Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For what was supposed to be a lackluster weekend with your boyfriend, it sure as fuck didn't turn out that way.

You were at work—folding clothes, stacking them on shelves just for some entitled middle-aged woman to unfold everything you'd spent the last hour organizing—when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Law: ma

Law: we got booked

Law: someplace called undertow

Law: 2hrs away or sum shit

Law: wanna come

You stared at the screen, that stupid smile pulling at your lips despite the mess of clothes surrounding you. The Undertow. You'd heard Penguin mention it before—some dive bar right on the water, supposedly had a decent crowd on weekends. Two hours up the coast meant overnight—meant a whole weekend with Law outside the usual routine of Fridays at the Crow's Nest and Tuesday practices in Shachi's garage. Just you and him. And the band, technically, but still.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. You had weekend shifts, but fuck it— it was just retail. They could survive without you for one weekend.

You: when?

Law: saturday

Law: shach n pen going up friday

Law: idfk when

Law: were leaving right after the show 

Just the two of you, then. Two hours in the Volvo, windows down, music loud, Law’s hand on your thigh, the ocean somewhere to your right. Your chest did that thing it'd been doing lately whenever Law did something that proves you weren’t just another Friday night anymore.

You: yeah im coming

You: what time friday

Law: shows at 10

Law: well leave right after

Law: like always

You: its farther than my apartment tho

You: by like a lot

You: youll be okay right

Law: ill be fine ma

Law: see you friday

You stared at your phone, that smile still on your face. The weekend suddenly felt very far away. You could already picture it: hotboxing the Volvo, music shaking the car, his hands on yours—

“Yo! You gonna finish those or just stand there smiling at your phone like a fuckin’ idiot?” 

It was going to be a long week.

Looking up, you saw that unmistakable yellow beanie and curly brown hair. Your coworker in this retail hellhole—Ikkaku—was staring at you from across the table of messed up inventory.

"Sorry." You shoved your phone back in your pocket and grabbed another shirt. "Just got plans for the weekend.”

“Some plans, judging by that big ass grin of yours.”

“My…uh, boyfriend,” you started. Shit, it still felt weird on your tongue. Boyfriend. “My boyfriend, right?”

“Yeah, the tatted up guy, right? Smells like a weed dispensary?” Ikkaku had heard about Law. Everyone had heard about Law—especially your manager Jean-Bart (whom everyone called JB), who'd both gotten used to and gotten tired of your insistence on leaving Tuesdays and Fridays early these past three weeks. 

JB is going to have my head.

“I…um—yeah, him,” you continued.

Ikkaku met your gaze, curious as to where you were going with this.“What about him?”

“They’ve got a gig. Two hours up the coast.”

“Riiiight, he's a bassist.” She drew it out, pointing her finger, bouncing it up and down in realization. “Damn. Have fun, I guess. You told JB yet?”

“I just found out about these plans.”

Ikkaku sucked in her teeth. “Shit. JB is gonna—“

“I know, I know. I'll probably have to pick up an extra shift Thursday to make up for it.”

“Probably?” Ikkaku raised an eyebrow. “Girl, definitely. You've already used up all your goodwill asking for every Friday off. JB's gonna want blood.”

“It's worth it.” You folded another shirt, added it to the stack. “It's their first real gig outside the Crow's Nest. I'm not missing that shit.”

“Must be serious if you're willing to deal with JB's wrath.” Ikkaku grabbed a pair of jeans from the chaos. "When'd you two make it official anyway? Last I heard you were just 'hanging out.'”

"Like...three weeks ago? Maybe a month?" Time had gotten weird since that night in the Volvo, since Law had finally said out loud what you'd both been dancing around for months. “It’s…still kind of recent.”

“Oh really? So what about all those times you were in his—“

 You cut her off by throwing a shirt at her face. She caught it, laughing. 

“Hey!” Ikkaku barked out. “Fuck’s that for?”

“Bitch.” You snarled out, but there was no real bite in your voice.

“Me? PUH-LEASE. I’m just interested in some juicy, heated romance.” She folded the shirt you’d thrown, added it to her pile. “But seriously, you good? Like, happy? I don’t have to kill him?”

Her question caught you off guard. “Girl—what? No, don’t kill his ass. But, I mean—yeah, we’re good. Really good, actually.”

“Good. ‘Cause last time you talked to me about Law…whew! Ooh girl, you were stressingggg— that whole ‘what are we’ shit had me worried about you. Thought I was gonna lose you to that,” she admitted it quietly, something solemn crossing her face.

“Hey, don’t worry about me, babes. We figured it out.” You grabbed another shirt, trying not to smile too hard at the memory—that night playing in your mind on repeat. The bus stop. The argument. His hands on your body in the car. The way he’d said ‘only you, ma’ like he'd been desperate to say it aloud. “We’re good now.”

“Well, have fun on your romantic beach trip or whatever the fuck it is. Concert, hookup—I don't know. Try not to get chewed out too much. I actually like talking shit with you.”

“I’ll try. No promises, though.”

The rest of your shift dragged. Every minute felt like five. You kept checking your phone, hoping for another text from Law, but he was probably at practice or sleeping off some high. 

By the time you finally clocked out at 6, your shoulders ached from folding and refolding the same damn inventory, and your brain was already two hours up the coast—already in the Volvo with Law, already at the show, already anywhere but here.

Before you could even start planning what you’d bring, there was a certain…person you had to deal with.

You were gonna have to take the worst shift on Thursday.

Drained as fuck no less, then having to come back on Friday too.

And drive up after Law’s show.

Fuck it.

You open your phone, and dial the number that was, surely, tired of your bullshit. 

“Hey, JB?”

Chapter Text

You showed up to practice in Shachi’s basement at 2 PM with three Chipotle bowls, a wrap, and a fucking migraine from the phone call with JB last night.

The call had gone about as well as expected. JB's voice had been tight with that specific brand of manager disappointment—the kind that said you were a liability, not an asset, and he was doing you a favor by not firing you on the spot.

“Thursday, 9 to 6,” he’d said. “Be grateful I’m even giving you the Saturday. It’s December and I need all hands on deck, including yours.”

“I know, and I really appreciate—”

“I don’t want to hear it. Be on time Thursday. No leaving early on this one.”

Click.

So yeah. You were thrilled to be at practice.

Shachi was already set up behind his kit when you walked in, fidgeting and twirling his drumstick. “She’s brought us food! You’re a fucking saint.”

“Broke saint,” you corrected. “Chipotle is not fuckin’ cheap. Brought y’all the good shit. You owe me.”

“Eh, we’ll pay you back when we’re famous,” Penguin said, taking his bowl with a grateful smile.

“So…never?”

“Exactly. You get it.” Shachi grinned. “See, Law? She catches on quick.” 

“Leave her alone, you two,” Law called out from the couch, bass sitting on his lap, tuning his strings. He looked up when he heard your voice and something in his expression softened. “Ma, you good?”

“Tired.” You made your way to the couch, he immediately shifted to give you space to lean against his shoulder, the neck of his bass now resting against the arm of the couch. “JB absolutely lost his shit on me.”

“About Saturday?”

“About everything. My ‘pattern of unreliability’, my ‘lack of commitment to the team’ during the busiest season.” You made air quotes with your free hand, the other holding your burrito. “Got the full bullshit lecture. Pretty sure he has that shit scripted somewhere.”

“Fuck that,” Law commented flatly, plucking at his A-string. 

“I wish I could ignore his big, stupid, bullshit tattooed face punk ass!” You groaned into your hand. “But I need this job, babe. Can’t keep buying you fuckers food if I don’t. Thursday's going to be hell.”

“Nine to six?” He’d read every text you sent ranting about it last night.

“Nine to six. He made it very clear—no leaving early, no exceptions, except taking it like the bitch I am.”

“Sounds like JB has a stick up his ass.”

“I know.” You groaned into the crook of his neck, your free hand wrapping around him, the other hand holding your wrap as you shoved it into your face. “Bat, ishs fain. Ish worf it,” you said, mouth full.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You looked up at him, swallowing your bite. “First big show outside the Crow’s Nest? I’m not missing that, babe.”

“Thanks ma.” He kisses you.

“Stop thanking me for shit. I told you—I want to be here.”

“Still.”

You handed Law his bowl—arroz, frijoles negros, carne asada, extra cheese—and settled in to demolish your burrito while they talked logistics.

“So about Friday,” Penguin started, stealing a chip from your bag. “Undertow's asking for forty-five minutes.”

Law nodded, still tuning. Shachi was listening while eating.

“Should we add a song or stretch these out?”

“We’re not stretching them.” Law stated, leaving no room for argument. “Five songs is forty minutes if we’re tight about it. We can add our other song if we want buffer.”

“Other song?” You looked up.

“Don’t think you’ve heard it, right?” Penguin chimed.

“I haven’t.”

“We’ll play it after we eat, see what you think.”

You smiled. “Sounds good.”

Twenty minutes later, food demolished and hands wiped clean, they were ready to get to the reason why they even met every Tuesday—practice.

“Ma.”

You met his gaze. “What’s up, babe?”

“You ready?”

“Hit me.”

“Alright, Alright, Alright!” Shachi cheered, hitting a quick pattern on his hi-hat. “Let’s do this shit!”

Penguin grinned, clipping his capo on, playing the first chord, checking the proper placement.

With that, they set off to a new song, the song they’ve never added to their setlist.

Penguin started first—a gentle fingerpicking pattern on his guitar, acoustic and clean. No distortion, no feedback. Just clean notes.

Then Shachi came in with brushes instead of sticks, soft and subtle.

Then Law's bass—low and melodic, carrying the foundation but staying gentle.

You’ve heard him talk about it before in his apartment, when he brought up “Lead.”

“Remember my sister, right?”

“Hm? You've mentioned her before.”

“I wrote a song about her. Alongside ‘Lead’.”

You’ve heard him hum it before, a soft, gentle melody that always calmed him down, having seen him do it before shows lately as well.

The song was gentle. You noticed the calm expressions on all three of the men—giving it the time and love it needed. 

Law’s voice was different on this one. Softer. No rasp, no gravel. Just—honest. Raw.

The lyrics were about memories—small ones. Playing in a backyard. Sharing secrets. Her laugh. The way he’d promise to never forget her.

When it ended, the garage was quiet except for the hum of the amps.

“Lami.” You said, remembering the song name. “It’s beautiful, babe.”

“You think so?” Law met your eyes.

“I’m sure.” You stood up, crossed over to him. “It’s perfect.”

He nodded, tears finally spilling through. He set his bass down carefully and pulled you into his arms, face buried in your neck. You felt him take a shaky breath.

“Thank you, ma.”

“I told you, stop thanking me, you sap.”

He laughed—wet and rough—and kissed you hard.

“Okay!” Shachi broke the moment, clearing his throat loudly. “Now that we've all had our cry, can we please run through the actual set? I need to make sure I don't fuck up the timing on 'Shambles' in front of a new crowd.”

“You're gonna fuck up the timing regardless,” Penguin said.

“Fuck you, I'm a great drummer.”

“You're an okay drummer.”

“I'm an AMAZING drummer—”

“Can you both shut the fuck up so we can play?” Law pulled away from you, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. But he was smiling. “Let's run it. From the top.”

They went through the set twice—all six songs now, slotting “Lami” in right after “Lead”. You could see them working on transitions, tightening up the rough spots, building energy so they can have “Lami” make the audience cry alongside them, allowing the chaos of the closer flow in easier. 

You had to hear them argue on the new set order—ultimately ending up with Law’s suggestion.

By the second run through, they locked in. The sound was tight. Clean.

“‘Kay,” Penguin said, setting his guitar down. “I think we’re good. That felt solid.”

“Better than solid,” Shachi grinned. “We’re gonna fucking blow The Undertow out of the water.” 

“Don’t jinx it,” Law muttered, but there was still something in his words—anticipations, maybe even excitement.

Shachi was already pulling out his tin, tossing a rolled joint to Penguin. “Alright, alright. We’re gonna go somewhere new, and we’re gonna do it right.” He lit his own joint, taking a hit before passing the lighter around.

You shifted on the couch, getting comfortable again, while they all forced themselves to fit on the beat up three-seater. It felt odd still—being included in the band not just as a “groupie”, being able to do more than fuck on a Friday night, and be apart of it all—Law’s practices, showing up beyond shows.

Law opening his own tin, pulling out a joint to share between you two, grabbing Shachi’s lighter, fiddling with the flint before catching the flame on the cherry, taking the first hit before passing you the joint, with a kiss on your cheek.

“You guys are coming up…when?” Penguin raised a brow, gesturing with his hands, while the joint lazily sat between his fingers.

“Friday, after the show.”

“‘Kay, me ‘n Shach’ll come up—same time. You already got the motel room?”

“I…think ma did.”

You looked up at Law when you’d been brought up into their conversation. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Law hugged you closer. “I sent you the link yesterday.”

“Oh shit—” you check your phone, scrolling through your texts. Sure enough, buried under work schedule screenshots and rants, there was a link to the Motel 8. “Right, right, right—I booked it.” You take another screenshot of the confirmation email, sending it to Law.

“You two idiots booked yours?”

“Yeah, yeah, we did. Uhh…Pen, you booked ours, right?”

Penguin only stared back at Shachi, shaking his head.

“Fuck. You two wouldn’t happen to…maybe, possibly, even, get us our room?”

“The fuck? I brought you guys Chipotle. Get your own goddamn room,” you rebutted.

“We’d pay you back,” Shachi wined. 

“Like I believe that shit. Better send me the money now if you want me to book it.” 

“At this point—” Penguin gave it a thought, lip curling, head nodding. “That doesn’t sound too bad.” 

It was your turn to raise your brow, staring at dumb and dumber make their very first intellectual revelation.”Really?” 

“Yeah. I mean—here.” Penguin handed you his phone, Zelle already open. “I don’t know if you use Zelle or what the fuck not, just put in your details so I can send you the money.”

“I—okay, sure, fine, whatever,” you sighed, shaking your head. That wasn't supposed to happen, but whatever. It worked out fine regardless. 

“Unless you want us to share a room with youuu,” Shachi drew out, with Penguin making “ooooh” sounds in the background.

“Fuck no,” Law said immediately.

Shachi grinned. “Aw, Cap doesn't wanna have a sleepover?”

“No.”

Penguin whined “But whyyyyy Cap?” 

“Because—”

“Because you want your girlfriend all to yourself.”

“Yeah, cause you guys are gonna FUH—”

Shachi was cut off by your hand being palmed over his mouth. “Shut the actual fuck up Shachi.”

“Aw, man. I hope we don’t get the room next to them. Ain’t no one wanna hear that shit. AH~!Harder, Law,”  Penguin continued, adding to his weird, fucked up interpretation of you and your boyfriend. “You’re so tight, Ma,” he tried mocking Law’s voice, though it was abruptly finished by him dying of laughter.

“Cállate la reputa boca, cojones,” Law snarled out.

