Plot: You want reassurance from Mihawk, but asking for it feels too much like losing.
The first week, you were fine.
That was what you told yourself.
Mihawk had been gone longer than expected before. He was a Warlord of the Sea. His life was not tidy, not predictable, and certainly not considerate of your nerves. Sometimes you went with him. Sometimes you stayed behind at Kuraigana.
This time, you had stayed.
This time, he had not called.
By the ninth day past when you had expected him, you had stopped pretending you were fine.
By the twelfth, you were angry.
It was easier than being afraid.
You reorganized shelves Mihawk would notice immediately. You moved one of his chairs three inches to the left because you were furious and petty and because imagining his slight pause when he returned was the only thing keeping you from pacing holes into the floor.
If he returned.
That thought hit, sharp and ugly.
You shoved it away.
Then it came back worse.
Dead. Captured. Betrayed. Bored.
Gone.
Your mind liked to return to that one best.
Gone because he finally tired of coming home to someone who could not simply trust him. Gone because you were too much work.
That evening, you were in the sitting room, not reading the book open in your lap, when the front doors opened.
You froze.
No knock. No announcement. No hurried footstep.
Only the sound of boots crossing the entry hall.
Mihawk appeared in the doorway. He removed his gloves one finger at a time, golden eyes moving over you.
Alive.
Whole.
Unbothered.
Something inside you cracked sideways.
“You’re back,” you said.
“I am.”
You closed the book with too much force. “How generous of you to inform me.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the book, then returned to your face. “I have just arrived.”
“Yes, I noticed. The dramatic entrance helped.”
He set his gloves on the side table. “You are angry.”
You laughed once, cold and humorless. “Am I? How perceptive.”
Mihawk did not take the bait. That only made it worse.
He looked composed in the doorway, his expression unreadable. No urgency. No guilt thrown at your feet.
You stood.
“Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone?”
“Yes.”
“No call. No message. Nothing.”
He studied you. “Say what you mean.”
“I mean,” you said, voice sharpening, “that I had no idea whether you were dead.”
“I am not.”
Your eyes burned. “Clearly.”
“Nor was I arrested.”
“Oh, wonderful. That crosses two possibilities off the list.”
His mouth barely moved, not quite a frown. “And the third?”
You looked away.
Mihawk’s voice lowered. “Look at me.”
You did not.
He waited, because he knew you well enough to know force would turn you cruel, and gentleness too soon would make you run.
Finally, you looked at him.
“The third,” he said.
You folded your arms over your chest. “Maybe you decided not to come back.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Not in anger.
In recognition.
You hated that more.
“So you thought,” he said slowly, “that I had abandoned my home, and you, without a word.”
“You’ve left places before.”
“I have left places. Not you.”
“You say that like it’s simple.”
“It is.”
“It is not simple for me.”
“I know.”
The answer was so calm that your anger stumbled.
You wanted him unsettled. Not cruel. Not frightened. Just affected enough that you were not the only one standing there with your heart in your throat.
So you reached for the sharpest thing you could find.
“Maybe I should stop waiting, then.”
Mihawk went very still.
There. Finally.
It lasted only a second, but you saw it. The slight hardening around his eyes.
He crossed the room, unhurried.
You held your ground until he stopped in front of you.
His voice remained even. “If you want reassurance, ask for it. Do not attempt to provoke it out of me.”
Your throat worked.
“I don’t know how,” you said before you could stop yourself.
Mihawk did not answer immediately.
“You do,” he said. “Pride is not the same as inability.”
Your laugh broke before it became anything useful. “You think I’m proud?”
“I think you are afraid to ask.”
Your eyes stung again, worse this time.
You turned away, but he did not let the distance widen. His hand came to your waist.
“I waited,” you said, the words rough. “Every day. I kept thinking you would call. Then I thought maybe you couldn’t. Then I thought maybe you didn’t want to. And then I hated myself for caring either way.”
His thumb moved once against your side.
“I should have called.”
You blinked.
It was not dramatic. It was not dressed up. It was not even especially tender.
But from him, it landed heavy.
“I was delayed by Marines near the Calm Belt,” he continued. “It was tedious, not dangerous. I handled it. I assumed you would understand.”
“I did understand,” you said. “That was the problem. I understood all the reasonable explanations first.”
“And then?”
“Then I ran out of reasonable.”
His gaze softened by a fraction. “Yes.”
You swallowed hard. “I hate when you’re gone too long.”
“I know.”
Mihawk’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back. “I have been with you long enough to know when your anger is only armor.”
Your chest hurt.
Mihawk’s eyes stayed on yours.
“I was not here,” he said, “but that did not change where you belonged.”
You stared at him.
The words were not sweet. Not soft in any ordinary way. They were too certain for that. Too absolute.
You hated how badly you needed them.
You loved him for knowing.
Mihawk’s hand rose to your face. His fingers touched your jaw. He did not kiss you yet. He only held you there, making you wait under the weight of his attention.
Your pulse changed.
He noticed that too.
“You are still angry,” he said.
“Yes.”
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “Then do not pretend otherwise.”
Your breathing went shallow.
Mihawk stepped closer until the edge of the table met your hips. He still had not kissed you. He only watched you with that devastating patience, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him and not enough to take it.
His hand slid to the back of your neck.
“You owe me,” you said, but your voice had changed.
“I do.”
Your stomach dipped.
