“you’re joking, right?” lily laughed, looking between y/n and josh. “i mean, you can’t possibly believe that.”

the trio sat in the mall’s food court, picking at their fries and sipping their watered down sodas. they had decided to go to the mall after lily had practically begged, and with josh being the only one with a drivers license, y/n had nothing better to do than tag along.

from an outsiders perspective, that’s how it seemed most of the time. lily sat front and center, dragging josh along while y/n followed them like a lost puppy. she didn’t mind, though, since lily had been her friend since kindergarten and it made sense for her. ever since they were little, y/n had always been a lot quieter compared to lily. she’d rather follow along than organize things herself. it’s just how she operated.

josh had only become apart of their duo halfway through high school, and she was pretty sure the only reason was because he had a gigantic crush on lily… not that she would ever acknowledge it.

it’s just how it was.

it’s how it worked for y/n.

“i dunno,” y/n stirred her straw around her empty plastic cup. “it seemed pretty believable. you know, there was this post I saw the other day, and it said—“

“literally no one cares.” lily rolled her eyes playfully, although her tone betrayed her. “anyways, as i was saying—“ she grabbed a fry, taking a bite mid-sentence. “hey… isn’t that—?”

“hey guys!” a voice called from behind y/n, one she quickly clocked to belong to chris. she turned around, her eyes widening as she saw both him and matt approaching. “we just dropped nick off at madi’s… thought we’d stop by because matt saw these cool pants online, and we need stuff for tonight, so he wanted—“

“dude.” matt glared at his brother, shaking his head. “you don’t have to tell them our whole life story, it’s okay.”

y/n smiled at their interaction. she’d always liked the triplets, although they weren’t super close in school, they had always been nice to her. nick partnered up with her in chemistry, and eventually introduced her to his brothers when he convinced her to come get ice cream with them after class.

since then, y/n had always been friendly with them when she saw them. though they were busy boys, with their careers skyrocketing and all.

chris quickly slid in and found a seat beside y/n, tossing his arm over the back of her chair. of all the boys, chris had always been the one to push y/n out of her comfort zone. not in a bad way, of course, but he always seemed able to give her a tiny boost of confidence.

matt on the other hand stayed standing off to the side, briefly dapping josh up before nodding. “hey, im gonna’ go pick that stuff up, but ill be back in like, 10.” he glanced around the table, eyes landing on his brother. “are you coming?”

“nah,” chris stretched his legs out, getting more comfortable before reaching over and grabbing a fry out of y/n’s container. “ill hang out here til you’re done.”

matt paused, looking towards y/n. “you okay to babysit?” he gestured to his brother.

“oh, fuck off,” chris snapped, rolling his eyes before shoving a fry in his mouth. matt left, leaving the four sat still in the food court.

“sooo, chris,” lily started, leaning forward on her elbows. her body language changed completely, and y/n wasn’t sure why it bothered her so much. “what’ve you been up to today?”

“nothing really,” the boy replied, seemingly bored. he shifted his attention to y/n, a smile breaking out on his face. “we’re planning on filming tonight, so we were just picking up some stuff. pretty boring, but if you wanted to stop by later, then—“

lily laughed. like she really laughed.

y/n looked up with a confused expression, so did josh, who had been too preoccupied with a game on his phone. chris on the other hand had furrowed his eyebrows, quite annoyed with the interruption.

“sorry, sorry,” she sighed, still laughing. “i was just thinking about a really stupid thing y/n was talking about earlier. she just like, kept going on, and josh and i were like, girl what are you even saying! it was sooo funny, chris.”

chris looked between the girls, stopping at y/n. “what was it?” he asked, but y/n shook her head. “what were you talking about that was ‘sooo funny’?”

it was clear in his tone that he was mimicking lily, although she clearly didn’t pick up on it.

“who even cares!” lily sighed dramatically. “like, y/n babes, love you, but seriously, how could you possibly expect anyone to want to talk to you when you just carry on like that?”

she looked over at josh who gave her a disappointed look, to which she shrugged. “whattt, im just looking out for her!”

“well,” chris crossed his arms over his chest, leaning towards y/n. “i think you’ve got interesting things to say.”

y/n felt her cheeks heat up, which only flustered her more. chris had always been sweet to her, and she appreciated it, but something about his closeness now sent butterflies to her tummy. she nodded and mumbled a shy thanks, her eyes darting to a quite irritated looking lily.

“oh, please,” lily groaned, “she’s a big girl, chris. there’s no need to lie.”

“do you mind?” chris snapped, glaring at the girl across from him. “literally, who is even talking to you right now.”

lily stammered, her eyes wide in shock at his sudden outburst that she somehow didn’t expect. josh finally abandoned the game on his phone only to become lily’s knight in shining armour. “c’mon man, she’s just joking around.”

“no way,” chris retorted, sitting up straighter. “every single time i’m with y/n, around you guys, all you do,” he pointed at lily, “is belittle her, and try to embarrass her, and i’m sick of it.”

“chris, it’s fine.” y/n finally spoke up, grabbing softly onto his shoulder. a scene and confrontation was the last thing she wanted today. sure, things weren’t perfect, but they worked for y/n. “she’s just joking.”

“no, y/n. it’s not fine.” chris pulled out of her grasp, looking at her as if she was crazy. “you can’t sit here and tell me that you aren’t hurt by her words. I’ve seen your face, i can tell.”

y/n tried to muster up some kind of defence, but she fell flat. he was right.

lily had been picking on her since the beginning of their friendship, and at first y/n thought it was just her ‘thing’. but as they grew up, the insults felt a lot more personal. especially when it came to chris.

“ex-fucking-actly.” he looked towards lily, who sat a little closer to josh. “you are a pathetic excuse for a friend.”

“me? pathetic?” lily snapped back, her eyes darting between chris and y/n. “what about the one who isn’t even fighting her own battles? that’s what i would call pathetic.”

y/n felt her fists ball up, and her jaw clench. maybe it was the small confidence boost chris seemed to give her, or the fact his words made something shift in her brain, but she wouldn’t stand for this anymore.

“you know what? chris is right.” y/n spoke in the strongest voice she could, sitting up with her back straight. as soon as she started to speak, she felt the soft touch of chris’ hand on her knee, which only fueled her energy more. “you are an awful friend. you have been an awful friend. and i will not put up with it anymore.”

with that, y/n started to shove her things into her bag, missing the proud smile on chris’ face. “really? after everything… that’s it?” lily’s tone had changed drastically, as this clearly wasn’t the outcome she expected.

“yep.” y/n popped the p, aggressively pulling her bag over her shoulder. “delete my number.”

she stood, and so did chris, who also grabbed the remaining fries from lily’s container. they both turned to begin walking away, ignoring lily’s calls after them.

as soon as they left the food court area, y/n began to shake. the adrenaline that pumped through her veins began to leave as she realized what she’d done. chris took notice of her body language and pulled her to the side.

“hey, hey,” he lower his head closer to her level, trying to keep eye contact. “that was incredible. im so proud of you for doing that.”

“what if it was a mistake?” y/n spoke frantically, looking over her shoulder towards where they had came from.

chris quickly grabbed onto her jaw and turned her back to face him, a serious look on his face. “no, no it wasn’t a mistake, y/n. she treated you like shit, and im glad that you finally noticed it. you deserve so much more… so much better than that, angel.”

she was taken aback by his soft tone, but nodded nonetheless, feeling her anxieties subside at his words. “i guess so.”

“and i know so.” he assured, grabbing her shoulder and sliding her bag off of it, throwing it onto his own. “now let’s go find matt before he walks back into that shitshow… yeah?”

@55sturn, @nuggetnat888, @stunza, @mattsneezing, @hollandsangel

bff!chris x fem!reader

a/n: i loved this concept and i hope i brought it to life well for the anon that requested <3 my inbox is always open for u guys #kisses

@fawnchives @l9vesick @mattinside @sturnioloco @sturniolossss @cupidsword @teapartyprincess4two @princessbetsy123-blog @cookiehaos @sturnlova @junnniiieee07 @vsangel-starbies @chrissystur

doom scrolling online is like a car crash that you can’t look away from; especially when it involves your friend and your long term crush. you’ve been laying in bed scouring the internet for the past hour, pouring over comments about and tara and chris.

ever since her last party, when fans actually saw them publicly interacting for the first time, the gossip has gotten out of control. people want them together, and you hate to admit that it makes you sick to your stomach.

hell, you’d been the one to introduce them, since tara had become your friend first. but you and chris go all the way back to childhood; you were best friends with him and his brothers in your early years of school, and then you moved to another town after your dad accepted a new position.

you kept in touch through social media and occasional texts after that, until you all found yourselves in LA fresh out of high school, alone in an unfamiliar city across the country.

their youtube channel had taken off, and you’d gained a large following after you’d finally been recognized for your photography due to some big-name collabs. you were all in the same vulnerable position, and because of this your friendship with the three of them started right back up where it left off.

the rest is history. it’s been two years now, and you’ve all grown exponentially, fully adjusted to LA and the recognition, comfortable with where you are in your lives professionally and personally.

you spend nearly every week with the triplets, doing anything and everything together. they’ve made the occasional homesickness bearable, been your rock through the hard times, and supported you like no one else.

but things are a little different with you and chris. he’s your best friend, the person you want to tell everything to first. it’s always been that way, really. you had feelings for him at 13, and now at 20 years old you love him even more.

but that doesn’t mean you have to love him being shipped with every female influencer on the planet.

it’s selfish, really, to want chris to yourself, considering his occupation and the fame that comes with it. tara is a good person and an even better friend, and you shouldn’t be angry over the idea of them dating.

still, it’s been consuming your mind ever since you saw the first post about the two of them a few days ago, and you’ve been checking social media every hour since.

you’re about to read through yet another comment section when your phone buzzes, a notification appearing at the top of the screen.

chris

can you pls answer me

i don’t like this silent treatment thing

your stomach flips. he’s been texting you things like this for the past few days, since you started distancing yourself after the party.

the whole night he had acted as if he was into tara; always making conversation, asking to dance, posting her on his story. even when you were right next to him, it still felt like he was miles away.

so of course it’s been upsetting you, and you figured rather than taking it out on either of them you would just remove yourself from the situation.

it seemed like the best option in the moment, but it still sucks. you hate not talking to him, not seeing his face or feeling his arms wrap around you in a familiar hug.

another text pings, snapping you out of your spiral once more.

chris

i don’t know what’s wrong but you’re scaring me

the message makes your eyes burn, and you blink away the tears. you don’t want him worrying about you, especially when it’s your own stupid feelings getting in the way of things being normal.

you sigh, tapping out a response and staring at it, debating back and forth whether you should actually press send. but he beats you to a response, and another string of texts come through.

chris

i can see you typing

i’m coming over

y/n

no don’t do that, everything is fine

chris

i don’t believe you

and i already left my house

it’s only a five minute walk to get from his place to yours, and you know he’s too stubborn to actually turn around, no matter how hard you plead. you’ve already broken out into a nervous sweat just thinking about the confrontation.

but at this point you owe it to him and yourself to be honest. you just hope you don’t get your heart broken in the process.

y/n

fine, doors unlocked

i’m in my room

a few minutes later you hear the front door slam open and closed, just to see chris peek his head around the corner of your room moments later. you’re still curled up in bed, too scared and tired to move, so he takes the liberty of coming to you.

“hey.” he says softly as he sits down.

“hi.” you mumble, wrapping your blanket against your chest tighter.

it’s not cold, but you’re so anxious that you’re shivering. chris notices and puts a hand on your covered knee, rubbing small circles against the joint. he looks so sweet, clad in his blue fresh love hoodie with his hair all curly from showering.

“what’s up? i haven’t heard from you all week, and nick was about ready to call the cops.” he tries to joke with a small grin.

you can’t bring yourself to match his energy, and your face remains grave as you attempt to swallow the lump in your throat.

“i’m alright, just tired.”

his face falls, and a slight frown replaces his smile. you know he’s not believing any of it for a second, and you’ve never been a very convincing liar.

“don’t do that, you’re obviously not alright. and i’m not trying to be pushy or anything, but i feel like you’re shutting me out.” chris replies quietly.

you shift a little bit so you can sit up properly, back resting against the headboard as you gaze at him. his hand remains on your thigh, a source of comfort while you try to pick your words wisely.

