Hey, I'm Marian, but you can use Ari or Mar for short.
I can write almost anything! Just no NFSW or ships (for the life of me, I just somehow can't write ships.) For the genders, I can write most of them, but I'll mostly be writing fem, because it just comes easier to me. You can request for GN, M, or transgender. And, when you request PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE give me an idea too, I have like, no creativity so...
Oh, yeah! If you're unsure whether or not I'm in a fandom, you can ask!
“You know,” he said, leaning closer, “I had a whole speech planned.”
You looked at him over your drink. “Did you?”
“Mhm.”
“What happened to it?”
He tapped his temple with one finger. “Rum.”
You laughed, and his smile widened like he had won something.
“That laugh.” His voice dropped lower, warm and pleased. “I like that laugh.”
“You like a lot of things when you’re drunk.”
“I like a lot of things when I’m sober too.” He moved closer. “You. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
His brows lifted. “Entirely, then. Since you’re being difficult.”
“You’re very charming tonight.”
“I’m very charming every night.” He paused, considering. “Tonight I’m just honest faster.”
You tried not to smile. Failed.
Shanks noticed immediately. His fingers traced your shoulder, light and lazy, before settling.
“There’s my girl,” he murmured.
Your stomach dipped, ridiculous and helpless.
“You’re drunk,” you said, quieter now.
“I am,” he agreed easily. His gaze moved over your face, not hiding a single bit of the fondness there. “Still know you’re pretty.”
“That’s your great observation?”
“No.” He leaned in until his mouth was near your ear. “My great observation is that I’m the luckiest bastard in this whole sea because you let me come home to you.”
The teasing left you for a moment.
Shanks pulled back just enough to look at you, his smile smaller now. Sweeter.
“You mean that?” you asked.
“Baby,” he said, soft and certain, “I mean it sober. I just say it prettier drunk.”
You smiled and kissed him softly.
The crew erupted into whistles from across the tavern.
He drank slowly. Watched his glass. Counted his limits the way he counted exits.
But tonight, his eyes were a little heavier when they found you across the table.
You noticed on the third look.
By the fifth, your skin felt warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the bar.
“You’re staring,” you said.
Law leaned back in his seat, one arm stretched along the booth behind him. His glass rested in his other hand.
“No, I’m not.”
“You definitely are.”
“Then stop looking back.”
Your breath caught before you could help it.
He saw.
The noise around you blurred into clinking glasses and laughter from the crew. Bepo was half-asleep against Penguin’s shoulder. Shachi was loudly losing at cards. No one was paying attention.
Except Law.
He set his glass down and tilted his head toward the empty space beside him.
“Come here.”
Your stomach dipped.
“Why?”
His eyes dragged over your face, slow enough to be deliberate. “You ask too many questions.”
“And you give terrible answers.”
That almost-smile came back. Softer this time. More dangerous.
“Come here,” he repeated.
You should have argued. You were good at arguing with him.
Instead, you slid out of your seat and crossed to his side of the booth.
Law caught your wrist before you could sit. His hand slid down until his fingers threaded loosely through yours.
“You’ve been avoiding me all night,” he said.
“I have not.”
“You have.” His voice was low. Rougher than usual at the edges.
You swallowed. “Maybe you’re imagining things.”
Law tugged once, and you practically fell into the spot beside him.
“Easy there,” he said, steadying you with one hand at your waist. “Don’t make me catch you twice.”
It had to be the alcohol.
Yours, maybe. His, maybe.
Maybe neither.
“I don’t imagine things.”
“No?”
“No.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
The room suddenly felt too small.
“You’re tipsy,” you whispered.
“Maybe.”
Your heart kicked. For a second, neither of you moved.
Then his fingers loosened to give you the choice to pull away.
Plot: “Not here.” He had said it like a promise. He had not brought it up since. Neither had you.
Chapter 2: Trafalgar D. Law
Read: Chapter 1
Law handed you a stack of reports in the infirmary the next afternoon like nothing had happened.
“Inventory logs,” he said.