He leaned in just enough that his breath touched your mouth. You lifted your chin, chasing him.
He did not let you have it.
“Mihawk.”
“There,” he murmured.
He watched you with quiet satisfaction. The bastard.
None of your anger disappeared. It only changed shape, burning lower now, tangled with relief and want.
“Ask,” he said.
Asking still felt too much like losing.
Mihawk waited.
He would wait all night. You knew that. He would stand there with his mouth an inch from yours, composed and merciless.
He would let you choose.
That was the worst part.
That was the best part.
“Kiss me,” you said.
He did.
It was not gentle.
His mouth took yours with controlled pressure, one hand firm at your neck, the other at your waist, pulling you closer to him.
You made a small sound against him.
He swallowed it.
The kiss deepened. When your lips parted, his tongue slid against yours, unhurried and deliberate.
Your hands grabbed his shoulders, pulling him in.
He allowed it for a moment.
Then he caught both your wrists and held them against his chest.
You broke from the kiss just enough to breathe. “What are you doing?”
“Making it up to you.”
“This feels like punishment.”
“No.” His mouth brushed your jaw. “Punishment would be leaving you untouched after you asked.”
Heat rushed through you.
“Mihawk.”
He kissed the side of your neck, slow enough to make your knees weaken. “You have had twelve days to imagine the worst.”
His hand moved to your hip.
“You can spend one evening learning patience.”
Your fingers flexed where he held them. “And if I don’t?”
His teeth grazed lightly beneath your ear.
“Then you will ask for mercy.”
Your breath left you.
Mihawk lifted his head. His eyes were dark now, all that cold gold warmed by firelight and want.
He released your wrists only to take your hand.
“Come,” he said.
You let him lead you from the sitting room, the rain still striking the windows, the book abandoned, the chair still crooked by three inches.
He noticed.
As you reached the doorway, he paused and looked back at it.
“You will put that back tomorrow,” he said.
You gave him a look over your shoulder. “Will I?”
His hand tightened around yours.
“Yes,” he said. “After I am finished making you forget why you moved it.”
Law came back to the cabin looking like someone had carefully removed every working part of him and left the attitude behind out of spite.
He shut the door with his heel, Kikoku still in hand, hat low over his eyes. His shoulders were tight. His jaw was worse. There was blood on his sleeve that probably wasn’t his, which meant he would ignore it until someone else made it inconvenient.
You were already on his bed with one of his blankets over your legs, reading a book you had stopped pretending to care about twenty minutes ago.
“You look charming,” you said.
Law gave you a flat look. “Don’t start.”
“That bad?”
He set Kikoku against the wall with too much care. “No.”
So yes.
You put the book aside and stood. He watched you like he expected you to ask him what happened, and you didn’t. You just took his hat off, placed it on the desk, and reached up to push your fingers through his hair.
For a second, he stayed perfectly still, then his eyes shut.
“You’re eating,” you said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re eating.”
“I’m your captain.”
“And I’m very impressed. Sit down.”
His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, but he was too tired to make it worth the effort. He sat on the edge of the bed while you brought him the bowl from the little warmer you had stolen from the galley. Rice, broth, fish. Nothing fancy. Nothing heavy.
Law stared at it. “You poisoned this?”
“I considered it, but Bepo looked sad.”
“Mm. Weak.”
You sat beside him and held the bowl until he took it. He ate slowly at first, like he was doing it only to shut you up. You kept your fingers in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp between pauses, and the longer you did it, the more his posture sank.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for you.
There were entire confessions in the way Law accepted being touched without making a miserable comment about it.
When the bowl was empty, you took it from him and placed it aside. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face hidden in his hands. You kept stroking his hair.
Neither of you said anything for a while.
The Polar Tang hummed around you, deep and steady under the sea. The sound filled the room, safer than silence, gentler than the things neither of you wanted to name.
Eventually he turned his head just enough that his cheek rested against your thigh.
You looked down at him. “That’s new.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re cuddling my leg.”
“I’m resting.”
“On me.”
“Mm.”
You smiled, but you didn’t tease him further. Your fingers slid through his hair again, slower now, nails barely touching his scalp. He exhaled through his nose, quiet and rough.
It should not have felt intimate, but it did.
He turned his face slightly, and his lips brushed the inside of your wrist.
You stopped breathing for half a second.
His eyes opened, sharp even half-dead with exhaustion. For a moment, he looked at your wrist like he hadn’t meant to do that. Like his body had moved before his control returned.
Then, because he was impossible, he did it again.
A warmer kiss.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Law.”
“Problem?”
His voice was low, tired, almost bored. You hated him a little. “No.”
“Then stop looking offended.”
“I’m not offended.”
“You look like you’re trying to decide whether to hit me or climb me.”
You stared at him. He looked back, deadpan, mouth barely curved.
“You’re the worst man alive.”
“Probably.”
Then he kissed your palm. Not quickly. Not as a joke. His mouth pressed there like he was testing your pulse, your patience, both.
Heat crawled up your arm.
He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. His eyes were dark, shadowed from lack of sleep, but clearer now. More present. More dangerous in the quiet way.
“You’re still thinking too loudly,” he murmured.
“I’m thinking you should sleep.”
“I was.”
“You were kissing my hand.”
“Multitasking.”
You laughed under your breath, and something in his face changed. He reached for you then, one hand closing around your hip, and pulled you down with him under the blanket. It was clumsy only because he was exhausted. Law being clumsy felt illegal.
