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It’s January first, and your stomach’s been in knots all day. While it’s true that you’re in the middle of a week-long, undercover operation to steal a devil fruit from the marines, there’s something else gnawing at you today.
As a new private, you’ve been assigned cleaning duty — again. You stare out the window of your commander’s office, bucket of supplies in hand but forgotten. The glinting snowflakes falling over the horizon’s setting sun remind you of a certain someone’s fiery freckles, and you finally remember what it is about the date that has you antsy.
The knowledge that you’re sighing out the window over Ace of all people makes you groan and roll your eyes even though no one else is there. Shaking your head, you grab the duster and get to work on the commander’s bookshelves. You tell yourself to focus, scanning the wood for any indication of a lever that would open a secret storage space.
You’re on a ladder to reach the higher shelves when you hear running footsteps in the hallway. You jump down, pocket knife out, but something about the person who runs in, in addition to their marine uniform, makes you hesitate. They crawl right under the commander’s desk, which has a wooden panel covering the front.
You see some of the privates on evening watch run by. One of them pokes his head into the office.
“Did anyone come in here?” he asks, scanning the room.
“Uh—”
“Fire Fist Ace is on the grounds,” says the guy breathlessly. You recognize the stars in his eyes: it’d be a huge deal if a low-ranking marine somehow aided in capturing such a notorious pirate.
“You don’t say,” you mutter. Your heart flutters as you stop yourself from glancing at the desk.
“He’s dangerous, so call for backup if you see him,” he says, running to catch up to the others.
You wait for the sound of his boots to disappear before you quietly close the door. The reason you don’t share his pirate-hunting enthusiasm — and could never stand to be an actual marine — seems to be hiding in the room you were assigned to clean.
Before you can turn back around to scowl at the desk, you feel hot fingers close around your forearm. When you face him, your insides alight with an unbearable emotion.
“Thanks,” says Ace simply. His smile is sheepish but stunning, like how it still hurts to look at the sun behind clouds.
You huff, eyes darting to the side. His “disguise” just makes you more upset: his uniform shirt is completely unbuttoned, for crying out loud. The only dangerous thing about him is how low his black shorts — definitely not standard issue on this winter island — are hanging on his hips.
“What are you doing here?” you ask.
“Just stopping through,” he says, mischievously. As he’s dodging your questioning look, his eyes find your stupid uniform and take their time tracing over it.
For one second, the idea that Ace may just be there to see you grows legs and crosses your mind. Then it exits out of your ear and you don’t permit yourself to think of it again.
You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re here for the devil fruit too, aren’t you? Maybe I should’ve turned you in,” you realize out loud.
Fire Fist holds out his hands, wrists together. His smile stretches out with the lack of concern that accompanies his annoying amount of power and general disregard for his own well-being. Still, there also looks to be genuine trust in the warmth of his irises. You should know — you’ve known him since you were both kids.
“Go ahead, private,” he offers.
“Whatever,” you say, brushing past him. You feel around the desk, willing your heart rate to slow down. “Just help me search the room. Finders keepers.”
“Gotcha.” He’s next to you, and when you make the mistake of looking up at him he makes finger guns at you. As you roll your eyes, he aims one at the fireplace and shoots a flame.
It hurts, physically, how cool he is.
You haven’t had many opportunities to see him use his power, but watching the fire unfurl for him, you get the feeling you’d never get tired of it. In its light, the freckles on his face form constellations of your memories: the meals you’d shared at Makino’s bar, how worried you’d felt watching him sail away from Foosha Island, the first time you ran into each other on the Grand Line, the first time he asked you to join his crew, the several times after that, the times he’d encouraged you to join Whitebeard’s crew…
The cold nights, just a few months ago, you’d spent working as a bartender on Drum Island: how his eyes had reminded you of curling smoke in the glow of the fireplace there — how you might’ve flirted with him a bit then, and how he might’ve flirted back.