You took them from him. “That’s romantic.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
Flat. Tired. Annoyed.
Too familiar.
“Do you want the assignment or not?”
“I didn’t say I disliked romance.”
“It’s counting gauze.”
“People have courted with less.”
“You would know?”
You looked down at the first page before he could see the corner of your mouth move. “Are you asking about my romantic history, Captain?”
Law went still for half a second.
There.
Barely anything. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But you did.
His fingers flexed once around the clipboard he still held. Then he looked away and clicked his tongue.
“I’m asking if you can count to fifty without turning it into a problem.”
“Probably.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
“You keep assigning me things anyway.”
“You keep standing where I need you.”
That hit strangely.
He seemed to realize it at the same time you did.
The infirmary quieted around the words.
Then Bepo walked past with a crate in his arms, and both of you looked away like you had been caught doing something worse than standing in the same room.
You took the reports. “I’ll have these done before dinner.”
“Good.”
You started to leave.
“Don’t guess,” he added.
You stopped in the doorway. “I would never.”
“You would.”
You looked back at him.
He was watching you now, expression carefully unreadable.
The bed at the inn sat between you anyway.
His arm around your waist. His breath at your neck. The quiet shock of him waking and pulling away like he had touched something he was not allowed to want.
Your face warmed.
Law’s gaze dropped for half a second. Then he turned back to the cabinet beside him and opened it with more force than necessary.
“Go count gauze,” he said.
You obeyed before you could say something stupid.
By dinner, the ship had settled back into its usual rhythm.
The mission was over. The crew was tired, bruised in small places, and more interested in food than conversation. Shachi complained about the rain having ruined his good boots. Penguin told him he did not own good boots.
Law sat at the end of the table, listening more than participating. That was normal.
The way his eyes found you once across the room was not. It was brief. Nothing anyone else would notice.
But you felt it like fingers at your wrist.
You looked away first.
After dinner, you finished the inventory logs. Then you checked a crate of sealed bandages. Then you reorganized two drawers in the supply cabinet because your hands needed something to do.
Not here.
He had said it like a promise.
He had not brought it up since.
Neither had you.
That was the problem with Law. Silence did not feel empty with him. It gathered weight. It became its own conversation.
Later, after most of the ship had gone down for the night, you saw light under Law’s door.
For a moment, you considered walking away. Then you raised your hand and knocked once.
“Come in.”
You opened the door.
Law was at his desk, a stack of charts spread in front of him. His hat was set aside. His hair was a mess from his own fingers. A cup of coffee sat untouched near his hand.
You looked at it.
Then at him.
“I came here to bully you into resting.”
That made his pen stop.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to you.
“You’re going to bully me.”
“Yes.”
“In my room.”
“You left the light on. That’s basically a cry for help.”
“It is not.”
“It was either that or a lure. I chose the less concerning option.”
Law leaned back in his chair. “You could leave.”
“I could.”
Neither of you moved.
His room was familiar, though you had never spent much time in it alone. Desk. Books. A coat thrown over the back of a chair. Kikoku resting within reach.
And the bed.
You tried not to look at it.
Failed.
Law noticed.
You cleared your throat and stepped fully inside. “How long have you been awake?”
“A normal amount.”
You came closer and picked up the coffee before he could stop you. It was cold.
You held it out accusingly.
Law looked at it. “That was intentional.”
“You intentionally made coffee and didn’t drink it?”
“I was working.”
You set the cup down away from him. “Go to bed.”
“No.”
“Law.”
“I have three more charts to finish.”
“They’ll still be there tomorrow.”
You looked around his room until you found the narrow shelf beside his bed. You walked to it and ran your fingers along the spines.
“What are you doing?”
“Settling in.”
“You’re not staying.”
“You haven’t gone to bed.”
“That isn’t an invitation.”
“I didn’t need one.”
You pulled a book free and glanced at the title. Dense. Medical. Perfect.
You sat on the edge of his bed.
Law stared at you.
“That’s my bed.”
“I know.”
