#bartolaw

He’d been fine before last night. Well, not entirely fine maybe, but at least he was… there? Functional. Nothing that some solitude and his cigarette—may it rest in peace—couldn’t have fixed. Now just the thought of the oaf twists his guts into a bowline. Is it revulsion? Dread? Fuck if he knows. He doesn’t let himself consider it long enough to care.

Instead, as he smirks into the cup he brings to his lips, he begins to form a simple, but compelling, plan:

Don’t think about it,

Don’t talk about it, and, most importantly,

Don’t let it happen again.

He’s just about to blow the ink dry on the draft when another hand ghosts over his shoulder and his head swivels. Nico Robin takes a seat beside him.

“I think I may see the appeal,” she greets.

Law goes still, stomach sinking in stale embarrassment, and for a split second he isn’t sure where to look. In the end, he chooses wherever her shrewd eyes aren’t and that’s straight ahead at the back of Bartolomeo’s shitty coat, the oaf’s shoulders shaking with his too-loud laughter. This is entrapment, he knows, but fuck if this conversation doesn’t pique his curiosity.

“That makes one of us,” he finally mutters after a sip of his sake. “Enlighten me.”

She says, “He seems fun.”

Then a beat passes. Two.

Law turns. “That’s it?”

“Hmm.” Robin’s hand finds her cheek. “Well, I suppose he is quite fit, too.”

Snorting, Law knocks back the rest of his drink and sets the cup on the table with a clack. “Don’t strain yourself there. It’s not worth wasting the brain cells on.”

“Oh? That bad?”

“The worst,” Law blurts, and he blinks, surprised by the relief that admission brings. He didn’t mean to share anything. Didn’t want to. But once the cork’s out, the rest spills easy.

“The stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” he admits further. “A total waste of my time.”

“Considering what I know of you, that’s probably true,” Robin says lightly. “What now, then?”

“Nothing,” says Law. “It was a one-time thing. It’s never going to happen again.”

“Ah.”

Across the deck, the Strawhat’s swordsman finally gets his share and thumps Bartolomeo’s back in thanks. Roronoa Zoro grins and Law watches the oaf sputter and swoon and gladly relinquish the tokkuri altogether, with the promise to just bring out the bottle next time. Beside him, Robin watches him watch.

They exchange a glance and Law realizes they’re not on the same page here.

“He’s quite… easygoing,” Robin offers neutrally. “He might not proposition you again.”

“Like fuck he won’t. He’ll probably try to jump me the first chance he gets.”

“So he enjoyed himself then?”

“Of course he did. He told me—” The words die on Law’s tongue. He told me so? How fucking embarrassing. “…Aren’t you through being nosy yet, huh? And who said you could sit there anyway?”

“I did,” Robin says, smiling. “Though I am surprised you didn’t argue it.”

“I could change that,” says Law.

“You certainly could,” says Robin.

The stubborn silence they fall into doesn’t last, crashed by the rumble of wheels. In a blur of red and yellow, the Strawhat slings himself across the deck onto the new trolley of food and the deck erupts into chaos after him. The smell of rice reminds Law’s stomach that he slept through breakfast, but Law’s brain is too busy batting away yet another cyclical thought to register that.

…Did Bartolomeo enjoy himself? Sure he said it was good, but he also said it could be better. Even the worst sex could be called good, if only because you still get off in the end. What if… What if the oaf just writes him off as a bad fuck?

His knee bounces. Sweat prickles his neck. When he side-eyes Robin, Law finds her smiling back serenely, resting her chin on her hands. The sight borderlines cosmic horror and fills him with a primal sort of terror, making his arm hairs stand on end.

She rounds out the tableau by simply saying, “I see.”

Law cracks. “See what? What are you after here?” he demands. “Is it him? Because you can have the dipshit. He’s been nothing but a pain in my ass since I met him.”

Robin’s eyebrows rise.

Oh for fuck’s sake. “Not like— Are you serious? Not like that, you goddamned child,” says Law, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t fucking believe this.”

Her grin quickly hidden behind her fingers, Robin says, “Sorry. But you don’t need to worry about me, you know. I have no intention of ruining your good time.”

“You don’t listen, do you? Nothing about that,” Law jabs his fingers towards the oaf, who has moved on to basking in the sniper’s animated chatter and gesticulating, “was fun. Unless you’re eager to get crushed to death by a boulder.”

“Not even a little fun? I don’t believe that.” If anything is scarier than Robin’s sly grin, it’s the way her expression softens when she says, “There’s no harm in admitting you enjoyed yourself, too, if you did.”

Law scowls. “I—”

“Even if you’re embarrassed by it, even if you choose to regret it in the end,” Robin continues, “No moment of joy, however brief, is a waste of time.” When she smiles, her eyes look sad. “I’ve learned that.”

Law closes his mouth. Stews. Joy? Is that what we’re calling orgasms now?

After a moment, he pushes to his feet, snatching Kikoku up with him. “If you won’t fuck off, I will.”

Robin nods. “Sure. You do that,” she says, and, wow, what a bitch. “Consider it though, not taking things so seriously.”