You ended up half beside him, half on him, your knee between his legs, his arm around your waist. The blanket slipped over both of you, trapping heat fast.
“This is a terrible sleeping position,” you said.
“Then leave.”
His hand spread over your back and held you there.
You looked down at him. “You are very bad at bluffing.”
“I’m excellent at bluffing.”
“You’re literally holding me hostage.”
“You’re not resisting.”
Fair.
His mouth found your wrist again, then your forearm, slow little kisses that did not match the sharpness of his face at all. You watched him do it, feeling each one settle lower in your stomach.
Comfort turned strange that way. One moment you were keeping him together. The next, his lips were on your skin and the air was too warm and his hand had slipped beneath the back of your shirt.
His fingers were ice cold.
Law’s mouth twitched against your arm. “Sensitive?”
“Your hands are freezing.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains enough.”
His hand flattened against your lower back, then slid up, warmer now from your skin. He touched you like he was still trying not to ask for anything. Like he could make this practical if he moved carefully enough.
You leaned down and kissed him.
That broke the last useful thought in the room.
He kissed back slowly at first, his mouth firm and tired, one hand cupping the back of your neck. Then your fingers tugged lightly in his hair and he made a sound so low you almost missed it.
You didn‘t miss the way his grip tightened.
“Do that again,” he said against your mouth.
You smiled. “Ask nicer.”
His eyes opened. Exhausted, half-wrecked, still somehow arrogant enough to ruin your life. “You’re warm, fed, and in my bed,” he said. “Don’t get ambitious.”
“You dragged me here.”
“I made a medical decision.”
“Was kissing my palm also medical?”
“Your circulation looked poor.”
You laughed, and he kissed you harder to shut you up.
His hand slid under your shirt again, and this time he didn’t stop at your back. His palm moved over your waist, your ribs, then higher, dragging heat after it. He gave you just enough time to pull away. His thumb brushed under your breast, light enough to be cruel.
Your breath caught.
Law’s mouth paused against yours. “Still fine?” he asked, quiet now.
You nodded once.
His eyes narrowed. “Words.”
“Yes,” you said. “Still fine.”
Then his hand covered you properly, and the sound that left you was embarrassingly soft.
He kissed your jaw, your throat, the spot below your ear, while his thumb moved slowly over your nipple through the thin fabric. Not rushed. Not sloppy. Precise enough to make your hips shift without permission.
His thigh slid between yours under the blanket, pressing up just enough to make you tense.
You broke the kiss with a shaky breath. “Law.”
“I know.”
That was the problem. He always knew.
His hand left your chest and slid down over your stomach. Slow. Warm now. His fingers traced the waistband of your shorts like he was considering the most annoying possible way to take you apart.
You grabbed his wrist. He stopped immediately. For half a second, his face went still. Careful. Too careful. Then you guided his hand lower.
“Brat,” he murmured.
“You were taking too long.”
“I was being considerate.”
“You were being evil.”
“That too.”
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric.
Your whole body went hot.
Law watched your face as he touched you over your panties first, slow pressure between your thighs, finding the wet warmth there. His mouth parted slightly, the smallest crack in his composure.
“You’re soaked,” he said, low.
Your face burned. “Don’t sound surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“You sound proud.”
“I am.”
You should have had a comeback. You did not. Because his fingers moved, and the blanket made everything worse. The heat. The closeness. The tiny space where every breath hit his mouth and every movement rubbed your body against his. His hand stayed steady between your thighs, stroking you through the damp fabric, watching you try not to fall apart too quickly.
“You’re quiet now,” he said.
“I hate you.”
“Mm. Of course.”
His fingers pushed your panties aside and your nails dug into his shoulder.
He exhaled once, controlled but rough, when he felt you bare. His fingers slid through you slowly, gathering slick heat before circling your clit with the kind of patience that made you want to bite him.
You buried your face against his neck.
He let you for exactly three seconds, then his free hand caught your jaw and tilted your face back. “Don’t hide.”
“You are annoying.”
“You knew that already.” His fingers circled again, a little firmer, and your hips rocked into his hand.
That made his eyes drop. There was something devastatingly hot about him like this. Still tired. Still half-dressed. Still acting like he had control while his breathing slowly betrayed him. His hair was messy from your fingers. His shirt was wrinkled. His gaze kept moving between your face and the shape of your body shifting under the blanket.
He touched you like he had all the time in the world. Like the world outside his cabin had finally shut up.
When one finger slipped inside you, your breath snapped.
Law kissed the corner of your mouth. “There?”
You nodded.
“Words.”
“Yes.”
His mouth brushed yours. “Good.”
He worked you open slowly, one finger at first, then two, his palm pressed against your clit with every shallow thrust. Not rough. Not gentle either. Intentional. The kind of touch that made your thighs tighten around his wrist.
“You’re making this difficult,” he muttered.
You laughed breathlessly. “For you?”
“For my self-control.”
Your eyes opened, and for once you caught him before he could hide it. The hunger in his face. The strain in his jaw. The way his hips had shifted closer without him seeming to notice.
“Oh,” you whispered.
“Don’t.”
“You’re turned on.”
His stare went flat. “Excellent medical deduction.”
“You’re really turned on.”
“You want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then stop talking.”
But you felt him against your thigh now, hard and hot through his clothes, and the knowledge made your body clench around his fingers.