“You’re being difficult on purpose.”
“Only because you respond so consistently.”
His eyes narrowed.
You opened the book across your lap. “Finish one chart. Then sleep.”
“Three.”
“One.”
“Two.”
You turned a page. “One and a half.”
“That isn’t how charts work.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“That has never stopped you from having opinions.”
You looked up at him then.
He was still watching you.
“One chart,” he said.
He resumed writing. For a while, that was all there was.
The scratch of ink. The soft shift of paper when Law reached for another page. You tried to read, but the words kept slipping out of order.
At some point, you stretched your legs out on the bed.
Law noticed.
He did not comment.
At some later point, you leaned back against the wall. Your eyelids grew heavy.
“You’re not reading,” he said.
You blinked. “I am.”
“You’ve been on the same page for ten minutes.”
“It’s a complicated page.”
“It’s the table of contents.”
You turned the page with dignity. “Now it’s not.”
Law made a low sound that was almost amusement. The book dipped slightly in your hands.
“Go to your room,” he said, quieter now.
“In a minute.”
Law’s pen stopped again.
“You’re going to fall asleep there.”
“Probably.”
“That isn’t your bed.”
“No.”
You let the book rest against your stomach. “Do you want me to leave?”
He did not answer right away. Then his eyes came back to yours.
“No,” he said.
“Then finish your chart.”
Law looked at you for another second.
Then he picked up his pen.
The scratch of ink started again.
You meant to keep reading. You even made it through another page, maybe two. Then the words blurred, the book slipped lower against your stomach, and Law said your name once from the desk.
You meant to answer.
Instead, the room went dark.
When you woke again, the lamp been turned off.
You were on your back.
Sometime during the night, Law had gotten into bed beside you. After that, sleep had done whatever sleep wanted, because he was half over you now, his weight settled along your side, one leg pushed between yours beneath the blanket.
His arm was low across your waist. His hand had slipped beneath your shirt, palm warm against your stomach, fingers curved near your ribs. Your own shirt had ridden up under his wrist.
So had his.
There was bare skin at his hip where the fabric had twisted, pressed against you every time he breathed.
You stared at the ceiling.
Law’s face was tucked near your collarbone. His hair brushed your jaw. His mouth was close enough to your throat that the next slow breath from him moved over your skin and made your stomach tighten beneath his hand.
You tried to shift your leg.
His thigh pressed down instinctively.
A small sound caught in your throat before you could stop it.
Law did not wake.
His hand shifted once, sleepy and unthinking.
You went still.
He was asleep.
His knee shifted once beneath the blanket.
You bit down on your breath.
His hand stayed where it was, warm and open against your stomach. Then his palm pressed a little firmer, holding you there like he had no intention of letting go.
You stared at the ceiling and did not move. Not because you couldn’t.
Because you didn’t want to.
You turned your head a fraction. His hair brushed your lips.
That was when Law woke.
His body went rigid against yours.
His hand did not move.
Neither did yours.
Your eyes stayed on the ceiling. His palm was still hot against your skin. His thigh was still between yours. His mouth was still too close to your throat.
You waited for him to pull away.
He didn’t.
His breath touched your neck once.
Twice.
Then, very carefully, his forehead lowered to your shoulder.
Your chest tightened.
“Law,” you whispered.
His voice came rough from sleep. “I know.”
Two words.
Quiet.
Heavy.
Not an apology. Not an explanation.
You did not know what to do with them.
His fingers flexed once, barely a movement at all. Your body reacted anyway, your stomach tightening under his hand before you could stop it.
Law felt it. His fingers stilled against you.
Then his hand flattened more carefully over your stomach, like he had realized exactly where it was and still could not make himself leave.
“I should move,” he said.
You closed your eyes.
“Are you going to?”
Silence.
His answer came so quietly you almost missed it.
“No.”
The word went through you slowly.
“Good,” you whispered.
Law exhaled against your shoulder.
His arm tightened around your waist, not by accident this time. His leg stayed where it was. His hand stayed under your shirt.
