Femboy Monkey D. Luffy

His shorts are long gone, kicked somewhere across the cabin floor. You'd barely gotten them past his hips before he was already turning, already positioning himself over you, chattering about meat and a bird he saw and some island Nami had jabbed at on the map—until you grabbed his waist and hauled him down onto your waiting mouth.

The weight settles over your face like a blessing you never had to ask for. Luffy's thighs—plush, warm, still carrying the heat of the afternoon sun on the Sunny's deck—bracket your head, and he lets himself drop back slow, giving you time. Giving you everything.

He gasps. A stuttering little laugh that cracks into a moan when you drag your tongue flat up the cleft of his ass, slow and deliberate.

"Hah—! That tickles—" he lies, because his hips are already pushing back, grinding down, chasing more.

You spread him with your thumbs, hooked on the meat of his cheeks, and he's so pliant for you. Shameless. Luffy's never carried an ounce of shame in his entire body. He's all stuttering gasps and greedy little rocks of his hips, his cock—hard as yours, hard as he always gets the second you touch him—bobbing and dripping against your skin.

You press your mouth to him, kissing his asshole, and he keens.

Luffy's skin is soft, so absurdly soft for a man who's fought Emperors, and he tastes like salt and heat. You lap at him until he's shuddering, until his thighs tremble where they cage your head, until he's rolling his hips in slow, filthy circles, using your face like you're his favorite seat in the world. Which, judging by the sounds he's making, you are.

He looks over his shoulder at you, grin wide and toothy and utterly wrecked. "More," he demands, and it's not a request. "C'mon—use your tongue, I know you can—"

His voice pitches up when you flick your tongue against him just right, and he groans, grinding down harder.