This is meant to take place sometime in the future in Chimayoi's timeline but can be read as a standalone -- for those following the main story, all plot-relevant details have been left out to avoid spoilers.   

I'm still not sure if this scene will even be included in the main story, as it is written in a more experimental style. It may be re-written, abridged, or only be referenced, which is why I am posting it as a "supplemental" oneshot for now.  If you have any thoughts, please let me know.

Also, please heed the warning below -- this one is rather graphic *hides*

Pairing(s) - Law/Arisa.

Warning(s) - Smut (Explicit), angst.

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 The couple arrived by train in the early afternoon. They emerged from the mezzanine to join the flow of lively street traffic – throngs of passerby bustling industriously about, forming pulsing rifts to let through the occasional cart or buggy – and proceeded towards the Plaza Hotel by foot.

Nobody paid them any heed as they hastened down that busy central avenue save a handful of ambitious street callers, whose advances went totally ignored. The couple was dressed inconspicuously in the old-fashioned sensibilities typical to the merchant class at Novolais Island. The young woman was outfitted smartly in a dove grey traveling suit, the long skirt swishing at the tops of her leather boots with every stride. Her pale face was small and feline-like, the high cheekbones framed delicately with wisps of silver hair allowed to escape her updo. A pair of wireframe glasses hung on her nose, round and oversized, the shaded lenses obscuring much of her eyes.

The man accompanying her was tall and taciturn, the stormy expression he kept trained above his starched collar betraying a sullen irascibility. He wore a dark houndstooth suit and a matching narrow-brimmed hat shoved low over his head – perhaps done strategically to conceal the glint of his gold earrings. One gloved hand bore a large leather traveling case at his side.

They walked together with purpose, exchanging few words as they forded their way through that crowded maze of sidewalks and intersections. The woman rested her hand delicately in the crook of the man's arm as they came up the lane of their destination, steering them both clear of the carriages and crowd of jabbering guests hanging around the porte-cochere.

The Novolais Plaza Hotel was built on a riverfront, an opulent property rising above a sprawling lawn and its fortress of decorative iron fencing, fronting a facade of gleaming, whitewashed stucco. Yet such a picturesque view only seemed to have a douring effect on at least one of the pair. The man deepened his scowl, lowering his chin as they passed the pristine white pilasters. His companion hurried to match his strides as he wordlessly marched up the steps.

They went up to the counter together. The man hung back with their bag as the woman rang the bell for a clerk. He seemed more affronted than impressed by the lavish interior – shifting his weight frequently with his eyes glued to the colorful mosaic tiles, as if he couldn't be bothered to spare his surroundings even a cursory glance. The soft Tone Dial music playing in the background did little if anything to ease his rigid posture.

"Your IDs, please," the receptionist droned, and the young woman turned to motion the man closer.

Novolais was primarily a trade island under the World Government's protection. Isolated from the seven main routes through Paradise and within spitting distance of the Tarai Current, it was considered only accessible through an Eternal Pose for most travelers. Its proximity to the old Navy Headquarters was the final word in security, with the last known pirate raid dating back decades. As a result, the place was a regular hive for commerce and a popular tourist destination to boot. Still, as a Government affiliate, the local authorities were painstakingly fastidious when it came to surveillance and order.

Upon request, the couple produced two passports bearing familiar insignias. The receptionist flipped through them both, skimming the photographs rather uncritically. He eyed the visitors over the pages, bored. A married couple from the nearby Valeris Island – of course, nothing worthwhile to note. He nodded to himself and expeditiously filled out the forms for record keeping.

Handing them back their documents, he marked down their reservations and pushed the sheets over with a fountain pen.

"Your signatures here."

He adjusted his cuff links as they signed, and slid them the key over the white marble counter.

"Enjoy your stay."

Their suite was on the fourth floor, overlooking the Silver Rune River and natural park sprawling beyond, for which the city had garnered much acclaim – the rolling hilltops and shimmering blue lakes, the old-growth forest and botanical gardens. The woman went in and opened the curtains in the bedroom, letting in a pale slash of daylight over the soft carpeted floor. A snatch of the Novolain Harbor was barely visible in the horizon, a meniscus of dark glittering waves shifting feverishly beneath the low hanging sun.

The young woman removed her glasses, setting it on the bed stand as she passed it to go out onto the balcony. Her eyes were startlingly blue in shade, made even more striking against her wan complexion. Now, a smile lit up her face as she leaned over the railing.

"I didn't expect to see the ocean from here!" she exclaimed, delighted. She beamed at her companion over her shoulder. "Knowing they're waiting for us out there... It's nice."