“i’m not trying to push you away, chris. i just…wanted to give you space.” you continue to dance around the truth.

he looks even more confused, eyebrows furrowed like you’re speaking another language. “that’s nice and all, but i don’t want it.”

“well maybe i do.” you shrug.

you’re lying through your teeth, but chris’s eyes go wide regardless. you’ve shocked him into silence, which rarely ever happens. he’s just staring at you, the gears in his mind turning as he tries to figure out what could possibly be wrong.

“are you serious? did i do something that i don’t know about?” chris asks, clearly exasperated.

he removes his hand from your leg, dropping it back in his lap. the small act alone makes your heart sink, and you feel the question crawling its way out of your mouth before you can help it.

“do you like tara?”

it hangs in the air, and you’ve stumped him once again. chris shakes his head, clearing his throat while his face reddens slightly.

“i can’t believe you’re even asking me that.” he sounds genuinely astonished.

“what? why?” it’s your turn to be baffled.

“because i feel like all i ever do is flirt with you. i mean seriously, it’s embarrassing for me at this point.” chris reaches to scratch the back of his neck sheepishly.

your jaw drops, which makes you feel silly. throughout this whole relationship you felt like you were the one putting the moves on him, doing too much. you’d never once stopped to think about all of the little comments he would make.

“i, uh, guess i didn’t pick up on that.” you manage to reply.

you immediately wish you hadn’t, that you just kept your mouth shut. but he smiles widely at you, chuckling lightly.

“no shit.”

this makes you laugh too, and it feels good to experience at least a brief moment of normality between the two of you. things have felt tense for so long that you’d almost forgotten why you love being around chris in the first place.

you wait to calm down a bit before you decide to finally lay it all on the table. “i like you a lot, chris. and i don’t want to mess up the dynamic we have, because you mean the world to me. but i’d be lying to myself if i said i didn’t want to be with you.”

he’s still grinning, though you can tell he’s gone a little shy now hearing you admit your feelings. this moment is all he dreamed about for so long, and now it’s finally happening in a realm outside of his own brain.

“i want that too, and i’m a dumbass for taking this long to say it. so no, i’m not interested in tara like that. it’s always been you.” chris confesses, reaching to interlock your fingers.

you’ve held hands before on many occasions, but it’s different now in the best way. butterflies erupt in your stomach as he leans in, and you can smell the fading hints of minty body wash on his skin.

you tilt your head so your mouths finally meet, soft and slow as you both finally enjoy the kiss you’ve been yearning for for so long. he tastes sugary, like the lollipops he’s always got between his teeth, and you’re already addicted.

chris pulls away a minute later, his lips reddened and glistening from the contact. you giggle slightly from the unfamiliarity of the situation, glancing down at your linked hands.

“your lips are so soft.” he praises, still awestruck that he finally got to kiss the girl he’s loved since he was a preteen.

“take a girl out to dinner first, jeez.” you joke playfully.

chris rolls his eyes, but he smiles nonetheless. “i think i will, actually. you got any plans tomorrow?”

you tap your chin with your free hand like you’re contemplating your schedule. “i can probably squeeze you in.”

“You okay?” he asked, and you almost immediately became a crying mess. You rushed between his arms, not saying anything. He was taken a bit aback, he had to admit ; but he wasn’t going to leave you like this. He softly put his arm around your waist, guiding you inside of his apartment.  Zoro wasn't much of a talkative person, definitely more the kind to listen for hours if you needed to. That's why he didn't say a word and just closed the door behind you, leading you to the couch. Both of you sat here and stayed silent for a few moments. You needed to cry and he was going to give you the time you needed.   Finally, you stopped crying. It was a relief, because he hated to see you like this. He didn’t have the time to ask for an explanation from you as you started to tell him about what happened during the day. The first idea which crossed his mind was about going to those girls and making them regret what they did to you. But you knew him by heart, and getting revenge was the last thing you wanted.  "Please, don't. It'll be worse,” you said as you finally met his gaze, your eyes red and puffy from crying. This vision broke his heart, and it made him even angrier than before. If it wasn’t for you, he would have gone feral without any hesitation. But you asked him not to, so he wouldn’t act against your will.  "You can stay here tonight," he said, looking at you. It was a relief, you had to admit. You needed to stay with someone right now, and you knew that Zoro's presence would comfort you. He was a good listener, and you had a lot of things to say.

Normally she would be right. Whenever you tried to just do nothing there was the inevitable fidgeting, the niggling feeling that you should be doing something, anything productive. This time however, you were more than content to lay back and enjoy the view. And it just so happened that view involved an unnecessarily shirtless swordsman doing press-ups. You hadn’t intended to stare – you were quite content just enjoying some free time with Nami but when Zoro had walked out onto the deck, half undressed and started working out only five or so feet in front of you … well, you were only human.

You bit your lip involuntarily when you heard him grunt. Fuck, he was hot. You’d always thought so, always been unable to look at him without feeling a flush in your cheeks and, well, other things. This was only exacerbated by the beads of sweat sparkling against his tanned skin, the way his muscles moved and proudly exhibited his strength and control. This man was going to be your undoing.

Lost in your, somewhat salacious, thoughts you were completely unaware Nami was trying to get your attention until she jabbed your arm. “Ow! What?”

She rolled her eyes and leant back into her lounger. “Y/N, stop being a perv and just fuck him already.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, “Nami!”

“Oh, like he’s listening.” Flashing you a mischievous grin she raised one hand at started waving it in Zoro’s direction. “Hey Zoro!” He didn’t look up, seemingly too absorbed in his work out. “See,” Nami turned back to you with a look of satisfaction. “So, what position are you thinking first?”

With a curse and groan you buried your face in your hands, praying that Zoro really was completely oblivious.

*

Zoro would be lying if he said the sight of you on a sun lounger, in a bikini of all things wasn’t at least a little distracting. When he’d walked into the deck for his work out his heart nearly dropped to his stomach at the sight. Sure, he’d seen you in states of undress before but usually when you were injured, which wasn’t exactly an aphrodisiac. Or the time when you’d had too much to drink so he’d had to help you to your cabin whilst you wrestled with your clothes because you were “too hot” – which, yes, obviously Zoro also agreed that you were too hot but at the time he’d been more concerned with you not throwing up and suffocating in your sleep. He could deal with those occasions. He’d had a specific task at hand – your safety. But this time was different. You were perfectly safe, sober, and God help him, sprawling.

Swallowing hard and trying to think of absolutely anything other than the curves of your hips and how soft and supple your thighs looked, he’d started his press ups. Hopefully he could focus on that, and only that, although at this point if he stared at the wood below him any harder he was sure to burn a hole through it.

“Just fuck him already.”

He tensed, fingertips pressing so harshly against the deck his skin was starting to turn white. Fuck who? Who was Nami telling you to fuck? Wait. Breathe. He exhaled slowly, deliberately and tried to continue unfazed despite the slight shaking of his arms, telling himself this was a private conversation and he shouldn’t be listening.

“Hey Zoro!”

Oh fuck.

He almost buckled and would have collapsed face first onto the deck if his instincts hadn’t kicked in. Did you and Nami know he was listening? He thought, he was sure, he’d managed not to react to anything he’d heard but perhaps he wasn’t as subtle as he liked to think. His cheeks were growing hotter by the second and it was taking every last inch of his willpower to carry on, feigning ignorance. It was, however, growing increasingly difficult as the conversation continued.

“I’m not fucking Zoro, Nami. Obviously I would but… I don’t know. I don’t think he sees me like that.”

He could feel his heartbeat growing faster, and was certain his cheeks were now an obnoxious shade of red – although whether that was due to his ego at the thought of you wanting to fuck him, or confusion and embarrassment of the fact that you could possibly think he was anything other than insanely attracted to you was unclear. Either way, he had to stop his work out.

Zoro stood up, making sure to keep his back to you and Nami. He tried to focus on stretching his arms but all of his senses were on high alert. Of course he saw you like that. Who wouldn’t? Fuck, he’d got a semi just by seeing you on the sun lounger.

“Right.” He could hear the sarcasm in Nami’s voice which automatically annoyed him. “Listen, you two need to stop eye-fucking each other and actually fuck-fuck each other. And then tell me all the det-ow!”

An amused smile formed on his lips – clearly he wasn’t the only one getting hot and bothered by Nami’s comments. Although as much as he hated to admit it, she was right, and he did so desperately want to fuck you. Only problem was he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking it was her idea. Still, he did have to give her credit for the groundwork, and now that he had calmed down (and there was no mistaking that the feeling was, somewhat incredibly, mutual) he was more than happy to work with his new advantage.

You can’t tell if his words are innocent or not but your body reacts to them and the words are sent straight to your sex. Part of you wants him to take his hand off your thigh. This is the rational part of you that knows you two are on the way to pick up Chris and Nick. The other part of you wants him to keep his hand on your thigh, no, trail his hand up your leg and see how much he can get you off while driving—you suppress that side of yourself.

Matt pulls the car into the gravel driveway where Chris and Nick’s location was. Matt rarely asked questions anymore, Chris knew you and him were in the area so he asked to be picked up. Matt agreed and pulled you in tow with him.

“We’re early.” You claim, clicking your phone off after checking the time. Matt leans his head back and reclines his seat slightly. “You’re so impatient,” he tuts. His hand is still on your thigh, this time moving further up, nearing your stomach. “I’m not impatient, I just didn’t expect our date night to end with Nick and Chris in the back of the car.” You quip.

Matt leans over the dash, looking into your eyes with his wide gaze. He puts a palm to your neck, tilting it slightly for easy access to the other side. “Sorry baby.” He hums, pressing a kiss to your jawline.

You press your thighs together. Fuck.

You look at him unaware if he’s teasing, playing innocent, or completely unaware of what he does to you.

“How long until Chris and Nick are coming out?” You ask, insinuating something sensual.

Matt looks at you, keeping his eyes on your thighs well he speaks. “I’m not sure. But I do know one thing…” he leans into you wedging your thighs apart with his palm. “You want to get fucked right now.”

Your cheeks flush red at his bluntness but you nod, pausing a moment before speaking up. “I need you so bad Matty.”

Matt stiffens in place, suddenly uncomfortable in his jeans. “You can’t wait till we get home?”

You shake your head, “No.”

Matt stares for a second, his eyes trailing up and down your body twice before he unbuckles his seatbelt and clicks his door open — stepping out of the vehicle one foot in front of the other. You’re left guessing for a moment before he climbs in the backseat and shuts the door quickly behind him.

“Matt what—“

He cuts you off. “Get your ass back here.”

Your cheeks flush at his change in demeanor and you shamelessly knee yourself over the center console to meet Matt in the backseat.

He pats his lap and your eyes dart to his thighs, a growling bulge imprinted in his jeans. You follow his silent instruction and position yourself on his lap, swiveling your hips as you “get more comfortable”

Matt groans at the growing pleasure you cause him and pulls your lips to his, making sure to capture any sounds either of you make between your lips.

You pull away gaping for air and Matt tangles his hands in the waistband of your thin shorts.

“Matt…”

He pecks your lips. “Matt, I need you so bad.” You whine, the intensity of your throbbing heat only growing with every press of his lips to yours.

“I know, baby.” Matt coos, he gropes the underside of your thighs so your lap hovers above his, with his now easy access he tugs your shorts down. You help with this, shimmying your bottoms off once they’re past your knees.

Matt drinks in the sight of you in front of him, with you on his lap your head is nearly bumping the car’s roof. You’re breathing heavily with every rise and fall of your chest and this only perks your tits to his attention more.

You reach for Matt’s belt, undoing the metal clasp before he makes a ‘tsk’ sound with his lips and firmly grips your wrist, shooting you a steely look. “Did I say you could take my belt off?” He sterns, radiating dominance off his figure.

“M’sorry,” you mumble giving him the best pleading eyes you can, “just need your cock so bad Matty.”

Matt smirks at your wanton expression, the filthy words from your mouth going straight to his cock “Turn around princess. Hands and knees.”

Your stomach knots in anticipation of his words and you oblige, swiveling on your knees to face the window, giving Matt a fair view of your nearly exposed ass.