“No.”

Law stalks off and descends the stairs to the lower levels of the ship. He’s thought about this for too long already! He’s talked about it for too long! With two of his decrees already broken, he clutches the third with the absolutely rational, white-knuckled desire to Not Lose. Who cares if a fuckhead like Bartolomeo thinks he’s bad at sex? Who cares if he fucks other people because he’s so bad at sex?

…Alright, that might keep Law up a few nights. But he can live with that, because, most importantly, it will. Not. Happen. Again.

The restroom he kicks into is not unlike the one on the Polar Tang—some stalls, urinals, and sinks—and it’s blessedly empty once the Barto Club member he nearly takes out with the door bolts after one look at his face. When the door shuts behind them, muting the racket on deck, Law goes through the motions of setting Kikoku across the sinks and stationing himself in front of a urinal. But there he stops.

He breathes, pulls off his hat and scratches his head.

He’s… tired. Beyond last night. It’s no lie to say he’s been tired for a long, long time. But he can’t rest—can’t think about resting. Especially not when he’s on a ship with no fucking navigator.

And, what? This is the guy who thinks he’s bad at sex? The dipshit pirate captain forging the New World by the word of some old biddy alone?

Fuck that. And fuck hiding in the bathroom because of that.

Anger burning out all traces of melancholy, Law crams his hat back on with a huff. As he undoes his fly and pulls out his cock to piss, he drafts a newer, more concrete plan:

Fuck whatever that fuckhead thinks,

Fuck whatever Nico Robin thinks, and, while he’s at it,

Fuck whatever anyone thinks ever, for the rest of time.

As he nods to himself, satisfied, the restroom door opens again. He has no reason to look, so he doesn’t. Not even when they sidle to the urinal beside his and unbuckle their belt. Not even when piss hits porcelain and a regretfully familiar moan reverberates around him.

A vein in Law’s forehead pops and his stream sputters to a halt. Fuck, not him, not now, he can’t—

“Trafalgar,” comes his name, drawled, and Law stiffens, hyperaware of the warm blush creeping up his face. Still he does not look, eyes pinned to the urinal bowl he’d been aiming into. If he just ignores it, if he just pretends he isn’t there… “Nice cock.”

Nuh— Nice—

Bartolomeo guffaws at the flat look Law turns on him. “You’re so easy! Stupid!”

“Shut—Shut the fuck up,” hisses Law, all attraction evaporating. Well, nearly. Something about the way the oaf looms with his hand braced against the wall is still doing it for him. He swallows and returns his eyes forward. “Don’t talk to me right now. Or ever again for that matter.”

“Oh ho,” Bartolomeo says, dropping his voice to continue conspiratorially, “Didn’t really take you for an exhibitionist, but it’s cool. I dig it.”

“What the fuck? No, I’m trying to piss!” says Law.

Green crests into Law’s peripheral vision. “Trying?”

“I will kill you,” rattles Law, shoulders vibrating with rage. “I will fucking eviscerate you. I will fucking—”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. …Oh! Ohhh, wait, I think I get it now,” Bartolomeo says and Law, fool that he is, chances a look. The oaf’s sneer is all teeth. “You’re just shy, aintcha?”

Law sputters. “Shy?”

“Pee shy, I mean,” says Bartolomeo, gaze taking a slow trip downward. “Probably regular shy too with how red you are.”

Law barely resists the urge to smack him. Of everything he could do in response to that, though, he chooses the worst option: he looks down too, and satisfies a sudden, burning curiosity. Because even flaccid, the foreskin pulled back some by a thumb, Bartolomeo’s cock is an ample handful, and a few shades lighter than his tanned stomach and abs and tits and—shit. Oh shit.

A blink and they’re eye-to-eye again, horrified grimace to lascivious grin.

“It ain’t polite to stare, ya know.” Bartolomeo’s fist strikes the urinal and it flushes. He tucks himself back into his boxers, but leaves his pants open, and laughs when he catches Law leering again. “I guess I was wrong about you being shy, huh?”

“I’m the guy that fucked you topside last night,” snaps Law, unconsciously puffing up. “Of course I’m not.”

“Nah, you’re more like the guy that took fucking ages to get his dick out and then nut in five minutes,” says Bartolomeo with a snicker. “Not that it wasn’t hot and all, but still.”

Law reels back from the blow. Fuh-Five? Five? No way, no way, there’s no fucking way— His heart hits his teeth when an arm snakes around his shoulders and pulls him close.

“Don’t blow a fuse, I said it was hot, right? Speaking of which…” Bartolomeo jerks a thumb to the stalls tucked in the corner. “You wanna fool around?”

Law opens his mouth. Closes it. Stares.

Yes. No. No! …Yes? Fuck.

“Right now?” he croaks, then winces. “Wait, no. Shit.”

Bartolomeo’s laughter shakes Law, too. “Here, I’ll make it easy for ya, Trafalgar: why don’t you finish up what you’ve got goin’ here—” They both look down and Law hastily stuffs himself away. He forgot. “And if you’re feeling frisky after, meet me back there.”