AKA—”shut your whore ass mouths, fuck!”—a saying you quickly learned he used often for those two.

Your face was red, hand coming off Shachi’s mouth, absolutely fucking mortified. “Babe, you’re friends with these fuckers?” Though, there was no real harm in your question.

“Unfortunately.”

You let out a breathless chuckle, making your way back to your boyfriend—Penguin’s phone still in hand, while you did, in fact, add your Zelle.

Not without a little payback.

You totally made a mistake, adding an extra 5 bucks to the $80 you were supposed to give yourself—total mistake, really, for sure.

Truly a blunder.

You book the last spot available in Motel 8—two nights, three mornings. Check-out Sunday.

“Pen,” you deadpanned, passing his phone back. “It’s booked. You guys got lucky, there was one spot available left to book. 

“You’re fucking lying.”

“Nope, Motel 8 is booked this whole weekend, starting Friday.”

“Lucky us then,” Penguin commented, taking his phone back. “Thanks for handling that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You waved him off, settling back against Law. “Thanks for the extra five bucks, by the way.”

“Extra five?” Shachi's eyes narrowed. “I thought it was only eighty?”

"Booking fee," you feigned innocence.

Shachi scoffed, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “That’s not a real—”

“Do you want the fucking room or not?”

Both Shachi and Penguin grumbled, but didn’t argue further. “…fine.”

Law passed you the joint you were sharing, his chest shaking with silent laughter against your back.

“Alright, so.” Shachi exhaled, smoke curling with the words. “Motel’s started. What about the actual fun shit?”

“The show is the fun shit, dumbass,” Law replied flatly, accepting the joint back from you.

“No, no, I mean—“ Shachi gestured with his own joint, smoke trailing his movements. “The BEACH, man. The Undertow’s literally right on the water. Like—right fuckin’ there.”

“It’s December, Shach,” Penguin pointed out, his own joint dangling from his lips.

“So? Ocean doesn’t close for winter.” Shachi looked at you first, then the rest of the group, “You wanna see the beach, right?”

You shrugged, comfortable against Law’s chest. “I mean, yeah, I guess—If we have time.”

“See? She gets it.” Shachi pointed at Law with his joint, perched on his two fingers. “Your girlfriend gets it.”

Law took another drag, his free hand playing absently with the hem of your shirt. “We’re there for the show, mongos.”

“We can do both,” Shachi argued. “We get there Friday night, sleep—” he looked directly at Law with a knowing grin, “—Saturday we got all day before sound check at four. We could walk on the beach, check out the town—”

“Get breakfast somewhere that isn’t frozen or shitty,” Penguin added, ashing his joint into an empty Chipotle bowl.

“EXACTLY.” Shachi took a hit of his joint. “And—oh shit, I almost forgot—The motel has a hot tub.”

You perked up slightly. “It does?”

“Yeah! Saw it on the website. Probably sketchy as fuck, but it’s THERE.”

Law’s hand stilled on your hip. You could feel him thinking.

You turn your head to look at Law, watching the gears shift in his head. “A hot tub sounds nice,” you murmured.

“It’s probably fucking disgusting,” Law muttered, his thumb starting to trace patterns on your side again. “People piss in those things.”

“Not if it’s just us,” Penguin suggested.

“It’s still gross.”

Shachi grinned, taking a deep hit of his freshly-lit joint. “Cap doesn't wanna share a hot tub with us. He wants it all to himself.”

“With his girlfriend,” Penguin emphasized, waggling his eyebrows.

Law flipped them both off, taking another drag. “You two can do whatever the fuck you want. We'll see.”

“'We'll see'?” Shachi's grin widened. 

“I said what I said.”

The conversation wound down naturally after that. Joints turned to roaches, comfortable silence interrupted by bursts of laughter and further discussion. 

By the time you checked your phone, it was almost six.

“Shit,” you muttered, sitting up slightly. “I should go. Got to be functional Thursday.”

“Thursday?” Shachi raised his brow.

“Yeah, free day tomorrow. I fuckin’ need it.”

“For your hell shift,” Law remembered, voice rough.

“Nine. FUCKING. HOURS.” You groaned. “JB’s gonna be on my ass the whole time.”

“Yikes,” Penguin sighed. 

“Yeah, but I need this job,” you lamented.

“For now,” Law commented, stubbing out his joint.

“For now,” you agreed.

He helped you up, immediately grabbing Kikoku’s case. “Come on, ma. Let’s get you home.”

You said your goodbyes to Penguin and Shachi, and followed Law out to the Volvo parked on Shachi’s driveway.

The December air was sharp and cold, contrast to the hot, musty, smoke-filled basement you were in. You climbed into the passenger seat—your seat—and Law slotted Kikoku gently in the backseat before sliding behind the wheel.

“Two more days,” he smiled as he started the engine.

“Two more days,” you echoed.

His hand found your thigh immediately, warm and grounding.

The drive to your complex was quiet, comfortable. You watched the streetlights blur past you, thinking about Friday night—the drive, the show, sharing a motel room with him, the passion that awaited you both.

“You nervous?” Law asked, like he could read your thoughts.

“About the weekend?”

“Yeah.”

“No.” You laced your fingers through his. “More excited than anything, honestly. And you?”

“Just for the show.” He brought your joined hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “Fuckin’ terrified, but excited.”

“Terrified? You?”

He chuckled dryly, squeezing your hand tighter. “Yeah, ma. Me. Terrified.”

“About what?”

“Fucking it up. The show, the weekend, us.” He listed simply, honestly. “I don’t want to fuck this up. I’m good at fucking things up, ma.”

“You won’t fuck this up, babe,” you assured him.

“I—ma, you don’t know that.”

The car stopped at a red light, taking this time to your advantage as you leaned across the center console, kissing him deeply. When you pulled back, the light was still red, his eyes were still closed. “I do. I know you're a good bass player, and an even better boyfriend. You’ve got this.”

He opened his eyes; the look in them made your heart ache. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled, looking back at the road in front of him, the lights changing to green, taking you to your apartment.

When he had pulled up into the parking lot, he pulled you in, kissing you harder this time, one hand sliding into your hair, fingers threading through and gripping, tilting your head exactly how he wanted it. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting the weed between you both and everything you’d been holding back that day. The other hand unclasped yours, making its way to your thigh and squeezed, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh through your jeans. You could feel the heat of his, the way his breathing had gone rough, the slight scrape of his teeth against your bottom lip. The snake bites were cool points, the septum ring a comforting presence as he deepened the kiss further, as his hand in your hair tighter just enough to make you gasp in his mouth. It was the kind of kiss that had told your body to push this man into the floor of his small, cramped Volvo and do whatever you fucking could to feel him—but you had the day off tomorrow, and deserved the alone time and he had…whatever Law did when you weren’t around. Probably no good. Getting high and playing, overthinking.

 You pulled back reluctantly. “I gotta go.”

“I know.”

Neither of you moved, foreheads touching.

“Law.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He let you go unwillingly, not before giving you a quick peck. “See you Friday?”

“See you Friday.”

You climbed out, but before you closed the door—

“Ma.”

“Hm? What’s up babe?”

“Thanks. For…today. For coming to practice. For…everything.”

“Stop thanking me babe. You know I’ll always come.”

“Can’t help it.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief—but you were smiling as you headed inside. Behind you, you heard the Volvo idle for a moment before pulling away.

Unlocking the door to your apartment, your phone buzzed.

Law: home safe

You: you LITERALLY JUST saw me walk inside

Law: idc

Law: yr home safe

You: weirdo

Law: yet you still date me

You: unfortunately

You tossed your keys on the counter, and immediately face planted onto your bed. Your phone buzzed again.

Law: unfortunately she says

Law: like she wasnt about to fuck me in the car

You: stfu

You: asshole

Law: damn right

You: you are a HUGE asshole

Law: good

You smiled at your phone, getting up to change into your PJ’s ignoring the fact that you still reeked of weed. You jumped back onto your comfortable mattress, becoming one with the pillows.

Law: get some sleep

Law: long day thrusday

You: gonna suck ass

You: nine hours of jb being a dick

Law: at leas u got tmrw off

You: i can prepare for this BULLSHIT shift

You: gonna sleep in

You: eat shit

Law: nice

You: wt r u gonna do tmrw

Law: pack ig

Law: try to at least

You: babe its a fucking weekend

Law: ik

Law: still

There was a pause between his texts and yours, then—

Law: you should b sleeping

You: yr keeping me up dumbass

Law: still

Law: what r u doin

You: chilling

You: thinking

Law: friday?

You: yh

Law: cant fucking wait

Law: a whole weekend with you

Your stomach flipped.

You: yea?

Law: thinking about having you in a nice ass bed

Law: taking my time with you

Law: making you say my name over and over

Law: watching you fucking cum on my dick

Law: making you forget your own name

Oh.

You: babe

Law: que

You: cant js say shit like that whattt

Law: why not

Law: its true

Law: been thinking about it since you booked the room

Law: thinking about how youre gonna look spread out on those sheets

Law: how youre gonna sound when I plunge my tounge into your pussy

You: LAW

Law: q

Law: you started this shit

Law: showing up to practice looking all nice n shit

Law: buying food

Law: cuddling into me

Law: getting high

Law: making me want to leave early just to get you alone

You bit your lip, face hot, suddenly very aware of how empty your apartment felt.

You: lowk you couldve

Law: couldve what

You: left early

Law: deadass

There was another pause, as if Law was thinking over the decision behind the screen.

Law: want me to come over?

You: i mean

You: its kinda late but idm

Law: bet give me 20

You: you dont have to

Law: idc

Law: need you

Your chest did that thing again.

You: kk

Law: otw 

Law: ill text when im outside

You: js knock 

Law: say less

You stared at your phone, heart racing. Then you scrambled up, fully conscious of the state of your apartment. Clothes thrown everywhere but the hamper, dishes in the sink—a fucking mess.

Okay, okay, you got this. 

You grabbed the clothes and threw them into the hamper, ensuring that you didn’t miss any piece, then quickly smoothened your blanket over your mattress; just to hide a bit of the mess.

You scrambled to the kitchen—placing your dishes down into the dishwasher, letting the cycle run. It didn’t matter, you have a free day tomorrow, you could take the dishes out then.

5 minutes on the clock.

You sat back down on the edge of your bed, waiting. Trying not to overthink this. He was just coming over. You’ve been together before—multiple times. This was fine. This was normal.

Except it wasn’t. Not really. because usually it would be after shows you’d fuck in his car and he’d drop you off and that was it. This was him choosing to come back, choosing to come over, choosing to spend the night, choosing you over whatever the fuck else he could be be doing.

Fuck.

There was a knock at your door.

Your phone lit up.

Law: outside

You practically ran to the door, opening it and seeing him—still in his Bass Drum of Death shirt and jeans, hair messy, eyes a little red from the weed, looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Hi,” you said, suddenly shy.

“Hi.” He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, immediately pulled you against his chest. “Missed you.”

”You saw me like thirty minutes ago,” you joked.

 “I know.” His face buried in your neck, breathing you in. “Still missed you.”

You wrapped your arms around him, feeling his heartbeat against your chest. 

“You good?” You whispered.

“Yeah.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands framing your face. “Just wanted to be here. With you. That okay?”

”Yeah, babe. More than okay.”

He kissed you then—not the frantic, desperate, needy kisses from the Volvo. His mouth moved against yours like he had all the time in the world, tongue sliding past your lips, tasting you thoroughly. The snake bits were cool metal against your skin, the septum ring brushing your upper lip as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. 

Your hands slid up under his shirt, feeling the warm skin, the tattoos you'd traced so many times before. He made a soft sound against your mouth, backing you up until your legs hit the couch.

“Bed,” you murmured against his lips. 

“Yeah. Okay.” But he didn't move, just kept kissing you, hands sliding down to your hips, pulling you closer.

You pulled back slightly, took his hand, led him to your bedroom. The mess didn't matter—he wasn't looking at anything except you.

He toed off his boots, pulled his shirt over his head, and you watched the ink shift across his chest and arms in the dim light from your window. The vitiligo patches stark against tan skin. The piercings catching what little light there was.

You pulled off your own shirt, revealing you had nothing beneath, and his eyes went dark, hungry.

You dragged him to your bedroom, pushing him onto the mattress. 

“C'mere,” he gruffed out, opening his arms for you.

You climbed onto the bed, covering your body with his, kissing him deep. His hands were everywhere—sliding up your sides, cupping your face, tangling in your hair. Like he couldn't decide where to touch, like he wanted all of you at once.

“Law,” you breathed when his mouth moved to your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point.

”Hm?”

”Need you.”

”I know. I’ve got you.”

His hands made quick work of your tits, his mouth following the path his hands had traced. When his lips closed around your nipple, you arched into him, fingers threading through his hair.

“Fuck,” you gasped.

He smiled against your skin, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make you moan. His hand slid down, pulling the band of your PJ’s, pulling them down your hips along with your underwear.

You kicked them off, and he shifted, leaning back against your headboard, pulling you forward. “Come here. Wanna see you.”

You straddled his lap, knees on either side of his hips, jeans rough against your legs. He groaned at the sight of you—naked and wanting above him.

“Fuck, yeah. Just like this,” he murmured, hands sliding up your thighs, spreading them wider over his lap. The position opened you up completely, put you on display for him. “Perfect.”

One hand gripped your hip, holding you steady, keeping you right where he wanted you. The other slid between your legs, fingers finding your wetness, teasing.

“Fuck, ma,” he groaned against your breast. “You're fucking soaked. This all for me?”

You nodded, grinding against him, already seeking more pressure.

"Yeah?” He pulled back to watch your face, fingers still just teasing, circling but not giving you what you needed. “Been thinking about this? About my fingers inside you?”

“Law, please—”

“Please what?” His eyes were dark, hungry, one finger barely dipping inside before pulling back out. “Use your words, ma.”

“Inside—need you inside—”

“Like this?” He slid two fingers in at once, slow and deep, watching your face contort with pleasure. “Fuck, look at you. So fucking tight you can barely take two fingers.”

You gasped, back arching, and he groaned, feeling his fingers starting to sink deeper into your needy cunt.

“There you go. Taking them so good now.” He started moving them, slow deliberate thrusts that made you whimper. “Feel that? Feel how tight you are? Fucking gripping my fingers like you don't want to let go.”

“Fuck—Law—”

“I know, baby, I know.” His fingers curled, finding that spot, and you cried out. “Right there? Yeah, that's it. Gonna make you fall apart on my fingers. Gonna watch you come undone.”

His thumb found your clit, circling. The feeling of Law inside you, fucking you with his fingers, and the added sensations from his stimulation made your thighs shake.

“So fucking pretty like this,” he murmured. “All spread out on me, taking my fingers, making those desperate little sounds. You have any idea what you look like right now?”

“Law—please—”

He added a third finger, the stretch almost too much, and you keened. “Fuck, ma. So tight. Can barely fit three. How you gonna take my cock later if you can barely take my fingers?”