Your breath is tight as he slips a hand under the band of your panties, he draws them down your thighs slowly, admiring the slick that coats the fabric. “You’re dripping baby.” Matt gushes as he starts undoing his belt, your chest flutters as you hear fabric and leather shuffling.

Matt pulls his boxers off in tow with his jeans, letting them loom at his ankles. “You’re so good baby, so patient f’me.”

“Matt, stop teasing, please.” You mumble, hoping he'll drop any foreplay.

He palms his dick, pumping it back and forth in his hand, coating his shaft with his spit and pre-cum.

Matt runs his dick against your wet folds pressing against you as he coats his shaft with your slick. “Shit baby—I’m gonna slip right in.”

He alines his tip with your hole and pushes in in one solid thrust - this causes your entire body to jolt forward, your palms press against the nearest window to stabilize yourself and this is only his first thrust.

Your yelps and whimpers fill the car as Matt sets a relentless pace after giving you no time to adjust to his size, his hips slamming into your ass every time his tip kisses your cervix.

“M-Matt-“ you whine, fingers clawing against the dewy window as his dick finds your gummy spot.

Your palms press against the window for stabilization whilst he pounds into you relentlessly, his cock head pressing your g-spot with every hit.

“S-such a good girl,” Matt groans, “such a n-needy girl.”

He snakes his hand up your stomach and rolls his thumb over your clothed nipple, the stimulation brings you closer to your high, and your walls squeeze around his cock.

“M-Matt.” You moan, repeating his name like a mantra. You’re sure the car is shaking - visible from the outside, you don’t know how long you’ve been pressed against the windows, half aware Nick and Chris could come back at any moment but Matt fucks you dumber with every thrust.

Matt tries to keep his thrusts steady, but with the way your walls are milking his cock he can’t help but slow them slightly - growing sloppier in hopes of lasting longer.

“F-Fuck Y/N, I’m gonna cum.” He groans with a guttural moan leaving his lips.

You feel his cock twitch inside of you, his sounds setting you ever the edge, “M-me too.” You gasp. “Mmm m’cumming.”

“Me too baby, me too.” Matt groans letting his hips stutter against your ass and he pulls out, pumping his dick twice and spilling his seed onto your back, staining your top with his seed.

“Fuck Matt.” You cry, he places a palm on your stomach to steady you and pulls your shorts off the rug, turning you to face him.

You creen yourself in the crook of Matt’s neck, catching your breath from your crushing orgasm. Matt rubs circles on your lower back with his thumb, helping to bring you down from your high.

You prop yourself on shaking legs while Matt loosely pulls his boxers and jeans to his hips.

He pans your shorts out making them easier to step into. “Put these back on baby.” He mutters, putting a gentle hand on your thigh while you step into your shorts.

You readjust the fabric, pocketing your panties because you don’t want the dampness of the cloth against your core.

“Back to the front seats?” Matt asks in a hum.

“Yeah.”

Matt smirks lightly “You going to crawl over the console again?”

You shake your head “No m’legs are too sore.”

You and Matt both click your doors open, returning to your respective seats in front.

“Matt,” You hum, reaching your hand down to his crotch to rearrange his belt. Matt nods, shimmying into a more comfortable position in his seat. “Turn the AC on to the highest setting.”

Matt fidgets with the knobs in the dashboard until you feel cool air tickle your skin through the slotted vents.

Matt bites his bottom lip before pulling his hoodie out of the backseat.

“Put this on, your shirt is wet.”

You tilt your head lightly to the side, “wet?” You inspect the front side of your shirt for any liquid stains but find none. Matt laughs at this and his voice lowly meets your ear, “I came on the back of your shirt.” He deadpans.

Your cheeks flush crimson and you twist in your seat, trying to see the damage done to your tank top. “Baby just put the hoodie on.” Matt smiles holding his sweatshirt up to you.

You sigh and shimmy yourself into his hoodie, the cotton warms your skin, contesting the AC playing on full blast.

You lean into Matt and study him gently. A patch of sweat dots the arch of his nose as a result of your intimacy.

Cupping his face in your palm you press your lips to his tenderly. ‘I love you’

Matt quickly reciprocates the kiss tilting his head against yours to gain easier access to your lips - swollen from your former kisses.

He palms the small of your neck, pulling you closer to him so your chests meet as you kiss.

Your tits are pressed against his chest in a non-carnal way. The way that gives Matt easier access to explore your mouth with the given comfort of your body head against him.

“Gross.”

The car’s backseat door clicks open revealing Chris and Nick. The car shakes lightly as they tumble into the backseat with their bags in tow.

You pull away from Matt when they close the doors, getting one final breath of his cologne before you recline to the chill of the passenger seat.

Nick settles in the car, clicking his seatbelt in the clasp, “Thanks for picking us up Matt.”

Matt sighs lightly, letting out a breathy puff of air as he does so. “Of course Nick. I love driving twenty minutes out of my way on my date night to pick your lame ass up.”

Chris laughs at Matt’s response but doesn’t fight the urge to voice his complaints. “Why is it so fucking cold in here?” He belts.

Matt fidgets with the knobs on the dash yet again this time turning off the AC.

Matt shifts the gears of the car and presses his foot to the gas, tracking the car out of the parking lot.

The ambient noise of the blinkers occasionally switching in and off fills your ears until drizzles of rain start plunging from the sky leaving a dewy mist around the car.

Nick shuffles in the backseat, he glances at Matt then at you — then back at Matt. Matt’s shirt tag was flipped out against his neck, and his belt was looped around his waist but set three sizes too large. Then he knowingly glances at you, your hair is pulled back into a frizzy ponytail and your shorts are inside out.

He silently facepalms, turning his face to the window to attempt to erase what he’d just half discovered - the fact that you and his brother had most definitely just fucked.

The second he views the window he wishes he opted to look at his phone instead. The dew of raindrops outside along with the car’s lack of AC had caused the windows to fog again - the fog of the windows bringing back the imprints your palms left on them.

The prints your palms left when Matt was fucking you.

Nick makes an almost animalistic squealing noise drawing everyone’s attention to him. “What the fuck was that?” Matt exclaims, briefly changing his focus from the steering.

Nick clamps his hands together and with disgust written across his face mutters out an, “Ew, ew, ew.”

Chris, being tired of Nick’s dissemination, speaks up - shutting off his phone, “Spit it out, Nick!” Chris’ voice is laced with aggravation.

“D-did you guys fuck in here?!

Matt’s cheeks puff up at the accusation and his lips purse into a small smirk.

Nick studies Matt's face and then looks at you, a similar shock-driven expression on your features.

Nick's stomach churns at your silence. “What the fuck! You guys had sex in here before you picked us up!?” Nick nearly screeches.

You hoarded all the cool treats that Sanji had made into the aquarium, licking vanilla ice cream and caramel glaze off the bottom of your lip as you watched the drag of waves through the glass. The aquarium was notably cooler than the rest of the Sunny, something about the room needing to stay a certain degree so Luffy could keep his dinner fresh and alive until he was hungry, the lack of warm light to keep the fish complacent until Sanji got his knife in them. Plus, no one was in the aquarium— you didn't have to hear them talking about Alabasta.

Watching a purple sea king twist around the water, splitting through the blue with a quick lurch, you blink and it's gone, leaving behind some pathetic catches, smaller schools of fish that were caught in some net cast off the side of the Sunny, forgotten for an hour or two until Franky dragged it up and dumped it into the aquarium. Eventually, even those fish are gone and you're still watching the empty blue, tasting the fizz and crackle of some experimental dessert Sanji'd been tinkering with as you consider the bubbles of air scoring through the water, snapping apart.

Alabasta, Alabasta— the last you'd heard of the country was when the Strawhats were there, something about Smoker uncovering some heinous ploy to take over the world, capturing Warlord Sir Crocodile in the process; you should have known Luffy was there. Speaking of Luffy: Luffy; you keep thinking about Luffy. The last you'd seen of him he had his tongue stuck to the back of the refrigerator where the ice was, melting out of the open door of the fridge before Sanji yelled at him and slammed the door shut on his ass out of principle. It merely bounced back and rattled a few things around.

You think about Luffy as you start eating the ice cream, packaged ones you guys got from a few islands back, tracing melted chocolate up from the inside of your wrist to your palm, sucking on the stale cone, and then dragging a flat tongue up to the cream at the top before biting down. Rich, thickened chocolate melting over your palate as you remember the slip of tan skin between his open vest and the low waist band of his denim shorts, the peek of some no brand boxers. You chew on some swirl of caramel and salt sticks to your molars in the back; beads of sweat over the curve of his hip— you push your thumb against the corner of your mouth to redirect some of the cream into your mouth.

Half a finger in your mouth, the tang of caramel and sweat stuck beneath your nail, transferring a print to the buds of your tongue, you think you've lost your mind when you see a ripple of an arm sneaking in through the door. Must be the heat, the reflection of some flesh coloured fish around you until the hand gropes around for some leverage, nails cut into the matte of the cushion benches and then the waves pulled taut, straightening into a beam and then the door swings, rattling back and forth on its poor hinges as Luffy shoots through the room. He lands, ass up, upside down on the bench across from you.

Luffy makes a ‘nyop’ noise after he plants his feet on the glass of the aquarium behind him, kicking himself ‘round to stand up; his hand throwing the straw hat lop–sided on his shoulder to swing at his back as he looks around like he's not sure where he is.

“Captain,” you drawl, making things easier for him. You've still got that pervasive irritation from being left out as they chatted and giggled and laughed about some giant, perverted crab and camel, but you reckon all the sweet's been rotting your teeth, making words slip and slide easier.

When he turns a thirty–two teethed grin to you, all molars and sharp incisors, you preen; when he calls your name, smiling ‘round the syllables, you shiver. He gives you a moment to see him, he's the shine of an oyster's pearl, the slick of slimy seaweed dressed in unnatural blues; his unforgiving red vest is mellowed into a purple, he'd unbuttoned his shorts earlier, something about letting the air in. It also lets the pests in, letting your eyes slip from the tacky of sweaty skin, tripping over obstructing hems and lingering on the cotton peek of his boxers. His fly's wholly undone, the two corners of his waistband flipped outwards, open like an invitation for you to stay with your gaze. Denim low, low, low on his waist like he doesn't know what he's doing— probably doesn't, no one else in the crew's crazy enough to want Luffy this way, Luffy don't know what it means to want like you do. He must do, he's good with intent, good with knowing those he calls his.

He turns indignant when he sees the food you'd been hoarding. “No fair!” He decides, crashing half into you and swiping an arm around whatever you'd had on your lap to shovel into his wide, greedy, encompassing mouth. He spits out some wrapper and then, belatedly, “it's so much cooler in here,” Luffy realises, letting himself sprawl out on the seats.

You make a general noise of agreement, nodding your head away.

He lets you forget he’s there beside you surprisingly, quietly chewing on the food he’s still got in his mouth. You consider your eyes upon a tiny blip of a fish, a tragic thing that hasn't even been good enough to be food for Luffy, watching it struggle against the stretch of water rolling off of the end of a sea king’s flickering tail. You're startled when Luffy speaks— the fish goes limp, lets itself be washed away. “Are y’ upset?” Dribbling strawberry syrup from his lips. You make a face. Shadows of the deep blue obscure it and Luffy is half distracted by the heat, the food, only catches the frays of your expression turning indifferent again.

“No,” sounds petulant even to your own ears, childish and immature as you toe off your shoes, spread your toes out, and curl them— sweeping your thighs back in closer and digging your heels into the pleather seats. You can feel his gaze like a different shade of a sunburn, heavy the glare of a sun on a different planet; you're masochistic enough to turn over to watch his face bounce through different expressions.

“You upset ‘cause it’s hot?” Luffy asks, slurping up some slushie as the words melt, “Nami gets angry too, have t’ stay away from her when it gets this hot.”

Burning, ashamed maybe, you narrow your eyes at him. “I’m not upset,” you adamantly deny. 

Luffy looks at you like he’s trying to see something else, apprehensive about the way he nods his head slowly, mouth opens to sound out the words, “mmm, ‘kay.” And then you get more agitated because that's the response he gives Nami when he’s trying to not piss her off about something.