“What if I just walk out on you?” Law asks, heart pounding.

Bartolomeo shrugs. “Whatever,” he says.

“Whatever?” echoes Law.

“I can rub one out just fine with or without you, right? So whatever. Do what ya want.” Then, with a final grin and pat, Bartolomeo releases Law and walks off into the first of the two stalls, whistling as he goes. He slams the door once behind him, then, “Ah shit,” again, gentler, when it ricochets back open.

Law licks his lips.

That man is a fucking idiot.

Yet somehow when this guy isn’t creaming his pants over the Strawhats, he’s oddly captivating. Like giving into sniffing something he knows won’t smell good. Law wants Bartolomeo to reach for him and take. He wants Bartolomeo to fuck off and never look at him again. He wants both simultaneously.

Lassoing his willpower proves to be a harder task than it should be. But he succeeds.

After a ten-count, Law is finally able to finish his piss and makes it to washing his hands, propping Kikoku against the wall, entirely with the intention to leave. It was… fine for a night, enough to loosen some strings that, yeah, he admits were maybe wound too tight, but anything beyond that is too complicated and careless to let continue. Why would he let it continue?

Who cares if the oaf thinks he’s a premature ejaculator who’s bad at sex and somehow still wants to fuck him? Who cares that it was the best sex he’s had in a very, very, very long time? Only weak, insecure assholes care about insignificant shit like that. He’s a mature adult with big plans set in motion who doesn’t give a shit about what people think.

Law cuts the water and shakes his hands dry. He could turn to go, but instead he pauses before the mirror, eyes averted from his reflection.

He takes a breath.

Folds his arms.

Hunches.

There’s the distinct jingle of a belt behind him, and a shiver races down his spine, right to his dick. He should go, he should leave, right now, but—

He rubs his face. Goddammit.

Alright, alright, fine! He’s just another weak, insecure asshole who’s bad at sex! But he’s an insecure asshole who’s gonna get laid if he can get it. He wants to fuck, and he’ll gladly fuck the oaf in there with his stupid hair and his awful teeth and his—his grubby hands—

He realizes.

“Holy shit!” Bartolomeo squawks, scrambling back from the stall door Law slams open. He grabs the partition to keep from tumbling and his pants drop to his ankles. “What the fuck, Trafalgar?”

“Wash your hands,” Law snarls.

“Hah?”

“Wash your hands after you piss, you gross bastard! What the hell’s wrong with you?”

A beat. Bartolomeo blinks. Then breaks into a rib-clutching cackle.

He doesn’t even defend himself against the kicks Law aims at his shins. “It isn’t funny, Fuckhead-ya!” Law demands. “What grown-ass man doesn’t wash his hands, huh?”

“The one you came in here to fuck, shithead!” howls Bartolomeo.

Law flinches, freezes mid-strike. Yeowch. Bullseye. “I’m definitely not now with your piss paws.”

Bartolomeo blows a raspberry. “If I’m not gonna get anything out of it, why should I bother?”

Because it’s the right, hygienic thing to do? Or— “Don’t you get it, stupid? I want to fuck you! So hurry the fuck up and wash your hands!”

“Oh,” says Bartolomeo after a beat. “That’s alright then.”

He pats Law’s chest and Law, baffled by the whiplash, lets himself be pushed aside. Then he looks down. Again, he realizes.

“Fuckhead-ya,” he grits, unconsciously wiping his contaminated chest.

His frustration is lost on Bartolomeo. “Gotta tell ya, Trafalgar,” he says as he hunches over the sink and starts to briskly lather his hands, “this is probably the biggest boner killer ever. For real, s’making my dick totally soft.”

Law rolls his eyes, barks, “Your gross ass is making my dick soft, asshole. If you just washed your fucking hands in the first place—like an adult—this wouldn’t be a problem—”

He flinches, water splashing his face. “Do you want to die, motherfucker?”

Apparently, yes, because the oaf only huffs a laugh at the hand Law fists into his coat and continues to flap his wet, soapy hands.

“Look at your fucking face! Look at how mad you are!” Bartolomeo jeers. “What’re you getting so worked up for, huh? I’m doin’ the shit, ain’t I?”

Law sees red, his grip twisting. “Shut your mouth before I fuck it, you—”

He freezes.

Oh. Whoa.

For a single, distinct moment, running water is the only sound. Red eyes catch his in the mirror, sharp as knives, and then Bartolomeo’s lips pull back into that godawful grin, all gums and jagged teeth. And isn’t that something else to give Law pause?

Last night, the oaf was more a force than man, a tempest he couldn’t see in the dark, could only weather. Now Law chews his lips at the sight of dark clouds on the horizon, an impending storm he can’t tear his eyes from.

Before he can thaw, the faucet squeaks shut.

A heavy hand smacks him between the shoulder blades.

“Fuck yeah, Trafalgar! That’s more like it!” Bartolomeo crows, continuing to thump him. “Didn’t think you had it in you!”

Law swats his hand away. “Fuck off! That was, uh, I mean, that was—” Out of line, he means to say, a mistake— Instead he fumbles, words escaping with every inch he has to crane his neck as the oaf makes good of his hulk and crowds into his space. He shoves the urge to retreat and stands his ground.