“I can—I will—fuck—”

“Yeah you will.” His fingers moved faster now, harder, the obscene wet sound of it filling the room. “Gonna stretch you out nice and good. Feel how wet you are? Hear that? That's all you, ma. Dripping down my fingers, soaking my hand.”

You were gasping, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the building tension waiting to be relieved.

“That’s it. Fuck my fingers. Show me how bad you need it.” His eyes were locked on your cunt, watching how his fingers disappeared inside you. “Look at this greedy little pussy. Clenching so fucking tight. Can feel every squeeze. You getting close, ma?”

“Yes—yes—fuck—”

“Yeah you are. Can feel it. Getting tighter and tighter.” His thumb pressed harder on your clit, fingers curling relentlessly. “Gonna cum all over my fingers? Gonna make a pretty mess?”

“Law—I'm—”

“I know. I can feel it. This tight little cunt is about to strangle my fingers.” He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Come on, ma. Give it to me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”

You came with a broken cry, clenching around his fingers so hard it almost hurt, thighs quivering, whole body going taut. He groaned, working you through it, fingers gentler but still moving, drawing out every last wave of pleasure roaring through you.

“Fuck, there you go. That’s my girl. Look at you. So fucking perfect.” He kept murmuring, filthy and sweet, as you came down trembling.

When he pulled his hand away, you winced at the loss of contact—watching as he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean, eyes locked on yours, tongue sliding between each digit.

“Fucking delicious,” he purred. “Could do that all night.”

You pulled him on top of you for a kiss, tasting yourself in his mouth, already reaching for his jeans, feeling the strain against them.

“Ma—”

“I want you. Fucking need you too.” 

You pushed him back down, straddled his hips, kissed him deep while your hands worked his belt, his zipper. He lifted his hips, allowing you to push his jeans and boxers down. Then he was bare beneath you, hard and already leaking pre-cum.

You took him in hand, stroking slowly, watching his face as his eyes fluttered closed, jaw going tight.

“Fuck, ma—”

“I know babe, I know.” 

“Cond—” You cut him off by pressing your other hand to his lips. 

“I don’t fucking care. I want this.”

He nodded, giving you the green light.

You positioned yourself over him, sinking down slowly, the stretch burning in the best way, gasping at how full you feel with him inside you.

“Babe—”

”Thats—ma—fuck—”

You started moving, starting with slow rolls of your hips, easing him all the way until you ass hits his balls. His hands guided you, helped you find the rhythm, thumbs pressing into your hipbones.

It wasn’t frantic. It was slow and lazy and perfect—like you both had all the time in the world. His hands on your body, your hands on his chest, feeling his skin. 

“So good,” he murmured, watching you bounce on his cock. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

You leaned down to kiss him, changing the angle, and he groaned into your mouth.

”Ma, just like that—just—fuck—like that.” His hands slid up your sides, cupping your tits, thumbs circling your nipples. “Love watching you ride on my cock. Taking it so good.” 

You rolled your hips faster, chasing the friction, and he bucked up to meet you.

“That's it. Take what you need” His voice was wrecked, hands moving back down to your hips, gripping tighter. “Look so fucking good like this. All desperate and needy on my dick.”

“Law—“

“Mhm, can feel you getting tighter. You gonna cum on my cock? After cumming on my fingers?” He thrust up harder, hitting that spot that always made you see stars. “You’re just a little fucking slut that needs to be filled.”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

“Your greedy little pussy just wants more, doesn’t it?” His hands suddenly gripped your hips tighter—enough to bruise, and planted his feet on the mattress.

“Law—please—”. You whined.

“Then fucking take it.”  

He started fucking up into you—hard, fast, brutal. The change in pace made you cry out, hands pressing into his chest to brace yourself as he pounded you from below.

“Law—fuck—!”

“That’s it, ma. Let me hear you.” His hips snapped relentlessly, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. “This is what you need? Need me to fuck you hard?’

“Yes—yes, god—please—”

One hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit and pressing hard. “Taking what I give you. Being so fucking good for me.”

You were barely holding yourself up, thighs shaking, overwhelmed by the pace and the way he was hitting that spot over and over. 

“Mine. All fucking mine.” He fucked into you harder, chasing both your highs. 

The combination—his cock pounding into you like a jackhammer, his thumb circling your clit, his possessive words—-shoved you right to the edge.

“So tight, ma. Mirala así, chingándome. Que puta.” His hips rammed up faster now, meeting your movements. “Gripping me so fucking tight.”

You were gasping, hands braced on his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palms, skin slick with sweat. The tattoos shifted with every breath, every thrust.

“Law—I’m close—”

“Yeah? Gonna cum all over my cock?” His thumb pressed harder, circling faster. “Do it. Come on, ma. Let me feel it.”

You came with a broken cry, clenching around him so hard you felt him jerk beneath you.

“Fuck—” he groaned, hips stuttering. “So fucking—keep squeezing—ma—I’m—”

”Pull out,” you managed, still trembling.

”Now—” he gasped.

You lifted off him and he came across his stomach with a choked groan, head thrown back, throat exposed, cum painting the ink across his abs and chest. You watched him fall apart beneath you, chest heaving, tattooed, and pierced and yours.

Before he could do anything to clean up, you leaned down, tongue tracing the lines of cum across his stomach, his chest, licking him clean. Tasting him.

You always knew cum was an acquired taste, but fuck—

Could he be any more perfect?

His whole body flinched, hands flying to your hair. “You’re gonna kill me.” 

You grinned up at him, licking your lips. “You complaining?”

“Fuck no.” He pulled you up to kiss you, deep and hungry, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands framed your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones as he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the taste, the feel, everything. The piercings were familiar now—cool metal and warm lips, the scrape of his teeth, tongue sliding against yours. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through both of you, need and satisfaction and something that felt dangerously close to worship. “You’re fucking perfect.”

After a moment, he pulled you down against his chest, both of you still catching your breath.

“That was—“ you started.

“Yeah.”

His hand traced lazy patterns on your back, up and down your spine, soothing and grounding.

“Law?”

“Mm?”

“You didn't have to come over.”

“I know.”

“But I'm glad you did.”

He kissed the top of your head, long and lingering. “Me too, ma.”

You fell asleep like that—tangled together, his heartbeat steady under your ear, his fingers still tracing patterns on your skin. Safe. Warm. His.

Chapter Text

You woke up to movement—careful, deliberate, trying not to disturb you.

The room was still mostly dark, early morning light just starting to filter through your thin curtains. Law was extracting himself from your bed, moving slow, one arm still trapped beneath you.

“Sorry,” he whispered when you stirred. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

”S’okay, babe.” Your voice was rough with sleep. “What time is it?”

He stretched up, checking the alarm clock on your nightstand, by your side of the bed. “A…little after eight.”

“Where you going?”

“Gotta head home. Handle some shit.” He finally got his arm free, immediately using it to brush hair out of your face, his eyes meeting yours. “You working today?”

“No. Day off.”

”Fuck. Do you want me to stay?” He reached to the floor, dragging up his jeans.

“You said you had shit to handle.”

“I can handle it later.” He shrugged, halfway into his jeans.

You smiled, still half-asleep. “It’s fine, babe. Go do your thing. I’m just gonna sleep in anyway.”

“You sure?” 

“Yeah.” You pulled the blanket up higher, “Text me later though?”

“Yeah. Of course.” He smiled, pulling his jeans all the way, leaning down to cup your face with both hands, and pressed his lips to your forehead—soft and lingering, like a promise. His breath was warm against your skin, the kiss lasting longer than anticipated. When he pulled back, his thumbs stroked your temples gently, and you could see the vulnerability in his eyes in the dim morning light. “Go back to sleep, ma.”

“Mm.”

He got up, brushed his hands through his messy hair, going into the connected bathroom, splashing his face with cold water. You watched him move around your room, in the dim light through half-closed eyes, memorizing the way he looked—messy hair, no shirt, the tattoos on his arms catching the early light.

At the door, he paused. “Ma?”

“Yeah?”

“Love you.”

You smiled into your pillow. “I love you too.”

“See you later?”

“See you later, babe.”

He left quietly, and you heard the apartment door click shut, his footsteps fading down the stairs. You rolled over into the warm spot he'd left behind, his smell still on your sheets, and fell back asleep smiling.

When you finally woke up again, it was 1PM and your phone was flooded with a barrage of texts from Law.

Law: you awake

Law: probably not

Law: text me when you are

Law: im packing and i dont know what to bring

Law: do i need like

Law: beach clothes

Law: what are beach clothes

Law: ma help

You called him instead of texting back.

“Beach clothes?” you said when he picked up, trying your hardest not to laugh.

“I don't know what to bring.” He sounded genuinely stressed. “I've got jeans and band shirts. That's it.”

“That's fine. It's December, it's not like we're swimming.”

“Shachi says there's a beach.”

“There's always a beach. Doesn't mean we're going in the water.”

“But what if we do?”

“Then we go in with our clothes on like normal people.” You rolled over in bed, phone pressed to your ear, still cozy in the spot where he'd slept. “Why are you panicking about this?”

“I'm not panicking.”

“You texted me like…six, seven times about beach clothes.”

“I'm... concerned.”

“You're panicking.”

“Shut up.”

You couldn’t hold it any longer, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. 

“Don’t fucking laugh at me,” he huffed. “I don’t know, babe. I don't do this shit.”

You laughed, sitting up properly now. “Right. Want me to come over? Help you pack?”

“Tch, fuck off.” There was a pause. Then—“Yeah. Actually, yeah. If you want.”

“Give me an hour.”

“Okay.” His voice softened. “Thanks, ma.”

“Stop thanking me for shit.”

“Can't help it.”

You showed up at Law's apartment at 2 PM with coffee and that specific determination to make sure he didn't pack like a clueless man-child. His apartment was its usual state of organized chaos—his bass propped against the wall, a pile of aux cables tangled on the floor, his second amp beside it. Clothes in piles that might or might not be clean, the persistent smell of weed and incense.

You turned to the open door leading to his room—he was standing in front of his tiny closet looking genuinely distressed.

“Okay,” you said, setting down your coffee. “Show me what you've got so far.”

He gestured to his bed where he'd laid out: three black t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, a handful of boxers, and a hoodie.

“That's it?”

“What else do I need?”

“Toothbrush?”

“Fuck.”

“Deodorant?”

“I have that.” He pointed to the bathroom. “Somewhere.”

“Phone charger?”

“Shit.”

Fucking men.

You sighed. “Okay. Sit down. Let me do this.”

For the next thirty minutes you actually packed for him like he was a kid going to summer camp. Clothes that weren't too wrinkled. Toothbrush and toothpaste. Deodorant (found under the bathroom sink for some reason). Phone charger. The good joint case, not the shitty one. His leather jacket because it might be cold.

“Bathing suit?” you asked.

“Don't have one.”

“Law.”

“What? When would I need a bathing suit?”

“For the hot tub Shachi keeps fucking talking about.”

“I'll just wear boxers.”

“That's disgusting babe.”

“It's practical.”

You gave up on that front.

While you packed, Law sat on his bed watching you, smoking a joint, occasionally offering useless input like "I don't need that many shirts" (he did) or "that jacket's too nice" (it wasn't—it was held together with patches and safety pins, but still—nice).

“You're good at this,” he observed.

“At packing?”

“At taking care of shit. Me.” He took a drag. "I don't usually let people do that."

“Do what?”

“Take care of me.” He was looking at you with that expression he got sometimes, the one where you could see past all the walls and defensive bullshit to something softer underneath. “But you do it anyway.”

“’Cause you need it.”

“I know.” He was quiet for a moment. “Thanks.”

“I thought I told you to stop thanking me.”

“Can't help it.” He patted the bed next to him. “Come here.”

You abandoned the packing, set his bag on the floor and sat next to him. He immediately pulled you against his chest, one arm around your waist, the joint dangling from his other hand—like he’d been waiting for you it finish so he could have you close.

"I'm excited," he said quietly. "About Saturday. About all of it."

"Me too."

"I want it to be good. The show, the weekend, everything."

"It will be."

"You don't know that, ma.”

"I do." You tilted your head to look at him. "Because I'll be with you. And you'll be playing music. And we'll have the whole weekend. It's gonna be good, Law."

He kissed the top of your head. "Yeah. Okay."

You stayed like that for a while, just sitting together while he smoked and you traced the tattoos on his arm and the cloudy December sun came through his shitty curtains. His heartbeat was steady under your ear. The vitiligo patches on his arms were warm where your fingers touched them.

"Two more days," he said eventually.

"Two more days."

"You working tomorrow?"

"Unfortunately."

“How long?"

“Nine to six.”

“That's fucking brutal.”

“I know.” You sighed. “But then Friday's my normal shift, then the show, then we leave. Just gotta survive tomorrow.”

“You will.”

“Confident.”

“In you? Always.” He stubbed out the joint, pulled you closer. “Stay for a while?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

You ended up falling asleep there, curled up on his bed with his arm around you and the afternoon light fading. When you woke up around 8 PM, he was still asleep, his face buried in your hair, breath warm against your neck, and for a moment you just lay there thinking about how three weeks ago you weren't sure what you were to each other, and now you were packing for weekend trips and sleeping in his bed in the middle of the afternoon like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your phone buzzed—Ikkaku.

Ikka: you ready for tomorrow?

Ikka: jb is gonna be ON ONE

You: i know

You: im fucked

Ikka: gl soldier

Ikka: 🫡

You: ty im gonna need it

Law stirred, tightened his arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “What time is it?”

“Eight.”

“Pinga.” He didn't move though. “You should probably go home. Get sleep before tomorrow.”

“Mmm, yeah. Probably.”

Yet you stayed in his arms, neither of you moving.

“Or…” he started slowly, voice still rough with sleep, “you could stay. I’ll drive you home in the morning.”

“I’d still need to change for work though, babe.”

“So…go home first, then work. I’ll drive you.”

“It would be really early, though. You’d wake up for that?”

“For you, ma? Fuck yeah.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You turned to face Law, still wrapped around him. “Okay. Yeah, then. I’ll stay.”

“Good.” He gave you a kiss. “Means I get you for longer.”

“Sap.”

“Don’t act like you don’t like that shit.”

“Tch.”

Chapter Text

You fell back asleep like that, and when you woke up Thursday morning to your alarm at 7 AM, Law was already awake, looking at you with that soft expression he only ever had in moments like this.

"Morning, ma."

"Morning."

"Ready for hell?"

"Absolutely not."

“That’s the spirit.”

The week had crawled by in that specific torture of working retail in during the holiday season in one of the most popular malls in your city—folding, more folding, entitled customers, JB’s…creative commentary about “commitment” and “reliability”. 

You picked up that extra Thursday shift, suffering through nine fucking hours of register duty—smile-and-scan hell, picky ass people and returns and 'do you have this in the back?'. Ikkaku never worked Thursdays, so you trudged through, alone, eating in the mall food court, and texted Law during your lunch break.