Deliberate.
Careful.
Still too much.
Not enough.
You covered his wrist with your hand.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
Eventually, because you were apparently determined to survive this by being difficult, you said, “You finished the chart?”
A pause.
Then, against your shoulder, dry and low, “That’s what you’re asking right now?”
“It was the agreement.”
“You fell asleep.”
“You were unsupervised. Anything could have happened.”
His breath moved against your skin in something almost like a laugh.
“Two charts,” he said.
“You said one.”
“You were asleep. I renegotiated.”
“That’s unethical.”
“I’m a pirate.”
You smiled.
Then his hand moved again.
His fingers slid a little farther across your stomach, slow enough that you knew he was awake for it this time.
Your smile faded.
Law’s mouth pressed once against your shoulder.
Brief.
Closed.
Controlled.
Then he went still, like he had not meant to do it.
You did not let go of his wrist.
“Law.”
His voice was low against your skin. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
He was quiet for a second. Then his hand tightened once beneath yours.
“Make me say something stupid.”
Your throat went dry.
You turned your head slightly toward him. “Like what?”
He did not answer right away.
His mouth brushed your shoulder again. Lighter this time. Almost accidental, except you both knew it was not.
“I sleep better with you there,” he said.
The words were so soft, so rough around the edges, that for a moment you thought you had imagined them.
You swallowed.
The joke rose first. Something easy. Something safe. You let it die.
Instead, you said, “Me too.”
Law went quiet against your shoulder.
Then his mouth moved lower, just enough to press against the skin near your collar.
His mouth stayed there for a second too long.
Then another.
Your fingers tightened over his.
His hand answered under your shirt.
The morning outside his room grew brighter.
You should get up. The crew would be moving soon. Someone would need him. Someone would come looking. The day would begin whether either of you were ready for it or not.
But not yet.
Not for one more minute.
You breathed in carefully.
Then out.
“I can come back tonight,” you said.
For a moment, the silence was so complete you could hear your own pulse.
Then his hand tightened under yours. “You don’t have to,” he said.
“I know.”
The answer took him a long time. When it came, his mouth brushed your shoulder.
“Yes.”
You closed your eyes.
Neither of you moved until footsteps passed in the corridor. Then Law lifted his head.
The loss of his warmth at your shoulder was immediate.
His hand slid out from under your shirt, careful now, almost too careful. You missed it before it was gone.
He rolled onto his back beside you and stared at the ceiling.
You did the same.
The space between you was narrow.
Not enough to pretend.
For one dangerous second, he looked like he might lean closer.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Both of you froze.
“Captain?” Shachi called from the hall. “You awake?”
Law closed his eyes. You pressed your lips together hard.
“Unfortunately,” Law said.
“You want breakfast?”
“No.”
“You sure? Bepo made rice.”
A pause.
You whispered, “You should eat.”
He turned his head just enough to look at you.
His expression was flat. His ears were still red.
“Don’t start.”
You smiled wider.
From the hall, Shachi said, “Was that a yes?”
Law looked back at the ceiling. “Yes,” he said, like the word pained him.
“Great. Also Penguin wants to know if—”
“No.”
“You didn’t hear the question.”
“No.”
Footsteps retreated down the hall.
The room quieted again.
You sat up first, smoothing your shirt with more attention than necessary.
Law’s eyes flicked to the movement.
Then away.
You pretended not to notice.
He sat up after you, one hand dragging over his face.
For once, he looked rested.
Actually rested.
The sight did something terrible to your chest.
You reached for your boots.
Behind you, Law said your name.
You stopped.
His voice was low. Careful. Still not looking at you.
“Tonight,” he said.
You looked back at him.
“Tonight,” you said.
His shoulders eased by a fraction.
Then he reached for his hat, put it on, and became your captain again.