“You want to?” Bartolomeo asks mm as if he hadn’t spoken. “You can.”

Law sneers. “As if I’d let my dick anywhere near that can opener.”

Impossibly, Bartolomeo’s grin only sharpens. “You sure you don’t wanna try?”

“Want to try what?” Law snaps. “Castration—? Oh shit.”

He twitches at the cold, damp hand that slides down his stomach. Bartolomeo’s hand is on him, big and rough through his jeans, squeezing like he has every right. Law’s breath falters, his hand catching Bartolomeo’s wrist on instinct, but… he doesn’t push it away.

“See? You want it.” Bartolomeo laughs, softer this time, leaning down so close his forehead briefly touches Law’s temple. “Come on, Trafalgar. Just use me. However you want. I can take it.”

Law’s chest goes tight. It shouldn’t hit. It shouldn’t sink its hooks into him like that, but the bastard’s leer digs in, nasty and sure of itself. Law’s cock throbs against Bartolomeo’s palm, admitting that the bastard’s not wrong.

Bartolomeo somehow crowds in closer, all teeth and tongue, the picture of shamelessness. “Well? What’re you waiting for? Scared I’ll shred you? Or,” his grin goes knife-sharp, “scared you’ll like it?”

The heat that slams through Law is rage—has to be—but it crawls lower, coils in his gut and sparks along his cock.

“Fuck you,” he growls.

“Do it,” Bartolomeo challenges, smug as hell. He drags his thumb along the bulge in Law’s jeans like he owns it. “Or is Trafalgar Law all talk, no balls?”

That does it.

Law’s temper flares, hot enough to burn through the hesitation still buzzing under his skin.

His hand shoots out, circling Bartolomeo’s bull neck in DEATH, and yanks him forward so hard he stumbles. The bastard thinks he can call him a coward? That he won’t follow through?

“Fine,” he snarls, voice low and dangerous, eye to eye with the fuck. “You want my cock so bad? I’ll fucking give it to you.”

He pulls him toward the stall, pulse thumping under his thumb, and Bartolomeo stumbles with him with a victorious whoop, grinning like the idiot dog he is.

Law shoves Bartolomeo through the narrow doorway of the stall, the metal partition rattling as the bigger man is slammed into it. The latch clicks into place beside them, sharp as a blade.

Bartolomeo just grins through it, chest heaving where Law’s forearm pins him. “That’s more like it,” he says, voice ragged with excitement. “Knew you had it in you.”

“Shut up,” spits Law.

This will not be like last night. This time Law will keep the upper hand.

Only—

Only when Bartolomeo curls a hand behind his neck and pulls him into a hard, closed-mouthed kiss, Law just… forgets to stop him. Forgets to be angry about it. Then it softens, slows, and the air around them starts to warm, and his cock kicks in his jeans at the first press of tongue.

For a single, crazy second he doesn’t think. He clutches Bartolomeo’s coat and surges up with an audible clack of enamel.

Instant regret.

“Fuck!”

Law jerks back with a wince and a sting in his lip he knows will taste like copper.

He pounds a fist on the oaf’s chest. “Goddammit! Stop trying to kiss me, you shithead! Kissing you sucks.”

Bartolomeo sneers down. “No way! Shit was good ‘til you got all into it. That was all you, dipshit.”

“Fuck off,” says Law, cursing both Bartolomeo and the familiar heat crawling up his neck. “It isn’t my fault your mouth is the fucking worst thing I’ve never—No,” he snarls, finding himself against the oaf’s lips again.

He doesn’t get to clench his teeth into an impenetrable fortress like he intends, though. Bartolomeo grabs him by the hips and jams their bodies together like pieces from different puzzles, a thigh wedging between Law’s legs. When Law gasps, canting into the new friction, Bartolomeo readily feeds him his tongue and plies him open, slow and slick and ridiculously deep.

And, embarrassingly, that alone is enough for Law to continue forgetting himself. He lets his mouth go slack and moves his tongue and body in tandem with Bartolomeo’s, their twin groans vibrating the tight air of the stall.

Huh, Law thinks dimly, blood starting to rush in his ears.

He wants to step back and reassess the situation. Bartolomeo is the one with his back to the wall, but somehow Law is the one who feels ambushed, a thick tongue shoved down his throat.

Even so, this is almost… okay? Unnecessary maybe, but not unbearable. Not the worst. Almost, nearly, good—

Bartolomeo parts from the kiss with a low hum, eyes dark, his pupils blown wide. Law’s brain misfires in appreciation before he can punish himself for it.

It’s stupid. It’s hot.

And then it’s gone, dipped out of his line of sight. Law’s chin hits his chest to follow Bartolomeo’s drop to his knees, his coat splayed red across the tiles. The oaf tilts his head back to grin at him, tongue out, hands already dragging up his thighs.

“Too easy,” Bartolomeo taunts. “Already so fucking hard. Come on, I told you: Use me however you like.”