Ace is watching you stare at him. His smile seems amused, like he somehow can’t tell why anyone would stare at him. Something’s sparking in his eyes.
You turn back to the desk. “Don’t you ever miss Foosha?” you ask.
“‘Course I do.” He takes a step closer to you, and you take a step back. You stumble over one of the desk’s opened drawers and jump to sit on its surface to avoid falling. His hands find the wood on either side of you as he leans in like a playfully wayward lick of flame. “Don’t you ever miss me?”
Your heart stops. Your scrambled brain decides it’s an opportune moment to play a highlight reel of how you did, definitely and drunkenly, flirt with him on Drum Island. A lot.
“I can’t, Ace. You know I have to get—”
“Your family out of Dressrosa. I know. I wish you’d let me help you.”
“I have to get stronger first. I don’t want to let you down.” You chew your lip as you dare to look up at him.
His pupils look like embers. For someone whose body temperature is always concerningly high, he sure doesn’t act like it — standing so close you’d think he was trying to steal your body’s warmth. Instead, it’s the reverse: you can feel the heat waves rolling off of him.
Paradoxically, it makes you shiver.
“You cold?” he asks. His concerned voice, husky like the side of a matchbox, makes your heart combust.
“We keep meeting on these winter islands,” you mutter, looking anywhere but at him.
“Oh,” he says. His freckles dance as his smile shifts into a smirk. “You know I can keep you warm. I think you even said as much on Drum—”
You kiss him, quickly, on the lips. He doesn’t need to say it — in fact, he’s already made good on getting you heated. Your cheeks burn as you pull back and your eyes search his.
The embers in his eyes have blown up. You recognize a signature hunger in Ace’s gaze right before he crashes his lips into yours.
He’s devouring you like so much tinder, and your gasps for air are only oxygen for his fire. Holding the nape of your neck, he licks into you the way a flame possesses kindling.
“Ace!” you manage, both hands pushing gently but insistently against his chest.
“Sorry, I—”
“Your shirt!”
He looks to his right and realizes his shoulder and shirt have caught on fire. Normally his flames don’t burn his clothes, but it seems like this particular fire wasn’t intentional. Fire Fist takes off the singed marine uniform and you do your best not to swallow too obviously at the sight of his bare chest. His tendency to be shirtless, or at the very least pecs out, has always driven you crazy.
On top of that, his shorts seem tighter: something is making his already precarious belt buckle have to put in extra work.
When he looks at you again, a small spark flares to life on his cheek. You can’t help but giggle.
“Maybe I do think about you sometimes,” you say coyly.
He groans your name as he desperately tries to tamp down the flame on his face.
“You can’t just say that now,” he complains. As soon as it’s out, he’s on you again: moaning into your mouth. His hands sear your thighs, even through your pants, as he spreads your legs so he can be closer to you. You’re prepared this time, take his feverish lips as your hands roam his exposed skin.
“I think about you”—he trails the words along with kisses down your neck—”all the time.”
You’re unbuttoning your shirt for him. He keeps pace for an impressive few seconds, kissing along the tops of your breasts as you make your way down, then runs out of patience and reaches under the cloth to unhook your bra.
“You just like that I feed you,” you say, as he lifts it up and your breasts fall free.
“You are delicious,” he murmurs. He’s looking at your chest like he’s transcended this earthly plane. You can’t tell if he realized you were talking about food.
Ace sucks in an inhale as he gropes at your waist with one hand and your boob with the other, guiding it to his mouth eagerly. You both moan when he tongues at your nipple. He manhandles you onto your back and starts to wrestle your pants off.
He surfaces suddenly, drool on his chin and a frown on his face. Now he’s realized. “Don’t tell me you cooked for them.” He nods towards the hallway.
“A couple breakfasts,” you say with a shrug.
The pirate finishes yanking off your clothes — eyes your crotch ardently.
“Well now I’m jealous,” he says. For a second it seems like the fireplace behind him flares up.
