bloom 🌼 calmly

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.

portgas d. ace, your best friend.

portgas d. ace can’t stop staring at you.

sure, fine, he’s in his cups. sure, fine, so is the rest of the division. crammed shoulder to shoulder in this port’s small tavern — the crow’s nest — he’s fighting for his damn life. you and the other shipwrights have parked yourselves at a table in the back. old man weller is reliving a tall tale about a whale and a boy, but ace knows you’re not listenin’.

he knows, ‘cause you’re lookin’ at him.

and he’s lookin’ at you.

portgas d. ace smiles like he’s in love. your smile breaks over the crest of your cup, and ace’s world spins a little, and he almost topples off his barstool.

he disappears into the crowd of the crew, only to appear at your side. he slides into the booth, slick and smooth. his thigh presses to yours and his arm curls around your shoulder and his breath is soft against your cheek.

“is this th’ whale story?” he whispers into your ear, a touch slurred and a touch deep, “again?”

he doesn’t pull back when you turn your cheek, your nose to his as you nod and whisper back: “he’s embellishing.”

this close, you can count each and every one of portgas d. ace’s freckles. this close, you can see the faint reminder of a sunburn. this close, you can admire the deep, deep brown of his eyes. you don’t have to be this close to know he’s beautiful — but it doesn’t hurt.

sure, fine, you’re in your cups. sure, fine, so are the other shipwrights — and they are none the wiser to whatever tension is crawling between you and the second division command in your little corner. between the music and the laughter and the chatter and the tall tales, this moment is sacred and secret.

ace’s chuckle is delayed and a little rough. he’s first to pull away — only enough to sneak his ale to his lips and swig. you turn your cheek, look at weller, and listen cheek to cheek with ace.

“how would you know?” he asks in an incredulous whisper, nose dragging across your temple. he’s a beat from laughing, and you smack his thigh. it’s light. you keep your hand there. the arm around your shoulder twitches, and you let him rough-house. he shakes you gently. he pulls you into his chest and tucks you under his chin.

you don’t pull away.

“i’ve heard it a thousand times,” you whisper back, lifting your chin to look up at him with a rum-kissed smile, “same as you.”

something flickers across his face, then. something you see. something that stays, and you blink — your eyes dart from his gaze to his mouth. ace’s fingers still where they draw a lazy circle across the skin of your arm. he can’t look away from you, not when you’re curled up in his arms and smiling. you can’t look away, not when he looks at you like that — like you are more than just best friends.

portgas d. ace is your best friend. best friends don’t kiss.

there’s a line. a boundary. an invisible promise that the way you two touch each other is nothing more than friendship. he tries to remember the boundary, he tries to remember how things where before — before things changed, before he knew he was in love with his best friend. ace smiles, because he can’t remember it.

his other hand engages in its newest habit — he pushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

you’re lookin’ at him.

and he’s lookin’ at you.

“…what are we doing?” he murmurs. his voice is so low and gentle, it feels like he’s dragged his blunt nails up your spine with reverence.

“i dunno, what are we doing?” you breathe. you’re drunk enough that you stumble over your words; your face is close to his again. he’s craned his neck down, his hat hiding you both from the tavern. from his division, from your shipwrights.

“i know what i want to be doing,” he mumbles, so close his mouth brushes yours. his eyes stare, intensely devoted to the moment.

you don’t pull away. your fingers tense against his thigh, and ace wets his lips. you ask, already knowing the answer:

"and what's that?"