“What the fuck?” Law snaps, shoving a palm against Bartolomeo’s forehead, forcing distance. “I said we’re not doing that!”

Bartolomeo scowls in defiance, the sharp points of his teeth gleaming like a warning sign. “What, scared I’ll bite?”

“Yes,” Law says flatly, knocking the bastard back with the heel of his palm. “Because you will.”

Bartolomeo barks a laugh. His hands flex tighter on Law’s thighs before he sneers up at him.

“Then what the hell was your plan, huh? Drag me in here, slam me against the wall—just to what? Glare at me ‘til you win?”

Law’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t answer.

Bartolomeo’s grin twitches wider. “Didn’t think that far, did you? Fine. If you don’t want my mouth, I can just jerk you off right here. Quick, easy, done.” His hand ghosts over the bulge in Law’s jeans, like he’s daring him to stop it.

The idea lands with a wet plap in Law’s gut like a damp rag. It would work. It would be safer. But it’s just not…

Bartolomeo reads it in his silence. “Figures. Not good enough for you, huh? Me neither. Maybe,” his voice dips low, sharp, “maybe you should quit bitching already, grab my hair, and fuck my throat until I can’t breathe.”

The words hit Law harder than he expects. His pulse spikes, cock twitching in his jeans.

“Stop. That’s not—” he starts, but his throat works around the words instead of releasing them.

Bartolomeo tilts his head back, mouth open in crude offering, tongue lolling. The ridiculous mix of arrogance and submission burns straight through Law’s better judgment.

He forces out, “Have you even done this before?”

Here, Bartolomeo hesitates a second too long. His face twists like he wants to lie, but then he scoffs, eyes cutting aside.

“…No.”

Law stares. “What? You’ve never—?”

“I’ve tried, alright?” Bartolomeo cuts in quickly. “Had a few guys sit on my face, had one dude face-fuck me for like three seconds before he bailed. Said I had too many teeth or some shit.”

“Gee, I can’t imagine why!” Law says with the edge of hysteria, every nerve screaming with disbelief and heat. He shoves Bartolomeo away with renewed fervor. “And you really thought I’d let you near me with those teeth?”

That hits. Bartolomeo’s scowl deepens, ears burning red. “Come on, don’t be like that! You said you’d fuck my mouth, right? You can’t back out now!”

“The fuck I can’t!”

He should walk out. He should never—

But Bartolomeo is already leaning in again, sneer shaky, tongue stuck out like a challenge. “Don’t need practice to make you come, Trafalgar. I can figure it out. I can be so good! I can make you bust.”

Law’s knuckles ache with the effort it takes not to dig his hand through that green pompadour and hold tight. “Your mouth is a fucking death trap! You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’d let you—you—”

Bartolomeo only tips his chin higher, mouth falling open, teeth glinting. It’s obscene. The sharp points catch the fluorescent light like knives, daring him.

“Yeah, you will,” he says. “You let me ride your dick. You’ll let me do this.”

Law’s cock pulses hot in his jeans, traitorously agreeing with every filthy word spilling out of Bartolomeo’s mouth. His better judgment claws at the inside of his skull, but something darker and hungrier has already started to drown it out.

He curses himself and his cock both when he doesn’t stop Bartolomeo’s press forward this time. Bartolomeo’s grin sharpens as he noses against the bulge in Law’s jeans, mouthing at it through the fabric like he’s mapping him out by shape alone. His mouth cracks open, and the idiot’s teeth scrape immediately, a clumsy drag over denim before Law yanks his hair.

“Teeth!” Law hisses.

Bartolomeo jerks back, face splotchy. “I know!” He sounds both furious and mortified, like the failure burns worse than the correction.

Law’s mouth opens, ready to tear into him with all the righteous fury of someone who knew this was a mistake from the start—only Bartolomeo barrels over him, snarling, “Just—just shut up and let me try again!”

That shouldn’t do anything for him. Not the desperation in his voice, not the hot flush creeping up his neck, not the stubborn set of his jaw like he’ll bite the challenge clean through if Law doesn’t hand it over. And yet, Law feels his grip in Bartolomeo’s hair twitch tighter instead of letting go.

“You’re insane,” Law mutters.

“Uh-huh.” Bartolomeo’s grin shows a flash of fang, unbothered, maddeningly cocky even crouched at Law’s feet. “So what’s it say about you if you’re still hard?”

Law hisses through his teeth, fury and arousal knotting until he can’t tell one from the other. His hips shift, betraying him, and Bartolomeo laughs under his breath like he’s already won.

“Gimme another shot, Trafalgar. Don’t hold my hand, don’t give me training wheels. Just use me.” Bartolomeo’s eyes glint up at him, a mix of worship and challenge.

The rational answer is no. No, and get out, and slam the stall open wide enough the oaf ricochets off the partition for good measure.

Instead, Law’s hand tightens in his hair, forcing Bartolomeo’s chin up until he’s looking at him, the defiance and want both burning bright in those stupid eyes. Law’s cock jerks at the promise, traitorous and loud, and that’s when he realizes he’s already unbuckling his belt. His pulse spikes in his throat, his breath sharp in his chest.