Law inhaled. His eyes sharpened. “You did that on purpose.”
“I didn’t.”
“Liar.”
His fingers curled inside you.
You gasped, hand flying to his shoulder, and his mouth found your throat again. He kissed you there messily now, less controlled, teeth grazing skin as his fingers kept their slow, ruthless pace.
Under the blanket, your hips moved against his hand. His palm rubbed your clit every time his fingers pushed deeper. You were hot everywhere, trapped between his body and the blanket and his voice near your ear.
“You’re close,” he said.
You hated how calm he sounded.
You hated more that he was right. “Shut up.”
“Very close.”
“Law.”
“Mm.”
A laugh broke out of you, shaky and breathless, and he kissed it straight from your mouth. His fingers moved faster then. Just enough. The angle changed, his thumb pressing directly against your clit, and your body went tight.
You grabbed his hair and he groaned, not a neat little sound. Not controlled. Low, rough, dragged out of him before he could stop it.
That was what pushed you over.
You came against his hand with your face pressed into his neck, trying to keep quiet and failing in small, broken sounds. Law held you through it, fingers slowing but not stopping too fast, his mouth at your temple, his voice low and close.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s it.”
Your whole body shuddered.
“You’re evil,” you whispered again, weaker this time.
His lips brushed your hair. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
He was quiet for a moment. His fingers slipped out of you slowly, and you felt the loss of them in a way that made your stomach twist. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.
The exhaustion was still there, but underneath it was something rawer. Needier. Law, caught between wanting to pretend he was unaffected and being very obviously affected.
You looked down. His belt was still fastened. His shirt still buttoned. He looked unfairly composed for someone who had just ruined you with his hand. “That seems unbalanced,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “You’re recovering fast.”
“I’m talented.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re hard.”
The silence after that was deeply satisfying. Law stared at you.
You smiled.
For once, he did not have an immediate answer. Then his hand caught your waist and pulled you closer until your thigh pressed between his legs. He shut his eyes for one second, jaw flexing.
You moved against him lightly.
He sucked in a breath.
“Oh,” you said softly. “Sensitive?”
His eyes opened. “Careful.”
“No.”
“No?”
You reached down between you and worked his belt open under the blanket. Your fingers were less elegant than his, mostly because your hands were still shaking. Law watched you struggle for three seconds before looking personally offended.
“You’re going to break it.”
“I am not.”
“You’re attacking it.”
“It’s dark under here.”
“It’s a belt, not an enemy.”
“Help or shut up.”
He huffed a tired laugh and helped, undoing it with one hand like an irritating show-off. You pushed his pants open just enough to slip your hand inside.
The moment your fingers wrapped around him, his entire body went still.
He was hot in your hand, hard and heavy, and the sound he made when you stroked him once was almost silent. Almost.
You kissed his jaw. “There?”
His eyes cut to yours. “Don’t start.”
You stroked him again, slower, and his forehead dropped briefly against yours.
That shut both of you up.
The room got quiet except for breathing. Yours uneven. His controlled until it wasn’t. Your hand moved beneath the blanket, fingers sliding over him, learning what made his mouth tighten, what made his hips shift, what made his grip on your waist go almost too firm before he forced himself to ease up.
He was beautiful like this in the worst way. Still trying to hold himself together while letting you touch him. Still trying to be Law about it, even with his breath breaking against your mouth.
You kissed him softly.
He kissed back harder. His hand returned between your thighs, slick fingers finding you again, and you jolted. “You’re sensitive,” he murmured.
“I just came.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You’re welcome.”
You squeezed him in warning.
His smugness died immediately.
Worth it.
He groaned against your mouth, hips pushing into your hand before he could stop himself. His fingers pressed against your clit again, slower now, less calculated, more distracted. That made it hotter. Law losing precision because your hand was around his cock felt like something you should put in a museum.
A terrible museum.
For horrible people.
You moved together under the blanket, messy in a quiet way. Your hand stroking him. His fingers rubbing you. His mouth dragging over yours, then your cheek, then your throat. Neither of you fully undressed. Neither of you needed to. It felt almost more intimate like this, half-hidden and overheated, clinging to each other in the small private dark.
His voice dropped near your ear. “Can you come again?”
Your stomach clenched. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“You’re very demanding for a man I fed rice to.”
His laugh was barely there, rough and low. “Answer.”
“Yes.”
His hand changed pace.
He kissed your cheek like he was pleased with himself and too tired to pretend otherwise.
The second time built slower, deeper, your body still oversensitive from the first. He kept touching you like he knew exactly how much you could take, while your hand grew slick around him from his own precum. His breathing got worse. His jaw pressed against your temple. His hips started moving into your fist in short, restrained thrusts.
“Law,” you whispered.
His fingers stilled for half a second. Not stopped. Checked.
You nodded quickly against him. “Keep going.”
He did. Your legs tightened around his hand again. The blanket had slipped down to your hips, but neither of you cared. Your shirt was pushed up. His pants were open. Everything was too warm, too close, too much.
And still, somehow, soft.
Because his other hand was in your hair. Because his mouth kept brushing your forehead between kisses.
Because even while he was touching you like he wanted to ruin you, he held you like something precious he would rather die than name.
You came again with a broken little sound against his mouth.
This time Law followed almost immediately. His body went tense, his hand closing hard around your hip as he came into your fist with a rough, muffled groan. His face pressed into your neck, breath hot against your skin. For a few seconds, he did not move at all.