Sunday mornings are meant for quiet relfection. Except when you have a boyfriend as clingy as Law, who just needs physical touch.
tags : +18 only, established relationship, fluff and smut, morning sex, clingy law, teasing, smug law, fingering and oral sex (f!receving), p in v, creampie
☆ masterlist ★
The morning is quiet in that fragile way Sundays tend to be, soft light slipping through the curtains, the air still fresh from the early morning. You’re already awake, your pillow against the headboard, a notebook on the sheets, you are writing your morning pages.
You turn the page, ready to start a new one, when you feel movement behind you. You don’t pay much attention, because you know from these small shifts that Law is about to wake up. You take advantage of the calm a little longer before you inevitably end up with an armful of a warm, sleep-dazed Law clinging to you.
You see, Law has this tendency — an adorable little tendency — to be excessively clingy when he wakes up. He always needs to be close to you, within arm’s reach at all times. He would never admit it, he might not even realize it himself, but he genuinely loves waking up next to you and starting his day knowing you’re warm and safe with him.
So when you feel an arm wrap around your waist, you don’t even react, simply continuing to write in your notebook.
“…why are you up,” he mutters, his voice rough, almost accusatory, his warm body pressing closer to yours.
“Good morning to you too,” you reply naturally, not stopping your writing.
You feel him rub his face against your lower back. Then, naturally, as if it were second nature, his hand slips under your t-shirt, soon followed by his face as well, like he was hiding. “Come back to sleep…” he grumbles, his warm breath pressing against your skin.
“I’m writing.”
He sighs, his cold nose brushing against your back. You keep writing, completely unfazed by his clingy morning behavior.
For a while, he goes still again. So still, in fact, that you almost forget he’s there. His arm remains loosely draped around your waist, his breathing slow and even against your back. And just like that, you slip back into your writing. Your thoughts flow more easily now, your pen moving faster across the page. You almost forget Law for a second. Almost. Because then he shifts again.
A quiet groan escapes him, low and drawn-out, his grip tightening just slightly as he presses himself closer, as if it were possible . “…cold,” he mumbles, though there’s nothing cold about the way he’s practically glued to you.
You huff out a quiet laugh, not even looking back. “You’re not cold.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just buries his face deeper against you, as if that alone proves his point. “…you’re not here,” he adds after a moment, voice quieter this time, almost sulking.
You shake your head, amused. “I am here. I’m just busy.”
“…don’t like that,” he says after a pause.
You smile to yourself, eyes still on the page. “Then you’ll have to wait. I’m in the flow right now.”
Another pause. Longer this time. You think that he might give up again. Drift back to sleep. But then his hand moves. It slides along your side, slow, almost lazy, like he’s not fully aware of it. Down to your hip, then back up again, tracing the same path without purpose.
Your pen falters for a split second, but you try to ignore it and keep writing.
His fingers drift again, this time lower, brushing along your thigh through the fabric, then back up, then down again aimless and wandering.
“…Law.”
A soft hum in response. You can feel that his touch isn’t insistent, like he’s grounding himself without thinking about it, just to help him fall back asleep. But still, your grip tightens slightly around your pen. “You’re distracting me.”
“…am not,” he murmurs instantly, voice still thick with sleep.
You glance down at the page. You’ve barely written a full line.
“Law.”
“Mmh?”
“You are.”
His hand stills for a second — like he’s actually processing what you said — before shifting again, just as slowly as before. “…not doing anything,” he insists, almost offended, even as his fingers drift along your inner thigh this time, absent. “I’m just holding you.”
You almost laugh, because technically, yes. He is. But his hand drifts again, tracing your inner thigh before going back up, and his hand lingered on your panties for a second too long, before settling on your stomach.
Goosebumps burst on your skin before you regain your senses. “Stop being sneaky on purpose and let me write my stuff, then I will cuddle you,” you scold him like a child.
He exhales, and you can almost picture the pout on his face. You resume your writing as Law finally lets go of your waist, lazily resting his hand on your thigh, far from anywhere sensitive.
You allow yourself a few seconds to breathe, slowly gathering your thoughts again. Your eyes linger on the page for a long moment, a sentence left unfinished in the middle, the flow of your thoughts slightly overwhelmed because of Law.