The man dropped the case on the bed and removed his hat and gloves. The dark fabric pulled away from his hands to reveal intricate dark lines inked to his fingers.

"We can't call them yet," he reminded her, voice clipped and dismissive.

They were speaking of a certain yellow submarine they both knew to be lurking the coastal waters, just beyond the perimeter of Novolain patrols. They had arrived via that very vessel just the night before, and, should all go according to schedule, would depart by the same means in two days' time.

"I know," the woman answered, lackadaisical. There was no defensive edge to her voice as there would have been when they'd first started working together months ago. She'd long grown acclimated to his disposition, had learned to navigate his curt mannerisms and straightforwardness, the stubborn streaks and occasional biting remark about as effortlessly as if she'd known him for many years.

The man hung up his jacket and sat on the bed, unlatching the travel case. He had been nursing a headache since the late morning train ride. Yet the discomfort was familiar and for that he was stubbornly intent on ignoring it.

The young woman turned and stood watching him with some concern. He scoured through their luggage, moving aside the meticulously wrapped parcels, the weapons cases, the folded clothing. His own men had fretted more over his choice of disguise than he had himself – a ridiculous proposition; he thought his tastes were perfectly sufficient – only laying off of him with his companion's reassurances that they surely must be overreacting.

Only in this particular case, his crew's fears weren't completely unfounded, as loathe as he was to admit it. The people of this island were zealously scrutinous when it came to high profile pirates. With a Navy base so close by and himself still on the mend, he'd decided it would be better to err on the side of caution, even if it did cost him his comfort in the short term.

Indeed, the new clothes had him feeling like a fish out of water. The last time he'd been forced to adhere to a dress code surely had to be back in Flevance – when he was small enough to be dragged kicking and screaming to whatever vacuous social function his parents needed to attend for work or charity. He had never been one to care much about fashion or appearances, especially since setting out to sea, and no amount of gratuitous flattery his crew had spouted regarding this so-called new look would ever change that.

"How are your eyes?" the young woman asked.

"Better."

She didn't look convinced.

"I saw how you were on the train. Does it still irritate you?"

"It's fine."

He heard her sigh, followed by the slide of the glass panel as she pulled it shut behind her, sealing off the ambient noises of the outdoors. She stole over and sat next to him.

"Let me see."

He relented with some skepticism, turning to face her.

"One side, or both?"

"Just the left."

She leaned in, eyes honest and intent in a way which made him want to look away. This was one side to her he would always struggle to decipher, much less fully comprehend – these fleeting glimpses into the guileless girl behind the willing pawn, the austere killer.

"Close for me?"

He did, barely suppressing his wince of discomfort as half of his vision winked away to nothingness. She was right – the phantom pain still did lurk, radiating outwards from the site of the old injury in tense, throbbing waves. Sometimes the flare ups felt unbearable, but he'd resolved to grit his teeth through it, knowing there was little he could do about it now. The fact that he'd even gotten out of that scrape alive could be considered a miracle. He had done all that he could; now, all that was left was to wait for the nerves to mend.

The woman's calloused hand felt cool against his face, her touch tentative as she tilted his chin. She studied the pale scar tissue marring his skin, slashing across the arch of the socket and the upper lid.

"How is it?" he asked, bored. The question was posed more for her benefit; he knew the answer already, at least in the somatic sense. He has performed the surgery himself, after all, and he understood his capabilities better than anyone else.

"It's healed well," she admitted. "No irritation as far as I can tell. But it still hurts, right?"

"Sometimes. A little."

"Here, loosen your tie and I'll fetch a washcloth. Maybe a warm compress will help."

He nodded wearily, cracking open his eye. She had already disappeared into the washroom. When she'd returned, she sat back on the bed and leaned in to hold the damp cloth up to his face.

He flinched back before he could help himself, more out of self consciousness than genuine irritation. He couldn't help the skittishness, and that nettled him. This was far from the most intimate they'd ever been with each other, yet something about her touch just now had left him in a peculiar state of agitation. Perhaps the perceived gentleness of it.

"I'll do it myself." The phrase escaped him in a grumble, rather sulkily.

"Mhmm." She handed the folded cloth over. He took it impatiently and pressed it against his face – perhaps a little too harshly in his haste – but the discomfort eventually started to ebb away nonetheless as the welcoming heat leached into his skin.

She glanced over to the travel case still lying open at his side, then seated herself in one of the brocade chairs by the dresser. The man watched on through his good eye as she began to unlace her boots. As habitual as he knew her to be, he figured she must have been itching to kick them off the moment she was past the door.