You held him through it, fingers gentle now.
His breathing slowly evened out. “Messy.”
You laughed, exhausted and warm. “That’s your first comment?”
“It’s accurate.”
“You’re romantic.”
“I’m tired.”
“You came on my hand.”
“You were involved.”
“You’re stupid.”
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “You’ve said that too.”
“And I’ll keep saying it.”
He shifted carefully, cleaned you both up with a towel from beside the bed. He was efficient about it, but his touch had gone softer. Almost shy, if Law could ever be accused of such a thing without committing murder.
When he settled back down, he pulled the blanket over you both again. You ended up against his chest, your leg tangled with his, your hand resting over his ribs. His heartbeat was slower now. Heavy. Human. He held your wrist for a while, thumb moving over the inside of it.
You thought he was asleep.
Then he murmured, “You’re still not allowed to tell anyone I cuddled you.”
“You didn’t cuddle me.”
“Good.”
“You medically restrained me under a blanket and then got me off twice.”
His chest moved with a quiet laugh. “Accurate.”
You smiled against him, boneless and warm. After a long silence, his hand slid up to the back of your head. He held you there, not tightly. Just enough.
“Thank you,” he said.
It was so quiet you almost pretended not to hear it.
You kissed the side of his throat. “Anytime, Captain.”
“Don’t call me that in bed.”
“Oh, you like it.”
“I don‘t like it.”
“You’re lying.”
He sighed, but his arm tightened around you.
Later, he woke you up with his mouth already against your neck and his hand flat on your stomach.
Not soft. Not sweet. Possessive and warm, his fingers spread under your shirt like he had been holding you there for a while and had only just decided to make it your problem.
You opened your eyes into the dark cabin.
Everything hummed low around you. The walls were thin. Too thin. Somewhere outside, metal creaked, pipes clicked, and the ship sounded alive in the worst possible way.
Law’s mouth moved against your skin. “You awake?” he murmured.
You swallowed. “No.”
His teeth grazed the side of your neck. “Liar.”
You shifted back against him just enough to feel him hard behind you.
His hand stopped moving. For one long second, neither of you breathed right, then his fingers tightened at your waist. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“I’m sleeping.”
“You’re bad at it.”
“You woke me up.”
“You moved first.”
“You were touching me first.”
His mouth brushed your ear. “I was checking your pulse.”
“At my waist?”
“You’re alive, aren’t you?”
You almost laughed, but then his hand slid lower, over your hip, dragging you back against him with enough pressure to make your breath catch.
Law heard it. His voice dropped, mean and quiet. “Careful.”
You turned your face halfway toward him. “Or what?”
That was the mistake. His hand came up and covered your mouth before you could say anything else. Firm. Just enough to remind you exactly where you were, exactly who slept outside that door, exactly how much trouble you were in.
“Or you’ll wake someone,” he murmured. “And I’ll make you explain why you can’t behave.”
Your stomach tightened hard. His eyes caught yours in the dark. “Yeah,” he said, too calm. “That’s what I thought.”
You made a muffled sound against his palm.
Law’s mouth twitched. “Still mouthy. Impressive.”
Then he moved. The blanket shifted over both of you as he slid down your body, disappearing beneath it. Heat flooded your face before his hands even reached your thighs.
“Law,” you whispered.
His answer came from under the blanket, low and dry. “Lower.”
Your fingers twisted in the sheets. “Law.”
“Better.”
His hands pushed your thighs apart, not gently, not cruelly. Just with that controlled strength that made your body obey before your pride could complain. His mouth pressed to the inside of your thigh first, slow and hot, then higher.
You grabbed the blanket. He kissed you once over the thin fabric of your panties. You jolted.
He huffed against you. “Sensitive.”
“You’re annoying.”
His fingers hooked into the waistband and dragged it down just enough. “Still talking.” Then his mouth was on you.
Your head fell back into the pillow, breath breaking immediately.
He did not ease into it. He ate you out like he had woken up starving and decided manners were a disease. His hands gripped your thighs under the blanket, holding you open while his tongue dragged through you slow, then deep, then mean. He was quiet about it except for the low sound in his throat when he tasted how wet you were.
The sound alone almost ruined you, so you bit your knuckle.
One hand left your thigh and pushed your wrist away. His fingers laced with yours instead, pinning your hand beside your hip under the blanket.
“No hiding,” he murmured against you.
“Then let me be loud.”
His mouth paused. The silence under the blanket felt dangerous. Then he gave a low, humorless laugh.
“You really want to embarrass yourself that badly?”
Your whole body burned.
He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth returned to you, hotter, wetter, filthier. His tongue circled your clit with awful patience before he sucked lightly, just enough to make your hips jerk into his face.
His grip turned bruising. “Don’t move.”
“You’re under the blanket eating me out,” you whispered, breathless. “And you’re giving orders?”
His eyes flicked up from between your thighs. Even in the dark, you felt that stare.
“Yes.”
Then he lowered his mouth again and made you regret being funny.
You were close too fast. Embarrassingly fast. It climbed sharp and hot through your stomach, your legs shaking around his shoulders, your fingers gripping his hair beneath the blanket. He groaned when you pulled, and the vibration went straight through you.
“Law—”
Voices passed outside.
Both of you froze. You stopped breathing. Law went still between your legs, mouth still close enough that you could feel every exhale against your soaked skin.