“...You stopped,” he eventually says.
You exhale slowly, setting your pen down on the notebook. “Because I can’t focus.”
And maybe that was the wrong thing to say, because his hand immediately slides between your thighs, his thumb pressing against your slit. A surprised moan slips from you before you quickly move a hand down to stop him.
“What? So I’m the reason you can’t focus, or is your mind just all over the place?”
“Fuck you, Law. Stop being greedy.”
He laughs softly. “Oh, but I’m not.” His mouth presses against the small of your back, and this time you can tell it’s intentional, just barely above your panties. “Keep writing, darling. I’ll keep myself busy on my own.”
And you know he’s already ruined everything, but you still try — try — to focus on your writing again. Especially when you feel his fingers slip beneath your panties, teasing you for a moment before one finger brushes against your sensitive clit. You tremble slightly as Law takes obvious pleasure in teasing you like this.
“Mmh… Law, that’s not fair,” you complain, still stubbornly trying to focus on your writing.
“What is it, love? I’m just trying to keep myself busy, that’s all,” he replies in a condescending tone.
“‘That’s all’ my ass,” you snap, trying to kick him away, but all you do is give him more room to touch you, and he immediately takes advantage of it, sliding a finger inside you. “Ahh, fuck—”
“I’ll take care of your ass another day. Right now, I really need to play with this pussy.”
And then you feel another finger slide into you, stealing your breath away with the sudden intrusion. You bite your lip to hold back a moan, feeling his fingers thrust in and out painfully slowly.
He bites your hip, catching the edge of your panties between his teeth in the process. He tugs on the fabric slightly before letting the elastic snap back against your skin. A startled gasp leaves your lips as his fingers inside you become more and more overwhelming. He fingers you shamelessly now, and maybe your brain is still too sleepy because you can already feel yourself getting close far too quickly.
“Mmh… Law, I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, feeling your whole body loosen.
“Yeah?” His voice is low and unbearably hot. He moves between your legs, forcing you to spread them wider to make room for him, his face now directly in front of your warm, wet pussy. “Who told you you could cum already?”
You whine, but he silences you quickly by pulling his fingers out just to smack your pussy. At the same time, he slides your panties off, grabs your legs to spread them even wider, and spits right onto the center of your pussy.
You moan as his tongue finally moves against your pussy lips. He circles your clit for a few seconds before sucking on it gently.
“You are so mean,” you complain, your hips pressing instinctively against him. You hear him groan in response, tightening his grip on your legs even more.
Somewhere beside you, your journal falls onto the floor, the sound distracting you for a split second. Blindly, your hand reaches out, trying to search for it.
“Shh, stay with me, baby.” His hand glides up your body before he gestures with two fingers, silently asking for your hand, which you give him immediately. “Be good for me, yeah?”
You’re not even sure if it’s a question, but you nod anyway as he returns to that sweet torture between your thighs. He looks up at you from where he is, and those sleepy bedroom eyes are devastatingly hot. Soft, incoherent mumbles start spilling from your lips as he works you apart, savoring just how wet you are for him, every quiet slurp echoing straight through your brain.
“Fuck— fuck, yeah, Law,” you gasp, squeezing his hand tightly while your other hand gets lost in the sheets. Your hips keep moving against his mouth, and he grumbles every time you do, never letting up. He’s relentless with his tongue, persistent against your clit, and you can already feel yourself beginning to shake.
“Please, please, please,” you beg, already so close to your release.
When he stops, your free hand tangles into his hair, almost as if you’re silently begging him to continue just a little longer. A strained groan leaves you as you struggle to steady your breathing again.
“Why did you do that?” you ask with a frown. He knew perfectly well how close you were. “How dare you to be mean like that.”
He laughs softly. “Don’t make me laugh, honey. You were the one giving me attitude earlier.”
“What? I was just trying to write…”
“You were so mean to me,” he says almost innocently as he pushes his boxers down, his cock already hard and glistening. “Couldn't even comfort your boyfriend who only wanted a pathetic little cuddle.” He teases, his hand on his dick, pumping agonizingly slowly. “I’m only giving you what you deserve.”