"Better?" she asked.

"...yeah."

"I think you should take it easy tonight, Law."

His visible eye narrowed.

"Don't be ridiculous," he muttered. "We aren't here to play pretend."

"It won't be another day until the rendezvous."

"There's still plenty to do. We should stake out the location."

"Maybe. But going out now will run the risk of getting recognized." She stood to set her boots against the wall, the grey skirt swishing about her slender stockinged legs. "Besides, we'll do a shoddy job of it if one of us can't concentrate. Can't we lay low this evening... go first thing in the morning? The less eyes there are about, the better."

He sighed.

"...fine."

She cracked a smile, pleased, driving him to look away with a small huff.

The forged World Government passport booklets were left strewn over the covers along with a few other belongings. The man stared down at them as he nursed his eye. He thought of monochrome likenesses enclosed within, the falsified names attributed to them, linking them as man and wife. They had commissioned the documents from a counterfeiter for only fifty thousand berries each – a grizzled alcoholic who claimed to have once been a Navy captain, one dubitable creature amongst the hundreds lurking the black market at Torlo Island.

The young woman had started rummaging through the travel case. Tucking a stray silver strand behind her ear, she hummed a mindless tune beneath her breath as she worked. He found himself watching her again, gaze inscrutable, as she crossed the room to the wardrobe with a few of their spare garments draped over one arm – the dress rustling, her socked feet padding noiselessly about the carpeted floors.

Later, they went down together, entering one of the cafés on the first floor. It was growing late but neither had the appetite for a full meal. He ordered two coffees and several newspapers – the latest issue from the World Economy Journal and one local copy from each of the surrounding islands. Tea sandwiches for her. They sat out on the terrace where the cool evening breeze helped to disperse the miasma of cigarettes from the neighboring saloons. The back courtyard was small but well-kept, illuminated with quaint little lanterns and tinsel lights. A tidy gravel path encircled a stone fountain at its heart and wound through the flower beds vibrant with snowdrops and hyacinth, narcissus and liverleaf.

They didn't speak much, just how it suited them – the man with his nose buried in his copy of the WEJ, chin sunken low and brows downturned in restless thought; the woman idly perusing the contents of the Valeris Island Gazette over the brink of her coffee cup.

For once, it had been a quieter news cycle on the piracy side of things. The Payback War had come and gone, but reporting on the outcomes of the resulting territorial disputes in the New World were still mostly speculatory. The newly minted Fleet Admiral's military reforms took more of the center stage this week, with the opinion pages crammed full of the same regurgitative drivel bemoaning the next "radical" wave of drafts set to disrupt the citizenry.

No worthwhile updates on the Shichibukai, either. The man set the paper down in resignation.

"No new leaks from the investigation?"

"Not a whisper," she answered. "Seems Kurouma is keeping his cards close to his chest."

A faint breeze stirred through the patio. A few of the decorative lanterns bobbed on their lines, and vines of honeysuckle swayed from their hanging baskets. A loud burst of laughter erupted from the saloon next door, hearty and raucous. Someone started up some lively tune on the piano.

The woman raised her face, looking about with a certain air of wistfulness.

"My sister was considering this place for her honeymoon, you know," she mused, eyes softening. "Now that I'm here, I think I can understand why."

The man anchored his attention to the base of his coffee cup, gunmetal eyes thinning. She spoke so casually, but something in her words rankled deep within, raising his hackles. A part of him wondered whether or not her nostalgia was directed towards something else. Someone else. A hidden vulnerability he couldn't bring himself to face.

He thought of a certain dead Marine from her past – that weak, cowardly specter whose name she would no doubt keep forever enshrouded in her heart – and his lips tightened into a sour grimace.

"I don't see what's so special about it."

The woman still seemed lost in thought.

"It's safe. Peaceful." She smiled tentatively. "For most of the people here, I think that's more than enough to live on."

"They're caught up in an illusion." He nearly spat the words. "Islands like this can only exist by relying on the Government's good graces. They don't understand that it can all get taken away overnight. That all it takes is a minor inconvenience."

A small sigh broke out of the young woman. She finally seemed to be breaking out of her reverie.

"Yes. I know that."

"You don't talk as if you do."

She only blinked at him, not quite able to hide the startled look in her blue eyes.

The man felt another vicious clench in his chest – this time of self loathing.

"What's gotten into you? You might get mistaken as a Revolutionary, speaking things like that out in the open," the woman remarked, a little quieter now.