You reach down and spread your pussy lips with your fingers. “This one’s just for you.”
“Fuck,” he breathes. He drinks in the view you’re presenting him as his breath catches. “Thank you for the meal.”
Fire Fist lowers his head between your thighs and laps at your heat like you’re an oasis in a desert. From what you’ve seen in the papers, he has experience with that.
You’re writhing under his mouth, biting the back of your hand. Your other hand knocks off his uniform hat as you grasp at his hair.
His tongue swirls your clit. He's watching your reaction, eyes simmering, as he starts to finger you sweetly, unfairly; of course now he wants to go slow, now that he’s eliciting embarrassing sounds from both sets of your lips.
It’s like he wants his touch to melt you — and it does.
He tries to keep licking you as you convulse around him, but you’re so sensitive from cumming you jolt upwards.
“But you taste so good,” he mutters. He sounds entranced while he stares at the way your walls spasm around his finger.
“If you keep eating you’ll fall asleep,” you answer, pulling him towards the desk by his belt buckle. His body shakes with laughter as you free his erection.
You try to get off the desk to suck on him, but he pushes you back down and guides his hard-on along your folds.
“I think you’re plenty wet,” he says. He presses his tip against your entrance and it makes a saturated sound just to prove his point.
“Haa— Don’t make me wait, then.”
“I thought you were gonna turn me in. Where are your seastone cuffs?” The very much wanted pirate can barely contain a smirk as he spreads your legs open on your commander’s desk.
You scoff, but he pushes his cock further in before you can say anything. Your eye roll turns into an eye flutter as you gasp.
Buried up to his balls inside of you, he bends to nuzzle the spot behind your ear. The angle drills him even deeper and you choke back a moan.
“Oh, I’m not stopping until you scream my name,” he purrs. You can hear the teasing grin in his voice. “Let the marines know”—he thrusts into you and you gasp again—”I’m still here.”
You do say his name, poutily, and brace yourself for a pounding. But instead, he moves his hips in slow, shallow thrusts while he stays deep inside you. You feel his dick fill you up perfectly, repeatedly — hear your pussy gush as the tip kisses your cervix again and again. His pelvis is dragging against your clit and he’s rolling your nipple with deft fingers.
It’s not what you expected, and you can’t take it. At first it’s just that you can’t keep your mouth closed: pleading mewls escape your lips in time with his thrusts. But he slows down even more, fucks you so deliciously your desperation turns up your decibels.
So much so, that someone knocks on the door. Your hand belatedly flies to your mouth as Fire Fist freezes. He disengages, and even in the nerve-wracking situation you’re in, you notice the jagged cold that overtakes you. Before you can miss him too much, though, you hear what sounds like a key in the lock.
Both of you panic, pull up your pants, and head for the other door by the fireplace. On the way over, you step on the fluffy white rug in front of the fire. The whole floor shifts underneath you, and suddenly you, Ace, the rug, and the fireplace are in a separate room.
It’s darker in here — the only light comes from the fireplace — but you make out piles of expensive jewelry, titillating treasure chests, and shimmering gold coins. In the hallway, you can hear a commotion: sounds like privates who don’t have the right key but heard the sound of the wall moving.
“I didn’t literally mean for you to scream,” comes Ace’s voice. He's wearing his cockiest grin: the one that’s made you clench your jaw since you were a kid. “Was it that good?”
You feel as though it’s your face’s turn to catch on fire. You meet him on the rug and wordlessly try to push him down onto his back while he laughs.
“It was good,” you whine, deciding to go on the offensive. He stops resisting immediately, scans your face with an eagerness that might as well be accompanied by a wagging tail. His expressions have always been more transparent than he seems to think.
You succeed in sitting him down, so now you’re kneeling between his legs, shrugging off your marine shirt in the firelight.