Law works his fly open with jerky, impatient fingers, still muttering curses under his breath like if he stacks enough of them together, they’ll form a shield against the idiocy he’s about to permit. He tugs his cock free, flushed dark with need, heavy in his palm.

Bartolomeo’s reaction is immediate, but not the slobbering mess Law braces for. His eyes flare wide, then narrow with something hotter, hungrier. A low whistle slips out between his teeth.

“Damn,” he sighs, and it’s almost casual—almost—but the crack in his voice gives him away. “Fuck, that’s a real good cock.”

Law blinks down at him, thrown. Of all the things he was ready to endure—mockery, gross commentary, maybe even a chomp—that… wasn’t on the list. Heat licks the back of his neck before he can stop it.

“You’re out of your mind,” he mutters, though it comes out weaker than he intends.

Bartolomeo smirks, but there’s no irony in his eyes. Just focus. “Not out of my mind. Just honest. You’re packing a prime cut.” He licks his lip, gaze darting from cock to Law’s face. “If I’m lucky, I get to prove I can handle it.”

Law’s chest swells before he can crush it down. His hand stays knotted in Bartolomeo’s hair, less to push him away now and more… to anchor himself. It’s absurd, but if the oaf really thinks it’s that good, maybe he’s less likely to do something catastrophic with those teeth.

“Idiot,” Law grits, but the sting’s gone from it. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Bartolomeo grins, crooked and eager. “Sure I do. I know I want it.”

The bastard looks so sure, so utterly confident, that Law’s own nerves dull, replaced by a sharp, reluctant heat. If nothing else, maybe the risk of castration just dropped a little.

Bartolomeo leans in with a grin, too wide, too eager, and Law braces for the worst. He drags his cock up against Bartolomeo’s cheek first, testing the waters, but the idiot just moans like he’s been blessed.

Then his mouth opens, warm breath spilling over the flushed head, and—fuck—it’s hot. Sloppy, uncoordinated, sure, but hot all the same. Law hisses through his teeth when Bartolomeo closes around him, the wet heat of his mouth punching low into his gut.

It’s not smooth, not practiced. Bartolomeo sucks too hard at first, then tries to adjust, tongue flattening clumsily along the underside. But the enthusiasm—the sheer, desperate want—is enough to make Law’s knees weaken.

Until—

“—nhh!” Law jerks back with a hiss, fist tightening in Bartolomeo’s hair. He pulls out sharply, the sudden cool air on his cock almost painful after that slick heat. “Teeth!”

Bartolomeo’s lips pop free with a wet sound, a smear of spit at the corner of his mouth. His brows knit tight, and then he lets out a wounded whine, staring up like Law just kicked a puppy. “The fuck, Trafalgar? Don’t pull out when it’s getting good!”

Law’s cock throbs, half with pleasure, half with the ghost sting of enamel scraping across the ridge of his cockhead. He drags in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing down at the idiot kneeling between his legs.

“You’ll fucking castrate me if I let you keep going raw.” He snaps his fingers, sharp. “Condom. Now.”

Bartolomeo blinks. “Hah?”

“Condom,” Law repeats, voice like a scalpel. “You’ve got one. Hand it over.”

For a second, Bartolomeo just gawks at him. Then, muttering curses, he fishes in the back pocket of his half-open pants and pulls out a crumpled foil packet, tossing it up like an afterthought.

Law snatches it, tears it open with his teeth, and rolls the latex down in a rough, efficient stroke. His cock gleams sheathed, the ridge dulled by the layer between him and Bartolomeo’s teeth.

“There,” Law says, breath sharp, holding his cock at the base and angling it forward like a dare. “No excuses. Try again.”

Bartolomeo’s grin returns, bright and wolfish, as he leans back in. “Fuck yeah. Round two.”

Bartolomeo dives back in with the same reckless energy, lips sealing around latex this time. His teeth still scrape lightly when he tries to take more, but dulled by the condom it’s more pressure than pain.

Law groans anyway, forehead knocking against the stall. “Sloppy,” he bites out, his grip tightening in Bartolomeo’s hair.

Bartolomeo moans like it’s praise, like he likes being called sloppy, and the vibration shudders down Law’s cock. His tongue drags haphazardly along the underside, sucking too hard again, then not enough, like he can’t find a rhythm.

Law’s chest heaves, frustration riding his pleasure. “Stop—” He yanks his hips back an inch, making Bartolomeo chase him with a muffled whine. “Fuck, listen—slow down. Tongue, not teeth. Right there—”

He angles him, presses him back down, shallow, careful, testing the limits of his own insanity. And Bartolomeo obeys, tongue flattening properly against the shaft this time. The drag is messy but smoother, the suction more controlled.

“Yes,” Law hisses, breath hitching. “Like that. Keep it steady. Don’t rush it.”

Bartolomeo’s eyes flash—wet, furious, but bright. He’s into this.

He growls low in his throat, taking the words like fuel. He bobs clumsily once, twice, saliva starting to slick the latex, and suddenly Law’s cock is sliding easier, warmer, deeper.