It’s counterintuitive to keep claiming you're not upset but you feel you can't help it, frowning as you deny again. “I’m not.” Third time’s a charm, you reckon, denying a man three times has worked well enough before. But then Luffy comes closer, eyes open wide; his fingers around your knee as he shoves his face closer.

He asks, “why are you getting upset?”

You couldn't betray him the truth, shouldn't, but Luffy's good at knowing it all regardless; he might have even come looking for you just to make sure. His fingers are moist, you can imagine the taste of them in your mouth: metallic salt, sweet vanilla, tonka spiced, cold— you bite on your lip. His body weighs heavy on your knee, burdening you over on your left side. Luffy tilts his head to his shoulder, expressionless mostly, “don't wanna talk ‘bout it?”

“It’s stupid,” you mumble.

Luffy nods, “probably is.” Doesn’t even sound like he doubts it, so it might have been right for you to lower your gaze, hope the shadows of flowing fish cover the apprehensive soft of your features. “Y' should tell me anyway,” Luffy continues, thumbing over the wrapper of whatever else has caught his fancy.

That's not an invitation— Luffy is not one for invites, he warns and then he does. You have a second or two, depending on how distracted he can get himself, before Luffy does what he does best: wants and gets. Ironically, you get distracted by the possible outcomes of this interaction and you entirely miss how he discards the hoard of food and then weighs his whole self, his attention onto you, harder, insistent, waiting. He’s wanting; it won't be long before he gets and you know, you're no fool, you'll fold to his whims.

You let him come to his own conclusion. Too stubborn and far too smart to give him any ammunition; whatever he sees makes him frown.

You're watching his mouth, you realise, after your gaze glides off the sweat under his nose, follows the glide of a downward turn and then slips completely off his chin— skipping around the angle of his Adam's apple, sparkling with a hue of the salty sea and the sharp of scales that get caught between your teeth, irritates you, continues slipping below his open vest and stops again, once more, at the band of his boxers.

“Is it hot?” He asks, like it matters.

Going down was an easy feat, everything glides with the drag of gravity, but going up— against the natural tug— was hard; something in your stomach pants with a feeling you’ve never known when you make eye contact with Luffy; you think it’s been melted out of you, deep between layers of muscle and flesh that you’ve never had the knowledge of. Following that logic, you nod. Luffy, for whatever reason, mimics your nodding; a wet clump of hair slaps down against his forehead and he pushes it back with the back of his hand. Imagine him out of the bath, your brain then supplies, imagine him wet, dripping— imagine him with his hair swept back with nothing but moisture, clothes an afterthought, imagine the flush on his cheeks from the warm of the bath, the smoke that follows his feet with the bathroom door swinging after him, imagine him with wet eyes. Think about his sticky hands, how it stretches around your knees, how his fingers are always closed with no intent of going, about his wide brown eyes— dirt coloured, dyed with the yellow of dandelions he’d been digging around at; the message in his eyes obscured enough that you’re allowed to misinterpret how he makes a point of looking so intently, never lets up with it. Think about it.

“You look like Sanji,” he has the gall to laugh at you afterwards.

That shocks you sober. An offended gasp of air in through your nose, embarrassed and ashamed, as you shove him out of your face; hands against the round of his shoulders. Steady as Luffy is, he hardly moves; he makes an indignant noise but you’re the one that stumbles and slips off the bench. Luffy grips you by the leg when he realises you’re falling backwards. You end up on the floor regardless, hands braced behind you with your legs still hooked up on the leather, eyes wide as you look up at Luffy; it wouldn’t be strange for him to laugh. You’re horrified by the thought and the feeling you’d run away from earlier comes back stronger. If he laughs now, you won't recover.

A while ago, you’d given up on trying to understand Luffy; it’s much too complicated and far too much of a convoluted mission for you to try your hand at. So, naturally, when Luffy drops forward, unceremoniously and in the way that hurts the most, right into your chest, all you can do is take it. The added weight collapses your arms at the elbows; your back pressed against the floor as Luffy shifts his hat onto his head. Comfortable, like it's his rightful spot. Your forearms are against the wooden planks, head tilted up to look at Luffy, “why’d you put your hat on?” is the easiest thing to say.

Luffy shrugs, “felt right.” Amazing, great, wonderful; even if the man himself didn't have a lick of an idea of what you wanted, something in him always knew his crew. You can feel a bruise forming, under the shape of his ass— which you're not sure how to feel about because you don't really want a bruise in the shape of his ass across your hips but there's no reason for it to hurt so much, something like an ache over the skin that he’s against. He leans forward, his hips shift and he comes close enough that the button of his denim shorts end up pressed into your hipbone.

“Captain,” both startled and wary; you think about it quickly as he comes closer, you don't think he'll take offense, he’d be confused at best. He wouldn't understand it enough for you to really be embarrassed about it, it wouldn't mean a thing to him, so you prepare yourself accordingly, and then, quick as you can, “are you trying to kiss me?”

Luffy makes a noise, not of disgust you have to tell yourself, but of confusion. “No, you have ice cream in your hair.” You do have a response for that, albeit it being undeservedly defensive to save face, but then Luffy swarms in again, and drops his jaw— presses his tongue against your hairline to lick up into the sweet wrapped into strands of your hair. You blink. Once. Twice. Luffy mimics you, smacking his lips together, “vanilla?”

It’s so stupid you have to take a minute. Reaching up to tug his hat over his eyes, you keep your hand against the material, pressing it into his face; you’re so confused because anyone else you might have been able to consider it to be flirting— abrupt and perverse, invasive, but for Luffy, it might have been as easy as seeing a crumb of food and just wanting it. Where does that leave you?

Luffy reminds that your place is beneath him. An indignant noise leaves his mouth, “hey,” he shouts, ripping your hands off of him, settling his hat back on his head. He looks at you with a frown, eyebrows furrowed, lips inviting in a pout. “You are upset,” he accuses, “is it ‘cause you’re hot?” A pause, “or did you want a kiss?” He blinks, opening them up again is like the bottom of the ocean unhinging to take you— you imagine that it might be the sight that so many have never had the fortune to see, drowned too early before they get to kiss the floor of the sea. Shame, you think, it’s beautiful, as you look at Luffy. “Or my hat?”

All three guesses suck.

Somehow though, Luffy gets an answer. He tugs the string of his straw hat over his head from under his chin and settles it onto yours, grinning with a ‘shishishi’ tickling through his teeth.

He gives you enough confidence to ask, “what if I wanted a kiss?”

Luffy leaves a gap of silence between you, where his mind seems to wander far away— which is a horrifying sight because it means he’s thinking and seas knows nothing good comes out of him thinking, but you're still underneath him. Stuck beneath his weight, you shift awkwardly, almost wanting to get away. His lips part to mouth around some word in a tongue you must be unfamiliar with, but you watch as a line of saliva stretches between his lips, thick and white from the dairy of the ice cream and all of a sudden, “captain.” And you don't recognise that word then either, even when it comes from your own mouth. An unfamiliar language, an emotional one maybe; Luffy knows it though ‘cause whatever you were trying to say, he understands and responds by dipping his head down.

Your breath catches, pulls back into your mouth like you're hoping it won't scare him away and he takes a moment. Luffy studies you, assesses in his own way; you get scared, pressing your feet against the wood of the benches and pushing hard in an attempt to slide out from under him. 

It doesn't really work— fat ass Luffy keeps you down— but it gets some startled noise out of Luffy, a sort of gasp and hitch of breath that you think is most similar to when he resurfaces after falling into the sea, clutching onto Zoro for dear life, looking all pathetic and miserable. He twitched. “Hey, don't do that.” He says first, decidedly upset as he tests the feeling in his toes by curling them. Petty and still childish, you try it again. He lurches— all sharp angles and obtuse ticking in a way you’d never seen rubber do; his spine snaps forward in parts of three, motion separated from each other like they’re not of the same whole and Luffy folds himself down against you. A frisson that jumps and skips across the active lines of a transmission tower of tangled wires and obscured messages. His head is bowed low, the point of his widow’s peak sat at the hollow between your collarbones, his knees pulled in as close as possible with you obstructing the rest of the way. There’s barely a second for you to appreciate the view, his sun–burnt skin and the slight line of lighter skin under his vest all in the same glaze as salted caramel, before Luffy nods his head back up to glare at you. “I said don’t do that.”

“Why not?” And it’s only half asked to be difficult, the other half is because you want to know why it’s bothering him— why it’s made him twitch.

The response you get is the furrow of a brow— one you don’t understand but react to all the same. Your head tilts and it's now that urges of fight leave you and discards behind simple curiosity; you don’t really get it, no, not even when it’s yours, but Luffy does. He’s good at that, at knowing. He doesn’t know much, but he understands how the synapses work, where the sinew and the bone connect, he knows where the blood sits, how it gets to the heart— he knows where to look to catch every tick, vellication, tremble; in hypotheticals, of course, because Luffy doesn’t know it in himself, but on you, on his crew it’s easy. Luffy knows exactly where to touch so that your skin opens up to invite him closer in. You’d given him a hint earlier.

“Feels weird,” he responds, nose scrunching and, because restraint is unfamiliar to him, he continues, “makes me w’nna kiss you.”

You thought Luffy had lost all capacity to shock you, thought you’d managed to get used to his particular brand of chaos. You’re not sure what your face is doing, past your lip trembling in open and close to make some noises that you think a blubbering fish would make on dry land. Luffy shows about as much interest in women as Sanji shows interest in men, which is to say he doesn’t and if he does, it's apprehensively at best. He’s no fool and he knows about sex, as juvenile as his brothers might have made it or as clinical as Chopper might have explained, but for him to want the prerequisite is confounding.

You squint your eyes at him, disbelieving and unsure. “A kiss?” You echo, the words sounding even crazier as they glide around the aquarium, return to your ears in a glutinous lacquer picked up from molecules of wet clinging ‘round the air. “What’d you even know about kissing?” And then, “are you making fun of me?”

“No, why would I do that?”

“Cause it’s kissing,” you stress like Luffy might get it. He doesn’t. You won’t get an answer past frustration. “What did I even do?”

Luffy huffs, irritated. He stretches his back out again, presses his hands onto your shoulders. “This,” and you’re reminded that you’ll never truly be able to guess what Luffy is capable of when he rolls his hip into yours, up and lousy. The intention is there, but the point is immature, doesn’t work in the way he’s trying to make it. Still, it knocks a breath up your throat, warped in all the heat, viscous with all the melting it's done and leaves slick all the way up to the back of your throat when the metal button of his shorts catches on a belt loop of your pants.

“This?” And you do better, lift your hips from the floor and press it up into him where— yes— you feel the faint hardening of something distinct and Luffy makes that same gasp, twitches all the same. His fingers tremble over your shoulders and he squeezes down around skin hard.

Well, there’s your answer.

Something possesses you easily when you know Luffy is being generous enough to allow it. “Luffy,” he shakes his head, his bottom lip caught between teeth and you remember how careless he is with his mouth, how easy it is for him to tear through meat and how sloppy he gets with sauce, “captain.” Another gasp broken through the surface of water, pathetic, miserable. You gratefully take your catch. Grabbing onto the lapels of his vest and tugging him down as you stomp your shoes onto the floor, jerking your hips up as your teeth rattle, ring against Luffy’s.

Luffy's kissed before. That's the impression you have first, but then you realise that no, that's just instinct. He doesn't know what he’s doing, which is great— makes you feel an immature flicker of pride when you drop your jaw and press your open mouth against his, swallowing all the splutters of gasps and breaths and heavy pants; something ugly inside you, a muscly thing full of phlegm and blood, something you haven't realised the weight of since joining the Strawhats, preens at the realisation that this was new. A whole unexplored territory of touch and new experiences for your captain and here you were, the one who had initiated it all and the one to see it through all the way to the end with him. The only Strawhat that's had your tongue against Luffy's palate, where he keeps all his most treasured flavors.

Before you get to really feel sick at the train of thought, Luffy squeezes around the fabric of your shirt and then his tongue desperately lurches. It feels like drowning as the muscle stretches out, like he’s trying to flood your mouth, rewire all the senses in your mouth to only know him; you shouldn't be surprised, when Luffy doesn't know what to do with what he wants, he does it all excessively and hopes how large his gesture had done at least something notable. A hypnic jerk of your hips makes him pause, spitting out his tongue from your mouth.

