Bunny.
It was a stupid nickname that Shachi gave you when you first joined the crew nearly five years ago, when you were a skittish little teenager who darted around the submarine with jerky movements and wide eyes. Though your crewmates still love to use the name affectionately, it rarely leaves Law's lips—he much prefers your given name, and on the rare occasions that he does use the nickname, it's usually in a condescending or teasing manner.
That's why it's such a surprise to see him so hungry, eyes glinting with mischief as you dash around the corner, slipping into the nearest open room to pick a new hiding spot, carefully adjusting the headband of your rabbit ears as you crouch down underneath his desk; heartbeat pounding in your ears, his footsteps send vibrations through the floor despite his attempts to walk stealthily, and you hold your breathing as you try to plan an exit strategy.
"I don't care where you guys go, but you can't stay here." Law had said when he dismissed the rest of the crew earlier, save for you, who was slated to stay back and watch the submarine with him. His decision raised some eyebrows from Shachi who resisted the urge to ask who was going to watch the ship while the two of you were fucking; luckily, Bepo excitedly grabbed his arm and yanked him towards the port, leaving the two of you alone.
And now here you were, waiting for him to make his move so you could escape out of his clutches again, ignoring the slick collecting between your thighs. With a soft click, the lights to Law's office turn on, and you feel his movements through the harsh, metal floors. The patterns he makes are neat and methodical as he sweeps the room, and he even walks right past you at one point, though he seemingly is too oblivious to hear your shallow inhales or subtle trembles. With another click and a creak of the door, the lights are off and he's ostensibly gone—or at least it seems like it. A thump on the rug in the middle of the room tells you that he's teleported back into the office, meaning that he saw you; he's just waiting for you to get fed up and come out. Patient in stalking his prey, he's willing to play the long game with you, waiting until the urge to feel him between your legs grows too strong to ignore; however, though your need for him was strong, you had a plan to keep running just a little while longer. It was a hastily cobbled together strategy that involved distracting him and luring him away from the door so you could slip out, but it had a slim chance of working if you played your cards right—and if you didn't, you knew your fate would be just as delightful as gleefully escaping.
You fail miserably. The second your head pops out from behind the desk, he tackles you to the ground from behind, both of you momentarily giggling at the silliness of the situation until the warmth of his inked hands roaming across your scantily clad body clamps your mouth shut and replaces your laughs with soft whimpers.
"Caught you." he murmurs teasingly in your ear, his mouth hot as he attaches his lips to your neck. Though the shower of affection is intoxicating, you squirm beneath him nonetheless, not ready to fully submit to losing your filthy game of hide and seek; however, Law has both the reach and the strength to keep you pinned in place beneath him, one of his hands kneading your breast while the other holds one of your wrists firmly against the floor. "You alright, bunny?" he coos softly as his bulge presses against your core through his sweatpants. Humming out a soft mhm, your body twitches in one final attempt to break free that only results in him tightening the grip on your wrist. "Good, because you're not going anywhere." he whispers, rubbing soft circles into your nipple that have you turning into a writhing, overheated mess as his other hand lets go of your wrist and massages your inner thigh teasingly.
"Now, what am I gonna do with you? Devour you quickly, or drag it out nice and slow?" he says lowly, letting his hand drift upward to run across your clothed slit through your thin panties. Hooking his fingers through the sheer fabric and pulling it to the side, you shiver beneath him as he traces the tips of his digits along your entrance, keeping you pinned beneath him by caging you against the floor, his chest pressed to your back. "I think a meal like this deserves some lengthy preparation." he says, tone deceptively soft as he presses his fingers inside of you, curling them against your sweet spot with learned precision. Continuing to massage your nipple in a way that he knows turns you feverish, he smirks with delight as your half-hearted squirms to escape his hold turn into you leaning into his touch; you're needy and desperate as your hips try to match the thrusts of his fingers to pull him deeper inside of you. At some point the cold metal floor your face is on is replaced by the comfort of a throw pillow from the couch on the other side of the room, something you try to mumble out a thanks for; however, the words come out a garbled and whining mess, a discordant melody that makes Law hum with approval.
