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Seventy-three.
Ace had tried to kill Whitebeard seventy-three times. The day he woke, dagger snuck into the lining of his shorts, his blood lust rising with the sun, marked the seventy-fourth. It was a sea day, and the Whitebeard Pirates were caught between islands in the New World. They’d make landfall in two days time, where Ace would finally have time to himself.
He’d dodged the rest of the crew all day, skirting around them and making up excuses for why he couldn’t do whatever menial task they asked of him. Instead, he sat on the deck, as close to the bow as they’d allow — notably alone, shooing off any of the lion-hearted members who tried to approach him. Ace even shot scowls to those who walked by, hoping the message was clear. Most of them were understanding enough, leaving him with a pat on the shoulder and well wishes.
From his spot by the front, Ace could effortlessly observe the crew’s movements. Whitebeard’s movements. It served as helpful insight, making him privy towards Whitebeard’s daily schedule, which never seemed to really change these days, with him between his health check ups, bar time, and occasional mid-day nap. Though it wasn’t exactly insider information, as Ace likely could have inferred most of that information by loitering around for long enough. He supposed that wasn’t too different from what he was doing now.
In the corner of his eye, he could see some members of his crew enraptured in conversation with Marco. He’d be lying if he said he could easily disregard the sting it left him with. The most Ace got out of the whole ordeal was the time of day Newgate retreated to his personal quarters, located at the back of the ship. When the sky turned a dusty pink, Ace knew which corners to slip into to watch Whitebeard’s departing back, as he turned in for the night.
The first few nights Ace had tried, some of the Whitebeard Pirates assigned themselves to his door at night, keeping a watchful eye out for the vindictive boy, but Whitebeard had waved them off with a simple motion of his hand, and they hadn’t stood guard since. The security was overly lenient, practically nonexistent. Of course, Whitebeard’s nurses had a rule to not bother the man past a certain time; he was ill and needed rest after all, but they didn’t necessarily stop him, either. Everyone went where they pleased and entered when they wanted, fully operating on trust alone.
His spiteful streak landed him with some grouchy stares and snippy remarks of those who were troubled by his behavior, and even those were nothing he couldn’t handle, all lacking any true malice, just annoyance — but nothing at all from Whitebeard. That was what riled him up the most.
By the time the crew cleared off of the deck and retired to their barracks, Ace was ready to strike. He was pulling the knife from his shorts, gripping it so tight that his knuckles paled, and slipping through the door. Whitebeard’s quarters were large, though relatively small compared to his size. Humble was a more fitting word. His bed took up a sizable percentage of the room, which he was asleep atop, next to an abandoned drink.
Climbing up Whitebeard’s bed post wasn’t difficult, it was landing a blow that was. When Ace’s nimble feet depressed into the bed, Whitebeard roused almost instantly. Still, Ace saw his drowsiness as an opportunity and raised his dagger high into the air, a coat of flames heating the blade.
With a precision that Ace had been raging against all these days aboard his ship, the weapon was knocked out of his hands before it even came close to making Whitebeard bleed. He heard the dagger clink against the floor distantly, sliding with the gentle lull of the ship.
His raised hand was pinched between Whitebeard’s fingers. The grip was tight, but not threatening. He twisted himself, trying to worm his free hand into Whitebeard’s to release his clasp, even beating his fist against him, but nothing came of it.
“Let go of me!” Ace yelled, his voice rasping in his throat. Caring if the other pirates on Whitebeard’s crew heard his antics was already lost on him; they wouldn’t help him, either.
Suddenly, his feet were dangling in the air. Whitebeard lifted him up, his eyes squinting against the darkness of the cabin, zeroing in on Ace.
“You never give up, do you, boy?”
He helplessly kicked his legs, trying to swing himself into a better position, but his arm was beginning to ache, straining with his erratic movements. His face pinched in pain.
Whitebeard continued, “I’ll tell you what, if I set you down, you sit still and listen to what I have to say.”
“Yeah right,” Ace scoffed.
“Is that not the good mannered thing to do? I’ve heard from your crew how you really are. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, too.”
His heartbeat accelerated. “And if I don’t agree?”
“Well, I guess you’ll have to hang just like this for the rest of the night.”
Reluctantly, Ace agreed, nodding his head minutely, unable to ignore the sting in his shoulder. He needed it for tomorrow's attempt, anyway. It burnt the edges of his ego, if only slightly.
Whitebeard dropped Ace on his chest. He landed with a thud, but grounded himself quickly. He crossed his legs where he sat, somewhat of a peace offering to the old pirate.
“I have to give it to you for your resilience. Most people would’ve given up by now.”
“I’m not ‘most people’,” Ace reasoned. His pout was obvious with his words, his anger still simmering just below the surface.