"...never mind." Agitated, he thrust the newspaper aside and pushed back his chair. "Want anything else?"

She shook her head slowly.

"We can go now."

"What about your medicine?"

"I took it on the train. You might've been asleep."

The ground floor had cleared of its braying crowds by this hour, with most visitors likely having ventured out to dine and enjoy the sights while there was still light out. Most of the hydraulic powered elevators – all bustling with activity when they'd arrived – now stood vacant in the receiving lobby. They stepped into one and waited for the doors to close. There was a slight delay, before the lift jolted into motion with a sibilant hiss.

They stood together in that dimly lit carriage, the silence between them blanketed by the quiet churn of machinery. The guttering incandescent bulbs overhead cast an insipid glow over the young woman's silver hair as she peered up at her companion with searching eyes.

He went rigid at the familiar rustle of her skirt. She had stepped closer. Too close for it not to be purposeful. There was a beat of hesitation. Then she reached down to touch the tattooed hand hanging at his side.

"What are you doing?" The man's voice was gruff, but he didn't pull away.

"We're supposed to be married, right?" she murmured in a distant voice, leaning into him. Between them, she turned her palm over and began interlacing her fingers with his.

He only clenched his jaw, even as his hand gently closed over her smaller one. He couldn't bring himself to say anything, not with the way his heart now thrummed with inexplicable anticipation.

She hesitated again, turning her head on his shoulder to peer up at him with that same wistful look from before. Then she rose on her toes, quietly bringing her lips to his neck.

His breath hitched, and his gaze darkened. He gripped her hand tightly when the carriage came to a stop on their floor.

"Come on."

He wordlessly marched her back to their suite, her wrist clenched in his tattooed grasp. Once in the dark entryway, he pulled her in to kiss her roughly as the door clicked shut behind them. The woman sighed against his lips and backed into the wall, tugging him down to her with a boldness that belied the reserve she usually projected. His hands found her waist and drifted upwards, mapping the familiar firmness of her musculature, layers of the expensive cloth bunching up in his fingers.

"Take off your shoes," he seethed out, lips barely moving along her jaw.

Her eyes gleamed through the dark, catlike.

"And what about the dress?"

"Not yet."

He drew back and eyed her hungrily as she bent to remove those bothersome boots. That dress. She really had little idea of its significance on her, because by all rational accounts it should have had none. The garment was modest yet elegant, flaunting a certain vague innocence – high collared, stylishly cut with its little ruffles and buttons, the slender sleeves and flowing skirt, and of course that sleek, belted bodice which fit her lithe torso like a sheath. Pretty yet overly frivolous, impractical in every way beyond fulfilling the vague requirements of "respectability." Yet he couldn't deny its allure, perhaps solely due to the hidden temptation that it posed.

The sight of her in the damn thing had preoccupied him all day, and for that it had fostered a petulant, almost primal urge to see it corrupted, rent to pieces, destroyed. He still couldn't figure out how he would ruin it tonight – tearing it off of her or fucking her in it until she was incoherent.

They clambered through the entryway, past the narrow kitchenette, the table and chairs, the ornate furniture in the living area which now only stood out as misshapen black lumps in the dimness. The sun was just starting to set beyond the balcony, enveloping the bedroom in a dusky lattice of afterlight and shadow.

She sat on the firm mattress, wrapping eager arms around his neck as he leaned over her. He slotted himself between her legs and she angled against him with little reservation, clamping her knees around him and kissing him hungrily. There was no trace of her usual caution, that meek timidity she'd shown him when he'd first taken her to bed all those months ago; in its stead was a tempestuous fervor which contested the stringencies demanded by her upbringing and profession. Though raised a weapon, she was still a fellow starving creature at her core – willful and hot blooded and selfish at times in her desire, with her world offering far too few indulgences to slake her avarice. He'd quickly learned that she was just as voracious in her proclivities as he was in his own.

Tugging on her dress, he moved aside the collar to fit his mouth to the base of her throat – sucking and nibbling at the spot he knew she liked best, breathing in the fragrant notes of her perfume as she sighed in anticipation. His free hand curled at her upper thigh, clawing up the heavy fabric of her dress into his grip, the long fingers sliding beneath the silky underskirt to ghost along her sensitive skin. She shuddered beneath him and muffled a peculiar sound into his shoulder. His desire mounted, erection straining against his trousers.

The man pulled away from her neck. As always, he wanted to see her face – wanted to see her overcome. His hand continued its journey up her bare leg, running over the garter straps holding up her stockings (one of countless fashion accessories he never really saw the point of), stroking the smoothness of the inner thigh, before slipping beneath the flimsy underwear to cup her arousal.

