Who is louder?This is always a close call… Barto really likes to make noise and Law is just a loud shit naturally.Who is more experimental? Law, but both are pretty keen to try new things.Who takes more risks?Law, he tends to be more risky and into sex in public.Do they fuck or make love?Fuck, very much all the fucking.Lights on or off?Either.Who is more likely to be caught masturbating?Law, high sex drive and prefers alone time.Who comes first?Law, he’s very sensitive.Who is better at oral and who prefers it?Law is better at it.. Law still doesn’t trust those teeth… and Bart prefers it anyway.Who is more submissive?Law, mostly because Barto is very animal like.Who usually initiates things?Law, higher sex drive and sometimes Barto thinks Law is too good for him and stays away a little.Who is more sensitive?Law, and Barto loves it.XCorazonX
Would it be too late to request number 5 with Law and Bartolomeo please? I ship it now cause of some rpers on here hehe X3
sorry to everyone but I’ve been thinking about this request since I saw this at work and djkfhskdfjs I HAD TO WRITE THIS FIRST before the other requests from before
car broke down and hot local(s) fix(es) it" (except not really)
“Shit,” he cursed out loud as he slammed his head down against the steering wheel out of sheer frustration. Not even twenty miles from home, and the car had already broken down.
(Well, the engine had always been shitty — Law thought it might be due to his “father’s” sabotage. Fuck that man. Fuck that man with a screwdriver.)
And of course he had forgotten to recharge his phone’s battery before taking off.
This running away from home thing wasn’t turning out to be a successful attempt this time, either, and Law felt the same hopelessness from before settle over him like a gloomy cloud.
This was the fifth attempt over the past two years, and he still wasn’t…
Law’s forehead pressed against the wheel harder, hands still gripping at the sides of it hard enoug for his knuckles to turn paler.
The sudden rapping sound against the window of the door on his side nearly startled him — he was never startled, he’d say — and he raised his head, face twisting into an annoyed snarl as he opened the window.
"Heya, noticed yer engine’s smokin’!" the voice that greeted him grated at his already weary nerves, and Law’s lips turned down into a scowl. It only deepened once an attractive face, framed by startlingly green hair, popped into his view.
"Oh, really." Law tried his best not to sneer, but the tight feeling in his chest made him snappy, even more so than usual. (Would it be Vergo who’d bring him back this time? No, please, anythng but Vergo.)
"A bit in trouble, are ya, shithead?" the green-haired man, possibly a year or two younger than Law, grinned at him with easy, cocky arrogance typical to people that knew life only superficially.
The piercing on the guy’s nose grabbed Law’s attention, however: the glint of the ring in the dimly lit car was oddly attractive, very much like the messily geled up hair.
The attitude problem was an added bonus.
Which said something about Law’s fucked up interests, probably, and he acknowledged this with rueful seriousness. “No shit, Sherlock,” Law muttered as he pressed a hand against his temple, the headache in his head pulsing along with the anxiety that welled in his chest.
By now, Vergo could be on his way — maybe the fucking car had a GPS transmitter. He wouldn’t put it past Doflamingo.
"Ya look tired. Where ya goin’ at this time o’ night, anyway?"
"Somewhere," Law replied vaguely, but as vague as he kept his tone, this company’s eyes lit up with an understanding light.
"Ah, you ran off, didn’t ya?"
Law would have felt the need to deny, but for the moment, he was better off having someone around when Vergo came. If it was Vergo that would come to fetch him back home for a good lecture from daddy dearest.
The thought made Law nauseous, as it evoked the memory of the last time he had tried to pull a fast on on Doflamingo.
"Those are some rad tattoos, by the way," the flash of a grin revealed sharp teeth, and Law glanced down at his arms and the tattoos that were visible as he had pulled his sleeves up the moment he had slammed the car door shut a few hours prior.
"Designed them myself," Law said, relaxing as he gave a smirk back at the other.
"A tattoo designer? That’s hella cool. Name’s Bartolomeo." Eyes sparkled as he shoved his hand at Law with the intention of shaking hands. The sudden seriousness in Bartolomeo’s demeanor made Law’s smirk widen as he took the offered hand.
"Law. And no, not a tattoo artist. Officially, at least."
"Unofficially then?" Bartolomeo’s toothy smirk was radiant, surprisingly genuine, and some of the knots in Law’s stomach untangled at that.
"I don’t do the actual tattoos, but I do the art," Law admitted slowly. "I have a friend who does the tattoos on skin. He did mine, too." He detached his hand from the steering wheel, and ran fingers over the jagged edges of the tattoo. "I was heading to a common friend for tonight."
That reminded him of his situation, and his expression soured. “Guess I’m not heading off to anywhere, after all.”
Bartolomeo crossed his arms over the edge of the car door while humming thoughtfully. “Ya know what? I’ll fix the engine up for you. If the place you have in mind ain’t too far, the car should make it there in one piece.”
"You don’t look like you know much about cars, Bartolomeo-ya."
"And you don’t look like a med student with yer tattoos, but here we are."
Law froze. “How did you—”
"Saw the bumper sticker. You’re not exactly hiding it, Law."
But he had made sure to rip that goddamn sticker off the day before this one, hadn’t he? Law felt his throat constrict as he got out of the car from the side Bartolomeo wasn’t leaning on, and hastily grabbed a pen-sized flashlight from the dashboard as he rushed.
Once out and flashlight on, he went to check the bumper, and god. There it was, that fucking white sticker that proudly proclaimed the medical school he was studying at.
Or had been before deciding to take this trip.
"What the fuck," Law grunted lowly, teeth digging into the flesh of his lower lip until they drew blood. Doflamingo, probably. Or Vergo. Or Caesar from the medic school.
And tearing that thing out wasn’t simple at all.
It was like a fucking mark for everyone to see — some people would remember the bumper sticker, and undoubtedly report it to Vergo/Doflamingo if prompted.
Shit-shit-shit, you fucked up, Law. You fucked up.
"Is there a car rental shop close by?" Law turned to ask Bartolomeo, who had followed him with a bemused expression on his face. "I might as well just get a new car."
"Didn’t I just tell ya I can fix it?" Bartolomeo seemed annoyed by the lack of trust Law placed in on him — but it wasn’t about trust, in the first place, and more about finding an escape route in a jungle where he was surrounded by buttresses.
"Might as well just let it be," Law muttered, "it’s an old car, not worth much; sentimental value it has none."
"Whatever," Bartolomeo deemed this a topic too weird to poke too deeply into, and simply shrugged his broad shoulders. "There ain’t one ‘til Dressrosa, and that’s way back in the direction ya came from."
Dressrosa.
The name itself brought bile to Law’s throat, or maybe it was the worsening ache on his upper arm as bruises formed slowly.
"But if yer that insistent, I can give you a ride with me and the fellas," Bartolomeo suggested, his grin wide and barely visible in the weak light that came from the pencil-thing flashlight.
Law smiled in return, tensely, as Bartolomeo’s arm wrapped around his shoulder. “I was right, wasn’t I?” his voice was low against Law’s ear. “You’re really running away from somethin’ or someone.”
"You just need to give me a ride until we reach Bepo’s place, that’s all," Law scowled. "There’s nothing more annoying than a man that asks too many questions."
"Hehahaha!" Bartolomeo’s laughter could have been contagious at any other time, had Law been less deprived of good laugh in his life. "FIne, fine, ya lil shit. Just get yer stuff and we’ll be off to what’s-his-name’s place."
“Bepo,” Law corrected half-heartedly.
The good-looking ones were always morons, it seemed.