You: kms

You: this shift is asscheeks

Law: that bad?

You: jb is punishing me

You: im convinced 

Law: want me to come beat him up

You: yes pls

You: WAIT

Law: on my way

You: DONT

You: i need this job

You: hed beat the shit out of you anyways

Law: bullshit

Law: ill see if i can come tho

You: beat up a lady in the line if u do

You: im fucking tired

Law: bet

You stared at the screen, and checked the time:

12:45P.M.

There were 15 minutes left in your lunch break, and 5 hours until you could clock out. You let out a sigh, staring down at your cold overpriced spaghetti and (pink) meatball. It tasted like shit, but it was something in your stomach. 

You ate it anyways.

Your phone buzzed again.

Law: actually coming

Law: pen needs shit from the mall anyway

You: kk

Almost instantly after getting his text, your eyes began scanning for him—as if it wouldn’t take him the rest of your lunch shift to show up.

Law: wya

You: food court

You: the bullshit Italian place

You: sbarro

Law: bet

Law: 10 min

Well, okay, five minutes before your lunch break ended. You looked down at your spaghetti, then at yourself. You were in your work uniform—khakis and that stupid polo with the store logo embroidered on the chest. Your hair was pulled back in a ponytail that had started somewhat neat when you started your shift at 9AM and was now drooping and giving up on itself, pulling at that one strand that hurt like a bitch. You probably smell like pomodoro sauce and the dust from the storage room.

Whatever. Law had seen you worse.

Surprisingly, Law actually showed up. Even more surprising, he came early. Eight minutes later, you spotted him cutting through the food court crowd, your chest doing that stupid thing it always does. Spotted denim jeans slung low on his hips—his faded, overwashed FIDLAR t-shirt he cut at the sides, low enough to see his rib cage, fabric hanging loosely. The dermal on his cheek caught the harsh fluorescent white mall lighting, snake bites glinting. Tattoos on full display—the “DEATH” splayed across both his knuckles visible even from across the food court. 

He looked so out of place in this mall hell that it was almost funny.

Several people had stopped to gawk as he walked past. A mom with a stroller gave him a wide-eyed stare before walking away from him. A security guard’s eyes tracked him before realizing he’s not worth the trouble.

Law didn’t notice any of that shit, though. His eyes were on you. 

"Ma." He slid into the plastic chair across from you, immediately eyeing your spaghetti with visible disgust. "That looks fucking disgusting."

"It is."

"Why are you eating it?"

"Because it's ten dollars and I'm broke." You stabbed the pink meatball, breaking it open—trying to get whatever protein out of every bite. “The mall doesn’t exactly have good food, except the Cheesecake Factory, maybe. But it’s like thirty bucks a plate of the same shit I’m eating.”

"Sí, but ma—That meatball is pink."

"I know."

"That's not a good color for meat, ma."

"I know." You pushed the container away. "What are you doing here? I thought you were just talking out of your ass."

“I wasn’t.” He reached across the sticky table, laced his fingers through yours. His hands were cold from outside, tattooed knuckles stark against your skin. His thumb traced circles on your palm—constant, rhythmic, like he needed the motion to stay grounded. You squeezed back and felt his grip tighten just a fraction too much before relaxing.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah. Just wanted to see you.” He brought your hand to his lips, kissed your knuckles. His jaw worked slightly as he pulled back. “Tomorrow's gonna be good.”

The way he said it—like he was convincing himself more than you. “Pen’ actually does need shit from the mall. And I wanted to see you.”

“You saw me Tuesday. You saw me yesterday. You saw me this morning. You drove me to work.”

“Tch. That was like—I don’t fucking know—seven hours ago?” His thumb traced circles on your palm. “That’s a long time.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Maybe.” He grinned, that lazy smirk that made your stomach flip. “But you love it.”

 You did. Stupidly, completely, you did.

“How much time you got left?”

“Uh…” you check your phone again: 12:54 P.M. “Like 6 more minutes now.”

“Fuck. That’s nothing.” He pulled out a joint from his jacket pocket—already rolled, waiting. “Wanna take a walk?”

“Babe, we’re in a mall.”

“So? There’s exits.”

“Babe—even if I wanted to, which I fucking do, I can’t,” you reasoned.

“¿Por qué?”

“I—fucking JB. If I come in there smelling like weed, he will actually fucking kill me.”

“JB sounds like he needs to chill. Fucker needs the weed more than I do.”

“He needs a lot of shit.” You glanced at your phone—five more minutes. “But he's also my boss and I kind of need this job to, ya know, have a goddamn roof over my head.” 

“Fine.” He pocketed the joint again, not before twirling it between his fingers—a habit you’d noticed when he was antsy. “Then I’ll just sit here and make your shitty day better.”

“How?”

“Dunno. Tell you you’re pretty? Tell you all the dirty things I want to do, here in public?” His eyes dragged over you deliberately, and even in the harsh mall lighting there was hunger in that look. “You are pretty, by the way. Even in those ugly ass khakis.”

You kicked his shin under the table. “Shut up, like you know anything about fashion, looking like the ghost of fuckin’ punk’s past.”

“I’m serious. You make it look good. That’s a talent, ma.”

You paused for a moment, staring at him in disbelief, your mouth agape. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Right,” Law scoffed. He squeezed your hand, and his expression shifted slightly—losing some of the playful edge he always kept, more serious. “So, JB’s being a dick?”

“JB’s always a dick. But yeah, extra…dick-y today. Made me do returns for three. HOURS. Babe, three hours straight this morning. I want to fucking die.”

“What’s wrong with returns?”

“Everything.” You slumped forward, exhausted just thinking about it. “People trying to return shit from like five years ago with no receipt. And the people who’ve clearly worn something, trying to say ‘it came like that’, you complained, mocking the customers using a high-pitched voice. “Like no, Lauren, your blue blouse wasn’t purchased with your husband’s cum stain on it already.”

Law choked on his drink—your drink technically, but ‘he was thirsty’. “What?”

“No, deadass. Lady came trying to return a blouse with a stain on the collar, some bullshit like that. Said it was on it when she bought it.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

“Welcome to my world.” You pushed the cold, sad spaghetti further away, now on the edge of the table farthest from you both. “Listen, game is game, I don't care. If someone got cum-shotted in one of our blouses, so be it. Just—I don't understand why you’d try giving that back.” You whined, feeling grossed out yourself at recalling the memory. “And when I told her I couldn’t accept that shit, she asked for my manager. So then I got to stand there watching this woman try to avoid admitting she blew her husband, while JB dealt with it and pretended to be sorry for her while also not accepting the fucking shirt, and I’m just there—standing behind him haunted by where that fucking CUM STAIN came from.” 

“Jesus, ma.”

“I got—what? Five more hours of this bullshit? Kill me, NOW.”

Law met your gaze, face furrowed in concern. “You sure you good, ma? Sounds fuckin’ brutal.”

“I know.” You traced the symbol tattooed on his hand absently. “But it’s fine. Tomorrow’s just my regular shift, then the show, then we get the hell out of here. Just gotta get through today.”

“You will.” He said it with certainty, like it was fact. “You’re tougher than you think.”

“I promise you, I am not.”

“Bullshit. You deal with JB and customers screaming. Hell ma, you deal with me. You fucking got this shit.”

Despite everything, you smiled. “You’re right, you’re right. You are kind of a shithead.” 

“You love me though.”

“I do. Shithead.”

“See? I fuckin’ knew it. You’re more of the shithead, by the way.”

You rolled your eyes, scoffing at his banter. “Right.”

“Just saying.” He was quiet for a moment, just looking at you with that stupid, lovesick puppy expression on his face that still made your heart skip. Then—“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Tomorrow night. After the show.” His jaw worked slightly—you could tell he’d already done a line or two today, that wired edge hidden beneath his calm. “It’s gonna be good. The drive, the weekend, you, all of it. Just wanted to remind you…I guess how you did to me last night.”

You snorted, amused and in love with this man. “When I told you it’d be fine after you panicked about beach clothes?”

“I wasn’t—“

“You were, babe. You texted me I don't fucking know how many times about what to pack.”

“That's…concern.”

“That’s called panicking.” You squeezed his hand. “But, yeah. It’s gonna be good. I know it’ll be.”

“Call it what you want,” he scoffed.

You checked your phone—12:58.

 “Shit, my lunch break’s about to end.”

“I’ll walk you back.” He was already standing, grabbing the pink meatball container to throw away for you.

“You don't have to—”

“I want to.” His hand found yours immediately. 

You walked through the mall together. He kept pace with you, thumb tracing circles on your palm. That constant motion. “What's Penguin need anyway?" 

“Strings. He used the A string in his pack a while ago, needs a new one now.”

“Oh. Nice.”

“Said he needed a whole new pack of strings. Guess he wants them to hold pitch better,” Law reasoned. “It’s been like a month since he needed a full restring?” 

You nodded along, listening. “Does he need new strings? I—I mean, I don't know babe, it's just like…every month, he restrings?”

Law shrugged. “When you play as often as we do, ma, or as aggressive, we gotta.”

“Huh, didn’t know that.”

“Now you do.”

The rest of the walk was what felt like comfortable silence—Law’s hand still holding on to yours tightly, keeping you as close to his side as possible.

At the store entrance, he stopped. Pulled you close.

“See you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah. Or…you can pick me up. After my shift.”

“Text me when you’re off.” He kisses your forehead. Lingered. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “Good luck with the rest of this shit.”

“Thanks, babe.”

He kissed you again—on the mouth this time. Soft, then deeper. Like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours. “Love you.”

 “Love you too." 

“Yeah.” He nodded, more to himself than you. “Okay. Go before that JB asshole gives you shit.” You squeezed his hand one more time before heading in. You clocked back in at 1:02. JB gave you a look but said nothing.

Around thirty minutes later, your phone buzzed.

Law: got pens strings

You: niceee

You: he gonna pay you back?

Law: lmao no

You: shocking

A pause. Then—

Law: miss you already

You smiled, despite both yourself and your…environment. 

You: dramatic asf 

You: been like 30mins

Before you could see Law’s reply, a customer approached you. You pocketed your phone immediately and tended to whatever the fuck they needed. When you checked it again ten minutes later—

Law: long time

Law: have a good rest of yr shift

Law: see you ltr

You: see u laterr

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Law: cant wait

You: same

You shoved your phone in your pocket once more, smiling. He was excited about tomorrow and Saturday. It was sweet.

You pushed through the rest of your shift and hated every second it dragged on. Fold, re-fold, answer random customers asking if you had ‘anything in the back’—and you’d always reply no—JB hovering, the usual that came with your shift.

Finally—fucking finally, you clocked out at 6:04P.M.

You: IM FREEEEEEE

Law: u r?

You: YES BABE YES YES YES YES IM FREE

You: might order uber to take me home

You: gonna wallow and die

The response came immediately. 

Law: come over instead 

You: babe im dead

Law: ill order food 

Law: you can just sleep here

Law: pls

Oh, that clingy fucker. He hated it when his friends point it out—but holy fuck, if he wasn’t wishing to be stuck on you like glue. 

He was yours, and he was fucking perfect.

You: probs gonna take the bus home first

You: gonna shower n change n shit

Law: just wait there

Law: im on the way

You: babe its fine

Law: give me like 30 minutes

You: you dont have to 

You: i was gonna come over after
Law: i want to
You: save the gas

You: pick me up at my apartment 

Law: yyyyyyyy

You laughed out loud at your phone. Such a whiny bitch baby. (You loved it.)

You: needa get my shit babe

Law: fine

Law: ill be there
You: okay babe

You: i love youuuuu

Law: love u too ma

You shoved your phone back into the depths of your back pocket, smiling as you grabbed your bag from the break room, and rushed out—no Ikkaku to say bye to—the fluorescent lighting blurring atop you, blessed with the finality that you were fucking done.

The mall was packed—holiday shopping in full swing—weaving through crowds of people carrying bags, kids running around, whining, pleading and throwing tantrums outside of Build-A-Bear. What a wonderful time of the year.

You made it through, stepping outside; the cold December air hitting you like a slap, cutting through your work polo.

You pulled out your phone as you walked to the bus stop, your ride already pulling up.

You: leaving now

You: gonna take the bus

Law: already on my way
Law: ill be there in 20

You: babe you didnt have to leave yet

Law: wanted to

Law: missed you

You couldn't help but grin at your phone, heart doing that stupid thing it always did.

You: babe you saw me during lunch
Law: thats not long enough

Law: want u here beside me

You: youre being so clingy

You: i love it lmao

Law: yeah u do

The ride home was the usual—somewhat crowded, someone’s music bleeding through their cheap, off-brand headphones. You zoned out, forehead pressed against the window, watching the traffic blur past. Your feet ached, your head was pounding from dealing with customers and JB’s bullshit all day.

But Law was picking you up. Law ordered food. Law wanted you to stay over. 

The bus dropped you off two blocks from your apartment. You walked fast, keys already in hand, the cold biting at your face.

Inside, you didn't bother with anything fancy. Grabbed your overnight bag—the one that was becoming a permanent fixture now, always half-packed for nights at his place. Threw in some clean clothes—though lately you started keeping your own collection in his apartment—your toothbrush, your charger. Changed out of your work polo into something more comfortable—a hoodie and jeans.

Your phone buzzed.

Law: outside

You grabbed your bag, locked the door, and practically ran down the stairs.

He picked you up at around 6:30, already had the Volvo idling outside your building when you came down. You climbed in and and immediately clocked it—weed, strong and fresh.

“You started without me?” You teased, looking at the joint balanced between his lips. 

“Just a little.” He grinned, pulling across the center console for a kiss. “Got it started for us. So you didn’t have to wait, ma.” 

You took the joint from his hand, taking a drag. “Thanks, babe.” 

“Look who’s thanking who now.”

You scoffed, smiling at him. “Shut up.”

“Can’t help it. Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Home. He said so casually, like his apartment was yours too. Despite the fact that it hadn’t been that long since you two were official.

“Yeah. Let’s go home.”

The Volvo pulled away from the curb, engine sputtering once before catching. Law’s hand found your thigh immediately, warm and comforting after being in what felt like hell for the past nine hours.

“So.” He grabbed the joint between your fingers, taking a drag. “How bad was the rest of it?”

“It was okay, I guess.”

It was not okay.

“No more cum blouses?”

“Thankfully. Returns are still a pain in the ass, though.”

“Sounds like it. But you made it.”

You pull your cart from your bag, adding into the cloud of smoke growing between you both. “Thank fucking god.”

The city and traffic lights blurred as he drove through the familiar route of his apartment. 

A couple minutes passed, and Law pulled into the driveway, hand squeezing your thigh, the smoke still surrounding you both like a haze. “We’re here, ma.”

You climbed out the car, slinging your overnight bag on your shoulder, pocketing your cart and phone. 

When Law opened the door—the familiar scent of weed and incense hit your nose, and…Fabuloso?

Had Law really cleaned up?