At that admission, Whitebeard laughed. Loud and proud, shaking Ace where he sat on his chest as it rose and fell, Whitebeard couldn’t help but laugh. Ace felt his cheeks heat up, alongside the fire inside him roar.
“No, you’re not.” Whitebeard’s gaze was intense.
He could feel his eyes boring into him, looking closely for any inflections in the boy that would offer up the information that was hidden underneath. It made Ace feel bare, stripped completely in his vision. He wondered if Whitebeard knew, and if so, what he thought of it all.
Ace’s knowledge on Whitebeard and his father’s relationship was held together by sticks. It was all small tidbits of anecdotes he'd heard traveling the Grand-line from other pirates, even the occasional bar story — though usually, he never heard the end of those, too busy being dragged out by his collar.
What he knew started and ended with: they were long-time enemies. He knew that they fought, semi-frequently. Their battles were rough like the seas in the New World.
Anything beyond that was a total mystery to Ace. A part of him was grateful, as it meant less things to mull over in regards to his father, less comparisons for him to draw, but he was never able to fully scratch the itch that craved to know how Roger operated.
There was something in the way his gaze flickered over his tan skin that made Ace feel like the old man was privy to his darkest secret.
“You’ve got a fire in you. I can see that much clear as day,” Whitebeard said mirthfully. If it was meant to be a joke, Ace didn’t laugh. “I can guess at what Marco’s told you, but truthfully, I believe all you need is time.
“You can try to kill me. I know you will come tomorrow, and the next day, and even the day after that. I can see that look in your eyes. But I think that you already have your answer to whatever it is that you’re chasing by doing this. You sit on the deck and listen to passing conversation, you drink and break bread with my crew.”
He stared at his hands.
“You have potential, Ace, and I never mean to squash that.”
Unsure what to say to any of it, Ace shrugged. He didn’t like that Whitebeard was telling him these things, looking too deep at his faults and cracks, and most importantly, that he was making a point.
“Get your head checked,” Ace landed on. The spiteful words felt good crawling from his throat, call it muscle memory, but it left him with an unexplainable prodding feeling.
“Maybe I should,” Whitebeard laughed.
“Can I leave, now?” Ace asked, but his own voice shocked him. How quickly he’d fell, now asking for permission to leave. A week ago, he wouldn’t have made the peace agreement to even sit with him.
“If you must, but you’re more than welcome to join me here.”
Ace bit back the witty remark that came to him first. “Why?”
“Why not? It’s late.”
“…Here?” He was skeptical. He still wasn’t completely sure that this whole thing wasn’t an elaborate joke.
Whitebeard just shrugged, and laid his head back down. “There’s booze on the table. Light the candle by the window if you need more light. Don’t fall off.”
He must have misunderstood something. Ace couldn’t wrap his head around any of it. Even then, as he felt the anxiety seep from his limbs, he couldn’t explain it. They hadn’t talked about Roger once, the late pirate king went completely unspoken. It was… odd, although refreshing.
“And one last thing, if you’re going to stay, just go ahead and call me Pops. You’re too young to be going around calling me anything else.”
He wanted to retort, ‘you’re not my father’, but the words died on his tongue. Instead, he looked around the room defeatedly, before allowing himself to ease into the comfortable sound of Whitebeard’s breathing. He laid his head down.
Truth be told, their whole conversation left the deep, festering wound of his parentage feeling slightly less grave. His breaths fell in sync with Whitebeard’s. He rolled the word ‘Pops’ around in his head, testing the way it felt to slip it off his tongue, even though he was whispering it into the open air.
Disconcertingly, as he mouthed the word, curiously piqued in his stomach. It turned into something lecherous, fluttering into warm static that flowed through his body, from his flushed cheeks to his lower regions. More so, he could feel himself wetten with every new infliction of the word.
He slid his hand down his stomach, fingers catching on the waist of his black shorts, before diving underneath. His lack of underwear made it far easier, but the slick texture collecting between his legs had nothing to catch on, other than his thighs. The word became a mantra as he silently uttered it over and over, his fingers grazing over his clit, teasing.
It wasn’t long until Ace was pressing harder, circling the bundle of nerves with a newfound fervor, his free hand occasionally messily slapping against Whitebeard’s broad body to keep himself from tilting over. When he felt his orgasm picking up, Ace slid his hand further down, shifting his folds, before teasing his entrance.
The first plunge inside was heavenly. He was hot around his fingers, wet and making far too much noise. Every time he thought of Whitebeard, felt the steady inhale of his chest, Ace bit back a moan. He angled them upwards, and whined when he grazed his g-spot. He continued the assault, though now with a hand over his mouth, trying to keep the strained moans unheard by Whitebeard or any other member of the crew.