“Hey!” He shouts, offended; he presses his weight down to keep you still, like he’s denying you the pleasure to keep rutting against him. 

You're equally miffed, “don't stretch out your tongue— holy shit, I couldn't breathe.”

Luffy doesn't look a bit apologetic, just annoyed that he’s got it wrong; his face scrunches up and then, finally, “sorry.”

The tension on your face splits and breaks away as the thought occurs to you, he really doesn't know what he’s doing, then you get giddy again, because oh God, Luffy doesn't know what he’s fucking doing and you're the first person to have ever scolded him for his horrible kissing habits, because your captain has never kissed before.

“Hey, you look like Sanji again!” He points out, a grin already on his face.

You slap your hand against his face, “shut up.” The moment’s gone, you sigh, at least you get his first kiss, even if Sanji was somewhat, dubiously involved.

You're shifting to get out from under him when Luffy grabs at you. “Where you going?” He whines, “I wanna keep kissing.”

You don't need much more convincing, dogish when it comes to him. “Alright, captain.” This time you don't miss the slight shiver that makes Luffy twang like a rubber band, how it ends at the very tips of his hair and the sigh he lets out of him; like a string of rubber that's so easily malleable, stretches taut with a curled index and then slips off with a misguided touch and can so readily hurt. He’s a lot more tentative this time, careful and slow when he opens his mouth, tilts his head to let you slide the curve of your lips together; the friction of two tectonic plates over the course of years spent in anticipation, shivering and fizzling under the cool, cool sea until it learns of touch.

His denim shorts tremble like the waves following a collision, shifting up to cover the colour of his boxers before dragging back down as he mimics a sloppy tempo against you. Sweat builds up again, you try to convince yourself it’s the same kind of heat that would have troubled Luffy in Alabasta. You thought the sound of Luffy eating would always be annoying, smacking his lips and slurping and letting out obnoxious, appreciative moans and groans that would make any other pirate irritated; you're selfish enough to enjoy it when it’s you he’s got his undivided attention on trying to swallow. He surges forwards, follows with a stubborn you know well, the moment makes his straw hat tip back, threatening to slip off your head but Luffy slaps a hand against it and steadies it back onto your head.

Satisfied, he focuses back onto you. The sound of wet closes in around your head, pure obscenity, the savagery of ducking your head down and goring down on an open orifice of your meal— it slicks around creases of your ears, floods in and makes everything else sound far, far away; distantly, very distantly, you hear the sudden swerve of a large tail of an unimaginable beast that Luffy has only found usefulness in its calories. He's sloppy in ways you don’t understand, you can feel the sticky of spit against the corner of your mouth and it's thick in a way that ain't right, swirled with vanilla and thick chocolate as Luffy curls a hand under your nape. The sound of your own gasps, flavoured with captain's spit, return to you foreign after it circles around the walls of the aquarium, taunting schools of fish as it bounces onto the glass and reverberates back to you in a poor, embarrassing echo.

Captain's getting heavy, the intent of how his hips press low against you and then the curve of his bulge as he settles it between the stitch of fabric and then slides it up in a rough manner. “Captain,” breathless, like breaking out the ocean, Luffy doesn't stop— opens his mouth wider with the intention of swallowing the call of his name like he doesn't want it to go any further, “Lu— Luffy, give, give me a sec’, c'mon.” He chases the words with his grinding, every vowel followed by his insistent rutting. “Let me get my pants off.”

He whines, pulls back from your lips after he places his tongue flat against the top of your mouth and traces a line from the back to the edge of your teeth. “No, don't make me stop—” His jaw clenches, teeth grinding like he’s gonna set his second gear into motion if you even dare keep pushing for a pause; he squeezed around the nape of your neck, blunt nails digging into skin that makes you duck your head back into your shoulders, “not stoppin’, captain’s orders, keep going.” He uses his foot from where his legs are bent to straddle you to kick at your thigh like he's trying to get a horse to move. 

It would offend you but then again this is Captain.

So naturally, the only path to try and take is to appease him as nicely as you can into getting what you want. “Captain,” voice low, a thickened sweet with catches of cold ice like a milkshake, “you feel good right?” He snaps his head in a nod, eyebrows furrowed at you with a snarl that is so blatant in its ‘so what?’.

“I want to feel good too, so let me get my pants off.”

Frustration makes his features curl, the ears of a canine predator laying flat against its head, he flattens his tongue against his sharpest tooth and clicks his tongue as he takes it away. You've never had his annoyance directed at you, perhaps for the better because you can only imagine that it’d have had you as wet as you are now, no matter the circumstances. He lifts his hips if only for a second, doesn't wait for you to do anything before he grabs at the hem of your shorts and tugs it down. Once it’s down enough to reveal your underwear, Luffy decides it’s good enough to get back down.

“Okay?” He asks with the petulance of an impatient man, daring you to say anything but yes.

You breathe out a sigh that rattles through your ribs, pings off the curve of bones before it’s gone, “yeah,” you settled your hands onto his thighs, “thanks Captain.”

How submissive you are makes him a little less grudgeful, huffing before he starts again, picks up the speed just from when he’d stopped. His irises quiver with an unwavering focus, knees pressed in against your side as he knocks the curve of a strained bulge against the dampening crease molding against your skin. This is what he looks like, all those times his straw hat obscures his face, when the boy you love becomes who he’s promised to be: captain; eyebrows sharpened into an upward slant, a scrunch of agitation between them, animalistic and wanting, getting. Sweat becomes more manageable when you get to taste its salt off his tanned skin, keening upwards with your hands pressed against the panels of wood behind you to get there, swerving your head along the cut of his jaw to get up into his sideburns, toffee that crackles in wads of dairy thick spit, makes your throat dry when you swallow.

Luffy slams you down, so hard that your vision splits for a moment and the world duplicates with a blurry fizz, cracks back from its duplicity when he gathers your tethers by ravishing his hands up your shirt, his thumbs pressed into your navel and then pushing up so he can cup his hands over your breasts. He’s no patience to fiddle with the clasps at your back, pushing the support of your bra over the fat and strangles you with the top of its cups as he squeezes around the meat. The liquid ease of earlier words are roughened back to solids under his grinding, leaves you in half–breaths and strangled gasps that mimic the vibrations of his name, of captain, of pleases, and of mores. He’s never looked more sober, heavy to consider; he’s usually grand, boisterous with all his actions, unnecessarily so with his ability to blow himself up, stretch to a larger stature.

Luffy has a handful of tit that he abuses, you try your best to keep up with how he thrusts his hips into yours, but you soon find out that there is no tempo, no pattern, and it annoys him more than it does help. You surrender yourself to laying there, clenching around nothing and gripping onto his thighs, fingers pushed up past the hem of his shorts as he ducks his head down and bites at a hardened nipple and then suckles. “Mine.” Captain says once. You hadn’t even needed to hear it, you knew you were his far before he had even invited you onto his ship, but it’s chilling for him to acknowledge it, to know it and to use it— for you to hear it echo and slick between grooves of wooden planks, to adhere to splits between panels of glass, and for the sea kings to burrow into hiding when they hear his voice. It’s entombed in his haki, you realise when you see an eel–like sea monster snap at an angle to shoot away from the glass of the aquarium.

You peek down at him at the valley of your chest and find he’s already looking up at you, lying in wait. He burrows his strained bulge between saturated cotton and tilts his head. “Yeah, captain.” His lips jerk into a wide grin, manic around the shaking of his pupils, and then snaps up, thrusts the crook of his cock right against your clit. When he finds that it makes your head tip back, pushing into the shape of his straw hat, he does it again.

“Here?” He asks, almost amused. You nod your head, a whine stuck between phlegm when he does it again. He gets stubborn about it, testing it a couple of times until he feels your nails dig into his skin and then, he moves his head further up, licking up from your throat to your chin. Captain kisses you again, just once, a sweet peck that puts you off–kilter in the moment and makes you follow after him, “hey,” humming to get your attention, apologises for the chaste kiss by mimicking what it would have been against your clit with his bulge. “Are you gonna tell me what got you upset?”

You frown, feeling immature in the way you bite on your gums, peeking up at him through lashes and furrowed eyebrows. Luffy mimics your expression as he settles his hands by your head, boxers sticky on yours— the reminder that it was your doing appeases you, “you're not gonna tell your captain? C'monnnn, ‘m asking nice an’ all.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck if he doesn’t know how to get under your skin. A full body itch, the need for nails to press in at the back of your head and split your skin down to muscle to your heels, you need this pumping blood out of your body and you need oxygen to deplete and you need someone to break your bones and you think you want it to be him. Most of all, you want his approval more than anything. Even if you hadn't, the sound of his stained boxers on yours, the way he looms like he's about to unhinge his jaw over your head— it's hard to say no when he's redirecting all thoughts to your pussy.

You take a large breath to centre yourself and because he's getting real fucking precise with where you're most sensitive, it gets hot beneath the flesh, gives you the illusion of it being cooler when the heat is not plastering to your skin but bubbling beneath you. “I didn’t like— fuck— you guys talking about Alabasta.” His hips jerk in surprise and there's a split second when he freezes like he doesn't expect it but then he's back into motion.

“Why not?”

You look at him like he's stupid, realising, when your eyes settle on him wholly, how wrecked he looks. His skin is glazed with a sheen, sweat collects at angles of his shape and threatens to drip onto you, his hair is frizzy with the heat, stray matted strands pointing upwards and about at the back of his head, his eyes spinning ‘round and ‘round before they drag back down to the colour of your panties, letting out a sigh, and then back up; you're reminded of cinnamon rolls, the speckles of seasoning that could easily be his freckles, the glaze of liquid sugar rolled between folds of his body, the gooey centre that you'd have to unravel the rest to get to. Sweet on your tongue, sticky on your fingers with the way you eat it, licking your lips afterwards.

“I was jealous, captain.” For your honesty, Luffy fucks his hips harder. Or not. He's doing it for his own pleasure at his point, hardly listening but ‘uh–huh'ing anyways because he'd asked you to tell him and he's a good, good captain so of course he'll listen to the woes of his crew. His ‘mhm’ is shaky, trembles after his hips stutter and he wanders his hands from the ground to your shoulders for a better grip, his jaw is clenched and you feel the twitch of his cock between the heated folds of your cunt, hitting against your clit with every tick. “I wasn't yours at that point, so I didn't like hearing about it.”

Maybe he just wants you to shut up, maybe he means it and it's as easy as, “you're mine now.” Captain promises, threatens, warns— you don't fucking know.

“Yeah,” you agree, and then “yeah, yeah,” ‘cause he’s getting real good with his hips and you're closer than you remember, losing all heat between your toes as you curl them, clawing at his thighs with a moan that bares your throat to him.

“So wet,” Captain observes, panting between the consonants, “so hot, s’ good.”

His dick twitches, wet blossoms from the pre sticking to his inner thigh. He lowers himself down and opens his jaw around your throat, bites down as you bring your knees into his sides, squeezing tight around him as you feel thrumming shocks of an overwhelming orgasm twitch through your body; your ears pop, a bursting of a bubble right in your eardrum.

You're halfway through a call of Captain's name when he licks over the marks of his teeth and he says, “I know,” and presses his lips against yours as he drags a final grind against you, mouthing off words you're not sure of as he comes. He eases off the rutting slowly, like he doesn't really want to, but the feeling gets a little painful as he keeps chasing. Captain keeps himself satisfied by kissing, making obnoxious smacking noises and humming with his tongue on top of your teeth. His kissing is strange, isn't so much kissing but mimics the shadows of what eating is, too much teeth and swallowing for it to be anything different, carries a dangerous intent— you’re sure he’d swallow if he could.

Luffy pulls back with a wide cheshire grin that you can somehow taste on your tongue— it’s sweet, a kick of a spice, thickens and melts, “you're nakama, ‘right? Means you’re always gonna be mine.”

To be honest, it’s embarrassing how that comforts you so. It’s only now in the situation you blush, “mhm.” It’s worse in a way, childish and immature, an unknown feeling to a child who’s only learnt of the sweet things in life.