Scanning the room, it still looked like the usual—bass against the wall, amp next to it—but the cables were nicely wound atop, and his clothes were in actual piles instead of scattered. The coffee table had also been wiped down.

“You cleaned?”

He did. Sort of. 

“I…” Law started, his face turning red. “I know that Wednesday, it was a mess and—”

“Babe,” you countered, cutting him off. “I would’ve said something if your apartment was a fucking pig’s stye. You didn’t need to clean up like this.”

“I wanted to.” He stated bluntly. “Sit, come on.” He started ushering you to the couch, taking your bag and placing it on the coffee table. “I’ll order something.”

“Law, I can—”

“Siéntate, ma.” Gentle but firm. “Let me take care of you for once.”

You sighed, nodding, and sank into the couch, groaning in relief as your retail-destroyed feet finally got a break. He disappeared into his room, came back with his memory foam pillow and that yellow Jolly Roger hoodie you've come to love so much.

“Here.” He tossed you the hoodie and the pillow. “Get comfy.” 

You change right there—too tired to give a fuck—pulling off your work polo, kicking off your work khakis and unclasping your bra. Letting your tits loose, you slid into his hoodie. Law just…stood there, almost enamored at just how easy it was—for both of you, to be so comfortable in each other's spaces. He made his way towards you, dropping down on the couch, wrapping his arms around your waist, bringing you close to him.

“Anything you want to eat, ma?”

“Pad Thai. I’ve been craving it for a hot fucking minute.”

He unlocked his phone, already pulling up your favorite Asian restaurant—a Chinese place with various dish interpretations. His leg started bouncing—his typical restless energy he can’t quite contain.

“You want gyozas too?”

“Yeah, if you’re getting some.”

“Steamed, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Okay.” His thumb moved impatiently across the screen, scrolling, adding things to the cart. Your Pad Thai. Gyozas. His Donburi. Removed the gyozas. Added them back.

You watched him, head resting on his shoulder. “You okay, babe?”

“Hm? Uh—Yeah. Just—Just making sure I got everything.”

“Oh. I mean—okay.”

It was Pad Thai, Donburi, and gyozas. Not exactly a complicated order.

“You sure?” You pressed.

“I’m sure, ma. Just—relax, ‘kay?”

“Okay…If you say so.”

“Good.” He smiled, bringing your face to his for a quick peck.

Law placed the order, setting his phone down, nuzzling himself into you. “Thirty-five minutes.” 

“Thanks, babe,” you smiled and gave him another kiss.

“‘Course, ma. I gotchu.” He reached for the remote, flicking the TV on. “What’d you wanna watch?”

“I don’t care, honestly. Whatever works.”

“A’ight then.” He scrolled through his Netflix profiles, clicking yours and headed towards your ‘Continue Watching’, and pressed play on 90 Day Fiancé.

You perked up despite your exhaustion. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did. These people are fucking insane.”

“It’s entertaining because they are.”

He settled back, pulling you closer. “It’s like a car crash in slow motion. It’s so fucking bad, but you really can’t stop looking.”

You hummed in agreement, already relaxing into him. On screen, some odd couple—a 31-year age gap that was totally not for the visa—argued about how the older man had put mayonnaise in his hair, substituting for conditioner.

“This guy,” Law muttered, watching the screen. “So nasty.”

“What, like you’ve never used mayo instead of conditioner?”

Law stared at you, mouth agape. “Ex-fucking-scuse me?”

You cackled, taking in his expression. “Oh my god your faaaceeee!” 

He grumbled, still staring daggers at you. “That’s—ma, that’s fucking disgusting.” He gestured at the screen, genuinely offended, “Mayo? En el PELO?” 

You hold your finger to his face, pulling out your phone to Google it.

“A-HAH! See? Word-for-word, babe: Mayonnaise works as an intensive, DIY deep-conditioning hair mask to soften, moisturize, and add shine to dry or damaged hair.”

“It’s fucking MAYO. You’re defending Mayo Hair Guy right now?”

“I’m not defending him, I’m just—“

“Nah, nah. You lost me at pelo de mayonesa.” But he was smiling now, shaking his head, “Asqueroso. That’s nasty. ”

His hand rested on your hip, his warmth reaching you through the hoodie. You settled deeper into his chest watching as the fat, older man tried to justify his choices (and scent) while the younger woman looked increasingly done with his shit.

“She’s gonna leave him,” you predicted.

“She should’ve left before he put condiments in his hair.” Law’s hand started moving—slow absentminded circles on your hip that gradually drifted closer. “He’s not even dating a woman in the same age category as him. He's a walking red flag.”

You didn’t really think much of it at first. Just Law being him—touchy and needing contact.

Then his palm slid under the hoodie finger splaying across your bare stomach.

“Law—“

“Shh. Just relax, ma.” His voice was low, breath warm against your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

His hand moved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear. Your breath hitched as his calloused fingers found you—already feeling the heat pool between your thighs despite your exhaustion.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Always so ready for me.”

On the TV, the man was still talking about his hair and “smelling like an egg salad sandwich.” You couldn't focus on the random bullshit on screen anymore, Law’s fingers moved slowly, deliberately, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips grind on him.

“That feel good, ma?”

“Mm-mhm.”

“Got my fingers all over that wet clit of yours.” He kissed your neck, teeth and piercings grazing your skin. “Gonna make you feel all better.”

His fingers worked you patiently—no rush, no urgency. Those steady, practiced ministrations that had your thighs spreading wider, head dropping back against his shoulder. His other arm stayed wrapped around you, holding you close, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“So fucking wet,” he murmured into your skin. “Wanna make you feel good, ma. After all that hard work you put in today. Wanna take care of you.”

One finger slid inside you, then two, curling just right. You gasped, hips rolling to meet the slow thrust of his hand. He was always skilled at this—the precise movements needed for instrumentation allowing him to use those fingers with amazing dexterity. The angle was perfect—his palm grinding against your clit with every pump of his fingers.

“There you go,” he praised, voice husky. “Take what you need from me. You earned it.”

His fingers worked deeper, stretching you, filling you—the slick sound obscene in the somewhat quiet room. There were still people arguing on the TV. You couldn’t hear over your own quiet pants, over the wet slide of his fingers fucking into you.

“Law—fuck—”

“Use my fingers, ma. They’re just for you tonight.” His lips found the nape of your neck, breath hot against your skin, making you shiver. “Let me take care of you. That’s all I want.”

The pressure built slowly, heat coiled tighter in your stomach. His fingers never stopped—that steady rhythm mimicking a metronome, curling to hit that spot inside you that made your thighs shake. 

“So perfect like this,” he muttered. “All soft and needy in my arms. Love feeling you fall apart like this on me.”

Your hand moved back, grabbing his wrist—not to stop him, just to anchor yourself. His tendons flexed under your grip as his fingers pumped into you, relentless yet patient all at once.

“Close, aren’t you?” His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling. “Can feel this pussy tightening up. Gonna cum all over my hand, ma?”

“Yeah—fuck, yeah—”

“That's my girl.” He kissed your temple, the sweet contrast to what he was doing to your pussy pushing you even close to the edge. His breathing was ragged against your hair, being in the moment as much as you were. “Let go for me. I got you.”

The orgasm rolled through you—deep and thorough. Your cunt clenched around his fingers, wave after wave of pleasure making your whole body go lax against him. He worked you through it, murmuring praise into your hair, fingers gentling but not stopping until the last aftershock faded.

When you finally went boneless in his arms, he slowly withdrew his hand. His fingers went straight to his mouth, sucking them clean. Bringing you in, he pulled you impossibly close—face buried in your neck, eyes closed, almost meditative—using every sense of you to keep him here.

When he opened his eyes again, his whole body shuddered once, like he’d been holding a breath and finally let go with a heavy sigh.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your skin.

“Don’t thank me, you sap, I told you don’t have to do that.”

He didn’t say anything. Just squeezed you tighter.

You gasped at the sudden pressure of his arms. “Law, are you—”

Knock, knock.

Someone was at the door.

His laugh was short, breathless. “Fuck. Food.”

“Yeah.” You tried shifting around, legs still shaky. “Food.”

He didn’t let go immediately. Just pressed one more kiss to your shoulder before releasing you. “Stay there. I’ll get it real quick.”

You stared back at the TV, watching the show still run. The mindless drama felt comforting after—whatever that was. Not that it was bad, on the contrary. Just…intense. Intense in a way you really couldn’t name.

Law came back with the bags, setting them on the coffee table. The smell of Pad Thai and gyozas filled the apartment, making your stomach growl. 

“Here.” He handed you your container and chopsticks, then settled back close to you on the couch with his Donburi. 

You dug in immediately, groaning at the first bite. “Oh my god, I’m fucking starving.”

“You didn’t eat anything else after lunch?”

“Not after that mall spaghetti, no.”

He made a face. “You needa eat, ma.” He shook his head, taking a bite of his food. “Why didn’t you get something para picar?”

“Para what?”

“Picar. Something to munch on, y’know? Snack.”

“Oh. I mean—couldn’t really get anything after lunch break. I was hungry even after, babe.” You nudged him with your shoulder. “Can't all be bassists with free schedules.”

“Fair.”

On screen the new couple was somehow even weirder than the one you and Law last saw—a 19-year-old Ukrainian woman and a 38-year-old American man.

“Shes dephinanlee eeeaving ’im,” you managed around a mouthful of noodles.

“No shit. Dudes a creep.” Law gestured at the screen with his chopsticks. “19 and 38? I bet you that's the tip of the iceberg.”

“She’s gotta be there only for the green card and money.”

“Obvio.” He took another bite. “Baht honestlee? Kahn nyuu lamer?” He swallowed. “Look at this guy.”

You laughed. “You're so mean.”

“I'm honest.” But he was smiling. “These shows are wild, ma. Like—who agrees to this shit? Cameras everywhere, whole relationship on display?”

“People who want attention. Or money. Or both.”

 “Mm.” He was quiet for a moment, watching the screen. Then—“Would you ever do something like that?”

 “What, marry some old dude for a visa?”

“No—I mean, the whole...public relationship thing. Cameras and shit.”

You looked at him, trying to read his expression. “I don’t know. Probably not. Seems invasive as fuck. Why?”

He shrugged, something careful in the gesture. “Just wondering. Like—what we got is... I don't know. Private. Ours.”

“Yeah.” Your chest did that thing again. “It is.”

“Good.” He leaned over, kissed your temple. “Wanna keep it that way.”

You ate in comfortable silence for a while, the TV providing background noise. Law finished first, set his container aside, then pulled you back against his chest. 

“Comfortable?” he murmured.

 “Mm-hmm.”

His hand found your hip again—just resting there this time, thumb tracing lazy circles.

On screen, another couple was now fighting—something about lies and expectations. You tried to follow the drama, but your eyelids were getting heavy. The combination of the hell shift, the pink meat at lunch, the orgasm, the full stomach—it was all catching up to you.

Law's heartbeat was steady against your back. His breathing slow and even. The warmth of him, the weight of his arm around you, the mindless noise of the TV—it all blurred together into something safe and comfortable.

“Ma?’ His voice was soft.

“Mm?”

“You falling asleep on me?”

“No,” you lied, already half-gone.

He laughed quietly, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back. “Liar.”

“'M just resting my eyes.”

“Sure you are.” His hand moved from your hip to your hair, fingers threading through gently. Not trying to keep you awake, just... touching. “Sleep if you want. I got you.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I'm not going anywhere.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, letting yourself sink deeper into him. The last thing you registered was his lips pressing against the top of your head, lingering there. And the fact that his heart was beating just a little too fast for someone sitting still.

But you were too tired to think about it.

Too comfortable to question it.

So you just... let go.

And fell asleep in his arms, surrounded by the smell of takeout and weed and him, while 90 Day Fiancé played on in the background and Law held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

Chapter Text

Thank the fucking gods. Today was your last shift of the week, the last time you’ll see your manager until Monday. You had started taking Fridays off, but—as Ikkaku had told you on Monday—JB’s gonna want blood.

And blood he got.

It was always better with Ikkaku around. Yesterday, when it was definitely needed, she didn’t have a shift. Though, Law did come during your lunch break and saved you for about…10 minutes.

It wasn’t much, but—honestly? Spending even just a couple minutes with your boyfriend was always better than nothing.

“Hey girl!” Ikkaku called as you were getting your bag from the break room. “Some plans coming up, huh?”

“Yeah, we’re driving up today after their show.”

“Nice, come back alive, ‘kay?”

“Fuck off,” you laughed. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m serious.” She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Two-hour drive at like midnight? With your punk-ass boyfriend who probably drives like a fucking maniac?”

“He drives fine,” you argued.

“Uh-huh. Sure.” But she was smiling. “Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That leaves literally everything on the table.”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “See you Monday, babes. Try not to come back too fucked out to walk.”

“No promises,” you laughed as you walked away, flipping her off. “I’ll tell you how it goes, ‘kay?”

“You better. See you Monday, girl.”

You turned back to face her for a moment, waving her good bye. “See ya.” 

With that, you make your way to the bus stop, heading to your apartment to get ready for tonight's show and drive.

The bus home was packed—the usual Friday evening rush. You zoned out, forehead against the window, thinking about the show. About Law on stage. About the weekend ahead.

You had dozed off twice on the ride home, almost missing your stop. 

When you had finally unlocked the door to your apartment (after fumbling with your damn keys for a minute), you showered fast, changed into actual clothes—jeans, a band tee (one of Law’s you’d stolen), your jacket. Added essential items to the mostly packed bag you had started Monday after JB’s phone call, and walked out the door with it.

On your way out, you texted Law:

You: omw out

Law: cant wait

You: gonna get coffee first

Law: nooo bro

You: i need it babe sybau

Law: but coffee is so ass

Law: yr still coming

You: no shit dumbass

Law: fuck off

Law: love u

You put your phone down and waited for the bus to go to your favorite bakery. It wasn’t much—being a small locally owned mom and pop—but they had the strongest beans you've had in a while.

As always, you were greeted by the owner and her daughter (whom you always forgot her name) with open arms. 

“Y/N! My girl! It’s been a while since you came! We haven’t seen you in…how long?” The owner—Bellemere—beamed.

“I think about…2 weeks maybe 3? I didn’t think it’d be that long,” you laughed.

“Well it's been that long, girl. Tell me, one of the last times you were here was for two coffees,” she recalled. “Do you want me to whip that up again for you—”

You cut her off. “No, no, just one, please. And a protein bar.”

“Oh. Okay. What size coffee and any extras ?”

“Belle, you know me. Large, sweet, and light on the milk.”

“I figured, still gotta ask anyway. Anything else beside the protein bar, hun?”

You shook your head. “That’s all. Thanks, Belle.”

“Of course. Nojiko, baby, can you ring her up, please?”

Her daughter—Nojiko, as you remembered now—jumped up back into focus and made her way to the register in a couple rushed strides. “Right…on it, mama. $8.49,” she provided.