“Better,” Law gasps, hips twitching despite himself. His knuckles whiten in that green hair. “Fuck, don’t stop—stay right there—”

Bartolomeo groans around him, swallowing him down another inch, and the sound is obscene, wet and raw. His big hands clamp harder on Law’s thighs, steadying himself like he means to keep him there.

And Law—Law lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, ragged at the edges. Against all odds, the oaf is actually learning.

Bartolomeo’s messy enthusiasm evens into something closer to rhythm, spit sliding down the condom as he sucks harder. His eyes flick up at Law, hungry for a reaction, and when he catches the sharp tremor in Law’s jaw, the ragged edge of his breath, he groans like it’s the sweetest reward.

The vibration makes Law’s cock twitch, and he swears under his breath. “Shit—”

That’s all it takes. Bartolomeo doubles down, moaning around the length, bobbing sloppier and wetter, trying to wring more sounds out of him. His tongue pushes hard at the underside, like he’s desperate to drag another curse from Law’s mouth.

Law grits his teeth, chest heaving. He hates—hates—that it’s working. That the idiot’s persistence is clawing him raw and hot from the inside.

“Pathetic,” he rasps, tugging Bartolomeo’s hair back enough to see his spit-slick mouth. “You like this that much? Just ‘cause I said it was better?”

Bartolomeo pulls back with a pop, grinning through the mess. “Fuck yeah I do. You sound so good, Trafalgar. Don’t stop talking.”

Law’s blood spikes at the naked want in his voice, at the way his grin curls around spit and precome. And suddenly he’s done letting the idiot steer.

He grabs Bartolomeo by the jaw.

“Don’t fucking move,” he orders, low and sharp.

Bartolomeo’s eyes spark like someone just handed him a gift. He goes still.

That single obedient beat is all Law needs. He fists tighter in the green hair, angles Bartolomeo’s jaw, and drives his hips forward. The blunt pressure of his cockhead shoves past Bartolomeo’s tongue, reaching deeper.

Law sets a brutal pace, driving into the slick clutch of Bartolomeo’s throat, every thrust sharper than the last. Spit dribbles down Bartolomeo’s chin, his hair twisted tight in Law’s grip, and still he’s moaning like it’s bliss.

“That’s it,” Law grits, breath coming ragged. “Open up. You wanted this, so choke on it.”

He forces him down again. Harder. Longer. Bartolomeo’s throat flutters helplessly around him, and his bravado starts to crack. The growls turn to broken sounds, half-moans, half-chokes. His fists clutch at Law’s jeans now, clinging.

The next time Law pulls him back for air, Bartolomeo blinks up at him, eyes wet and wide, lips swollen and slick. Not grinning now. Not snarling.

Law can hardly stand to look at him. It’s obscene. It’s impossible. This man—this posturing, sharp-toothed menace—reduced to something pliant and sweet under his hands.

Before he can steel himself against it, Bartolomeo parts his lips again, his tongue slipping out. Just the unguarded offer of a mouth, raw and wanting.

Law doesn’t hesitate. He fists Bartolomeo’s hair and drags him back down, thrusting past his lips in one smooth, merciless stroke.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Don’t think—just fucking take it.” He chokes off the words, jaw tight, cock pulsing in that sloppy heat.

Bartolomeo moans around him, muffled and broken. His hands clutch at Law’s thighs, not shoving anymore, not clawing, just holding on. His throat flexes around the push, gagging, swallowing, and Law can feel the fight bleeding out of him with every shudder.

It’s then that Law feels it—subtle at first, a tremor against his legs. He glances down.

Bartolomeo’s hips are moving. Small, desperate rolls against the denim stretched over his crotch. At first it looks unconscious, the twitch of a man drowning in sensation. But then his hand slides down into the open V of his pants, shaky and clumsy, and presses against himself, rubbing through his boxers like he’s been holding back this whole time.

The realization hits like a fist in his gut: Bartolomeo’s getting off on this. On being used, choked, controlled. Those doe-eyed looks, that wrecked submission—it isn’t just performance. It’s bleeding into him, raw and real, until he’s rutting like an animal at Law’s feet.

A spike of heat shoots through Law, so sharp it borders on panic. He yanks his hips back, letting Bartolomeo gasp wetly for air, strings of spit glistening between his lips and Law’s cock.

And Bartolomeo—wrecked, red-faced, trembling—still rolls his hips forward, whining low in his throat, rubbing shamelessly against his own palm.

Bartolomeo whines, high and wrecked, grinding against his palm with desperate, jerky motions. His eyes are glassy, lips swollen, chin slick with spit—every inch of him screaming ruin.

Law should shove him off. He should put an end to this before it spins further out of control.

Instead, his fist tightens in Bartolomeo’s hair and he drags him back down.

The motion punches a muffled cry out of him. His throat clenches helplessly around Law’s cock, gagging, swallowing, the wet heat sucking him down to the root.

And still—still—Bartolomeo humps his hand, hips stuttering forward, breath breaking in frantic little bursts around the thick press in his throat. His noises turn wet and needy, every moan vibrating along Law’s cock like he’s begging for more.