“Focus, Fire Fist. Did you want me or the devil fruit?” You’ve got his shorts back down and caress his renewed erection, jostling your tits for him. “I’m sure it’s in here.”
He groans while you jerk him off. “Tell me you missed me,” he pants. His voice smolders with something he isn’t saying. “And I’ll give you the damn fruit myself.”
You hum contentedly and position yourself above his cock. “Oh, Ace.” His palms sear themselves onto your waist and ass as he starts to nudge himself back into you. Between moans, you confess: “I thought about you earlier today.”
The head of his dick stretches you out in just the right way and a solar flare erases your mind.
“Wanted to see me?” he prompts.
“I—” He thrusts all the way into your wet cunt and you cry out.
A few feet away, marine boots echo down the hallway. The target of their search starts to fuck you at a ravenous pace. Your own bitten-back whimpers make it hard to answer him.
“I— missed— you—!” you manage. “So— much—”
He makes a sound you can only describe as a growl. His hand moves to the back of your neck again and you see the room spin; he’s laying you on your back. You’re not thinking of anything except for getting his body against yours. You wrap your arms around him, and when he ruts into you again, your nails dig into his skin.
“‘S all right, baby,” he murmurs. His mouth moves against your ear and his voice is smoky, boiling over with need. “Scratch me. I want the reminder tomorrow.”
He pulls out further and rams back into you as encouragement. Impossibly full of his cock, you comply, dragging your fingers down his pecs and across Whitebeard’s jolly roger as he keeps up an obsessive rhythm. He moans into your hair.
You can hear marines battering the commander’s door and Ace slows down slightly, momentarily distracted. But with the slower pace, you feel every inch of him. On top of the way he won’t stop fucking you despite the threat of getting caught, you can’t help tensing your legs around him with a shudder.
“Gonna come for me?” he whispers. A groan rattles deep in his body as your nails graze him again and you sob a yes.
Your eyes and pussy are soaked despite being right next to the fire. It blazes behind the pirate as he takes one of your hands and holds it against the plush rug. He leans down to kiss you, and it’s good timing; his lips muffle the moan that racks your body as you come around his dick.
“Shit,” he mutters. His hand twitches against yours as he bucks his hips, filling you up with his hot seed. You’re both panting, noses touching.
He holds you close as he falls onto his side, eyes already closing.
You hear the marines succeed in splintering the door and lay quietly against Fire Fist Ace: captain of Whitebeard’s second division, terrible marine impersonator, and your narcoleptic childhood crush. Your ear is against his chest; his breathing stays even despite the rush of shouting and footsteps.
After a few moments, things seem to quiet down. The privates don’t know what to look for — might not even recognize that the fireplace is missing — and if you know the commander there’s no way he’s coming in on the evening of New Year’s Day.
The eventual silence takes on an even deeper layer. You surmise it must be snowing again. After inspecting the room and returning to his side, your own eyes are starting to close when Ace sits up with a start. The scratches you left decorate his chest in the glow of the firelight.
“Happy birthday, sleepy.”
His easy grin returns with a tinge of surprise. “You remembered.”
“Yeah,” you say. You’re laying on your side, still naked, holding the devil fruit associated with water powers. “It’s common to remember the birthdays of people you miss.”
His grin stretches wider. “Now you’re just spoiling me.”
“You say that,” you say, sitting up and throwing the fruit in the air. “But isn’t this mine now?”
His eyes spark with something you now recognize as fondness, and he shrugs. “I didn’t actually come here for that.”
It’s your turn to be surprised — you miss catching the devil fruit as it falls. He pulls your vivre card out of his discarded shorts. “I just… wanted to see you today,” he says.
Both of your faces flare red.
“I—” you start. “You’d better stay then. You need a vacation! Blackbeard will still be out there in a couple days.”
He laughs incredulously. An immense desire to spoil the shit out of him sears your veins. Whether or not he thinks he deserves it, he doesn’t know he’s about to have the best birthday weekend ever.