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There’s something divine about this. Something wholly unnatural, beyond the realm of human experience. Law has spent years dissecting bodies, peeling back layers of flesh and sinew to expose the brutal, unholy mechanics of life itself. He has never once found proof of a soul. But when Ace kisses him, open-mouthed and aching, hips settling warm and solid over his lap, Law thinks he might finally believe.
It should be sinful, the way he worships Ace. The way his hands settle firm against the curve of his waist, fingers digging into warm, freckled skin like a desperate disciple clinging to salvation. His heart beats in his throat, and his breath catches every time Ace moves, pressing in closer, as if the space between them could ever be enough. It isn't. It never will be.
Ace’s lips are warm—always warm, like he’s made of fire even when he’s not burning. Law chases the taste of him, lets his tongue press deep, down aces throat, greedy, starving, a man who has lived his whole life with a hunger he never understood until now. And Ace lets him take, lets him drown himself in the press of their mouths, the heat of his body, the way his fingers curl into Law’s hair like he doesn’t want to let go.
Law pulls back just enough to look at him. His hands don’t stop moving, trailing reverent paths up Ace’s sides, over the sharp ridges of his ribs, his thumb brushing just beneath the scar carved across his chest. Law knows the anatomy of a human heart better than most. Knows where to cut, where to press, how much pressure it would take to stop one from beating entirely.
And yet, Ace’s heart is the only one that has ever mattered to him.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, and it’s not enough. The word doesn’t hold the weight of it, the sheer devastation of how much Law wants him. “Ace, god you’re—” He stops, presses his forehead against Ace’s collarbone for just a second, exhaling shakily. He doesn’t have the right words for this. He’s spent his whole life understanding how to break people apart, and he’s never once learned how to explain the things that make him whole.
Ace shifts against him, and Law feels the heat rise in his throat. His hands tighten at Ace’s hips, unthinking, wanting. “What the hell are you saying stuff like that for?” Ace’s voice is breathless, just a little unsteady, and Law could drown in it. He watches, dazed, as Ace ducks his head embarrassed, cheeks pink, mouth swollen from kissing, and it’s the most beautiful thing Law has ever seen.
“Ace,” Law whispers, reverent. He lightly puts his fingers under aces chin and makes him look up; touches Ace’s face, traces the sharp lines of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the faint dusting of freckles like constellations waiting to be mapped. He wants to chart them, kiss each one, spend the rest of his life learning every detail of Ace’s body like it’s sacred text. “You don’t understand,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, gaze dark and burning. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
Ace makes a sound—somewhere between frustration and disbelief—and buries his face against Law’s shoulder, like he can hide from the weight of his own name spoken like a prayer. Like he doesn’t understand that Law would tear the world apart for him. Would rip it to shreds and stitch it back together just to see him smile.
Ace shifts again, pressing down against Law’s lap, and Law exhales sharply, fingers flexing at his waist. The warmth of him, the press of his body, it’s too much and not enough all at once.
“Stop saying that kind of stuff,” Ace mumbles against his neck. His breath is hot, ticklish, sending a shiver down Law’s spine. “You sound so serious about it.”
Law lets out a breathy laugh, pressing a kiss into Ace’s hair. “I am serious.”
Ace groans, shifts like he wants to move away, but Law won’t let him. His arms tighten around him, keeping him pressed firm against his chest, against the frantic, uneven rhythm of his heart.
“You don’t get it,” Law whispers, voice hoarse, almost wrecked. “I’d do anything for you.”
Ace shudders, fingers twisting in the fabric of Law’s shirt. He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t pull away either. He moves against him, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to Law. He probably does. The bastard is all instinct, all heat, all hands gripping and hips rolling, and Law is helpless to do anything but let it happen.
Ace is warm everywhere—under Law’s hands, against his mouth, pressing down on him with the weight of something that feels like worship, if worship was messy and needy and so, so fucking good. Law has studied human bodies for years, understands every intricate detail of anatomy and function, but none of that matters when it comes to Ace. The way he moves, the way he breathes, the way his fingers drag slow over the nape of Law’s neck—it’s chaos, pure and devastating, and Law is nothing but a willing victim.
Ace is looking at him now, expression caught somewhere between teasing and something softer, something almost shy, and Law wants to fucking ruin him. Wants to touch every inch of his sun-warmed skin, map every scar, press his lips to every freckle like an offering. Instead, he grips Ace’s waist, forces himself to stay still as Ace rolls his hips down again, dragging a sharp breath from Law’s throat.
"You're—" Law tries, but the words won’t come. His head falls back against the couch, his breath uneven, his fingers tightening on Ace’s hips.
Ace grins, teeth flashing, and leans in to kiss him again, rough and hot, like he’s trying to steal the air from Law’s lungs. Law lets him.
Ace kisses like he’s got something to prove, like he’s trying to leave his mark, and Law is more than willing to be ruined by him. His hands slide up Ace’s back, pressing him closer, drinking in the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he moves like he belongs here.
Law drags his lips down Ace’s jaw, his throat, nipping at the sensitive skin just beneath his ear, and Ace shivers in his grip. His fingers tangle in Law’s hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, and the sound makes Ace’s breath hitch, his hips stuttering against Law’s lap.
"You," Law mutters, his voice wrecked, his fingers digging into Ace’s waist like he’s afraid he’ll disappear, "truly do not understand the effect on me."
Ace pulls back just enough to look at him, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted. He looks wrecked, flushed, utterly gorgeous, and Law feels something desperate twist in his chest. He huffs, like he wants to argue, but Law doesn’t give him the chance. He presses his lips to Ace’s collarbone, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, slow and reverent, whispering against his skin between kisses—
"Perfect." A kiss. "Gorgeous." Another. "Mine."
Ace shudders again, his fingers curling tight into Law’s hair, and Law grins against his throat, satisfaction curling warm in his stomach. He can feel the way Ace trembles under his hands, the way his breathing stutters, the way he presses down harder, like he’s trying to chase something just out of reach.
"Shut up," Ace mumbles, but his voice is thin, unsteady. His face is burning, and Law feels drunk on it.
Law tilts his head back, meeting Ace’s gaze with something dark and dangerous curling behind his eyes. "Make me."
Ace growls—actually growls—and crashes their mouths together again, teeth clashing, hands pulling, hips grinding down with a sharp, aching kind of desperation, and Law thinks, if he dies like this, he’ll die happy.