“Don't be stupid, ‘kay? Y’re not meant to be,” a pause where he thinks, “but you should tell me when you're feelin’ stupid, I’ll help.”

Luffy is already in that needy, instinct-driven mood.

His hips are slamming into you, balls hitting against your ass, his thrusts are fast and rough. “Hnghh! s’good!” His voice is spilling out loud moans and gasps without holding back. He’s not thinking about the pace or rhythm, he’s just lost in the feeling of your pussy squeezing around him, too tight every damn time. His mouth is open, drooling against your neck, teeth grazing skin like he can’t decide whether to moan or bite.

“y/n, fuuckk.. s’tight!—“ he moans out, hands running down your body before gripping you, his fingers digging in your hips as if he’s keeping you tightly in place while his cock slides even deeper inside your wetness, as far as he can go. His leaking tip hits against the end of your cunt each time, pre-cum coating your already-wet velvety walls.

You're a mess underneath him. “L-lu!—Ah!“ your body is limp but so alive, shaking from every thrust. Your thighs quiver and your back arches helplessly, your mouth keeps falling open with these uncontrollable sounds that get louder and louder. “I—hnghh, ahhn! Luffyy!—“ Your pussy can’t stop clenching around him, and the overstimulation is so much that your whole body searches for something to cling to.

And then without thinking, it happens.

Your nails drag down Luffy’s back. Not gently. Hard. Deep red lines bloom down his skin as you scratch, desperate, grounding yourself in the only way you can. You’re crying out Luffy’s name, sobbing from the pleasure, your hands raking over Luffy’s sweaty back like if you’ll let go, you’ll drown in it.

Luffy shudders the second he feels it. His moan cuts into a sharp gasp, his whole body jerks like electricity shot through him. He’d never felt that before, never had someone mark him like that. And it drives him insane. His instincts kick in—he snarls into your neck, rutting into you harder, chest heaving, but there’s this huge grin splitting his face too.

“—Haa! y/n!! That feels good!!” he cries, voice cracked and needy, and he starts chasing it, almost angling his body so your nails keep dragging along him with every movement.

Your voice is hoarse.. breathless: “l-luffy—luffy please!~ I can’t— it’s so much—!” but your nails dig deeper anyway, your hands trembling as they tear lines down his back again and again.

Luffy is so gone that the sting just fuels him. He doesn’t slow down once, doesn’t even notice his own back burning from the scratches—it just eventually shoves him right over the edge—like his body wants it. “‘m gonna cum, gonna cum—!”  the feeling of your nails deep in his back while his cock is getting hugged so tight from your sweet pussy is just too much, it feels too good. His cock throbs deep inside you, and then he’s cumming hard.

Thick, hot spurts fill your cunt in heavy waves, way more than usual, so much it leaks out almost instantly. His moans are loud, breaking into desperate little cries.  “Ahhh ‘m cummin’—c-cummin’ s’good.. feels s’good!..haaah—!!” He moans out, eyes half lidded and glazed with pleasure.

His back is still raking against your trembling nails, every sting sparking another throb, another spurt. His hips jerk through it, rutting sloppily, chasing every last drop, still thrusting deep in you—fucking himself through his orgasm.

And you—the moment Luffy empties inside you while rutting so hard, your body shatters, a sharp aching jolt running down your spine as your cunt clenches hard around Luffy’s length, fluttering and sucking him deeper, overstimulated to hell. Your legs quake and lock around Luffy’s waist, heels digging in. You sob out, voice high and broken “hngh—! ‘m—ahhh!!”

And then you're cumming too, hard, pussy spasming. The overstimulation is unbearable, your nerves feel like they’re on fire, every thrust dragging you through wave after wave. Your scratches get even deeper into Luffy’s back, nails trembling but desperate, carving red streaks as you cry out helplessly while he continues to fuck into you.

By the time it ends, Luffy is still above you, panting, drooling on your neck with the dopiest, bliss-drunk grin. His back is a canvas of red marks and welts, but he’s giggling breathlessly, voice hoarse, “Shishishi… that was s’amazing… y/n, you scratched me sooo good… it made me cum s’hard…” he sighs happily.

Luffy’s back is covered in raw, red lines, some still stinging, some bleeding lightly, but he doesn’t care at all—he’s still just grinning like he just had the best meal of his life, “You scratched me a lot, y/n. Do it again next time, ‘kay?” While you just whined underneath him, your pussy fluttering weakly around luffy’s cock as you can’t think straight right now.

Luffy’s humming to himself after, pulling his blue shorts back on, tying his yellow sash lazily around his waist. He’s still sweaty, hair sticking out in every direction, but his grin is wide and boyish.

You’re sitting on the bed, blanket bunched around your waist, legs trembling, face still hot and flushed. You catch a glimpse of Luffy’s back as he straightens up—and your eyes widen.

The whole expanse of his tanned skin is covered in angry red scratches, some raw and welted, a few with little beads of blood. They run all the way down his back, vivid and shameless. You instantly go pale, your hands flying to your mouth. “Luffy—!!” Your voice cracks, horrified. “I–I did that?! Oh my god—I’m so sorry! Does it hurt?! I didn’t mean to—!”

Luffy glances over his shoulder, blinking. “Huh? Oh.” He cranes his neck to try and see his own back, but then just shrugs like it’s nothing.

You're scrambling, cheeks burning, trying to reach for him. “I-I scratched you so bad! You’re bleeding a little—Luffy, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

But Luffy just laughs, that carefree, belly-deep laugh, his grin stretching wide. “Shishishi! Why’re ya apologizin’? I liked it!”

You froze, speechless. Your whole face goes pink, ears hot, lips fumbling to form words. “Y-You… you liked that?!”

Luffy just tilts his head, totally serious but playful. “Yeah! It made me cum way harder. Ya should do it again next time!”

You make this tiny strangled noise, burying your red face into your hands, completely overwhelmed. You don’t know if you want to sink into the floor or kiss Luffy senseless. Your chest is pounding, and all you can manage is a muffled “l-luffy..”

Luffy just plops down next to you with that goofy grin, eventually pressing your foreheads together. “What? It’s true! You’re the best, y/n!” He giggles as he wraps an arm around your waist, nudging you to get up. “C’mon, let’s go!” He announces, that made you let out a sigh, at least he doesn’t mind the scratches you desperately made on him.

Later, when Luffy’s still wandering around shirtless, you're trailing behind him like a little stormcloud of nerves. Every time you see those deep red scratch marks across Luffy’s back, your stomach flips, especially because the crew definitely would notice.

You finally tug him into their room, cheeks pink, holding a little jar of cream Chopper gave you for cuts and scrapes. “Sit down, Luffy..” you mutter, voice all wobbly but stern. “I need to clean your back.”

Luffy blinks at you, tilting his head like a puppy. “Huh? Why?”

Your face heats. You gesture weakly at his back. “B–Because you’re covered in scratches! And they’re from me… If the others see, they’ll—they’ll ask questions!”

Luffy just grins at that, plopping down cross-legged on the bed like this is some big fun game. “So what? I’ll just tell ’em ya did it.”

“Luffy!!” You squeak, nearly dropping the cream. Your whole face is glowing red now. “Y–You can’t just say that! Do you want everyone to know?!”

Luffy blinks at you innocently, totally confused. “Why not!? I told ya I liked it!” He’s so cheerful about it, so blunt. His big smile is making you want to melt into the floor.

You let out a groan, covering your face with one hand, but you still scoop out some of the cream with trembling fingers. Carefully, gently, you smooth it over the angry lines down Luffy’s back. Your touch is tender, almost reverent, even as you stammer out “jeez.. you’re so shameless, y’know that? Aren’t you embarrassed..?”

Luffy giggles at the cold cream, wriggling but letting you work. “Embarrassed? Why? You’re mine! If ya scratch me, then ya scratch me. I don’t care if they see.”

You go silent, your throat tight, you can’t argue with that blunt honesty—it always leaves you speechless. All you can do is keep tending the scratches with careful little touches, your heart pounding like crazy. When you’re done, Luffy twists around and suddenly wraps both of his arms around your waist, hugging you tight with a cheeky grin. “Thanks, y/n! You’re always so nice to me!” 

At night, the ship is quiet, everyone else is asleep. But Luffy’s sprawled on top of you, cheek squished against your chest, drooling just a little with that blissful knocked-out smile. His arms are wrapped around you like he’s never letting go.

You’re wide awake, though. Your fingers keep ghosting over Luffy’s back where the scratches are still faintly raised and red. Every time your fingertips trail across them, your chest squeezes with guilt and warmth all at once. You pout down at the mess you left, whispering softly even though Luffy’s practically half-asleep “..You really could’ve told me to stop…”

But Luffy shifts at the touch, a sleepy hum slipping out of him. “Mmm… don’t stop...” His voice is slurred, half-asleep but honest.

You sigh, blushing furiously, eventually you duck your face into Luffy’s messy hair with a shaky little smile. Your nails drag so carefully now, just tracing the lines you left behind, softer than soft. Not hurting—just petting, retracing what you did. Your voice is a whisper, shaky but affectionate “I’d never hurt you… I was so scared that I did… but you really did like it, huh?”

Luffy giggles against your chest in his sleep “mmm.. liked it… ‘lots…” he mumbles.

And your heart melts completely at that, your chest aching with love. You keep scratching lightly, almost massaging up and down Luffy’s back until your own eyelids grow heavy. Before you drift off, you press a kiss into Luffy’s hair and whispered “…love you, lu..” after that, you finally let yourself sleep, your arms locked protectively around your beloved captain.

Palm between your thighs.

Breath catching.

Sweat on your brow as your hand reached under your shorts, slow, gentle then at a mediocre pace your fingers rubbed at your clit. The sexual tension you faced all day staring at his toned body, that ‘X’ draped around his chest like a fucking treasure map you wanted to hunt down. But for now you kept it a fantasy, just like you did a few days ago, then the week before that: you were currently in a loophole of pleasuring yourself to the thought of him.

And his name.

Spilling from your lips before you can stop it as your middle finger curved while slipping in & poking your cervix.

“Luffy…”

Soft.

Wrecked.

Needy.

You don’t know that he’s right there, behind the door.

You don’t hear the barely-there creak of the hallway floor.

Don’t see the shadow pass in front of the crack in the door.

Don’t feel the pair of dark eyes on you—wide, hungry.

He doesn’t mean to stop.

He shouldn’t stop.

But then he hears it again.

“Luffy, please…”

And he freezes.

You’re breathless.

You’re close.

You’re whimpering for him like he’s the only thing you need in the world.

His cock twitches.

Hard. Fast. Immediate.

He presses his forehead to the wall, eyes still locked through the gap.

Your fingers.

Your slick.

Your thighs.

Your voice.

He licks his lips.

God, you’re so pretty like this.

He palms himself through his shorts.

He’s never really touched himself before meeting you—never really thought about it.

But you? Like this? on his ship fucking yourself to the idea of him?

It’s different.

He’s breathing hard now. Quiet, but shaky.

The grip on his dick is clumsy, of course it is.

But it's effective.

He’s mouthing your name.

You don’t know he’s there.

Not when you come.

Not when you arch and cry out and grind down like you need him. that's the part that had him questioning whether to cross the line between you two. (like it still existed at this point).

Not even when he bites his lip to keep from groaning when he follows a few seconds later, panting through his teeth, hand wet with heat and want.

He stays there.

Just for a second.

Watching you come down.

Watching the soft, fluttery way your fingers tremble.

Then he slips away into the dark.

You never see him. But you did see the mysterious milky white liquid left dripping on your door handle when you left to go wash your hands.

He secretly followed you the whole time till you went to bed, then called it a night himself.

But in the morning? His dick is already poking out through the sheets, leaving him to beat it again. Then a flash of memory while he was in the shower—rock hard again. Then the memory of how you smelled when you gave him hugs, that little twitch your eye does when you smile, poor boy couldn’t handle it anymore.

The second he saw you seated for breakfast

He’s all over you.

Too close.

Too warm.

Too smug.

Already thinking of ways to make you his.

Pressed against the stone wall behind the library, hidden in the shadows, you felt his fingers tangle in your hair as his lips moved hungrily against yours. Your heart pounded like it always did when he touched you—half from the thrill, half from the guilt.

