll let you rest.”

“You said,” Marco slurred, listing forward and backward into warm arms. Oh, how he longed to do as Sabo suggested. Just relax, and let everything come to a stop. Get a nice hand from Ace, or maybe Sabo was feeling generous enough to finish the blowjob. But there was still a gnawing unrest, deep inside his core. An emptiness that begged to be thoroughly claimed, and filled. “You said you'd fuck me.”

The moment of silence that followed was so excruciating, that the sudden, vicious grip of Sabo's hands digging into his ass was bliss by comparison.

“Got it,” Sabo said, voice gone so perfectly savage as he lifted Marco, all the weight on the freshly whipped, burning flesh of Marco's backside, and Marco screamed—

“No mercy. We finish the scene.”