Two crew members walked past the door, speaking quietly. Too close. Too awake.
You stared at the ceiling, one hand clamped over your own mouth.
Under the blanket, Law’s fingers dug into your thighs.
The voices slowed. For one horrible second, you thought they would stop. Then the footsteps continued down the corridor. Their voices faded. The ship hummed again. Silence settled.
Law did not move for another few seconds, then his mouth pressed one slow kiss to the inside of your thigh.
You whispered, shaky and furious, “You didn’t let me finish.”
He emerged from under the blanket just enough for you to see his face. His mouth was wet. His hair was a mess. His eyes were dark in that flat, devastating way that made him look meaner than he actually was.
“I wasn’t trying to make you finish.”
Your brain stalled. “Huh?”
His hand slid up your thigh. “I wanted to taste you.”
You stared at him. He looked completely serious.
“Do you ever hear yourself?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You’re disgusting.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You’re wet.”
You had no response ready for that. He kissed your stomach once, over your shirt, then climbed over you with an efficiency that should not have been attractive. His hand caught your hip.
“Turn over.”
Your pulse jumped. “Ask nicely.”
Law’s eyes narrowed. Then he leaned in, mouth beside your ear. “Turn over before I decide you don’t get to come at all.”
You huffed and turned. Fast enough that you heard him exhale a quiet laugh behind you.
“Asshole.”
“I’m about to fuck you into the mattress and you’re still insulting me.”
“You started it.”
“I’m going to finish it.”
He pushed you flat onto your stomach, hand between your shoulder blades, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Your legs were pressed together beneath him, thighs tight, body stretched out under the blanket. He straddled them from behind, knees bracketing your legs, trapping you in place with his weight.
The position made you feel pinned before he even touched you.
It made you quiet.
Law noticed that too. His palm slid down your spine, slow, possessive. “There,” he murmured. “Finally learned something.”
You turned your face into the pillow. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” His hand slid beneath you, finding you between your pressed thighs. He felt how wet you still were from his mouth and went still for a second.
Then his voice dropped. “Still dripping.”
You squeezed your eyes shut. “Stop talking.”
“No.”
He leaned over you, chest against your back, and his arm slid around your throat, forearm firm across your upper chest and collarbone, hand gripping your shoulder, holding you exactly where he wanted you. Your breath hitched anyway.
Law’s mouth brushed your ear. “Tap twice if it’s too much.”
Your hand found his wrist. You tapped once just to be annoying.
He went still, then you dragged his arm tighter around you. “Bad idea,” he whispered.
“Then stop.”
He did not. His other hand disappeared between you, belt shifting, fabric dragged down just enough. You felt him press against you from behind, hard and hot, sliding between your thighs first, coating himself in how wet you were.
Your fingers curled into the sheet. “Law.”
His hand came over your mouth again. “Quiet.”
Then he pushed in.
The angle stole your breath.
Because your legs were together, because he had you pinned flat, because he was above you and around you and everywhere, he felt deeper than before. Tighter. Hotter. You made a broken sound into his palm and his arm locked more firmly across your chest.
He stopped halfway in, forehead dropping against the back of your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, so low it barely had sound.
You clenched around him. His hand tightened over your mouth.
“Don’t.”
So you did it again.
Law went silent, then laughed once, dark and breathless.
“You really are asking for it.”
He drove in the rest of the way. Your body jolted under him, trapped between his chest and the mattress. His hand swallowed the sound you made. The blanket hid the movement, held in the heat, made every thrust feel secret and filthy and too close.
He didn’t fuck you fast at first.
He fucked you hard.
Slow, deep, punishing thrusts that made your thighs tremble together under his weight. His arm stayed around your throat, holding you up just enough that your back arched beneath him. His mouth hovered near your ear, breath rougher than he probably wanted it to be.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
You nodded against his hand.
His hips snapped forward again. “Of course it was.”
Your eyes rolled shut.
“Look at you,” he said, voice low and mean. “Couldn’t stay quiet from my mouth, and now you’re trying to take this without waking half the ship.”
You whimpered into his palm.
He slowed just to make it worse. “That was not quiet.”
You bit lightly at his hand.
His rhythm faltered. Barely.
But you felt it.
Law’s mouth pressed to your temple. “Careful,” he whispered. “I’m already being nice.”
You almost laughed. It came out as a muffled sob when he started moving again, rougher now, hips grinding deep every time he buried himself inside you. The pressure of your legs together made everything tighter, every stroke dragging against your clit through the way he had you pinned.
It was unbearable.
He knew. He had to know. His hand slipped from your mouth only long enough to catch your jaw and turn your face slightly.
“Breathe.”
You dragged in air.
“Good.” Then his palm covered your mouth again. It should not have been sweet. It wasn’t, not really. But there was something in the way he kept checking, kept holding you together while taking you apart, that made your chest ache under all the heat.
Law’s voice roughened near your ear. “You can take it.”
Your nails dug into his wrist.
“You can,” he repeated. “You’re doing it.” A hard thrust made your whole body jolt. “Quietly.” You made a desperate noise into his palm. His breath shook. “Mostly.”
That almost ruined you. The dry little correction. His voice half-wrecked, still somehow sarcastic while fucking you into the mattress under a blanket with people sleeping down the corridor.
You pushed back against him as much as you could.
Law’s grip turned rough. “Greedy.”