You broke the one rule your parents gave you. And you broke it over and over again.

You didn’t mean to fall for Draco Malfoy. You really didn’t. He was cold and smug, always armed with some sharp-tongued remark. But there was something about him that you couldn’t shake—something that got under your skin.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching. Or the way he softened, just slightly, when you were alone. Maybe it was the fact that he saw you when so few people did.

Whatever it was, you fell. Hard.

The worst part? You didn’t regret it.

Your relationship wasn’t born from passion—it was born from quiet. From shared detentions, lingering glances, sarcastic bickering that slowly melted into warmth.

It started in fifth year, during a late-night prefect patrol, when you caught Draco staring up at the stars through one of the Astronomy Tower windows.

“I thought you didn’t care about anything that wasn’t gold or pureblood,” you had teased.

“I don’t,” he’d replied, smirking. Then, after a pause:

“Except maybe this.”

He never said what “this” meant. But he didn’t have to.

You kept it hidden. For nearly a year, you and Draco became masters of secrecy. Carefully choreographed exits, notes passed in books, fleeting touches under desks. No one suspected a thing. Not your friends. Not Harry. Not your parents.

Until the day the secret fell apart.

It started with a storm.

You and Draco had snuck off to the boathouse, hoping to escape the castle for an hour. The rain came fast, wind howling against the windows. You lit your wand and wrapped yourselves in a conjured blanket, curled together on the old wooden bench. He kissed you, slow and soft, the way he always did when he was trying not to say something out loud.

And then—click.

You both froze.

In the doorway stood Colin Creevey, camera in hand, eyes wide.

“Colin,” you said, your voice weak. “You can’t—please don’t—”

But he was already running. Already shouting your name and Draco’s down the corridor.

By the time you returned to the castle, the damage was done.

You walked into the Great Hall for dinner and the noise immediately dipped into silence. Dozens of heads turned. Murmurs passed like wildfire through the room.

“Potter’s daughter and Malfoy?”

“James Potter’s going to kill him.”

“Bloody hell, are they serious?”

You held Draco’s hand anyway.

Even though Ron gawked at you like you’d lost your mind. Even though Hermione looked at you like she was calculating seventeen different ways your life was about to fall apart.

Even Harry, sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table, stood up and walked out the moment you sat down.

He didn't talk to you for a month.

You were dreading the Easter holidays.

The moment you stepped off the train at King’s Cross, the pit in your stomach grew heavier. Your parents were waiting by the barrier, smiling—until they saw you walking hand-in-hand with Draco Malfoy.

James’s smile vanished.

Lily blinked like she was sure she was seeing things.

“Draco,” you said carefully, “maybe I’ll see you later—”

But James was already storming forward.

“Is this a joke?” he snapped. “Please tell me this is some Slytherin dare.”

“Dad—”

“No, no, no, don’t Dad me—you promised. You promised us!”

“I didn’t plan this—”

“Damn right you didn’t!” James shouted, voice cracking. “He’s a Malfoy! Do you have any idea what that family stands for?”

Draco, to his credit, didn’t say a word. He just nodded once at James, then looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, and disappeared into the crowd.

Back home, the air was thick with silence.

Lily sat across from you at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a cooling cup of tea. James paced by the fireplace like a storm cloud.

“I knew you’d rebel eventually,” James muttered. “But I didn’t think you’d break our one rule.”

“I’m not rebelling,” you said. “I’m in love with him.”

The room froze.

Lily’s eyes softened. “Sweetheart…”

“He’s not Lucius,” you said, voice shaking. “He’s not cruel. He’s not obsessed with bloodlines. He’s nothing like the stories you told us.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” James asked, quieter now. “What if he hurts you?”

“Then he hurts me,” you said. “But at least it’s my choice.”

That night, you lay in your old bed, staring up at the enchanted ceiling James had painted for you when you were little—charmed to mirror the sky above Godric’s Hollow. Stars blinked back at you as your heart twisted with everything left unsaid.

You reached under your bed and pulled out the small, rectangular piece of enchanted slate. A matching one sat in Draco’s room at the Manor. You’d created them together last year in secret—a charmed chalkboard where whatever you wrote appeared on the other’s board in real time. Just one more way to stay close without being caught.

You held the chalk in your hand for a long moment, unsure what to say. But then, your fingers moved instinctively.

Are you still there?

A few seconds passed.

Then, slowly, a response appeared, the words etching themselves across the slate in Draco’s neat, angular handwriting:

I’m still here. If you still want me.

Your breath caught.

You smiled softly, heart aching with everything you felt and everything you chose.

You pressed the chalk to the board again.

Always.

You were told to never go near a Malfoy. But you did.

And now?

You’re not going back.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

The second week, it was a small box of enchanted chocolates—each one shaped like a star, and when you bit into them, they whispered things like, “You’re beautiful,” and “Thinking of you.” The letter that time said:

“A little sweetness to match yours. Don’t share them with Weasley.”

You had giggled at that one, earning a curious look from Harry across the table.

Week three, it was a pressed flower—some kind of rare, deep purple bloom you’d never seen before—enchanted so it would never wilt. The note was shorter that time, but no less meaningful:

“Even something rare and beautiful pales next to you.”

And today? As the owl landed gracefully in front of you, heads turned, and Harry, who had already caught on to the pattern, raised his eyebrows with exaggerated interest. You untied the small parcel and unfolded the parchment first.

It read:

“Meet me tonight. Same place. P.S. You look stunning when you smile at my letters.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you unwrapped the gift—a silver locket. When you clicked it open, inside was a tiny photo of you (one you didn’t even remember being taken) smiling down at something out of frame. Opposite it was a moving image of Draco, eyes soft and a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. Your heart squeezed.

“Alright,” Harry said, setting down his fork and leaning forward on his elbows. “This is getting serious now. A locket? You have to tell me who it is.”

Ron and Hermione both looked up, curious and amused, but Harry was the most relentless.

“I’m guessing—hmm—Ernie Macmillan.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking the locket carefully into your pocket. “Nope.”

“Michael Corner?”

“Wrong again.”

“Hmm…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Zabini? He’s smooth.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Lockhart?!” Harry gasped suddenly, eyes wide with mock horror. “Is it Lockhart? You can tell me!”

“Harry!” you squeaked, swatting at him, your face burning as you laughed.

“Look at her blush!” Harry crowed. “It’s Lockhart. Case closed.”

Ron groaned. “Please, no one wants to think about that.”

That night, you slipped out like usual, heart thudding as you made your way through the secret passage to your hidden meeting spot. And sure enough, there was Draco, already waiting, arms crossed, expression… stormy.

You frowned. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer at first, just glared down at the ground. His jaw was tight, and he seemed to be brooding even more than usual.

“Draco?” you pressed, stepping closer.

Finally, he huffed and muttered, “If your brother keeps talking about other boys, I swear I’m going to hex him into next week.”

You blinked, startled—then burst out laughing. “That’s why you’re sulking?”

Draco scowled but didn’t deny it. “It’s annoying. All day, it’s been Corner this and Zabini that—and Lockhart?! Are you kidding me? I should’ve hexed Potter right then and there.”

You giggled, sliding your arms around his waist. “Jealous, much?”

“Maybe.” Draco didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes were sharp but softened when you reached up to brush his hair back.

“You know it’s only ever you, right?”

That earned a rare, genuine smile. He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, pulling you flush against him like he never wanted to let go.

“Let them guess,” you whispered against his lips. “It’s more fun that way.”

“As long as you remember who you belong to,” Draco murmured, smirking now, possessive but playful.

You laughed, pecking his lips. “Always.”

⸻

The following Friday, you thought maybe things would settle down. But oh, how wrong you were.

The owl swooped in as usual—but this time, it carried a huge box. Bigger than any gift so far. You stared as it dropped the package in front of you with a graceful thud.

“Oh, this is serious now,” Harry announced, eyes lighting up as he grabbed the box before you could. “Come on, let’s see what lover boy sent this time.”

You groaned, but Hermione and Ron were already leaning in curiously, and of course, the Weasley twins—never ones to miss out on teasing—slid onto the bench with identical grins.

Harry opened the box dramatically—and all five of them gasped.

Inside was the most stunning gown you’d ever seen: emerald-green silk, shimmering faintly, clearly enchanted, with intricate embroidery that looked too expensive to even touch. You couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Holy—” Fred began.

“—bloody hell,” George finished.

“Is that designer?” Hermione whispered, eyes wide.

Harry held it up, gaping. “This must’ve cost a fortune! Okay, okay, this is big money. We need to think. Who’s rich enough to pull this off?”

You tried to grab it back, face burning. “Harry, stop—”

“Theodore Nott?” Harry guessed first.

“Nope.”

“Mclaggen?”

“Wrong.”

“Zabini?” Hermione chimed in, clearly entertained now.

“Montague?” Fred suggested, holding the dress up to himself with a wink. “If it is, tell him I want one too.”

“Ohhh,” George added dramatically, “I bet it’s one of those international students. Super rich.”

You groaned, hiding your face. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Fred and George shared a look and started chanting, “She’s getting married! She’s getting married!”

“I am NOT—!"

And then it happened.

A sudden clatter of footsteps, sharp and purposeful, echoed across the Great Hall. Everyone turned—and your stomach dropped.

Draco Malfoy was storming across the room, eyes locked on you, face like thunder.

The table fell dead silent.

“Uh… why’s Malfoy coming over here?” Ron muttered nervously.

Draco didn’t stop until he was standing right behind Harry, towering over him with his arms crossed and that deadly glare fixed in place.

“I’m the one who bought the dress, Potter,” Draco announced, his voice cool but sharp, loud enough for half the hall to hear. “Not the cheap students you’re rattling off like some pathetic guessing game."

Silence.

Harry’s jaw dropped. Fred dropped his fork. Hermione blinked like she couldn’t process what had just happened.

Draco turned to you then, gaze softening ever so slightly. “You’ll look stunning in it, by the way.”

Harry's eyes widen even more, practically bulging out of his eye sockets, as Draco leans in to kiss your forehead.

And with that, he spun on his heel and strode out, his cloak following behind him.

There was a beat of stunned silence… and then chaos.

“MALFOY?!” Harry exploded, whipping around to stare at you. “You’re dating MALFOY?!”

Fred and George howled with laughter, practically falling off the bench.

“Ohhh, this is gold,” George gasped between wheezes.

“Best reveal ever,” Fred agreed, wiping tears from his eyes.

Ron just looked horrified, and Hermione… Hermione slowly closed her book, gave you a look, and said, “I knew it.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “…Well. I guess the mystery’s solved.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

⸻

You wore flowers like armor. Always. In your hair—violets carefully tucked into your braid, a daisy behind your ear, sprigs of baby's breath pinned like secrets. Your jumpers often had tiny embroidered petals curling down the sleeves or buttons shaped like blooming buds. When people asked, you just smiled like the flowers had chosen you that morning and not the other way around. Flowers were a part of you, just like freckles were a part of others.

“Is there a reason you always dress like a sentient meadow?” Draco asked once, squinting as you buttoned up a coat stitched with little yellow marigolds that seemed to flutter when you moved.

“It’s for luck,” you said serenely, smoothing a daffodil-shaped pin at your collar. “And it makes the plants feel at home.”

He stared like you’d just offered him a slice of moonlight for breakfast. “You think the plants care what you’re wearing?”

You tilted your head, genuinely perplexed. “You don’t?”

The first incident came swiftly. You’d barely begun working together when he attempted to nudge a Puffapod into blooming. One gentle poke was all it needed—delicate, respectful. Draco prodded it like it owed him an explanation, and it exploded in a soft-pink mushroom cloud of pollen.

You stood in stunned silence, covered in fuzz, bits of petal clinging to your braid like confetti. You tried not to pout. You really did. But you ended up cross-legged on the floor, mournfully collecting the petals and whispering soft apologies.

“She just needed patience,” you murmured, fingers brushing the frayed bloom. “A bit of kindness.”

Draco sneezed and looked utterly unconvinced. “It was a plant. Not a therapy client.”

“She had a name,” you said sharply, shooting him a glare. “Lulu.”

He gave you a flat look. “You named the Puffapod?”

You met his gaze with unflinching sincerity. “I would've told you her name if you didn't blow up her sister Lala earlier this year.

