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.”