You tapped your card on the machine, typed your pin and grabbed the coffee. “Thanks Belle! Bye you guys!” You announced on your way out.

“Always, hun. Don’t disappear on us again!”

You sighed as you sat down in the new bus you got onto and held your coffee tight while you ravaged on the poor Cliff bar with all the grace of a rabid raccoon, not caring who watched. Gods, you were hungry. 

The world blurred past you as you rode—the coffee being the only thing keeping you lucid and conscious as the time passed to make it before sound check. When you had finally arrived, you took a deep, grounding breath before standing, and made your way inside to what had become your second home.

“Sugar! You made it!” 

Which had a much stronger scent of its familiar musk of weed. You dropped your trash into the can beside the bar.

“Barely,” you smiled.

“Heard about the show tomorrow," Barto started, already fixing you your usual booze. “You excited?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, gratefully taking the beer from him. 

“Law’s been asking ‘bout you basically every five minutes. Been stinkin’ up my bar with way more grass than usual,” he remarked. “Head on back.”

You made your way through the empty chairs and tables toward the green room. The door was already cracked open, and you could hear them inside—Shachi’s laugh, Penguin’s voice, the low rumble of Law’s bass as he tuned.

Pushing the door open, Law looked up immediately, and something in his expression shifted—tension releasing from his shoulders you hadn’t even noticed was there.

“Ma.” He took a deep hit of his joint, setting it on the ashtray, placed the bass down, crossed the small space in two long strides, and pulled you against him. His hands framed your face, and he kissed you—deep and thorough, like he’d been waiting all day to do it.

“Damn, Cap,” Shachi whistled. “Get a room.”

“Shut the fuck up, Shach,” Law muttered against your mouth, but he was smiling when he pulled back. “You good?”

“Tired as fuck, but yeah. I’m good.”

His thumb traced your cheekbone—once, twice, like he was making sure you were really there. Then he seemed to catch himself and dropped his hands, stepping back. You dropped your bag on the floor next to the couch.

“Show’s in ten. You gonna watch from your usual spot?”

“Where else would I be?”

Something flickered across his face—relief, maybe. “Good.”

You settled onto the couch armrest while Penguin sorted out the mirror, watching Law pick Kikoku back up. He didn’t strap her on properly—just held her, sat her on his lap, one hand finding the neck while the other worked through a passage on the fretboard. Low, barely audible over the noise bleeding through the bar. The same four bars—the opening of Surgeon on Death.

“So…” Penguin started over his practice, grabbing the mirror and a rolled up dollar bill. “Pre-show bumps, anyone?”

Law’s response was immediate…almost too immediate, setting down Kikoku back down. 

“I’ll take some.”

“Shit…me too,” Shachi added, shrugging.

They all took their turn, snorts filling the air of the green room and noses wiggling at the sensation of it all.

Afterwards, Law checked his phone. “Five minutes.”

“Guess I should head that way then.” You turned to find your usual spot in the audience—hoping it wasn’t taken yet.

A hand on your arm—light but firm—stopped you when you reached the doorway. “Ma.” It came out quiet. Soft.

Your heart flipped.

“Yeah?”

His jaw worked as the coke settled into his body. “Tonight. Tonight’s gonna be great. We’re gonna have our time together after it all.”

You nodded, uncertain at what he was trying to get at. “For sure… It’ll be great. You’ll do great. As always,” you smiled, attempting to reassure him.

“Yeah. Nothing’s different. See you out there?”

You searched his face, not comprehending why you were. “Right where I usually am.”

Law nodded—once. Sharp. Before pressing his lips to your forehead, snakebites cold against it. A contrast to his warmer skin that was always welcomed. “See you soon, ma.”

With a quick squeeze of his hand and a slanted smile, you walked out of the green room and towards the bar.

“Sugar, you wantin’ anything?”

“Yeah, get me a beer. Corona Light.”

“Sure.”

You pulled out your card. “Open.”

He took the card from you, swiped it for the tab, and handed it back.

Beer in hand, you made your way over to the center of the audience, ignoring dirty looks you received as you pushed yourself through the crowd.

A minute later the lights dropped. The energy of the audience shifted in an instant. Words of conversation changed to uninhibited, wordless cheers.

Your eyes instinctively went to where they always entered, holding your breath—despite how many times you’d been here. Always looking, always searching. Always hell-bent on finding him.

They walked out together, aura never failing to radiate off of each of them, settling into their places.

Shachi did his usual countdown and the opening notes of “Puppet Master”—comitted to memory—blared through speakers that had long since seen their days.

Through the hard, filthy punch of the instruments, Law’s voice punctured through it all. Low and rough. Deep and gritty. Building the crowd and band’s energy into something excitable.

It didn’t take long for his eyes to find yours, being right where you said you’d be.

You hardly saw it—the way his eyes seemed to just soften enough for you to notice from the distance that was between the two of you.

Perspiration began to dampen on his face. He ignored it.

Until “Surgeon of Death” at least.

You waited for the moment for him to strip off his shirt. It clung to his body, uncomfortable and hot. Outlining parts of him you knew all too well.

The moment didn't come when you expected it to, leaving you wondering how he could handle his shirt becoming one with his body, his hair becoming drenched with sweat.

It wasn’t until closer to the end of the song when he finally pulled it off and threw it to the ground. The light made him shine all over. Chest slick with sweat. Piercings catching light every movement he made. A stark contrast to his dark tattoos.

Women hollered and whooped around you. If it weren’t so loud, you were sure you’d be able to hear how much they wanted him.

Something you still had to come to terms with—how much they lusted after him. How he could have any woman he wanted here. How—

Law’s eyes found yours again and smiled, holding the last note of the song.

You breathed. Deep and grounding. 

‘I’m leaving with him. I’m his. Only me.’

“Oh my god, did you see the way he smiled at me?” Someone next to you swooned. Squealed with delight.

You held your tongue—for once. Not wanting to appear crazy and argue with a stranger.

You knew the truth. 

That was when you tuned everyone out, kept your eyes on him. 

Only on him. 

Entranced with every move of his fingers on the fretboard and Kikoku’s neck. The way his muscles flexed as he played, ink moving like it was its own sentient being. Dermals blinding with each shake of his head. No part of him wasn’t glistening from torso up.

And his eyes always met yours as the songs blurred seamlessly into another. 

Just yours.

By the end of it all, his chest was heaving. The audience was going wild, disappointed that it was over, but amped from the display of heavy music.

You headed towards the bar, empty bottle in hand.

“Another Corona, then I’ll close,” you shouted to Barto over the crowd that had gathered near him.

“Got it, Sugar.”

He popped off the lid, slid you the bottle and the bill.

“Best o’ luck this weekend. Already told the guys to break a leg,” Barto flashed his large canines. “Knowing them, I'm sure one of them probably will.”

“God, I fucking hope not—or they’ll wish that all that they’d have was a broken leg,” you mumbled, taking a swig of your beer after filling out the tip. “Thanks, Rooster.”

Eager, you bounced towards the green room, ready to congratulate the lead singer himself.

Without hesitation, Law placed Kikoku in her case, locked it shut, and wrapped his arms around you. 

“Ready to go, ma?”

“Don’t you want to say bye to Pen and Shach?”

“Nah. Better if we go now.” 

Grabbing your bag (which now thankfully you’re allowed to leave in the room), you waved your goodbyes to Penguin and Shachi. 

“Leavin’ early, Cap?” Penguin raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah. Gonna get there earlier than you idiots.”

“Fuck off,” they both pouted in unison.

“Whatever, see you two tomorrow.”

You pushed the door open to the back of the bar, the familiar musk of the alleyway greeting your nose, the yellow buzzing light painting the atmosphere.

“Smells like shit,” Law wrinkled his face.

“It always smells like shit. Come on, where’s your car?”

With a small nudge of his head, he pointed towards the parking spot and you both made your way to the Volvo. At the car, Law quickly slid Kikoku into the back seat, and you sat in the passenger without question, and let out a groan of relief.

“Finally,” you exhaled.

Through the still-open back door, Law heard you. “Ma, you a’ight?”

“Yeah, just—” You let your head fall back against the headrest. “Fuuuuck. I’ve been exhausted all week, looking forward to this. And you know—it’s finally here.”

He closed the back door, came around, slid into the driver's seat. The Volvo's interior was familiar in the dark — the specific smell of it, weed and old upholstery and something that was just Law, the crack in the dashboard you'd traced with your finger a hundred times. He was already pulling out his tin, fishing for a joint with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done it ten thousand times. 

“You nervous?” you asked.

He didn't answer right away. Just found the joint, put it between his lips. “You?”

“Me? No.” You turned your head to look at him. “Excited. Tired as fuck, but excited.” A pause. “You didn't answer.”

“Mm.” He held the joint out toward you. “Light it.”

“That's not an answer either, babe.”

“Light the joint, ma.”

You took it from him, held your hand out. He put the lighter in it. You lit the joint, took the first drag—the cherry catching orange in the dark car—and handed it back. He took a long pull, held it, let it out slow.

 “C’mon. Let’s get this started.”  He turns the ignition on, the Volvo sputtering to life. 

“Pass the joint? I’ll hold it while you pull out.” 

He handed over the joint and you savored the smoke as it entered your lungs — exhaling everything the week had put in you, and basically everything before it too. JB's bullshit. Nine hours of fluorescent lighting and entitled customers and a pink meatball you'd eaten out of desperation. The particular exhaustion of performing competence for people who'd never remember your name.

You handed it back.

He took a long drag without speaking, eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel. The city was already thinning out around you — fewer lights, more dark between buildings, the highway opening up ahead like a held breath finally releasing. The car filled slowly with smoke, the windows fogging at the edges, and neither of you moved to crack one because the warmth was too good and the cold outside wasn't offering anything worth trading it for.

The joint made its rounds, you stopped tracking how many times.

At some point, the city disappeared entirely and there was just highway and dark and the steady hum of the Volvo's engine and Law's hand finding your thigh in the dark the way it always did, settling there like it belonged, thumb moving in that pattern you'd learned to read. It was closer to rhythmic tonight than not. That was something.

The smoke and the warmth and the road and his hand.

You meant to stay awake.

You had things to say—about tomorrow, about the Undertow, about something Penguin had mentioned that you'd been meaning to bring up. All of it still queued, still waiting, filling your mind.

The movement of the car slowly lulled you into the sleep you craved.

Your eyes were very heavy.

The last thing you registered before you went under was his thumb still moving on your thigh, and the way he turned the music down just slightly—not off, just lower—without you asking him to.

The sound of guitars and drums greeted your ears—the familiar strum waking you halfway. You can hear Law’s voice gently sing along, his voice rough from exhaustion.

“And I wonder…”

You hummed the next line before you were fully awake. Eyes still closed, smile already there, the words coming out soft and sleep-blurred against the window:

“...when I sing along with you…”

The singing stopped.

You blinked. Law was looking at you — quick glance, back to the road, but you caught it. Something alert in his face despite the hour.

“You like Foo Fighters?”

“Mm.” You shifted against the seat, the highway dark and blurring past the window. “My dad used to play them all the time when I was a kid. Them, Guns N' Roses, Alien Ant Farm, The Offspring...had all the CDs. Used to brag all the time about how he saw them live as a teen.”

Law's hand tightened on the wheel, then relaxed. “Nice. Good taste.”

“Yeah.” You yawned, settling back into your seat. “What did Cora listen to?”

Law's thumb stopped tapping for a second, then started again—faster, irregular. “Selena. Like, constantly. Como una mamá Mexicana.”

You laughed softly. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious. 'Como La Flor'  y ‘Amor Prohibido’ on repeat. Every. Single. Day.”  His jaw worked slightly. “Still can't hear it without—” He paused, looking at you.

You were already reaching for his phone in the cupholder.

“Ma, what are you—”

You pulled up Spotify, typed it in, hit play, smirking.

The opening notes filled the car.

“No—” But he was already smiling, shaking his head. “You're ridiculous.”

“Sing it,” you grinned.

“Fuck no.”

“Come on, babe—”

And then he did. Quiet at first, almost under his breath—“Yo sé que tienes un nuevo amor”—but his accent was perfect, the words familiar in his mouth like he'd sung them a thousand times.

“Sin embargo, te deseo lo mejor”

You watched him, smiling so hard your face hurt. His hand on your thigh relaxed completely for the first time all week, fingers tapping along to the actual rhythm now instead of that irregular pattern.

“Si en mí, no encontraste felicidad, tal vez, alguien más te la dará”

“Como la flor, con tanto amor, me diste tú, se marchitó, me marcho hoy, yo sé perder”

When he got to the chorus, his voice got stronger, clearer—and for just a moment, he wasn't the bassist white-knuckling his way through the weekend. 

“Pero, ah-ah-ay, ¡cómo me duele! Ah-ah-ay, ¡cómo me duele!"

He sang it loud and joyously. He was just Law, singing along to his dad's favorite song, hand on your thigh, driving through the night.

After a couple minutes, the song ended. He was quiet for a moment, thumb still tapping—but softer now, following the phantom rhythm.

“He played it every morning,” Law said finally. “Making breakfast. Hospital car rides. Doing dishes. Just... all the time.”

“He had good taste,” you muttered.

“Yeah.” Law's voice was rough. His hand squeezed your thigh—tight, then loosened. “Yeah, he did.”

You kept the queue going—more Selena, some Vicente Fernández, José José, songs you didn't know but Law hummed along to—and his hand stayed relaxed on your leg, tapping actual rhythms instead of random patterns.

The soothing pattern was lulling you back to sleep until—

Growllll…

You were starving.

“Babe…” you started. “‘m hungry.”

“Yeah?” Law’s hand was grounding. “C’mon. We’ve been driving for an hour. Let’s get us something.”

The McDonald's was half-empty, the drive-through lit up yellow against the dark. Law pulled up to the speaker, glanced at you once.

“Ten piece?” he asked. Not a question, really.

“Ten piece,” you confirmed.

He ordered without asking anything else—nuggets, two large fries, two Cokes—and when he got to the window and the cashier read back the total, he added a McFlurry at the last second with absolutely no acknowledgment that he'd just said he didn't want one.

You didn't say anything. You took the McFlurry when he handed it to you and ate half of it before he'd even pulled out of the lot.

“That's mine,” he declared.

“Is it?”

He took it back. Ate a spoonful. Handed it back without comment. “Yes.”

You ate in the parking lot with the engine running, the heater finally doing something useful, the bag of nuggets between you. No music for a few minutes. Just the sound of eating and the tick of the cooling engine and the orange glow of the lot lights making everything feel slightly unreal.

He stole three of your fries. You didn't mention it.

When the food was gone, he fished out another joint from his tin, lit it off the car lighter, took the first drag and passed it to you without ceremony. You took it. Let the smoke do what the food had started. The week was far away now—not gone, but far. One hour of dark highway left between you and the motel and the weekend and everything waiting on the other side of Saturday night.

