The first commission I ever got of my OC, done by one of my best friends @peepaw-123.🥹 I am still as in love with it as I was when I first got it a year ago, and I’m still as obsessed as ever with this ship. Please do not repost this artwork unless you are the artist, but reblogs are generally chill with me!
Below the cut is a little mini fic blurb I wrote to go with this artwork!
Law feels soft hands skim over his warm flesh, palms smoothing over taut muscle as his companion allows herself to touch him freely. He is undeniably fond of her, and he’s known for a while now the reason his heart races when he looks at her, the reason his cheeks heat with something more than embarrassment when she stands too close to him. He loves her. He’s loved her perhaps since the moment he rescued her from that horrible auction house in Sabaody.
They’ve come a long way since then.
Law still remembers that frightened, wounded creature she had been, and he can still see that vulnerability when he looks at her now. It tugs on his heartstrings; the feeling isn’t pity, nor judgement. The ache in his chest is something close to empathy and a profound sense of understanding.
They're alone now, the noise and chaos of Punk Hazard drown out this far underground. He only agreed to bring her along if she promised to stay hidden, and he thanks whatever higher power exists every day that he went through with it. The only thing keeping him from losing himself in this madness is knowing he will see her—hold her—at the end of each day.
His heart no longer belongs to him, yet even as the hollow cavity of his chest reminds him of the trade he made with Ceasar Clown—his heart in exchange for Monet's, a safeguard to ensure they do not betray one another—he knows it doesn't belong even to its captor. The organ, beating and aching somewhere on this godforsaken island, belongs to Sariah alone. He longs to place her hand over the warmth of his chest, to let her feel the steady pulse of that heart that belongs to only her, but he can't. Not yet. He will need to show her in some other way how much he loves her.
“Come here,” Law’s voice is a low grumble as he tugs her closer, taking one of her delicate hands in his—hands that were tracing his tattoos just seconds before. “Look at me.”
She places her free hand against his bicep, palm flat so she can feel the warm, bronzed skin underneath, and she turns her lovely face upward to meet his gaze.
Sariah is the sun to him; hair of spun gold and honeycomb, eyes glowing with a warmth that soothes the aches that have haunted him all his life. She smiles at him and he knows Cora would have loved her.
He guides her hand to his mouth, rough lips grazing her knuckles. He kisses her skin and he marvels at how, after everything she's been through, after everything that has been done to her, these soft hands still have never known violence.
Sariah shivers, her smile fading into an expression of deep reverence. She looks almost surprised by his affection, by the gentle way he handles her like she's something to protect—like she's someone who deserves kindness.
“What's wrong, honey?” Law whispers against her knuckles, and the warmth of his breath does little to soothe her trembling. His piercing eyes take her in, lingering on the thin material of her nightgown. “Still cold? That flimsy thing is doing nothing to keep you warm, Sariah—”
Sariah’s name tumbling from his lips draws an involuntary gasp from her lungs. She’s never been good at hiding how deeply the sound of his voice moves her, and it’s something that amuses him greatly.
“You're what’s keeping me warm,” her own voice is so soft, so gentle, he almost doesn't hear it.
“Yeah? You wanna come closer?”
He places a hand on her hip, his grasp firm but not rough. He handles her with the care she deserves, and in the back of his mind burns a rage for everyone who dared touch her before him.
Sariah follows his pull; she moves at his command like a shadow, echoing every breath and sigh he makes. She trusts him implicitly, and for him she's become malleable.
Law knows he should lead her to bed, to get her warm and let her sleep, yet he makes no attempt to pull away. Instead, he pulls her closer. His hand on her waist moves up her side and around to the open back of her nightgown, calloused fingers tracing the mark that brands her skin, a pattern he's memorized by now. He feels her shiver once more as his fingertips skim over the delicate knots of her spine, goosebumps rising beneath his touch.
Her tired eyes slip shut and Law chuckles, the sound full of fondness and admiration. She warms his cold soul without even trying.