Suddenly, Whitebeard’s breath caught. It stuttered, alarming Ace. Even then, Ace’s fingers only accelerated, squelching against his hand that was prodding and massaging at the deepest part of him. He was stuck in-between realities, unsure of which fantasy he wanted to come true the most. Whitebeard could be cruel — stop him without hesitation, kick him out of his crew, and leave him stranded. Another idea, one where it led to the two fighting, danced across his mind.
Instead, Whitebeard’s gentle hand came and cupped his body. It was intimidating, the shake of Ace’s legs came not just from his pleasure, but partly of fear. The anticipation almost killed him. But still, nothing more came, other than Whitebeard’s large thumb caressing his head.
Ace bit his lip, unafraid to draw blood. His orgasm snuck up on him, taking hold of his body, elevating him. He came hard on his fingers, trembling and squirting, the clear liquid dribbling down his legs and onto Whitebeard’s chest. He couldn’t catch the loud cry that followed. His orgasm rocketed him into a state of bliss, filling his cloudy head.
Whitebeard’s touch didn’t stop. It was soothing, threatening to pull Ace into a undisrupted sleep. His bones felt heavy, but as it seemed, Whitebeard had a cure for everything. Before Ace could try to move on his own, Whitebeard was pulling Ace fully into his hand, sure to make sure that his numb body wouldn’t slip out of his hold. Ace’s eyes were still glued shut, as he feared what the look on Whitebeard’s face would be. He wasn’t even sure why he cared.
He cradled him like a bird with an injured wing, laid on his side, curled in on himself. He felt his shorts be shuffled off of him by large, prying fingers. Ace didn't fight it, instead allowing the confusing feeling it left him with ruminate in his gut. He wanted more — he wanted to feel everything at once, but the looming uncertainty was holding him down. He landed on indecision.
Allowing Whitebeard’s thick index finger slip between his glistening legs, he knocked them open gently, before he was pressing it against his cunt. It was too big to enter him, he could easily wrap his entire body around his single finger. Ace felt his wetness press against him fully this time, as he wiggled his digit, trying to coax the boy into another round of pleasure. He drew his finger back, watching carefully as the tip was covered in his fluids.
“Son,” Whitebeard started. His voice was low, heated with want.
Ace’s eyes opened at that, as the name coiled in his stomach. He couldn’t respond, afraid of the words that'd betray him if he did. He looked up at Whitebeard, whose gaze turned lustful, and just whined. Pressing back quicker than he'd left, his finger slowly slid across his sex, touching with just enough pressure to leave him arching his body for more. He writhed against him, his hips stuttering, stomach fluttering.
Whitebeard let him set the pace, following the rocking movements of his body as he rode his finger. His second orgasm was approaching rapidly, and even with his wanton moaning, Ace still cupped his face with his hand, shielding himself from view.
“You’ll join me?” Whitebeard asked, suddenly, his finger speeding up, chafing Ace’s thighs. When Ace didn't respond, he hummed in question loudly, “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Yes,” he managed to groan out, his legs quivering as he chased his climax. His voice was shaky, trembling with every letter. His brain was already turning to mush. The hand covering his face jolted away like it was burnt, grabbing onto Whitebeard’s finger, trying to push his rapid petting away.
Hearing his surrender, Whitebeard’s finger stalled. Although his previous quick movements were pushing him over the edge, mixing the lines between what was pleasure and what was restlessness, the cool air that washed over his fervent cunt left him feeling strung out, and he was just as easily craving for Whitebeard’s finger to come back. He let out a guttural sigh, “Pops!”
“I should formally induct you into the crew, then,” Whitebeard remarked. His come soaked finger prodded at Ace’s still jittering form, stirring him around in his hand as if he were inspecting a child’s toy. Ace wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, his mind wavering between the possibilities: a tattoo? a new bounty?
Before his hyper active mind could elect one as the sure outcome, Whitebeard was shifting, careful to not drop him as he jostled. He slipped his pants down, dragging them down his thighs, and let his free hand rest on the colossal bulge he sported.
Ace didn’t need to see it undressed to know that it was bigger than him. The older pirate reached into his undergarments, drawing his large cock out and giving it a few firm tugs.
Something pulled in his chest, alarm mixing with intrigue. Having regained his stature, Ace willed himself to sit up, his legs dangling off of Whitebeard’s palm. Lowering him down, Ace’s feet touched the surface of Whitebeard's chest, and although with shaky legs, he slid down his body, closer towards it.
Being face to face with it was a whole new rodeo. It towered over him, heavy and thick, and one vein in the side with a blue hue snaked upwards. It was large enough for Ace to caress, if he so pleased. Reaching both hands out, he laid them flush against the skin, watching as Whitebeard’s cock twitched.