You can feel his warmth between your thighs now, but your mind is still foggy from the interrupted release, too overwhelmed to think clearly. When he brushes teasingly against you, the next complaint dies in your throat immediately.
“If you want anything from me,” he murmurs, “you’ll have to behave. Do you understand?”
You pout, already reaching for him instinctively, craving the contact despite yourself. “You’re just so clingy in the morning…” you defend weakly, fingertips brushing against his abdomen.
“Oh really? And who’s the clingier one now?”
He catches your wrist easily and pins your hand above your head against the pillow. You grumble under your breath anyway, hips unconsciously pressing closer to him. “Be nice,” and with that he enters his tip inside. You both exhale at the same time, him burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Please, Law…” you whisper pitifully, already impatient, your body seeking more without permission.
“What, baby?” His voice is rough against your skin, warm enough to make you shiver. “Ask properly if you want something.”
Your hips keep moving restlessly, but he controls the distance between you effortlessly, never letting you have enough. Another needy sound escapes you.
“Want you, Law…” you admit after a moment. “Please.”
A low laugh rumbles from his chest, almost cruel in how satisfied he sounds. “Mmh fuck– what do you want from me baby? Just one more time.”
“Ahhn– please… want your cock please…”, your voice trembling with need imploring Law.
“There we go.” He leans closer, and the sudden intimacy tears a broken sound from your throat. “That’s it, sweet, sweet girl.”
Your nails dig into his hips automatically as you cling to him, body arching beneath his. Law buries his face against your neck, his breathing uneven now too.
Your breaths grow shorter and shorter, as his heartbeat pounds heavily against your body, matching the slow, relentless rhythm he sets between you. Every rough exhale against your ear sends another shiver down your spine.
“Hm, yeah… so good…” you manage weakly.
“It’s good, baby?” he asks, voice hoarse right beside your ear. “Finally got what you wanted?”
You can only hum in response, too overwhelmed to form proper words, and he laughs quietly at your laziness.
Law’s movements stay steady and deep, enough to keep you completely focused on him and nothing else. Every now and then he mutters something low against your skin, teasing you on purpose but so soft at the same time, and each word only makes your grip tighten around him.
“Law, you’re annoying.”
“Ohh, my poor baby,” he mocks softly. “Am I bothering you?”
“Yea–.” You breathe.
“And yet you’re still holding onto me this tight, sweetheart.” You grumble under your breath, making him laugh quietly. “There it is,” he murmurs. “My clingy girl getting all needy again.”
“I‘m not clingy… you’re talking too much.”
“Am I, sweet thing ?” He kisses the corner of your mouth smugly.
“Yeah, you’re bothering me,” you complain again.
“Really, my angel? Am I annoying you?” You hum. “Why are you so wet for me then? Listen how much she loves it.”
Your face immediately heats up at his words, and you turn your head away with an annoyed little huff, arms tightening around him despite yourself. Law laughs quietly against your skin, completely entertained by your reaction.
“Aw, don’t be shy baby” he teases softly, leaning closer. “You’re making it really hard for me to behave.”
You grumble under your breath, as his hands tighten slightly around your waist as he pulls you closer.
He chases your mouth and finds it easily, unable to refuse his kisses. Your tongues slide against each other messily, teeth knocking together every now and then. When you moan into his mouth, he groans softly in return before gently biting down on your lower lip.
“So noisy,” he murmurs against your lips, though his voice sounds just as wrecked as yours.
You whine at the teasing once again and he immediately smiles against your mouth, clearly pleased with himself. One of his hands slips into your hair, tilting your head back just enough for him to deepen the kiss while his forehead briefly presses against yours.
“Look at you,” he mutters quietly. “Getting all worked up this early in the morning.”
You try to complain again, but it dies into another breathless sound when he kisses you harder, like he wants to devour every reaction.