The woman's breathing hitched. She gripped his arms tightly as he slowly spread his hand against her cunt, fingers teasing along the warm, slick seam.

"Law...!"

The man abruptly stilled. His lips curled into a diabolical grin almost reminiscent of the one immortalized in his wanted poster.

"Do you want me to stop?"

She let out a feeble sound of protest, shifting her hips in a meager attempt to chase his touch. He feigned a sigh of disappointment.

"You really are hopeless, Murasaki-ya. I thought I told you that we aren't here to play pretend. But you just had to insist, didn't you?"

She gasped when he started to move again, his thumb dragging tortuous circles over her clit.

"That wasn't... I-I didn't...!"

Eyes fluttering, she could only rest her forehead to his shoulder with a soft moan as he continued his onslaught. Her breathing erupted in shallow gasps as he carefully eased one finger inside her, then another. He gave an experimental pump, feeling the throbbing silken heat drench the embedded digits, then started up in that fevered rhythm he knew she always craved from him. She moaned again, louder now, and bucked her hips as he curled his fingers, his name leaving her lips in another broken plea.

He'd learnt her body well – she had never been shy about communicating her desires, after all – and now found it effortless to adjust his touches according to even her most subconscious cues – every mewl and shiver, every pant and hitch in her voice and delicate squeeze of her hands.

She came undone with a shuddering gasp – her body arching to meet his, that beautiful face contorting with such raw vulnerability that his chest was clenching up again. He watched her writhe on his hand, fighting down another visceral stir as he felt her walls spasm around his fingers. Then his lips were back on hers, greedy and devouring, his free hand tugging her hair free and carding through the long, snowy locks. The skirt was now rucked up high around her thighs, the grey fabric strewn bunched atop the coverlet in a bedraggled mess.

He stroked her cheek then drew back to unfasten his fly, the belt buckle clattering.

"Lie down," he said. "I'm going to fuck you in that dress."

She nodded shakily, a fierce blush rising to her cheeks, and settled herself back on the bed – pulling down the sodden undergarment, gathering up her skirts up as tidily as she could. Somehow, the sight of her legs splayed open atop the sheets – still clad in the garters and those slender white stockings – stirred something in his blood, igniting another selfish impulse. He wanted to see her ruined, just like that foolish little dress.

Without any further warning, he yanked her down the mattress to align their hips. She wrapped her legs around his waist, keening as he pushed inside her with one fluid thrust. He went still for a moment as he recollected himself, breathing raggedly, swallowing back the familiar rise of emotions. He'd always secretly reveled in the act of their bodies entwining, becoming one – the sensations, the tautness, the way she'd moan and spasm and quiver as he settled into her. She always looked so pretty when she unraveled, felt so perfect wrapped around his cock like this. So warm and wet and ready, so tantalizingly tight – such a far cry from the poised front she showed to the world. A wicked part of him even relished to have reduced her to this state.

He started to move against her. His head sank low and he groaned at the glide of their bodies, the heat and stretch of it. Settling into a familiar bruising pace, he soon had them both in a frenzy, grunting and panting incoherently, driven to the verge of distraction as they chased their highs. She writhed to meet his rapid thrusts, her head thrown back and her eyes screwed shut in pleasure. Watching her, he was suddenly struck with the idea of her naked form straining beneath all those disheveled layers, and that thought alone was nearly enough to drive him over the edge.

She clawed the sheets and cried out, clenching around him as she came. The intensity of her orgasm summoned his own, suffusing his body with frissons of blinding pleasure. He groaned and collapsed onto the bed, bracing himself up to avoid falling over her entirely.

Silence blanketed the room as they lay together in the dark, fighting to regain their breaths. The young woman's chest heaved from exertion. Her eyes were bright with unspoken longing. She brought trembling hands up to his face, holding them there, cupping his cheeks. He leaned his forehead to hers. There was a melancholic softness to her expression, one which mirrored the hollow ache which had emerged in his chest. He closed his eyes for a restless beat, centering himself in her gentle breathing.

He told himself to remember this.

Remember everything, before this world destroyed them both.

"Arisa." He didn't even know what to say.

"What?" She pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth and nuzzled closer, burying her face into his shoulder. "It's okay... We don't need to say anything."

He nodded and held her tightly, stroking her hair. He didn't want to let go.

"We don't need to say anything," she repeated, quieter now.

"Let's just stay this way for a while."