→ ┊ based on this, this, & this.
portgas d. ace, your best friend.
portgas d. ace cannot fuckin’ believe this is happening.
portgas d. ace swallows. his calloused hand trembles as he snakes it into his unbuttoned shorts.
all the while, he can’t look away from you — his best friend — touching yourself.
this whole thing started with an awkward conversation about the half-hard cock digging into your backside after an afternoon nap. there was no avoiding it, not when ace buried his face in his hands and grumbled something about being pent up.
you, in turn, made a joke about how you haven’t gotten off in weeks.
ergo: you get it, you’re pent up, too.
there was a beat of tension. then:
“you… uh… i mean, if you need to… take care of it…?” you said, eyes darting to the curve straining against the front of his shorts. ace felt dizzy. you chewed your thumbnail.
isn’t that how most things like this start, slow and curious?
“i mean, we’re best friends,” are the words that put the metaphorical nail in the coffin, mumbled around the nervous habit of a bitten nail, “think of it as… mutual support...?”
he agreed too quickly, swallowing down a bout of unnerving want.
“right. i’ll do me. you do you," he rasped, head nodding and pupils blown wide, "yea. mutual support. good thinkin’, scraps."
that nickname felt like foreplay. it punched the air out of your lungs.
and so it began: mutual support. more like mutual masturbation, but who's correcting the record in a moment like this? not ace. definitely not ace.
no, portgas d. ace is too busy trying to remember how to breathe. is it hot in here? it feels hot in here. fuck, yep, it’s hot because he’s doing the thing — the thing where sparks of ignition dance across the sweat on his skin. it’s a dead giveaway that he’s excited. losing his edge.
your hand steadies under the waistband of your underwear, your head against the pillow. ace lies beside you, your shoulders barely touching, body heat bleeding into one another. your leg is thrown over his thigh, and your bunk has never felt smaller.
portgas d. ace is panting, and not once do his eyes break from yours.
not when you bite your lip so hard it almost bleeds, not when he thumbs the head of his throbbing cock, not when you slip your fingers through your folds. his jaw falls open, nostrils flare, and finally, his eyes fall to the pearling of your nipples through your tank top.
“fuck,” he mumbles, “…is this… is this okay?”
“yea. yea, it’s… it’s good. are y-you good?” you breathe, and your eyes fall to the sight of his cock, pulled from his shorts. you almost whine, because it’s pretty. thick and throbbing and he’s stroking himself faster now and his forearms flex while he does and that’s your best friend—
your faces are close now, shoulders touching. your toes curl against his calf. your eyes dart back up to his. he’s staring while he nods, his gaze is intense. enarmored. the look in your heavy-lidded eyes is no better.
portgas d. ace’s abdomen tenses, his breath stutters, and he sighs out:
"keep — fuck — keep looking at me like that."
you’re biting your lip again when you nod, working a tight circle against your clit beneath your bottoms. your lashes flutter, and your breath hitches higher, and you make a soft sound in the back of your throat. his mouth is parted, and so is yours, and when you both huff out a needy pant, it mingles.
portgas d. ace can’t resist. his eyes snake down again, toward where your fingers work themselves quicker and needier beneath your bottoms — ace wets his lips, curses to himself.
this is uncharted territory. the kind of territory that isn’t supposed to exist between best friends.
“fuck, you’re so hot,” the honest appraisal rushes out like a tie between a prayer and a revelation, “m’close, scraps—”
portgas d. ace is fucking up into his own hand while staring at you, and good fuckin’ god, it is the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. his hips roll, his muscles tense, and you whine when you spy the precum beading at the head of his cock. you’re right there, right at the edge.
“—me too,” it breaks from your throat in a whisper; you squirm, and ace’s breath fans across your face, “i’m… i’m gonna—”
“yea?” his forehead knocks against yours, and he nods, “you gonna come?”
he’s goading you; his nose brushes against yours. you can’t help that his name trembles out of you with a hunger. “ace, ace—”
that’s all it takes. ace smothers the sound of his release in a kiss that’s devouring. it’s the sort of kiss that doesn’t happen between best friends. the kiss sends you over the edge, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you know that watching your best friend finish across his chest while you come around your own fingers isn’t really best friend material, either.
portgas d. ace, kissing you like a man starved while you finish hard enough to tremble, certainly isn’t going to complain. after all, you’re best friends. best friends help one another out.
…right?