Your fingers tighten instinctively in the fabric of his shirt, and Law notices immediately. A smug little smile pulls at the corner of his mouth when he pulls away just enough to look at you properly, grey eyes heavy with amusement and something softer underneath.
“You talk too much,” you mumble weakly, trying to glare at him again, but he just laughs quietly, brushing his nose against yours in a way that feels annoyingly affectionate for someone who spent the last ten minutes teasing you to death.
“Cute,” he whispers. “You get all soft after whining so much.”
“I’m literally still mad at you.”
“Mmh.” He kisses you once more, slower this time. “Sure you are, baby.”
His hand slides slowly along your body before he hooks one of your thighs around his waist, your other leg naturally following right after.
The sudden shift in angle leaves you completely exposed. Law takes advantage of it immediately, thrusting deep enough to steal the breath straight from your lungs. Your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as a loud moan spills from your mouth.
“Law— ahh—”
“Yeah… just like that,” he rasps, his composure finally cracking. The smugness fades from his voice, replaced by something rougher that makes your stomach tighten.
He doesn’t give you a second to recover. His pace picks up instantly, abandoning the slow torture from earlier for something deeper. The mattress creaks beneath you, quiet gasps and the slick sound of skin against skin filling the room.
Law shifts his hips just enough to hit deeper, forcing another helpless sound from your throat. Your vision blurs at the edges. One hand tangles desperately into his dark hair while the other clutches at his back, trying to keep yourself grounded as the pressure in your stomach tightens unbearably.
“Look at me,” he says softly, voice strained.
You force your eyes open.
Law is staring down at you through messy dark strands falling into his face, his grey eyes blown wide and hazy with desire. He looks completely wrecked, and his look only sends another rush of heat through your body.
“Law… please, wanna cum now,” you whimper, your hips lifting helplessly toward him.
“I’ve got you baby,” he murmurs immediately, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. His pace turns relentless after that, deep thrusts driving the last coherent thought out from your mind. “That’s it, baby,” he groans against your ear. “Come for me.”
Your whole body tightens around him as pleasure crashes through you all at once, leaving you trembling beneath him. You cry out his name, your fingers digging into his back while wave after wave rolls through you as Law groans low in response.
“Fuck— that’s it, good girl… so fucking good for me.” Another deep thrust drags your orgasm out even longer, leaving your whole body trembling beneath him. “Where do you want me, baby?”
You clench your jaw, barely able to think straight anymore. “Inside… inside, please…”
A breathless laugh escapes him. “Yeah? Cute thing wants me deep inside her, hm?” How he’s still able to tease you at a moment like this so close to losing control himself is beyond you. “Fuck, baby—”
His rhythm stutters before he finally buries himself as deep as he can, low groans spilling from his throat while he shudders hard against you, holding you close as he finally comes undone too.
The silence afterward feels thick and warm, broken only by the sound of your breathing.
Law stays close for a long moment, forehead pressed against your shoulder, chest rising and falling heavily against yours. The frantic intensity from before melts away completely, replaced by a heavy morning laziness.
When he finally shifts, it’s slow and reluctant, a quiet grunt escaping him as he pulls away just enough to make you wince softly. Without giving you any space, he immediately turns onto his side and pulls you back against his chest, one arm sliding firmly around your waist like it belongs there. As he settles you against him, he leans in and presses some kisses to your shoulder, unexpectedly gentle.
“Tired?” he murmurs, voice low and rough from sleep and exertion.
You hum faintly in response, already melting against him without thinking. You lie there boneless and exhausted, eyes drifting sleepily toward the floor beside the bed. Your notebook is still there, abandoned face-down on the hardwood, several pages bent awkwardly beneath it.
“My notebook,” you mumble hoarsely. “You ruined my pages.”
Law lets out a quiet laugh against the back of your neck, entirely unapologetic.
His hand slides absentmindedly across your stomach, his fingers tracing slow circles against your skin while his eyes drift shut again. “You can write tomorrow, darling,” he murmurs sleepily. “Today you’re staying here.”