You nodded.
“Yeah?” His mouth brushed your ear. “That all you wanted? Me pinning you down so you’d finally stop pretending you don’t like being handled?”
Your body clenched hard around him.
He cursed under his breath. “Thought so.”
His thrusts got rougher then. Less patient. His chest stayed pressed to your back, his arm around your throat, his hand over your mouth. You were completely trapped under him, legs together, body pinned flat, taking every deep stroke while the bed barely creaked beneath the blanket.
He was trying to keep it quiet.
That made it hotter, because you felt how much effort it took him. The strain in his arm. The way his breathing kept catching. The way his hips wanted to move faster but he forced them into deep, controlled thrusts instead.
“You’re close,” he said.
You nodded quickly. His hand slid from your mouth to your throat for half a second, just to hold your jaw, to keep your face turned enough that he could see you.
“Not loud.”
You swallowed. “Then don’t make me come.”
His eyes darkened. Wrong answer. His hand returned to your mouth, and his other arm tightened across your chest.
“I told you,” he murmured. “Brat.”
Then his hips changed angle.
Your whole body went rigid.
He had found exactly the spot he wanted, and because he was Law, because he was cruel when he was right, he kept hitting it. Again. And again. Deep and rough and controlled, his mouth at your ear, talking you through every second like he could feel your mind slipping apart under him.
“There. That’s it.”
You shook beneath him.
“Don’t fight it.”
Your fingers clawed at the sheet.
“Just stay quiet.”
You came with his hand clamped over your mouth and his arm locked around you, the orgasm tearing through you hard enough that your body tried to curl under his. He held you down through it. Kept you flat. Kept fucking you while you pulsed around him, every sound trapped against his palm.
Law groaned into your shoulder. Not quiet enough. Not nearly as composed as he wanted to be.
You heard it and clenched again, that made hips stutter.
“Don’t,” he rasped.
You did. His control snapped in a way you felt more than saw. His thrusts turned shorter, harder, less even. His face buried against your neck, teeth grazing your skin, breath hot and broken. “You’re unbearable,” he muttered.
You made a muffled sound that might have been a laugh.
His hand pressed more firmly over your mouth. “Still not funny.”
It was absolutely funny.
Then he drove into you deep and stayed there, his whole body tensing over yours as he came with a rough, smothered sound against your shoulder. His arm around your throat held you close while he shook twice, breathing harshly into your skin.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The cabin was silent except for both of you trying to remember how to breathe like normal people.
Then another set of footsteps passed outside.
He froze instantly. So did you. His hand was still over your mouth. He was still inside you. The footsteps paused.
Your eyes went wide. Law slowly turned his head toward the door, expression murderous in the dark.
Someone outside yawned, then kept walking. The footsteps faded.
You started shaking beneath him. Not from fear. From trying not to laugh.
Law’s hand tightened over your mouth, but his own breath hitched once near your ear. “Do not,” he whispered.
You shook harder.
He pulled out slowly, and you both winced. He cleaned you up with infuriating efficiency, still under the blanket, still half-dressed, still trying to look like he had not just lost several pieces of his sanity. Then he dragged you back against him, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist this time.
Much safer. Much less threatening. Still possessive.
You whispered, “You didn’t make me explain.”
His mouth brushed the back of your neck. “Next time.”
Your stomach flipped. “You covered my mouth.”
“And you still almost got us caught.”
You smiled into the pillow. Law exhaled slowly behind you, then pressed one quiet kiss to your shoulder. Soft enough to make the whole thing worse. After a moment, he muttered, “You okay?”
You reached back and touched his wrist. “Yeah.”
His fingers laced with yours. “Good.”
Morning on the ship was usually quiet in a way that felt medical. Dim lights. Low engine hum. People speaking in tired voices because being loud before coffee was how accidents happened.
Law walked into the galley looking like death had filed a complaint against him and lost. Hat on. Shirt buttoned. Face blank.
Completely normal.
You were already at the table with your cup in both hands, trying to look like a person who had slept. You had not. Not properly. Your legs still felt suspicious. Your throat had one spot that made you want to slap him and kiss him every time you swallowed.
Law did not look at you first. That was how you knew he was looking at you.
Bepo was making breakfast with too much cheer for the hour. Shachi and Penguin were half-dead over their plates. Ikkaku was reading something and pretending she was not watching the room with deeply feminine intuition.
Law sat across from you. Calmly. Like he had not had his hand over your mouth a few hours ago because you were both idiots in a submarine full of people with ears.
“Morning, Captain,” Penguin mumbled.
“Morning,” Law said. His voice was normal.
Terrible man.
You lifted your cup to hide your mouth.
Law reached for the coffee pot, then stopped. Just for half a second. Barely anything. His fingers flexed around the handle.
You noticed because you were a bad person. A ruined person. A person with evidence.
His hand was close to his face, and he had smelled it. Not strongly. Not obviously. Just enough.
His eyes went flat.
Oh.
Oh no.
You looked down into your cup so fast your neck nearly cracked.
Law poured his coffee with terrifying precision.
You were going to die.
Not from shame. From trying not to laugh.
He set the pot down. His thumb brushed once over his index finger, like he was trying to decide whether his own hand was guilty of a crime.
It was.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Across the table, Law’s gaze flicked to you. Sharp. Warning.
You widened your eyes innocently.