Above him, Whitebeard let out a low laugh before he was pulling his cock closer to his chest, giving Ace the leverage to climb on. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, but he was numb to any embarrassment that may have otherwise overtaken him. He hoisted himself up, climbing onto his cock as if it were a ship’s ledge, and straddled it.
With it now between his legs, Ace began to slowly sway his hips, oscillating in whichever motions nudged at his sex the best, causing his body to jolt upwards, curving away from the skin to skin when it felt too good. He held Ace delicately, his fingers wrapping around his back and arms. Whitebeard’s hand was skillful with it’s guidance, as he navigated Ace’s pleasure as if it were his very own.
He tried to stave off his already growing orgasm, his body occasionally canting just narrowly above Whitebeard’s cock as to not overstimulate himself any further. Whitebeard identified it immediately. The hand holding his body became tighter with it’s hold, and instead of suggesting, he was now commanding. He pushed him onto the shaft of his cock, so that his cunt was flush to his shaft, and urged Ace to propel himself forwards with gentle — but firm, shoves.
Ace, for maybe the first time, listened. His body was reddening under his newfound father’s gaze, his moans becoming louder. He was switching between recklessly thrusting, climbing closer towards Whitebeard’s tip, and letting the wave of pleasure rack his body with shudders.
Feeling a surge of courage, he travelled the remainder of the distance, until he was sitting by the head of Whiteboard’s cock. He rutted against the tip, his cunt smushing against it, leaving trails of wetness behind.
“It’s not gonna fit,” Ace whined. He wanted it, Whitebeard wanted it, but no matter, Ace was too small. The stretch would be too intense.
So, he leaned down, and pressed a sloppy kiss to the velvety skin. Finally, he heard Whitebeard emit a low groan, though slightly muffled by his chuckle. It felt encouraging, leaving Ace sweltering lust, mixed with an odd, perhaps misplaced feeling of pride. He pressed another kiss, then one more, and then he was pressing a tenth. His tongue darted from behind his lips to taste him, messily making out with his cock.
Pre-come had began to leak from his slit, and the watery, sticky fluid coated Ace’s mouth. It stuck to his cheek thickly, so Ace brought a hand to his face and wiped the substance away. He licked it from his fingers, hollowing his cheeks around his digits, swallowing until they were coated with his saliva. He concluded that he wasn't done until he was left gasping for air. The taste was addicting, Ace thought, as he began to lap at Whitebeard’s cock, seeking more of that sweet, salty flavor.
Whitebeard’s body shuddered underneath him. This was the strongest man alive, one of the old era, he remembered, and yet here he was, worshipping his cock. Ace’s hand was large, but it was by no means big enough for him to be able to jerk Whitebeard off further. Shakily, an idea popped into his mind.
Collecting whatever was left of the pre-come, Ace’s hand snaked onto Whitebeard’s slit. He nervously stuck his hand into the opening, eyes fixed on Whitebeard’s face. He’d thrown his head back onto the pillows, his mouth agape and his eyebrows knitted together, but his gaze never left the boy.
He pumped his hand in and out of the slit, kissing his cock alongside it. Whitebeard began to tug at the base of his cock, and his hips jerked upward swiftly, the motion jostling Ace with it. It did not deter him. Instead, his free hand fell to his cunt. He quickened his pace, sensing Whitebeard’s oncoming orgasm.
Underneath him, Whitebeard stalled for a second, grunting and holding his breath, before he was moaning loud enough to wake the entire ship. He climaxed with a shout, Ace’s name lingering on his tongue. His come spouted from his cock, landing heavily on his chest, but more importantly, on Ace.
It drenched the boy, coating his dark curls, sticking to his tan skin, dripping down his body. Ace caught some of it on his tongue, mouth open and waiting. It was enough to make him forcefully swallow as to not choke, but no complaints were heard from him. Ace small body moved with Whitebeard’s ragged breaths.
It didn’t take long for Ace to clean up the mess Whitebeard left behind. He was sucking the come from his own body, tasting the slight burn from his over heated skin, until he was moving to Whitebeard’s navel, lapping it up. The sheer amount of his come was enough to rest in his stomach heavily, making Ace feel full. Still, he shoveled what was left into his mouth, swallowing even if it left him swallowing a gag with it.
Looking down onto his son, Whitebeard’s eyes glistened with pride. His smile was cheeky, but still held all the tells of what Ace assumed to be pride. He’d felt it on his own lips before, seen it on his crew mates, but never had he seen it directed at him in such a way. It alleviated some of the long held weight in his chest, and finally, did Ace feel free on the seas.