🖤Ria💛

portgas d. ace, who has always been handsy.

not that you’re complaining — how could you? especially since something has changed in recent months. something has become sticky, mushy, needy.

feelings. there are new feelings, but you both ignore the aforementioned sticky, mushy, needy feelings because you’re best friends, and best friends don’t have sticky, mushy, needy feelings for one another.

portgas d. ace is always hanging off you. his arm, freckled and strong, is always slung around your shoulders. he leans and slouches, pressing the full length of his body against your side whenever he can. he’s always there, in your orbit, tangling himself up in your space.

the crew knows that you, a vice-lieutenant shipwright, and the division commander are two peas in a pod; inseparable, indivisible, and integral. where his voice carries, your laughter is soon to follow. ace burns bright, like a star streaking across the sky, and you’re the moon he dances for. you call his name from high up on the mast, and he always calls yours back.

no one pities the fool portgas d. ace makes himself for the sake of your smile. no one pretends there isn’t something else there, either. marco thinks it’s gonna kill him — ace, with his longing looks, and you with your lingering smiles. always when the other isn’t looking, but for fuck’s sake, marco is looking. marco sees it. marco can’t unsee it.

feelings! sticky, mushy, needy feelings!

portgas d. ace, whose threshold for appropriate touching is quickly diminishing despite the whole best friend title. his newest, baddest habit is a sturdy kiss to your temple in passing — always paired with a murmured hey you. he’s recently started to tangle his fingers in yours during quiet moments up on deck. always during the setting sun, always when you’re off shift, and he’s avoiding whatever new responsibility pops throws him.

portgas d. ace, who starts sleeping in your bed — he blames the barracks. they’re too crowded. marco, his bunkmate, snores. you’re lucky, he says, you’ve got a tiny little cabin, with a tiny little bed, and a tiny little water room. a perk of being one of the few female crewmembers. the perk is stolen by ace, who starfishes out and runs hot. you start sleeping with less and less clothing, and ace chases the feeling of your skin against his in his sleep.

there’s a line. always. you’re best friends. best friends who touch and roughhouse and laugh. best friends who fall asleep in one another’s arms, best friends who knock foreheads together when they hug, best friends who daydream about kissing one another—

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

until they do.

😭❤️ I can’t believe that HE IS OUR ACE LIKE-

*screams in a pillow*

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?"

Too many men are written as “dom daddy” types in fics.

Like be for real, that man would be honored to be your floor mat.

He’s not giving orders, he’s taking them.

Stop being afraid, put on your big boots, and step on that man.