The food helped. The joint helped more. You were still tired but it was the good kind now — soft at the edges, the week finally losing its grip. You watched the dark go by and didn't feel the need to fill it with anything.

“You awake?” Law asked at some point.

“Yeah.” You turned your head toward him. “You?”

“Obviously.”

“Just checking.” You stole a fry from the bag still in your lap. “You've been quiet.”

“I'm always quiet.”

“Mr. fuckin’ edgelord over here,” you quipped. “I meant quieter than usual.”

He didn't answer right away. His thumb moved on your thigh — not the irregular pattern, but not fully settled either. Somewhere in between.

“Tomorrow's gonna be different,” he said finally. “The Undertow. Different room, different crowd. Never played there before.”

“Different bad or different good?”

“Don't know yet.” His jaw worked slightly. “That's the thing.”

You looked at him—the highway lights catching his face in intervals, the dermal on his cheek, the set of his jaw. He was doing it. Sitting with something he couldn't control and trying to look like he wasn't.

“You sounded good tonight,” you said, filling the silence. “At the Crow's Nest.”

“The Crow's Nest knows us.”

“So will the Undertow. After Saturday.” You reached over, covered his hand on your thigh with yours. “New crowds just haven't heard you yet. That's all.”

His hand flipped under yours, fingers lacing through. He squeezed once—tight—then relaxed.

He didn't say anything else. But the thumb pattern evened out.

The highway kept unspooling. More Selena faded into the background, then something slower you didn't recognize, Law humming along under his breath without seeming to notice he was doing it. Your feet were on the dash. The joint was long finished. The last of the fries were gone somewhere around the forty-minute mark.

When the first road sign for the town appeared, you both saw it at the same time.

“Almost there.”

“Mm.” But something shifted in him—subtle, the way a held breath changes quality. His hand tightened on the wheel for just a second before releasing.

The motel was exactly what it looked like online. Two floors, exterior corridors, a parking lot half-full of cars that had seen better decades. The sign had two letters burned out. A vending machine by the stairwell glowed orange and humming in the dark.

Law killed the engine. Neither of you moved immediately.

“Room 205,” you read, checking your phone. “Second floor.”

“Mm.” He was looking at the building. Not with dread exactly. Something more contained than that.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” He reached for the door. “Come on.”

You got Kikoku from the back seat—Law never let anyone else carry her — and grabbed your bag while he took his. The stairs creaked. The corridor smelled like industrial cleaner and salt air and something vaguely oceanic that seeped through the walls. Room 205 was at the end.

The key card worked on the second try.

Inside: seafoam green walls, queen bed, a lamp with a slightly crooked shade, a bathroom that hummed faintly. Law set Kikoku down against the far wall with the specific care that meant he was running on empty but wouldn't admit it. He rolled his shoulders once. Set his bag on the desk chair. Looked at the bed.

“Not bad,” you offered.

"It's fine." But he was still standing there. Not moving toward the bed, not moving toward the bathroom, just—standing. The jaw working slightly.

You watched him for a moment.

Then you crossed the room and took his hand.

"Come on," you started. "I want to see the ocean."

“Now?”

“Yeah, now.” You were already moving toward him. “We're here. Let's see the ocean.”

He looked at you, something amused in his expression. “It's almost 2 AM.”

“So?”

“It’s dark,” Law reasoned.

“So?” You grabbed his hand. “Come on. Just for a minute.”

He let you pull him out of the room, across the small parking lot, down a wooden staircase that led to the beach. The December air hit you like a wall—cold, sharp, ocean wind cutting right through your jacket.

The beach stretched out dark and endless, the ocean a black mass with white foam where the waves hit the shore. The moon was almost full, reflecting off the water in a silver path.

“Holy shit,” you breathed.

“Yeah.” Law's arm came around your shoulders. “Holy shit.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Law agreed, staring down at you. “It’s beautiful.”

You look up and see his eyes on you. “You fucking sap.”

“It’s true.”

God, this man is perfect. 

“Shut up,” you scoffed, your free hand covering your flattered smile. But you couldn’t hide the way your cheeks burned.

His grip on your hand tightened, his palms circling against your skin, chasing the shared heat that bloomed between you. The water stretched out before both of you, endless and gray in the night sky, the waves reflecting the moonlight.

“Come on,” you whispered, tugging him toward the water.

The first wave kissed his toes and he flinched like a startled cat. 

“It’s cold, ma. You said it yourself on the fucking—”

Another wave hit his legs, and he jumped back. “Fuck no! Shit’s too cold!”

You laughed—a real, unguarded sound.

“Babe, you’re being dramatic.”

Another wave splashed up between you, catching you off guard. Law had (strategically) stepped away, the wave hitting you in full. 

“Fuck!” You squealed.

“You’re just being dramatic,” Law mocked.

“Oh you little—” You grabbed his arm, dragging him back with you. You had pulled too hard, his body dragging you down with him. 

The shock of it hit your calves, your laughter tangling together as you stumbled back. He caught your arm to steady you, but you were already laughing too hard to stand, and then he was laughing too—that rare laugh that made something in your chest ache.

“Your fault,” he said, breathless.

“Worth it.”

The motel bathroom was small—barely enough for two people—but in typical Law fashion, he didn't seem to care, pressing you against the tile wall before the water even got warm. 

“Law, this water is still so fucking cold—”

“Give it a second.” His hands were under your salt-soaked shirt, lifting it up. 

“You’re impossible—”

“Mhm.” He kissed your neck, hands sliding up your sides, completely unhurried despite the lukewarm spray hitting his back. When his palms made his way down to your bra—he unclasped it and immediately made his way to your tits, tossing it over the curtain. A low sound came from his throat—low, something almost reverent—and just simply held them. Not moving. Only grounding himself on the warmth, on you.

“Babe—”

“I like it here,” Law teased, his body letting go of tension he probably didn’t realize he had. “Think maybe the water is still cold. Gonna keep you warm.” Law made due with his sweet ass time and kissed your forehead, peppering kisses down to the crook of your neck. 

“You're unbelievable.”

“Mhm.”

His thumbs moved in slow circles and his breathing evened out, and you could feel it happening—tension leaving his body muscle by muscle, the whole week releasing through his hands. You let him have it. You stood there in the lukewarm spray with his face buried in your neck and his hands full of you and let him take exactly as long as he needed.

He took a while.

“Water's warm,” you muttered eventually.

“Noticed.”

He didn't move.

“Law.”

“Five more seconds.”

You laughed despite yourself. His mouth curved against your neck—not quite a smile, but close.

Finally, reluctantly, he let go. Stepped back. Looked at you with an expression that said he was only doing this under protest, allowing you to wash off the seaside salt on your hair and body.

Law stepped out the shower, sitting on the toilet.

“Babe.”

“Just mesmerized by by muse.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you laughed.

Ignoring your boyfriend oogling you showering like a horny teenage boy, you rinsed off the last bit of the beach on you.

“Babe,” you called as you walked out the shower, snapping him out of his trance.

“Huh?”

“Hot tub? I’m still kind cold from that beach.”

“Sure.” He got up and kissed your head. “But the beach clothes? You told me not to pack any.”

“You have boxers.”

“You said that was nasty!”

“I packed you shorts if you don’t want to wear boxers.”

“Whatever.”

You wrung out your beach-soaked bra and put it back on. At Shachi’s discretion, you brought a pair of forgettable shorts to bring to the hot tub. 

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

The hot tub was outside, tucked in a small alcove off the motel courtyard—technically closed for the season, according to a sign Law had very purposefully not read out loud. The jets worked. The temperature was perfect. The cold air above the water's surface made staying in feel mandatory.

You passed the joint back and forth across the water, shoulder to shoulder, watching steam curl off the surface and disappear into the dark sky.

"Did you know," Law started, in that tone he got sometimes — measured, deliberate, like he was arranging words carefully before deploying them — "that the reason your fingers prune in water isn't dehydration?"

You turned to look at him.

"Autonomic response. Increases grip in wet conditions." He took a drag. "Evolutionary."

"You're such a fucking nerd."

"I'm right."

"I know you're right. You're still a nerd." You took the joint from him. "Where did that even come from?"

He shrugged once. Didn't answer.

"The degree," you said.

"Mm."

A beat.

"Biological sciences," he said. "Pre-med track."

It still did something strange every time—reconciling him, Kikoku's calluses on his fingertips, snakebites catching the hot tub light, the specific chaos of him—with lecture halls and cadaver labs and a future in medicine. You'd known about it in the abstract. Knowing and sitting with it at 3 AM were different things.

"What made you drop it?"

He didn't answer right away. The jet hummed. He took the joint back, turned it in his fingers without smoking it — just held it, watching the cherry dim.

"My parents." His voice came out careful. Slower than usual. "Biological. They were doctors. Both of them. Best in the White City." A beat. "Died when I was young."

You waited.

"So I went." He turned the joint in his fingers, not smoking it. "Pre-med. Biological sciences. It felt — right. Like the only thing that made sense. Like it was the one thread I still had to them."

"That's not—"

"That's not all of it." He cut you off gently. Not sharp. Just — not done yet. His jaw worked. "I was sick. When I was a kid. This..." He gestured vaguely at his forearm, where the vitiligo mapped itself across his tattoos in pale islands. "Started at eight. Got bad for a while. Real bad." His thumb moved slow across his own skin. "Cora used to take me to every appointment. Every single one. Sat in every waiting room, asked every doctor every stupid question you ask when you don't know what you're doing but you love someone too much to sit still."

The jet hummed. You didn't move.

"He was the one who said — mijo, you should do this. You should be the one on that side of the table someday." Law's voice had gone somewhere quieter. "He meant it. Cora meant everything he said." A pause that lasted long enough to feel like its own sentence. "I beat it at thirteen.”

The cherry on the joint had gone out. He didn't notice.

 "What's left — the vitiligo — that's permanent. That's what stays." His voice was flat, but the flatness was doing a lot of work. "First thing I ever beat. First time my body felt like mine."

You looked at the pale patches on his arm, the ink around them and over them and between them. You'd touched them without knowing what they were. Now you couldn't unknow it. Survival made visible. Flevance written permanently into his skin.

Cora should have been there for that.

"He didn't get to see it." Law said it the way you said things you'd spent years learning how to say without breaking. Measured. Controlled. "Six months before I went into remission. His brother—" Something crossed his face. Fast and ugly and immediately locked back down. "His own brother shot him."

The silence after that sat heavy in your chest.

You didn't fill it. You let it be what it was.

"So I went," Law said finally. Quieter now. "To medical school. Because Cora told me to. Because my parents were doctors. Because it was the only thread I still had to any of them — all of it, all of them — and I thought if I could just—" He stopped. His hand found the back of his neck. "I thought I could finish what he started. For him. Since he didn't—" Another stop. "Since he didn't get to."

His voice had gone rough at the edges in a way that had nothing to do with the smoke.

"I was good at it," he said. "That wasn't the problem."

"What was the problem?"

"I'd sit in cellular pathology and all I could think about was a bass line I'd been working on for three weeks." He said it like a confession. Like he'd been waiting a long time to say it out loud to someone who'd understand what it cost him. "The bass was mine the same way beating the disease was mine — just mine, not inherited, not owed, not—" His jaw worked. "I couldn't figure out how to be in two places at once. How to be what Cora believed I'd be and also—" He gestured vaguely. At himself. At the motel. At the joint and the hot tub and the whole improbable shape of his life. "This."

"So you chose."

"Yeah." The word came out heavy. "I chose."

A beat.

"Felt like a betrayal for a long time."

You asked anyway. "Of who?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. The jet hummed between you.

"Cora, mostly." It came out quiet. Like something he didn't say out loud very often. Like saying it out loud made it realer than he could usually afford. "He died believing I was going to be a doctor. Sat in every one of those waiting rooms, dragged me across half the world, said you should be on that side of the table — and he died believing that was what I was going to do." His hand found your thigh under the water. Held on. "And then I didn't."

You didn't say he would've understood. You didn't say he would've wanted you to be happy. You didn't say any of the things people said when they wanted grief to be neater than it was.

“Lasted one year,” he started again.

Something shifted in his face. "Surgeon of Death. The opening." A pause. "Didn't have a name yet. Didn't have anything yet. Just the first four bars, over and over."

“You wrote it after you left.”

“Two weeks after.” His thumb moved slow on your thigh. “First thing I'd finished that was just—mine. Actually mine. Nobody assigned it. Nobody was waiting for it. Nobody needed it to be anything.” He looked down at the water. “Cora would've called it dramatic.”

Your throat felt tight. “Would he have meant it?”

“No.” Soft. And under the softness—something fond and wrecked and young. “He would've asked to hear it twice and pretended he was only being polite.”

You sat with all of it. The full shape of it. Flevance and the waiting rooms and the remission Cora never saw. The thread Law had pulled tight across his whole life trying to hold himself to the people he'd lost, and the moment he finally let go of it, and what it cost him, and what it gave him.

“He would've wanted you to have the bass,” you said.

Law didn't answer right away. The water moved around you both. Somewhere down the beach the ocean kept doing what it did.

“Yeah.” It came out quiet. Not quite convinced. Not quite not. Like something he was still in the process of letting himself believe. “Yeah. He would've.”

Silence settled between you—but it was different now. Charged. The vulnerability had cracked something open, the air feeling heavier and thicker than ever before. 

You had noticed it first in the way Law was looking at you. 

His eyes had changed—those golden eyes still soft from the conversation, but now with a hint of something else: hunger. His gaze dragged over you in the water, your bra barely containing your tits, skin flushed from the heat and steam.

“Babe?”

“Mhm.” His hand moved from your to your thigh under the water. Slow. Deliberate. Possessive. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice dropped into that rumble filling your chest. “Just…looking at you.”

The mix of everything—his eyes, his voice, his hands—heat pooled low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His fingers reached higher on your inner thigh. “Been a long fucking week. And you’re here.” His other hand found your waist, pulled you through the water. “Looking like that.”

”Like what?” Your breath hitched as he guided you onto his lap.

“Like I want to take you out of this water.” You could feel him hardening beneath you through his boxers, thick and pressing against your core. “Like I've been thinking about fucking you since you walked into the green room tonight.”

Your cunt clenched. “Law—”

“You.” His other hand found your waist, pulled you through the water with force—no gentleness, just need. “Been sitting here trying to have a normal fucking conversation when all I can think about is getting you out of this water and into that bed.”

Your breath caught as he positioned you on his lap. You could feel him already hard beneath you through his boxers—thick, straining. “Law—”

“All week.” His hands gripped your hips, grinding you down against him. "All fucking week I've been dying for this. Tuesday practice—watching you in my hoodie. Wednesday—you sleeping in my bed. Thursday—fingering you on my couch but not being able to fuck you properly because we didn't have time. Friday—the show, knowing we had this weekend but having to wait—"

"I know—"

“Do you?” He thrust up against you, making you gasp. “Do you know how many times this week I jerked off thinking about getting you alone like this? How many times I had to stop myself from pulling you into a bathroom or my car or anywhere because I needed you so fucking bad?”