His jaw tightened. That was when it got worse. He took a sip of coffee. Then his chin dipped slightly, and the faint shadow of his beard brushed the rim of the mug.
His whole face changed by exactly nothing.
But you saw it.
He smelled you there too. On his own skin. From last night. From under the blanket. From the way he had buried his face between your thighs and then still had the nerve to act like breakfast was a normal social event.
His eyelids lowered for one second.
He stared into his coffee like it had personally betrayed him.
Your shoulders started shaking.
Law looked up slowly. “Something funny?”
“No.”
Your voice was too high.
Shachi looked at you. “You okay?”
You nodded quickly. “Coffee went down wrong.”
“You didn’t drink any.”
“Emotionally.”
Ikkaku’s eyes lifted from her page.
Law’s stare could have amputated you.
Bepo turned around with a plate. “Captain, do you want eggs?”
Law did not answer immediately. Because he had moved his hand again. Because his fingers were near his mouth. Because, apparently, his own body had decided to spend the morning reminding him exactly what you tasted like. His nostrils flared once. Very slightly.
You pressed your lips together so hard it hurt.
Law shut his eyes for half a second. He looked like a man trying to survive war.
“Captain?” Bepo asked, worried.
Law opened his eyes. “No eggs.”
Bepo’s ears drooped. “Oh. Sorry.”
Law’s face softened by a millimeter. “It’s fine. Rice.”
“Okay!”
You watched him pick up his mug again. His hand was steady. His face was blank. His control was flawless. Except his ears were faintly red.
You placed your cup down very carefully.
He looked at you. You looked back. Neither of you said anything. Then you smiled.
His expression turned dangerous.
Under the table, his boot nudged your ankle.
A warning.
You nudged him back.
A mistake.
His eyes sharpened. You looked away first because you were not suicidal before noon.
Penguin squinted between you both. “Why is it weird in here?”
“It’s always weird in here,” Shachi said into his plate.
“No, this is different.”
“It’s your face.”
“My face isn’t weird.”
“It’s morning. Everyone’s face is weird.”
You made the mistake of glancing at Law again. He was staring at his rice like the entire concept of appetite had become complicated.
You knew exactly why.
You imagined him trying to eat breakfast while still smelling you on his chin, still catching it on his fingers every time he moved, still pretending that it was not making him think about throwing the whole tray across the room and dragging you back to his cabin.
He would rather be executed than admit it.
That made it so much better.
You took pity on him. Mostly. You leaned forward slightly and said, very casually, “Captain?”
His eyes lifted. “What?”
“You have something on your face.”
Law’s stare went black. Ikkaku slowly lowered her page. Bepo turned around. “Where?” Bepo asked, deeply concerned.
Law did not move. You reached across the table before he could stop you, thumb brushing lightly over the edge of his chin.
His skin was warm. His eyes did not leave yours. The whole room narrowed around that tiny touch.
You pulled your hand back and looked at your thumb. Nothing there. “Nevermind.”
Law’s expression stayed perfectly blank. Too blank.
He was going to kill you.
Penguin blinked. “What was it?”
“Nothing,” Law said. His voice was calm enough to be a medical threat.
You took another sip of coffee. This time you could not stop the smile.
Law leaned back in his chair, one hand around his mug, the other resting on the table. His fingers flexed once.
Still guilty. Still remembering. Still pretending. Then he said, without looking away from you, “You’re assigned to inventory after breakfast.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“Medical inventory.”
“That’s not my job.”
“It is today.”
“That sounds personal.”
“It’s organizational.”
Shachi pointed his spoon at you. “You should never question medical inventory. That’s how he gets mean.”
You looked at Law. Law looked back.
There was no expression on his face.
None.
Except his eyes said very clearly: Keep laughing and I’ll give you something to be quiet about later.
Your stomach flipped. Unfortunately, your mouth was still alive. “Do I need gloves?”
Law’s hand stopped around his mug. Ikkaku made a tiny sound and hid behind her page. Penguin frowned. “For inventory?”
You looked at Law with the innocence of a war criminal. “Just asking.”
Law stood. Very calmly. Pushed his chair in. Very calmly. Picked up his tray. Very calmly. Then he leaned down as he passed behind you, close enough that only you heard him.
“You are going to be quiet when I deal with you.”
Your smile vanished so fast it was humiliating.
There you are. I knew you would stay.
The Masterlist is here. If that still does not satisfy you, requests are open.
It's nuts how common it is to not allow children to be angry, even (especially) in households where adults are angry all the time. As a child I knew my own anger was unacceptable--not just expressing it outwardly but feeling it at all. So now as an adult my immediate reaction to my own anger is often to feel guilt instead of like. Noticing when someone is being rude or unfair or my boundaries are being violated or whatever. fucked up.
I am the surgeon & I am the patient & I am the technician handing over the scalpel & I am the scalpel & I am the pervert touching themselves in the corner
placing your hand on the hilt of your knight’s sword and watching them get stiff and rigid when you stroke your fingers across it, like they can feel your touch on their weapon like it’s an extension of themselves and now they can’t help but imagine how soft those strokes would feel elsewhere…..
you have permission to pick that 2 year old "abandoned" project back up. it's not mad at you for setting it aside. and maybe time and distance have helped ease or erase the things that made you put it down in the first place.
and for me? nothing but a nice hot cup of him saying my name with so much venom and spite that he practically spits it out like something foul tasting but then his dick twitches
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germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