He sighed. "yeah... because plants have siblings."

The next week, he crushed a Bubotuber in a moment of casual irritation. One second he was ranting about someone stealing his socks, the next he squeezed the bulb like it had personally offended him. It responded by erupting in a burst of thick, greenish goo. Draco’s shriek of horror echoed off the greenhouse walls.

“You strangled her,” you said disappointed, trying not to frown as you dabbed away goo with a Moondew sprig.

“I barely touched it!”

“You manhandled her like she owed you money.”

“It attacked me!”

“She was terrified.”

He stumbled back, covered in yellow-green sludge. “Of what? My refined bone structure?”

You crouched next to the limp plant, wand raised, murmuring a soft charm. “Of being misunderstood. She’s very shy.”

Draco groaned. “Merlin help me. Not again.”

“She has a name,” you said firmly. “Matilda.”

“Of course she does.”

With a flick of your wand and a quiet word, Matilda shivered back to life, wiggling slightly in your palm. You leaned in and whispered something that made her glow faintly. She’d forgiven him. Barely.

“She’s a menace,” he muttered.

“She’s sensitive,” you corrected, stroking her stem.

Draco stared at you like he was trying to decide if this was some elaborate Hufflepuff prank. You smiled serenely and tucked a fallen blossom behind your ear.

By the fourth week, Draco had managed to offend a Flutterfern, enrage a Shrivelfig, and traumatize a Fanged Geranium into permanent wilt. The final straw came when he took pruning shears to a Venomous Tentacula like he was avenging a personal vendetta. It lashed out in protest, its tendrils flailing before curling in on themselves, whimpering.

You didn’t speak to him for the next twenty minutes.

Instead, you crouched beside the wounded plant, gently gathering its injured tendrils in your hands. You rocked slightly, whispering something ancient and low—more lullaby than incantation. Slowly, the Tentacula calmed. Its color returned in hesitant pulses. One vine curled around your wrist, tentative and grateful.

“You’ve got to be doing this on purpose,” Draco muttered from the other side of the greenhouse. “No one’s that bad at plants unless they’re cursed. Or a Gryffindor.”

You glanced up, your voice dry. “You think I’d hex my own greenhouse just to make you look bad?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “With great pleasure.”

You dusted soil from your cheek with a dramatic flourish. “I’m petty, Malfoy. Not suicidal.”

He eyed you, then your boots. “You’ve got roses on your socks.”

“They’re embroidered,” you replied, lifting your foot slightly to show him. “Climbing roses. Very resilient. A bit clingy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like you?”

You grinned. “Like you.”

His ears turned pink.

The sixth time was different. He didn’t kill the plant. He merely terrified it.

A small Mandrake sat trembling on its roots while Draco hovered uncertainly nearby, brow furrowed, tongue between his teeth in sheer concentration, wondering how the hell did you manage to stop a mandrake from crying. You watched from a few feet away, arms crossed, trying not to interfere.

“If you’re going to loom like that,” Draco muttered, glancing sideways, “you might as well do it yourself.”

“I’m observing,” you said proudly. “You’re improving. That Mandrake hasn’t flinched in at least two minutes.”

“It keeps looking at me.”

“you mean, He. Well, duh he has eyes. Of course he's looking at you.”

“Judgmentally.”

“That’s a compliment,” you said. “He doesn’t usually acknowledge people he dislikes.”

Draco scowled, but the Mandrake remained intact. Which, for him, was practically a miracle. When he wasn’t looking, you snuck the plant a leaf treat. It quivered happily.

Later that afternoon, while you adjusted the angle of a sunlamp for your Asphodel, you sensed Draco stepping beside you. He didn’t say anything at first, just hovered—an odd, uncertain weight in the air. Then his voice came, softer than usual.

“You missed a spot.”

You turned, confused, just as he reached out. His thumb brushed a smudge of soil from your cheek, lingering a second too long. You froze.

The world narrowed. You forgot the cold, the damp, the faint buzzing of Pixie-flies overhead. For one suspended breath, it was just you, him, and the inch of air between your faces.

He cleared his throat abruptly and pulled his hand back. “You had… dirt. On your face.”

“Oh.” You touched the spot instinctively. “Thanks.”

He turned away, cheeks faintly pink. You didn’t say anything. Your heart was too loud.

⸻

All term, you’d been tending to a single Moonlily in the corner of Greenhouse Three. Once silver-bright, it had withered into something curled and gray, like it had forgotten what light felt like. Every class, you brought it a fresh blossom, whispered to it like an old friend. “I’m still here,” you told it. “Come back when you’re ready.”

Draco never asked about it. But he noticed. You caught him glancing at it when he thought you weren’t looking. Watching the way you cared.

And then came the last day of term.

Most students had left for the holidays. Snow pressed against the greenhouse windows, and frost dusted the vines in glittering white. You were alone, brushing a light dusting of ice from the soil, when you heard the sound of footsteps.

Draco.

He looked a little windblown, hair tousled, scarf half-untied. In one gloved hand, he held something fragile. Small. Pale.

A pot with a single marigold.

Its stem was crooked. Its petals trembled. But it was alive.

“I, uh… Professor Sprout helped,” he said quickly, almost defensive. “A bit. Mostly she just stopped me from killing it.”

You stared, lips parting. He shifted, awkward.

“It’s not perfect,” he said.

You reached out and took it gently, your fingers brushing his. The flower quivered in your palm like it knew who had grown it.

“It’s exquisite.” you whispered.

His shoulders sagged, some tightness easing in his jaw. “I... It reminded me of you. It's bright and... pretty. Very, pretty.”

You stepped closer.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice thick with something you didn’t dare name. “I love it.”

And then, without thinking, you kissed him.

It was soft, tentative—dirt-smudged noses, cold fingers brushing warm cheeks, and the quiet, sweet hush of something just beginning. He tasted of peppermint tea and the kind of wonder that comes only after you’ve stopped pretending not to care.

Behind you, something stirred.

You turned as the Moonlily—the one you’d nurtured all term—gave a shiver, then slowly unfurled. Its silver petals caught the moonlight and glowed like a promise, blooming with the kind of gentle pride only magic, patience, and love can grow.

Draco stared, wide-eyed. “Was that... because of us?”

You clutched the flower he'd given you to your chest, heart fluttering. “She’s been waiting. I think... she felt it.”

He looked at you, the usual edge in his voice softened into awe. “You’re completely mad.”

You grinned, breathless. “You still think the plants don’t notice?”

And then, for the first time all term, Draco Malfoy laughed—really laughed. It spilled into the greenhouse like sunlight after rain, warm and unexpected.

“Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe they do.”

You reached up and tucked the crooked little flower he’d grown into your braid, letting it nestle behind your ear like it had always belonged there.

“Then they’ve clearly been paying more attention than you have.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

He doesn’t bother arguing this round. Instead, his hands find your waist and he yanks you forward until you’re stumbling right into him. You land straddling his lap on the worn leather sofa, your thighs bracketing his hips, your ass settling flush against the growing heat of his groin in a way that makes his breath hitch for half a second before he recovers.

The faint scent of your sweet floral shampoo mixes with the warm, smoky trace of his cologne as you shift closer. He feels the quick rise and fall of your chest against his, the way your heartbeat flutters like a trapped bird when his fingers dig just slightly into your sides.

Mattheo snatches the little pack of flavored chapsticks from your eager hands, ripping the plastic open with his teeth in one sharp tug. His dark eyes flick up to meet yours—half-lidded, challenging, already simmering with that dangerous mix of annoyance and hunger he never quite manages to hide around you.

“Fine,” he mutters, voice low and rough, the word vibrating where your bodies press together. “But if this ends with you tasting like artificial cherry for the next hour, I’m blaming you.”

You beam up at him, all giddy and bright-eyed, lips already curving into that smile that should be illegal. Mattheo hates how easily it disarms him—hates how one look from you can make heat crawl under his skin like wildfire, how making you happy suddenly feels like the only thing that matters.

“Okay, okay,” you mutter, the words all light and airy. “Close your eyes.”

A low, reluctant chuckle rumbles from his chest and he actually does it. Lashes fanning dark against his cheeks, he waits, jaw tight, every muscle coiled like he’s bracing for impact. You can feel the subtle shift in his breathing, the way it slows and deepens as you lean in closer, the warmth of him radiating against your front.

You twist open the grape chapstick with trembling fingers, the sweet, artificial scent blooming sharp in the air between you. Slowly you drag the glossy stick across your lower lip, then the upper, watching the way his throat bobs when he hears the soft, slick sound of it. Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can feel it where your chest brushes his.

Then you close the last inch.

Your lips meet his in a soft, tentative press—warm, plush, tasting faintly of sugar and artificial fruit. It’s barely a kiss at first, just enough contact to transfer the chapstick, but the second your mouths connect, something shifts. His hands flex on your hips, fingers digging in just enough to keep you exactly where you are. A quiet, involuntary sound slips from the back of his throat and you feel the vibration of it against your lips.

You pull back first, just enough to see his reaction.

Mattheo’s nose wrinkles instantly, brows furrowing in exaggerated disgust as he processes the flavor. “Ew. It’s grape.”

The complaint comes out gravelly, almost petulant, but his eyes are still closed for a beat longer than necessary—like he’s savoring the ghost of your mouth on his. When they finally open, they’re darker, pupils blown, and the look he gives you is pure trouble wrapped in heat.

You can’t help the delighted little laugh that bubbles out. “Yay! One point for you.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head like you’re the most ridiculous person alive—and maybe the most addictive. “You’re killing me with this shit,” he mutters, but the hand still splayed across your lower back slides up your spine in a slow, possessive drag, pulling you a fraction closer again. “Next one better not taste like shit.”

Mattheo’s eyes narrow, that dangerous glint sparking again as he rifles through the remaining chapsticks. He plucks out the chocolate one without a word, twisting it open. The rich, cocoa scent hits immediately—warm, indulgent, melting into the air between you like a promise. It’s nothing like the cloying grape; this one feels sinful, like something he could get addicted to. You want to remind him that this isn't necessarily how the game goes, but he looks so pretty when he's concentrated.

He doesn’t hand it to you this time.

Instead, he brings it to your lips himself, slow and deliberate. The pad of his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth as he smears the glossy balm across your bottom lip, then the top, watching with hooded eyes the way the deep brown tint makes them look even fuller, even more tempting. Your breath stutters at the contact, and he feels it, the tiny tremor that runs through you.

“Open,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough, barely above a whisper.

You part your lips just enough, and he drags the stick over them once more, lingering, like he’s painting something he plans to devour. The chocolate melts slightly against your warmth, sweet and velvety on your tongue when you dart it out instinctively.

His gaze drops to your mouth, dark and hungry. Then he leans in.

This kiss isn’t tentative like the last one.

His lips crash against yours—firm, claiming, tasting the chocolate immediately and groaning low in his throat at the flavor mixed with you. The sound vibrates straight through your chest, raw and unrestrained, sending heat pooling low in your belly. One hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to tilt your head exactly how he wants it, deepening the kiss until there’s no space left between you. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, then slips inside—slow at first, savoring, then hungrier, chasing every last trace of cocoa and the soft, slick heat of your mouth.

You melt into him, hands fisting the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. His other arm bands around your waist, grinding you down harder against the unmistakable hardness straining beneath you. Another quiet moan rumbles from him deeper this time, almost pained as he sucks gently on your lower lip, tasting, teasing, losing himself completely in the way you taste like sin wrapped in chocolate.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. His lips are swollen, shiny with a mix of balm and spit, eyes blown black with want.

“Game’s over,” he rasps, voice wrecked. In one fluid motion he stands, lifting you with him like you weigh nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he strides toward the bedroom. The door clicks shut behind you with his foot, the sound final.

He drops you onto the bed but doesn’t let go, crawling over you immediately, caging you in with his body. His mouth finds your neck, hot and open-mouthed, scraping teeth lightly over your pulse.

You arch up into him, feeling every inch of how affected he is. “Are you hard?” you whisper, half-teasing, half-breathless.

He huffs a dark laugh against your skin, hips rolling once deliberately, slow, letting you feel exactly how much. “Of course I’m fucking hard,” he growls, nipping at your collarbone. “You kissed me.”