“Law—”

“No.” He cut you off. “Tonight in the Volvo—” His voice was wrecked. “Watching you sleep. Knowing we were almost here. Knowing I'd finally get you for a whole fucking weekend. Thought I was going to lose my mind. Tell me you want this too.” His lips found your ear, voice rough. “Tell me you've been thinking about it.”

“Yes.” It came out breathless. “God, yes—”

“Then let's go." He lifted you off him, standing. “Now.”

The walk back was a blur—both of you dripping, his hand locked around yours, tension coiling tighter with each step.

The door slammed shut.

Law's hands were on you immediately—rough, urgent. Your damp shirt hit the floor. Your bra followed, his fingers making quick work of the clasps.

“Bed,” he rasped. “Now.”

Tangled on eachother, you stumbled to the bed, but he was faster. Grabbed you before you could lie down, spun you around, pushed you face-first onto the mattress.

“Fuck—” His mouth sealed over your neck, sucking hard. Your nipples tightened in the cool air. “All week. Needed you all fucking week—”

“Had me—” you gasped as his teeth scraped your pulse point. “All fucking week—”

“That wasn’t enough.” His hands were already shoving your shorts down. His fingers hooked into your panties, yanked them down with your shorts, your pussy bare in front of him. 

“Fuck.” The word came out strangled. “Look at you. So fucking wet already. This all from the hot tub or from knowing what's about to happen?”

“You—” You gasped as his fingers slid through your folds, circling your clit. “From you—all week—this—”

“Yeah?” Two fingers plunged inside you without warning. You cried out. “Needed my fingers? Or needed my cock?”

“Both—needed—”

“Yeah?” He pumped his fingers hard, curling them to hit that spot. “Tuesday—you being a needy slut. Wednesday—you in my bed. Thursday—fingering you while you whimpered. Today—watching you in the crowd knowing I'd get you alone—you’re such a greedy bitch,” he growled.

“Law please—”

“Please what?” His fingers fucked into you relentlessly. “Please fuck you? Please make you cum? Please wreck you so bad you can't walk tomorrow?”

“Yes—all of it—please—"

He pulled his fingers out abruptly. You whined at the loss.

“Not yet. Need to taste you first.”

Before you could respond, his mouth was on your pussy—tongue flat and broad, licking from your clit to your entrance in one long stroke.

"Fuck—" Your arms gave out, face pressing into the mattress.

"Stay up." His hand pressed between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest down but keeping your ass in the air. "Want you just like this while I eat you."

His tongue dove in—fucking into you deep, the metal ball of his tongue piercing dragging against your walls. His hands gripped your ass, spreading you wider, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

"Law—oh my god—"

"That's it. Say my name." He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue circling. "Wanna hear you scream it."

"Law—Law—fuck—"

"Louder." He slid three fingers back inside you while his mouth worked your clit. "Let them hear who's making you feel this good."

The combination was overwhelming—his fingers pumping, his mouth sucking, his tongue circling. Your thighs were already shaking.

"Close—I'm so close—"

"Good." He doubled his efforts, fingers curling perfectly, tongue pressing hard. "Cum for me. Cum in my mouth. Give me what I've been dying for all week."

It hit you hard—back arching, thighs clamping around his head, a scream tearing from your throat. He groaned against you, lapping up everything, not stopping until you were pushing at his head, oversensitive.

When he pulled back, his face was glistening, eyes wild.

"Turn over."

You flipped onto your back, boneless.

"Legs up." He grabbed your ankles, pushed your legs back toward your chest, folding you almost in half. "Hold them there."

You grabbed behind your knees, holding yourself open for him, completely exposed.

He stared down at you, cock in hand, stroking slowly. “Fuck. You have any idea how many times I pictured you like this? All week? Every fucking night?” He lined himself up—his head pressing against your entrance. 

“Please Law—”

“Please, what? I won’t do shit until I hear it.”

“Please—I need you—there—want to feel you.”

He pushed in—just the tip, and even after his fingers, his tongue and everything all week—it was almost too much.

“Fuck—” you gasped.

“Breathe.” His jaw was clenched, trembling with the effort of going slow. “Need you to breathe for me, ma.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” He pushed deeper, inch by inch. “You’ve taken me before. You can do it again.”

Your walls stretched around him, burning—mixing pleasure and pain, He was so thick, so deep, filling you completely. 

When he finally bottomed out, you were both shaking.

“There.” His voice was wrecked. “All of me. Fuck—so tight—can barely move—”

“Then don’t.” You clenched around him. 

Law chuckled. “You really are a fucking slut, aren’t you? Just fucking made to be stuffed.”

It wasn’t often Law would get like this, but when he did—

You fucking loved it.

Your hands flung to his hair, pulling his head down, you mouth all over his lips and slobbering to his jaw.

“Mierda—” His hips jerked. “Don't do that. I'll cum right fucking now.”

“Dare." 

“What?" He was taken back by what you said, head jerking.

“Dare you not to fucking cum right now,” you moaned, feeling him deep and hard and so true, pretending as if you weren't grinding on it—like you didn't want him so fucking bad.

Law groaned, hips moving out once, just to move back in. Slow and patient despite the sound he made. Despite the look in his eyes. 

“You first, ma."

That's when you moved on your own—letting go and flipping over him—using him and winding yourself down on him as if he was just attached. You watched—waiting for him to move, to do something than stare at you with a hypnotic look in his eyes as you used him for your own pleasure. You writhed around on his dick, grinding and rolling your hips.

"Fuck, Law,” You cried. His dick so perfect—filling every crevice you needed. It almost hurt, but every inch was just what you craved. “You're so big, babe. Just so—so fucking perfect. Filling me up so good. Everything I wanted and more.”

“Yeah?” His hands gripped your hips, not controlling, just holding. Letting you take what you needed. “Tell me more. Tell me how it feels.”

“Feels like—fuck—” you rolled your hips in a circle, feeling him hit different angles. “Feels like you were made for me. Like this cock was made to fill me up.”

“Keep going.” His voice was strained, jaw clenched with the effort of letting you control the pace. “Keep talking, ma.”

“Love how thick you are—” You lifted up slightly, then slammed back down. “Love how deep you get—”

“Mierda—” His hips bucked involuntarily.

“Love your tattoos—” Your hands traced the heart piece on his chest. “Love how they move when you breathe—love watching them on stage—”

“Ma—” 

“Love your piercings—” You leaned down, tongue flicking over one nipple bar. “Love how sensitive these make you—”

“If you keep—fuck—if you keep doing that—”

“What?” You did it again, teeth grazing the metal, licking teasingly. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll flip you over and fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

You adjusted yourself, started riding him properly now—up and down, fast and hard. “Come on, babe. Show me.”

That did it.

Hands gripped your hips bruising tight and he started fucking up into you—meeting every bounce with a brutal thrust.

“This what you want?” He growled. “Want me to fuck you like this?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

“Tan puta para mi—tan desesperada—tomando mi pinga tan bien—”

The room filled with sound—skin slapping, the bed slamming against the wall, your moans mixing with his groans, the wet obscene sound of him fucking into you.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded. “Play with your clit while I fuck you.”

Your hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling.

“That's it—fuck—just like that—” His eyes were locked on where you were touching yourself, where his cock was disappearing inside you. “So fucking hot—watching you touch yourself while I'm inside you—”

“Law—I'm close—”

“I know—can feel you getting tighter—” His rhythm was getting erratic. “Come on my cock, ma. Wanna feel it.”

You came hard—white-hot and blinding, clenching around him hard enough to hear him gasp.

“Pinga—que apretada—”

You collapsed forward onto his chest, boneless, trembling. He was still hard inside you, still moving slightly.

“Not done,” he murmured against your ear, voice dark. “Not even close.”

Before you could process, he was moving—flipping you over without pulling out, pressing your face against the mattress. One hand between your shoulder blades, holding you down. The other gripped your hip, angling you exactly how he wanted.

“Stay just like this. Gonna fuck you properly now.”

“Law—I just—”

“I don’t fucking care.” He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in. “Keep taking it.”

The new angle was devastating—deepe, hearderm hitting spots that made you see stars. Your hands fisted in the sheets, face squished into the mattress, ass up exactly how he wanted you.

“Mía—” He set a brutal pace. “Toda mía—mi puta perfecta—”

The bed was really moving now—shifting across the floor slightly with the force, headboard connecting with the wall in steady rhythm. You could hear it, feel it, but couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“So deep—” You gasped. “Too deep—”

“Not too deep—” He leaned over you, chest against your back, mouth at your ear. “Perfect. Taking me so fucking perfect.”

His hand slid around to your throat—those tattooed hands not squeezing, just holding, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while he fucked into you relentlessly.

“Tuya,” he breathed against your neck. “Solo tuya—” His rhythm fractured, hips snapping hard. “No me dejes—”

From the sound of skin on skin filling the room—knocking blended into the noise between you both.

You barely registered it. Couldn’t tell if it was the bed hitting the wall or if someone was at the door.

Law didn't stop. Didn't even slow down.

“Let them hear,” he growled. “Let them know who you belong to.”

“Law—fuck—I’m yours.”

His hand around your throat tightened a bit and the words, though not uncomfortable. “Say it again.” He thrust harder. “Say you're mine.”

“I'm yours—” It came out as a moan. “All yours—only—fuck—”

“Eso es—” His hand tightened slightly on your throat. “That's right. Mine. My girl. My perfect fucking girl."

The knocking was louder now. More insistent.

“Don't care—” Law's hips snapped faster. “Not stopping—not until I've had enough of you—”

“Don't stop—” You pushed back against him. “Please don't stop—”

“Never.” He released your throat, both hands gripping your hips now, holding you steady while he fucked you. “Could do this all night. Could fuck you for hours.”

“Yes—please—”

You heard muffled sounds through the wall but couldn't focus on anything except the stretch, the fullness, the way he was hitting that spot over and over.

“Gonna cum again,” he warned, voice wrecked. “But I'm not done with you after.”

“You know—what—to do babe.”

He had let go of your body, still keeping you beneath him, and turned you around, your face staring back at his, looking at his sex-beaten face, pants, his eyes still dark.

He didn’t hesitate and pulled out, cum painting your sweat-riddled tits, feeling the liquid land on your skin.

“You’re so fucking perfect. Mi puta pintada con mi semen.”

You thought he was done.

He wasn’t.

"Law, I can't—"

"You can." He was already moving you, positioning you how he wanted. "And you will."

He settled between your legs, and before you could protest, his mouth was on you—tongue licking through your folds.

“Fuck—Law—too sensitive—”

“Don't care.” He licked again, then focused on your clit. “Gonna make you cum on my tongue again. Then I'm gonna fuck you again.”

“Again—I can't—”

"You can." His tongue circled your clit perfectly. "You will. Gonna fuck you all night, ma. Gonna make up for the whole week."

And he did.

Made you cum on his tongue—shaking and oversensitive and screaming into the pillow.

"Fuck, ma," he breathed after making you cum for the third time tonight. "Could eat that pussy for hours."

"Law--"

"Gonna fuck this pussy too."

"Babe--"

Then he was inside you again—slower this time but no less intense, watching your face, whispering Spanish you didn't understand but felt in your bones.

"Tan bella—tan perfecta para mi—"

The bed kept moving. The headboard kept connecting. More knocking came—you ignored it.

He made you come twice more before he let himself finish—this time pulling out at the last second.

"On your knees—rápido—"

You obeyed on instinct, mouth opening, and he groaned as he came across your tongue, watching you swallow every drop, his cum from the previous round still on your tits.

"Perfecta—" He was trembling. "Mi amor—tan perfecta—"

When you'd licked him clean—thorough and slow—he pulled you up into his arms, face buried in your neck, breathing ragged. His weight was perfect, grounding, real.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just hearts racing against each other, slowly evening out.

“Fuck,” he finally breathed.

“Yeah.”

“That was—”

“I know.”

He lifted his head to look at you, and something in his expression made your chest tight. Vulnerable. Open. Young in a way he rarely let himself be.

“What you said—” His voice was quiet. “About not going anywhere. Did you mean it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The…shit—nevermind.”

“The Spanish shit? Didn’t even know what you were saying…but I’d never fucking leave you Law.”

“Mean it?”

“Every word.” You cupped his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “I'm not going anywhere, Law. You're stuck with me.”

“Good.” He kissed you—soft now, sweet, nothing like the desperation from before. “'Cause I'm not letting you go.”

“Sap.”

“Yeah.” He smiled against your lips. “Your sap.”

He pulled out slowly, both of you wincing. His hands slid under your back, carrying you in bridal style, sitting you on the motel shower floor.

“Law—”

“Nothing more, ma. I promise,” he assured.

“Just a rinse off?”

“Just a rinse off.” He got the hand shower off its shower bracket and let the water warm a bit before bringing it to your body, gently cleaning his mess of you. He kissed the top of your head, both of you still smelling like chlorine from the hot tub. 

Once he had gotten his cum off you, you both went back onto the bed—half-dry and cuddle into each other. Law rolled onto his back and pulled you against his chest, arms wrapping tight around you.

"That was intense," you murmured after a moment.

“Been building all week.” His hand traced lazy patterns on your back. “Couldn't hold back anymore.”

“I noticed.” You kissed his chest, right over his heart. “The Spanish was hot, by the way.”

“Yeah?” You could hear the smile in his voice, despite the mutual exhaustion.

“Yeah. Don't know what half of it meant, but still hot.”

"I was just—" He paused. “Saying you're mine. That I need you. Begging you not to leave.”

Your throat went tight. "Law—"

"I know it's a lot." His arms tightened. “I know I'm a lot. But you make me feel—” He stopped, struggling. “Like I'm not just running anymore. Like maybe I can actually stay somewhere. With you.”

You shifted to look at him. His eyes were softer than you'd ever seen them.

“This weekend,” he started carefully. “The show. Everything. Can we do this?”

“Yeah.” No hesitation. "We can do this.”

"Together?"

“Together.”

 He pulled you back down, kissing your forehead. “I'm not going anywhere either, ma.”

You settled against him, listening to his heartbeat slow, feeling his breathing even out. Outside, the ocean kept doing what it did. Inside, you were wrapped up in him—safe, wanted, his.

“We should sleep,” you murmured eventually.

"Probably." But he didn't move. "Big day tomorrow."

“You nervous?”

There was a pause, the questions lingering in the air.

 “Law?”

“I...yeah. Little bit.” His hand found yours, fingers lacing through. “But less now.”

“Why now?”

“'Cause you're here.” Simple. Honest. “Makes everything better.”

Your eyes were already closing, exhaustion and satisfaction pulling you under.

“Love you,” you whispered.

“Love you too, ma.” He kissed your hair. “Get some sleep. I got you.”

And you did—fell asleep tangled up in him, his heartbeat steady under your ear, his arms solid around you, the promise of tomorrow waiting but not urgent.

For now, this was enough.

For now, this was everything.