Law watches, stunned and burning, as Bartolomeo falls apart at his feet. The sharp-toothed menace, the loudmouth, the nuisance—reduced to a tear-streaked mess, choking and drooling, jerking himself off with the clumsiest desperation Law’s ever seen.

It’s obscene.

It’s fucking obscene.

And then Bartolomeo breaks. His hips snap forward against his hand, hard once, twice, before he shudders apart, spilling into his pants like some desperate teenager. The damp, dark spread is immediate, seeping through the fabric as he moans and gags around Law’s cock, throat working even as he comes undone.

Law jerks his hips back, ripping himself out before Bartolomeo can choke on it completely. Bartolomeo gasps, eyes wild and wet, spit smeared across his face, chest heaving.

Bartolomeo’s still trembling as he slumps against the partition, eyes half-lidded and dazed. His chest rises and falls in uneven pulls, his lips swollen, spit shining down his chin.

Law tells himself he’s done—that he’ll stop now, reclaim some sense of control. But then Bartolomeo shifts, tilting his chin up. His mouth falls open, wide and slack, and his tongue lolls out in obscene invitation.

The sight knocks the breath right out of Law’s lungs.

Every nerve in his body screams danger—pointed teeth flashing at the edges, the sharpness that could hurt him if Bartolomeo so much as twitched wrong. And yet… the wet pink of that tongue, the way he’s offering it, the way his eyes stay soft even as drool glistens at the corner of his mouth—it’s intoxicating.

Law’s hand moves before his brain can catch up. He fists Bartolomeo’s hair and drags him forward, slotting his cock against that wet, waiting tongue.

Bartolomeo moans, the sound guttural and sweet at once, and lets himself be used. His tongue flattens under the weight of Law’s thrust, slick and hot, drool spilling freely as he takes every inch without complaint.

Law grits his teeth, hips jerking. He can’t look away. The pointed fangs frame the obscene sight of his cock on Bartolomeo’s tongue, every thrust sliding deeper into the heat of his mouth.

And Bartolomeo—Bartolomeo likes it. Law can see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the low groan he hums around him, in the satisfied glaze that doesn’t leave his eyes.

Something in Law fractures. It’s too much—the danger, the submission, the raw invitation of that mouth open just for him.

As if to say: take it. I can take it.

It breaks him.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—yes!” he shouts, hoarse and unguarded, head thrown back as his release tears through him.

His cock jerks deep in Bartolomeo’s throat, pulsing hot spurts into the condom, the tight squeeze of latex catching every spasm. His whole body locks, hips grinding forward on instinct, forcing Bartolomeo to take it until Law can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but come.

Bartolomeo swallows around him, gagging, choking, but not pulling away. Not fighting it.

Law rides it out with teeth bared, chest heaving, his cock still twitching inside the sheathing latex, the last tremors of release wrung from him by the clutch of Bartolomeo’s throat.

At last, he yanks back with a hiss, dragging free. The condom hangs heavy, stretched taut with his spend, proof of what he’s just done, and just beyond it Bartolomeo coughs wetly, chest heaving, spit and tears streaked across his face.

The stall is too quiet when it’s over. Too small, too hot, thick with the sour-salt reek of sex and the faint copper tang of blood where Law bit his own lip.

He braces a palm to the partition, sucking in sharp breaths. His pulse still hammers in his ears, a deafening proof of what he just let himself do.

Below him, Bartolomeo pants, shoulders heaving, spit smeared all over his chin and tits, a dark patch soaking the peek of his boxers where he’d already undone himself and spreading to his pants. By all rights, he should look pathetic. Broken down, humiliated.

But he doesn’t.

Somehow, impossibly, he looks sated.

Worse yet, he looks proud.

He manages to look up at him with that soft smile, ruined and radiant.

Law stares down at him, heartbeat rattling in his throat.

“You… You seriously…” Law mutters, for lack of anything else. “You came?”

After a slow blink, Bartolomeo offers a wobbly smile. “You made me,” he croaks. “You fucked my throat so good I just popped, baby. You win.”

Law feels his brain melting.

He needs to pull himself together. He needs to pull himself together, tuck himself back in, and remind Bartolomeo exactly what kind of fool he is. That would be the clean cut. The smart cut.

Law drags a shaking hand over his face. He should say something. He should put this in order, reassert control, scrape together some shred of dignity—

From the stall beside them, a voice cuts through the post-coital haze, deadpan and vaguely irritated.

“Oi. You two done? I need toilet paper.”

Law goes still.

No.

No.

No.

Bartolomeo immediately springs to action, already grabbing the roll from the wall. “Zoro-senpai! Of course! You need single-ply, double-ply?!”

There’s a pause. “Uh. Just whatever’s dry?”

Law whips around. Nope. Nope.

He yanks his pants up one-handed and bolts from the stall like it’s on fire, grabbing Kikoku on his way out of the restroom.

Behind him, Bartolomeo cheerfully leans over the partition, offering paper with both hands. “You sure you don’t want wet wipes too? I’ve got wet wipes!”